This past weekend, I went to the Museum of Modern Art to see Bouchra Khalili’s The Mapping Journey Project. The piece consists of eight videos that tell the story of eight individuals fleeing violence and persecution, who each trace their migration throughout Europe, North Africa, and/or the Middle East. The videos are static shots of a map of the region, with the migrants hand tracing his or her journey to safety and security.

Although the museum was very crowded, I was able to feel an intimacy with the work. I liked that each screen was pared with bench space and headphones for only three people. Even though the exhibition occupied the sprawling and wide open Marron Atrium, each screen setup felt closed off and intimate. Perhaps this intimacy was also encouraged by the focused nature of the videos. The camera stays focused on the map and the video is entirely led by the refugee who is telling their story.

As has been the case with many of the films we’ve seen in class this semester, I found myself ‘digging into’ the experience and viewing the videos in a trance like, focused state. The stories that were told were incredibly inspirational and tragic. The simplicity and uniformity of the delivery communicates a solemnity that is felt for each video. Although each story is remarkable, and the journeys in some cases span many years, the videos only last a few minutes and the narrative is condensed to logistical matters, with a casual anecdote thrown in every now and again. I am curious to know what kind of direction Khalili gave to her subjects to result in such a uniform product. Perhaps no instructions were given, and each subject responded in the same way due to the similar circumstances they were faced with. Either way, the uniformity helps to unite the eight stories, and orient the viewer to the migrants experience. Presenting these stories with the geography that has been traveled is even more of an eye opener. The shockingly long, arduous journeys that are mapped out in each video are juxtaposed with the travelers narration, which is a very striking way to hear to hear their stories.

I found Khalili’s work to be very moving and engaging. Often in news coverage of the refugee crisis, the sheer volume of refugees can make the problem seem very far away. It is both refreshing and harrowing to hear real, matter of fact, unsentimental stories from the refugees themselves.

For my second outside screening, I went to The Museum of Modern Art to see the 1971 Yugoslavian film Plastic Jesus by Lazar Stojanovic. Going into the film, I had a few expectations just from doing a little bit of reading about it online. I was expecting to see a collage of political dissent, explicit sexuality, and religious critiques. Although these themes definitely define the film, I struggled to get a hold on what exactly Stojanovic was trying to say, and perhaps that was the point. The threadbare storyline serves as a backdrop for Stojanovic’s bricolage of leftist ideology and social revolution.
One of the main functions of Plastic Jesus is to shock. Stojanovic was put in jail for his film, for anti-state activities and propaganda. Obviously the political message was a direct confrontation with Yugoslavia’s authoritarian communist regime, but more shocking to me (even in 2016) was the aggressiveness of the film, both in it’s style and in it’s treatment of sexuality. I’m far from a prude, but I was very put off by the films use of sex and representation of gender. It seems as though Stojanovic was trying to show a anarchistic view of sex and gender, but rather than being rooted in liberation and freedom, it was misogynistic and reckless. In 1971, I’m sure Stojanovic could have been seen as progressive and perhaps even feminist in his open and frank presentation of sexuality, but to me, Stojanovic’s liberal view of sexuality is very much patriarchal and comes solely from a male perspective. The women in Plastic Jesus are independent and sexually free, but they exist in the film as objects and indulgences for the main character. Although there was a story, it was so disjointed and thin that it is unclear what relationships the main character, a filmmaker named Tom, has with the women in his life. What is clear however, is that women do not have any intellectual or ideological agency, and act as transients, popping in and of the film only to shock the audience with their frank sexuality.
Admittedly, the specific political motivations of Plastic Jesus were lost on me. I know very little about Yugoslavia, but political resistance and dissent came through very clearly in the film. The ideology behind this resistance seems very jumbled and inarticulate. In the film, Tom is many times identified as an anarchist, an ideology that is reflected in the film’s style, but ultimately I find myself confused as to how his anarchy functions in the context of the greater socio-political landscape. Stojanovic interrupts his story with appropriated Nazi footage and some pretty spectacular found material from the very early days of cinema (including footage of a couple having sex in a forest, that seems to be from the 1920’s). The Nazi images of course oriented me into a political framework, a clear objection to fascist authoritarianism and violence. But again, I felt like I was missing something. Plastic Jesus finds its climax in a spectacular sequence in which the main character, Tom, stands on a balcony with a shotgun, aiming and firing below. His gunshots are cut between graphic images of corpses stacked on top of each other, in various states of decay. The shots of the corpses signal that the violence was that of genocide, war, and torture, although again, the exact context is lost on me. I was very impressed with this sequence. It was incredibly powerful, and it’s solemnity was felt wholly and introspectively as a consequence of the politics the film was opposing.
Although I can’t say that I enjoyed Plastic Jesus, or even that I understand it, overall I feel glad to have seen it. At the very least, Stojanovic implores his audience to react. The disruptive nature of the film provokes thought and challenges assumptions. I definitely felt challenged watching the film, and I feel that ultimately it was a constructive experience for me.

My first outside screening of experimental film this semester was incredibly rewarding. I had still not been to the remodeled Whitney Museum, so I was excited to see Laura Poitras’ Astro Noise there.

I saw Poitras’ documentary, Citizenfour when it was first released, and was enthralled in the story of Edward Snowden. Astro Noise tells the same basic story as the documentary, but interacts with the viewer and imposes on them a visceral experience of America’s war on terror.

From the first instillation, (a drop down screen with close up shots of 911 spectators projected on one side, and US interrogation footage of men who are currently being held at Guantanamo Bay on the other) I felt as though I was being kept in the dark while simultaneously being fed information that I wasn’t supposed to see. Both the interrogation video and the video from 911 were presented without any contextualization, yet both videos are incredibly intimate. The interrogation of the two prisoners as a result of the 911 attacks, and more broadly the impulse of the Bush administration to launch into a poorly defined ‘War on Terror’ is felt deeply here.

The next instillation consisted of a raised platform in the middle of the exhibition space, where spectators could lay down and watch videos (projected on the ceiling) of drone airspace in Syria and Iraq. This was perhaps my favorite part of the exhibition. I got to relax, put down my heavy backpack, and look at serene images of the sky, although the knowledge that these areas were under military surveillance was at the front of my mind. The relaxation and vulnerability here is perhaps the intended effect, since the exhibit culminates in an exploitation of this space.

Continuing through the exhibit, many of the documents leaked by Snowden are on display, deep in small rectangular holes in the gallery walls, so that you need to put your eyes flush against the wall in order to see them. Also inside these rectangles are different videos filmed by Poitras. These items are presented without context, and require the audience to do some ‘digging’ to see what secrets are behind the walls. I was particularly moved by a video of a small village celebrating the arrival of a dignitary of some kind (no other details are given), then an inter title saying “the next day”, and images of the same village completely destroyed, with villagers trying to make sense of the wreckage. Here is another example of how the lack of context leads to a deeper, more visceral understanding of the ways in which the War on Terror functions.

The end of the exhibit culminates in a handheld video shot by Poitras of a US invasion of a small Iraqi town. Only in this instance does the artist provide a context and fully explained details. Poitras tells via voiceover the circumstances of the US occupation and explains the consequences she faced after the filming – namely being flagged by the NSA. In addition to Poitras personal account, there is a mounted television broadcasting an infrared live stream of museum goers as they lie down to watch the Syrian/Iraqi sky. I think this was the perfect way to end the exhibition. The audience is filmed and broadcast without their knowledge or consent. The viewer is personally betrayed by Poitras, just as the NSA betrayed the trust of the American people.