Liberating Film Production

Exploration Into Anti-Capitalist and Anti-Hierarchical Approaches

When I read bell hooks’ (1994) “Theory as Liberatory Practice,” I was struck by how theory was an expression of her being, her intimate struggles—how she theorized as a child to heal and advocate for herself against her father’s violence and her mother’s complacence. Theory was not merely abstract, but inextricably tied to practice and life—thinking could be freeing. Reflecting on her writing, I too decided I would aim to heal myself with theory. I did not want to spend my time writing a paper answering a question that could be easily Googled or learning about a topic that I could not immediately act on.

I am a filmmaker, and I have long been struggling with the capitalistic conditions of the Hollywood film industry. I used to crew on film sets, but it was incredibly unfulfilling, perhaps depressing. I felt the shows I worked on were meaningless and only served as distractions of the culture industry (Adorno & Bernstein, 2020), and even when I encountered meaningful art, my actual role was peripheral and only functioned to help the filmmaking machine run, never shaping nor truly touching the art. Work was mechanical and uncreative, and workdays were long, averaging 12 hours. Life became meaningless work, eat, sleep, meaningless work, eat, sleep, with little in between. A little over a year ago, I decided to leave the industry.

I formed a filmmaking collective called VWC with some fellow filmmaker friends, and we began to look for our own, more fulfilling and compassionate way to create films. We encourage collaboration, and all members of the collective co-direct each work. I personally emphasize limiting shooting days to eight hours and paying the people that work for me at least minimum wage (many filmmakers at my budget level do not pay their cast or crew). Still, our sets are not yet where I want them to be. Many are stressful, and the crew we bring in can be limited to mechanical, alienated work like in the traditional film industry. I know I have a long journey of theorizing ahead of me, and today, I will embark by examining the unorthodox production methods of the Third Cinema movement, directors Hong Sang Soo and Joel Haver, and explicitly anarchist filmmakers to try to glean how to create less capitalist, less alienating, less hierarchical film sets.

There are different definitions of capitalism, and many people—especially Americans, who conflate it with democracy as a remnant of Cold War propaganda—do not understand it at all. Therefore, it is useful to have a working definition, and we will use Immanuel Wallerstein’s (2004), who defines it as a system that “gives priority to the endless accumulation of capital,” noting specifically that capitalism does not mean merely a free market, individuals seeking profit, or wage work (p. 24). This capital priority supersedes everything else, including workers, the political structure, and the environment, and results in capital increasingly concentrating in the hands of the few. A method in this process is rationalization as described by Max Weber, which is the practice of maximizing efficiency at the cost of individuality, creativity, and freedom: where control tightens on people and procedures, scrubbing away all unpredictability (Ritzer & Miles, 2019). A sit-down meal at a family-owned restaurant becomes the cold and dehumanized drive-through at McDonald’s; a friendly shopkeeper at a local business becomes clicking alone on Amazon. The same process is present in art: compare a purer form of artistic and personal expression, like joyfully singing because you are alive (CJ The X, 2022), to an efficient film set where each crew member is working on their own hyper-specific, mechanical task to try to execute a predetermined set of scenes and shots in an allotted amount of time. Inherent in this process is the alienation of the worker from the work and themselves: without ownership, authorship, or control over the product or their labor, the crew member becomes merely an instrument, without passion or meaning in their actions (Marx, 1964). Despite being against rationalization and alienation, it is difficult to avoid recreating these oppressive systems because it is often all we know, and capitalism is self-reinforcing: the system is designed to punish and eliminate those who do not prioritize its goal of endless accumulation (Wallerstein, 2004). Therefore, we must be diligent and question the seemingly neutral or self-evident production methods we have been taught, for after all, “the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house” (Lorde, 2007, p. 110).

Capitalism’s effects are evident in poor working conditions prevalent in film industries on a global scale. In a 2021 survey by Uni Global Union of media workers from 28 entertainment unions spanning the international community, they found the average workday was at least 12-13 hours long, and almost 60% of respondents said that weekend work was always or frequently required. Towards the end of my crewing career, I only had one day off after every four days of work (the equivalent of 1.4 days off per week), and each workday was at least 12 hours, sometimes up to 14. The Uni Global Union publication warns that working over 55 hours a week (I was working almost 70) causes significant increases in risk of stroke and fatal heart disease, not to mention its effects on happiness, fatigue, relationships, and general quality of life. The industry mandates these long hours because it saves them money on equipment rentals and the loan interest used to finance their productions (Blair et al., 2001). Increased cost pressure further compounds from heightened demand for low-budget entertainment from growth in television and streaming (Christopherson, 2008). Every minute needs to be efficient, and even on my sets outside of the industry, I feel that same pressure, because I am self-funding my films that, at this point, do not make money. This sense of rush forces what should ideally be a creative, self-expressive process into a rationalized and alienating one, both for me and those working with me. This alienation is also increasing in the wider film industry: though the total entertainment workforce is growing in population, the number of workers in core positions is decreasing, meaning all growth is in peripheral, more alienated work; this is done to reduce costs, as peripheral workers can be paid less (Christopherson, 2008).

As traditional film production methods continue to prove oppressive against artists and workers, it is necessary to look towards unconventional filmmakers for guidance on how to create more empowering, cooperative work. A natural place to begin is with Third Cinema, an explicitly anti-capitalist and revolutionary film movement started in the 1960s by leftists in peripheral and semi-peripheral nations, particularly in Latin America (Solanas & Getino, 1970). The goals of the movement were to use film both to decolonize culture and to spark a revolutionary awakening. They focused primarily on documentaries, and their production methods were radically different from the mainstream: instead of a traditional crew, they saw the film set as a “film-guerilla group,” organized like a military (Solanas & Getino, 1970, p. 393). In each group, all members had to be familiar with all equipment, so if someone was lost, they could be quickly replaced. Work was rigorous and structured, but after responsibilities were assigned, each unit had independence, like in guerilla warfare (Solanas & Getino, 1970).

Third Cinema was formed in the context of extreme state censorship, where filmmakers could be jailed or have their footage seized if discovered by the authoritarian regimes they were living under (Solanas & Getino, 1970). Their militant and relatively hierarchical structure was implemented to respond to this external pressure, but in my less censored context, the same strict discipline is not as relevant. In fact, the movement did acknowledge that their methods, while effective against the state, did result in internal friction (Solanas & Getino, 1970). Therefore, in my situation, it might be more effective to look for a less hierarchical, and more clearly comfortable and creative, production structure.

Though their production methods might not be as applicable, they had compelling ideas about distribution. They built novel networks, as the system owned the distributors and would not circulate their films (Solanas & Getino, 1970). Logistically, they stressed the importance of distribution recovering the cost of film production, as without replenishing resources, further film production would be unsustainable. Philosophically, they emphasized the idea of audience as participators, instead of merely spectators. Unlike mainstream exhibition, where the audience goes to a theater, watches the film, then leaves, Third Cinema film screenings functioned more like revolutionary meetings. The film was only important as pretext to rouse participants into discussion and action. In leftist fashion, film became communal: the audience transformed into author and actor, “a more important protagonist than those who appeared in the films” (Solanas & Getino, 1970, p. 397).

The next two filmmakers are not as explicitly political but operate in less censored environments like mine. The first, Hong Sang-Soo, is a minimalist director whose films often center around long dialogue scenes and play with structure, time, and repetition. He is incredibly prolific, making one to two feature films a year, a rapid pace compared to the traditional film industry (Lim, 2022). His films are self-funded from previous pictures’ earnings, and he uses a small crew of three to four (Lim, 2022). Production is quick (for example, his film Grass was shot in three days, Claire’s Camera in nine), and so is editing (often only a couple days; Lefebvre, 2018).

In traditional film production, most ideas are decided before principal photography, being planned via the script, rehearsals, storyboards, shotlists, etc.: the actual production process is primarily concerned with execution. Hong believes this amount of predetermination is stifling and prefers to have at least a third of the creative process happen on set, with another third being decided in the treatment, and the rest in casting and dialogue (Lefebvre, 2018). To give himself this freedom, he does not write screenplays, preferring a treatment or a smattering of notes if anything. Only on the morning of each shoot does he conduct additional writing to determine the content of that day’s scenes (Lefebvre, 2018).

Hong describes his films as being made up of “fragments,” various scenes that are eventually made to fit into an overarching structure (Lefebvre, 2018, para. 6). These fragments do not originate solely from Hong; rather, they are often provided or inspired by the actors, the location, and even the crew. This method greatly reduces alienation, as every person on set becomes an active part of the creative, authorial process. Reflecting on the importance of joy during production, Hong says that film is a physical way of life for him. He continues, “To make films is one of the things that counts most for me in my life. And when I do make them, I want to be happy, surrounded by good people. My collaborators are everything to me” (Lefebvre, 2018, para. 31). I, too, not just when the film is finished, but during each step of the process, want myself and my collaborators to be happy.

Similarities to Hong’s process can be seen in Joel Haver, a filmmaker who releases his work online for free, though Haver has a stronger emphasis on total improvisation and cost reduction. He is an advocate for no budget filmmaking, and although that term in Hollywood may actually denotate thousands of dollars, Haver (2022b) means it literally. Instead of renting, Haver (2021) only uses equipment he already owns, and eschews artificial lighting, which cuts down on cost, time, and crew. In fact, he does not use a crew at all. The camera is placed on a static tripod, and sound is recorded using lavalier mics clipped onto the actors. Haver has even made entire features alone using this method.

Like Hong, Haver (2022a) dislikes creative predetermination, seeing it as boring and unfulfilling. His films are improvised in all aspects, from technical elements to story to acting. He eliminates screenplays, and unlike Hong who will write lines for his actors to say (Lee, 2017), all dialogue in Haver’s films is improvised. He does not go through a traditional casting process, which he sees as boxing actors into a preconceived role. Instead, he interacts with actors as fellow filmmakers and collaborators, who form their own characters and the film’s story along with Haver (2022a). Reflecting this, all workers on a Haver set are co-credited as the film’s authors.

Though entering production without a detailed plan may seem difficult, Haver finds the improvisation process to be less stressful (2022a). He explains that when a filmmaker has a script, shotlist, and schedule, there is a lot of pressure for everyone to perform to the readymade plan. In contrast, improvisation allows for a more relaxed and spontaneous approach, where instead of being focused on getting things “right,” filmmakers can experiment and take risks. Simply stated, improvisation is freeing and fun, and Haver believes that should be the heart of the artistic process. As he puts it, “Cut out the parts of filmmaking that feel like a chore to you” (Haver, 2022a, 8:29).

Much of Hong and Haver’s approaches overlap, and examining James Newton’s (2019) book, The Anarchist Cinema, strengthens the emerging patterns. Anarchism is even more misunderstood in the United States than capitalism, but anarchist cinema refers to political anarchism, which sits at the intersection of anti-capitalism and anti-hierarchy. This would make Newton’s book incredibly relevant, except it focuses primarily on content and distribution methods, though there is some information on production. In particular, Newton most closely examines the production methods of Jean Vigo, who is an explicit anarchist. Like the previous filmmakers, Vigo forgoes scriptwriting in favor of improvisation. He is also technically minimalist, shooting his fiction films with a documentary style and aesthetic, including using real locations and people. For example, in L’Atalante (1934), Vigo used actual unemployed people as actors to depict economic inequality (Newton, 2019). Later, Newton discusses the Pink 8 Manifesto, written by underground filmmaker Fabrizio Federico, whose tenets reinforce the pattern. The manifesto instructs films to have no script, be predominantly improvised, and have no artificial lighting or high-end equipment. Federico values the beauty of mistakes and rejects technical perfection, writing, “bewildering, vague, self-indulgent, plot-less, risky, egotistical, limpid, raw, ugly, and imperfect are perfect” (Federico, 2011, para. 17).

Newton concludes with his vision of what an anarchist cinema could be. First, he sees it as not aiming to imitate system cinema but being a distinct form of expression. He quotes Julio García Espinosa, who claimed that “perfect cinema – technically and artistically masterful — is almost always reactionary cinema,” suggesting that it is imperfect cinema that is truly radical and innovative (Newton, 2019, p. 137). Like Third Cinema, Newton also aims for a blurring of artist and audience, writing that his ideal anarchist cinema would be, “financed, produced, distributed, and displayed by and for their intended audiences” (p. 15). Finally, he underscores the importance of avoiding dogmatic rules, which are antithetical: revolutionary, anarchist cinema must constantly interrogate the status quo (Newton, 2019).

Examining these filmmakers and movements, a few themes about scripting, crew, and technical imperfection emerge. First, screenwriting can be reduced and improvisation increased. This can take various forms, filmmakers can (1) completely eliminate prewriting, (2) have an outline, or, (3) if a script is desired, include blank space where dialogue and action can be discovered during production. More improvisation de-alienates filmmaking not only for actors, by giving them control over their own character, but for the filmmaker as well. Production becomes a joyful space for creativity rather than a rationalized assembly line of execution, and the usually ever-present, dispiriting sense of rush is eliminated.

Actors, who already have a semi-creative role on set, are relatively uncomplicated to de-alienate. Crew members, who traditionally have hyper-specific, often mechanical roles, have an occupation that is alienated almost by definition. Therefore, many of the filmmakers examined simply dispense with crew altogether, or at least as much as possible. If crew cannot be completely eliminated, they should be de-alienated by giving them as much creative input, ownership, and authorship as possible. If all workers are not in a co-authorial role, like in Haver’s films, they can at least be included as a source of creativity and inspiration, like in Hong’s films. The ideal set imbues radical collaboration for all.

Finally, filmmakers should consider embracing technical and aesthetic imperfection, which allows for less equipment, crew, and setup time. This approach is effective for much of my work, which is often aesthetically naturalistic, but I also create stylistic films (where the style is integral to the story), and these frequently require detailed, artificial lighting. I do happen to enjoy cinematography and lighting in moderation, so this process may not necessarily contradict with Haver’s maxim to cut out anything that feels like a chore. However, I dislike when it requires too much crew or time, so further exploration and refinement (e.g., pre-lighting could be a strategy) may be needed in those situations.

These methods should be treated as a starting point for exploration and experimentation. Keep in mind that these new films can and will diverge from system cinema; this is not a sacrifice, but growth in a new area. Take the methods that are helpful and leave the rest, remembering that the goal is radical joy in the process: anti-capitalist, anti-hierarchical filmmaking affirms that the means is as important as the end. With creativity and perseverance, maybe soon, at least in our little space, we can make the word “work,” like in the Anarresti language, synonymous and indistinguishable from “play” (Le Guin, 1974).

References

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