By Brakhage: an an­thol­o­gy


A part of this view­ing list: Criterion Collection Spine #184: Stanley Brakhage’s By Brakhage: an an­thol­o­gy.


I’d for­got­ten how good Stan Brakhage is at the avant-garde film­mak­ing gig. It has been 5 years since my brief ob­ses­sion with avant-garde film; I should re­al­ly get back in­to it. There is a lot of talk [linked be­low] about re­la­tion­al spec­ta­tor­ship, sub­jec­tiv­i­ty, de­con­struc­tion and any num­ber of oth­er the­o­ries that at­tempt to parse out what Brakhage was try­ing to do with his nu­mer­ous films. This col­lec­tion of 26 works by Brakhage, and know­ing a bit about the man from the sup­ple­men­tary com­men­tary on the discs, leads me to be­lieve that the fun­da­men­tal goal of a Brakhage film is to be de­void of all sub­jec­tiv­i­ty and ob­jec­tiv­i­ty; some­thing mere­ly ex­ists to be shown. His paint-films seem to ap­prox­i­mate synaes­the­sia, and while I can see some mer­it in the as­ser­tions that Brakhage wants his view­ers to see light, I think there is a more gen­er­al goal here; Brakhage wants us to see things that we take for grant­ed, or nev­er see in the first place. I like the man more than his films, which is say­ing a lot. He seemed like a man with a good heart and an earnest­ness about him that com­plete­ly threw away any pre­ten­tion. He wasn’t do­ing avant-garde stuff to be edgy, but be­cause it suit­ed him.


So watch­ing a film like The Act of Seeing With One’s Own Eyes, that shows graph­ic vi­sions of au­top­sies, is a chance to see a dead body be­fore it is all maked-up for view­ing. Sure we hear about death and dead bod­ies all the time and see them on TV, but how of­ten do we ac­tu­al­ly get to see a dead body with­out all the fuss we put around it. The on­ly thing that could be clos­er than this film is to ac­tu­al­ly go to a morgue. Dog Star Man is his ear­li­est mas­ter­piece, and is the vi­su­al rep­re­sen­ta­tion of man’s place in the uni­verse with a bit of our ul­ti­mate fu­til­i­ty thrown in for good mea­sure. This is the least hap­py of his films, in my opin­ion. Tons of footage of Brakhage run­ning up a snowy moun­tain car­ry­ing an axe. Tough work, two for­ward one back, his de­ter­mi­na­tion be­comes ad­mirable, but his fi­nal fail­ure hurts just as bad­ly. Window Water Baby Moving is an amaz­ing doc­u­ment of the birth of his first child, and I was root­ing on Jane Brakhage and then ba­by Myrrena through the whole thing. It is quite graph­ic too, but like his au­top­sy film, how of­ten does the av­er­age per­son get the chance to wit­ness a birth?


The old­er he got, the more re­fined and ex­per­i­men­tal he be­came. The col­laged de­tri­tus of Mothlight is beau­ti­ful, and it looks as if it were made of the stuff that you pull out of the ceil­ing lamp shade. The Wold Shadow is a hor­ror film, or at least ridicu­lous­ly creepy, and con­sists of shot of a wood­land over var­i­ous times and has Brakhage paint­ing or tweak­ing the plate or the film in such a way that it looks as if there is some­thing mov­ing in the wood. He says it is his homage to the God in the Wood, and it cer­tain­ly should be. Much of the rest con­sists of paint on film, each in­di­vid­ual frame paint­ed by Brakhage and many of them could be con­sid­ered great ab­stract art; when they’re an­i­mat­ed and mod­i­fied, the ef­fect is whol­ly en­gross­ing. This is what synapse fir­ing would look like. The Dante Quartet is prob­a­bly the most eas­i­ly ac­ces­si­ble of the paint-films, and Black Ice the most evoca­tive. There is a lat­er film with his grand­chil­dren that is state­lier and more med­i­ta­tive, it seems more about an­a­lyz­ing time than light. All in all, this an­thol­o­gy was ex­treme­ly en­joy­able, and al­though I wouldn’t rec­om­mend watch­ing the au­top­sy film over break­fast [as I did], of all the films that he made, that one af­fect­ed me the most. We miss you, Stan.