GRAEME  COLE  –  SAMPLE  TEXT    

"Some  filmmakers  are  trying  to  make  society  better.  Others  are  just  trying  to  cope.  The  devices  you  find  within  my  Catalogue  should  be  considered  tools  for  coping."  

-­‐  V.N.    

The  Catalogue  of  Prepared  Components  for  Redestructivish  Movies    The   Catalogue   of   Prepared   Components   for   Redestructivish   Movies   is   a   lost  cinematic  artefact  of  the  future.    The  Catalogue  was  devised  as  a  digital  bank  of  cinematic  building  blocks  for  an  age  of  computer-­‐powered  filmmaking:  a  registry  of  standard  parts  and  templates  including  characters,  colours,  costumes,  dialogue,  feelings,  music,  sets,  sounds,  and  a  range  of  miscellaneous  tools  and  effects.    The  Catalogue  concept  was  initiated  by  a  civil  servant  in  the  city  of  Manchester,  with  the   components   designed   and   built   by   he   and   his   second  wife.   The   civil   servant’s  name  is  unknown.  We  have  called  him  Volodymyr  Nanneman.    

*    The   Institute   is   now   able   to   bring   you,   word-­‐by-­‐word,   an   explanation   of   the   key  terms   and   labels   found   within   the   Catalogue.   It   is   our   hope   that,   should   the  Catalogue  ever  be  rediscovered,  our  glossary  might  be  appended  to   it  as  an  aid   to  scholars   and   filmmakers.   Meanwhile,   the   glossary   exists   as   a   growing   resource  which,   by   placing   Nanneman’s   ideas   in   the   context   of   his   (equally   lost)  contemporaries,  seeks  to  shed  light  on  the  conceptual  and  biographical  background  to  the  lost  film  scene  in  which  they  developed.    

Glossary    B    Backgrounds    As   an   idealistic   young   civil   servant,   years   before   the   inception   of   the   Catalogue  project,  Nanneman’s  efforts   to  understand  the  city  of  Manchester  were   frequently  outrun  by  his  desire  to  influence  and  improve  it.  Nanneman’s   idea  for  an  upturned  and  sunken  city,  a  metropolis  in  which  the  windows  of  the  buildings  would  lay  on  the  earth’s   surface   and   simultaneously   reflect   and   take  energy   from   the   sun,   and   into  the   'back'   of  which   -­‐   towards   the   earth’s   core   -­‐  we  would   hurry   in   our   harnessed  boots   in   times  of   climatic  or  environmental  distress,  and   the   right-­‐angled  window-­‐roofs   of  which  would   form,   as  we   lay   upright   to   sleep,   a   nocturnal   study   area   for  hairdressers   and   statisticians,   may   well   have   been   inspired   by   the   bizarre  perspectives  he   experienced  during   al   fresco   trapeze   sessions.   Critics   have   scoffed  that   Nanneman   would   have   considered   himself,   in   such   a   world,   a   kind   of  

perpendicular   god.   But   such   a   poke   at   Nanneman’s   architectural   earnestness  overlooks   the   importance   of   his   early   cityscape   sketches   to   our   understanding   of  Nanneman   the   man,   and   to   his   later   work   on   the   Catalogue.   Working   along   the  corridor  from  Manchester’s  cliquish  city  planning  department,  Nanneman  must  have  known  even  as  he  drew  that  his  basement  city  would  never  be  built:   that   it  would  exist  only,  but  not  merely,  as  an   imaginary   city,  perhaps   to  be  wandered  by   those  trapped  meanwhile  in  the  penthouses  of  his  own  memory  and  who  were  deprived,  like   the   sideways   city,   of   physical   manifestation.   However,   the   city’s   flatness,   its  submersion,   the   topsy-­‐turvy   topography   itself  drawn   from   the  dizzying   isolation  of  thousands  of  hours  of  trapeze  work,  would  later  be  transformed  into  the  flat  worlds  of  his  redestructivish  cinema  vision  -­‐  in  the  demotion  of  the  third  dimension,  in  the  essential   separateness   of   parallel   planes,   in   the   partial   re-­‐angling   of   obsolete  artefacts  to  serve  new  purposes,  and  in  the  overwhelming  redestructivish  tendency  to  turn   in  on   itself:  Nanneman’s  city  was,  at  heart,  an   impulse  to  release  a  fleet  of  steel-­‐   and   glass-­‐churning   ploughs   across   the   cityscapes   that   he’d   always   found  emotionally  inhospitable,  and  neaten  up  whatever  remained.    It  was  perhaps  in  deference  to  his  early  urbanist  ambitions  that  Nanneman  did  not  later   transform   this   -­‐   his   most   ambitious   -­‐   cityscape   blueprint   into   a   useable  redestructivish   Background,   instead   appending   digital   fascias   to   Hanni’s  comprehensive  videography  of  Manchester’s  outer  surfaces,  the  nature  of  which  can  only  now  be  appreciated  through  the  surviving  labels  -­‐  City  With  Swellings,  Tropical  Metropolis,  Anonymous  City,  Wooden  Town,  and  so  on.  Or  perhaps  the  superficiality  of   these   urban   visions,   in   contrast   to   the   complex,   warped   optimism   of   his   early  sketches,   reflected  Nanneman’s   realisation   that   it  would   take  a   force  greater   than  the  will  of  a  provincial  civil  servant  to  realign  the  character  of  a  city  whose  flesh,  no  matter  how  smartly  swathed  in  the  attire  of  a  communication  age  it  played  no  small  part  in  creating,  remained  stubbornly  ingrained  with  the  soot  of  industrial-­‐economic  subservience.    C    Character  Type    Nanneman  was  pressured,  during  a  washroom  encounter  with  his   line  manager,  to  keep   to   the   latter's   list   of   "16   character   types   (17   for   an   art-­‐house   film)"   when  designing   the   character-­‐generating   feature   of   his   filmmaking   kit.   So   as   not   to  jeopardise   the   continued   assembly   of   the   Catalogue   -­‐   which   had   already   been  vetoed  from  above  and  which  his  line  manager,  having  stumbled  upon  Nanneman's  misuse  of  city  council   lab  space  by  mistake,  was  by  turns  tolerating  and   interfering  with  -­‐  Nanneman  ostensibly  integrated  his  superior's  list,  but  reduced  each  of  the  16  broad  'types'  to  its  key  trait  and  generated  65,536  new  character  types  by  exploiting  every  possible   combination  of   those  qualities.   (He  excluded   the  arty  17th   type   for  obvious   reasons).   The   psychological   complexity   of   these   new   redestructivish  archetypes  meant  that  Nanneman  was  able  to  create  distinct  imprints  of  every  one  of  them  using  just  two  actors:  himself  and  his  second  wife*.  Every  time  one  of  these  intricately   designed   algorithms   was   given   a   new   name,   wardrobe,   haircut   and  

surroundings   he   or   she   became   a   unique   character   (excepting   the   improbable  eventuality   of   another   filmmaker   happening   to   choose   the   same   type,   name   and  look  and  putting  this  ‘new’  character  into  the  same  situation).    It   is  not  known  which  16   traits  Nanneman  divined   from  his   line  manager's  original  types,  but  we  do  know  that  he  excluded  any  'opposites'  which  might  have  cancelled  each  other  out.  Instead,  Nanneman  assumed  that  certain  traits  -­‐  e.g.  faith  -­‐  are  an  a  priori   human   characteristic   so   included   only   their   opposite   -­‐   e.g.   incredulity   -­‐  amongst   the   16   potential   attributes:   if   a   character   lacked   any   one   of   the   16  'nurtured'   traits   he   was   assumed   to   have   its   opposite   through   nature.   Whilst  Nanneman  acknowledged  that  such  opposites  don't  always  exist  in  pure  dichotomy  but  on  a  sliding  scale,  he  considered  such  nuances  to  be  uncommon  and  irrelevant  to  the  cinematic   representation  of  human  nature,  certainly   in  a   time  when  audiences  needed   reassurance,   not   speculation.   In   the   circus   and   in   the   civil   service,   it   had  tended   to  be  Nanneman's   experience   that  people  were  one   thing  or   another,   and  any   apparent   gradation   in  between  usually   boiled  down   to   a   case  of   deception  or  illness.   Hanni,   charged   with   finding   "8   good   rules"   with   which   to   shape   the  Nannemans'   performanced   blueprints   of   the   thousands   of   archetypes   Volodymyr  had  created,  briefly   looked  into  the  old  social  networking  websites,  and  discovered  that   everything   Nanneman   had   suggested   about   human   nature   was   more   or   less  true.   However,   in   response   to   the   publication   of   Francis   Dove's   misanthropic  Undepth   In  Real   People  And  Those  Who  Believe  They’re  Real,  Nanneman   relented,  creating  a  set  of  digital  faders  for  the  adjustment  of  the  archetypes'  character  trait  level-­‐settings,   allowing   access   to   the  middle   ground   between   opposing   traits.   The  knobs   on   the   interface   were   all   the   same   deliberately   designed   "stubborn"   to  discourage  their  use.    On   discovering   the   zealous  manner   in   which   his   underling   had  misinterpreted   his  original   instructions,  Nanneman’s   line  manager   is   said   to   have   remarked   that,   the  Nannemans   having   between   them   taken   the   time   to   create   65,536   characters,  perhaps   the   unremittingly   earnest   Volodymyr   should,   from   then   on,   himself   be  referred  to  as  "Character  Zero".    *(we  know  from  his  tattoos  that  she  was  called  Hanni)    Colour  Hunt    As  a   young   trapezist,  not  only  was  Nanneman's   training   restricted   to   the   technical  matters   of   physical   fitness,   aerialist   technique   and   rope   drill,   but   even   his   leisure  time  was   policed   against   his   pursuing   any   interest   in   the   frills   of   his   trade:  music,  costume,   colour.   Naturally,   being   forbidden   from   involving   himself   in   what   his  superiors  termed  the  "realm  of  the  frivolous"  only  made  those  glimpses  he  caught  of  it  more  exotic,  more  unsettling   -­‐  and  more  dangerous:  music   came   to  hold   secret,  incendiary   meanings,   and   the   unpredictable   modulation   of   shirt   colour   in   the  audience,   from   performance   to   performance   and   even   moment   to   moment,   was  fully   capable   of   disorienting   him   as   he   swung,   should   he   ever   have   let   his  

concentration   lapse   (that   he   never   dropped   might   be   considered   a   fluke   of  disposition).    Years  later,  then,  when  he  began  to  compile  his  standardized  filmmaking  kit,  he  had  at   least   two   good   reasons   for   creating   a   reductive   colour   system   -­‐   specifically,  categorized   palettes   of   up   to   256   colours  with   the   facility   to   utilise   only   one   such  palette  per   individual  movie:   firstly,   that  the  complexity  of  the  colour  aspect  of  his  filmmaking  system  should  not  exceed  his  own  limited  understanding  of  that  domain;  and  secondly,  that  it  was  his  goal  to  facilitate  the  making  of  "reassuring"  films,  and  only   by   control,   by   unity   of   colour,   could   he   preclude   the   unbalancing   effect   he  assumed  that  audiences  had  continued  to  suffer  across  what  he  considered  to  be  the  largely  undisciplined  history  of  the  colour  movie.    Perhaps  it  is  this  perceived  autonomy  of  colour,  then,  its  wildness-­‐in-­‐need-­‐of-­‐taming,  that   inspired  Nanneman   to   term  his   city-­‐wide  colour   sampling  expeditions   "Colour  Hunts".  Certainly  there  is  evidence  that  these  spontaneous  adventures  tended  to  be  embarked  upon  during  periods  of  professional  stress  and  frustration  -­‐  that  the  sheer  thrill   of   unearthing   and   capturing   a   feral   hue   was   accompanied   by   a   sense   of  regained   control   proportionate   to   the   borderline   chromatophobia   of   Nanneman's  aerialist   youth.   A   comment   scribbled   on   the   back   of   the   only   known   photograph  (now   lost)   of   such   a   hunt   even   suggests   that   the   catharsis   and   primal   satisfaction  ("flush!")   that   came   with   the   successful   capture   of   a   desired   hue   was   entirely  justified  even  if  that  hue  was  not  in  motion:  whilst  capturing  a  moving  colour  might  seem  the  greater  sport,  the  hunter  himself  is  always  in  motion  (in  an  ocular  sense  at  the  very  least)  and,  in  an  uncontrolled  environment,  the  movement  of  light  provides  an   irregular   and   unpredictable   ("fiendish")   dynamic   camouflage   for   a   static  ("cowering")  hue.  No  colour  comes  cheap.    Although   he   did   take   others   on   the   hunts   (including   Hanni,   and   the   occasional  jobseeker  who  wandered  into  the  lab  having  taken  the  wrong  direction  on  their  way  to  the  Town  Hall's  temporary  JSA  bureau),   it  was  Nanneman  who  bagged  the  great  majority   of   the   16,384   colours   that   eventually   formed   the   full   redestructivish  palette.   It   is  not  known  whether  his  decision  to  name  and  provide  full  back-­‐stories  for  each  shade  was  motivated  by  a  desire  to  honour  his  fallen  quarry  or  was  rooted  in  aesthetic  concerns.  Neither  is  it  known  whether  his  decision  to  outsource  most  of  this  written  work   to   others   is   an   example   of   his   personal   predilection   for   physical  work  or  an  unwillingness  to  stare  any  longer  than  was  absolutely  necessary  into  the  soul  of  any  individual  colour.    Contract    Nanneman   issued   Hanni   and   himself   "contracts"   for   the   creation   of   each  redestructivish  component:  these  contracts  might  otherwise  be  described  as  briefs,  designs   or   scripts,   but   Nanneman’s   preferred   term   (apparently   arrived   at   without  much  in  the  way  of  forethought)  indicates  his  ongoing  need  for  discipline,  and  quite  possibly   an  unconscious  desire   to   add  a   sense  of   legitimacy   to   the  pursuance  of   a  project  which  had,  after  lengthy  discussions  both  formal  and  otherwise,  been  vetoed  

by   his   superiors   at   the   city   council,   and  which  Hanni   and   he  were   pressing   ahead  with   anyway  using   city   resources   and   apparently   in   a   spirit   of   blinkered   ignorance  rather  than  insurrectionary  defiance.    These  contracts  ran  into  the  tens  and  possibly  hundreds  of  thousands,  ranging  from  single-­‐word   exhortations   to   individual   sentences,   statements   and   questions,  scientific   diagrams,   abstract   doodles,   3D   structures  made   from   paper   clips   and/or  plasticine  and  often  posed  as  questions,  excerpts,  cuttings,   recorded  conversations  (with   or   without   Hanni),   knowing   looks,   mutual   assumptions,   the   physical  manipulation  of  Hanni’s  and/or  his  own  body,  but  -­‐  strangely  -­‐  no  collage,  and  each  in  the  tone  of  absolute  seriousness  that  characterized  at  least  the  public  face  of  the  Nannemans’  marriage.    Current    The   flow   of   a   movie;   the   synergy   of   its   components   as   experienced   in   time;   the  essence   of   a   movie’s   movieness.   The   nagging   meta-­‐question,   beyond   language,  theme  or  character,  to  be  resolved  or  at  least  defused.  That  which  each  aspect  of  the  movie  strives  to  generate.  A  term  chosen  by  Nanneman  to  repudiate  the  primacy  of  narrative,  which  even   in  a  narrative  movie  should  be  working   for   the  movie  rather  than  vice  versa.  (Other  commentators  referring  to  other  films  may  refer  to  ‘story’  or  ‘plot’  when  really  they  mean  -­‐  or  would  be  doing  better  to  address  -­‐  ‘current’.)    D    Destructural  Sound    Perhaps   inspired  by   the  way  a   flying   trapezist  orients  himself   in   the  3-­‐dimensional  space  of   the  big   top  using   the  balancing  mechanisms  of  his   semi-­‐circular   canals,   it  was  Nanneman’s  belief   that  movie   audiences   could  be   guided   through   the  hidden  substructures   of   a   movie   by   their   ears,   although   in   this   case   through   the   use   of  structural   sound  mapping*   rather   than  endolymphatic   stimulation.  With  every   last  component   of   a   Redestructivish   film   chosen   from   the   finite   (if   massive)   selection  listed  in  the  Catalogue,  it  was  possible  to  assign  each  component  (be  it  a  character,  a  costume,  a  feeling  or  whatever)  a  more  or  less  noticeable  sound  identity  quite  aside  from  any  specific   functional  sound   it  might  be  associated  with  on  a  narrative   level.  Thus,   an   audience   member   should   be   able   to   position   himself   in   relation   to   a  Redestructivish  movie’s   invisible  moral   or   sartorial   or   emotional   framework  at   any  point   during   a   screening,   by   triangulating   the   sound   identities   of   each   activated  component.   It  was  Nanneman’s  claim  that,  much   like   the   trapezist   (or  man  on   the  street)  whose   sense  of  balance   is  essentially  an  automatic  process   (with   conscious  attention  demanded  by  the  tricky  bits),   the  audience  would  rarely  have  to  work  at  recognising  these  sonically-­‐highlighted  substructures,  although  Hanni  suggested  that  was  a  slightly  optimistic  view  of  how  the  human  mind  works.    Nanneman   coined   the   term   ‘Destructural   Sound’   to   refer   to   a   recurring   technical  fault   within   this   system   whereby   sounds   intended   to   be   ‘structural’   would   leak  

between   the  materials   of   a   film’s   architecture,   warping   or   even   demolishing   that  movie’s  substructures  even  as  it  unfolded.    For   the   most   part,   when   this   inexplicable   glitch   occurred,   sound   identities   would  jump  between  components,  even  between   those  components   that  did  not   feature  together   in  the  same  scenes;  some  would  become  completely  detached  from  their  intended  components  and  float  freely  through  a  movie  without  becoming  attached  to   other   components;   still   other   sound   identities   would   spontaneously   begin   to  mimic   adjacent   components   creating   meshes   of   unintended   meaning,   exposing  oversimplified   versions   of   unintended   undercurrents   to   anyone  who  was   listening  carefully.   Hanni   reassured   Nanneman   that   such   audience  members  would   be   few  and   far   between,   and   that   to   the   casual   viewer   of   these   early   test   movies   the  Destructural   Sound   -­‐   if   noticed   at   all   -­‐   would   probably   be   attributed   to   faulty  speakers.   Still,   Nanneman   could   only   hear   these   distortions   as   structural   damage  and,  when  a  remedy  was  not  forthcoming,  he  instead  opted  to  recast  the  defect  in  a  positive  light.    Nanneman’s   suggestion   that   a   filmmaker   using   the   Catalogue   to   create   a  Redestructivish  movie  might   "encourage"   the   phenomenon   of   Destructural   Sound  merely   by   the   (non)-­‐act   of   not   correcting   it   when   it   occurred   might   seem  disingenuous.  Rather   than   taking   the  blame,  wasn’t  Nanneman  attempting   to   take  credit,   as   conceiver   and   craftsman,   for   what   was   essentially   a   major   fault   in   the  Redestructivish   system?   Was   not   his   capitalisation   of   the   very   term   Destructural  Sound  the  equivalent  of  a  car  manufacturer  trademarking  the  phrase  "break  down"?    In  fact,  the  period  that  Nanneman  spent  developing  sounds  and  sound  systems  for  the  Catalogue  was,  for  him,  a  deeply  troubling  time,  in  which  he  lost  faith  in  himself  as  a   facilitator  and  an  engineer.  He  had  designed  himself   into  a  corner,  considered  himself  professionally  stranded  and,  despite  his  stated  goal  of  facilitating  films  that  would  reassure  the  nation’s  unsettled  populace,  he  perhaps  saw  in  the  phenomenon  of  Destructural  Sound  an  apt  and  personally  comforting  structural/aesthetic  analogy  for   his   own   condition   -­‐   and   by   extension   a   valid   artistic  mechanism.   An   audience  member   trying   too  hard   to  navigate   the  hidden   substructures  of   a  Redestructivish  movie  could  now  become  literally  ‘lost’  in  it.    Of  course,  Nanneman  eventually  worked  his  way  through  his  sound  issues,  variously  fixing   or   explaining   away   or   forgetting   about   the   Catalogue’s   audio   shortcomings,  the  plain  passing  of  time  allowing  him  to  look  back  on  that  period  as  what  he  might  characteristically   have   called   a   "forest/trees"   situation.   All   the   same,   once   in   the  clear  Nanneman  never  returned  to  confront  the  "forest"  of  sound   in  which  he  had  become   so   lost:   the   flaws   and   their   euphemistic   labels   remained   integral   to   the  Redestructivish  package.  The  turmoil  that  Destructural  Sound  would  have  made  on  the   cinema   sound   system   repairs   industry   had   the   Catalogue   ever   progressed  beyond  the  test  stage  can  only  be  imagined.    *(not   to  be  confused  with  geographic   sound  mapping   in   the   films  of  Francis  Dove,  whose  ever  diminishing  budgets  saw  an  increasing  reliance  on  sets  built  from  light,  

fog   and   upturned   boxes   and   who   therefore   oriented   audiences   in   his   characters’  surroundings  through  the  use  of  consistent  and  aggressive  soundscaping)    Dissolutionary  Cinematograph    A  somewhat  teleological  contraption  utilising  a  highly  reactive  film  stock  concocted  by   Nanneman   while   he   waited   to   for   the   Council   to   redeploy   him   following   the  crossing   patrol   debacle.   The   frames   of   a   film   are   lined   up   face   to   face   in   a  dissolutionary  cinematograph,   rather   than  end  to  end.  The   first   thing  the  audience  sees  projected  is  a  complete  picture:  the  image  simplifies  as  the  frames  disintegrate  sequentially   on   contact   with   air,   often   telling   a   story   in   reverse.   Movement,  whatever  the  narrative  trajectory,  becomes  synonymous  with  decay.  In  the  cleverest  compositions,   visual   elements   from   the   final   frames   show   through   the   preceding  frames,  playing  different  parts  throughout  as  they  are  juxtaposed  with  shorter-­‐lived  visual  matter,  before  themselves  being  fully  revealed  and  dissolving.    Synchronising   any  meaningful   sound  with   such   films   proved   impossible;   however,  Nanneman  mentions  in  the  Catalogue  how  he  encouraged  Hanni  (with  whom  he  was  not  yet  romantically  involved)  to  incorporate  the  ambient  sounds  of  the  kitchen  and  the  street  beyond  into  her  appreciation  of  each  unique  screening,  and  paraphrases  her  response  that  this  approach  to  soundtrack  "made  a  crushing  sort  of  sense".  They  would  be  married  before  the  year  was  out.  He  did  not  pursue  the  project  after  he  was   reassigned   to   the   Town   Hall;   he   did   not   save   any   of   his   dissolving   films   for  posterity;   it   has   never   been   comprehensively   proven  whether   or   not   Nanneman’s  invention  was  ‘intentional’  or  the  fluke  result  of  a  period  of  intensive  pottering.    Dove,  Francis    When,   on   the   advice   of   his   soon-­‐to-­‐be   collaborator   Harley   Byrne,   the   TV   director  Francis  Dove  had  his  wife  permanently  committed  to  an  amnesiacs’  hospice,   it  was  Dove  who  was  left  with  the  memories.   In  his  attempts  to  monumentalise  them,  he  chipped,   sanded   and   warped   these   memories   into   the   clunky,   quite   explicitly  falsified  stage  sets  of  his  own  personal  history;  watched  helplessly  as  the  scenes  that  he   replayed   again   and   again   in   his  mind   became   smooth-­‐edged  mythologies,   lore  without  nuance.    Dove’s  work  began  to  take  on  the  same  clunky,  mechanical  nature:  in  over-­‐defining  the  respective  elements  of  his  screen  works,  he  was  being  sarcastic  about  certainty.  This   approach   found  an   appropriate  outlet   in  his   cinematic   serialisation  of  Byrne’s  music-­‐hunting   memoirs,   UNIVERSAL   EAR.   As   with   the   compression   and   digital  archiving   of  music,   Dove   sought   to   reduce,   simplify   and   vacuum-­‐pack   the   various  physical   and   sonic   aspects   that   the   EAR   scripts   detailed.   Yet   these   elements,  although   coldly   configured   in   mutual   isolation,   were   selected   for   their   tactile,  flawed,   organic   nature.   It   is   this   disparity   between   the   cleanness   of   their  juxtaposition   and   the   imperfection   of   their   individual   states   that   Dove   used   to  humanise  the  scientific,  to  devalue  the  authority  of  human  logic  and  to  dismiss  -­‐  or  ridicule  -­‐  any  definitive  reading  of  the  text.  

 Dove  stated  that  his  simplified  caricatures  of  Byrne’s  real-­‐life  experiences  were  the  most   complete   picture   that   it   was   ethical   to   provide,   however   far   that  may   have  wandered   from   any   ideal   of   naturalism:   that   the   real  movie   did   not   occur   on   the  screen,  but  in  the  eyes,  ears  and  brains  of  the  audience,  where  it  would  crystallize  as  a  new  memory  before  crumbling  away  into  the  recesses  of  the  mind.    E    Establishing  shot    Not   to   be   confused   with   their   more   integrative   Backgrounds,   the   Nannemans’  establishing   shots   comprised   a   portfolio   of   static,   un-­‐modifiable   exterior   shots  designed  to  be  slotted  into  an  edit  in  order  to  broadcast  the  fact  of  the  subsequent  scene’s  location  to  the  audience.    Whilst  creating  a  test  film  from  an  early  version  of  the  Catalogue,  Hanni  apparently  became  confused  over  the  concept  of  the  establishing  shot  and  ended  up  using  the  same  one  for  every  location.  She  was,  some  have  speculated,  so  used  to  seeing  the  raw  materials  of  the  interior  scenes  laying  around  her  husband’s  lab  in  the  Town  Hall  that,  when  it  came  to  signposting  the  site  of  each  interior  with  an  exterior  shot,  she  was   unable   to   imagine   any   more   suitable   frontage   than   that   of   the   city   council  headquarters   itself   –   whether   the   interior   that   followed   was   that   of   a   house   or  school  or  sports  arena.  More  generous  commentators  have  claimed  that  Hanni  was  in  fact  trying  to  make  a  profound  phenomenological  point:  we  never  stray  from  the  base  of  our  own  perception  so  place  is  just  a  state  of  mind.    The  test   film  was  unpopular  among  Nanneman’s  colleagues,  although  whether  this  was   an   academic   response   to  Hanni’s  misuse  of   form  or   a   visceral   reaction   to   the  unsettling  viewing  experience  is  unclear.  Such  was  the  provocative  nature  of  Hanni’s  film  that  several  unnamed  civil  servants  banded  together  one  evening  after  drinks  to  create   a   sarcastic   reply-­‐film   on   a   finance   undersecretary’s   mobile   phone.   Hanni’s  contentious  method  was   inverted  so  that,   in  the  reply-­‐film,  a  different  establishing  shot  was  videoed  for  each  of  several  consecutive  scenes  manifestly  set  in  the  same  interior   location   as   each   other.   Thus   a   recurring   argument   in   a   fictitious   if   rather  familiar   office   setting   was   variously   introduced   by   images   of   a   burger   bar,   a   toll  booth,  a  dog  kennel,  a  hunting  cabin,  a  river  bed,  a  mountain  range,  deep  space  etc.  The  move  backfired  as  the  finished  video,  in  its  inadvertently  emotive  juxtaposition  of  the  absurdity  of  modern  man’s  Sisyphean  struggle  and  the  diverse  enormity  of  a  universe  in  which  we  may  be  considered  little  more  than  mites  with  carpentry  skills,  may   have   genuinely   countered  Hanni’s   solipsistic   statement   (if   that’s  what   it  was)  but   offered   no   less   depressing   an   alternative.  Whether   Hanni   ever   saw   this   video  riposte   is   not   known,   as   the   undersecretary   subsequently   took   a   six   month  sabbatical  and,  upon  his  return,  was  seen  to  have  replaced  his  mobile  phone.    

Eyeline    Questioned  as  to  why  it  was  so  difficult  to  create  the  correct  eyelines  when  lining  up  Catalogue-­‐generated   characters   in   dialogue   scenes   -­‐   from   shot   to   shot   and   even  within   the   same   frame   -­‐   Nanneman   responded   that   of   the   65,536   character  templates  that  his  system  had  generated,  it  so  happened  that  the  majority  of  them  turned  out  to  be  of  a  type  that  finds  it  difficult  to  maintain  eye  contact.  Careful  study  of   the   sample   scenes   has   indeed   shown   that   in   a   large   proportion   of   apparently  mismatched  eyelines,  the  characters  portrayed  are  in  fact  very  accurately  looking  at  fluff  on   the  other’s   shoulder,   the   toes  of   their  own  boots,  or  a  door  handle   in   the  background.   Eyeline   discrepancies   between   characters   and   objects   were   far   rarer  and  can  mainly  be  attributed  to  shortsighted  or  confused  characters.    cf.   The   films   of  Harris  Metcalf,  who   liberated   the   representation   of   eyes   from   the  realm  of  physical   realism,  used  eyeline  angle  as  an  expressionist  device  and  whose  characters’  unseeing  eyes  only  ever  met  by  accident.    I    Implicit,  The    In   its   redestructivish  sense,   the   Implicit   is   the   inverse  of  Visual  Matter  or,   to  put   it  another  way,  the  essence  that  fills  the  holes  in  the  mise-­‐en-­‐scene.    Nanneman   stated   that   although   the   Implicit  was   intangible   and  existed  only   as   an  unambiguous  natural  force  that  would  come  into  being  between  any  two  or  more  of  his  components  once  activated,  there  would  still  be  a  small  fee  applicable  for  its  use.  Hanni   took   to   referring   to   this   fee   as   a   "subtext   tax",   although   Nanneman  discouraged   her   use   of   this   term   as   it   just   confused   things.   The   Implicit   was   an  aesthetic   side-­‐effect  which,  whilst  unavoidable,   could  hardly  be  considered  vital   to  any   movie,   while   the   subtext   was   an   essential   structural   tool   which   Nanneman  suggested  had  been,  since  the  birth  of  cinema,  "screenwriting’s  dark  little  secret".    For   Francis   Dove,   Nanneman's   idea   of   the   Implicit  was   too  weighted   and   specific.  The   gaps   between   screen   presences  were   "less,   even,   than   essence".  While   visual  matter  could  be  used   to  contextualise   (not  define)   the  nothingness   that   it   framed,  that   was   not   the   same   as   making   this   nothingness   something   itself.   From   this  perspective,  Dove's  use  of  ostentatiously  artificial  sets,  props  and  performances  as  a  moving   architecture   of   absence   can   be   considered   an   acknowledgement   of   the  futility   of   artistic   pursuit   against   the   dumb   mystery   of   the   universe.   His  contemporaries   alternately   labelled   Dove’s   work   as   "clunkyist"   or   "nothingist"  depending  on   the  part  of   the   screen   to  which   they  were   referring:  he  might  more  accurately   have   been   described   as   a   nothingist   wrapped   up   in   a   clunkyist   (as   a  filmmaker)  or  vice  versa  (in  his  day-­‐to-­‐day  life).    Dove’s  creative  partner  Harley  Byrne,  who  had  enormous  respect  for  Nanneman  as  a  thinker   (but   not   as   a   man),   countered   that   "just   because   the   unknowable   isn’t  

defined,   doesn’t   mean   we’re   unsure   what   it   is,"   though   it   is   possible   that   Dove  wasn’t  listening.    Indirection    The   deliberate   withholding   of   audio   or   visual   information,   usually   by   obscuring   it  with   other   matter   (sound,   set)   or   out   of   frame   or   hearing   range,   but   with   its  properties  hinted  at  by   that   information  which   remains.   For  example,   the  physical  goings-­‐on   in   a   foggy   sauna   may   only   be   suggested   by   the   screams   of   unseen  participants,   the   facial   expressions   of   a   foregrounded   attendant   or   the   peculiar  movement  of  the  steam.    Nanneman’s  guide  to  the  appropriate  use  of   indirection  is  here  paraphrased  in  lieu  of  his  original  text:    

What  you  know  that  you  can’t  see  makes  what  you  can  see  hilarious;  what  you  don’t  know  that  you  can’t  see  doesn’t  bother  you.  What  you  suspect   is  being   hidden   from   you   makes   you   resentful   towards   a   movie,   while   the  showing   of   that   which   needn’t   have   been   shown   provokes   disdain.   The  revelation  of  that  which  was  previously  hidden  brings  catharsis,  the  hiding  of  that  which  was  previously  visible  brings  disorientation.  Summed  up:  while  its  excessive   or   insensitive   use   may   compromise   the   intended   effect   on   a  movie’s   audience,   indirection   can   be   a   great   boon   to   the   filmmaker   on   a  budget.  

 Intern's  Palette,  The    Having   hunted,   indexed   and   categorized   his   (revised)   target   of   16,384   colours,  Nanneman  set  the  work  experience  boy  the  task  of  creating  full  back-­‐stories  for  each  hue.  Given  the  vigour  with  which  the  unnamed  teen  took  to  his  work,  he  must  either  have   believed   Nanneman’s   lie-­‐by-­‐omission   that   the   project   was   a   genuine   City  Council   task  passed  on  by  colleagues  tired   just  by  the  scale  of  the  project,  or  been  enthusiastic   and  quite   stupid  as  many  of   the  happier  of  people  are,  or,   as   is  most  likely,   some   of   Nanneman’s   quixotic   fervour   rubbed   off   on   him.   Whatever   way  around,   it  was  some  feat  for  him  to  complete,  as  he  did,  biographies  several  pages  long   for   each   of   precisely   256   colours   in   the   two  weeks   before   he  was   obliged   to  return   to   school.   There   are   indications   that   Nanneman   was   all   the   same  disappointed   at   the   tiny   dent  made   in   the   full   spectrum  of   redestructivish   colours  and,   given   that   his   superiors   refused   him   custody   of   any   further  work   experience  students,  progress  on  further  colour  back-­‐stories  was  sporadic.  The  work  experience  boy’s  accomplishment  stands  therefore  as  the  largest  fully-­‐documented  colour  range  in  the  Catalogue,  and  it  is  from  the  informal  name  that  this  collection  became  known  by  that  the  phrase  "the  intern’s  palette"  passed  into  popular  use  to  indicate  a  naïve  and  incomplete  glimpse  of  a  utopian  new  system  within  the  breakaway  department  of  an  immoveable  institution.    

L    Luna  IV,  Nola    A  filmmaker  and  contemporary  of  Nanneman,  Nola  Luna  IV’s  style  was  openly  trashy  -­‐   although   she   preferred   to   term   her   films   ‘entertainments’   or   ‘invigorations’:   the  opening   line  of  her  only   (unpublished)  novel   reads   "They  both   loved   industry,   and  hated  abstract  films  about  the  aesthetics  of  industry."  She  was  not  always  that  way,  however:  her  graduation  film  was  a  dense,  disorienting  piece  titled  A  Running  Race  For  Those  Who  Hate  Music.    Luna  was  the  great-­‐great-­‐grandaughter  of  the  real-­‐life  historical   figure  of  the  same  name,  who  was  represented  in  the  UNIVERSAL  EAR  episode  A  Flea  Orchestra  In  Your  Ear.  Of  Romanian  descent,  Luna  IV  lived  her  whole  life  in  Manchester  but  only  dated  the  Japanese.    Selected  filmography:  Furniture  Of  The  Parasite,  I  Yearn  For  Yen  (a.k.a.  This  Bastard  Is  Greedy),   Lunatic   Jeweller,   This   Isn’t   Goodbye   It’s   Goodbyeeeee,   Wh-­‐what   Are   The  Rules?,  Witness  To  A  Prang    M    Mnemonic  Control  Effect    Nanneman  was  not  the  first  to  hypothesize  that  films  'help'  us  by  contextualising  our  experiences:   that   they   interact  with  our  memories,  coaxing   them   into  bolder   relief  that  we  might  explore  and  understand  them  more  fully.  By  standardising  the  basic  materials   that   the   state's   filmmakers   had   to   work   with,   however,   Nanneman’s  Catalogue   created   for   the   first   time   the   possibility   of   an   aesthetic   and   moral  continuity  across   these   filmmakers'  output,  providing  a  more  consistent   context   in  which   the   audience   might   analyse   their   inner   worlds.   This   'control'   effect   -­‐   the  provision  of  a  scientific   standard  of  comparison   -­‐  would  not  only  have  been  useful  during   the  viewing  of  any  given   redestructivish  movie,  but  also   later  on  when  that  movie  itself  became  a  memory.  The  human  mind  would  be  able  to  categorize  these  remembered   movies   more   easily   due   to   their   consistency   of   appearance:   had  Nanneman's  characters,  colours  and  sounds  been  adopted  as  industry  standard,  the  problem  of  wondering  whether  a  memory  was  your  own  or  stolen  from  a  film  you’d  seen   would   have   been   phased   out   as   memories   of   pre-­‐Catalogue   movies   faded  away.    Nanneman  referred  to  this  process  in  the  Catalogue  and  in  arguments  as  Mnemonic  Control  Effect.    

N    New  Deal  For  Audiences,  A    Mentioned   in   the   Catalogue   only   in   passing,   Francis   Dove’s   A   New   Deal   For  Audiences  manifesto  was  written  in  response  to  his  ongoing  inability  to  break  out  of  TV  and   into  cinema:  every  time  he  was  offered  a  shot  at   fully  expressing  his  vision  with  a  feature-­‐length,  the  dismal  commercial  and  critical  response  would  force  him  back   to   another   decade   or   more   of   frustration   and   barely-­‐noticed   small   screen  subversion.    Dove   printed   thousands   of   copies   of   his   manifesto   (rather   than   the   millions   or  billions  it  would  surely  take  to  make  the  necessary  adjustments  to  the  world’s  movie  audience)   and   took   the   fight   to   the   front   line,   intending   to   picket   Friday   night  screenings  of  contemporary  box  office  hits  but  retiring  mid-­‐way  through  the  trailers  on  his  first  night,  quoted  as  complaining  that  "the  problem  with  audiences  is,  they’re  just  people."      

"A  New  Deal  For  Audiences            Hello.  You  can  call  me  Frank.  Even  my  mother  doesn’t  call  me  Frank.  But  my   wife   does.   I   am   the   one   who   makes   the   films.   You   are   the   one   who  watches  them.  I  thought  we  might  come  to  an  agreement:            1.  Just  bear  with  me  on  this.            2.  You  are  the  centre  of  the  universe.            3.  That  doesn’t  make  you  special.  It  doesn’t  free  you  of  responsibility.            4.  You  won’t  have  to  interact.  You  won’t  even  have  to  stand  anywhere  that  you’ll   feel   self-­‐conscious.   But   you   will   have   to   think   now   and   then,   to   the  extent  of  questioning  what  you  know  and  unlearning  how  you  watch.            5.  Don’t  be  threatened  by  the  unusual.  I’m  not  doing  it  to  hurt  you  or  make  you  feel  stupid,  though  I  can’t  speak  for  my  colleagues.            6.   Include   the   environmental   factors   of   your   screening   situation   (sounds,  objects,   light,   seating,   smell   and   people)   as   fully   part   of   the   film   you’re  watching.  Accept  that  I  put  them  all  there  on  purpose.            7.  The  best  filmmaker  makes  a  film  that  requires  no  prior  knowledge  of  its  own  or  any  other  terms.    

       8.   The   best   audience   accepts   a  movie   on   that  movie’s   terms,  whether   it  conforms  to  the  previous  statement  or  not,  learning  those  terms  if  necessary  whilst  watching  them  and  afterwards  on  the  bus.            9.  Some  of  my  colleagues  are  responsible  for  making  academic  films.  Their  collective  filmographies  represent  a  conversation  between  academics.  Others  stick  to  a  basic  grammar  that  by  itself  stultifies  the  content  and  furthermore,  in  extension  of  this  laziness,  tend  to  pile  the  grammar  clumsily  on  top  of  itself  until  it  comes  crashing  down  on  you.  They  still  get  their  point  across.  A  third  sect  play  it  vernacular.  Some  of  these  are  the  academics  in  disguise,  some  are  still   lazier   grammarians   and   the   worthwhile   ones   you’ll   have   to   search  energetically  to  find.  And  even  then  it’s  a  risk  if  you’re  on  a  date.            10.  My   duty   remains,   however   personal,   cerebral   or   experimental   a   film  should  be,  to  make  you  at  the  very  least  go  "Yeah!"  and  ideally  to  make  you  want  to  hug  yourself  and  those  around  you.  The  nature  of  the  hug  may  vary  from  film  to  film  and  you  will  have  to  police  the  situation  yourself.            11.  About  toilet  breaks:  I  can’t  stop  you.  Why  not  try  taking  the  characters  in  with  you?            12.  Story  is  essential  to  the  human  animal,  but  the  idea  of  what  story  is  has  been   monopolised   by   our   oppressors.   Don’t   feel   you   have   to   look   for   "A  Story"  -­‐  just  be  ready  to  absorb  "some  story".  If  you  need  your  hits  delivered  at  pre-­‐defined  intervals,  get  yourself  a  drugs  problem.            13.  About  realism:  the  visible  world  is  all  around  you.  The  cinema  is  about  illuminating   the   invisible.   You   trust   and   worship   the   realists   because,   in  photographing   the   natural   world,   approximating   its   everyday   occurrences  and   hiding   the   artifice,   they   appear   to   be   honest   and   serious.   It   takes   no  effort   to  go  along  with  because   it   looks   just   like   the  outside.   It   is   a   greater  and   more   rewarding   leap   of   faith   to   give   oneself   up   to   ostentatious  artificiality.  Artificialists  use   the   language  of   lies   to   search   for   coded   truths.  Your  nightmares  are  the  only  important  issue.  Come  on  -­‐  you’re  sophisticated  enough  now  to  at   least  play  along  with  us.  And   laugh  the  earnest  cavemen  out  of  the  cinema.            14.   If   you’re   scared   of   looking   silly   in   front   of   your   friends,   then   you’re  scared  of  life  -­‐  and  that  may  be  because  you  have  the  wrong  friends.  Take  it  from  someone  who’s  scared  of  life.            15.   Really,   if   you’re   not   going   to   try,   you   may   as   well   have   a   nap.   It’s  cheaper  for  you  and  saves  me  having  to  see  that  look  on  your  face.            16.   This   isn’t   an   argument   I’m   trying   to  win.   It   is   an   understanding   I   am  trying  to  reach.    

       Thanks  for  reading.            Yours  faithfully,            Francis  Dove.  (Frank)."  

   This  was  just  the  first  of  several  such  manifestos  of  greater  or  lesser,  mostly  lesser,  effect.    P    Plug-­‐in    The   concept   of   the   plug-­‐in   in   relation   to   the   work   of   Nanneman   and   his  contemporaries  can  be  a  confusing  one,  as  various  filmmakers  of  that  era  used  the  term  to  refer  to  different,  albeit  interrelated,  concepts.    Nanneman   used   the   term   in   asides   to   refer   to   third-­‐party   components   that   were  incompatible  with  those  provided  within  his  Catalogue,  i.e.  any  that  weren’t  included  in   it.   Whether   his   use   of   the   term   indicated   that   he   hoped   that,   some   day,  developments  might  allow  for  third-­‐party  components  to  be  plugged-­‐in  to  his  own,  or   whether   it   intentionally   evoked   the   negative   connotations   associated   with  electrical   current   since   the   (then   still   recent)   scares   in   order   to   discourage   such  piggybacking,   is   not   known.   The   implication   in   his   contemporaries’   references   to  "Nanneman’s   cross-­‐eyed   sockets"   suggests   they   believed   the   former:   that   the  idealist   Nanneman   wanted   his   components   to   be   compatible   with   those   built   by  others,  but  that  however  open  his  source,  no-­‐one  else  could  make  head  or  tail  of  it.  (see  also  Operating  System)    Harris   Metcalf   was,   like   Nanneman,   interested   in   using   the   latest   technological  innovations  to  maintain  a  standard  quality  across  his  work.  For  him,  a  plug-­‐in  was  a  neural  augmentation  device  that  could  be  literally  "plugged-­‐in"  to  an  actor’s  nervous  system  to  influence  his  or  her  technique.  Safety  issues  aside,  the  main  drawback  to  the  Metcalfian   plug-­‐in   was   that   the   technology   was   not   yet   sufficiently   advanced  that  it  could  actually  improve  the  actor’s  performance,  but  only  degrade  it  to  a  given  setting  or  crudely  accentuate  pre-­‐existing  attributes.  Metcalf  told  a  court:    "It  is  only  by  using  my  reductive  plug-­‐in  method  that  you  can  ensure  unity  across  the  performance   of   your   entire   cast.   In   a   sense,   it   is   a   lowest   common   denominator  approach,  as   it  ensures   that  no-­‐one  performs  any  better   than  your  worst  actor.   In  certain  circumstances  you  may  prefer  to  use  plug-­‐ins  to  highlight  the  performance  of  a  key  cast  member,  so  that  the  entire  cast  is  levelled  out  with  a  basic  performance-­‐quality  plug-­‐in,  but   the  hero  also   runs  a   charisma  augmentation  plug-­‐in  parallel   to  this.  Or,   if   a   certain   subsection  of   your   cast   are   representing   characters  with  non-­‐British  accents,  they  might  use  a  common  application  to  ensure  their  accents  are  no  worse  or  better  than  each  other,  whist  running  the  same  core  acting-­‐method  plug-­‐in  

as  those  playing  the  British.  It  is  a  question  of  performance  resolution:  it  is  no  good  one  actor  being  clear  and  another  all  grainy."    The  notoriously  fickle  Nola  Luna  IV,  whose  technique  during  her  brief  digital  period  was  to  video  each  actor  separately  and  then  digitally  composite  the  performances  in  post-­‐production,  used   the   term   to   refer   to   the   removal   and   replacement  of  entire  screen  elements  long  after  a  film  had  been  finished  and  had  its  first  release:  "By  the  time  it  comes  to  re-­‐release  a  movie,  the  main  actor  may  have  lost  his  or  her  public  appeal,   through   an   unfortunate   child   abuse   case   or   the   disfigurement   that   comes  with   a   bio-­‐chemical   assault,   for   example.   When   your   actors   weren’t   actually  interacting  with  each  other  or  any  of  the  digital  props,  sets  or  noises,  how  easy  now  to  simply  unplug  the  unwelcome  actor  from  the  original  edit  and  clip  on  today’s  hot  thing.  The  same  can  be  done  with  props  and  locations,  for  example  a  stick  of  carrot  or  memory  can  replace  a  cigarette,  or  a  lovely  garden  replace  an  urban  site  that  has  since  tactlessly  associated  itself  with  some  terrorist  atrocity  or  architectural  hiccup."    R    Rhythm    The  distribution  of  a  film’s  audio-­‐visual  properties  in  time.  Nanneman,  frustrated  by  the   primitive   and   unquestioned   rhythmic   values   that   narrative   filmmakers   had  always   adopted   for   their   works,   provided   8   new   rhythmic   templates   according   to  which  his  components  could  be  arranged.  While  the  idea  was  still  being  developed,  Nanneman   held   an   impromptu   demonstration   evening   in   the   basement   of  Manchester’s  shuttered  Central  Library,  in  which  he  re-­‐cut  several  well-­‐known  local  films   to   approximate   the   effects   of   his   new   rhythms.   The   occasion   was   not   well  attended,  but  at  least  two  fist-­‐fights  broke  out  and  the  event  marked  a  turning  point  in  Nanneman’s  attitude  towards  developing  his  ideas  in  an  open  forum.    Here  are  Nanneman’s  rhythmic  templates  explained:    

1.   Rhythm   of   dialogue.   Composed   of   sixty-­‐four   sub-­‐grids   in   which   the  dialogue   -­‐  with   the  other   film  elements  anchored   to   it   -­‐   could  be  arranged.  These  were  mainly  based  on  familiar  Mancunian  cadences  but  also  included  settings   inspired   by   the  wider  world   of   rhythm,   such   as   ‘tango’   and   ‘bossa  nova’.  2.  Rhythm  of  feeling.  Responding  to  the  emotional  pulses.  3.   Rhythm   of   moral.   Early   on   in   the   development   of   the   Catalogue,  Nanneman   posited   the   existence   of   ‘moral   rhythms’:   complex   editing  patterns  which,  when  repeated  over  the  duration  of  a  movie,  would  induce  in  the   minds   of   the   audience   the   correct   moral   perspective   on   the   content  therein.   Nicknaming   such   rhythms   "breathing   patterns   for   the   eyes,"  Nanneman  hit  the  lab  with  the  intention  of  identifying  and  replicating  sixteen  distinct  moral  beats,  soon  downscaled  his  efforts  to  the  pursuit  of  four  such  patterns,  and  eventually  finished  work  on  just  one  moral  (the  obvious  one).  

4.   Rhythm   of   light.   Responding   to   the   movement   of   light   around   the   2-­‐dimensional  screen  space.  5.  Rhythm  of  luminance.  A  simple  algorithm  which  calculates  the  total  lumen  value  of  each  frame  and  adjusts  the  duration  of  that  frame  accordingly,  with  brighter  images  passing  more  quickly  and  longer  looking  times  for  darkness.  6.  Rhythm  of  character.  Inspired  by  the  temporal  expressionists.  Applying  the  level-­‐settings   of   a   chosen   character’s   traits   to   the   respective   time   value   of  every  other  element  of  the  film  to  create  a  complex  and  disorienting  dance  of  plot,  props,  gesture  etc.  Thus  the  character’s  relationship  to  each  element  of  his   screen   world   is   illustrated   through   duration   and   repetition   rather   than  figural  proximity  across  the  2-­‐dimensional  space.  7.  Rhythm  of  audience.  Farming  the  audience’s  own  rhythms  and  processing  them   in   real   time   to   create  a  dynamically   responsive   structure   for   the  pre-­‐selected   content  of   a   film.  Unsure  whether   this  method  would  provide   the  ultimate  synergetic  cinema  experience,  or  create  unwatchably  puerile  bilge,  or   possibly   just   result   in   unmanageable   levels   of   feedback,   Nanneman  deliberately   made   the   instructions   ambiguous   and   there   is   no   recorded  example  its  successful  utilisation.  8.  Freestyle.  The  ability  to  go  off-­‐grid.  

 S    Screams    As  a   former  trapezist  who  had  swung  and  dangled  voicelessly  over   the  abyss  night  after   night   and   year   after   year   to   the   gasps   and   cheers   of   audiences,   Nanneman  really   had   no   idea   what   a   scream   was   for,   or   even   whether   anyone   actually   did  scream  outside  of  the  movies.  Understanding,  however,  that  the  "woman's  scream"  was  an  essential  part  of  the  filmmaker's  toolbox,  he  set  Hanni  the  task  of  compiling  a  library  of  "one  or  two  dozen"  recorded  screams  in  a  variety  of  styles  and  meanings  to   be   used   by   the   Catalogue's   computer-­‐generated   characters   in   appropriate  situations.    It  seems  that  Hanni  already  had  a  source  in  mind  for  the  recordings:  Serafina  Kustra,  a   "scream  musician"  of   sorts,   a   folk  hero   in  a  binary  age  whose   live  performances  people  would  travel  from  far  away  to  witness.  Kustra  had  previously  achieved  mild  fame   fronting  a  band  whose  entire   repertoire  had   consisted  of   songs  built   around  repetition  of  the  band's  name  and  lyrics  extolling  the  group's  merits  in  very  general  terms:   perhaps   her   messianic   appeal   as   a   solo   artist   can   be   attributed   to   the  simplification   and  emotional   inversion  of   this   approach.  Hanni,   idolizing   Kustra   for  reasons  she  never  publicly  articulated,  offered  the  vocalist  a  not  inconsiderable  sum  from  the  Catalogue  project's  unofficial  city  council  fund,  rationalising  the  gesture  to  Nanneman  by  suggesting  he  himself  could  provide  the  male  screams  at  a  cut  rate.  It  is  unclear  why  Nanneman  failed  to  nip  this  plan  in  the  bud  given  the  expense  and  his  desire   to   distance   himself   from   the   scream-­‐cataloguing   process,   but   perhaps   he  sensed  that  the  issue  was  important  to  Hanni.    

(Nanneman   was   not   the   only   filmmaker   of   the   time   to   be   squeamish   about  vociferation.   Jobbing  director  Francis  Dove,  who  would  generally  work  with   scripts  imposed  on  him  by  producers,  kept  a  list  of  alternative  non-­‐linguistic  utterances  with  which  to  replace  a  scripted  scream  on  set.  Dove  acknowledged  that  a  written  scream  is  usually  structurally  important,  with  its  removal  potentially  undermining  a  moment  of  climax  or  catharsis.  However,  he  discovered  that  the  straight  replacement  of  such  a  scream  with  (for  example)  a  laugh,  a  sigh,  a  raspberry  or  snort,  would  enable  him  to   maintain   the   structure   of   the   written   scene   while   destabilizing   its   underlying  assumptions.   If,  having  filmed  such  a  substitution,  he  found  that  a  scene  no   longer  worked,  it  was  not  uncommon  for  Dove  to  edit  the  vociferation  and  even  the  actress  out  of  the  entire  scene,  leaving  murderers  stabbing  at  thin  air,  rabid  beasts  howling  at   dumb   walls   and   in   one   case   the   spontaneous   materialisation   of   a   pink,   wet  newborn  on  the  back  seat  of  a  moving  taxi.)    In   the   event,   Serafina   Kustra   turned   down   the   job   of   providing   the   Catalogue's  screams,  refuting  in  no  uncertain  terms  the  idea  that  her  vocal  style  had  anything  to  do  with  screaming,  and  taking  deep  offence  at  the  suggestion  that  a  selection  of  her  most   intimate  and  heartfelt  vocal  performances  might  be  defined,  categorized  and  donated   to   computer-­‐generated  movie   characters.   Respecting   this   position,   Hanni  instead   recorded   and   labelled   144   wildly   varying   screams   of   her   own,   and   finally  cajoled   Nanneman   into   providing   one   single   scream   for   men,   although   it   was  recommended  in  the  small  print  that  the  latter  never  be  used.    See  also:  Whoops;  Yells    Shapes    Nanneman’s  Catalogue  removed  the  trial  of  working  with  actors  from  the  filmmaking  process  by  creating  the  possibility  of  generating  endless,  digitally  powered  variations  on  just  two  pre-­‐recorded  performances  (those  of  he  and  his  second  wife,  Hanni).  For  a  journeyman  director  like  Francis  Dove,  forced  to  continue  working  with  real  actors  and  often  with  little  say  in  the  casting  process,  Nanneman’s  reductive  approach  was  understandably  appealing:    "Could  we  postulate  that,  for  those  of  us  who  cannot  or  will  not  utilise  Nanneman's  toolkit,   there   remain   two  possible  approaches   to  putting  an  actor  on   the   screen?"  asked  Dove,  in  his  trade  journal  column.  "The  first  is  ‘acting  for  the  screen’,  in  which  the  actor  is  the  screen’s  "goon",  that  is  to  say  they  act  for  and  in  total  deference  to  the  screen.  The  second,  more  tiresome  method  is  ‘a  screen  for  the  actor’,   in  which  the   screen  becomes  a   canvas  over  which   the  actor  may   freely  ejaculate  his  or  her  deepest  needs  and  instincts  safe  in  the  knowledge  that  none  will  be  wasted,  all  will  be  caught  and  exhibited  via  the  familiar  media.    "In  the  instance  of  acting  for  the  screen,  only  a  contorted  sense  of  human  biophysics  is  directly  referenced:  the  screen  is  a  two  dimensional  light  show  rather  than  a  stage  play,  and   instructions  or   ‘shapes’   (fine-­‐tuned  and  categorised   through  hundreds  of  hours  of  laboratory  work)  are  imparted  to  the  actor  to  carry  out  without  question.  (It  

is  a  given  that  such  direction  is  most  effective  when  conveyed  with  a  firmness  that  borders  on  cruelty).    "By   acknowledging   the   volition   of   the   players,   the   screen   for   the   actor   method  allows  a  complex  but  aesthetically  arbitrary,  exploration  of  idiocy  (the  fundamental  subject  matter  of  any  human-­‐oriented  drama).  Each  actor  becomes  yet  another  inlet  in  the  convoluted  plumbing  of  an  idea  from  inspiration  to  finished  screen  efflux.    "Thus  before  embarking  on  a  new  project,  I  always  ask  myself:  can  I  afford  to  gamble  on   the   idiocy   of  my   cast?   If   they   unexpectedly   turn   out   perceptive   actor-­‐oriented  performances  of  grace  and  dignity,  will   I  have  the  resources  to  fix   (break)  them?  If  the  answer  is  No,  I  get  out  my  big  book  of  shapes.    "Finally,   it   might   be   divulged   here   that   actor   and   screen   are   both   absolutely   the  goons  of   sound:   this   is   one  of   the   great   secrets  of   cinema,   and   sound   likes   it   that  way."    Sounds    On   learning   that   all   complex   sounds   have   as   their   basic   unit   or   building   block   the  'sine   wave',   Nanneman   was   enticed   by   a   city   council   colleague   into   purchasing   a  "bundle"  of  sine  waves  with  which  he   intended  to  construct  the  Catalogue's  sound  library.  Although  a  conscientious  canteen  assistant  intervened  in  the  sale,  Nanneman  was  evidently  wounded  by  the  attempted  fraud  as,  rather  than  building  his  sounds  bottom-­‐up,  he  now  stated  his   intention  to  carve  them  from  pre-­‐existing  noise.   (He  played  down  this  change  in  approach,  commenting  that  it  "[made]  sense  given  that  we’re   at   the   noisy   end"   -­‐   though  whether   he  was   referring   to   the   "noisy   end"   of  creation  at  which  point  any  naturally  occurring  pure  tones  had  surely  already  been  merged   into  complex  sounds  or   to  his  Town  Hall   lab  at   the  comparably  noisy   John  Dalton  Street  end  of  Manchester's  Albert  Square  is  not  clear).    In   fact,   there   is   overwhelming   evidence   to   suggest   that,   in   the   event,   Nanneman  assembled   his   various   sounds   any   which   way   he   could:   bottom-­‐up,   top-­‐down,  cobbled  together,   found,  stolen,  hummed  etc.  His  contemporaries,  however,  could  only   speculate   about   the  process,  which  was  hidden   from   them  by   the   temporary  suspension   of   an   interlaced   membrane   of   tarpaulin   around   Nanneman’s   lab,  covering   walls,   ceiling,   windows   and   doors   and   through   which   only   the   initiated  might   find   their   way   before   becoming   consumed   with   panic.   The   purpose   of   the  tarpaulin   was   and   remains   a   case   for   speculation:   was   it   hung,   for   example,   to  soundproof   the   lab,   to   replicate   the  circus   tents  of  Nanneman's   youth   for  his  own  comfort,   or   to   replicate   same   in   order   to   create   the   familiar   sense   of   aural  'interiority'  he  required  for  his  sounds?  There  was  even  talk  at  the  time  of  his  using  the  tarpaulin  as  a  sheath  to  contain  such  emissions  as  might  occur  as  a  by-­‐product  of  his  attempts  to  identify  and  harness  the  "smell  waves"  which,  so  his  colleagues  had  it,  Nanneman  was  far  more  familiar  with  than  the  sonic  variety  and  which  he  might  therefore   be   attempting   to   synaesthesiatize   into   more   manageable   sounds   using  such  digital  alchemy  as  was  at  his  service.  The  chief  result  of  the  tarpaulin,  whether  

intentional  or  not,  was  then  to  have  kept  the  precise  materials  used  to  generate  the  131,072  discrete  audio  files*  that  comprised  the  Catalogue's  sound  bank  a  secret.    Each   sound  had   the  qualities   of   being  both   familiar,   in   having  been   sculpted   from  pre-­‐existing   noise,   and   disorienting   for   having   been   chosen   and   categorised  according   to   Nanneman's   own   lonely   agenda.   Furthermore,   as   he   neglected   to  provide   compatible   tools   (EQ,   reverb)   with   which   to   modulate   these   sounds  according   to   the   contexts   in  which   they  appeared,  any  given   sound  would  at  each  occurrence   sound   identical   to   its   previous   use.   Thus   the   single   noise   created,   for  example,   to   represent   a  mobile   phone   hitting   the   floor,  would   sound   nothing   like  that   particular   event  might   sound   in   reality,   yet   'rang   true'   through   some  obscure  chain   of   association   (the   audience  would   'get   it'  without   quite   knowing  why):   and  should  several  mobile  phones  hit   several   floors   in  several  acoustic   spaces  over   the  course  of  the  same  movie  they  would  all  sound  exactly  the  same.  Any  effort  to  place  the   sound   in   its   environment   or   to   differentiate   each   event   from   its   predecessor  would  have  to  take  place  in  the  audience's  own  minds.  An  over-­‐used  sound,  lacking  environmental   nuance,  would   effectively   fade  with   use   in   the   passive  moviegoer's  mind   in   the   same  way   that  we   gradually   blank   out   supraliminal   awareness   of   any  repetitive  alert   that  contains  no  new   information.  Nanneman  had   inadvertently  hit  on  a  way  of  degenerating  a  digital  signal  in  a  manner  comparable  to  the  degradation  in  quality  of  successive  generations  of  tape-­‐recording  or  photocopying,  albeit  in  this  case   at   the   receiver-­‐end.   Sound   engineers   were   reported   to   be   "astonished   and  dismayed"  and  Nanneman  himself  was  never  satisfied  with  his  accomplishments   in  the  field  of  sound.  "If  only,"  he  wrote  in  one  of  many  unfiled  reports  to  his  seniors,  "there  hadn’t  been  something  fishy  about  that  sine  wave  deal".    *(including  silences,  but  not  ambience,  dialogue  or  music)    Subject  D    At  the  age  of  eleven,  Nanneman  spent  one  lunatic  summer  creating  looped  studies  of  himself  engaged   in  mundane  human  behaviours  (brushing  his  teeth,   feeding  the  elephants),   using   an   SVHS   camera   he   had   found   apparently   abandoned   near   a  campsite   outside   Widnes.   Each   study   was   24   minutes   long   but   designed   to   loop  indefinitely.  The  videos  could  play  faster  or  slower  so  that,   for  example,  a  video  of  him  brushing  his  teeth  for  24  minutes  real  time  could  be  slowed  down  for  detailed  observation,   or   sped   up   to   correctly   represent   the   average   duration   of   the  unvideoed   process   as   timed   twice   daily   over   a   period   of   28   days:   it   could   not,  however,   be   trimmed   or   electronically   spliced   due   to   a   lack   of   cables.   His  contemporaries   (he   later   recalled)   described   Nanneman’s   studies   as   "fascinating"  and  "very  good",  although  it  should  be  noted  that  they  did  not  have  regular  access  to   other   screen   media,   and   that   viewing   the   videos   through   the   eyepiece   of   the  camera  must  have  accentuated  an  already  vivid  and  exciting  sense  of  illicitness.    The   demands   of   such   a   pursuit  were   clearly   in   conflict  with   those   of  Nanneman’s  rigorous  training  regime  and,  what  with  the  project’s  effect  on  the  discipline  of  the  circus’s   younger   members,   it   was   only   a   matter   of   time   before   the   camera   was  

confiscated  by  the  company’s  deputy  ringmaster.  Nanneman  promptly  stole  it  back  and   continued   his   studies  within   the   secure   confines   of   a   locked   bathroom   trailer  until   the   camera   suffered   irreparable   water   damage,   becoming   useful   thereafter  only   as   an   un-­‐working   anatomical   model,   which   Nanneman   speculatively  reconfigured   into  a  series  of  new  recording  devices  which  were,  of  course,  equally  un-­‐working.   Nanneman   would   later   refer   to   his   childhood   studies   regularly,  particularly  a  sub-­‐category  of  the  work  which   involved  extensive  documentation  of  the  behaviour  and  response  patterns  of  a  dog,  by  way  of  contextualising  the  results  of  his  laboratory  work  at  the  city  council.  The  identity  of  the  dog  remains  unknown,  Nanneman  having  only  ever  referred  to  him  as  ‘Subject  D’.    Subtext    A  supplementary  screenplay  explaining  those  unspoken  or  unacted  but  more  or  less  important  plot  devices  not  made  manifest   in  a  movie’s   shooting   script.  Nanneman  made  mandatory  the  provision  of  the  subtext  as  a  digital  file  available  for  display  as  sub-­‐  (dialogue)  and  super-­‐  (action)  titles  during  the  exhibition  of  any  film  made  with  the  Catalogue’s  components.    Not  to  be  confused  with  the  Implicit.    T    Temporary  Musical  Lexicon  no.1    Over  the  course  of  one  working  day,  Nanneman  showed  a  movie  scene  to  eight  city  council   colleagues   (Respondents   A-­‐H)   in   turn,   asking   each   of   them  what  meaning  they   thought   the   accompanying  musical   soundtrack   was   intended   to   convey.   The  eight  answered  respectively:    A.  Apprehension  B.  The  secret  presence  of  a  third  character  (possibly  an  antagonist)  within  the  scene  C.  Resentment  D.  Hunger  E.  That  one  or  both  of  the  (visible)  characters  has  an  unspoken  crush  on  the  other  F.  Some  kind  of  alert  regarding  the  main  character’s  bank  account  G.  Boredom  H.  Sleepiness    The  scene  and  its  score  had  been  identical  for  each  viewer.    This  was  the  first  of  a  series  of  experiments  designed  by  Nanneman  to  prove  to  his  colleagues   that   the   film   score   is,   in   its  most   familiar   form,   obscene:   undisciplined,  insular,  a  casual  insult  from  the  composer  to  the  other  technical  departments  of  the  conventional  film  set.    

As  music   has   no   meaning   outside   of   itself   -­‐   is   merely   abstract   sound   selected   or  generated  and  organised  according  to  taste  -­‐  Nanneman  postulated  that  to  translate  it   into   something   meaningful   for   the   purposes   of   a   film   score   would   require   the  invention   and   imposition  of   an   internally   consistent  musical   lexicon.   Thus,   for   test  purposes  he  invented  a  language  of  1024  musical  sounds  with  arbitrarily  chosen  but  specific  meanings,  which   could   be   combined   polyphonically   to   either   express   that  which  isn’t  otherwise  manifest  in  a  given  scene  or  to  reinforce  that  which  is.  He  re-­‐scored  the  sample  scene  from  this  new  palette,  and  played  it  again  to  his  test  group.  This   time,   the   eight   guinea   pigs   respectively   understood   the  music   as   intended   to  evoke  the  following:    A.  Terror  B.  The  secret  presence  of  a  third  character  (definitely  an  antagonist)  within  the  scene  C.  Resignation  D.  Nausea  E.  Sexual  chemistry  F.  The  main  character  is  ruined  and  will  find  out  shortly  in  humiliating  circumstances  G.  Resentment  H.  Sleepiness    For  Nanneman,  although  the  results  lacked  the  consistency  he  sought,  the  fact  that  the   respondents’   reactions   had   moved   in   broadly   the   same   direction   was  encouraging.  He  speculated  that  for  the  consistency  of  his  musical  lexicon  to  take  full  effect,  the  test  group  would  have  to  sit  through  several  examples  of  its  use  so  as  to  be   able   to   infer   meanings   through   context   and   repetition,   as   we   do   with   any  language:  to  hear  a  single  theme  in  isolation  means  nothing  by  itself.  Unfortunately,  it  appears  that  middle-­‐management  had  by  now  grown  wise  to  Nanneman’s  misuse  of  his  colleagues’  time,  as  several  of  the   latter  declared  themselves  unavailable  for  the   next   round   of   tests.   In   order   to   sustain   the   legitimacy   of   the   experiment,   he  wrote  up  detailed  character  profiles  of  the  absentees  and  asked  Hanni  to  step  in  for  them  and  answer  as  she  believed  they  would.  This  time,  the  test  scene  was,  for  each  respondent,   preceded   by   an   hour   of   preliminary   scenes,   each   scored   from  Nanneman’s  1024-­‐sound  musical  idiolect  in  order  to  familiarise  them  with  its  terms.  Unfortunately,   it   is  not  known  how  many  or  which  of  the  original  eight  guinea  pigs  Hanni  stood  in  for.  The  meanings  inferred  were  as  follows:    A.  Perplexity  B.  The  secret  presence  of  a  third  character  (possibly  a  gangster,  and  even  if  not  that  would  be  a  good  idea)  within  the  scene  C.  Perplexity  D.  Perplexity  E.  Erotic  love  F.  Perplexity  G.  Sleepiness  H.  Perplexity    

These  results  represented  a  stunning  vindication  for  Nanneman,  and  if  the  meaning  his   score   was   intended   to   convey   could   not   yet   be   universally   understood,   he  considered   a   degree   of   ambiguity   to   be   forgivable   -­‐   otherwise   one  might   as   well  print  the  meaning  of  a  score  across  the  screen  in  plain  letters.  Discarding  Temporary  Musical   Lexicon   no.1,   Nanneman   now   began   work   on   a   variety   of   automated  composing   systems   for   creating   music   of   integrity,   anchored   scientifically   to   a  movie’s   fundamental   qualities,   internally   consistent,   and   no   longer   obsessed   with  telling  its  own  senseless  story.    U    Undepth  In  Real  People  And  Those  Who  Believe  They’re  Real    Francis  Dove’s  notorious  60,000  word  tutorial  on  character  development  in  film  and  television  productions  was  serialised  over  eight  issues  of  the  screen  industry  journal  SquareEyes  against   the  will  of   its   then  editor,  who  handed   in  his   resignation  when  the   legal   department   insisted   that   a   hidden   clause   in   Dove’s   contract   compelled  them  to  publish  anything  Dove  submitted  for  print.  With  no-­‐one  else  willing  to  take  on  the  editorship  under  such  conditions,  the  journal  fell  under  the  unofficial  control  of  Dove  himself,  becoming  a  textual  ghetto  for  his  increasingly  unpalatable  ideas  on  film,  life  and  the  hybridization  of  the  two.    Only  the  abstract  survives:    

Everybody   knows   that   in   fiction,   if   you  want   to   create   a   deep   character   all  you   have   to   do   is   create   a   very   consistent   character   who   does   something  surprising  at  the  end  of  the  second  act.  In  life,  of  course,  we  know  that  when  someone  does  something  unpredictable  it  us  usually  due  to  a  partly  formed  or   poorly   defined   personality,   or   that   they   are   always   doing   unpredictable  things   to   try   and   hide   a   self-­‐perceived   shallowness.   To   really   say   that  someone   is   more   or   less   deep   is   an   over-­‐neat   metaphor   for   the   human  condition:  we   are,  more   accurately,   all   equally   shallow   (though   some   taller  than   others),   but   with   different   (and   fluctuating)   levels   of   turbulence,  pressure   and   indigenous   life.  However,   these   are   not   our   concerns   here:   if  you   want   to   create   a   deep   character   all   you   have   to   do   is   create   a   very  consistent  character  who  does  something  surprising  at  the  end  of  the  second  act.   How   have   the   artisans   of   film   and   television   worked,   and   may   they  continue   to   rework,   this   formula   again   and   again   and   again   to   give   the  illusion  of  real  actual  inner  life?  

 Somebody,  at  least,  was  reading:  Volodymyr  Nanneman  made  substantial  changes  to  the   character-­‐generating   function   of   his   electronic   filmmaking   kit,   apparently  alarmed   by   the   misanthropy   he   saw   in   Undepth   In   Real   People   And   Those   Who  Believe   They’re   Real.   Dove,   however,   insisted   his   paper   was   a   gesture   of   deep  affection  towards  his  colleagues,  rivals  and  humankind  in  general.    

V    Voiceover    Ever-­‐cautious   about   confusing   issues   of   authorship   and   ownership,  Nanneman  did  not   provide   a   facility   for   voiceovers   within   his   movie-­‐making   kit,   claiming   that  "audiences  are  wont  to  recognise  the  perpetrator  of  a  movie  voiceover  as  the  owner  of  the  images  and  their  subsidiary  ideas  and  emotions  regardless  of  the  fact  that  the  voice  belongs  to  a  fictional  character  with  limited  proprietary  rights."  However,  it  did  not  take  long  for  his  city  council  colleagues  to  find  a  'cheat':  a  specific  combination  of  one   of   the   shyest   character   types   placed   into   a   busy   set   (where   they   would  inevitably   recede   behind   other   visual   matter)   and   pumped   full   of   third-­‐person  dialogue.   It  appeared,  when  this  cheat  was  being  used,  that  a  voiceover  was  being  read  by  some  unseen,  all-­‐seeing  character  when  in  fact  this  effect  was  achieved  by  specifically  generating  a  self-­‐effacing  character  with  a  high   intuition   level-­‐setting.  A  cruder   version   of   this   cheat,   known   as   a   "feelings   voiceover",   involved   partially-­‐hidden  characters  screaming,  grunting  or  verbalising  emotions  in  sympathy  with  the  surrounding   images:   Nanneman  was   not   impressed,   pointing   out   that   there   were  plenty  of  pure  feelings  to  choose  from  within  the  Catalogue  without  having  to  resort  to  ambiguous  vocal  effects.    Unusually,  Nanneman  was  in  agreement  with  Francis  Dove  concerning  the  rejection  of   voiceover,   albeit   for  different   reasons.   In  his   (apparently   ad   lib)   narration  of   an  educational   video   on   the   history   of   film,   an   increasingly   distressed-­‐sounding  Dove  offers  the  theory  that  voiceover  is  first  experienced  as  the  third-­‐person  narration  of  one’s   own   development   i.e.   as   a   baby   listening   to   one's   parents;   that   this   early  exposure  to  voiceover  is  an  over-­‐clinical  yet  disorienting  affair  following  the  abstract  aural  experience  of  womb   life;  and   that   indeed,   should  we  choose   to  go  back   that  far,  it  all  goes  downhill  after  one's  respective  gametes  are  rocked  by  the  soundwaves  of   pleasure   or   relief   that   accompany   the   procreative   act.   Three-­‐fifths   of   the   way  through   the  same  educational  video,   just  after  describing  Harley  Byrne’s  notorious  documentary   Girls   of   Unfortunate   Climes*,   Dove   declares   the   voiceover   "dead",  himself   remaining   silent   for   the   rest   of   the   programme   apart   from   the   occasional  faint  chewing  sound.    Aside  from  his  pathological  distrust  of  certainty  -­‐  which  he  identified  as  a  recurrent  yet   undesirable   characteristic   of   the   movie   voiceover   -­‐   Dove   had   several   recent  examples   of   the   voiceover-­‐in-­‐breakdown   to   inspire   this   moratorium.   In   Harris  Metcalf's  Clockwork  Film  it  quickly  becomes  clear  from  the  way  they  move  that  the  supporting   characters,   as   the   result   of   a   technical   fault,   can   hear   the   hero's  voiceover,   though  not  make  out   the  words  he's   saying   -­‐  only   cadence  and   timbre.  Their   actions   become   an   involuntary   dance   to   an   obscure   song   whose   near  synchronization  with  the  unfolding  events  (which  the  voiceover  of  course  describes)  occurs   to   them   as   a   déjà   vu.  Metcalf   attempted   to   improve   on   his   "mechanically-­‐generated"  filmmaking  technique  with  Clockwork  II,  but  this  time  the  hero  -­‐  who  is  retrospectively  narrating  the  images  in  which  he  appears  -­‐  runs  out  of  things  to  say  mid-­‐way   through.   The   on-­‐screen   action   slows   to   a   halt   and,   to   fill   the   time,   our  

screen-­‐hero   himself   starts   to   dance,   accompanied   intermittently   by   the   rather  amateurish  beat-­‐boxing  attempts  of  his  narrator  alter-­‐ego.  After  a  while,  the  screen-­‐hero   runs   out   of  moves   and   sits   down   for   the   rest   of   the  movie,  while   the   other  characters  develop  a  subplot.    Witness   also   Nola   Luna   IV's   Takashi   From   End   To   End,   the   unauthorised   feature-­‐length   biopic   of   her   eponymous   ex-­‐boyfriend,   in   which   Luna   herself   provides   the  "narration":  the  off-­‐screen  parroting  of  Takashi's  every  spoken  line  with  sounds  like  "muh"  and  "mur"  pronounced  in  what  is  undoubtedly  neither  her  own  natural  voice  nor  a  strictly  accurate  impersonation  of  Takashi  himself.    *(in   which   Byrne's   authoritative   narration,   rewriting   events   in   his   own   voice,   was  committed  to  tape  in  apparent  denial  of  the  trauma  of  having  been  imprisoned  and  tortured  by  the  feral  teens  he  was  documenting;  a  digital  stutter  on  surviving  copies  seems,  however,  to  express  through  technical   fault  that  which  Byrne  was  unwilling  or  unable  to  acknowledge  in  the  text.)