Journal Report : Round 2

The two articles from the journal Film Philosophy I have chosen to write about for this round of blog posts are When Robots Would Really be Human Simulacra: Love and the Ethical in Spielberg’s A.I. and Proyas’s I, Robot by Bert Olivier and A Cyborg’s Testimonial: Mourning Blade Runner’s Cryptic Images by R. Pope. I have chosen these two because both of them question what it means to be human. Olivier and Pope both use philosophical arguments and psychological theories to make a critical analysis of each films’ leading cyborg characters. It should be mentioned that within the plot of the films, David, Sonny, and Roy Batty are androids, not cyborgs. Their cyborg statuses are dependent on their blurring of the line between human and technology which exists in the film’s theory.
A.I. is a futuristic Pinocchio. David, the robot on a journey to become a real boy, encounters many challenges to the human/machine boundary. This article collects the philosophical ideas of what makes us human and then applies them to David to establish his cyborg identity. Olivier first describes David’s fear of death or non-being. He references Heidegger’s Death Analysis which states that in order to fear non-being one must have a sense of being. This sense of being, however, is only identified by facing the prospect of one’s own non-being/death. David’s fear of his own death confirms his ability to identify his being as a self. Olivier then addresses David’s love for his ‘mommy’ and his desire for her love in terms of Lacan’s definition of love as love of ones own ego. Lacan declares love is narcissism, and that desiring love is desiring your own ego. Olivier proposes that because David is so desperately seeking his mother’s love that he must have a human ego.
The second half of this article then applies some theories of Kant and Sartre to Sonny, the robot of I,Robot. Kant posits that guilt is a manifestation of ethical capacity, ethics being a human trait. But in order to feel guilt one must have the freedom to choose to do wrong. If one had no choice then one would not feel guilty. Sonny feels the guilt of his ‘father’s’ death, this guilt then necessitates the existence of free will. This free will further blurs the line between human/machine and established Sonny’s cyborg identity.
Lastly, R. Pope’s article discusses Roy Batty, of Blade Runner, and his cyborg identity in a similar way. It discusses his fear of death/non-being and the importance of his memories. It also elaborates on the catch-22 of the human-technology dynamic. In short, Pope argues than technology, as a tool, is under human control. But as a tool it is detached, separate from us and therefore beyond our control. And most importantly, using the crypt concept of Derrida, Pope arrives at the conclusion that humanity has no meaning, that assigning meaning to humanity is impossible. What makes us human, and in the context of the film what makes Batty human, is the appropriation of humanity. It is the act of being human, the striving toward the ideas of humanity, and the belief that we are human is what makes us human.

Field Report #2

Where’s Waldo? is not considered high art. It is a guy, with questionable fashion sense, hiding in absurd locations swarmed with mobs of people with equally if not even worse fashion sense. As ridiculous as it is, I can’t think of a more interactive 2-D work of art. First, it’s very name is asking something of the viewer. A basic task invites you into the work. Once there however, you immediately realize it will not be easy, as every square inch is covered in activity. So you get closer, lean into the drawing, nose almost touching. He has to be here somewhere You think to yourself. Then a flash of red and white stripes catches your eyes. “Ha! There’s Wal--oh?!?!” You squint closer. It is a girl wearing Waldo’s outfit. “NO! You tricked me, GAR!” You bellow. You’ll pay for that, Waldo, you think to yourself, now even more determined to find him. You think it’s your choice, but really it is only pulling you deeper. You are touching the paper now, tracing out the people, the shapes, the colors. You begin to formulate strategies. I’ll look for the color red But wait Maybe I should search in small sections? As you continue to look you begin to notice the visual jokes hidden inside. You realize that there is much more to find than just Waldo. Before you know it you’ve spent an hour, only inches away, completely engrossed in one work of art. Whether you do or do not find Waldo is entirely dependent on the actions you, as the viewer, take. These actions, this activity over passivity, is what George Fifield uses to define interactivity, “With non-interactive art we are, with interactive art we do.” It was with this quote in mind that visited the Milwaukee Art Museum’s Act/React show.
I found Camille Utterback’s pieces the most immediately striking. First, they were the most aesthetically pleasing to me. They have an organic feel to them. External Measures 2003 in particular felt alive, like vines growing across an old brick wall. The way they moved and crept along produced a sense of it’s own time and lulled me into a near meditative state. But it stood out more than just being one of my favorites. In the other pieces the pleasure came with directly interacting with them and they were encouraging to explore the functions behind the art. But for External Measures 2003 I found that my presence felt like a disturbance. I want to be clear here. I am not trying to negate its interactivity or insinuate that this piece repels interactivity. My point is that with this piece I was content to watch it interact with itself. I didn’t find pleasure in disturbing it rather if found pleasure in watching it recover from my disturbance. This leads to a lot of questions though, the first being, why? For all the other pieces I felt compelled to push their limits. Actually, I felt most of them demanded it, like their interactivity is boundary dependent, prompting the viewer to approach the work with a ‘what if’ attitude. They are approached by the desire to find the boundaries of its causes and effects. So what was it that made External Measures 2003 feel like an exception? To be honest, I haven’t figured that out yet. It wasn’t because it provided negative feedback, my interaction was rewarded positively. Maybe it was because the reward was in the effect and had nothing to do with my ability to create it. The other pieces had a sense of ownership. This is my section of space, that is my cartwheel in that square, I blocked out more blobs than anyone else. These all have elements that can in some way be conquered. But External Measures 2003 erases my marks. I never felt like I owned it, it was more like it acknowledged my presence and then incorporated it into its own algorithmic destiny. I think it must be questioned then what effect this difference has on it’s interactivity. Does it make it less interactive? If so then is a feeling of ownership directly proportional to the interactivity? How, if at all, does more viewer ownership compromise the artist? Does this difference increase the interactivity? These are all questions that I am still working through, but I have a feeling these are questions that this young medium itself is still working through. At this point though, I feel like it is more interactive. I think the future of interactive art won’t rely on testing limits but will rely on a deeper incorporation of the viewers actions. Perhaps one day the viewer will be able to directly influence the algorithm itself, changing the entire dynamic of the work.

Field Report #1

Stan Brakhage’s Mothlight and Kevin Jerome Everson’s Golden Age of Fish are very different films. The first, a 4 minute handmade film, is unconventional in its making and sparse in its subject matter. The latter, however, is diverse in its subject matter, ranging from topics such as geology to product advertisement to kites and to murder suicide just to name a few. Its making is also more conventional, using a camera to fix an image, but the media it incorporates is just as diverse as its topics, using a mix of video and a variety of color and black and white film stocks. As different as these films may be, both are clearly experimental, and, strikingly, both are documentaries.
Mothlight works as a documentary on two levels. The first is as a physical documentation. By affixing wings and leaves and other objects directly to the film the viewer is presented with the subject in it’s raw form. The camera is an intermediary. Films made with them add a degree of separation, but in Mothlight that separation doesn’t exist, allowing the image to be an expression of the truth of the object. Besides presenting the viewer with artifacts, this film works as a documentary on another level by expressing the experience of a moth. The film is frantic, our eyes are drawn to the light of the screen that flickers and flutters before us. Our experience of the film mirrors the experience of a moth.
The Golden Age of Fish operates as a documentary on a similar level to the second I described for Mothlight. Before the screening began, Kevin Jerome Everson spoke to the audience. What struck me about what he said was that despite (and because of) the wide variety of topics it covers and imagery it presents, this film is about Cleveland. Specifically, about the perception of Cleveland from people who do not live there. Even more specifically it is Everson’s perception of the perception of Cleveland from people who do not live there. Thinking this line of thought over while watching the film I began to understand that the truth of Cleveland is how it is perceived, which can be extended to the truth of anything is how we perceive it. I then began to understand the use of the different film stocks and video effects as well at the motifs of layers and gathering of pieces. Just like Mothlight, the truth lies in the experience, so by presenting us with multiple experiences we can put together a greater sense of truth.