On the Nature of Obsession

Obsession and infatuation is something that certainly predates the ability to place it onto film. Sigmund Freud (that name we all love to hear) talks about obsessions and infatuations as libidinal processes grouped together with a deeper mental condition based on an inescapable mental representation that links these libidinal drives and instincts with a symbolic and often ambiguous target. Joseph Cornell’s short film, Rose Hobart, is a prime example of a film based upon obsession. With almost the entirety of the film containing dialogue-free, plot-free shots of the central actress, the film becomes a surreal representation of the obsessed mental state of Cornell and the fragmenting decline of his condition. The point here, however, is not concerned with Cornell himself but rather the nature and history of obsession in literature and film. Is obsession timeless, or is it something impacted by cultural context? Personally, I would argue the former.

“In America sex is an obsession, in other parts of the world it is a fact.”

-- Marlene Dietrich

I became immediately intrigued to read the above quote and began thinking about its merit and truth. I would argue that the obsession is universally the same, regardless of place or time, however that American filmmakers and artists such as Cornell have the added obsession of media, freedom of expression, and the highest accessibility to artistic mediums and certainly the highest consumption of it. One need only look back to either the philosophy of Aristotle or the work of William Shakespeare (namely Hamlet)  to find virtually identical representations of infatuation. In one of my other blog posts I talked about the incessant mental nagging upon watching older films as contemporary ones intrude on the thought processes. In the case of Rose Hobart, I was almost instantly reminded of more modern interpretations of infatuation and obsession. Stanley Kubrick’s film Lolita is perhaps the most striking example, however other films such as David Slade’s 2005 film Hard Candy and Sam Mendes’ American Beauty (1999) both deal with the same issue. Perhaps most importantly, what separates Rose Hobart from these other films is that it is the director of the film who carries the obsession and not a character. Whereas the other films all necessitate a plot, Rose Hobart carries itself for its 19 minutes plotless, with the viewer left bewildered at the surrealist techniques used to ensure the film focuses entirely upon the central actress. Combine that with the intentionally disconnected music (not at all different from some of the fan videos watched in class) and we are left feeling lost and confused regarding what it is we are actually watching. The question that still runs through my head after repeated viewings of Rose Hobart, is whether it is even worth watching at all. After repeated viewings, I now ask myself why? Maybe the obsession is contagious...

The Difficulty in Watching Older Films

It can become very difficult for someone like me to watch any film from the early-mid 20^th century without having comparisons to more contemporary films intruding on my viewing. The majority of times, these similarities are small ones, but nonetheless provide enough for that incessant mental nagging that can drive any viewer insane for the duration of the viewing experience. Perhaps this effect is more profound when watching silent films, or rather films at least without any dialogue. When watching Walter Ruttmann’s Berlin: Symphony of a Great City, my viewing experience was immediately intruded upon by a struggle to find modern examples of films that focus, even in the most subtle and miniscule of ways, to the art and character of a city itself rather than solely on its inhabitants. Naturally, the first film to come to mind was Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, which quite obviously bares many similarities to Ruttmann’s film. Other dystopian films (and their novel predecessors in some cases) such as 1984 are also thrust upon my mind. What separates Ruttmann’s film from these, naturally, is the documentary (or at least semi-documentary) style, perhaps accentuating the dystopian theme, at least in my mind. A common feature of a good portion of dystopian narrative is the futuristic setting and the sense of possible inevitability that comes with it. Ruttmann’s film, set in the present day (upon release), still retains the same sense but on a more haunting level. The industrial aspect of Ruttmann’s film is the basis for this relationship with the focus being on a nation moving towards the future, with the implication that the industrialisation of the time is increasing at a dangerously exponential rate, to which the future results can be seen in the aforementioned two films.

This emphasis on the good and bad possibilities for the future is a symptom of the filmmaking era that Ruttmann found himself entrenched in. In a very different era such as our 21^st century contemporary one, there are quite a few dramatic shifts, with the advancement in technology allowing for so many more possibilities. Where Ruttmann focuses on the powerful city of Berlin, moving forward like the steam locomotive in the opening scenes, more contemporary films appear to go backwards, focusing much more on the preservation and return to past history when defining the character of a city. Martin McDonagh’s 2008 film In Bruges was the first example of a modern film that came to my mind upon watching Ruttmann’s film. Naturally, it was the fleeting images of the Belgian city of Bruges, and not the plot, which led me to this comparison, as the historical city is a representation of sustained beauty and the importance of preservation rather than development. Gone is the futuristic dystopian film based around over-advanced and over-developed monstrosities (unless your name is James Cameron), as history and older architecture seems to be the cooler trend now for modern filmmakers.