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first-son-of-finwe · 4 years

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So this is my “leaving the fold” essay, which I mentioned some time ago. I wrote this mostly for myself because writing things down always helps me make sense of them, but quite a few people expressed interest in it, so here it is.

I was raised as quite a strict Orthodox Christian, and the religion is a huge part of my mum’s life. This is mostly my experience of its ideas and processes, and how and why I ultimately decided to leave. It’s a bit rambling, all over the place and very long, but I kinda wanted to post it somewhere, so 🤷

TW for mentions of abortion, alcoholism and general conflict.

When I was twelve or thirteen, my parents and I set off on one of our regular trips to Russia. We used to do this every year before time and money became restricted, and one of our compulsory stops was always a large, sprawling monastery on the outskirts of the city of Nizhny Novgorod.

It’s a place of smiling nuns but very strict rules, where God forms a part of every sentence and church is mandatory for both mornings and evenings. It’s a place of communal meals, harvesting vegetables and milking cows, ringing bells, and lots and lots of praying. For me, it was a taste of pure rural life. I loved running through the fields, swimming in the pond and helping out with the manual tasks of running a communal settlement. I gasped in delight when I saw the lone horse in the field. Deep down I was never meant to be a city kid, and being at the monastery fuelled my dream of living the simple life.

But the fact that we were there purely for religious reasons? That was only an afterthought. An obligatory thing I had to go along with, because the adults expected it. Perhaps I tried to feel the same spirituality they seemed to experience, but I never quite got there.

I put on the headscarf, held the candle, wrote the names of my loved ones on prayer notes for the living. I bowed to the icons, made the sign of the cross when everyone else did. But I never truly connected.

One year on the day of a particularly significant celebration, a huge icon was carried over a horde of kneeling worshippers, and my mum told me to kneel down and pray for my dad to recover from his alcoholism. And so I did.

This is something I’d been praying for for a long time. It’s something I was told to pray for at every holy site, and before every relic. And no, he’s never quit drinking.

But I already knew that he wouldn’t, even as I knelt, closed my eyes and begged whichever saint was on that icon to help my dad quit drinking. I simply knew that it didn’t work that way.

I knew it the same way I knew that Santa wasn’t real. Every child seems to have experienced a shock-horror moment upon learning that they’d been deceived, but I recognised him for what he was right from the start - a story. For someone who’s always thrown themselves wholeheartedly into stories and fantasy, I’ve always had a very clear distinction between fact and fiction - though I’ve also not been so close-minded as to think that there isn’t a grey area in between.

No matter how hard I tried to convince myself, I don’t think I ever truly believed in their version of what was supposed to be happening.

But I think my moving away from Orthodoxy truly began the day I heard my mum on the phone to her friend, who was at the beginning of a difficult pregnancy and was considering an abortion. She and her husband were on different pages with regards to this, though I don’t quite remember who wanted what. My mother’s advice was this: “Well you should really listen to your husband, because you know that a husband’s word is God’s word.”

Even being the believer that I was then, my immediate reaction was complete shock, followed by a thought process that went something like “Are you joking?? SERIOUSLY?”

And of course, it was hard not to think of my own father in his worst moments of drunkenness. So it seems “God’s word” is actually a whole lot of slurred, barely comprehensible nonsense occasionally sprinkled with some insults. That’s really the logic we’re going with here? And beyond that, how can you hand such a deeply personal decision to someone else??

When I went away to university for three years and spent considerable chunks of time away from my mother’s influence, my skepticism only deepened with every day. I couldn’t reconcile the science-driven environment I saw around me with the ideas being propounded in church. Sincerely believing in the Adam and Eve story, in this day and age? It didn’t compute.

Having said that, I would certainly not call myself an atheist even now. I think it is just as presumptuous to assume your absolute knowledge of the infinite universe and declare it contains nothing, as it is to declare that your religion is the only correct one. I find many things about the Christian God to be extremely convenient (just so happens to be an old white bearded man, oh fancy that), but I am certainly not convinced that there are no intelligent forces in the world, whatever shape they take. We are simply not in a position to know these things, and I’m okay with that.

In turn, I treat anyone who claims to know them with intense suspicion.

Ultimately, leaving Orthodox Christianity was a long and painful process (I say ‘was’ in the past tense, but the truth is that it is still ongoing) filled with guilt, second-guessing, deliberate habit breaking and an extremely distressed and persistent mother. But my reasons for it boil down to four key things.

Their ideas did not match my ideas. I will never believe that women are obliged to be submissive to men. I will never believe that being gay (or in any way not straight) is a sin. I will never believe that Eastern Orthodoxy is the one true faith among all the other hundreds and thousands of faiths that exist on this planet. Living with your partner without being married is not a sin. Eating some chicken on a lent day is not a sin. A woman on her period is not “unclean.” Their ideas of good and bad, right and wrong seemed so incredibly outdated and arbitrary that it became hard to take anything they said seriously. And I felt so uncomfortable standing there, surrounded by people who I knew believed in all of this wholeheartedly.

Despite the religion branding itself as ‘Christian’, I don’t think I’ve ever heard any of the priests or worshippers talk about helping others. It is not on the agenda. People walk into church and think that because they’ve said their prayers, abstained from meat and dairy and then said their prayers some more, they’re now good people. But what have they done to make anyone’s life better? Who have they helped? Who have they listened to, cared for, understood? It’s not about that. It’s about making yourself feel good because you recited the Lord’s Prayer before eating your lunch.

The process of participating is extremely rigid, and trying to remember all those rules and traditions is honestly just stressful. Which hand do I kiss? How many times do I have to make the sign of the cross before approaching that super special icon? Do I have to touch the floor, or is that optional? Oh, everyone is kneeling...I guess I should kneel too. Once, I accidentally addressed the Archbishop as ‘Father’ and got a slew of disapproving looks from everyone around me. I think perhaps people find a certain kind of comfort and stability in routine, but having one imposed on you when you’re constantly unsure of the rules is not a pleasant experience.

Sometimes there is a very thin line between a religion and a cult, and Orthodoxy is toeing it a little too closely for comfort. I’ve seen it overpower people’s rational thinking and tap into their most powerful emotions in a way that’s honestly quite frightening.

The first step to leaving was progressively going to church less and less. I’d only ever really gone because my mum demanded it, but now, I put up a bit more resistance. I got screamed and yelled and cried at, and at first, of course I gave in. But little by little, I began to get the message across that I was simply not interested anymore.

Then, I deliberately made the choice to break certain habits. We always faced a row of icons on the wall and made a sign of the cross before leaving the house, and coming back in. It was such an ingrained habit that I did it automatically, and for the first few months, I had to physically catch myself in order to stop. That came with its own sense of guilt and hesitancy, and with the feeling that hey, now God is mad at you - hope a brick doesn’t fall on your head when you’re out there without his blessing.

The next step was removing the cross I’d worn around my neck ever since I’d been christened as a baby. Even now I can’t not wear something around my neck, so I have a little key necklace there in its place. Having a bare neck just looks too weird to me.

That cross came off and went back on at least three times. Each time I’d be persuaded, guilted, given the simple but effective phrase of “just do it for me.” I’ve removed it for what I hope will be the last time, and “just do it for me” won’t cut it anymore. If I converted to Islam tomorrow, would it be okay for me to ask someone to wear a hijab “for me”, even though they don’t share my faith? No, it wouldn’t. Religion and expression of religion is a personal choice, and not something you can strong-arm your adult children into.

Now, I’m in a fairly comfortable place where I’ve shed most of that initial guilt and am happy with my choices. I’ve even been back into church a couple of times just to meet a family member, only catching the end of the service - and even then, I’ve been reminded of exactly why I left. My mindset is simply too far removed to find any spiritual value in Orthodoxy.

Does my mother still try to get me into church? Yes. Are the attempts extremely mild and infrequent, compared to what they used to be? Yes. On one hand, I’d like to have a deep conversation with her and explain all the reasons why I have no interest in the religion anymore, but on the other hand, I know it’ll likely make her extremely upset.

Perhaps it’s better to just let it be.

#out of silmarils #religion #personal

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thehauntologicalsociety · 6 years

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The body is under threat in the city—The cinema is under threat in the city—The digital city is antipathetic to both ...

In early 2016 I was standing in the ballroom of the Duke of Cornwall Hotel in Plymouth (UK), chatting with a kilted Dee Heddon, co-founder with Misha Myers of The Walking Library (see Heddon & Myers 2014), and waiting for a performance of a scabrous Pearl Williams routine by Roberta Mock, author of a key account of walking arts (2009, 7-23). Conversation drifted to films and Dee wondered what kind of resource for wandering a passion for movies might offer.

It was an appropriate space for Dee’s question. The ballroom is on the ground floor of the hotel, which rises to an impressive tower topped by a single room. It was to this room that Roberta’s partner, Paul, and I had gained access on a ‘vertigo walk’ some years previously. We had walked from Paul’s childhood home town of Saltash on the other side of the Hamoaze, a stretch of the River Tamar, into Plymouth. This involved us crossing high above the river gorge on the 1961 road bridge. Although he had crossed this bridge many hundreds of times by car and bus, Paul, susceptible to vertigo like myself, had never walked it before.

Having successfully negotiated the bridge, we sought out all the highest points in the city that we could access. The manager of the Duke of Cornwall led us up winding stairs and opened the room in the tower for us. A telescope stood at a window; above the bed (and this was after 9/11) hung a framed photograph of the twin towers of the World Trade Centre in New York. I might have thought of ‘Wolfen’ (1981), or the anachronistic underwater shot of the twin towers in Tim Burton’s 2001 ‘Planet of the Apes’, or ‘Man on Wire’ (2008) even, but the opening scene of Fulci’s ‘Zombi 2’/Zombie Flesh Eaters’ (1979) was how I immediately cross-referenced through film what I was feeling on coming into the room; to be precise, the moment when the music reaches its climax not for the monster, but for the Manhattan skyline. Flying in the face of Ivan Chtcheglov’s assertion that “[W]e are bored in the city, there is no longer any Temple of the Sun”, in Fulci’s movie solar rays spill from behind the twin towers, just as they have from behind the zombie cadaver. The two monoliths cancel each other out and the movie almost stalls before it can begin; landscape and body equally ruinous.

I want to propose that by systematically drawing on such associations – of the ambience, shape or narrative of particular places with memories of movies – the effectiveness of a certain kind of political and critical walking can be enhanced. Ironically, this walking springs from the dérive of the Lettrists/situationists who, subsequent to their exploratory walking, developed a theory of the ‘Society of the Spectacle’, a deeply negative attitude to the predominance of the visual, and produced anti-art and anti-cinema works like ‘Hurlements En Favour De Sade’ (1952) in which the screen throughout is blank, either dazzling white or dark. While what follows skirts a narrow adherence to the asceticism of later situationist theory, drawing upon the Lettrist/situationist experimentation with art processes recovered in more recent publications such as McKenzie Wark’s trilogy (2008, 2011, 2103), it also implements the orthodox situationist technique of détournement, hacking up and depredating the movies drawn upon and redeploying their images, themes and narratives in ways that are often aggressively at odds with their makers’ intentions.

The body is under threat in the city. The cinema is under threat in the city. The digital city is antipathetic to both. The cinema offers the urban walker a chance to return as an immanent and imaginative body to the city.

Stephen Barber, in considering the turbulent confluence of body, performance, film and digital screens, makes this damning assessment of the contemporary city: “[T]he city’s surface, as a scoured and excoriated environment.... precludes and voids the eruption of performance acts.... forming an exposed medium that is already maximally occupied with such visual Spectacles as digital image-screens transmitting corporate animations, along with saturated icons, insignia and hoardings.... surface has no space for the corporeal infiltration of performance, unless that performance is commissioned.... to fully serve corporate agendas” (2104, 89). Barber’s portrait of urban surface is extreme, but it explains the absurd policing of image-making and the suppression of the most innocuous of non-retail behaviours by mall security guards, the tendency, akin to conspiracy, among consumers to mistake advertising logos for ornament and the strange brutalist sculptural contraptions placed to inconvenience rough sleepers.

When the screen was digitised, the Society of the Spectacle became architectural. A new intensity to the integration of the Spectacle (Debord 1998, 8), beyond and subsuming free market and authoritarian manipulation, now commits it to an invasive, algorithmic pursuit of the preferences of the online majority. An authoritarian redesign of the city, complementing the ‘nudge units’ of its happiness industry, is under way; engineered to encourage the preferences that the Spectacle prefers. This new city space wraps free market around free interiority; then, by scandal-dramaturgy and pseudo-spirituality, it demands a confessional revealing of all things to the Spectacle’s algorithms.

Against such tides, I want to propose a means of ambulant, contemplative and corporeal resistance, drawing upon the anachronisms of the cinema screen, on an unsentimental deployment of our memories of movies, and on our walking bodies. I want to propose that we, walking artists, pedestrians, anyone who will listen, should perform our walking; as a matter not of life and death, but as part of the struggle between vivacity and morbidity; in resistance to a society that seeks to exploit not just our labour, but our entire lives. We should “perform” our walking because in this mode it is “integrally concerned with survival.... not necessarily its [performance’s] own survival as a medium.... but always of the body, and of the inhabitable spaces of corporeality in the digital world” (Barber, 2014, 211). Such talk of survival signals just how antagonist circumstances are for the immersive walker, repeatedly prodded for digital access or visual seduction. The luxury, once, of distinguishing between the heightened and super-sensitised walk of the derive or flânerie or whatever we want to call it and the humdrum everyday shopping trip or walk to the call centre has increasingly withered; the new city centre surface is an intense, demanding and closely woven battleground. Where, before, an exulting in finding the accidental poetry of damaged signs, long-abandoned esoteric communications or dust from Mars all constituted a little taking back of the surplus joy and ecstasy extracted from their production on the part of the sensitised walker, the digital city changes that relation. Now we are not only consumers, but the unpaid producers of what we pay to consume – our reflections on or images of the pleasures of our latest ‘drift’ are turned through the alchemy of social media into instantly scalable and exploitable product – and the deficit is already so wide that being able to perform a heightened journey through the city is no longer about bonus additions to the pleasures of everyday life, but about the survival of our subjectivities and of the meaningfulness of our agency.

I am not suggesting that cinema is a unique resource; nor that the films cited below could not be replaced by better ones, nor that a subjective choice of films by any walker is not more important than an argument over the objective worth of any one film over another. There may be similar resources to be found in obscure branches of religious iconography, in literature or philosophy, in gaming or in folk traditions. What makes film such a valuable resource is its availability in multiple forms, its formal self-entanglements, its susceptibility to a spectatorial-edit and the historical architecture of its projection: that large, off-white and flawed screen. Carrying a memory of that fragile means of crude reflection, mediating the plethora of images in your hoard of movie memories, constitutes a ‘screenplay’ by which to act the streets and perform your own trajectory through them; preserving by enacting your memories and subjectivity, without revealing anything to either security guard or digital algorithm; walking discreetly with morphing hallucinations, learning to look through multiple eyes and settling, eventually, on long shots and gentle pans.

To make my argument for a cine-dérive, I will reference a number of movies and a few key concepts: unitary urbanism, actuality, ‘anywhere’, doubleness, the released or floating eye, separation, landscapity, effacement and totality.

In 2008 at the Vue in Exeter I attended a midnight showing of ‘The Mist’, directed by Frank Darabont and based upon a Stephen King story. Those of us present were considered questionable enough to be repeatedly monitored by an anxious cinema manager; standing to the side of the screen. The movie’s paranoid narrative was thus enhanced. Halfway through the screening, the imagery of the genre movie was loosened; at a moment when the screen itself suddenly re-appeared from behind the movie as a blank.

The eponymous miasma of ‘The Mist’ makes its appearance early on in the movie and hangs around until just before the final credits. It seems to watch the movie’s characters; just as, that night, the manager was watching us. At one point the camera drifts, as if it is the viewpoint of the mist itself, across a glass storefront behind which fugitives from the mist’s deadly inhabitants are sheltering. A miasma looking through transparency! When a handful of the survivors briefly leave the store, the moment occurs: the characters (in search of medicine in a neighbouring building) disappear into the mist. For a few seconds there is only whiteness on the screen; indeed, there is nothing on the screen! The screen itself emerges from behind the colour reflections of the projection, reaching through the image directly to the cinema-goer. Of course, this effect does not occur for anyone watching a streamed or dvd version, but in the cinema, at the moment of stripping away, the film enters itself, becomes its own subject, the confined melodrama of the besieged store falls away: cars, road signs and even a freeway appear like sketched line drawings, almost not there at all. A beast of extraordinary scale appears and looms, indifferent, a mass of extraneous claws; a gigantic Spectacle just passing through.

There is something Deleuzian about this screen landscape, a kind of ‘anywhere, anytime’ where “a collection of locations and positions which coexist independently of the temporal…. moves from one part to the other, independently of the connections and orientations which the vanished characters and situations gave to them” (Deleuze, 2005: 123). This space – or rather the making of this space from representations of place (the cinema’s counter-digital alchemy) – subverts, within an un-subversive film, cinema’s privileging of “the human face, the human body, the relationship between the human form and its surroundings, the visible presence of the person in the world” (Mulvey, 1993: 114-115), effacing what Delueze calls “landscapity”, the characterisation of the landscape as face-like, replacing it with a barely tangible, elusive, ideal and unscalable space that resists reproduction. From this negation emerges a screen that is more like a translucent membrane or a cloud of dust than a reflecting and re-presenting mirror.

Landscape is rarely filmed without the representation of human form, character or mind. This is partly a residue of the romanticist practice of ‘pathetic fallacy’ and of the correlationist tendency in phenomenology; the idea that objects have influence, not as a result of the properties inherent in them, but as a result of those imagined for them. In an ‘experimental’ film like Nina Danino’s ‘Temenos’ (1998), consisting almost exclusively of long shots of sites associated with apparitions of the Virgin Mary, or critical films like Patrick Keiller’s ‘Robinson’ trilogy (1994, 1997, 2010), of which Iain Sinclair writes “(M)ovement becomes a function of voice” (25), or a mainstream mystery-movie like M. Night Shyamalan’s ‘The Happening’ (2008) in which landscape and climate are granted autonomous agency, it is still the human discourses about these landscapes – through consecration, narration or fear – that predominate. The vibrancy of objects, as vividly expressed by neo-vitalists or Object-Oriented Ontologists, only very occasionally permeates cinema.

A rare exception is the brief fūkeiron (landscape theory) movement in Japan. Its seminal movie, ‘AKA Serial Killer’ (Ryakushô renzoku shasatsuma, 1969), the work of a number of filmmakers including Adachi and Matsuda Masao, consists entirely of a series of fixed shots, with (mostly lateral) pans, of locations in Japanese cities: pedestrians come and go, trains arrive and leave, alleyways and jazz clubs are deserted. An intermittent voiceover describes the rationale for these shots: they follow the life trajectory of teenager Nagayama Norio who in 1968 murdered four people in a chaotic crime spree. The sequence of shots tracks Nagayama’s rootless wandering across Japan after leaving his rural home.

The movie rejects not only the sensationalism of the Japanese media coverage of Nagayama’s case, but also the ‘rapid fire’ editing and frantic scenes characteristic of contemporary militant Japanese counter-cultural documentaries. ‘AKA Serial Killer’ was filmed at a time of violent student uprisings, with which the film makers were in general sympathy, and it is against images of the violent clashes between thousands of riot police and armed and helmeted students that the film was expected to be ‘read’. By adopting a method similar to the ‘actuality’ films of the very early pre-dramatic cinema, Adachi and Matsuda seek to shift an attention already attuned to violence to find it within the repetitions, circulations and orderings of un-dramatic urban goings-on; in the “mechanisms of control and governance built into the everyday environment.... which operates through subtle, noncoercive, and economic forms of policing and managing the urban population”. What the movie shows is “[W]hat remains in place after the departure of the student protestors and riot police.... the ubiquitous presence of the state” (Furuhata, 118, 138).

The calm, but critical viewing that ‘AKA Serial Killer’ solicits, by playing a simple, sparse and spectral documentary narrative across the relentless flows of homogenous, economic cities, encourages the viewer (and dériviste) to learn to be static in the city, to be in a state of ‘static drift’, to allow the streets to pan slowly by, to ignore the blurs of what passes close up and focus on what is ‘background’ and that is, for once, the main performer. This calm and stable viewpoint pre-empts the cool and indifferent gaze of the fixed video surveillance cameras that makes geographical and dreadful the blighted town of Santa Mira in ‘Halloween III’ (1982), and haunts the characters of Michael Haneke’s ‘Hidden’/’Caché’ (2005) with a shared memory of violence.

Matsuda Masao remarks that when the film makers were considering Nagayama’s story “we became conscious of the landscape as the antagonistic ‘power’ itself”. Inverting Walter Benjamin’s description of an early Parisian photographer representing landscapes as if they were the deserted scenes of crimes, they “filmed crime scenes just like landscape [photographs]” (Furuhata, 135, 134); thus making viewers detectives in the city, but turning around (détourning) the usual function of a detective and redeploying their forensic skills to examining a suspect state’s undemonstrative coercion. By shifting focus from the state’s human agents (riot police, etc.) the portrayal of the state is rendered hyper-materialist; not a human ordering of neutral and inert materials but the order of certain materials imposed (or adopted) on the humans – “to grasp oil as a lube is to grasp earth as a body of different narrations being moved forward by oil” (Negarestani, 19) – by which the state becomes landscape.

By drawing on a memory of such restrained filming of ‘backgrounds’ as agents, a critical walking becomes more possible. The walker becomes the camera, not simply walking in response to the terrain, but with a particular, cinematic discipline of looking; in this case, one that detaches itself from the narrative-of-the-walk that is often generated by exploratory and hyper-sensitised walking. For radical walkers, this means that rather than seeking out spaces and relations where social violence becomes explicit, spectacular and reproductive, they can watch for the behaviours of materials that organise violence in an undemonstrative way, where relations can be disrupted or diverted by the gentler means of installation, sabotage, détournement and re-telling.

In Nagisa Ôshima’s ‘The Man Who Left His Will On Film’ (1970), fūkeiron filmmaking is criticised by student radicals as “morally and politically bankrupt.... wast[ing] film by shooting mundane settings that could be filmed ‘anywhere, anytime’” (Furuhata, 131). It is exactly that ‘anywhere, anytime’ (Wrights & Sites, 110) that is the radical contradiction of the urban landscape portrayed in ‘AKA Serial Killer’; the violence of homogenisation and the circulation of goods creates a slipperiness and connectedness that can be turned to particularities that resist the flow of the state’s ordering and distribute different contagions, constructing situations at odds with the violence of the mundane.

Landscapes in movies very different to ‘AKA Serial Killer’ achieve a similar naive ‘actuality’, a non-dramatic coolness, that makes them susceptible to, even welcoming of, their appropriation as part of a walker’s memory hoard: the deserts of Werner Herzog’s ‘Fata Morgana’ (1971), the eventless landscapes of Chantal Akerman’s ‘News From Home’ (1976), ‘the Zone’ in Tarkovsky’s ‘Stalker’ (1979), the fragments of a ruined English park in ‘The Pleasure Garden’ (1952), the swimming pools of the Connecticut suburban rich in ‘The Swimmer’ (1968) or the route in ‘Yellowbrickroad’ (2010): “you think that the trail will understand you, and that’s the worst part, it does”.

By assembling a memory-library of movie sequences or images, the walker can slip between different modes of looking in the same walk, spontaneously and in response to a changing terrain (triggering a different movie memory) or in a planned way that attempts to triangulate a terrain through a range of different lookings and the (potentially) different kinds of information that they detect. ‘Useful’ sequences, suitable for retaining in such a memory-library, are not necessarily restricted to serious, political or art movies. In the past I have drawn on, even at times favoured, fantasy and genre movies, enjoying how work derided as ‘hack’, ‘commercial’, ‘too violent’ or ‘artless’ sometimes peels, embroiders and embrocates the spaces I walk. The point of the memory’s leverage on the real landscape may be some visual similarity, or an association of ambiences, or even where the terrain or events in it have been shaped in response to movies.

I have often drawn on movies that divulge certain patterns at odds with their movie’s intentions, which then fold back on their image systems in accidental critiques; for example, the psychopath test in ‘The Parallax View’ (1974) which implicates both conspiracy and whistleblower, or the discovery/destruction of the underground murals in ‘Roma’ (1972) that throws in doubt the efficacy of Fellini’s luxuriating imagery. As means to the magical-in-the-ordinary, such excerpts can be reliable allies for a radical walker, standing in for utopias in the face of “our incapacity to imagine the future” (Jameson, 1984, 247). They are useful kit for filling newly found holey space; for making interventions against inbuilt systems of dismantlement.

All this could have been applied at any time since moving pictures became one of the forms of mass media; however, what I am proposing here is that, for the first time since then, the ‘grounds’ have changed, the same for psychogeographers and radical walkers as for everyone else. What is newly at stake in the digital city is our subjectivity; not in the sense of our individuality, but of our interiority out of public view. It will be harder to be playful; from now on the cine-dériviste may find her archive is bombarded with uninvited totalities along with the brief sequences she has personally snatched from the genre pool which, if she discloses them, will form the basis for the algorithms’ future bombardments.

With that proviso in mind, I turn to Joe Chappelle’s monster-horror ‘Phantoms’ (1998). In its opening sequence two sisters are negotiating space in a car-bound dialogue; by talking out one family melodrama they make room for another, metaphysical, one. The camera, also released, moves outside the car to establish the limits of a Colorado town and when it returns to the car it now looks out, lingering on the frontages of suburban houses in a pre-digital town as if they were the faces of human characters; the ghosts of the soap-opera narrative we never get to see.

Distinct from the movie male who constitutes “a figure in a landscape” (Mulvey, 1981, 210), in ‘Phantoms’ the doubleness of the central female characters is a quality both of and dividing the two women. This provokes a negation-reflection within the material of the landscape; the houses assume the iconic face in close-up, an oppressive ‘landscapity’, face-like features of the landscape that exist in a perpetual moment (mediatised, stale, self-reflecting and immaterial), less and less able to “adroitly negotiate[s] and enforce[s] its own mass within the image” (Barber, 2002, 20). This becomes more explicit, through another doubleness, in Tom Holland’s Stephen King TV movie adaptation ‘The Langoliers’ (1995), where a young girl intuits and a male ‘mystery writer’ explains their fellow characters’ predicament, awaking on an airborne plane to find that all the crew and most of the passengers have disappeared and that they are travelling in a space stuck a few moments before the present in an inert past: “what is happening to [us] is happening to no one else”. Such radical separateness is characteristic of dramatic film in general; but this is a very average movie which, by making the structural conditions of its own discourse the subject of itself, becomes collectable in parts, particularly its geography of the very recent past. This includes a deserted and echo-less airport, the untimely fading of daylight, and the wholly unpopulated world below their flight. This is a terrain that aches with loss, like the landscape of a Makoto Shinkai animation; it effaces “landscapity” and generates objects and ‘grounds’ that are blank, screen-like, collapsible and radically isolated. Despite its clumsiness, ‘The Langoliers’ makes explicit the feint of many movies: revealing that its action has been happening, in a real illusion, just a few moments back in its own past, but now, in its final reel, is returning to where it always was and will always be. It reproduces Marc Augé’s non-places – airport terminals, institutional boardrooms, airliner interiors – as spaces of political repetition, of a perpetual present and the eradication of the deep, historical past, for the reproduction of present relations; a double effacing in a “contemporary social system… (which has) begun to.... live in a perpetual present and in a perpetual change that obliterates traditions’ (Jameson, 1997, 205).

‘The Langoliers’ evokes a society that has begun to cohabit with the images and representations of itself, recycling the present as a repeatable moment, already just a short while in its past, represented as soon as lived. Its tendency to auto-destruction ushers in a “sheer description” (Jameson, 1988: 95) without visage; and, for a while at least, all that remains in ‘The Langoliers’ is an airborne dérive without a destination, a plane in flight above a world without airports whose surface is being visibly eaten up by its own past.

To plunder such images and such a precarious trajectory, often from “the proliferating corporate zones of Europe’s multiplex complexes, [where] the would-be spectator finds everything except the traces of film” (Barber, 2002, 158) – from the groundless flights of fantasies and super heroes – and from tinier and tinier often handheld screens, is to sometimes float precariously in search of any central urban surface onto which to cling. However, by walking with a memory of ‘The Langoliers’, or of similar landscape-effacing movies, from ‘The Truman Show’ (1998) to ‘The Final Girls’ (2015), it becomes possible to map contradictions within the economy of the Spectacle: specifically, the small folds and hiatuses that are opened up by its relentless pursuit of our subjectivities, within which we can hide our subjective life from that pursuit. Similarly, at a bigger scale, the combination of the fragmentation and appropriation of appearance and the gentrification of Spectacle-resistant areas is now pushing psychogeographers, and all those in search of an ambient city, to the margins, in the literal sense of suburbia and the edgelands. From the inner city of ‘Lights Out For The Territory’ [1997] the trajectories shift to the outer limits of ‘London Orbital’ [2003]), or in the case of Fife Geography Collective’s superb collection of dérive accounts ‘From Hill to Sea’ (2016) the journey is even further afield. This suggests that radical walkers now require a kind of binocular vision (one familiar from these movies which reveal that theirs is a doubled world) in order to simultaneously navigate across to physical margins while seeking havens for interiority within the detail and texture of their immediate terrain.

In 1938, H. G. Wells proposed a ‘World Brain’, a library with branches in every community across the globe, stocked with a core canon of books chosen by international committees, “knitting all the intellectual workers of the world through a common interest and a common medium of expression into a more and more conscious co-operating unity” (23). Some have claimed that this was the ‘first Internet’. However, the ‘web’ has been far more of a diversifying and fragmenting force than intended by Wells. Cinema, limited by costs, its collaborative technology, the experiential primacy of projection and a monopolised industrial structure, can still offer a ‘World Terrain’ of sorts; an accessible and exchangeable (look at the explosion of fan and lay critical writing!) canon of landscape images that is striated by exclusions, translations and the wounding centralisations of focus and rapid-fire puncta.

The constitution of such a canon of landscapes is always far from purely aesthetic. To pluck one counter-example, arbitrarily: in 1950s England, local authorities lobbied to be placed “on a waiting list for the honour of having their buildings and monuments modelled for film destruction” in a wave of sci-fi and horror movies that re-enacted, fantastically, the precarity of the Blitz for an audience barely old enough to remember it (Conrich, 88). Nor are these landscapes in any way neutral or universal; the integrity of the body of the viewer is as much in play in them as the fabric of their fictions. These are mostly male and often violent landscapes. Innumerable movies propose ways for how the viewer/walker might take themselves apart in order to take the movies apart; from the use of double exposures in early cinema, influenced by ‘spirit photography’, through the surgery of ‘Les Yeux Sans Visage’ (1960), the eruptive and steely objectification of the ‘Tetsuo’ movies (1989, 1992, 2009) and the jouissant mutilations of ‘Hellraiser’ (1987), the bodies of those keen, or forced, to experience materiality are regularly dispersed to the landscape, their corporeal materials escaping from their container, to combine trangressively and ‘miscegenously’ with inorganic vibrancies. All these are fictions that the walker can archive and re-deploy in order that their own gaps entangle with the ‘voids’ – “empty corridors that penetrate the consolidated city, appearing with the extraneous character of a nomadic city living inside the sedentary city” (Careri, 188) – of the material landscapes.

In Higuchinsky’s ‘Uzumaki’ (2000) the nomadic eye is released; previously opened with a razor in ‘Un Chien Andalou’ (1929), with scissors in ‘Spellbound’ (1945), and dilated by hypnotism in ‘Herz Aus Glas’/’Heart of Glass’ (1976). In ‘Uzumaki’, it peers vividly through a broken windscreen, popped from its socket, until, by a sudden, stuttering, stabbing zoom, as if the camera is exaggeratedly reaching out for information like the sensory organs in James J. Gibson’s theory of perceptual systems (1983), it dominates the screen.

Metaphorically released from its organism in this way, the eye is free to roam, moving between a satellite-seeing, where space, viewed from above, is defined by trajectories, and a zooming descent into super-detail through “layered surfaces that successively cover over one another” including an “outer wrapping (that) is none other than the human mind and its products” (Ingold, 1993: 37). The model for the dériviste’s hybridisation of these lookings (“to see the world from multiple viewpoints at any one time” [Smith, 113]) is right there in the modern movie camera’s capacities to pan and zoom – sometimes simultaneously, as famously in ‘Vertigo’ (1958) and ‘Jaws’ (1975) – and then by cranes and drones to fly out of situations or plunge down into them; so nurse Ana Clark’s accelerating trajectory through the rabid Milwaukee suburbs in Zack Snyder’s remake of ‘Dawn of the Dead’ (2004), with concentrated domestic melodramas flooding onto gardens and roadsides, is abruptly released and flung upwards on the bloom of an explosion to a malevolent bird’s eye view reminiscent of the gulls’ in ‘The Birds (1963), or of the scene in David Lynch’s ‘Inland Empire’ (2006) when the camera moves out from the socially abject and emotionally intense death of Sue Blue to reveal a sound stage and its fabricated scenery.

When ‘Uzumaki’ (like ‘The Langoliers’) introduces a force from the past – a mirror found under the water of a nearby lake – corporeal fragmentation increases, eyes swivel in their sockets, mutilations (as in ‘Dark City’ [1998]) and hairstyles become subject to the vortex of the eye; “wanting to be seen” contorts a girl gang, a father obsessively videos snails, and corpses twist like corkscrews, until finally the eye is ejected from its body, wounding the movie through its shattered screen. ‘Uzumaki’ is infused with these exploratory spirals of seeing; it constitutes a kind of ‘unitary cinema’ (counterpart to the situationists’ ‘unitary urbanism’) – subjecting each and every part (snails, washing driers, hairstyles, streets, clouds, bodies) to the sensory pattern of the whole – doing for the movies what the situationists longed to do, reparatively, for the city: overcome separation. This is the contradiction – the emergence of a stilled, synchronic pattern from a forward-lurching linearity – by which the violence of the dramatic cinema, editing bodies when not diegetically dismembering them, can be cooled, returned to the calmer ‘actuality’ of pre-dramatic cinema, restoring a slow and meandering flow to life; for example, in the painfully and beautifully extended shots of a Béla Tarr movie, or in the intense weavings of bodies and cameras in Miklos Janscó’s. First by separation, the floating free or deregulation of the senses through cinema’s technology, and then seeking to restore itself to a transformative connectivity by an anachronistic pedestrian pace and a historic cinematic reserve. The cinematic memory archive here serves as a parallel to what the radical walker seeks to achieve by placing a pedestrian and anachronistic torque upon a hyper-accelerated society, while deploying her senses, enhanced (in the sense of imitating techniques like zoom and pan) by an equally anachronistic, estranging and disruptive analogue cinema technology.

The need for radical walkers and walking artists to navigate certain contradictions in the streets – between the hyper-acceleration of information and architecture’s solid frame, between the overwhelming of the sensorium by the onrushing data of the ‘drift’ and a cool organisation of it for future use – partly explains the continuing influence of situationist theory and practice among ambulatory activists. The vitality of the dérive in experimentally and experientially joining ambience to ambience, resistant space to resistant space, is still resonant.

Situationist critique identified separation as the means by which the Spectacle subordinates social activity to itself; “a social relationship between people that is mediated by images” (Debord, 1995, 12), a relationship of separation by representation and reflection. This separateness is both the ends (patriarchal, statist and bourgeois dominance over everything else) and the justification (the heroic individual male figure in the landscape) of the totality of social relations, the ruling and ruled ‘grounds’ for being/becoming. However, there is no restitution in a simple re-unification. The “unitary urbanism” counterposed by the situationists to the totalised separateness of the Spectacle is not a restoration to just any available connection of things, but an interrogation of those connections, a feint that allows separateness to be re-separated, individualised, to be further floated free, to be made an outcast from outcasts before it can return, unrecognisable and hungry to connect in novel ways. The origins of “unitary urbanism” lie in ‘hypergraphics’, a ‘Lettrist’ post-writing method for communicating in multiple vocabularies; not so much a unification as an assemblage of multiplicities, creating (as yet meaningless) gaps and voids, new levels of a-communication and materiality, unhuman and unthinkable, to which the terrain can return as an agent, and the pedestrian as a poet/sculptor/paramedic/dramaturg, collapsing functions. Just as in ‘Uzumaki’, the world of the urban locale is dismantled in order to make explicit, and relatable to, its subjection to unhuman patterns.

The Spectacle, however, also has a similar predilection for such dismantling ‘leaps to faith’; reproducing itself as both the logic and product of its separateness, repeatedly escaping its subordination to any totality other than its own. This, though, comes at a cost, for it too is “developing for itself” (Debord, 1995: 16) and is endangered by its self-referential ends and means, always having to start from scratch and wipe the slate clean, increasingly reliant on natural disasters, wars and economic crises; and vulnerable to a future totality – democratic or fascistic or unimaginable – that can ‘get in’, after a future disaster, before it does.

None of this can be successfully opposed by confronting the Spectacle with what is ‘real’ or by a simple stripping away to what is ‘true’ (something powerfully demonstrated by the Trump and Brexit campaigns in 2016); this is what John Carpenter’s ‘They Live’ (1988) shows, but does not know. The film exposes its city as a blanket illusion, revealing (through the eyes of its proletarian hero, John Nada, equipped with special sunglasses) the ‘real’ city of 1980s America, a landscape of monochrome, geometrical buildings, and homogenous main drags lined with hoardings transmitting subliminal slogans: SLEEP, CONSUME, OBEY. There is, however, a debilitating contradiction in Carpenter’s conceit. If the monochrome revelation effected by John Nada’s dark glasses is the true city (controlled by Reaganite, free-marketeer aliens), disguised electronically as what we take for real, colourful life, then why, when Nada has destroyed the masking system does the monochrome city not appear to everyone? Why, instead, are the aliens exposed in our colourful world of illusion, rather than us discovering ourselves in their real world of subjection?

‘They Live’, like other ‘trash’ 1980s movies – such as ‘CHUD’ (1984) and ‘The Stuff’ (1985) – that indicted corruption, profit and property, and celebrated acts of resistance (a kind of movie revived by the recent ‘The Purge: Anarchy’ [2014]), addresses the Spectacle as a pattern of corporate and entrepreneurial misrepresentation. It fails to grasp (it shows, but does not explain) that in the Society of the Spectacle appearances are all you get; “reality erupts with the Spectacle, and the Spectacle is real” (Debord, 1995, 14) and the promise of a truth ‘behind it all’ (the ‘grail’ of conspiracy theory) is the greatest deception, and that we, like so much else in the Spectacle, produce that deception ourselves. The crime of the Spectacle is not that it erects a screen between us and the truth, but that it distributes everything, including us, to screens.

Like much occult psychogeography and radical binary narratives of illusion/truth, the problem of ‘They Live’ is not its escapism, but its failure to take its fantasy seriously enough. For the hoard of a cine-dériviste, a totalised whimsy is of little help, but a rigorous realist fantasy (as Carpenter’s movie at first promises to be) can be; yet there are few examples. Where, we might ask, is the situationist ‘Turner Diaries’? Perhaps ‘V For Vendetta’ (2005) is the closest, generating the most popular image of contemporary resistance. But without rigour and realism in fantasy, far better, then, to chisel off something like the pre-credits sequence from ‘Predator 2’ (1990), where the camera races over tree tops, monkeys screech, setting up for a return to the jungle setting of the original ‘Predator’ (1987), only for the camera to rise up and reveal a Los Angeles skyline beyond its fringe of palm trees. Such transitions in the archive are reminders not only of just how quickly the landscape can shift, but that we are always in more than one place at any one time.

The dériviste effaces the Spectacle by reading the codes of the Spectacle and then re-encoding its surfaces with subjective codes of her own; not according to a repetition of survival behaviours or a quest for revelation, but by what she can encode, with pleasure and the coolness that ‘actuality’ brings to looking. When subjected to a separated, calmed and cooled eye, the abject canon of movies fragments, its particles serving not as keys to solving the codes in urban space, but as miasmic screens for dissolving and traducing their meanings and ‘realism’ in the letters and sounds of a new language: “external action and character interaction are suspended.... almost to zero…we peer into an opaque landscape via a slowly tracking survey without clues to help us decipher it… We share effectively in the intensive movements onscreen as we input speculative mental activity in place of dramatic action” (Powell, 2007, 138).

When I look at almost any hilly rural scene, or see a cliff or gorge, I pleasurably fear that the slow, unfeasible, whirring Kenwood Chef-like dalek spaceship from ‘Daleks – Invasion Earth 2050’ (1966) will emerge, in all its kinkiness, from behind the green landscape. I grasp the fabricated nature of the English rural scene; its grasses, hedges, cattle and copses as artificial as Linoleum, the fruit of generations of genetic and environmental manipulation, England’s ‘green and pleasant land’ turned paper-thin. Even my sardonic Nan could not mediate the sheer horror of life (at least to my 11 year old self) conjured by the creak of metal and the Bernard Herrman soundtrack for a bronze mega-soldier, ‘Talos’, astride the beach in ‘Jason and the Argonauts’ (1963). It is not any fear of death I feel, on my beach, but a fear of the life in inert, inorganic and constructed things; hard and statuesque one moment, hot and streaming the next: the “anorganic metal-body trauma-howl of the earth” (Land, 498).

I am still in mental dialogue with these image-trajectories on my walks, as I find sand blowing against a thousand pink ink cartridge cases on the beach or skirt the floods encircling electricity pylons; I have not found the ends of their trails yet: “you think that the trail will understand you, and that’s the worst part, it does”.

10.

The films, above, beginning with those chosen for their exemplary qualities, are shifting more firmly towards my personal preoccupations; inevitably, but necessarily. For the hoard of sequences, camera positions and soundtracks, to have any resonance with the dérive, must spring from strong personal memories of screening and spectatorship, in tune with a key principle of mythogeography: that the walker is as much the mutable site of the walk as their route (Smith, 115).

In brief, my personal hoard might contain some of the following:

The anachronistic ‘actuality’ of suburbia – “[T]he city’s peripheral terrains remain under the visual sway of cinema rather than that of the digital image” (Barber, 2002, 182) – crossing class divides in ‘One Hour Photo’ (2002).

The potency of the landscape to produce a sur-reality, an over-reality, like the Kenwood Chef ufo hovering into view across the hills or the swooping and levitating shots in Gaspar Noé’s ‘Enter The Void’ (2009).

A city-totality or a transport network defined by the absence of a single person (and how that reverses the prioritisation of commodities over people): ‘Spooloos’/’The Vanishing’ (1988), ‘Ne le dis à personne’/’Tell No One’ (2006), ‘En la Cuidad de Sylvia’/‘In the City of Sylvia’ (2007).

Fabulous bodies capable of exceeding corporate agendas within a skin’s soggy container: the shadow folk in Dreyer’s ‘Vampyr’ (1932), the supine rather than upright, slithering rather than walking, beings of Żulawksi’s ‘Possession’ (1981) and Benson and Moorhead’s ‘Spring’ (2014); and bodies subjected to those corporate agendas, like the mother and daughter’s walking a hillside road and gazed upon in Cattet and Forzani’s détournement of a giallo, ‘Amer’ (2009).

Monuments and monolithic buildings, seen as if through the eyes of Larry Cohen’s ‘Q The Winged Serpent’ (1982), such as the warehouse in ‘Nosfertu’ (1922), the Seattle Space Needle in ‘The Parallax View’ (1974) or the Transamerica Pyramid in the 1978 remake of ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’, are monstrous and not “iconic”.

A Fortean historicist-uncanny, like that of the village in Ilya Khrzhanovskiy ‘4’ (2004), anywhere that strangeness is historic rather than supernatural.

‘Tenten’/’Adrift in Tokyo’ (2007): a healing reminder that even the permanent dérive must, and should, end sometime.

11.

When Jean-Michel Mension called, unannounced, on Guy Debord at his room in Rue Racine he was surprised to find him “in the role of a gent in a dressing gown” (47) For Debord, and many of the other situationists, to ‘drift’ the city was a disruption of their everyday lives. For Mension, and the other youthful ‘delinquents’ in the situationists’ circle, it was simply one part of a life of rebellion: “[T]he first true dérives were in no way distinct from what we did in the ordinary way” (101). Mension’s “milieu of destruction” (Debord, 2004, 15) was idealised by Ivan Chtcheglov in the idea of permanent dérives, a subjection in the form psychological distress to what Constant built into his situationist models of a new city: permanent rush and transformation, more accelerationist than ‘unified’.

Under the conditions of the nascent digital city – even in these very earliest days of the ‘internet of things’ (which by its title alone expresses something of the Spectacle’s overwhelming ambitions, comparable to Google’s plans for immortality, to digitize matter) – a future ambulation will need to walk both sides of a binary of permanence and disruption. Disruption of the everyday, as a portal to the ambient, occulted imaginary or taking back surplus pleasure, as a means to edit and reassemble the codes of the city, will continue to serve walkers as a tactic, but not as a strategy. Fighting separation with further separations may work up to a point, but beyond that lies all kinds of New Babylons additional to those visualized by Constant, all of them fulfilling what “dérive experiences lead to proposing… the constant diminution of these border regions, up to the point of their complete suppression” (Debord, 2006, 62). Caught between Stalinism and Nazism, twentieth century critical modernism backed rapidly away from “an embrace of totality in aesthetics.... [as] it led to an embrace of totality in political communities” (Levine, 5); but we live now under different conditions, in the peculiar circumstances of a global totality rested on the anti-totality principles of neo-liberalism and prosecuted by a plethora of invasive, algorithmic ‘Skynets’. In the situation of our subjectivity in peril, jump cuts between atmospheres, ‘catapults’ and cutting a ‘V’ through the city are challenged to disrupt their own disruptions, to ‘leap’ the borders of their own separations; the epic walks, sensitized and often social, of Monique Besten, Anthony Schrag, Thomas Bram Arnold, Elspeth Owen, Esther Pilkington, Mads Floor Andersen and others seem to point to a permanent drift, and to a daily serious adventure through variegated zones of ambience as predicted by Ivan Chtcheglov (6). To that flow I am adding the suggestion of a cinematically-bathed daily practice as a provisional-totalising of ambulatory tactics on the way towards a strategy for more than surviving the apocalypse, based upon the revival of the subjective: an intense hyper-sensitization in the streets once “lived and suffered through the eye” but now for the whole body of senses.

What the static camera and gentle pans of ‘AKA Serial Killer’ and the landscape-privileged sequences from movies as different as ‘Stalker’ and ‘The Langoliers’ offers such a whole-body dériviste is an ‘actuality cinema’ default consciousness, a pre-dramatic sensitivity and a pre-romantic realism; a shift away from occult adventures and romanticism (by passing through them and beyond them) to a cooler re-exploring of landscape and a return of the primacy of terrain to psychogeography.

This bathing of the terrain with cinema images, and letting the terrain bathe back “imbu[ing] the film image with an imposed dimension.... negotiat[ing] and enforc[ing] its own mass within the image (Barber, 2002, 20), will enwrap the walker in a controlled intensity, within which they can order and direct their suffering and separated mind/body/eye: a discreet and subjective psycho-cinematography for an invasive digital city where, “alongside its powerful web of media screens, [it] is assembled from the delicate visual and emotional projections of its inhabitants” (Barber, 2002, 156).

Phil Smith is a performance-maker, writer and ambulatory researcher, specialising in performances related to walking, site-specificity, mythogeographies and counter-tourism. A core member of site-based arts collective Wrights & Sites; and a co-author of the company’s various ‘mis-guides’. He writes and performs ‘mis-guided tours’, and creates inter-disciplinary performance. He is an Associate Professor (Reader) at the University of Plymouth.

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