A Screaming Man (Mahamat-Saleh Haroun, France | Belgium | Chad, 2010)

Sunlight disperses upon the surface of the brilliant white net curtains that cover the large window,
shielding the room from the worst of the heat. Adam Ousmane sits across the wooden desk from Mme Wang, who is attended by her secretary. Silence, except for the faint sound of a pen scratching on paper. The office belongs to the new manager of the hotel in which Adam is employed as head pool attendant. ‘How old are you Adam?’ … ‘I often see you sitting in your chair?’ … ‘Do you really think we need two employees?’ Mme Wang makes further notes as Adam responds. Director Mahamat-Saleh Haroun’s camera lingers within these silences. Camera movement is discreet, reduced to a bare minimum, medium shots predominate and editing only occurs when absolutely necessary for a reframing. Colour is natural, the mise-en-scène sparse and diegetic sound prevails. The actors are restrained, sotto voce, gesture minimalised. Such procedures accentuate the everydayness of the film, but also inspire a subtle beauty in the image. At night, a long take of Adam on his motorbike, its lights illuminating the white walls of an alleyway, is breath-taking. Adam stands at a window of his house, sunshine plays upon his naked torso, the curtains are slowly allowed to fall back into place and enshadow him as he distances himself from what is happening outside. This cinematic asceticism has an immediate correlate with another procedure, one which transforms the simple into something far more complex. Missing moments: critical instants are effaced from the narration and do not appear on-screen. Such ellipses are an essential function of the story, of the narrative. Not in the sense that they are hidden so as to create mystery, and thus be recuperated, ultimately revealed, reclaimed in order to explain. Rather, these omissions are withheld to echo what another character could not know. These missing moments may be obvious (a cut in the middle of an important scene) or obscure (we may only realise later that something has been withheld). More significantly – such moments mirror what the character wishes to hide: their deceptions, disloyalties, dishonesty. Their shame, what they would not want others to know, the full import of their actions, words, silences. Character motivations are ambiguous, for others, for themselves and for the spectator. And Haroun ensures such ellipses are never revealed, ever sustained.

In this way – through the directness of the image and the complexity of ellipses – A Screaming Man creates a powerful image of everydayness, of the quotidian...

To read the full exploration of A Screaming Man through the Deleuze's sign of the 'quotidian,' see Deleuze's Cinema Books: Three Introductions to the Taxonomy of Images...

Slackistan (Hammad Khan, Pakistan, 2009)

Three young guys chill outside a café on a public square. A beautiful, warm sunny day. Behind them, a fountain propels jets of water into the air, creating spiralling parabolas. The circular glass table in front of them is clear, except for cigarettes and lighters. They sit in silence. Hasan, from time to time, checks out his blackberry, but no one has contacted him. Saad – wearing a white hoody emblazoned with ‘Horny Devil’ – twirls a dead leaf backwards, then forwards, between his fingers. Sherry has been watching people passing by. He glances at Hasan, then at Saad, sitting either side of him. Leaning back in his chair, he sighs, yawns, stretches. This is Slackistan – an indy slacker flick set in Islamabad, a few days in the limbo-lives of five middleclass friends a year after of graduating college. There is Sherry: he is skating on thin ice, clocking up debts, borrowing cash from a money lender to sustain a lifestyle above and beyond his means – out-and-about, a flash car, the latest mobile. There is Saad: he has little aspiration, and is seemingly happy to be drifting through life, although there is always some girls to be checking out. There is Aisha: she is looking for marriage, a wealthy man, so she can continue doing nothing but with more style. There is Xara / Zara: she is mixed up, confused, melancholic, rebellious. And at the centre and describing the circumference of the film, Hasan. Slackistan is Hasan’s story – or rather, the lives of the five friends as seen from Hasan’s perspective. Director Hammad Khan will create a mosaic of images: short scenes of conversations which go nowhere; a character wandering the streets on their own; trying on different clothes in the mirror before being able to step out; staring absentmindedly over the cityscape from the hills or tall buildings. In voice-over, Hasan will comment upon these images, even if he is not present, not only providing a narrative cohesion to the film but also interrogating their slacker lifestyle. In this way, Hasan’s reflections are an immediate evaluation of the narration. Such reflection is the foundation and inspires the constitution of Slackistan...

Sherry glances at Hasan, then at Saad, sitting either side of him. Leaning back in his chair, he sighs, yawns, stretches: ‘I am so bored.’...

Slackistan is a film – as Deleuze would comment – populated by ‘weaklings and idiots’ (C1:184). Where ‘landscapes are dwarfed or flattened, they turn sad and dismal, even tend to disappear’ (C1:184-5). Where ‘[t]he beings who frequent’ such spaces ‘no longer have Visions’ (C1:185). Slackistan  is a figure of enfeeblement, the characters are reduced to 'tiny point[s] fleeing towards the horizon' (C1:185)...

To read the full exploration of Slackistan through the Deleuze's sign of the 'figure of enfeeblement,' see Deleuze's Cinema Books: Three Introductions to the Taxonomy of Images...

The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call - New Orleans (Werner Herzog, USA, 2009)

‘Herzog is a metaphysician,’ according to Gilles Deleuze. ‘He is the most metaphysical of film directors…’ (C1:185). How, if true, is The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call - New Orleans a metaphysical film? Mark Kermode recently echoed Deleuze’s claim, yet went on to say that this particular film lacked a metaphysical dimension (though is, as I write, rethinking the film). On the face of it, both the assertion in general and Kermode’s exception seem accurate. Metaphysics, in essence, is a consideration of being beyond the realm of the physical world. In both his fictions and documentaries (which to a great extent blur the boundaries between fiction and documentary) Herzog digs beneath the perceptions, affections and actions of characters to explore how they understand and think about the world. Yet in The Bad Lieutenant Herzog appears content to focus upon the surface of Terence McDonagh, appears to make a black comedy out of the pain, drug addiction and corruption of the main character.

The film is a riot, and the humour is dark. For instance, McDonagh is promoted twice, once at the beginning of the film, once at the end. His first promotion to lieutenant comes from what is described, by a senior officer, as a heroic act. Yet, this is no heroic act, rather it was a bungled rescue, easily avoided. During the onset of hurricane Katrina, a drug addict looter is locked in a cell in the depths of a police station. McDonagh – after attempting to bet on the time he will drown –jumps carelessly into the rising water to unlock him. In the process he sustains an injury to his back that will take six months to heal and cause him pain for the rest of his life. This physical (not metaphysical) pain is to be offset by vicodin. But McDonagh self-medicates with coke, heroine, crack and a little weed now and then. This self-medication becomes drug addiction, which causes him to break the law himself in order to ensure a steady supply (wonderfully played by Cage, who moves around the screen like a broken dancer, a counterpoint to Kinski’s movements on the raft in Aguirre). At the end of the film, McDonagh is promoted once again, this time to captain. This promotion, like the first, is presented as a result of heroic acts. However, we know different.

A film then of cause and effects, though one that skews the effects: we expect tragedy, but get comedy. For instance, this is seen most clearly towards the end of the film when McDonagh returns to his office to find out the murder of three Italian gangsters he engineered has not only solved that immediate problem, but also caused the crime family to back off as well as have an internal investigation against him been dropped (‘phew’). Next, he finds out his gambling debts are sorted, despite his blackmailing of a baseball player not panning out. Finally, evidence he planted at the scene of the murder wraps up the case. The dovetailing of all these events that seemed to be moving inexorably towards tragedy are resolved in bathos – brilliantly so.

However, isn’t this just more proof of a lack of metaphysics in the film (which of course translates to The Bad Lieutenant being a lesser work of an aging director in the grip of the Hollywood studio system etc, etc)? Criticisms levelled at the film say this is no Aguirre, no Fitzcarraldo. Correct. However, this is not because it is a lesser film. Rather, Herzog continually veers between two types of film, the grandiose and the enfeebled. This distinction comes from Deleuze, who sees Herzog’s films as taking one of two paths. The first is that of the visionary ‘a man who is larger than life frequents a milieu which is itself larger than life, and dreams up an action as great as the milieu’ (C1:184). The second is that of ‘weaklings and idiots’ who are ‘reduced to an elementary sense of touch…and walk close to the earth, following an uncertain line’ (C1:184-5). The Bad Lieutenant has more in common with Nosferatu, Kasper Hauser…

The crucial point comes in a conversation McDonagh has with the gangsta at the heart of the murder investigation. McDonagh tells Big Fate he will take bribes to protect him. Big Fate asks so you don’t care about the killings anymore? McDonagh replies look at your face, now look at mine… I never did.

We later discover that McDonagh was setting up Big Fate. The impulse here would be to understand McDonagh’s words as a lie, as a way in to his gang and the entrapment. However, what if we resist this impulse? What if we stay on the surface and believe that McDonagh is telling the truth to Big Fate. He never cared about the killings. The metaphysics in The Bad Lieutenant turn on this idea. Getting Big Fate is not his fate. Rather, it simply requires ingenuity. His ingenuity is simply the ingenuity of the drug addict after the next fix.


Solving the case is no transcendent event. It is meaningless. As meaningless as hurricane Katrina, as meaningless as all the barbarity set in the post-apocalyptic landscape of New Orleans. As meaningless as the murders. It is a lizard-like metaphysics. It is the logic of Herzog’s Nosferatu ‘caught in uterine regression, a foetus reduced to its feeble body and to what it touches and sucks’ (C1:185). The logic of Herzog’s Woyseck ‘reduced to his own Passion’ (C1:185).

What lies beyond, beneath the physical world? Sometime Herzog explores this as a grandiose, ecstatic, crazy vision. Sometimes Herzog explores this as the feebleness of a body in a world at the edge of a cosmos where there is nothing approaching meaning. Herzog’s metaphysics is not simply the playing out of the grandiose, but rather, it is the way humanity is caught between something and nothing. Between the grandiose and the feeble... As Deleuze puts it ‘the albatross’ big feet and its great white wings are the same thing’ (C1:186). This is the metaphysics of the quotidian...

Four Lions (Christopher Morris, UK, 2010)

Captured on an old-school video camera, in 4:3 aspect ratio, the grainy image depicts a warrior cross-legged on the floor. Shot front-on at eye level, the man is dressed in civilian khakis with black

bandana, behind him a faded and tatty wall-hanging of repeating motifs. In his arms he holds a Kalashnikov. He is solemn. He stares into the lens. ‘Eh-up you unbelieving kuffar bastards…’ So begins Waj’s martyrdom video. Four Lions concerns the actions of an Islamic-fascist terror cell in a British provincial northern city during the mid-2000s, at the time of the US and UK interventions in Afghanistan and Iraq branded ‘the war on terror’. The film depicts the group dynamics of the cell, as well as various relations with the terrorists’ families, the local Muslim community and the wider multi-ethnic population. Over the course of the film, director Christopher Morris will document many aspects of the cell’s preparations for a terrorist atrocity against a civilian target on UK soil. These include a journey to Pakistan for training at a Mujahedin encampment; the grooming and recruitment of a local Muslim lad to the cause; the collection and stockpiling of assets for the manufacture of homemade explosives; and the different possible ambitions for their eventual suicide mission. At the centre of the cell are Omar and Barry. Omar is a middle-class family man, supported in his death cult jihad by his wife (an NHS nurse) and young, Lion King loving, son. Barry is a paranoid, outspoken convert to the Islamic faith – a self-appointed community spokesman – who desperately wants to be at the heart of the revolution. While both share the same fascist objectives, they differ in their tactical approach to actualising a strategy. Barry wants to bomb a mosque and put the blame on British Christians and Jews to thus radicalise the Muslim community. Omar, meanwhile, wants the group to kill non-Muslims in order demonstrate what he believes to be the latent outrage of his community against the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as the Palestinian situation. Both tactics, however, aim to shake up the system – awaken from complacency Muslim and non-Muslims alike, to enact jihad, to bring about the collapse of the oppressive regime of the UK government, and to instate Sharia Law across the British Isles. These men are thus fundamentalist idealists, believers in the possibility of actualising a revolution that will change everything; in an act that will pronounce judgement upon the world with clarity, bring about a new Golden Age, and condemn the evils of feminists, queers, atheists, Christians, Jews, the police, the state, as well as the wider non-fascist Muslim community.

Four Lions is a cinematic figure of the sublime. Deleuze writes of ‘a man who is larger than life’ who ‘frequents a milieu which is itself larger than life, and dreams up an action as great as the milieu’ (C1:184). This is the filmic sublime: where the action is ‘a crazy enterprise, born in the head of a visionary,’ where the character ‘seems to be the only one capable of rivalling the milieu’ (C1:184). The figure of the sublime thus creates grandiose, heroic actions devolved from ‘the pure Idea’ (C1:184). And it here that the sublime is betrayed, or rather, the cinema of the sublime undergoes inversion and becomes a critique...

To read the full exploration of Four Lions through the Deleuze's sign of the 'figure of the sublime,' see Deleuze's Cinema Books: Three Introductions to the Taxonomy of Images...