Marker, again

The Zapatistas of Chiapas, Mexico call their gatherings to build international solidarity “Intergalactic.” For some reason, I like to think this playful allusion to the other-wordly would tickle the fancy of French film essayist and man of the world, Chris Marker. Perhaps it’s my ability to imagine this about Marker that makes me so partial to his films. Here are some further thoughts about Marker I had tucked away, forgotten, and neglected to revive for the May 1st Lucid Screening feature.

Marker’s spent a lifetime devoted to politics of the left, but his reputation - in the US anyway - seems to be solely among film buffs, not revolutionaries. He’s known as the purveyor of the film essay, a style of film making that brings together the documentation of History (see Grin without a Cat), or of everyday life (see his travel films) , or of everyday life as History (Le Joli Mai, or, again, the travel films), with a strong narrative commentary spoken over the images.

Spoken narration has a bad reputation amongst politically committed, anti-authoritarian filmmakers. It’s often derided as the “Voice of God,” dictating the meaning of an image and preventing the viewer from interpreting the situation themselves. Marker’s films demonstrate that this needn’t be an iron rule. The Voice of Marker never approaches dictatorship because it always remains his voice. Even his less personal commentary plies the viewer with poetry, with parable - recalling in my mind the words of Walt Whitman: “I project the history of the future.”

Film is a medium of History. In Marker’s work, this is not only the case because film captures the past. Marker mines images of the past for signs of the future. The history of the future that Marker projects is always a refraction, as through a prism, of the past. “After so many stories of men who had lost their memory, here is the story of one who has lost forgetting, and who—through some peculiarity of his nature—instead of drawing pride from the fact and scorning mankind of the past and its shadows, turned to it first with curiosity and then with compassion.”

Here is that story, in part, as commentary from Sans Soleil.

In San Francisco I made the pilgrimage of a film I had seen nineteen times. In Iceland I laid the first stone of an imaginary film. That summer I had met three children on a road and a volcano had come out of the sea. The American astronauts came to train before flying off to the moon, in this corner of Earth that resembles it. I saw it immediately as a setting for science fiction: the landscape of another planet. Or rather no, let it be the landscape of our own planet for someone who comes from elsewhere, from very far away. I imagine him moving slowly, heavily, about the volcanic soil that sticks to the soles. All of a sudden he stumbles, and the next step it’s a year later. He’s walking on a small path near the Dutch border along a sea bird sanctuary.

That’s for a start. Now why this cut in time, this connection of memories? That’s just it, he can’t understand. He hasn’t come from another planet he comes from our future, four thousand and one: the time when the human brain has reached the era of full employment. Everything works to perfection, all that we allow to slumber, including memory. Logical consequence: total recall is memory anesthetized. After so many stories of men who had lost their memory, here is the story of one who has lost forgetting, and who—through some peculiarity of his nature—instead of drawing pride from the fact and scorning mankind of the past and its shadows, turned to it first with curiosity and then with compassion. In the world he comes from, to call forth a vision, to be moved by a portrait, to tremble at the sound of music, can only be signs of a long and painful pre-history. He wants to understand. He feels these infirmities of time like an injustice, and he reacts to that injustice like Ché Guevara, like the youth of the sixties, with indignation. He is a Third Worlder of time. The idea that unhappiness had existed in his planet’s past is as unbearable to him as to them the existence of poverty in their present.