Terrence Malick’s widespread use of voiceover is generally noted, as is its nonstandard bearing. Malick’s use of voiceover is non-standard in virtue of its loose narrative fit. That too is often marked. Much less discussed is the philosophical basis for Malick’s voiceover, more specifically its ontological function in bounding the filmworld with intentionality. This paper addresses such ontological questions. It first develops a general schema for voiceover and Malick’s use of it in several of his films. (...) Malick’s discovery of the potential for oblique forms of voiceover in Truffaut is treated. The discussion then focuses on the film Days of Heaven (1978) and, in particular, on an undiscussed and easy to miss visual riddle in one of the key scenes, involving the marriage of two of the principal characters. The riddle concerns an inscription in what for most viewers will be indecipherable symbols written on a backdrop formed by the side of a wagon. It turns out that the inscription is in Blackfoot syllabary and translates the opening of the Te Deum prayer. The paper argues that the inscription is best understood as a cousin to voiceover and, in particular, to Malick’s conception of voiceover. The inscription has, accordingly, an ontological and critical function in conjunction with the scene it accompanies. The paper concludes with remarks concerning The New World (2005), a Malick film that includes several prayers in voiceover and more comprehensively and resolutely represents the linguistic presence and expressiveness of Native Americans. (shrink)

This paper proposes a theory of text on-screen as “unvoiceover.” It addresses both the case for captioning as social good and the affordances (aesthetic, affective) of writing in or over the moving image. Advancing an argument informed by perspectives from d/deaf Studies, Critical Disability Studies and Digital Interface Studies, and applying modes of analysis from literary criticism alongside those proper to the study of moving image and sound, it examines the idiosyncrasies of text-in-motion as non-sonorous, fugitive counterpart to the traditional, (...) troublesome “voiceover.” To develop a poetics of the unsounding voice on-screen, the paper focalizes its argument through multimedia artist Liza Sylvestre’s Captioned series: a body of moving image work that is itself, paradoxically, uncaptioned. Framing Sylvestre’s lyrical “unvoiceover” as a reimagining of the lost roles of film explainers and literary intertitles, I argue that the artist’s takeover of the caption track intervenes critically in contemporary debates about the ethics of audio-visual translation, situated description and access as public ethos rather than private concern. Posing the artist’s personal-and-political writing as suggestive of a lower-case analogue to Deaf Gain, I show how Sylvestre’s “unvoiceover” educates its “receivers” in the purpose and functioning of captions. By reading Sylvestre’s writing on-screen more closely than its fugitive form seems to invite, I show how the unvoiceover encultures its own demands on its readers and elicits its own habits of reading. By scrutinizing how Sylvestre’s series makes the case for captioning, this paper makes the case for a new appraisal of the aesthetic, affective and political affordances of the unvoiceover as writing on the run. (shrink)

This paper argues that Chris Marker's 1982 film Sans Soleil derives its affective force from doublings and ‘faces’ of horror and beauty that reveal a twofold synthesis of actual and virtual. While a focus upon the material, ever in relation to transient yet lingering sensations, cannot discharge the power and force of the film, this paper endeavours nevertheless to assess and evoke Marker and Deleuze's own interrogative methods that thoroughly explore, in the manner of a revelatory ‘schizoanalysis’ or empiricism, molecular (...) and variable operations beneath our ‘molar’ structures and organisations. As Sans Soleil's voiceover states, ‘If they don't see happiness in the picture, at least they'll see the black’, a provocative remark that invokes indefinable singularities and the darkness of a wound, cracking of time and splitting of self in film, life and death. Considerations of death, consciousness and subjectivity extend this paper's examinations. (shrink)

This piece, included in the drift special issue of continent. , was created as one step in a thread of inquiry. While each of the contributions to drift stand on their own, the project was an attempt to follow a line of theoretical inquiry as it passed through time and the postal service(s) from October 2012 until May 2013. This issue hosts two threads: between space & place and between intention & attention . The editors recommend that to experience the (...) drifiting thought that attention be paid to the contributions as they entered into conversation one after another. This particular piece is from the BETWEEN INTENTION & ATTENTION thread: Jeremy Fernando, Sitting in the Dock of the bay, watching... * R.H. Jackson, Reading Eyes * Gina Rae Foster, Nyctoleptic Nomadism: The Drift/Swerve of Knowing * Bronwyn Lay, Driftwood * Patricia Reed, Sentences on Drifitng * David Prater, drift: a way * * * * * ‘Kraftledningarna / spända i köldens rike / norr om all musik.’ TOMAS TRANSTRÖMER Attention! You are not dreaming, you are drifting into sleep. You are feeling veeeerrry sleepy now. The curvature of the earth is causing you to shift away from the pinpoint that you circled yesterday on a map, your eyes hazed. That was also a today, in a novel fashion—the today of days long gone, of clouds long transformed into rain, or else snow drifts. That’s okay, you know this: in cathedrals of bone we find arcs that keep us warm. In drift- wood we find the puzzles that madden us all night, Tetris dreaming. In from our past, deriving steam, straight lines, axes, branches, kindling. Attention! Does anyone here speak Spanish? Si? Bueno! Dream with me. Cry out in your sleep. Step fearfully out onto the ice and drift awhile, inside a massive Perspex speech-bubble dream. A massive bubble longing to become detergent. The louvres of a ribcage snapping shut. Awe. Curvature of the earth is a con job: ask a dervish. Hail an imaginary cab in a hail-struck avenue and wait for the popcorn to drop. Stop, drifter! In the pharmacies and in the alleys, popping rocks while money men drift by in stockings, purling and unfurling their ways, their means. Attention, people!ion hurts. Reading too much into things I know nothing about, the niceness of the void or else a philosopher’s mouth sewn shut. I know about that, at least: the madness of seeking asylum in antipodean dreams, drifting for weeks at a time on a boat more abstract than surreal. Oh, fuck Life of Pi! Heaven basks like a warm, square meal but I can’t get there from here. There is no shark travelling at speed X while I zoom at speed Y in the opposite direction. I can’t use a lasso. I no longer have fits. I am no, mad. Too bad. Attention! Ambient doom slash moon. Over! The curvature of a yawn, a dream sewn shut. This skin, that knows my dreams, forgets me. Fruit tingles, wet on the tongue: get me some analogue hits, expressways to frozen, lakeside moon-dream voiceovers. The narrator’s cues infuse the afternoon, the canoes, with nostalgia. Somewhere, out there, we become driftories. We lie down in atoms and the clinamina bore. We fight against our own handwritten lies, type marching letters into files and save. Awe. Fidelity is a kind of surveillance. Current A. Attention! It was never my intention to score cheap points at the expense of polar bears, of driftwood, shores. The cockatoos roar. Their explosive chatter could strip a pine tree raw. Implant in me some destructive grace, to drift. Planetoid lamps all along the turnpike’s busy arcs. Extreme emissions of things. Drift-rings. The target of my gaze, sewn shut. Your eyes rising slower than a star from what you read, condensed into steam, here, north of all music. Driftories, signal fires, smoke: disappear. Go back to sleep now. No, we were never here. (shrink)

This chapter talks about the first season of the TV series Veronica Mars. Additionally, the chapter explores the significance of Veronica Mars's photography. Veronica has found her life irrevocably altered in multiple ways. Her best friend, Lilly Kane, was murdered, her father, Keith Mars, lost his job as sheriff as the result of an apparently bungled investigation into Lilly's death, and Veronica lost her social status and former friends. Subsequently her mother, Lianne Mars, left home, apparently unable to deal with (...) the stress of it all. In addition to all this misfortune, Veronica, had attended a party at which she was drugged and then raped. She states in a voiceover, that she is a marshmallow, ironically though. But at the end of the season she has broken through to a new self‐understanding, which is illustrated in the final scene. (shrink)