Relaciones Públicas

In recent years there has been increased interest amongst scholars of the art cinema concerning its reception, particularly as it relates to the explicit sex and violence found in films that makeup what has been called the “cinema of sensation,” “cinéma du corps,” “cinema brut,” or “extreme realism.”179 _{Films that fall into these categories—such as Gaspar Noe’s Irréversible}

(2002) and Clair Denis’s Trouble Every Day (2001)—have garnered attention for their

confrontational subject matter that elicits a strong affective response in viewers. Lisa Cartwright has written in her book Moral Spectatorship that feeling has traditionally been “a suspect area of research for film and media scholars who, since the time of Brechtian distanciation and

178 _{Scott, “‘Dogville’: It Fakes a Village.”}

179 _{For more on the recent study of extreme cinema, see Martine Beugnet, Cinema and}

Sensation: French Film and the Art of Transgression (Edinburgh: Edingurgh University Press, 2007); Tim Palmer, “Under Your Skin: Marina de Van and the Contemporary French cinéma du corps,” Studies in French Cinema 6, no. 3 (2006): 171 – 181; Dominique Russell, “Introduction: Why Rape?,” in Dominique Russell, ed., Rape in Art Cinema (New York: Continuum, 2010): 1 – 12.; and, James Williams, “His Life to Film: The Extreme Art of Jacques Nolot,” Studies in French Cinema 9, no. 2 (2009): 177 – 190.

Althusserian apparatus theory, have worked to institute models that allow us to resist the seductive pull of the medium as it moves us to feel for the other.”180 _{But increasingly film}

scholars have become interested in exploring the nature of reception from a wide array of angles, and one of the more productive avenues these studies have gone down concerns the relationship between affect and ethics.

Regarding the tendency to overlook the emotive in film reception, Carl Plantinga has noted, “any satisfactory account of film reception and its implications for ideology, rhetoric, ethics, or aesthetics had better be able to take film-elicited affect and emotion into account.”181

As we have seen, much of the critical reception of Dogville is directed at the difficult and uncomfortable experience it elicits amongst its viewers. In fact, Dogville seems to be a film set on stymieing a clear-cut reading, seemingly delighting in challenging viewers with alternating currents of violence and boredom. This has resulted in most accounts of the film to rely heavily on ideological critique and allegory as reading strategies. But often these reviews, like Ebert’s we looked at in the last section, raise the question of reception even if it remains peripheral. What makes affect of interest here is how the film deploys its peculiar style in order to pose new questions to previous assessments of the film like von Trier’s own, where he states, “I think the point to the film is that evil can arise anywhere, as long as the situation is right.”182 The evil that

arises during the film is not difficult to pin down. We know acts of enslavement, lying, manipulation, and rape are wrong. Watching Grace’s debasement at the hands of people who gave her sanctuary in a time of need presents a unique depiction of evil, rooted in the

180 _{Lisa Cartwright, Moral Spectatorship: Technologies of Voice and Affect in Postwar}

Representations of the Child (Durham: Duke University Press, 2008): 1.

181 _{Carl Plantinga, Moving Viewers: American Film and the Spectator’s Experience (Berkeley:}

University of California Press, 2009): 5.

exploitation of labor and the manipulation of her indebted status. In addition, the stripped down style renders this violence particularly grotesque for how it elicits both disgust and boredom. While the actual physical and emotional abuse we see Grace suffer is challenging, it is the prolonged takes, where the viewer must sit and suffer through the violence with her, and the disaffected nature of her perpetrators, who show little to no emotional repercussions from their actions, that elicits such a disturbing feeling amongst viewers.

Disregarding the reception of Dogville, its brutal treatment of Grace and the seemingly nonchalant presentation of violence mistakenly ignores an important aspect of the film,

particularly how it approaches the question of debt. The issue of debt is important because it works to both justify and normalize the violence done unto Grace, as well as induce a felt sense of indebtedness in the viewer who is suffers along with Grace in these prolonged scenes. We can gain further appreciation for von Trier’s odd marriage of violence and boredom as an avenue to think about how debt functions if we place it in relation to the earlier art cinema of the 1960s, which itself thwarted a certain kind of spectatorial pleasure of its own. The art cinema of this era—films such as Michaelangelo Antonioni’s Red Desert (1964) or Jean Luc-Godard’s Weekend (1967)—challenged audiences in their own right, confronting them with ambiguous narratives, outbursts of violence, and confrontational subject matter in protracted style. At the same time these films tended to give back a different kind of pleasure, connected to the sublime, cinephilia, and subversive politics en vogue with the era’s burgeoning youth movement. These films, while challenging, had an instructional function, teaching its audience how to look, offering a pedagogical exchange for the aesthetic and narrative challenges they provided. In this sense, the filmmakers of this era offered texts where the viewing subject could learn outside of the State model of education, providing a ground for new lines of thinking.

With von Trier, though, we do not quite get the same thing because the relationship between the text and the spectator has shifted. Instead of cinema, or aesthetics more generally, serving as a possible pedagogical device, it is instead inscribed into the very fabric of State power. This shift complicates the consumption of culture, largely relegating it as an extension of capitalism. In turn, we can extend this shift in cultural production to von Trier, whose work is often understood as obscenely grotesque instead of uniquely subversive because education itself is not conceived as an opportunity to break out of conditioned models of understanding, so much as it is about investing in the faculties that reproduce the very conditions of capitalism itself. We see von Trier’s appeal to global, postmodern politics, discussed in the last section, play out in Grace’s entrance into the capitalist space of Dogville and her subsequent education on how to adopt the skills necessary to survive. Issues such as human capital come into play here, requiring a mobile and flexible self with a constant eye toward innovation and growth, instead of

resistance and reform, which extends to Grace, as we see her adapt and conform to Dogville’s expectation of her. In this regard we might say that neoliberalism is largely about the application of the economic grid to social phenomena, designating cultural production like film (or labor) as an extension of this process.

In this respect, Grace’s time in Dogville like the viewing experience itself leads us to consider debt as one of the film’s central issues, particularly: what does it mean when our sense of morality and justice is translated to the language of a business deal? What might it mean when moral obligations are reduced to debts? Or even, what does it mean when the one turns into the other? These questions play out in disturbing fashion, as we will see shortly. But debt itself is not a self-evident issue and the way Dogville formulates it is important for understanding the larger diagrammatic modes of thought it attempts to reveal.

As we know, Grace’s sanctuary is initially agreed to as a moral obligation of Christian piety to help one’s neighbor. This moral obligation though is translated as a debt, so that Grace’s sanctuary is predicated upon her commitment to fulfill her obligations by working. As a result, debt unlike any other form of obligation can be exactly quantified. This allows debts to become simple, cold, and impersonal, which in turn allows morality to be treated as a matter of

impersonal arithmetic. Dogville’s residents are apprehensive, skeptical, and generally unmoved by the apparent but unspoken danger Grace is desperately seeking asylum to avoid. The film stages Grace’s fate in a town hall style meeting, where all of Dogville’s community members gather to debate the issue of whether she should be allowed to stay or not. The meeting is led by Tom who gives a stoic and detached argument based on the social customs and norms of the town, such as pious devotion to work, commonsense rationality, and individualism. Tom’s status as the town’s public intellectual is prominent early and sets the tone for Grace’s transformation from stranger to town resident, outsider to community member. In this way, Tom sets the precedent not only for Grace’s integration into social life, but also serves as the mouthpiece for Dogville’s ethos.

Grace’s status in relation to the town also highlights how the diagrammed town serves as a blueprint for the mode of subjectivity Dogville constructs. The scene itself is shot so as to expose the transparency of the town hall, which is situated in the middle of Dogville. The

camera’s focus alternates during Tom’s speech between him and the townsfolk who are seated in rows of benches. As the camera pans from left to right and right to left, these shots allow the viewer to see the entirety of the town as Tom speaks. At times the camera will catch some action in the background, like Grace who is on the far end of town waiting to learn of her fate. For this example, the camera pans from left to right with Tom in the foreground. We see the townsfolk

sitting and stirring, directing questions at Tom about whether Grace’s stay will jeopardize Dogville’s way of life. At this point Grace slowly enters the frame and becomes the focal point as she eventually becomes the center of the shot. The camera then zooms in on her while keeping Tom in the frame. These shots construct a layered visual, as we can clearly see the entirety of Dogville from end-to-end during this scene. The roaming camera in relation to the transparent mise-en-scène creates an interesting association between Grace, the outsider who is on the edge of society, and the townsfolk, who decide her fate, based on Tom’s proclaimed method of illustration. Tom’s address to the townsfolk centers on his insistence that “illustration” is the method by which Dogville will experience prosperity, and the camera and mise-en-scène reinforce this illustration by juxtaposing Grace’s vulnerability with the lines that embody the town.

The visuals are paramount here, as Tom largely speaks in abstractions, until at one point Liz berates him for his “philosophy.” At this point, Tom states, “Since no one seems to think anything is wrong, let me illustrate.” It is at this point that he fetches Grace, bringing her into the town hall. Here, the illustration Tom speaks of begins to take shape, as Grace becomes the center of everyone’s attention. As she stands awkwardly, the camera moves from her face to individual members of the town, creating one-to-one associations, as the camera cuts quickly back to her face before panning and zooming to another resident. As each town member looks Grace over and seems to ponder her potential, there is a real sense that the diagrammed stage and Tom’s appeal to “illustration” suggests an explicit link to the Deleuzian diagram. Here, the barren stage reveals the diagram as a visual information device, like a map, line or graph, which works to present information on the functioning of life. What this suggests for this scene, which takes place in a space of communal gathering and debate, is that under Tom’s method of illustration

the townsfolk can operate as passive recipients of power or an active collaborator intertwined with and mobilized by Dogville’s diagram.

Finally, after some convincing, Dogville’s residents relent and allow Grace asylum but only so long as she negotiates with every person independently based on their individual desire. Grace undergoes a transformation from elegant outsider to subordinate community member, having to earn her keep and establish trust and social standing through a series of tasks that implicate her as a worthy and productive addition to the town.183 The negotiations take place at the resident’s reluctance with most showing no real interest in Grace and annoyance that they must entertain this young stranger. Additionally, after several remarks concerning her “alabaster hands” and elegant clothing, Grace proceeds to change her personal style to align with the

prevailing aesthetic of the town. Grace is willing and eager during these exchanges, now adorned in working attire, a plain ankle length dress and scarf that covers her blonde hair. Grace begins to assimilate to the town’s expectations for residency both visually and through her subordinate demeanor.

The work Grace agrees to take on is loosely defined and over the course of the film the demands placed on Grace continue to escalate as the price for acceptance in Dogville intensifies with each successful task accomplished. Under this agreement Grace begins by weeding Ma Ginger’s wild gooseberry bushes at the edge of town. In turn, others follow her example: Ben (Zeljko Ivanek) has Grace cleaning the garage where he lives, Vera (Patricia Clarkson) takes her on as a baby-sitter and a tutor of her children; Tom Edison Sr (Philip Baker Hall) has her serving as a caregiver related to his health, and above all his hypochondria, while Jack has her listening

183 _{Although my focus is not related to issues of immigration, we can see a clear parallel here}

regarding Grace’s acceptance into a foreign society and requisite concessions often demanded of those seeking asylum abroad.

to his day-long talks about the features of the sun’s light off the mountain range to the West despite the fact he is blind; Martha (Siobhan Fallon) takes her as an assistant to play the organ at the mission house; Bill (Jeremy Davies) wants her to educate him to read and write; and Olivia (Cleo King) has her serve as a nurse for her disabled daughter June (Shauna Shim). Even the most hesitant of Dogville’s residents, Chuck (Stellan Skarsgård), finds value in Grace as a day laborer in his orchard helping to pick apples.

Grace unquestioningly accepts these conditions as the price of life, residency, and social inclusion, and ceaselessly goes about working, but above all attempting to find friendship and camaraderie in order to attain full acceptance and inclusion in the community. Grace works harder and longer as she continues to succeed in accomplishing her tasks to the standards of the town’s residents. The more she works the more efficient and productive she becomes and, in turn, the more she accomplishes the more work she is expected to do. In addition, Grace undergoes a stark physical change as well. We initially see Grace in her fashionable attire, her form notable for the long, straight vertical lines of her posture. Grace walks through Dogville slowly in those initial scenes, taking in her surroundings with cautious skepticism. But the longer she stays in Dogville the further removed she becomes from this picture. By this point in the film she largely shot stooped over, either cleaning or gardening, or simply from exhaustion. Her body takes on a more horizontal shape, her face shows her resignation as well as her fear, and this shift is important for seeing how the tasks she performs reorients how she moves and experiences this space. In this way, social inclusion is not only a question of having work gifted to Grace, but also based on her capacity to continue to adapt and develop faculties, and subsequent corporeal changes necessary to meet the rising cost of residency.

Interestingly, Grace’s labor is discussed in a scene that follows the town hall decision. Tom and Grace walk side-by-side through the town, as Tom introduces each town member individually. As they walk on the main street through town, Tom reveals to Grace the names, relations, and one secret each of them harbors. The townsfolk themselves are inside their homes, unaware that Tom and Grace are passing by. To the viewer, of course, we can see both inside and outside, so that Tom’s knowledge of each resident in town is supported by their transparency on screen. Grace, at this point, states, “All I see is a lovely little town and these beautiful

mountains.” Again, the emphasis of the speech and camera is on the transparency of Dogville, which we are to understand constitutes the power structure that organizes the town. Because all that Grace can see is the scenic beauty of Dogville, she seems confident that this beauty is also to be found in the structuring of the town. But this transparency constitutes a new relation between labor and capital, and in turn Grace and Dogville, where her own exploitation becomes a

transparent fact.

There are a number of curiosities in these dealings but none more prominent than Grace’s acquiescence to work harder, longer, and in increasingly humiliating and degrading

circumstances. Andrea Brighenti has noted, “When Grace begins to work each day, for each Dogvillian, we clearly have a shift from the symbolic toward the economic reason,” so that “[t]he process of her inclusion proceeds in parallel with the process of her submission, her oppression, her exploitation.”184 Because she offers little to no resistance to the increasing

demands placed on her over the course of the film, it is hard to pinpoint a culprit or, even more traditionally for film, to assign blame to a villain. In fact, at the onset Grace is quite eager to please, to be accepted and welcomes the increasing expectations placed on her. As Brighenti has

observed, the process of her inclusion is concomitant with her exploitation, but also her transformation stemming from this process. Dogville’s town members also seem to act with increasing violence and disregard for Grace in unison, as if this set of practices is both natural and self-evident. For Grace, these demands are met with worry and anxiety unrelated to her own