La Jetée
“Nothing distinguishes memories from ordinary moments. Only later do they become memorable by the scars they leave.”
Despite a run time of roughly 29 minutes and being composed of beautifully crafted still photography, Chris Marker’s La Jetée (1962) remains a monument of influence to postwar science fiction. Emerging during the French “new wave” and paired with the tense social and political climate of the early 1960s, this film uses an experimental approach tied with a much deeper meditation on memory, trauma, and history. In setting its story inside of a post-apocalyptic Paris where a nameless prisoner is subjected to various time travel experiments, Marker approaches personal and collective memory using science fiction. As Lee Hilliker argues in “The History of the Future in Paris,” the film’s historical context brings our memory back to the lingering devastation of World War II, the anxiety of the Cold War, and the social fractures within France and Europe, shaping this pessimistic and beautiful depiction of time as recurring rather than constantly moving forward. La Jetée approaches temporal manipulation not only as a subject matter but also as a structuring device, placing moments of trauma and intimacy into a narrative where memory becomes both a prison and a fleeting source of hope.
One of the things I find La Jetée does exceptionally well is how it shows the embodiment of time. The narrative itself is built around temporal manipulation. The protagonist, a prisoner in post-World War III Paris, is chosen by underground scientists as a subject for experiments in time travel because of a vivid recurring childhood memory he has of a man’s death at the Orly Airport jetty. Rather than presenting events in linear progression, Marker arranges the film as a series of fragments: memories of the prewar world, the bleak postwar present, and glimpses of both a hopeful and terrifying future. By using still photographs instead of motion capture, Marker freezes moments into images that feel like a preserved memory that we, the viewers, share. We experience time in stasis rather than flow, forcing a sense that the protagonist is trapped in recollections rather than living in the present. This is most evident in the repetition of the Orly Airport scene. A sequence that begins as the man’s childhood memory, shows up throughout the experiments, and finally reemerges at the climax, when the protagonist realizes that as a child, the man he watched die at that airport was himself. Time is depicted not as a forward trajectory but as an inevitable cycle, one that pulls the protagonist toward the trauma he has carried all along, one that prevents him from wanting to move on towards the future, and one that keeps him in the grasp of a fragile human connection.
Hilliker¹ emphasizes that La Jetée must be understood within the anxieties of its moment. France in the early 1960s was still dealing with the wake of devastation caused by World War II, memories of Nazi occupation, and traumas of collaboration and resistance. The nation was also deeply divided in dealing with the Algerian War of Independence 1954–1962, which raised questions about state violence and identity. On top of all of this was the present threat of nuclear war, a fear that crystallized during the Cuban Missile Crisis in October 1962, the very year that this film was released. With this context in mind, the underground scientists can be read as an elite class who exploit individuals for their own survival. The protagonist is outside the dominant social order, as Hilliker observes, but the elites realize that his trauma can be beneficial to their needs. His memories are nothing but a tool, used to test the possibility of salvaging human existence after catastrophe. The connection seems to be clear. Individuals, particularly those already marginalized, or in prison, are simply expendable resources to be used in the service of a ruling class more interested in preserving its authority than in rebuilding human society. In this way, Marker transforms his protagonist’s personal memory into a representation of collective historical and generational trauma one born out of wars, authoritarian regimes, and growing anxieties of technological control.
While the film is full of powerful images, and many of them have layers upon layers of depth I find myself returning to the Orly Airport jetty, the setting of the protagonist’s earliest and most traumatic memory. As a child, he witnessed a man shot and killed on the observation deck. This memory becomes a facet of his identity, the reason he is chosen for experimentation, and the site of his own death. Jetty is a place of departures and transitions, a limbo between past and future. This site becomes the place where the protagonist’s trauma circles, eternally repeating, Marker’s way of showing time as both repetitive and inevitable. The title of the film, “La Jetée” or “the Jetty” references both the physical location of the memory and the theme of traumas weight anchoring him to a place he cannot escape from.
The museum sequence, frozen animals mirror the photographic form that is frozen within the film itself, memory and history are preserved but lifeless. The couple’s intimacy in this space of death and preservation is bittersweet. They share a tenderness while surrounded by things that symbolize stasis, mirroring their relationship, and how it exists only within the protagonist’s fragile hold on memory. The museum and the tension between vitality and preservation, intimacy and death, evidence that attempts to freeze time inevitably only strip it of life. He does not know that this would be their “last moment” together, at least it would be until his final return to the jetty.
Throughout the film, the protagonist is reduced to what Hilliker describes as a “slave-like status.” Captured by underground scientists, he is used as a test subject for experiments that prioritize the survival of the elite over common good. He is strapped down and forcibly subjected to psychological strain in the name of progress and the “survival of humanity”. His individuality and autonomy are disregarded, his trauma merely a tool. This I believe is a direct line to postwar fears of authoritarianism and technocracy, where the logic of survival and progress often justified exploitation and dehumanization. Marker’s depictions of the protagonists’ interactions with the scientists reflect the dangers of surrendering to a system that values power and control over human dignity.
Hilliker says that the film ends in dark pessimism, imagining history as a vicious cycle of repression and control. The climax reveals the protagonist dying on the jetty while running after the woman who’s face haunted him since the beginning of the film, revealing his memory was of his own death all along. Time collapses on itself, erasing the possibility of escape. The scientists’ manipulation succeeds only in demonstrating that history repeats, that trauma cannot be avoided. Yet there are moments in the film that lean towards things more complex than simply despair and nihilism. The protagonist’s relationship with the woman, brief and fragile, provides him with genuine intimacy and connection. Their moments together in the museum and in quiet everyday interactions show us a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the damp bitter chill of the underground society.
Marker’s choice to show the story through still photographs is essential. The still images resemble memories, records of moments that can never move forward. Forcing the viewer to reflect on time while showing the way trauma freezes individuals in the past. The one moment of motion the scene where the woman is in bed moving and then opens her eyes, contrasts beautifully with the surrounding stillness. In that scene, life and vitality push through, even though there are just a few more frames added in, there is a fragility and preciousness to that moment, a moment that would normally be insignificant.
Chris Marker’s La Jetée stands as a product of its historical surroundings, but it is not just relegated to that, it is also a timeless meditation on memory, trauma, and the sands of time. Through beautiful and haunting imagery, fragmented narrative, and recurring motifs, it demonstrates how individuals and societies alike remain bound to the scars of the past. Hilliker’s reading reminds us that the protagonists exploitation shows a broader anxiety about authoritarianism and the manipulation of life for power. Amid the bleakness however, Marker offers flittering glimpses of tenderness and intimacy, a reminder that within the grasp of trauma and inevitability human connection persists as a fragile hope. La Jetée compels the viewer to confront an unsettling possibility that history may not progress in a linear fashion but instead in a loop, endlessly spiraling through memory, violence and longing. In doing so, this film has secured its place in being one of the most profound films made in the past hundred years.
Citation
Hilliker, L. (2000). The history of the future in Paris: Chris Marker and Jean-Luc Godard in the 1960s. Film Criticism, 24(3), 1–22. https://www.jstor.org/stable/44019058
Horror Film or Filming Is Horror? Slicing into One Cut of the Dead (Shinichirō Ueda, 2017)
From the first frame to the very last, One Cut of the Dead is a heartfelt love letter to independent filmmaking, blending both the visceral thrill of found footage horror with a cathartic release of comedy. This beautifully structured film turned my expectations on its head, and pulled at my heartstrings through its chaotic joy and well crafted storytelling. In this film breaking down the fourth wall just isn’t good enough of a sentence, this film in true Miley Cirus fashion came through like a wrecking ball, forcing us to reconsider the mechanics of horror and comedy as an identity across the genre. Much like ogres, and onions, this film has layers, I’m going to peel the flesh of this back Martyrs style to give a better and deeper understanding of why this movie, to me, should one hundred percent be included when talking about the best independent horror films of all time.
Layer 1: The Real Bite
This opening act is a wonderful kick off to this film, shown as a 37-minute continuous one-take sequence (yes, seriously, 37 minutes). It violently hurls viewers into a raw and relentless rollercoaster of feelings and experiences, almost in the same vein as REC(2007). A low-budget film crew shoots a zombie movie at an abandoned water park, when they are attacked by real zombies. The director, Higurashi, sees this as a complete win, insisting that the cameras continue rolling, even heightening stakes by throwing infected crew members at the surviving actors, all while screaming “ACTION” and “FAN FUCKING TASTIC.” The film’s frantic pacing and gore-drenched absurdity really set the tone for me, and made me start seeing this as a found footage horror. Blood sprays across the camera lens which is wiped off, there’s constant motion in the camera, and the actors themselves appear very disoriented, confused, and terrified. I was fully immersed in watching this, and really started to think that this is all the movie was going to be.
With that considered, I noticed that even here in the midst of the chaos humor was slowly worming its way through the grotesque underbelly, much like a carrion bug gnaws and tunnels through rotten flesh. Nao, the makeup artist demonstrates her “hobbies” which included self defense, breaking out of a hold by the other cast members and screaming “POM!” which she said was incredibly important to the process, this later comes around full circle, when she is restrained by another cast member then breaks out of the hold to chase Chinatsu after finding out that she may have been bitten. Moments like this bring some anchoring in this film, are we horrified because we feel for the characters? Or are we laughing at the absurdity and drawn out acting moments that feel almost melodramatic?
Noël Carroll’s argument that horror and humor both thrive on violating norms become really tangible as we watch these scenes, as One Cut of the Dead seems to seamlessly blend the incongruities of both horror and comedy. However, the true horror, and the true comedy, don’t really come in this first sequence, as we will find out as we continue our journey, or descent if you will, into my second and third layers.
Layer 2: THE HORROR (of production)
“CUT” blasts out jarringly after the credits roll, and the transition into the real depth and love for filmmaking starts to shine through in many ways as it’s revealed to us that the 37-minute chaotic blood-drenched zombie film is actually a film within a film. Higurashi, far from the deranged lunatic that we witness in the first act, is a timid and kind director who is tasked by a network looking to launch a new TV Channel to create a live, one-take zombie film. This originally he sees as a joke, however quickly changes his tone and accepts after some prodding. We then see Higurashi’s home life, and most importantly his relationship with his daughter. They are clearly a little distanced as she is working through her younger years, about to move out, and trying to find a way to be a director of her own though she is more focused on the art rather than the reality of it. A scene that kinda shows this best is her getting kicked off of a set for trying to get a little girl to cry real tears rather than the eyedrops provided. This also shows a strain between the father and daughter, as she doesn’t appear to want to be open to him or close to him. Higurashi does notice however that his daughter’s favorite actor is acting in his zombie film, which becomes important later as he brings her to the set. Here we kinda see the true “Horror” rear its ugly head, it’s not some grotesque zombie, no that would be too easy, the true horror is juggling your personal life with your work life. With connection with your family and your co workers, the true horror is having strict deadlines and needs and having to really crack down on them because it is what must be done for the production. During this second act we have actors who cant make it to the set, so Director Higurashi and his wife Nao must step in as actors to replace them, we have a sound guy who drank the wrong water so he has an upset stomach and entire scenes must be skipped on the fly during filming, and we have an incredibly drunk actor who ends up vomiting all over the cast. All incredibly comical yes, but also incredibly relatable if you are someone who has defined deadlines and must do whatever you can to get them finished. I found this films ability to balance the comedy of just how absurd some of the scenes were with the tugging on the heartstrings and really making you feel for these characters and almost be put in their shoes incredibly well done, and not something that I would expect from a film with the low budget of 25,000$ and actors who were all a part of a workshop.
Adam Daniel’s theory of affective intensities resonates through these moments. The immersive camerawork, constant motion, abrupt shifts, and long scene time create a visceral experience. We feel the claustrophobia, chaos, and desperation of all the characters. In reality, though, we see the human imperfections behind those moments: the “zombie” vomiting on the actors was actually an actor who was intoxicated and passed out on set, needing the director’s help to stand properly; the cameraman, who blew his back out, caused the camera to lay on the ground longer than intended. What was terrifying and engaging at first now becomes hilarious and endearing in hindsight. This all brings us to our final layer, not the final girl, though Chinatsu herself embodies that trope.
Final Layer: Human Imperfection as Identity
This final layer chronicles the behind-the-scenes chaos as the cast and crew scramble to complete the shoot. Mishaps pile up, props fall apart, and the crane for the final scene breaks. Refusing to cut the final shot (critical for the film’s cohesion), the crew improvises by climbing on each other to recreate the crane themselves. To bring it all together, Mao, Higurashi’s daughter, climbs on his shoulders reminiscent of a cherished photo of the two of them. This film is truly, truly, incredible with the way it portrays its characters, and itself.
Even here, I see Carroll’s idea of norm violation as we see it play out in the broader context of identity. The film doesn’t simply subvert expectations in genre but also in the idea of perfection in art. Human flaws, vomiting zombies, overacting, and missed cues become the heart of the film’s charm.
At its core, One Cut of the Dead is a film about the messy, unpredictable, and incredibly human process of creation. It embodies Carroll’s claim that horror and humor share a subversive nature, using them to craft a narrative that is scary, funny, and heartfelt. Meanwhile, Daniel’s focus on affective intensity shines through in the immersive qualities of the one-take opening and the emotional resonance of behind-the-scenes struggles. For Higurashi, Mao, and the rest of the crew, their imperfections weren’t obstacles but the foundation for their success. One Cut of the Dead doesn’t just celebrate filmmaking, it celebrates the flawed but deeply passionate humanity at it’s heart.
Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker (1979) is an unbelievable experience, the film thrives on its atmosphere, ambiguity and meditative approach to storytelling. The film’s unique approach in visual and auditory styling serves as the hammer and sickle in communicating its themes of faith, existential longing, and the relationship between us and the unknown. The engagement this film has with space, time, and sound breaks it down to one of the most philosophically and cinematically complex films ever made. Through his meticulous creation of this film, Tarkovsky develops an experiential reality that dissolves boundaries between external environment and internal consciousness, elevating Stalker from film to cinematic poetry.
Tarkovsky’s cinematography, executed by Alexander Knyazhinsky, is instrumental to the film’s hypnotic power. The usage of long, unbroken takes create a contemplation for the viewer and forces them into a state of meditative observation, like a fly on the wall. These prolonged shots, often devoid of action, shift the gaze of the film toward landscape, movement, and the weight of time. The Zone, said to grant the deepest wishes of those who enter, is a surreal, somewhat sentient landscape, it becomes an active entity in the film. The camera frequently focuses and lingers on mundane details, rippling water and the seemingly abandoned, overgrown ruins not simply physical remnants of a society forgotten, they embody an uncanny liminality, a space where illusion and reality collapse into one another. It focuses on the characters, who often get lost in thought, or directly dialogue with the audience itself.
“The story, shot in long, dreamlike sequences, is meant to immerse one into a sort of dream. (I often thought that watching a Tarkovsky film is the closest to observing dream.) The film, set in an unknown country in an unknown time, begins with a journey involving unnamed citizens. Stalker, Writer and Professor are the titles distinguishing these three figures who, in their search through the Zone (a site supposedly loaded with traps) contains a Room where one can wish for their secret desires to come true. The anonymity of the characters serves a purpose—that this could be any one of us. And what of the Zone? How do we interpret this place that is ever so difficult to navigate? Here, weeds are overgrown (according to human standards, anyway) and the flowers hold no scent. When the Writer is asked what he writes about, ‘My readers,’ he replies (“Awakening & Escaping Happiness in Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker (1979)”).
The prolonged attention throughout the film to the natural elements, water flowing over debris and remnants forgotten and the mist hanging in the air, fills these images with a metaphysical resonance, inviting the audience to interpret things that may transcend conventional or implied meaning.
One of the most important techniques utilized in Stalker is the manipulation of color to define the realms of existence. The world outside the Zone, rendered in a desaturated sepia, evokes a feeling of oppression, or mundane reality steeped in entropy and despair. This is shown in a scene about an hour into the film, where the three main characters ride into the zone on a small, manned vehicle on the previously placed, unused train tracks. Upon entrance into the Zone, the film suddenly shifts into full color, signifying a shift visually and metaphysically. This transition is not only an aesthetic choice but a means of emphasizing the Zones’ ineffable quality. That being a site of divine intervention, psychological projection, or an alien anomaly remains purely up to the viewer to determine. The Zone is not just a physical location; it remains a threshold that confronts its visitors with their deepest, unspoken fears and longings.
The sound design in stalker plays an equally critical role in construction of the film’s dreamlike atmosphere. Tarkovsky ignores traditional scoring in favor of an ambient, subconscious soundscape. Imbued with auditory phenomena, the zone blurs distinction between organic and mechanical: there are distant echoes, a soft indeterminable hum, sporadic dripping of water, and the shifting of the sounds of footsteps. Combined the elements are not merely mis-en-scene, they seem to emanate from the zone itself, reinforcing this ideology that the zone is sentient. Through the minimalization of diegetic soundtrack, Tarkovsky creates an auditory vacuum, heightening the viewers perception of silence, a silence that is often challenged by unseen forces.
There are many scenes in this film that highlight the importance of sound design, however I’d like to bring attention to a smaller detail for this. The footsteps. Listening to the sound design in this film its apparent that there is a deliberate focus on when the characters are within and outside of the zone, within the zone there are reverberations, echoes, unknown howls, even speech from those unseen and unknown, which push the main characters to question their own grasp on reality. The footsteps always drew my focus, when things became abnormal, there was a dissonance in the footsteps, what was once firm ground crunching or soft leather colliding with grass, became its own sound, an odd sound that is hard to even put into words, but noticeably abnormal. This small detail became the main click to me that the Zone was working either with or against the party, it first became important when they were running from the guards in the first entrance to the train station scene, where the footsteps started sounding off, perhaps making it noticed that the Zones effects were felt outside of the Zone itself.
Ultimately, stalker is less of a film to be “understood” in a traditional sense, this film is an experience to be felt and inhabited.
“Stalker can draw a number of conclusions. One of those is that all three versions of man featured here are necessary in the search for truth. The artist is necessary for the expression of faith in a human way. The professor is necessary in order to process and deliver the information to humankind. And the man of faith is the beginning. If we do not believe, there is no hope. As an addendum, there is a lack of modernity in the zone, which shows us that the more advanced we become, in our urge to have the power of gods, the further we get from our faith (“Classic Movie Review: Stalker”).”
The unique approach to cinematic time and space challenges one to relinquish the conventional expectations of narrative closure. Instead, it demands patience, contemplation, and full acceptance of ambiguity. The meticulous construction of its audiovisual environment dissolves the distinction between subjective perception and objective reality, Tarkovsky transforms stalker into an encounter with the ineffable. The film offers no resolution, but it invites reflection, it lingers in the mind long after the final frame fades, much like the zone itself.