THE IDEA OF A THIRD edition of Visionary Film began in Paris, where in recent years the American avantgarde cinema has found an enthusiastic audience. Christian Lebrat, the publisher of Paris Experimental editions, proposed to translate the book, together with Pip Chodorov. They urged me to write a new chapter that would survey the field since the issue of the second edition.
In those twenty-one years the American avant-garde cinema has changed dramatically, above all, because of the great numbers of film-makers who continue to work in its inherited genres, to transform them, and to invent new ones. The films of the past two decades are so many and so varied that it would not be possible to discuss, even summarily, the best of them in one supplementary chapter. I have decided, instead, to delineate what I take to be the most important historical and morphological changes within the field. Even under that limitation I do not have the space to deal with individual films in the detail they are afforded in the rest of the book. Even if I had succumbed to the powerful temptation to write only about the newer films of those artists I had previously treated, I could barely touch upon them. The work of Brakhage alone since 1978 would require at least three chapters for discussion on a scale consistent with the analysis of his work before that date. (I say three chapters simply because that is the number I have drafted in an unfinished book.)
I remain convinced that the most conspicuous absence in Visionary Film is the magnificent work of Marie Menken. However, I will not be able to remedy that until I have completed another book on which I have been working for some years. There I shall also attempt to correct my neglect of Ian Hugo’s films. Of the film-makers who began to attract attention in the 1970s, Ernie Gehr and Robert Beavers, whom I discussed in the supplementary chapter of the second edition, continue to assert their preeminence with their films of the ’80s and ’90s. However, with the test of time, my failure to write about some of their contemporaries, particularly Warren Sonbert, Andrew Noren, James Benning, and Peter Hutton, grows more conspicuously short-sighted. Furthermore, although I had acknowledged the power of Yvonne Rainer’s films in the second edition, I understood them to be outside of the central, visionary tradition within the avant-garde cinema. A recognition of their sources in Godard and Bergman influenced my judgment. But the directions many of the major avant-garde film-makers of the ’80s and ’90s explored have proven me wrong: Rainer was the most powerful new influence on a new generation of avant-garde film-makers who did not necessarily share her wariness of the pioneer generation and its culture. Films by James Benning, Abigail Child, Su Friedrich, and Marjorie Keller showed me how central she was and how her achievements were to be reintegrated within a tradition she sometimes disdained.
Lack of space is hardly my only reason for writing in the retrospective chapter largely about film-makers long established and many of whom appeared in the two earlier editions. I can no longer claim the familiarity with the scope of American avant-garde film production I had twenty-five years ago. Since then the tribe of professional observers has bifurcated in the face of such widespread film-making. Those most familiar with the new films of the past twenty years are the programmers and curators, virtually full-time viewers, of avant-garde showcases and museums in a few metropolitan centers. As a professor at Princeton University for the past twenty years, I worked necessarily within the second group, the critics and scholars who see (and teach) far fewer new films and who depend upon the advice and decisions of the programmers in a way that had not been essential twenty-five years before. In this respect, avant-garde filmmaking has mimicked the situation of the other arts where critics and scholars writing on poetry or painting could not be aware of all of the work published or shown. Readers seeking an appreciation of the achievements of the most important younger film-makers will have to look elsewhere.
The availability of videotapes of some of the films I had described in detail has allowed me to cut about a twelfth of the second edition by eliminating many elaborate descriptions. That space has been reclaimed by the reintroduction of the chapter on Gregory Markopoulos, thanks to Robert Beavers’s generous permission to quote from the film-maker’s theoretical writings.
I have liberally incorporated into the first few chapters of this edition passages from my “Introduction” to The Avant-garde Film: A Reader of Theory and Criticism, which is no longer in print; for that text had benefited from the revisionary reflections I had inevitably had after Visionary Film was first published.
In rewriting the endnotes, I have tried to indicate fruitful directions viewers may turn for critical discussions that amplify or contest the interpretations I offer here. However, that apparatus is far from exhaustive. The bibliography of the avant-garde cinema in English continues to expand geometrically. I am particularly grateful to the scholars and critics who have noted errors in the earlier editions of this book. I have attempted to correct them here. However, I do not have space to respond to critics who have objected to my fundamental theses or critical methods, but to them too I owe a debt of thanks for stimulating my thought.1
Owing to copyright restrictions, some non-cinematic art illustrations have been removed from this edition. Some readers may want to consult the first two editions or look up the following works in conjunction with the stills I have included. René Magritte’s La Clef des champs (1936), Le Domaine d’Arnheim (1949), and La Soir qui tombe (1964, Menil Collection in Houston, which I had used originally) illustrate his imagery of shattered windows with the exterior image fixed on the shards of glass. These resonate with the sequence from Meshes of the Afternoon printed on p. 14. Again, Magritte’s La Condition humaine (1933), La Belle captive (1947, 1948, and c. 1965), and La Grande Marée (1951) demonstrate the paradoxes of a frame, which I found relevant to The Petrified Dog, p. 60. Any of Willem de Kooning’s many Woman paintings would provide a parallel to the image from Thigh Line Lyre Triangular, p. 170, evoking the tension between iconography and broad painterly marks in Abstract Expressionist space. I had used his Woman with a Green and Beige Background (1966, now owned by the Grey Art Gallery at New York University). Similarly, Jackson Pollock’s Cut Out (1948–1950, now owned by the Ohara Museum in Kurashiki, Japan) had paralleled the play of positive and negative space in the strip from Dog Star Man: Part Three on p. 207. Wassily Kandinsky’s hard-edged abstractions from the 1920s bear a close resemblance to several of Harry Smith’s so-called Early Abstractions, p. 244. A sequence of four collage pages from Max Ernst’s picture novel, La Femme 100 Têtes (1929), where such sequences are numerous, illustrated the narrative and digressive quality Smith adopted in his long animated film, No. 12. Finally, I had rather arbitrarily chosen Joseph Cornell’s Medici Boy Box (c. 1953, Fort Worth Museum) to stand next to the image of the woman looking out a window in A Legend for Fountains, p. 333, to illustrate the veil of glass Cornell put into play in most of his shadow boxes.
Princeton, N.J.
January 2002
P. A. S.