Beyond the Continuity System: Subverting Narrative Clarity in The Wild Child (1970)

Beyond the Continuity System: Subverting Narrative Clarity in The Wild Child (1970)

The classical form of narrative storytelling has firmly ingrained itself in the world of film since the birth of the medium. Methods regarding camera movement, character development, editing, and plot structure are essential to a conventional production of a film within the continuity system. In Film Theory: An Introduction Through the Senses, Thomas Elsaesser and Malte Hagener, prolific film theorists and journalists, delineate the phenomenon of natural narrative discontinuity. Elsaesser and Hagener’s main concern dealt with how suture theory creates a natural bond of narrative understanding for the viewer: “…how is it that the discontinuities and ruptures introduced through editing do not seem to break this “primary” bond with the spectator?” (Elsaesser, Hagener 88). Using the tenets addressed by suture theory, the discontinuous nature caused by splices in the action of a film can be overcome with the employment of such techniques as matching on action, eyeline matches, bridging diegetic or non-diegetic sound across cuts, or the meaningful juxtaposition of two shots. An especially intuitive facet of the classical narrative resides in the content of the story. Central to continuity storytelling is the development of a central character, a protagonist, who faces and conquers adversity. Any conflict found within the narrative is undoubtedly resolved at the film’s conclusion; the film exhibits narrative closure.

          
With the introduction of French New Wave cinema, the building blocks of classical filmmaking were vigorously challenged. Jean Luc-Godard use of jump cuts and counterintuitive screen direction flew in the face of the ideology traditionalist filmmakers promoted. Another New Wave director, Francois Truffaut, sought to subvert the continuity system.  In his 1970 film The Wild Child, Truffaut tells the story of how a young boy discovered in the forests of Aveyron, France is captured and educated by a deeply curious psychologist. Aware of the principles of continuity regarding the development of a central character, reliable narration, and closure, Truffaut subverts the continuity system through his lack of a protagonist, ambiguous narration, and use of a morally challenged plot.

          
Although The Wild Child exhibits plentiful instances of subversions of the continuity system, the visual presentation of the story is done almost entirely with classical montage technique. The plot is directly linear, displaying the story with many devices that fulfill suture theory, such as match-on-action, point of view shots, and continuous diegetic sounds. Of all the mechanisms at work to ensure the audience coherently understands natural ruptures in the film’s continuity, the guidance of the film’s narrator, Dr. Jean Itard, is the most imperative. Itard’s voice is ridden throughout the film, shown early on to be reading from his written memoirs of the events. Given that the child, Victor, is almost completely dumb, the only interplay of dialogue occurs between Itard and his housekeeper, Madame Guerin. Therefore, the narration provided by Itard is necessary foremost for the purpose of revealing to the audience his intentions with each training lesson and psychological test. For example, prior to testing Victor and rewarding him with a walnut, Itard describes his decision to use rewards of food and milk to motivate Victor when engaging him in lessons (Truffaut). This form of narration, in which Dr. Itard provides certainty to a sequence of the film previously vulnerable to misinterpretation, builds trust between the viewer and the narrator. It is with this constructed trust that Francois Truffaut sets up a subversion of continuity.

By acting as the source of narrative transparency, Itard’s narration quickly becomes a resource the audience tends to lean on for reassurance. His intentions to educate the boy seem honest and, as a viewer, one initially believes Victor to be in a good situation. Deviating from the emotionally static and unbiased narrators characteristic of classical cinema, Truffaut eventually challenges the audience’s perception of Itard as a wholly virtuous narrator. The training imposed by Itard slowly becomes too strenuous for the boy to bear, causing him to frequently lapse into raging fits. Upon one such fit, Madame Guerin scolds Itard, stating, “His tantrums are your fault. You make him study from morning to night. You turn his only pleasure into exercises. His meals, his walks, everything. You want him to catch up in one fell swoop.” Madame Guerin’s protest of Itard’s actions is a minor blow to the viewer’s relationship with Itard, breaking the initially forged perception of Itard as a method of navigating the narrative.

          
The viewer’s ambiguous feelings towards Itard’s character are heightened at the revealing of Itard’s own regret towards the training. In reaction to another failed test, Itard ruefully admits, “I give up. I’m wasting my time with you. Sometimes I’m sorry that I know you” (Truffaut). Whereas towards the beginning of the story, Itard acted as a bastion of hope and knowledge for Victor, he begins illustrate himself as a detriment to Victor. A greater blow to the viewer’s confidence in Itard comes with his admission of Victor’s current state as inferior to his prior life: “Now, ready to renounce the task I had imposed upon myself, seeing the time I’d wasted and how deeply I regretted having known him, I condemned the curiosity of the men who had wrenched him away from his innocent and happy life” (Truffaut). The regression of Itard as a sympathetic and reliable narrator to a character of indecisive action and source of harm to another prominent character is a crucial dynamic to Truffaut’s tentative aura exhibited in The Wild Child. The narrator, the dependable guide of so many classical narratives, is carefully exploited here to rethink the ideological effect of suturing that narration normally provides.

         
Contemporary cinema, contrast to Truffaut, is characteristic of narrative certainty in the sense that the story belongs to one character. The events that occur are motivated to push forth the personal story of the protagonist, with the ultimate goal being to achieve character growth. In Truffaut’s The Wild Child, the identity of a clear protagonist is left vacant. Certainly, the title of the film could be interpreted to lend itself to resolve this dilemma; this is the story of a previously isolated boy of nature and his introduction to civilization. However, when watching the film, this theory is rebuked. Dr. Itard’s voice and actions is the engine to narrative motion, and, furthermore, Itard’s own emerging storyline seeks to overshadow that of Victor. During portions of the film, the progression or regression of Itard’s training, his vacillating optimism, and struggles to garner fundraising from the state become the pillar events of the plot. All of the information the film provides regarding Victor is through the lens of Itard’s character, provided in the context of his narrated memoirs. The ambiguity surrounding the identity of a central character creates a sense of uncertainty for the viewer that would cease to exist in the form of classical narrative. With these clashing narratives, Truffaut successfully subverts the narrative clarity essential to films of traditional nature.

          
As Itard divulges the hopes for his psychoanalytical experiments and the results are displayed on the screen, the viewer can track the level of success reaped along the way. As previously stated, one key indicator of a central protagonist is the existence of character growth or conflict resolution. Using this rubric, if Victor were to have shown noticeable improvements in his training, enthusiastically embracing his training and all aspects of civilized society, a sense of narrative closure would be apparent. Victor’s struggles to understand and obey Itard’s and his deep yearning for his previous home in the forest would be overcome in the event that Victor had found happiness in civilized society. Yet again, Truffaut prefers the contrary. Until the end of the film, Itard’s training is depicted, at times, less like the education of a boy and more like the torturous experimentation of a lab rat. The film exudes uncertainty not just in regards to any benefits the training provides the boy, but it is also dubious whether the training is inherently good itself. Truffaut is sure to avoid closure in the final minutes of the film. Victor flees the household to be reunited with nature, only to realize he has lost some former capabilities. His return to Itard’s home is accompanied with an aura of ambivalence and fear. Upon Victor’s arrival, Itard declares, “Tomorrow we shall resume our lessons” (Truffaut). Truffaut cuts to Victor, executing a closed iris to leave only the boy’s apprehensive countenance exposed. Concluding the film on such an unresolved note is another contribution to Truffaut’s effort to sabotage the ideology of the classical narrative.

          
The skittish state expressed by Victor in those final moments epitomizes the uneasy tone scattered in the rest of the film. Simultaneous with the presentation of Itard’s regrets, a moral and philosophical dilemma arises in the narrative text: is the decision to snatch Victor from his natural habitat, one in which he thrived well, and reform him to become a civilized being of society the right choice? Moreover, is human society truly a better way of life than Victor’s life in the wild? There exists a presupposed doctrine that drives the premise for The Wild Child; the good life is existence among other men, under a state of government. In her analysis of The Wild Child in Film Quarterly, Harriett R. Polt, film academic and journalist, addresses the quandary: “What is the meaning of his freedom? Is it freedom – or another sort of trap?” (Polt 44) Profound philosophical undertones such as these seep through the narrative and continue to fester with the mind of the viewer. Victor’s state in Itard’s household becomes more uncomforting to watch as he squirms under the glare of the psychologist.

Wrestling with such questions is a conscious decision of Francois Truffaut. By juxtaposing a boy native to isolation in its purest form with the domesticated nature of civility, the auteur of this film is directly expressing his wariness towards Victor’s new life. With each of Victor’s violent tantrums, the viewer can discern a sense of severe uncertainty in the Truffaut’s narrative. As Polt notes in her analysis, “Though little of this is alluded to in the film, the very pathos of Victor’s condition, and the depiction of his suffering under the constant, frequently monotonous training he is subjected to, give evidence of Truffaut’s ambivalence over the sense of it all” (Polt 44). The ability of Truffaut to illuminate the notion that civilized society may fall secondary to a wild life in the countryside adds substance to an already existing emotional imbalance in the film. Contrary to the sentimental evocation a viewer experiences during this film, the conventional wisdom embedded in classical filmmaking possesses more definite underpinnings and less inner controversy.

          
Yet, although Victor’s struggle is irrefutably an origin of narrative ambiguity, Itard’s awareness of the contentious nature of the situation is equally as haunting. Seemingly honest in his motives from the upstart, Itard’s genuine interest transforms into blind determination by the conclusion. Polt addresses the fault of Itard to recognize the consequences of Victor’s newfound predicament: “More than just aware of Victor’s inability to learn true speech, Itard recognizes how his adoption into “civilized” life has deprived him of his freedom: Victor never loses his yearning for the outdoors…” (Polt 44). Towards the end of the film, Itard exposes his belief that conditioning Victor to be a civilized human may not necessarily be desirable, given the context. With this knowledge, the relationship between the audience, Itard, and the message of the film, viciously plummets. Itard’s depiction as a psychologist with ambitions that override his moral guidance alter his perception to nearly a villain. Completing the loss of faith in Itard, the viewer is left with little dependable source of continuity in the film.

          
In the context of cinema’s history, classical narrative films are foreign to this loss of a facilitating technique of narrative interpretation. Similar to the jarring jump cuts of Kar Wai Wong’s Chungking Express, or the shocking breakage of the fourth wall in Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless, The Wild Child subverts classical narrative creation. Through the development of an unreliable narrator, absence of a central character storyline, and a moral dilemma ingrained within the film’s basic plot, narrative ambiguity and moral uncertainty seek to challenge traditional filmmaking. In Film Theory: An Introduction Through the Senses, Thomas Elsaesser and Malte Hagener remark how, although a film may not meet standards of the classical narrative, every film is still viewed through a comparative lens: “…even where a film does not conform to this system, it implicitly refers to this system by breaking or transgressing its norms…” (Elsaesser, Hagener 90). Despite it’s ubiquitous use of visual techniques of classical montage, Francois Truffaut’s The Wild Child is a separation from the classical system in substance. Its challenging of the system and decision to bypass its narrative structures sends a message to filmmakers of the classical form and opens dialogue for alternative ways of storytelling.

Works Cited

Elsaesser, Thomas, and Malte Hagener. Film Theory: An Introduction Through the Senses. New York:           Routledge, 2010. 1-232. Print.

Polt, Harriett R. "The Wild Child." Film Quarterly 24.3 (1971): 42-45. Print.

Truffaut, Francois, dir. The Wild Child. United Artists, 1970. DVD.

Film Grade: Flat 7

12 Years a Slave (2013)

Retrospectively examining the last five years in film, the presence of racially charged stories that have emerged has been strong. Among them, namely The Help, Lincoln, Django Unchained, and just this year, The Butler and Fruitvale Station, have each left their mark on the dialogue of race-related topics in unique form. Slavery and civil rights is a subject that has been depicted thoroughly in media, but the topic inevitably calls for more illustrations. Coming in at the tail end of this recent spurt of race films is 12 Years a Slave, directed by Steve McQueen (“Shame”). Deriving from an 1853 autobiography written by the main character, 12 Years demands attention through its shockingly revealing details of slave culture, acutely deliberate framing, and astounding performances by a mix of veteran and newcomer actors.

Solomon Northup (Chiwetel Ejiofor, “Children of Men”) is a free black man living in New York as a violinist. Northup is deceived and kidnapped by a group of white men and sold into slavery, where he endures unspeakable hardships amid the Antebellum Era. In the context of the recent unveiling of Django Unchained, there is a subtly reminiscent emotion aroused by 12 Years a Slave. The desire for Northup to find his revenge is near to our hope for Django to exact justice upon his wrongdoers. However, the commonalities end there. Where Django employed gushing comic book violence, 12 Years’ brutality is just as unyielding in its presentation, but plays out with honesty. In Tarantino’s world, the viewer always feels a level of detachment from reality, but in McQueen’s reality of slavery, on the cotton fields of a Louisiana plantation, every drop of blood and bead of sweat is an effort to do one thing – tell the truth.

 The methods through which McQueen forces his audience to confront this truth are of the aptitude of only premiere directors. When the most horrific incidents are on screen, McQueen refuses to cut away, sometimes letting them resonate for minutes. In one example, Northup hangs from a tree just low enough so that his toes, pressing desperately in the wet mud, can keep him suspended. Children play and slaves toil in the background while Northup struggles for his life. They don’t dare help him, even look at him. The image smolders endlessly through a series of long shots, burning themselves into the screen and into your mind. Expressing the deeply institutional power structures of slavery in one fell swoop is a tremendous feat that emerges more than once in 12 Years.

In between all of the delicately exquisite camera placements and visually jarring scenes of suffering, the attempt to keep pace with Northup’s personal narrative is challenging. Foreign to the life of a slave prior to his kidnapping, Northup has reaped for years the benefits of freedom, and this makes him an outlier among the others on the plantation. Unaware of any alternative way of life, the slaves around him embrace their helplessness and emanate mechanical obedience. For Northup, as the years blur together and the whiplashes thicken his scars, this is a test of sanity. To remain resolute in his resilience, despite the acceptance of his misfortunes, makes Northup’s development tantamount to the rest of the film’s strong points.  Played with steady elegant beauty, Chiwetel Ejiofor has created a character that will endure timelessly in cinema.

The emotive influence 12 Years wields would not have been as effective without such performances. Along with Ejiofor, Michael Fassbender (“Prometheus”) arrives midway with nearly overshadowing work as Edwin Epps, the alcoholic plantation owner without a conscience. Executed with the salivating menace of a crazed Rottweiler, Fassbender is terrifyingly superb as he seeks to break all hints of optimism within the slaves. Also of brave achievement is Lupita Nyong’o in her role of Patsey, Epps’ most docile slave. The subject of some of the most sickening scenes of the film, Nyong’o is essential to affecting the continuous uncomfortable aura of the film. Careful not to waste a second, 12 Years devotes each second to exerting the most powerful and true storytelling. When the Oscars roll around next spring, I fully expect 12 Years to be as golden-tinseled as any movie of 2013.

Grade: 10

The Way, Way Back (2013)

No secrets are withheld at the upstart of The Way, Way Back. From the opening frame, the title takes on literal form, as we see the film’s protagonist seated glumly in the third row of a station wagon, a symbol of his ostracized state. Duncan (Liam James) is a severely timid 14-year-old with a “life sucks” angst about him. His anxiety is only heightened by the fact that he is about to spend the entire summer at the beach house of his mother’s boyfriend, instead of visiting his father in San Diego.

This excursion comes at a pivotal point in the relationship between Duncan’s mother Pam (Toni Collette) and her boyfriend Trent (Steve Carell). On the brink of becoming one family, this trip will test the ability of the couple to work under one roof. Working against Trent is the uncomfortable tension between he and Duncan, impressively instilled by writer-director team Nat Faxon and Jim Rash.

Duncan’s stress peaks as he buckles under the pressure of Trent’s scolding. But when Duncan finds respite in his aimless travels on a puny pink bike, he stumbles upon Water Wizz waterpark. Here he meets, Owen, the waterpark manager played with pleasant wit and precise timing by Sam Rockwell. Sensing Duncan’s distress, Owen takes him under his wing and hires him as a gofer at the park. The mentorship that Owen conducts is illustrated with charm.

From left: Roddy (Nat Faxon), Owen (Sam Rockwell), Duncan (Liam James)

The involvement of the waterpark is where the film finds its true momentum. A myriad of comedic acts emerge from the skits played out on the pool deck. Among many of the colorful Water Wizz employees is Caitlin, played with comedic excellence by Maya Rudolph. The endearing chemistry between Rudolph and Rockwell is just one example of the intriguing character interactions that The Way, Way Back has on display.

Worthy of special mentioning is the performance by Steve Carell. In a role hugely deviating from his past work, Carell has shed the skin of his usual characters, like the lovable sad sacks of Crazy Stupid Love and The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Here, he is equally as convincing, yet wearing the façade of a slimy jerk. The urge to hope for his character’s downfall is one foreign to all moviegoers.

Although the gradual development of Duncan is constructed with mature precision, at times the story’s themes falter into bland and cheap territory. Connections are drawn without great care between Duncan and Owen, hinting the moments with a lifeless feel. The coming-of-age dynamic at work reads predictably, subduing the potential of the film’s messages to be absorbed.

Nonetheless, there is a subtle strength exuded from the many subplots in The Way, Way Back. Duncan’s maturity is a catalyst for the morphing relationship with his mother. Aware of his mother’s distrust for Trent, Duncan shows shades of a man through his will to stand up for those close to him. The irony of this film churns pleasantly at the finale. Ultimately, the Water Wizz staff, adult misfits in the eyes of society, is the source of Duncan’s direction. 

Grade: Flat 6

Gravity (2013)

For some, the natural allure of moviegoing is the escapist prospect of being transported into another reality. This stimulating sensation is most enjoyable when it results from entering a truly unknown place, one that inverts our individual perceptions of existence. Especially in the last decades, with visual effects from movies like Avatar or Inception, the creation of an eerily authentic world is now a familiar phenomenon. This year, director Alfonso Cuarón has raised the bar.

Rare has a film captured a more sophisticated and awe-inspiring visual presentation than the aesthetics on display in Gravity. Dubbed an “astro-thriller” by the media, Gravity’s story unfolds entirely outside the realm of our atmosphere, spare 1 or 2 minutes. As space shuttle Explorer sits suspended in the vacuum of space, Matt Kowalski (George Clooney), a witty veteran spacewalker on his last mission before retirement, hums around the shuttle, propelled by his jet pack. Kowalski is heading a mission to make repairs on the shuttle, overseeing the work of Ryan Stone (Sandra Bullock), a medical engineer on her rookie mission. Stone is uneasy from the beginning, foreboding the ensuing drama. Initiated from a self-destructed Russian satellite, a cloud of debris hurtling through space towards the Explorer sets the narrative in motion.

Ironically, it is the terrific chaos caused by the debris’ destructive power that makes for the most beautiful segments of Gravity. Unlike the explosions from your typical Hollywood blockbuster, carnage from shuttle decimations proceeds soundlessly. The silence peppered throughout Gravity is uncomfortably broken only by the heaving breaths of Stone, one of film’s many stress-inducing mechanisms. Cuarón expertly interjects this mute terror amid moments devoted to the vast openness of space, making the peril of Stone and Kowalski appear meaningless in the scope of the universe.

The sheer visual feat of Gravity does not stand alone. Inside Cuarón’s production lies a compelling narrative driven by Stone. Early on it becomes known that Stone, having lost a daughter, and Kowalski, a divorcee, endure inner turmoil. With their vulnerability exposed, philosophical tone seeps through screen as the camera tracks the duo with glides and twirls. As the astronauts peer down on Earth, their isolation and revelation of their minuscule value claws at their will to survive. In the culmination, the tale becomes just as much about the personal transformation of Stone as it is about Cuarón’s visual prowess. The balance achieved between the two is an accomplishment that makes Gravity all the more majestic.

Gravity arrives during an age when streaming movies and TV shows, whether illegally or not, is making a noticeable dent in the box office success of films. Certainly, waiting to view the latest Adam Sandler rom-com until it hits Netflix is a worthy way to spend your time. Nonetheless, in the case of Gravity, where intergalactic satellite collisions recklessly spew in your face through 3D goggles, the necessity for a silver screen is there. If your thirst for sci-fi thrillers must be quenched, visit Cuarón’s Gravity and submit yourself to a truly cinematic experience.

Grade: Light 8