Connecting Dreams to the Cinema: Story and Discourse

The artistic medium of film has only existed as we know it for roughly a century, as until then the technology to produce such capabilities were not available to potential cinematic artists. However, despite the fact that the cinema as we know it has only existed for a brief period in the scope of mankind's reign, the basic conceptual platform for which we understand movies has long since influenced both the individual and all of society. This platform, however, was not derived from art or a conscious creation of man: instead, it existed in the unconscious of the true great frontier - the human mind. In comparing Freud's interpretations of dreams (On Dreams) and Metz's theories on story and discourse in film ("Story/Discourse"), we find a unique and undeniable link between the unconscious functions of the brain and the platform for ingesting meaning in film.

As Metz explains, the power of the filmmaker is his ability to influence society through the film's discourse, but in so much as "the very principle of its effectiveness as discourse, is precisely that it obliterates all traces of the enunciation and masquerades as a story"(544). He further explains the separation between the theater and film. Within the theater there is a much greater sense of a group understanding, as the viewer is acutely aware of the rest of the audience, and the actors are clearly aware of the eyes watching their performance: "the theater still retains... something of its Greek origins... when a whole population put itself on display for its own environment"(546). Within film, the gaze its much more individualized and voyeuristic. The character in film (referred to as the "exhibited partner") "knows that he is being looked at, wants this to happen, and identifies with the voyeur whose object he is but who also constitutes him as subject"(546). To sum up, Metz argues that "film is not exhibitionism. I watch it, but it doesn't watch me watching it. Nevertheless, it knows I am watching it. But it doesn't want to know." The satisfaction for this voyeurism relies on the viewer's awareness that "the object [he is] watching is unaware of being watched"(547). 

Thus, Metz paints of picture of the fundamental structure of film not too far off from our perspective of dreams - where a being (the sleeper) essentially views a complex story camouflaging a deeper meaning (similar to cinematic discourse), and while the lucent dreamer is quite aware of the story taking place in his mind, the "characters" acting out in this story are wholly unaware of being watched and surveyed. Metz goes on to strengthen this discourse/dream relationship by establishing a deeper connection between the audience member and a dreamer: "the institution of the cinema requires a silent, motionless spectator (a vacant spectator) constantly in a sub-motor and hyper-perceptive state"(548). He further adds that "insofar as it abolishes all traces of the subject of enunciation , the traditional film succeeds in giving the impression that he is himself the subject"(548). Given these descriptions, it appears as if Metz likens the film spectator very much to a conscious dream observer, one who allows the story of a dream to unfold while remaining distinctly aware of the deeper meanings rooted in the characters and actions of the dream's "discourse." 

In his study of dream manifestations in the subconscious, Freud examines how dreams increase in complexity with age. While young children appear to dream mainly in a genre he names "wish fulfillments" - which are essentially simply straightforward dreams to satisfy the subconscious desires, such as eating candy that may be off limits in real life - adults tend to manifest their thoughts in deeply, seemingly unintelligible (at first glance, anyway) reflections. Freud explains that "the material employed in dream representation consists principally, though not exclusively, of situations and of sensory images, mostly of a visual character"(24) - thereby comparing the participants of a dream to the actors of a film portraying characters for an audience of which by definition they are unaware. Freud determines that dreams, as Metz says of film, convey "a thought expressed in the optative that has been replaced by a representation in the present tense"(25). 

Freud further touches on the presence of a "language" of dreams, similar to the language of film we have studied (for example: a genre such as Film Noir comes complete with its own coded language for understanding through the use of lighting/shade, cigarettes and smooth-talking detectives). In Freud's concept of dreams, "a large part of dream work consists in the creation of intermediate thoughts of this kind which are highly ingenious... these then form a link between the common representation in the manifest content of the dream and the dream thoughts"(29). He discusses various examples of this presence of a common language linking ideas in dreams such as "the combination of different persons into a single representative in the content of the dream"(30). He explains this dream language to be made up of "collective" and "composite figures." This language within dreams, like that of film, presents us with seemingly infinite possibilities of discourse: "in dreams fresh composite forms are being perpetually constructed in an inexhaustible variety," adding later "we are all of us familiar with such structures from our own dreams"(30). 

Freud argues that the key to unlocking meaning in dreams is through "condensation" and "transformation of thoughts into situations" which he refers to as "dramatization." These forms of deriving meaning from distinct language of dreams is nearly identical to Metz's concept of discovering discourse through film's story using knowledge of cinematic language. Thus, through these comparisons, we are able to understand the latent connection between dreams and film. The art of dreaming is therefore inexorably linked to the concepts and basis of the cinema.

Detective Fiction + Robert Downey Jr. = "Sarcasm Noir"

Over the past 2 weeks, Bart has guided us on an enlightened journey through the contours and depths of not simply the film genre of "noir" itself, but also the parameters encompassed within the term "genre" itself.

Bart did a fantastic job conveying the structures of film noir, and utilized a fitting array of readings that discussed film noir in the context of genre itself. I think must everyone would agree he had an extremely tight grasp over the subject, and knew his noir inside and out. The discussions were engaging, and various prominent themes ran their course throughout the 2 weeks.
That said... I was bored to tears the entire time. Film noir simply doesn't butter my bread, or at least the old school 1940's black and white, light and dark, smooth-talking, cigarette-gulping, mysteriously murderous members of the genre which occupied much of our viewing experience, as it should. After all, that is true film noir. The Post WWII, glass half-empty Hollywood that bottled intrigue and never let its audience get too happy.
But I just can't handle it. The dialogue is too perfect, the acting too over-the-top. I certainly appreciate the artistic camera shots and the ability to parlay a genre into a new language with which to speak through the lens, but really, once you've seen one of those guys, you've somewhat seen them all. I think this all stems from the fact that I watched the "Naked Gun" Trilogy at least 75 times a piece as a child, and thus have an appreciation for noir through parody more than anything else.
On the genre's last day of class time, and therefore its last opportunity to win me over, we got to see "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang." It almost pulled it off.
Unlike "Naked Gun," this film is more a celebration of the noir genre than a parody of it. Certainly some aspects are poked fun of (such as the end scene in the hospital when we miraculously find all the good characters to be alive, along with Abraham Lincoln among others), but this movie for the most part follows a fairly direct detective/noir path, with a certain 21st Century twist on movie making. For one, the narrator, and main character, Harry Lockhart (Robert Downey Jr.) is completely self-aware throughout the film. Most noir films had some narration, sometimes in the form of flashbacks, but what makes Lockhart different is that instead of merely narrating, he is more having a conversation directly with the audience, complete with some stumbling, rewinding, and self-effacing humor. In this sense, he really draws the audience into the story, as he is not just speaking as much as he is speaking to YOU.
The film also utilizes a series of detective novels, which are both key to the story itself and serve in their style as part of the direction of the overall plot layout. This is obvious to the audience because of the inherent language present within the noir genre. The audience knows what to expect, and with each new reference to the novel series and its thematic structure, the audience understands the need to apply those rules to the overall film itself. In his "Questions of Genre," Steve Neale explains the importance of genre's expectations for the audience: “genres do not consist only of films; they consist also, and equally, of specific systems of expectation and hypothesis which spectators bring with them to the cinema, and which interact with films themselves during the course of the viewing process. These systems provide spectators with means of recognition and understanding. They help render films, and the elements within them, intelligible and therefore explicable"(46).
This usage of real books is coupled with the chapters within the movie being named after real detective novels from Raymond Chandler, straight out of the pulp fiction era in which film noir also blossomed. These books add to Steve Neale's concept of the "appeal for authenticity"(47). Neale calls for this appeal in many notions of noir as a manner in which the film can sow the audience into the story even further, adding a twinge of reality to the seemingly fictional story on the screen. "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang" makes much use of this idea, with other examples such as the name-dropping of real actors for parts in the fictional movie Lockhart is prepping for.
Interestingly, Lockhart is not the true noir hero. He is not very smooth at all, in fact. The girl of his dreams, the femme fatale character named Harmony Faith Lane (Michelle Monaghan), slept with every guy in their high school except for him. His humor and wit isn’t as much ‘look at how suave I am let me get in your pants’ as it is self-serving and at times self-deprecating. His quick and sharp responses are often more for his own enjoyment than for that of his counterpart. This is due to the fact that he is not really a detective; he is merely training to be a detective, and thus learning his suaveness on the job. But as a detective, he's a moron. He throws the gun in the lake after discovering a dead body, and is basically hopeless and inept without the guiding hand of "Gay" Perry. It’s as if Perry is schooling him in the art of being a noir hero, and eventually he becomes one.
What Lockhart does not have in skills, though, especially as a fighter as witnessed in the ass-kicking he receives early on, he makes up for in toughness. As is common in noir, the main character must go through some physical toil and still come out of it. After getting his ass beat, losing a finger, and being shot in the chest, among other things, one could say Lockhart certainly took his shots and kept delivering blows.
Overall, this film was not as much a part of the noir genre as it was a celebration of its language. This is why I loved it. It didn't play into the conventions that bored me - it simply highlighted the brilliance of its technique and language. Even the title is a shout-out to the lingo of the genre. And Robert Downey Jr. could not have been more perfect for the role. That certainly didn't hurt it.

In Response to: Group 1

In Response to"How Do You Like Them Apples?":

Rachel,

I too was skeptical of the merits of Film Noir heading into our studying of the genre, mostly for the same reasons you seemed to have been. Having grown up with films such as the Naked Gun series with Leslie Nielsen, I have parody engrained in my brain when it comes to film noir. However, I, unlike you, still have not been won over yet. I just don't think I can shake the instinct to laugh when it comes to true film noir, and since they aren't funny enough to really hold my attention, I couldn't see myself watching a movie like Out of the Past in my daily life (though I love the use of cigarette smoke illuminating the characters and adding to intrigue, as you did too). On the other hand, Chinatown stands the test of time and defeats the convention of classic Film Noir. It carries forth the mystery and captivation of pushing the limits of the law and a femme fatale who keeps us on the edge of our seats, yet it manages to avoid the more cliche aspects of Film Noir, the perfect dialogue and unflappable characters. Essentially, it is a more realistic representation in my book. Oh, and Jack Nicholson doesn't hurt.

In Response to "Out of the Past: A Look Into a Genre":

Anne,

I like your opening example of Howard Norton visiting your class. This introduction seamlessly transitions into an engaging discussion of the language of film genres, and film noir in particular. The "one liners" certainly stick out as a classically "noir" use of dialogue, the witty, sharp comebacks that seem to make the film's heroes stand out as larger than life. While I thought your analysis was pretty spot on, I'd be curious to hear some more of your own opinions in terms of the effectiveness of language, and in general whether or not you enjoy the genre of film noir. Or, since, as you point as, language within a genre does not necessarily equate its individual films, what were your thoughts on Out of the Past itself?

In Response to "Black and White and Read All Over":

Maria,

I must say, your first paragraph describes perfectly how I felt myself coming into this genre, and even coming into this class. It is as if you jumped in my head and ran out with my thoughts. Then again, I suppose many of us, raised in an era far removed from the use of black and white in cinema, would share those interpretations. I agree that now that I have a better sense of what constitutes a genre's "language," I definitely have a greater appreciation for the work. I also must say, I have been a fairly outspoken critic of the film noir genre due to the unrealistic nature of the dialogue. Your point about taking the genre for what it is alllllmost makes me rethink my criticism, especially since I am a huge fan Sin City. However, I'm still not sold, because Sin City visibly appears much more unrealistic, and therefore changes my visual perception and unconscious understanding of the film.

In Response to: "Out of the Past: Classic Film Noir"

Vikram,

Finally, someone comes out and says the truth about this movie. It's a comedy! And a damn funny one at that. True, the artistic and, as you put it, "salient" aspects of the film are marvelous and at times breathtaking, but those aspects are what makes this particular film something to be studied. However, I will never fully be able to come to grips with the absurdity of the dialogue and the motion of the plot. I can appreciate the art, but I will never call myself a real fan.

In Response to: "A Discussion of Film Noir, Out of the Past, and Rick Altman"

Shayna,

I very much enjoyed your analysis of the female character in the film noir genre. You mention Kathie from Out of the Past as the typical femme fatale character, and demonstrate how she is a bit out of the ordinary for the genre in that she indeed is deceiving her love interest, as opposed to many other leads who simply appear to be deceptive. Kathie was my favorite character in this film, the one I found easily the most captivating. In your conclusion, you mention the use of borrowing techniques from other genres, and sight techniques from the  Romance genre within the film. I would argue that romance is a necessary aspect of Film Noir, and thus not a different genre at all.

A "Sacrificial Lamb," With Blonde Extensions

The first time I ever heard about the Wrestler, long before the media frenzy surrounding Mickey Roarke’s astounding comeback and mesmerizing performance lifted the film from obscurity to Oscar-worthy, I was talking with a female friend of mine and trading our personal reviews from movies we had each recently seen. I asked her if she had enjoyed the movie, and she told me, “it was fantastic… but I was NOT prepared for it.”

We discussed the movie further, but her futile attempts to convey the film’s power added little more to that opening sentence. After all, she is a good Catholic girl, the sort of soul who should never enter the painful depths of the wrestling community. This is what genuinely excited me about the movie: the potential for cruel realism, something all too often missing in modern cinema.

I carried her words with me into the theater as I finally sat down to view the film I had heard so much about. Despite my inner giddiness, I was also fairly confident that I would be let down, as so often happens when a movie or performance receives such elongated hype. However, when all was said and done, I left the theater with only one word running through my head: Perfect.

Now, when I say it is perfect, I do not mean that it is the best movie I’ve ever seen. Hell, it’s not even the best movie I’ve seen this month. And yet, this somehow adds to the movie’s majesty: it doesn’t try to be the best movie ever made, it simply is what it is. It is gory. It is bleak. It is intrusive. It is brutally honest. You feel the punches. You wallow in the sorrow. For two hours, you enter the life of Randy “The Ram” Robinson (Roarke); you become excruciatingly, devastatingly, perfectly alone.

The movie opens with a collage of news clips, advertisements, and photos from the peak of his wrestling career, accompanied by the voiceover of fans chanting in support of “The Ram” and a color man giving a radio play-by-play of his most famous fight: his conquest over “The Ayatollah,” a fight he still vividly recalls as if it happened just yesterday. Like a VH1 special, this montage simply screams “’80s!”

The screen then fades to black, and for a brief moment there is a calm silence and an air of emptiness. This calm, seemingly the only moment in the entire film when you can enjoy a peaceful breath devoid of the twinge of bitterness felt deep within your gut, is sourly disrupted by a hacking, wheezing cough. The scene then opens in real time, with a hunched “Ram” sitting alone in the corner of a grade school classroom, facing the wall as if his teacher had given him a “time-out.” His body, while still just as impressive as it is imposing, never-the-less appears used, worn, and broken, like an old G.I. Joe action figure that has lost its luster and has been tossed in the dumpster. He has just completed a fight in a school gymnasium that, while clearly lacking in prestige, still has taken just as much out of his body (if not more) than as if he had been fighting for the World Championship. His reward for such sacrifice: an utterly inadequate wad of cash, not even enough to pay his rent.

A series of similar events ensues, as the audience becomes more and more enraptured in his life of bitter despair. The greatest success of director Darren Aronofsky (Requiem for a Dream (2000), The Fountain (2006)) is the ability to manipulate the audience into understanding “The Ram,” and even living vicariously through him. After all, how many of us can even remotely relate to being a world-class wrestler who loses grip over seemingly everything in his life?

One way in which this transformation into the mind of “The Ram” is made possible is through a certain filming technique used multiple times throughout the movie. While “The Ram” makes his walk from the locker room all the way to the ring (or, later on, in such instances as his walk through a supermarket storage area all the way to its deli), the camera follows directly behind his head, as if Aronofsky has literally attached the camera to Roarke’s back shoulders. We do not see his face, but instead see and hear everything that he does, from the chants and screams of the waiting fans to the creaks of his knees and moans escaping his lips as he takes each deliberate step. This technique places the audience’s perspective within the eyes of “The Ram,” thus allowing us to feel the pain masked by the glory of fame.

The Wrestler is not as much a cinematic revelation as it is a genuine portrait of a man completely out of touch with reality, desperately reaching for a guiding hand in vain. He is completely oblivious to realities of modern culture, and is instead trapped in the ‘80s in all aspects of his life (as made evident in a scene where he plays a neighborhood kid in a game of Nintendo wrestling – “The Ram” vs. “The Ayatollah,” of course – and the boy mentions his adoration for the popular Xbox game “Call of Duty 4”). After all, it was in the ‘80s that he essentially pushed all his chips into the pot and dedicated his life and body to wrestling. He has been so engrossed in this world that he simply never had the opportunity to look around and partake in the most elusive truth to life for him: change.

One of the most fascinating aspects of The Wrestler is its behind the scenes look at the world of professional wrestling. Pro wrestling is often characterized by two words: “staged” and “fake.” These words, used as ammo by wrestling’s critics, are often lumped together and used interchangeably. However, this film helps to clarify major differences within these two words, and goes a long way towards debunking the myth of “fake” in wrestling.

True enough, the wrestling matches are indeed staged. The scene before one of “The Ram’s” fights in which all of the forthcoming opponents – cooped up in the tight quarters of a rundown high school locker room – separate into pairs and begin choreographing their show as the camera pans back and forth through the different match-ups makes this a must-see for all of us who grew up worshipping the likes of Hulk Hogan and Macho Man Randy Savage all on its own. This rehearsal is a part of the sport that is universally understood, and yet rarely seen. While this acknowledgement of a “fix” may seem like it would hinder the athletic performance, it actually does quite the opposite, making the matches seem almost eloquent, like a deeply complex ballet factoring in timing, athleticism, strength, struggle, and of course a captivating choreography. After all, this sport is truly for the fans. Whoever wins and loses means nothing compared to the overall entertainment enjoyed by the viewers.

While the matches are indeed scripted, the action is by no means “fake.” There is nothing fake about the punishing blows, and there is certainly nothing fake about the stapler used in one match (a scene that no doubt added to my lady friend’s lack of preparation). In another fight, “The Ram” is knocked to the ground and then stealthily fetches a sharp white object out of his wristband with which he slices open a nasty gash on his forehead. The act may not be genuine within the context of the fight, but the blood pouring down his face is unquestionably real. The match may have a script, but the script simply calls for the two men to pummel each other until they reach the brink of collapse.

The movie keys on other desolate aspects of “The Ram’s” life outside the ring, such as his attempted reconciliation with his estranged daughter (Evan Rachel Wood) and his personal connection with an aging stripper (Marisa Tomei) who faces similar struggles in dealing with the anguish of being over-the-hill. These characters, however, stand solely to supplement the growing despair we encounter through the eyes of “The Ram.” As I stated earlier, the movie simply is what it is: The Wrestler.

This movie is a remarkable accomplishment for both Roarke and Aronofsky, whose direction and vision enhances Roarke’s stark reality as well as any performance I can remember. It was certainly a dual effort in creating Randy “The Ram” Robinson – whose actual name, we learn, is Robin Ranzinski, despite his attempts to reject such, adding to the bitter taste of denial that runs rampant throughout the story. Marissa Tomei, though honored with an Oscar nomination of her own, does little more than look good naked… But she is quite good at that.

The Wrestler is a movie with nothing to hide, and can be enjoyed by all (even if they are NOT prepared for it). However, it would clearly be enjoyed by some more than others. If you are a wrestling fan, or can relate to being partially stuck in the ‘80s, The Wrestler is an absolute can’t miss. If you fit in both of these categories, you’d be a fool to watch any other movie before your first viewing of The Wrestler.

Mmmm, the smell of Oscar’s gold is pungent, isn’t it Mickey?

Welcome to the Rear Window Theater. Please check your coats at the door.

The incomparable Jimmy Stewart, and the heart-stinging beauty known as Grace Kelly. They are both too good looking to simply act as supplemental audience members for too long in Rear Window.

Christian Metz, in his article "The Imaginary Signifier," belittles actors as nothing more than a prop, something that simply stands as part of the imaginary world in which the audience is engrossed. He explains that what is true of an actor, "is just as true as an object, a prop, a chair for example"(821). As depressing as that may sound (after all, you don't see a Best Supporting Armoire award at the Oscars, or at least that I know of), perhaps it holds some truth. In fact, perhaps it is a compliment to the actors, and not vice versa. After all, a chair does a hell of a job acting as a chair. I'd like to see Daniel Day Lewis play a better chair than the La-Z-Boy sitting in my apartment, and I got that heap of crap off of Craigslist for $60.

Thus, we see that actors are nothing more than chairs. And if that be the case, then Alfred Hitchcock, as usual, went out and fetched himself a couple lockhead lounges to lead the way for his masterpiece Rear Window (1954). 

Editor's Note: For those of you not as cued into the world of luxurious lounging as the author of this blog entry - "Tommy" - you can read more about the "Lockhead Lounge" at http://www.geekologie.com/2007/09/worlds_most_expensive_chair_is.php

James Stewart takes the stage as L.B. Jeffries, the all-seeing, wheelchair-confined photographer recovering from a broken leg in his Greenwich Village apartment. Unable to perform his usual day-to-day duties of exotic adventures in voyeurism through the lens of his camera, Jeffries turns his trusted camera, along with a set of binoculars, into a screen through which he can watch the secret lives of his neighbors. Following in the action are his girlfriend

 Lisa Fremont, played by the diamond-crusted throne of actresses, Grace Kelly, and his nurse Thelma, played by the old rocking chair Thelma Ritter.

Each day, Stewart regales the two with tales of a dancer exercising in underwear, a pianist, a salesman (Raymond Burr) and his bedridden wife, and others. The fun seems innocent at first, but with each passing day, Jeffries's suspicion of the acts of his neighbors grows deeper and deeper. The audience too is led to believe that something odd is afoot. Hitchcock, being the master of perspective, utilizes the apartment's rear window as a forum to place Jeffr

ies in the shoes of the audience. The window, in essence, represents his screen. The action unfolding in front of him might as well be a fictional show performed for his entertainment to fulfill his voyeuristic needs and pass the time as he heels. 

In this sense, what we as an audience are watching is almost a movie within a movie. With the added commentary of Jeffries explaining the actions and his conclusions to his visitors, we as an audience are essentially receiving an ongoing critique of the film within the film, and thus are manipulated by the perceptions and perspective of our simultaneous critic and viewer. This allows Hitchcock to dictate the audience's emotions, as they will essentially replicate those of Jeffries and his two dates to the movies.

However, as time passes in the actual movie, the characters get overly enveloped in the plot. After viewing this show for days on end and wrapping his life within its plot, Jeffries feels as if he is a part of the lives of his own characters. When evidence begins to mount that the salesman has perhaps killed his wife, Jeffries and Lisa become so engrossed in the story that they inevitably join it. They need to find out the truth. Interestingly enough, they do not seem driven as much by the thought of bringing the man to justice as they do by the thirst for validating their own suspicions, and perhaps adding depth to the plot of the theater that has enraptured their lives.

It is at this point that their theater ceases to act as a show to the audience, and the main characters actually take part in the action. As Metz explains, "what is characteristic of the cinema is not the imaginary that it may happen to represent, but the imaginary that it is from the start"(821). Up until now, the Rear Window Theater has been nothing more than imaginary. For all he knows, Jeffries could be completely wrong about his interpretations of his neighbors lives. However, by overly engrossing himself, his thirst grows so strong that he dares to risk the loss of the imaginary world he has created for himself. He lures the salesman out of his apartment in order to give Lisa a chance to snoop around and try to dig up some dirt. As soon as Lisa enters that apartment, the imaginary element of the show begins to vanish. However, we still watch the action through the eyes of Jeffries. Thus, the story has not yet fully transitioned to a full-fledged reality, just a show with an elevated sense of anxiety. This anxiety begins to build momentum like a tumbling snow ball when we see the salesman appear in the screen of the binoculars. Jeffries can see the plot unfolding, even though his new main characters (the salesman and his love) are clueless as to the coming action. 

Jeffries is stuck. His real world has meshed with his imaginary world, yet he remains confined to his chair in the theater (or his wheelchair). He is helpless to do much of anything besides watch. Metz compares the cinema to a mirror, except with one exception: "there is one thing and one thing only that is never reflected in it: the spectator's own body"(822). Yet, in this film, Hitchcock has managed to replicate the body of the spectator, albeit with a different face (and boy does that Jimmy Stewart have a good looking face - see top image). He even comes complete with his own seat, as would the typical viewer. 

Thus, as we the audience have essentially occupied his body and mind for the entire course of the movie, our hearts begin to race along with his as we watch the salesman get closer and closer to discovering Lisa, just as helpless to the action as Jeffries. 

At this moment, Jeffries finally breaks the mold and changes the course of the action. He calls the police. In this sense, he remains a spectator, but also becomes a pseudo assistant director at the same time, as he merely has the potential to influence the outcome but must remain a viewer without certain knowledge of what is to transpire. Thus, both he and the audience remain highly engaged in the story, on the tips of their toes. 

In the end, his influence pays off, as both he and the audience are deeply relieved to watch as the police break up a potential disaster. However, as the police subdue the situation, the salesman notices Lisa showing the wedding ring she has discovered (which lends credence to their theory that the salesman has in fact killed his wife) to a viewer outside the apartment. The salesman instantly recognizes that he is being watched by an unknown viewer, and becomes cognizant of his roll as an actor in the Rear Window Theater. He then discovers his audience, as his eyes make contact with the camera lens portrayed by the binoculars (which themselves are in reality portrayed by a real camera lens. Boy is this complicated). As the police leave with Lisa, the salesman takes action and comes for Jeffries. We hear the door slam shut to the apartment building and the slow creeping of footsteps on the stairs. The audience remains inextricably linked to Jeffries, as once again our pulse races with anticipation along with his.

Finally, the door bursts open, as the confused salesman incredulously asks, "Who are you? What do you want from me?" Unfortunately still bound to his seat, as he is a member of the audience after all, Jeffries helplessly sets off his camera flash temporarily blinding the man. However, as soon as the salesman entered the apartment, the theater wholly ceased to be imaginary. Like a bad horror movie, it is as if the monster somehow walked out of the screen and into the movie theater, leaving the panicking audience to instantly regret their decision not to just stay home and read a book that night. Jeffries is thrown out of the window by the salesman, as if to symbolize his own departure from the role of audience member to star of the action. He now joins the rest of the cast for the first time on the screen viewed through the rear window. Only Hitchcock could wait until the end of the movie to actually include the main character into the action.

Of course, all ends well, as his fall is broken by the police who rush to his rescue when he is seen dangling from the ledge. The salesman confesses to the murder, essentially validating the Rear Window Theater that had occupied so much of Jeffries's attention. He is left simply with two broken legs now, giving him another opportunity to watch the theater that so enraptured his life: the Rear Window Theater.

Hopefully this time he will keep his role as audience member separate from his life. As Heath told us in "Questions of Cinema," the camera acts as the eyes of the audience, framing a singular perception of the events occurring. It was only when Jeffries added more than just his eyes to the equation that his role as audience member dissolved into the trap of his own perspective.

The lesson, as always: Keep your personal life separate from your work life, and vice versa. You can only catch so many breaks.

Psychological Perspective in Film

Since I can't seem to copy and paste in this text box, my post will actually be in the first comment on this section.

Heath Ledger