The visual narratives of Resnais in the architecture of Carlo Scarpa
Hiroshima Mon Amour. 1959
Alain Resnais
Producers: Argos Films. Como Films. Pathe Overseas. (France). Daiei Motion Pictures. (Japan).
Alain Resnais was born in North Western France in 1992. He lived through the German occupation of his country in the Second World War and belongs to a generation that remembered the birth of the atomic age in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. This historical period was a major influence on the director, and was the subject of his first successful short film, Night and Frog, 1955. It was also the backdrop to his first major feature film, Hiroshima Mon Amour, 1959.1 He was often categorised alongside the French New Wave directors and, whilst his work shares some of their characteristics, he remained outside the polemical debates about cinema and culture in general, that directors like Godard and Truffant were at pains to instigate. The films of Resnais tend to be slow, introspective and detailed examinations of self-obsession that, in the case of Night and Frog and Hiroshima Mon Amour, do not take on political themes directly, but rather allow them to weave through personal stories in more indirect ways. In Hiroshima Mon Amour, for example, the social and political context of occupied post-war Japan functions as an emotional and political metaphor for a love story in the city of Hiroshima. The two lead characters, Emmanuelle Riva and Ejii Okada, play the roles of a French actress and a Japanese architect who share a few intense and emotive “days of tormented romance”. Directly and indirectly revolving around memory, the film presents the viewer with characters that live in a politically complex present, but who are also haunted by an emotionally traumatic past.2
These two primary players are introduced through a series of shots that fade, one on top of the other, until they finally reveal the pair in intimate embraces; the faded nature of the close-up images initially makes them appear as smooth organic sculptures reminiscent of the works of Henry Moore. These opening shots, created by two cinematographers, Sacha Vierny and Michio Takahasi,3 clearly set the emotive tone of their relationship. However, they are immediately contrasted by mundane shots of contemporary Hiroshima and absolutely horrific images of its previous nuclear devastation. The duality set up in this introduction is continued throughout the film in a series of flashbacks that take us from contemporary Hiroshima to the city’s past, and back to Riva’s rural upbringing in France. When the film returns to France, it is to relate the story of Riva who, during the Nazi occupation of her village, fell in love with a German solider. In the various scenes presented of this subplot, we see the youthful protagonist besotted with her lover, frightened by the reaction of her village and, finally, emotionally destroyed upon his death. Augmented by a style of filming whose close-ups centre on extremely personal details, such as a tear falling from a cheek or a smile breaking on a face, melancholy becomes the film’s principal characteristic.
Although focusing on quite different events, the filming of the present day scenes in Hiroshima shows a similar sensibility and delicateness to that found in the scenes of reverie and remembrance from War time France. At times, they present us with contemporary images of the city, either deserted and ghostly or a hive of commercial business activity and political action. At other times, they present us with images of the intimate relationship of the lovers through a series of delicately filmed sequences, which, whilst they can border on excess, are also celebrated as beautiful sculptural images full of the film’s underlying melancholy. Often shot against the backdrop of Riva’s voice-in-off narration, these scenes show the two lovers reclining in bed and intertwining their bodies into complex sculptural forms that tend to be filmed in close-up or medium close-up. A respectful silence reigns and is intended to reflect the intensity of the scene, but also to create a totally absorbing atmosphere that can enfold the viewer as well. Resnais treats these moments in his typically slow and deliberate way, presenting us with lovers that ponder the smallest of actions and the most insignificant of words of the partners. The “gravitas” of the voice-over and the slow intimate filming attempts to invest the ordinary with something “metaphysical”. Visually, the aim seems to be the use of film to invest the figurative with the qualities of the sculptural (Figs. 1–3).
Compositionally, the cinematography places the protagonists in very deliberate relationships with the camera and their architectural background, more often than not, an apparently uninspiring domestic interior. The clearly composed “interior compositions” thus created become even more intricate as “internal movements” and changes occur within them. Given that many of these movements are in close-up, the simple raising of an arm or twisting of a head produces significant changes to the sometimes abstract on-screen image. In addition, these slight movements are used to reveal new perspectives on the characters or what they discuss. In a close-up shot of intertwined bodies, for example, we may only hear a conversation until one of the characters moves, at which point, a facial expression becomes the camera’s focus. When one adds to this a chiaroscuro use of lighting, the changes created by these insignificant movements become compositionally important. In other scenes, these on-screen compositions use the simplest architectural elements; the faces of the protagonists deliberately placed against a background of an open door, the headboard of a bed, or a mirror hung on a wall, for example. Creating very specific “portraits”, the use of apparently insignificant architectural framing devices highlights the domesticity of the film’s “dramatic moments of tension and doubt”.
Through these strictly controlled images, Resnais, Vierny and Takahasi demonstrate a delicate and intricate example of cinematic portraiture, perhaps more akin to experimental video art than mainstream cinema. One thing that turns them into standard filmic production, however, is their combination in sequence. Introducing the factor of “external movement”, that of the camera, Resnais places one emotive composition next to another in a temporal line that is both conventional and subtle, so much so that it is hardly noticeable. As the camera cuts and changes position to pass around the protagonists, a sequential on-screen collage is built up as the individual shots morph into a unified scene. They reveal an eye, not only versed in three-dimensional questions of spatial disposition but also a mind capable of imagining perception in movement and sequence. It is a type of cinematographic sequential portraiture that reveals an awareness of composition, a delicate control of light and an understanding of how changing points of view subtly alter our perception and reading of the objects we see.4 It is an approach to cinematography that finds its architectural equivalent in the work of Carlo Scarpa.5
Figures 1–3: The intertwined bodies in a sequence of shots.
Carlo Scarpa is considered to be one of Italy’s most sensitive, intelligent and underestimated architects of the twentieth century.6 Especially celebrated for his “poetic” employment of materials and his sensibility towards historical architecture,7 he is also known for his “creation of complex spatial experiences”. Two of his most famous projects, the Fondazione Querini Stampalia (Venice, 1963), and the Museo di Castelvecchio (Verona, 1959–1973), are perfect examples. In contrast to the conventional spatial organisation of galleries, Scarpa distributed the artworks these buildings housed along routes that were sometimes fragmentary and intricate. Taking into account their positions relative to each other, their location along the spectator’s route, and their placement relative to set architectural backdrops, they formed part of an elaborate “sequential spatial set” whose principal aim was to multiply the spatial configurations through which pieces of art, generally sculpture, would be perceived. Correspondingly appreciated in different configurations, and against altered background compositions and lighting arrangements, he reveals several different formal qualities of the same works. However, it is also a technique that can operate at a “narrative” level. When seen from the side, we may be presented with the raised arm of a courtly knight, a feature that induces a reading of military rulership, but, when seen from a di
fferent angle, a facial gesture of fear or compassion may be foreground.
Scarpa’s ability to highlight different qualities in the same pieces stems from his study of each and every artwork to be displayed in his buildings in detail; a characteristic that led him to consider them on their own unique terms. Ensuring a better understanding of their inherent qualities and, by extension, a greater understanding of how to elicit multiple readings from them, this attention to detail was central to his thinking. It is emphasised by Richard Murphey in his book The Querini Stampalia Foundation, in which he argues that Scarpa’s architectural background, and the exhibit displayed, become equal parts in a fully integrated “compositional and narrative ensemble”.8 It is an attention to detail, a concern for movement, and an understanding of composition that certainly resonates with the cinematography and direction found in Hiroshima Mon Amour. Repeating the most notable tendencies in the work of Resnais, Scarpa created spaces configured on the basis of intimate and controlled relationships between point of view, figurative subject and architectural backdrop. Similarly, he tended to use architectural elements as compositional devices, alternatively framing sculptural figures or placing them against smooth background surfaces, for example.
A flat architectural background such as a wall may be used to instigate a projecting two-dimensional perception of the art object seen as backlit, whilst a darker, textured surface may be used to optically absorb the piece into a denser pictorial arrangement. Similarly, framing a sculpture between two vertical columns arrests attention and focuses our gaze on the piece as an isolated object; an effect also created by its placement against a view of the sky. Through his careful consideration of such characteristics, Scarpa turned the apparently secondary architectural setting of his museum buildings into a central feature of the public’s appreciation of the work presented, without having to rely on eye-catching architectural elements or gestures. Nowhere is this more evident than in his project for the Castelvecchio, Verona; the conversion of an ancient castle into a museum. Originally constructed in the fourteenth century by Cangrande II della Scala, Castelvecchio was a typical fortification of the period. Sitting on the Adige River, it became a military barrack in the eighteenth century and was first used as a museum in 1925. Today, it is one of the city’s primary tourist attractions.9
Scarpa’s intervention began in 1959 and only finally ended in 1973, a few years before his death. Unlike the renovations that preceded it, Scarpa’s design was predicated on a sensitive approach to the building’s existing fabric and its emotive architectural history. In this regard, it is celebrated for an exquisite employment of materials, which, whilst being modern, make reference to the existing structure in terms of colour and texture; the old stone sits perfectly with the rough concrete, heavy steel and weathered timber of the new intervention. With regard to the spatial layout, and how he uses the architecture of the building to off-set and compliment the objects he displays, it is considered to be his masterpiece, specifically in relation to the treatment of the equestrian statue of Cangrande della Scala (1291–1329), whose “sinister” presence becomes the focus of the entire project.10
The Cangrande della Scala equestrian forms the nexus of the project’s circulation routes; the ground level of these routes is formed by paths, whereas at higher levels it is formed by bridges connected by staircases. Each one of these routes doubles as a viewing gallery or platform and, as a result, as visitors circle, move closer and then further away from the statue, they are offered multiple different perspectives. Thus, indicates Jean-François Bédard, in one moment we view it from afar, akin to how we experience a public work of art, but in the following moment, we are much closer and have an intimate relationship with the piece more akin to our engagement with paintings in a gallery.11 Inevitably, this also means that we not only appreciate the statue close-up and from a distance, but that we see it set against different backdrops: old walls, the new building and even the sky. Each backdrop has different formal properties that, in turn, highlight different properties of the piece: texture, form, profile, etc. On top of this game of spatial and material relationships, Scarpa overlays a series of lighting effects. The shadows cast by the statue fall on different surfaces and at different angles depending on the time of day and vice versa (Figs. 4–5).
Figures 4–5: The Cangrande II della Scala equestrian in a series of shots.
This appreciation of light and shadow is emphasised by Judith Carmal-Arthur, who argues that Scarpa used it not only as a form of illumination but also as an “authentic constructional material”; something she suggests allows us to better understand the sculptural mass and volume of the works themselves.12 In her essay, Carlo Scarpa, Museo Canoviano, she indicates that he tended to position each piece in a carefully considered relationship to windows, doors and other openings in order to ensure the most beneficial and evocative combination of light and shade would fall on the piece.13 For example, he could emphasise the power of a particular posture through the extension of a shadow at dusk, or complicate the view of a face through the shadow cast by the sculpture’s own raised hand. In short, she argues, he used light as a painter uses paint.14 In his extension at the Museo Canoviano, designed to display the work of the eighteenth century Italian painter and sculptor Antonio Canova, Scarpa strategically places a number of Canova’s pieces in specific relation to each other, and to various points of view he set up through the building’s spatial layout. As a result, the visitor can see a given piece backlit and in profile, then, from a different position, see it frontally lit, before being ushered to another viewing point from which it appears side lit. Depending on the point of view, the piece appears dynamic and active, or restrained and passive (Figs. 6–7).
Figures 6–7: Various points of view. The Museo Canoviano.
In his strict control of composition, his weaving of individual views into coherent and continuous sequences, and his play of light on sculptural forms, Carlo Scarpa illustrates an approach to museum design that has much in common with the way Alain Resnias and Sacha Vierny dealt with the most intimate scenes of Hiroshima Mon Amour. Both set up very deliberate relationships between point of view, sculptural figures and a simple, restrained architectural backdrop. Similarly, they present the viewer with a journey around these sculptural figures that reveals them in multiple dimensions and, furthermore, create an emotive and compositional role for light and shadow. Neither ever referenced the other’s field, but clearly their approaches to their respective disciplines share commonalities that reveal lessons of mutual cinematographic and architectural interest. Examined from an architectural perspective, Resnais becomes a director whose understanding of space is both subtle and sophisticated, whilst, viewed from the perspective offered by the camera, Scarpa’s work becomes intrinsically filmic. Indeed, he becomes an architect definable as a “cinematographer of space”.
Notes
1For a general introduction to the films of Alain Resnais, see: Wilson, Emma. Alain Resnais (French Film Directors), Manchester University Press, Manchester, 2009.
2For information on the film’s script, see: Duras, Marguerite. Hiroshima Mon Amour, Grove Press, New York, 1961.
3Sacha Vierny would work on ten films with Resnais and would go on to work extensively with Peter Greenaway in the 1990s. The compositional intricacy of this film is typical of his work. Published material on his work is currently limited. For information see: Resnais, Alain. Sacha Vierny ou l’elegance. Positif-Paris. Issue 488, 2001. p. 44–45; Goldschmidt, Didier. “Sacha Vierny et Alain Resnais : parallèles”. Cinématographe. No. 69, 1981. p. 23–28; Kothenschulte, Daniel. “Reisen gegen die Zeit”. Film-dienst. No. 14, 2001. p. 14–15; Brandlmeier, Thomas. “Ein-, Durch- und Ausblicke”. Film-dienst. No. 26, 2004. p. 24–26.
4Numerous introductory texts on cinematography are available. See: Goodridge, Mike and Grierson, Tim. Film Craft: Cinematography, Ilex, East Sussex, 2012.
5For an argument outlying the sequential cinematic qualitie
s of Sarpa’s work, see: Grigor, Murray. “Cinematic Scarpa”. In: B. Fear (ed). Architectural Design –Film and Architecture II, Vol. 70, No. 1, 2000. p. 74–77.
6Born in Venice, 1902, Scarpa was a glass and furniture designer, as well as a teacher, until his death in 1978. Amongst his relatively small-scale, but highly celebrated works, one finds alterations to the Palazzo ca’Foscari and the Fondazione Querini Stampalia in Venice, the Olivetti showroom, also in Venice, and the Museo di Castelvecchio in Verona. He was also known for his landscape design projects, the most famous and ambitious of which was the Brion-Vega Cemetery in San Vito d’Altivole. For an overview of projects, see: Mazzariol, Giuseppe and Dal Co, Francesco. Carlo Scarpa: The Complete Works. Rizzoli, New York, 2002; Beltramini, Guido and Zannier, Italo. Carlo Scarpa: Architecture and Design, Rizzoli, New York, 2006.
7Scarpa was involved in numerous renovations of historical building and was celebrated for his understanding of old constructional methods. See: Olsberg, Nicholas. Carlo Scarpa Architect: Intervening with History, The Monacelli Press, New York, 1999.
8Murphy, Richard. Querini Stampalia Foundation. Carlo Scarpa: Architecture in Detail, Phaidon, London, 1993. p. 16.
9For an overview of the museum’s architecture and Scarpa’s interventions in particular, see: Murphy, Richard. Carlo Scarpa and the Castelvehio, Architectural Press, London, 1991.
10Los, Sergio. Carlo Scarpa – An Architectural Guide, Arsenale Editrice, Verona, 1995. p. 56.
11Bédard, Jean-François. “Cangrande Della”. In: N. Olsberg (ed), Scala. Carlo Scarpa Architect. Intervening with History, The Monacelli Press, New York, 1999. p. 76.
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