The Last Outpost 

Watching Olivier Assayas’ (2014) The Clouds of Sils Maria the day after Carrie Fisher died, it seemed to throw a poignant coincidence and reminder that only the world of the screen can offer. It almost felt as if I had meant to leave watching this film, not going to watch it in the cinema even though I had wanted to, and knowing that it was on a streaming service, and delaying watching it until now, just like I had with all of the Star Wars films. But the coincidence wasn’t because Assayas’ film was about an ageing actress worrying about her standing in the world and cinema, instead, it was the odd way that it made me think about Carrie Fisher when I had no connection with the films that made Fisher famous – Star Wars. Yet here I was thinking about her and what her death possibly meant.

2016 was a year that seemed replete with deaths of global stars. Rickman, Prince, Bowie to name a few, names synonymous with fans around the world, and now, Princess Leia had joined them. Social media is flooded with outpourings of adoration at times like this, and these are people who have inevitably figured in the lives of millions, immortalised in their roles and their personas. They, unlike the rest of us, have the opportunity to live on, through their art and performance, but it as at these moments of passing that we realise these people who we invest our time and attention to via watching or listening to , are only made of the same stuff as we are. Perhaps then this is why we’re fascinated with celebrity deaths. At first it strikes in us the crippling fear that these people are not just fantasy, they are ‘real people’. It’s as if one moment these events allow us actually to consider for a moment that death happens to us all, but at the same time we’re still participating in the unreality of the media and still rejecting the truth of the matter by participating: namely, that we all die.

Clouds of Sils Maria didn’t particularly ‘tell’ me anything about this, but it was strangely correlating with the world now, both mine and globally. It stars Juliette Binoche as Maria, an actress who has been asked to play a role in a stageplay that she has already been in before. This time however, she has been asked to play the role of the older person rather than the younger one she previously played. She stars opposite Kristen Stewart (Val) who acts as her PR manager, and has a remarkable ability to deftly balance all the screens that mediate Maria’s life; text, phone, email, voice-call, video call, Val is the person who connects Maria with the world. In the opening scene on a train, Maria is seen reading a newspaper which seems a representation of Maria’s way of being informed about the world, archaic compared to Val’s wizardry with the screens.

Maria initially though is on the way to give a speech about Wilhelm Melchior, the reclusive writer of the play, and has yet to be asked to play the older role. Melchior dies and it is after the speech she is approached. The young role has instead gone to Jo-Ann (Chloe Grace Moretz) a brattish child-star who has appeared in a major Hollywood franchise. Maria sets to find out about her new co-star watching videos via the internet of her pugnacious interviews with the press. Val and her then watch Jo-Ann in the franchise film and Maria (quite predictably) derides it whilst, Val sees its qualities (when they actually meet her, she is extremely polite).

While the film may appear to be oozing self-referentiality, the fact that Melchior dies, I think propels it beyond that. Now, this is more than the, as Hamlet says, ‘the play where-in we’ll catch the conscious of the king’. We see Maria and Val rehearse for the play in Melchior’s home which look like lucid moments between acting and rehearsal and for a moment you’re wondering if they are rehearsing for the play or actually acting as the characters Assayas assigned them as in his film. Val says to Maria ‘an interpretation of life can be truer than life itself’; indeed it can and often is, but that ‘truer than itself’, is an exaggeration, and exists within a realm, out of time with reality, like all fiction is. The realist paintings of the 19th century, were depicting real life, but that reality was only realer than life itself.

In recent years there has been a trend or an emergence of fictions that have protagonists that are paired, or are reflected off another character. Elena Ferrante is perhaps the most prescient example as the first book of her Neopolitan Series My Brilliant Friend (2014) is exactly that; a young girl reflecting on a relationship she feels inadequate in, in which she reflects on her friend’s brilliance, yet she is the writer of (and there is a brilliant irony where she remarks of her friend that she is a better writer than she is, despite her ‘writing’ the novel). These ‘other’ characters seem to act as a reflection, a mirror, not quite fantasy but certainly represent what the other wishes they could be. There is a wry, but poignant moment when Maria sits above Val, as Val lays back on a couch. It almost looks like Maria trying to analyse herself through Val, explore, project, retain her youth in Val. This is the persistent irony, the younger knows more about the world than she does, and so when they go on a walk together Val, tells her to ‘follow her lead’. Val has the map, but does Maria have the territory? It would appear not, as they have a disagreement (one of many) and Val ambiguously disappears. Does she return? Or has Maria finally let go? Is this for her benefit?

As we know, it was Val who has control of the screens for Maria– cinema is not the only screen any more – you are no longer the centre of attention in the world of cinema. Assayas’ naturally promulgates the cinematic one but he doesn’t seem to be proclaiming this to be the death of cinema. Notice the frequent fade to blacks which seem indicative of the fact that demise and disappearance, of ourselves and others, is imminent and inevitable and it is no longer dramatic. It is akin to your smartphone, switched off many times throughout the day. Instead Assayas’ film seems to be trying to teach us, in the most unpreachable way that there are actually things bigger than the screen, even the cinematic one: there is more to life than it. Maria is only learning what her younger films stars will have to learn, what we all will have to learn.

The screen promises immortality and immediacy; we can all feel touched by those stars, like they have all entered our lives and have been with us at particular moments in time. David Thomson, in what can be described as a sort-of biography of cinema in his book, The Big Screen (2012) says at times everybody felt that they had or could have spent a night with Marilyn Monroe. I think to The Seven Year Itch (Billy Wilder, 1955); all males who watch a film could be Richard Sherman (Tom Ewell) and spend a weekend with Monroe who is only given the title of ‘The Girl’ as if to emphasise the fact. Sherman can scarcely believe it either.

Zadie Smith’s novel Swing Time (2016) follows a similar to model to Ferrante about a girl who bedazzled by her friend’s brilliant talents ironically ends up working for her childhood pop-star idol. Here is Smith talking about the narrator’s moment she begins to work for Aimee:
“I was still a child when my path first crossed with Aimee’s – but how can I call it fate? Everybody’s path crossed with hers at the same moment, as soon as she emerged she was uncontained by space and time, with not one path to cross but all paths…”
What is living contact any more? The narrator seems more believing of the fact that she is working with a worldwide pop star than she ever does to be friend’s with Tracey. But the screen can never truly tell us how to connect; no matter how much a film tries to depict a non-fantastical, ‘realistic’ relationship, it will never be real. It is as Val says, truer than life itself.

And so, here I was, back thinking about Carrie Fisher, made famous in a set of films that I have no real concern for: i haven’t even seen all of them. Certainly it speaks about the intrusiveness of the spectacle but I was giving it the consideration that it spoke about something much greater than that. In her last few months, Fisher had released some memoirs and spoken about her affair with Harrison Ford during the making of Star Wars. It was there for us all to see. All along Fisher along with Ford had been trying to tell us that there were things greater than the world inhabited by celebrity and the media, they had been trying to step outside of the screen. It was in that moment when Han Solo in The Empire Strikes Back looks to be going to his death, and Princess Leia tells her that she loves him. The next line is apparently ad-libbed by Ford. What does Ford say? Maybe it wasn’t ad-libbed depending what side of the screen you’re on.

Perhaps my New Year’s resolution should be a simple one: watch all those Star Wars films.

Oleg Zaionchkovsky – Happiness is Possible

Happiness is Possible
by
Oleg Zaionchkovsky (translated by Andrew Bromfield)
And Other Stories: £10.00rrp.: 303pp.

We live in a society where we’re expected to give our lives meaning. As the art critic Boris Groys writes In The Flow (2016):

‘In earlier times, recreation meant passive contemplation. But today’s society is unlike that spectacular society. In their free time, people work – they travel, play sports, and exercise. They don’t read books; they write for Facebook, Twitter and other social media’.

In Happiness is Possible by Oleg Zaionchkovsky, we’re confronted with a narrator who is constantly struggling with distinguishing the difference between his work, his writing and how he ultimately interprets meaning from them.

The narrator is never referred to by name. His impetus, drive, or energy for his novel appears to have deserted him, and indeed, desertion is a running theme in his life as those he has loved have also departed from his orbit leaving just his dog. His life is uneventful: we witness him visit parts of Moscow and pick up threads of conversations as he tries to a conceive a story and narrative for his own work. As A.D Miller writes in the introduction though, ‘the urge to find and keep a place to live in Moscow dictates where and how people choose to work’: ultimately, we are watching a novelist living and at work, but what is the work that leads to meaning and its worth?

When work does come his way, it’s a commission to review a restaurant, which he attends with his ex-wife and her new partner Dmitry. Her new partner has become an important figure in his life, lending him money to help keep him afloat (‘when my indebtedness exceeds my creditworthiness Dmitry Pavlovich doesn’t write it off, he restructures it’: surely it is the writer’s job to ‘write it off’). It is here however we see how difficult a task he finds writing:

“What an array of dishes we sampled at his insistence – I can’t recall them all now!”, which is slightly worrying for a writer.’

Can he not make it up you ask ? Dmitry, noticing his struggle says to him:

“Ah what a Joe Blow you are,” Dmitry Pavlovich put in unexpectedly. “Write something beautiful about all this…about the way destinies are defined. The establishment gets a boost for its image and you, you fool, get paid a fee. There’s a balance for you.”

People know more about the act of writing than the writer himself here and the work of the novel and pure labour are indistinguishable to Zaionchonsky’s narrator. A motif from Zaoinchonsky’s novel is that of the writer sat in his apartment . Reminscent of Camus’ Outsider – Meursault – although Camus’ novel is not about a writer necessarily, it does ask, what is an outsider but a person struggling to find and make meaning from the society which he engages. Meursault, after seeing his dead mother retreats to his flat where he idly sits looking out of his window watching the world happen below and like Meursault, the narrator here is ‘boxed in’ that flat, excluded from making meaning. Remember how in the opening he says how his air vent functions like an ‘old wired-in Soviet radio speaker’? It’s old, in history and he hears other people’s arguments filter into his apartment as he notices:

I don’t know their names, I don’t know what they look like but I think about them a lot. When my own text – the one that’s my vocation , the one I’m paid money for – when that text betrays me, then my weary thought mingles with my cigarette smoke and streams out through the air vent.

The author is not dead but he is mute and in, what he terms, his ‘own soap opera’. The sole, individual creator of novel begins to look archaic and we might be tempted to view it as a hint toward Russia’s history of suppressing and incarcerating writers and artists, but it also boils down to this sense of an individual being able, at least, to turn something large and at the macro-level of experience into something personal and meaningful. He cannot help take the ‘box’ with him though. He needs others, but others don’t need him.

It is also inherently paradoxical and a scene from Camus’ novel conveys the absurdity of this situation. When old Salamano’s dog escapes, where does it escape? When the old man is distracted by the stalls at the fair and the performance of the ‘The Escape King’. In other words, the thing that you are watching could in fact be the thing that is happening to you without you knowing it. And so here, in Zaionchkovsky’s work, we have become the spectator of not ‘The Escape King’ but of the dog disappearing, and we are watching the watcher. Art does not render you unconscious, art is more than distraction but it does require somebody to pay attention to your attention.