The Passion of Joan of Arc by Carl Dreyer 1928 :: Essays Papers

The Passion of Joan of Arc by Carl Dreyer 1928 God, how dull. Way too many minutes of attempted silence are the ear plug door prize of this fine art gallery. At least Andrei Rublev has quiet singing and what often seem randomly included sounds. Instead, the viewer is guided by a docent of grasping faces, with their dramatic fingers outstretched, into a little love affair with decency on the screen. The Passion of Joan of Arc (Carl Dreyer 1928) is full of faces hard at work with substitute verbs for â€Å"say†. Jean the face, almost always in the majority of the screen when pictured, proclaims, prophesizes and replies while changing angle (mostly falling flatter in a turn to the left) and how incredibly wide open her eyes are. Monk face after monk face, occasionally with a body, plots (using â€Å"craft†) against and barks at the conniving witch Jean. These man faces are remarkable for their aged hardened brutal ugliness, whereas Jean is hip before its cool in her mastery of an androgynous yet medieval look. She’s the only man here worth your time. But where is her body! She bleeds, cries, burns, and even drools on her own hand after her hair is cut. That is it, her body is present in its pouring out. Once the man monk face spits on Jean, if we read the film with shots and reverse shots stitched together for theatrical effect, albeit obnoxiously from perspectives onstage. But it is still her face, her characterization, that is instilled with the touch of saliva. Her motor fluids run backwards, she gives out and off. No person takes in anything but words and wounds. Pool of water, the lone mirror shot, takes in man who says â€Å"long live Jeanne!†. But it is alone. Alone with God. For arm is cut. Silhouette is burned. Imagined self (and imagination at the same time) tortured with the spinning reel of a spiked pain machine. Peasants and soldiers hit with morning stars, spears, and parts of the body, perhaps. But then all that unfolds after Jean is unclear. O nce her life hangs clearly in the balance, the old rules no longer apply. The camera has found a new perch. Bat-like, suspended by the gate, swinging upside down.