Chantal Akerman's one-take short spins around a room.
Chantal Akerman's one-take short spins around a room.
Movement through confined space, revolving with the clock, showing slight progression, showing very little movement, being movement while showing almost none, dominating expectation with the camera and not the content, allowing slow, steady observation of every detail, detailing the objects repeatedly--stove, bed, chair, apple, body, etc. Change signifies a shift in focus, slowly penduluming back to the body, the woman, the person, in bed, returning to something more traditional, yet never quite traditional.
52 project: 46/52
An experiment in space and what we focus on in those spaces. A camera is placed in the middle of a small room and in a 360 degree motion shows off this entire living space. Nothing changes except for a girl in a bed. I found myself waiting each time for the camera to come back around to the girl because she was the only thing in motion. Why do I prioritize motion in space over those objects that do not move? I'm not sure, but it's a question I find myself asking. As the camera moved continually through this chamber I found myself wondering how she'd change each time around and not paying nearly enough attention to those items…
"Unlike her first film, Saute Ma Ville, there isn't a narrative in La Chambre, and Akerman has begun to twist away from conventional cinematic goals into something both entirely her own, and daringly experimental. In La Chambre, Akerman asks many questions and none of them have explicit answers, but the function of the movie is to get the viewer to think of how they view cinema as a narrative art-form and how we latch onto any tidbits of information that may move a story forward. Akerman has consistently been concerned with stillness in her movies, and how that plays into realism (look at the opening third of Je, Tu, Ill, Elle for example), and La Chambre's only progression is how…
It is easy to talk about the death of artists in a theoretical manner, as if they are only tangentially affecting, as if we are not deliberately or meaningfully shaken by the loss of creators that we never had the chance to meet, or talk to, or open a two-way dialogue with. The attitude of so many toward art is dismissive but there are and always have been those of us who connect on a fundamental level not just to the pieces themselves (not just to our own response to the pieces) but to the actual creator behind the piece. If we are going to talk about the deaths of numerous filmmakers in 2016, we must first acknowledge Jacques Rivette,…
Very simple—a camera moves around a room three times; nothing changes except the girl lying in bed. And then the camera starts turning back and focusing on the girl, swaying like a pendulum and then eventually deciding the carry on its moving way. Surprisingly dense for 12 minutes, or at least the type of structuralist short that suddenly had me asking a number of questions: what is space in a cinematic realm when we can’t see it? Why are we attracted to movement in cinema? What is the relationship between movement of captured objects and movement of the camera itself? Is the pleasure of movement a suggestion that spectatorship demands narrativization, even at the molecular level? And why is movement always placed most importantly on the human instead of other moving objects? Needless to say, a fascinating work that once again redeems the fact that I’m not hopeless when it comes to avant-garde cinema.
Someone should write a story that takes place during this movie about Chantal Akerman fighting off an assassin or some other threat while she's off screen, just barely in time to appear to be relaxing comfortably when the camera sweeps by her.
“All you have is time. In my films, you are aware of every second passing by. Through your body. You are facing yourself... You’re face to face with the Other. It’s from this crucial face to face that your sense of responsability begins... That’s my idea of ethics. It’s why I want equality, always, between the image and the spectator; Or the passage from one unconscious to the other” — Chantal Akerman
A Nos Amours
A room in Belgium sits the same chair which adores my mothers dining room
At least it’s shorter than ‘Le Revelateur’
Loves this. The consistently moving camera both refuses to show us something in particular while forcing our attention from wandering on a still frame. Loaded with domestic work tools and woman's action displayed as a subtle excess, there's a lot to read in this film.
Not as Good As Manhunter.
First spin around the room: okay?
Second spin around the room: oh my god, no way
First half spin: OH, WHAT
Second half spin: I DON'T BELIEVE IT
When it ended: if I could just kiss the ground she walked on maybe I can be as creative as her
Procédé en apparence simpliste de répétitions cycliques semblant souligner l'importance de l'environnement personnel ; à chaque nouvelle boucle, l'intérieur se précise, chaque objet retrouve son utilisation pratique, le spectateur a le temps de s'imaginer des vies, on se souvient qu'entre ses quelques parois une destin se déroule (le nôtre?). Répétitions et solitude: une femme allongée dans un lit, toisant la caméra, mangeant une pomme - l'ennui. Répétitions des jours passés au lit, seul(e), à ne rien faire, à regretter, à créer, à imaginer. Rupture du cycle: s'échapper.
Sur une note plus personnelle, ce court-métrage (le second de l’œuvre de Chantal Akerman si je ne me méprends pas) a trouvé une résonance très particulière à mes yeux. J'ai rarement eu l'occasion…
Not exactly thrilling cinema or particularly innovative but it does force you to pay attention to small details like the lighting and the placement of objects while Akerman's presence kind of teases us to read meaning into this seemingly banal work.