Moose Jaw: The Reflexive in Documentary by Danny Stefik (essay for Nonfiction film since 1956, instructor: Robert Craig, Concordia University

In documentary, I'm interested in the fact that there's a past, present and future that can't really can't be manipulated... How does the past torture the present? How is the past forgotten and ignored when it shouldn't be? It's also partly the idea that the film has a beginning, middle and end. It's a time art... not terribly democratic, but people seem to like that.

Rick Hancox reflecting on film as a time based medium.

The concept of time figures prominently in the work of Rick Hancox, as do issues related to landscape, architecture, and memory. However, each time he explores one or several of the aforementioned concepts he raises questions as to their certainty as well. With Hancox nothing can be left uncontested; memories and time (intangibles) constantly fleet, while architecture and landscape (tangibles) are perpetually shaped by human hands. There is an order of subservience at work here as well since memory cannot exist without time, and architecture cannot exist without landscape. The documentary aspect of his work stems from an interest in the permanence of landscape and architecture (their tangibility), while the autobiographical element of his work reflects his personal involvement and interaction with these tangibles, which manifest in his ideas on memory and time. I am less interested (for the sake of this paper) in these issues per se than in his mediation of them. And although Moose Jaw (1992) retains properties of both the documentary and experimental genres of filmmaking, my interest lies in exploring his ideas on reflexivity, and how they relate specifically to the autobiographical mode.

Hancox's obstinacy, with respect to categorization, is characteristic of the Canadian avant-garde. He and several of his peers (e.g. Michael Snow) revel in the ability to oscillate wildly between the many modes of filmmaking. Moose Jaw serves as a perfect example of this hybridization. It is neither a documentary, nor an experimental autobiography. It chooses to maneuver freely between them in that it does make truth claims (in the documentary aspect of the film), but the reality is, without a question, one that is treated and manipulated by the director. This manipulation occurs foremost in the post-production phase of the filmmaking process, where Hancox takes many liberties with the soundtrack, montage and linearity. But unlike many "documentary" filmmakers he never deceives nor misleads us; moreover, he continually reminds us that his film is just as questionable as any, by affixing the sound and image tracks with reflexive techniques. Reflexivity abounds in many of Hancox's works. Take, for example, his intermittent displaying of the function of sync-sound in Wild Sync (1973). Or his own (the cameraman's) traces being left in the sand in the form of shadows and footprints in Beach Events (1984). He is aware of his own representations of reality, and sets out to inform his audience of the films' questionable truths. They (the audience) must know that Moose Jaw is as much about the Saskatchewan town as it is about Hancox himself, and that his return to Moose Jaw after approximately twenty years is an entirely subjective experience.

Consider Jeanne Allen's insightful comments on one possible function of reflexivity within a documentary work:

By presenting them self-reflexively, a documentary film can make the audience aware of the processes of production as a limitation on the film's neutral (or subjectivist) stance, its ability to document objectively. 2

There is an evolution in Hancox's manipulation of these "processes of production", an evolution that fully culminates in Moose Jaw, arguably his most mature work to date. With this in mind, I've illustrated several ways in which reflexivity can be used in documentary films (or elsewhere), and supported each with concrete examples from the Moose Jaw's soundtrack is quite complex and richly textured. It is made up of various bits of sync-sound, extra-diegetic music/sound, voice-over commentary (single and multiple), and radio show dialogue. Much of the sound has been manipulated or modulated in some way, with Hancox carefully constructing a soundtrack that will often serve as counterpoint to the ascribed image. He provides tensions (between the sound and image) "to make the viewer aware of how the documentary structures reality through language, so the viewer experiences not so much a visual truth as a verbal and conceptual one." 3 Hancox's own comments with respect to sound are dutifully noted:

I'm interested in the metaphoric image, that is, the combination of a sound and picture that don't necessarily go together... a combination of sound and picture that result in a third image. A synthesis that is more powerful than what was there before. 4

His ideas on sound manipulation are not unlike those of Sergei Eisenstein or Jean-Luc Godard. There are instances in the film when the soundtrack is composed of three or four separate tracks, carefully layered, in effect rendering some of the dialogue indeterminate. This technique has often been employed by Godard in films such as King Lear and First Name: Carmen, and serves to keep the viewer on guard, actively assessing the aural information which he/she has been provided with. Near the beginning of the film, several of Rick's family members can be heard on the soundtrack commenting on the images that pass momentarily before our eyes. Then later, during a visit to an archive, Hancox layers the soundtrack with several radio commentators, each reporting a misfortunate event. Each commentator's voice is cut off before they can finish the report and the swells in volume make the filmmaker's presence (in the mixing room) apparent. These examples of multi-voiced commentaries "upset our assumptions about the normative guidance usually offered by (documentary) commentary." 5

Elsewhere sound is used satirically, as in the scene where Brian Mulruney can be heard delivering his spiel on the economic prospects of Canada. His (echoed) comments take on an ironic significance when juxtaposed against images of an obviously flagging Moose Jaw economy. With confidence he says, "Canada is more than dry parchment lying in a drawer in the national archives... much more, much more, much much more", while later he reiterates, "it is important that Canadians understand why this is happening ... why this is happening ... why why this is happening." In light of Bill Nichols' description of one particular element of reflexivity in documentary filmmaking, namely the use of parody and satire, this commentary serves to "sharpen consciousness of a problematic social attitude, value, or situation." 6 We, as active listeners, are encouraged to make our own assumptions as to the aural-visual counterpoint, and should overwhelmingly conclude that Mulruney's words not be taken for more than they're worth..

The camera is the most important tool in the documentary filmmaker's repertoire but is seldom brought to the audience's attention. In fact, it's presence is often taken for granted because of its self-effacing nature. In a Frederick Wiseman film the goal is to conceal the apparatus (as well as the albeit small crew) entirely; to present the filmmaker as an outsider looking into the filmic space. In contrast, Hancox works to invade the filmic space and to make his presence apparent. The film opens with a shot of Hancox walking freely along a railway, camera in hand. His and his camera's shadows are cast along the railway, serving as a premonition to inform the viewer of the filmmaker's firmly subjectivist stance. This `revealing of the apparatus' recurs throughout the film in several manners, predominantly in the way of reflections (i.e. store windows, mirrors) and the use of multiple cameras. Using two or more cameras to shoot a scene is highly unorthodox (in a documentary context), but can provide for interesting results. Here I've isolated several instances where multiple cameras are used within the film.

In the beginning Hancox can be seen filming the "Mac the Moose" statue, situated along the Trans-Canada highway just outside of Moose Jaw. In the editing room, Hancox cuts from the long-shot to the close-up, the Bolex camera's motor picked up by the microphone. Later, he'll replicate the shot in a different environment, this time filming the front of a store display. The use of a second cameraman serves to give the viewer a `second' perspective; an alternate point-of-view that foregrounds the work of our subject. After all, he is the director, and without these shots the film is that much less about himself.

Throughout the film we see stills (or photos) either in close-up, or at arms length, extended before the camera. By placing his own hand within the frame, Hancox can simultaneously reveal and question the representational nature of the photograph. A photograph never exists in and unto itself. It is merely a reproduction of reality and should be regarded as such. In another shot the second cameraman fixes his camera on a museum display; a photograph of a Canadian artifact, not unlike those surrounding, all which have been integrated into the museum to provide an outsider with an experience of their own. While the first camera lingers we see a second hand-held camera (manned by Hancox himself) enter the frame right and move, at an oblique angle, toward the center of the display. We are reminded of the photographic process, and the signification of this shot as a representation of a representation is stressed.

For me, the quintessentially reflexive scene arrives late in the film, when we are witness to Hancox himself placed up on a museum riser, next to an old automobile. The camera setup includes a slow, lateral dolly shot that moves around Hancox as he looks into his camera's eyepiece, his body as still as a wax statue. The music is an `oldie' tune that is slowed to a crawl, in turn lending an eerie tone to the soundtrack. Hancox provides a context for the shot as he explains:

In Moose Jaw, you can go to a museum and see your boyhood there behind a velvet rope in a pristine environment. That's why I hopped in the display myself. ..I think it's funny when I see it, but nobody laughs. That is a perfect example of what I thought Kroker meant by that fine line between pathos and sardonic humor. 7

In effect, nothing, not even Hancox himself, is safe from museumization. 8 Immediately following the `velvet rope museum' scene, the film takes a drastic turn. At this point Hancox realizes that the past and present are irreconcilable, and that the commercialization of Moose Jaw has detrimentally affected his own childhood memories. The film ceases to be about the town of Moose Jaw, and becomes instead a film about the impossibility of a clear resolution and totalizing of the subject. In Moose Jaw "there are finally no beginnings or endings, just random bursts of energy and delocalized memory traces", all of which can be thought of as being served up on a reflexive platter. 9 Jeff Round articulately draws upon the scene as "an ironic reversal of viewpoint, when the film turns on its maker ... where he realizes he has become inextricably intertwined with the past he thought he had stepped outside of" 10 This shot indicates a reversal of perspective in the film, and from this point on reflexivity abounds.

The end of the film takes place aboard a train which returns Hancox to his home in Ontario. Hancox is herein forced to contemplate the totality (or lack thereof) of his experience in Moose Jaw. In one exceptionally revealing shot Hancox manages to convey sentiments of frenzy and instability. He places himself in front of a three sided mirror and pans back-and -forth, quickly, between fragmented representations of his divided self It would be quite difficult for us to know exactly how Hancox feels {at this particular moment}, but we can be sure that he has not reacted indifferently to his experience.

Rather, the experience has shaped him and made him increasingly aware of the fragility of his memories, and the forces that landscape and architecture extend on them. His past, now both precarious and questionable, is one that has been unduly conditioned by absence. The absence of Moose Jaw's long-standing commercial and residential communities (i.e. the demise of the railway station & Bay department store, the ghostly images of empty streets and deserted parking lots etc...), which have either been transformed, to a large degree, by a process of museumization or fallen victim to a lagging economy. It is an ironic coincidence that Poltergeist is being screened at a local theater. An appropriate screening for a phantom town.

Just as significant as the use of camera reflexivity is Hancox's use of awkward framing devices. There are countless instances where a frame (usu. a window frame) is composed within the actual cinematographic image. This is a regular occurrence in the train sequences, where windows offer a glimpse into ephemeral landscapes that Hancox has established a remarkable affinity for. In the last sequence of the film Hancox can be seen gazing out the train window as the landscapes pass by the (window) frame. Two shots are intercut: the first shows the landscapes in their entirety, while the second presents the landscapes as a mediation of Hancox himself. As he peers through the window he squeezes his face up against the glass, providing a disturbing image of subjectivity. On the soundtrack his father and mother can be heard calling his name, repeatedly, while underneath their summons an undisclosed voice utters the words: "Both are real, you take your choice... each one is real... each one is possible." Who is providing this commentary and are the words a reference to the representation of reality (and the self) that Hancox has been trying so desperately to unearth? Again Nichols can provide a sound theoretical perspective for many of Hancox's techniques:

The reflexive mode of representation gives emphasis to the encounter between filmmaker and viewer rather than filmmaker and subject. Realist access to the world, the ability to provide persuasive evidence, the possibility of indisputable argument, the unbreakable bond between an indexical image and that which it represents-all these notions prove suspect. 11

Indeed, we as viewers have formed a unique relationship to the images at hand, due to Hancox's own skepticism in regards to image representation. If we are ever to arrive at truth, (both) the viewer and filmmaker must question and suspect the image, conjointly.

An active filming/viewing process is necessary; a process that Hancox has been fostering throughout his career. Autobiographical works like Moose Jaw place minimal contrivance or artifice between the filmmaker and the audience. 12 This argument is even more appropriate within the context of autobiographical documentary, more so, I would imagine, than say experimental autobiography. In the latter, revelations about the self are usually implicit and are explored aesthetically, whereas Moose Jaw reveals a great deal about Hancox through explicit means (i.e. pictures, family member voice-overs). Tom Waugh's study of performance in autobiographical documentary raises several issues with respect to the representation of self and reflexivity. He maintains that, "Even where it is rigorously reflexive, the personal is perhaps shown to be political, but the political often fails to rise above the personal level." 13 And while Hancox manages to place himself above the political by reflexively presenting an authorial performance as opposed to passively representing one, the nature of the mode raises as many issues as it solves. Issues such as narcissism and ethics as well as the potential alienation of audiences (e.g. Moose Jaw residents), who may reject the film's non-totalizing effect.

At this point we must ask ourselves-is Moose Jaw about Rick Hancox the filmmaker or the Saskatchewan town? The opening credit sequence begins with an animated highway sign that reads "Rick Hancox's Moose Jaw", then follows suit with a similar sign that reads "with Moose Jaw's Rick Hancox." His sense of self within the film in general, and within the town in particular, is uncertain. The fact is that Moose Jaw doesn't care about Hancox and his problems with childhood memory and alienation from his hometown. Hancox himself admits:

People look at the film and realize that I'm critical with myself going down there, and trying to make a film about Moose Jaw, but realizing I can't. I can only make a film about myself... in a way it's a failure, not being able to make a film. 14

Notwithstanding Hancox's apparent discouragement, we (audiences) should resist any belittling of the film's overall effect. Even if he feels he has not accomplished his goal, Hancox has left us with not so much a document of Moose Jaw than a document of himself, or better yet, a document of ourselves. We can learn a great deal from Moose Jaw, including film as: a continual process of self-discovery; a foundation for personal growth and expanded consciousness; and a catalyst for the human potential movement. Reflexivity is by and large a postmodern tool which Hancox exercises freely, furthering his own ongoing quest for truth, and the self within that truth. Whether the autobiographical or experimental modes of documentary are being used is not the point, rather that these forms allow for a personalized, subjectivist take on the world in which artists can impress upon audiences their unique vantage point. Hancox's films invoke reflections, nostalgia and emotions, all of which are translated through real events that the filmmaker shoots, arbitrarily. His early poetic films are quite unique, particularly in their aesthetic and formal techniques, yet they maintain the filmmaker's `presence' at all times. Perhaps this `presence' is provided to compensate for the absences that pervade the filmmaker's work: everything from abandoned buildings to empty parking lots and barren landscapes. There is an underlying ambivalence towards Hancox's depiction of Canada, in that we are enticed by serene images of Canadian coasts and prairie lands but also repelled by images of its depredated beauty. Have memories fallen victim to time? Have landscapes fallen victim to architecture? (Canadian identity) has often been regarded as an oxymoron. Thanks in part to Canadians like Rick Hancox, we may sooner than later mark the ability to' articulate a sense of Canadian identity.

Notes

1. This is an excerpt from an interview conducted with Rick Hancox November 22' , 1999.

2. Jeanne Allen, "Self-Reflexivity in Documentary" in Explorations in Film Theory. (Indiana Univ. Press, 1991), p. 103.

3. Ibid., pp. 108-109.

4. Interview.

5. Bill Nichols, "The Reflexive Mode of Representation, " in Representing Reality: Issues and Concepts in the Documentary, p. 70.

6. Ibid., p. 74.

7. Interview.

8. Arthur Kroker, "Libidinal Technology: Lyotard in the New World", in The Posessed Individual (Montreal: New World Perspectives, 1992), p. 138.

9. Ibid., p. 141.

10. Jeff Round, "A Kind of Connectedness", p. 3 5.

11. Bill Nichols, p. 60.

12. John Katz, `Autobiographical Film", in John Katz ed., Autobiography: Film/Video, Photography, p.

13. Thomas Waugh, `Acting to Play Oneself, Carole Zucker ed., in Making Visible the Invisible (Scarecrow Press, Inc. 1990), p. 85.