It is hard not to find yourself immersed in the theatrical world of Ewald Andre Dupont’s Piccadilly. Indeed as early on as the opening scene the audience is bombarded with upbeat music, electric signs, flashing lights, and busy streets filled with flowing traffic and hurrying bodies. Piccadilly is presented as an illuminated, spectacular location, in which we found ourselves - like the bodies on the screen – immediately drawn to.


Interestingly, Dupont decided to have his opening credits amongst the action of this opening scene. That is, rather than have the opening credits roll in the traditional sense (before the film begins), Dupont presents them as advertisements, literally lighting up and flashing as part of this theatrical space. Such a technique immediately foregrounds how the ‘reality’ of the film becomes blended with the theatrical world of the film when watching Piccadilly.



The fight scene between Victor and Valentine further illustrates this notion. Mixed with the use of music and exaggerated movements, the fight between the two men begins to resemble a kind of stylized dance rather than a spontaneous, uncontrollable fight over the affections of a woman. Even the way the scene fades out - much like a spot light - gave me the sense that these characters were performing; that the stage of the nightclub was blurred with the ‘stage’ of the actual film.


Moreover, because the fight is not vicious or bloodthirsty, it becomes almost humorous to watch, and thus more obviously artificial. I also found it no coincidence that as this fight scene played out, I drew comparisons to the dance between Victor and Mabel from the previous scene.


Did anybody else make this comparison?


The characterization of Mabel is also interesting to discuss in this regard. Given her over-the-top costume and movements throughout the film – both on and off the nightclub’s stage - Mabel becomes a figure, even an allegory, of the non-naturalistic nature of theatre, and upon closer analysis, a representation of how the theatrical world and the film’s reality constantly blend in Piccadilly.


Even her persona in the film becomes blurred with her theatrical persona. More precisely, both on and off the club's stage, Mabel sparks no emotions and holds no charisma; indeed like her lover Valentine, the audience of the club forgets her after the introduction of Shosho.


What’s interesting is that like the audience in Piccadilly’s club, I also began to forget Mabel. She began to appear pale, almost invisible, in comparison to Shosho.


Which causes me to pose the question: Does our world also begin to blend in with the films, or perhaps more specifically, do we begin to blend in with the audience of the Piccadilly nightclub?


Which leads me to Anna May Wong’s character, Shosho, who in complete contrast to Mabel represents the organic, charismatic, and mesmerizing quality of Piccadilly. Indeed Shosho not only moves the club’s audience, but when off the club's stage, moves men and women alike. Clearly Dupont, once again, representing a blending of worlds.


Dupont purposefully represents Shosho as different; she is dressed differently, moves and dances differently, and most noticeably of course, is of a different ethnicity. It is because of this difference that Shosho becomes such a literal stand out to watch. Indeed we become, like the women and men in the scullery, mesmerized by her. I got so whisked away by her performance – on and off the nightclub's stage – I had almost forgotten the film was silent and that the dialogue was represented by broken inter-titles. Techniques, I believe were used by Dupont for precisely this reason.



Clearly Piccadilly is a film where worlds are blurred, not only do the characters find themselves constantly performing, and thus confused in the theatrical space of the film, but with the introduction of Shosho, we too found ourselves absorbed.


Which leads me to wonder what the film would be like without the introduction of Shosho, would we still be like the audience of the club, mesmerized, and as captivated by Dupont’s Piccadilly?

At the beginning of Victor Burgin’s reading, a discussion of Andre Breton’s and Jaques Vache’s strange method of ‘movie hopping’ from one theater to another is discussed. Burgin writes of how these two men never watched an entire film, leaving whenever ‘boredom tugs at the sleeve’.

The relevance of such a method, as Fatimah Tobing Rony points out, lies in the fact it highlights certain Surrealist techniques of chance, disruption and dislocation – all techniques which are visible in Joseph Cornell’s silent footage film, Rose Hobart.

Cornell primarily establishes these techniques through the cutting and reordering of footage from the 1931 jungle flick, East of Borneo, into his obsessive 19 minute montage of actress Rose Hobart. Through the emphasis of close-ups, jump cuts and repeated shots, East of Borneo loses all narrative order and sequence, and appears, as P. Adams Sitney describes, ‘as a randomly broken, oddly scrambled and hastily repaired feature film that no longer makes sense.’

Moreover, by slowing the speed of the film, muting all dialogue, and projecting a blue glass filter, East of Borneo further transforms into a dislocated, dream-like landscape, where nothing is explained and all meanings (and indeed a linear narrative) are thwarted.



As a result, my experience of the film was none other than confusion. I felt like I was constantly watching and waiting for something to jump out at me, so I could yell at the top of my lungs, “O.K, I get what’s going on here. I get this movie.” But the sad reality was... I didn’t get it.

However the fact nothing ever makes sense in Rose Hobart, is precisely what I found so interesting. All we have are disconnected moments and unmotivated, incomplete actions and gestures that leave us completely confused, yet we watch and wait with a detached bemusement.

The soundtrack of the film adds to this. In most instances the music, or absence of, works to help illustrate the emotional content of the narrative, and thus manipulate and even heighten our emotional state as the viewer. However in Rose Hobart, the upbeat Brazilian music is merely a background noise which holds no relevance to the events on screen, it is nonsensical, and thus in no way shapes our emotions towards the on-goings of the film. The soundtrack of the film marches on in a repetitive and random way, almost appearing cluttered for the abstract, fantastic space.

It’s interesting that Cornell chose to strip away the original soundtrack of East of Borneo and replace it with a soundtrack purposefully disconnected from the visuals on screen. Why did he choose to distance his audience, rather than guide us in an aural experience of the film? Was it to highlight the constructed nature of the text, or was it all merely experimental?

While it certainly prohibited me from loosing myself in Cornell’s fantasy, it also made me feel like Hobart was trapped in a world in which she didn’t belong; mastered by Cornell through his re-editing of shots and nonsensical music.

The way the camera lingered on Hobart’s every movement and gesture only intensified this feeling. Indeed the voyeuristic nature of the camera’s movements made the experience not only unsettling to watch, but demonstrated how Hobart was merely an image, a representation of Cornell’s fantasy, locked into the frames of the film.



Perhaps this explains why the music is so detached from the visuals, to forbid any depth, or humanization of Hobart?

Given the cutting and reordering of narrative, the absurd music, and lingering camera movements, I question if Rose Hobart is in fact an ode to the actress, reflecting a kind of infatuation, or does it go further and reflect a kind of incarceration?

A belated, yet very warm welcome everyone! I have tried to avoid writing on here as the 'blogword' is extremely new to me. Nonetheless, a blog discussing Rose Hobart will be on here for you all very soon. Stay tuned..........