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21.02.2013 Views

The affective and cognitive implications of the voyeuristic prologue Bertolucci's inclination to summarize his films" themes during their opening credits occurs again in Stealing Beauty. On this occasion, viewers are made aware of the film's voyeuristic perspective as the opening credits roll beneath images of Lucy, who is travelling from the USA to Italy. Stylistically, this sequence resembles an amateur home video; there are moments of camera shake which emphasize a presence behind the camera as well as its subject, plus several crude close-ups and pans that are symptomatic of inexperienced camera users who follow their instincts rather than aiming for an aesthetic smoothness in their films. This is a stylistic approach, which, given its attractive female subject, escalates into voyeurism. Confirming this interpretation, Bertolucci himself declared that these early sequences were inspired by Michael Powell's Peeping Tom, a voyeuristic cult movie that portrayed a serial killer's penchant for filming his female victims' agony (Mirabella-Pitiot, 1991:73). But, unlike Peeping Tom, there is no mediation between the viewers and these images, since the character filming Lucy never comes into frame (it is only later in the film that he is identified). During the final Italian stage of her journey, the camera moves close to Lucy, taking advantage of her as she sleeps in a train compartment; her obliviousness to being observed is underlined by the camera filming a drop of saliva that falls from her slightly open mouth. This makes the filming appear as a form of intrusion on the part of the invisible cameraman, whose perspectives start fragmenting the girl's body into many details, focusing on the childlike within Lucy while also charging the images of her with a clear erotic connotation. A cut to a close-up of her plump red lips depicts them as almost asking to be kissed; a series of extreme close-ups of her hand, until just the fingers are visible, picture her fingertips resting near her inner thigh, a pose with obvious autoerotic implications. A full- length low-angle shot focused on her open legs, her bended knees, and her feet that rest on the seats opposite, is followed by a cut to high-angle shot that frames the top of her thighs as 296

she slowly changes position. Both shots clearly carry a heavy sexual charge. This perspective will elicit varied responses from different cross sections of viewers. It is not without an erotic, affective charge but the exploitative implications of the shots may elicit a sense of guilt for those viewers initially aroused by the images; viewers for whom the images contain no sensual titillation will be intellectually alienated by their manipulative essence. This arises from the realization that the POV shot compels viewers to directly participate in the voyeur's process of stealing Lucy's images of beauty. Bertolucci's decision to use very idiosyncratic framings confirms this interpretation, hi fact the visual frame is smaller than the dimensions of the screen, and the overall effect is of images from a hand­ held video camera surrounded by a black border of blank screen. This frame-within-a-frame is also positioned at the very centre of the screen - which corresponds to the focal point of a person's vision - to accentuate the impact upon viewers. Consequently, when the close-ups of different areas of Lucy's body are filmed, it creates the impression that the frame is further narrowed, since the rest of her body, together with the background detail of the train compartment, vanish off screen. Through these techniques, the camerawork assumes a significant role in the voyeuristic process of reducing Lucy to a sexual object, since, in Laura Mulvey's words, 'one part of a fragmented body destroys the Renaissance space, the illusion of depth demanded by the narrative, it gives flatness, the quality of a cut-out or icon rather than verisimilitude to the screen' (Mulvey, 1995: 27). Therefore, many viewers' instincts will ultimately be to distance themselves from these images which transform Lucy into a consumable object of gratification. Eventually, when the train stops at Siena, the voyeur's hand comes into frame as it caresses Lucy's face to wake her up - and also startle the viewers by suddenly giving substance to the presence behind the camera. The closure of this prologue, with the voyeur's hand emerging from the train window to give an astonished Lucy the videotape he has been making, which she drops on the rail track, reinforces the idea of 297

she slowly changes position. Both shots clearly carry a heavy sexual charge.<br />

This perspective will elicit varied responses from different cross sections <strong>of</strong> viewers.<br />

It is not without an erotic, affective charge but the exploitative implications <strong>of</strong> the shots may<br />

elicit a sense <strong>of</strong> guilt for those viewers initially aroused by the images; viewers for whom the<br />

images contain no sensual titillation will be intellectually alienated by their manipulative<br />

essence. This arises from the realization that the POV shot compels viewers to directly<br />

participate in the voyeur's process <strong>of</strong> stealing Lucy's images <strong>of</strong> beauty. Bertolucci's decision<br />

to use very idiosyncratic framings confirms this interpretation, hi fact the visual frame is<br />

smaller than the dimensions <strong>of</strong> the screen, and the overall effect is <strong>of</strong> images from a hand­<br />

held video camera surrounded by a black border <strong>of</strong> blank screen. This frame-within-a-frame<br />

is also positioned at the very centre <strong>of</strong> the screen - which corresponds to the focal point <strong>of</strong> a<br />

person's vision - to accentuate the impact upon viewers. Consequently, when the close-ups<br />

<strong>of</strong> different areas <strong>of</strong> Lucy's body are filmed, it creates the impression that the frame is further<br />

narrowed, since the rest <strong>of</strong> her body, together with the background detail <strong>of</strong> the train<br />

compartment, vanish <strong>of</strong>f screen. Through these techniques, the camerawork assumes a<br />

significant role in the voyeuristic process <strong>of</strong> reducing Lucy to a sexual object, since, in Laura<br />

Mulvey's words, 'one part <strong>of</strong> a fragmented body destroys the Renaissance space, the illusion<br />

<strong>of</strong> depth demanded by the narrative, it gives flatness, the quality <strong>of</strong> a cut-out or icon rather<br />

than verisimilitude to the screen' (Mulvey, 1995: 27). Therefore, many viewers' instincts will<br />

ultimately be to distance themselves from these images which transform Lucy into a<br />

consumable object <strong>of</strong> gratification. Eventually, when the train stops at Siena, the voyeur's<br />

hand comes into frame as it caresses Lucy's face to wake her up - and also startle the viewers<br />

by suddenly giving substance to the presence behind the camera. The closure <strong>of</strong> this<br />

prologue, with the voyeur's hand emerging from the train window to give an astonished Lucy<br />

the videotape he has been making, which she drops on the rail track, reinforces the idea <strong>of</strong><br />

297

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