David Sorfa

Death is ubiquitous in film and television, both fiction and documentary, and while homicide is the primary cause of death in fiction film, suicide accounts for twice as many deaths in the world. Since fictional media is predicated on stimulating emotions of one sort or another, positive or negative, it is not difficult to understand that death in general and suicide in particular provides ample opportunity to encourage strong audience reactions and interest. This chapter provides a taxonomy of the ways in which the moving image, primarily cinema, presents suicide, including: (1) Hollywood glamor and suicide, (2) art-house suicide, (3) euthanasia and assisted dying, (4) religious and cult suicide, (5) war and political suicide, (6) honorable suicide, and (7) depression, guilt, and drugs. This list is not exhaustive, and the categories are non-exclusive, meaning that films discussed in one category may be relevant to others. The focus is on the internal logic of individual films without making any claims as to their possible effects in the real world. Ultimately, this chapter argues that fictional representation of suicide on screen is an important part of our philosophical engagement with questions of human freedom and choice.

The release of Andrew Dominik’s Blonde in 2022 on Netflix caused a furor of out-rage, and the film was seen variously as misogynistic, exploitative, and badly made. Here I wish to explore the ways in which we can think about the hyper-mediated image of Marilyn Monroe through Jean-Paul Sartre’s phenomenological consid-eration of imagination and Simone de Beauvoir’s existentialist analysis of ethics and ambiguity. I will argue that Sartre’s idea of irreality (unreality) guarantees the freedom of each individual and that the irreal Marilyn Monroe, as played by Ana de Armas and others, reflects a freedom that, while ambiguous, is nevertheless necessary.

Miloš Forman began his career as a filmmaker at the Barrandov Studios in Prague in the 1960s and films Amadeus with Barrandov in the early 1980s. The contrast between the high budget historical spectacle of Amadeus and the gently ironic realism of his 1960s films could not be more pronounced. I will explore here the changes that mark both Forman’s own development as a filmmaker between the 1960s and the 1980s as well as considering the impact of normalisation on the Barrandov Studios following the events of August 1968. During the 1960s, aside from its relationship with the young filmmakers of the New Wave, Barrandov supported an extraordinary range of films from popular to historical epics. Under the directorship of Josef Veselý, Barrandov turned out to be an environment that produced films that were successful with the public, formally experimental and politically challenging. The situation at Barrandov after 1968 quickly changed and Forman decided not to return to Czechoslovakia. Forman’s films during the 1970s in the USA brought him a level of international fame and popularity that is unrivalled in the history of Czech cinema but showed a radical departure from the films of the 1960s. This change culminates with Amadeus and his return to Barrandov. Even as his budgets increased massively, there was a loss of quality in the films of the 1970s and beyond and we can see in Amadeus, both as film and as production, a parable of exploitation and decadence that mourns the creative possibilities of the 1960s.

Cinema struggles with the representation of inner-speech and thought in a way that is less of a problem for literature. Film also destabilises the notion of the narrator, be they omniscient, unreliable or first-person. In this article I address the peculiar and highly unsuccessful cinematic innovation which we can call the ‘first-person camera’ or ‘first-person’ film. These are films in which the camera represents not just the point-of-view of a character but is meant to be understood as that character. Very few such films have been made, and I will concentrate on the way in which speech and thought are presented in Lady in the Lake (Robert Montgomery, 1947) and Dark Passage (Delmer Daves, 1947). I use Jacques Derrida’s critique of the idea of ‘hearing oneself speak’ and phenomenology’s dream of direct experience to explore the generally understood failure of such films and conclude by considering the implications of such a technique for a homunculus theory of mind.

Michael Haneke is one of the most important directors working in Europe today, with films such as Funny Games (1997), Code Unknown (2000), and Hidden (2005) interrogating modern ethical dilemmas with forensic clarity and merciless insight. Haneke's films frequently implicate both the protagonists and the audience in the making of their misfortunes, yet even in the barren nihilism of The Seventh Continent (1989) and Time of the Wolf (2003) a dark strain of optimism emerges, releasing each from its terrible and inescapable guilt. It is this contingent and unlikely possibility that we find in Haneke's cinema: a utopian Europe. This collection celebrates, explicates, and sometimes challenges the worldview of Haneke's films. It examines the director's central themes and preoccupations--bourgeois alienation, modes and critiques of spectatorship, the role of the media--and analyzes otherwise marginalized aspects of his work, such as the function of performance and stardom, early Austrian television productions, the romanticism of The Piano Teacher (2001), and the 2007 shot-for-shot remake of Funny Games.

In this article I explore a tantalising definition of cinematic belief as a belief without belief by briefly considering the way in which film theory and film-philosophy have engaged with the question of belief in cinema. I also take into account Simon Critchley’s discussion of religious belief in The Faith of the Faithless (2012) within the context of anthropological studies of religion such as that by Émile Durkheim. In addition, I discuss Sigmund Freud’s 1927 reflection on religion in “The Future of an Illusion”. I then show that this line of thought can be linked to the philosophical discussion around the so-called paradox of fiction and introduce the idea that belief can be understood itself as an emotion or mood. I argue in favour of the solution to the paradox that claims that emotions experienced in response to fictional entities are quasi-emotions but radicalise this claim by showing that this must imply that all emotions are in fact structured like quasi-emotions and that we do not require an essentialist understanding of emotion in the first place. Throughout I use the example of the various cinematic representations of the life of St Francis to flesh out the argument, including Roberto Rossellini’s Francesco, giullare di Dio / Francesco, God’s Jester / The Flowers of St Francis (1950) but particularly Franco Zeffirelli’s much maligned Brother Sun, Sister Moon (1972).