Chelovek s kinoapparatom/Man With A Movie Camera (1929)

Country: Soviet Union

Released: January 8th, 1929

Genre: Experimental, Documentary

Directed by: Dziga Vertov

Produced by: VFUKU

Written by:  Dziga Vertov

In my review for Un Chien Andalou I cited its length as one of its virtues, as abstract experimentation, particularly when lacking cohesive plot, is usually ill-suited for long viewings. This of course, insofar as film as entertainment is concerned.

Chelovek s kinoapparatom proves this notion with it’s one hour running time, which quickly collapses the film into a slow, grinding slog.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Chelovek s kinoapparatom, more popularly known as Man With a Movie Camera, is one of THE films; a film that consistently tops best-of lists and invariably will make the rounds in every film study’s course across the world. Chelovek is a cinematic milestone and one of the central pillars of film history. If it seems like this introduction is a premeditated caveat to all the upcoming bashing I hinted at above, I’ll have you know that I actually liked this movie for a whopping twenty to thirty minutes before sliding into a boredom induced state of rigor mortis. No, my heaping of praise stems solely from the fact that there’s little else I can say about the movie without just delving into it’s more metaphysical/philosophical elements.

And just as a quick aside: If you thought my Chien Andalou review was pretentious you ain’t seen nothing yet.

Indeed, Chelovek is a film without a plot, or at least without a conventional one. I’m sure an argument could be made that its footage contains the subtle whisper of a straightforward arch, but I’m sure most people who would make said argument are the kind of assholes who make Facebook posts bragging about their IQs. Or film scholars. Either way, they can kindly fuck off. Chelovek is a self-proclaimed experiment on the power of cinematic narration and editing, and an exploration of the role of the camera vis-à-vis the viewer in presenting its subjects. To that end, the film is, much like Un Chien, less interested in story than in pushing the bounds thematic and narrative conveyance, specifically visual conveyance. The result is a collection of montages and random set pieces filmed across various Soviet cities with virtually no connective thread besides shared theme and a recurring director character that pops up occasionally to drive home to metanarrative.

Before really delving into the abstracts of the film I just want to quickly comment that the musical score for the version I watched was fucking weird. The film begins silently, with a montage of viewers filing into a theatre as an orchestra readies itself. Shots of musicians playing their instruments suddenly flash across the screen, shattering the silence with a emerging musical score. While I appreciated the cleverness in starting the nondiegetic score diegetically to coincide with the on-screen orchestra, the music choice is a bizarre, techno-synth, Tangerine Dream soundscape more better suited to a Blade Runner remake than a 1920s Soviet documentary. Just weird overall, and it became so distracting that after a few minutes I hit mute and resigned myself to silence. Hell, if this is a film about visual experimentation than I suppose it’s only appropriate that I not have any sound to distract me.

In any case, what Vertov accomplishes within this silence is nothing short of amazing, as he succeeds in immersing us into the world on screen through nothing more than clever editing. We are shown Life in its most candid form, and invited to revel in it. Yet it is specifically a mechanical conception of Life. Industry takes centerstage as a myriad of cogs, trains, and machines of all kinds flash across the screen, spinning robotically in the cinematic ether. Through this almost vexing whirlwind of modernity, Vertov draws direct attention to the camera in a way that is almost Bazinian in its intention. What does that mean? Well, during the 40s and 50s a French film theorist named Andre Bazin began exploring the metaphysics and ontology of the photographic image. One of his central theories revolved around the apparatus of the camera as a mediator between the viewer and the objects on screen, which, when displayed in a filmic form, he called “mummified time.” How does the camera distort the conception of the image? Are we able to project life and cinematic subjects unaffected by the mechanical process of film, or in filming them do they inherently become a simulacrum, effectively forming a different entity altogether? Where does the lens end and the viewer begin? These are the kinds of questions explored by Bazin, and Vertov uses Chelovek to add his two-cents to his debate (albeit a few decades prior).

The result, as you’ve probably already noticed, is that Chelovek is Meta with a capital M. If it were any more meta it would be an uninterrupted shot of Dan Harmon yelling the word “film” at the audience for an hour. Its themes center around exploring its own ontological purpose and that of its subjects.  The juxtaposition between factories and the mechanics of the camera draw attention to the paralleled nature of both. The life shown may be mechanized in a superficial sense, in that the subjects of the film work in industrial urbanity, but had the film been composed of pastoral scenery would it be any less mechanical? In being filmed the life, while frozen, becomes mechanized as it is being filtered through the camera apparatus. If this is the case then one could say that film will never be able to fully achieve reality the way Bazin envisioned, effectively transplanting what is on-screen more tangibly into the reality of our existence. To this end perhaps we may turn to the Kuleshov effect raised by montage, i.e. the effect when two images create a singular idea in the mind of the viewer, which Vertov uses liberally. However, is the process through which we achieve reality on screen through our own mental conception any less mechanical than in how the camera conceives it? If not, should we regard the camera as “alive?”

Vertov seems to think so. The camera lens is contrasted with eyes, implying a living thing. This is summarily enforced halfway through the film during a stop motion montage of the camera and tripod doing a little dance, effectively anthropomorphising it.

However, if film can never achieve reality, Vertov is very aware that we can approach reality. Most of the scenes were filmed candidly, and subjects will often look directly at the camera and smile, or even look away and cover their face in embarrassment. The effect is voyeuristic, and despite the archival nature of film the spectators are themselves left feeling embarrassed, like we’re violating the subject’s privacy in the moment of viewing, even though the act of filming has long since happened. This is underscored by the aforementioned parallels between lens and eyes, and further reinforced by the director character, who’s always left lingering in shots, often made ethereal through special effects as a reminder of the omnipresent nature of the camera in this world.

This brief introduction to Bazin and montage barely scratches the surface of what Vertov achieves in Chelovek. Indeed, there are countless facets to this discussion, hence why entire books and film classes have been dedicated to them. So, for now, I’ll leave you with these ramblings and the assurance that, from an analytical point of view, Chelovek is endlessly fascinating if only for the discussions it raises.

However, this discursive fascination does not last. One can only be fascinated by the ontology of film for so long before the mind wanders and all your left with is random shots and Soviet city life. No characters, no plot, no CGI explosion-fest equals no endurance, and as much as film students may tell me that “the camera is the character, man!” it won’t make the film any more entertaining. Compelling? Sure, it’s compelling as all hell, but you’ll never convince me that it’s fun, just like you’ll never convince me that Beowulf is a more interesting read that Harry Potter. For at the end of the day I watch films to be entertained, and while film philosophy is a hoot and a half, without a cohesive narrative it can only hold my attention for so long.

In short, Chelovek s kinoapparatom is a revolutionary and infinitely fascinating masterpiece best left to scholars and film studies classrooms. If you are at all interested in the ideas I butchered above give it a look, but otherwise give The General a second viewing instead.