Modernity

Modernity

I was watching Hitchcock's North by northwest the other day, thoroughly enjoying the film, as well as the images of modernist architecture that abound in it. Twenty years after the film was released, the same morphology was still the most modern idiom, they one we were taught to respect and reproduce. That got me thinking and comparing the architecture with other designed things in the film. Some seemed rather out of sync. Men's suits in the period when the film was made were spartan and austere enough to match modernist architecture and furniture, significantly simplified from prewar men's fashions (ironically the stuff Loos appreciated). Women's clothes were closer to their overcomplicated prewar precedents, not yet attuned to the practicalities of the washing machine and the dry cleaner. Still, those early postwar women's fashions were considered pretty revolutionary at the time. Twenty years later both men and women dressed in even simpler manners, having abandoned hats and adopted denim (which seems equivalent to respectively avoiding pitched roofs and using béton brut in architecture). Modernism was still dominant, although there was widespread disappointment with its effects. Postmodernism was about to emerge, promoting eclectic, decorative forms, from which we have yet to recover. Things keep changing in ways that seem unpredictable, rendering our vision of modernity outdated almost as soon as they are expressed. Perhaps it's a good thing that we don't were the clothes or have the technologies one sees in science fiction imagery from the 1950s and 1960s. That stuff seems quite comical today. As for modernism, its redeeming feature (which is not unique to modernism) is simplification and the resulting attention for fundamental aspects of form and construction. Although it has not become the basis for all morphology, ait underlies a fair share of the things we make and use today, thankfully often without the dogmatic proscriptiveness of modernism.

Cars in films

Cars in films

It's quite telling how American urban life in the 1950s and 1960s is depicted in films. It must have been a fascinating period for the physical environment, with so much becoming mature and widely available. Recent films seem to celebrate this and depict it in a fond manner. Cars, in particular, have rather gentle presence, being there and serving people well, in contrast to films on more recent times, where motorized traffic can be overwhelming - and not just in bigger cities. It seems that the past we want to remember can be quite different from what was experienced back then, just because the present is worse. Reversely, back then people may have exaggerated the ills of cars because they thought the past was better, more peaceful and tranquil. At least, there are enough films from the period that do not present cars in a positive manner, while horses and horse-drawn vehicles receive more sympathetic treatment. The past is always sanitized.

Designing for evil

Designing for evil 

Totalitarian regimes seems to have an inherent interest in architecture: Hitler had Speer for his grand projects, Ceausescu had his architects for his grand palace - there are numerous examples. Reversely, architects seem to find ways to impose their ideas or improve their status in totalitarian regimes: modernism flourished under Mussolini, while Stalinist architecture was arguable more due to the ambitions of architects than to Stalin's own preferences.

The match of ambition, even megalomania, and of the belief of knowing better for the people is quite worrying, as is the deep amoralism and opportunism of designers and engineers who side with evil and then disclaim any responsibility: they were either following orders or in complete ignorance of all evildoing. Very few dare admit that they didn't care about right or wrong, that they simply took advantage of an opportunity to act from their own perspective.

It is therefore hardly surprising that in cinema, dystopia and totalitarian worlds are often signified through strange architecture, even more than with oppressive technology: excessive forms, desolate spaces and a general feeling of alienation work well as background to desperate action. Interestingly, it's not just a matter of aesthetics or connotations with the architecture of known totalitarian regimes: it also extends to physical interaction with that architecture. But then, this might be a matter of economy: huge decors cost more money.

The plank

The plank

I can't remember when I'd first seen The plank but I must have been very young because I had no idea who Tommy Cooper was, let alone Eric Sykes - and Cooper I knew and admired by the time I entered adolescence and started thinking about what I liked in comedy. Sykes became another firm favourite later on, so the indelible memories of The plank that made me spend quite some time looking for a video tape of this film (that was long before the Internet) were fully justified by later comedic experiences.

The plank is classed under slapstick but it's mostly subtle and slow, largely gentle, drawing from centuries of theatrical experience with the physical comedy one can derive from a long object and its handling. The eponymous plank remains the centre of attention, complemented by a rich collection of amusing incidents, some familiar and predictable and others more original, like when Sykes insists on opening a paneless window to get a bottle of milk from the milkman standing outside and Cooper closing the window later because he's feeling the draft.

When it comes to comedy about building, The plank is to my knowledge the only film fully dedicated to the subject - as opposed to having some slapstick related to building at some point in the film. In its old-fashioned, slow-paced way, it remains a monument to what a great generation of comedians knew and managed to preserve.

Things that can go wrong with a model

Things that can go wrong with a model 

Architectural models attract attention to an almost fetishist level. Students have to make them, clients want them, every museum visitor enjoys them. Few have the courage to that them as tools of the trade. I remember one teacher who used to dismantle student models, almost physically attacking them while asking interesting questions about composition and alternatives. After that, one learned not to put too much time in their models and expect the worst.

In comedy, if something goest wrong with a model, it can be funny without getting too hurtful (we're getting rather sensitive about such things, robbing physical comedy of many opportunities like pratfalls). In Monty Python's The architects sketch, a spontaneous combustion and collapse of the model momentarily embarrasses the architect and, by the strange acceptance of the design by the clients, facilitates a jump to the subject of how to recognise a Mason. The most interesting thing about the model is the association between it and the behaviour and performance of the real building: that the model catches fire suggests that the building is highly flammable, despite the architect's claims; similarly, the instability of the model suggests failure of the load-bearing structure, which the architect is quick to admit. I suppose that the association between model and building is justified by that both are three-dimensional objects. This makes us forget the scale differences and the consequent differences between a simulation and the real thing.

As for what happens to the model  in One fine day, the least said, the best for all who have seen that forgettable comedy.

Does it matter that they're architects?

Does it matter that they're architects?

In romantic comedy architecture often appears as an interesting profession, probably because of its associations with creativity and sensitivity. However, it often seems to have little if any added value for the comedy itself: the architects in One fine day, HouseSitter or 3 men and a baby could have been anything: interior decorators, artists, writers - anything that would ascribe them similar secondary characteristics. Of course, it doesn't help that the three examples aren't great comedies, uninspiring in more than one respects. Why should the architect characters be better than the rest of the film?

On the other hand, there is good comedy directly deriving from architects and their clients in Monty Python's The architects sketch. The comedy comes from distorting the character of the architects, their intentions and social or professional functions. But then, one could never accuse the Pythons of being into rom-com - not even in A fish called Wanda. So, I conclude that it's rom-com that can't take advantage of architecture as a subject, not comedy in general. I suspect that the reason is that it would cause an internal conflict that would confuse or even alienate viewers.

The dream house

The dream house 

One of the few architectural  subjects in comedy is the dream house: a pride and joy that turns into trouble. The Blandings family in Mr Blanding builds his dream house suffers from its naive attitude towards the tricky issues and devious people in the real estate and building trade. This does not apply to their architect, who is not coincidentally the only straight character in the film; he is just a helpless in-between. The Blandingses even come close to the brink of collapse but in the end they triumph and live happily ever after. That's sympathetic comedy for you: even if you feel superior to the naive heroes of the film, you want them to succeed and feel glad for them if they manage to do it, yet still have a laugh at their tribulations.

A different kind of sympathy is what they try to elicit from the viewer in comedies like HouseSitter and The frighteners. In both cases, the hero is an architect who started building a dream house for the love of their life: the dream house is not a goal but part of the background, something that gives their architect owners a tragic dimension and makes us wish them well. Especially in The frighteners, the ghostly half-finished dream house is a powerful setting that works well (HouseSitter fails in that respect, as it does in most respects - it feels strange to praise a film with Michael J. Fox and dismiss one by Frank Oz with Steve Martin). In fact, it works on two levels because it also becomes a goal in the end.

What makes the dream house interesting is that it's not just a possession: it's the container of a dream life with a dream companion. As a comedic setting it gives opportunities for physical comedy and provides rich metaphors. But it's the emotional power of a desired state for both the house and its occupants that plays in the sympathy of the viewers. We don't care if the Blandings home may prove a costly affair in maintenance the shoddy way it must have been built; we can share their relief and joy for the present and hope for the best in the future. After all, houses are always causes of trouble - we're used to that.

A study in affordances

A study in affordances 

I say Jacques Tati's Mon Oncle as a young teenager and have since remained ecstatic about it. It's a masterpiece and a comedy - all I need to make me feel happy and full of admiration. Interestingly, much of the comedy is about human interaction with buildings. It bears many similarities with Gibson's theory of affordances and was made around the same time that Gibson was publishing his books on the subject. It might be a coincidence but I suspect that there are underlying reasons for the wider interest in human interaction with the world: the modernisation of the world and the emphasis on the individual following the Second World War. But even if it's a coincidence it's a film architects should study to understand how easily things can go wrong if one insists on one's one vision and forgets what the vision is about and for whom. In fact, I've been using extracts of the film to introduce affordances to designers. Comedy provides the best view to the human condition, a distorted and exaggerated one, but exactly for this reason the clearest I know of. Philosophers may give us transparent argumentation but comedy is so immediate that it can tell the same in a much shorter space. Thinking and discussing comedy, moreover, tends to be much more pleasant, too.

The cool cats

The cool cats 

Some time ago I watched Melville's Le Samouraï again after a long time. I enjoyed as much as the first, second, third or ... time (how many, actually?) but probably with more detachment than when I was young. At that time, the atmosphere had a different meaning; the tragic heroism of the story permeated every aspect of the film. The magical, then unknown environment of Paris was as strong as the hero's character; it had a charm that attracted and inspired. Now I smile when I realise how Melville made everything look cool. The people are cool; their dress is cool; they listen to cool kaxx; they drove cool cars (Jeff only steals cools Citroën DSs - one of the reasons why I love the film); the criminals are not miserable low-lifes but cool, silent types; even Jeff's filthy apartment looks cool in the film's dark photography.

That was what they were selling to us back then: cool. Delon was cool, McQueen was cool, Newman was cool. That weren't the strongest or invincible or whatever they have been selling to us before or after. They were just cool - as detached, as ironic as I feel now watching them. Reality was a game to them but a game with principles - their own, eclectic and idiosyncratic principles, as Jeff's pointless death illustrates: what was he trying to achieve? And so we tried to be as cool as that by putting on similarly cool clothes, listening to cool music, watching these cool films, feeling cool by proxy. We didn't have to achieve much, be or become something. All we had to do was adopt the style. Easy.

Fake

Fake 

I remember watching a documentary on the great Ealing comedy, The Ladykillers. It was some time ago and as usually I was more listening than watching, so many details escape me, but for the first time I realised that Mrs Wilberforce's lopsided house wasn't real. In fact, most locations were distorted to fit the story. This occurs in many films: we see some actor turn a corner, then there is a cut and we see the actor in another street. We naturally assume that it's the street around the corner but in reality it's a different street, one that's more suitable to the film. In The Ladykillers they did that  apparently a lot but they also actually built the lopsided house at the end of a street, using no right angles to achieve the desired comedic effects. I don't know how realistically they built it because there are scenes on the roof and several shots from a distance but the house appears quite real to me - exactly what one would expect from the home of the delightful Mrs Wilberforce. The combination of decay, disrepair, memories of a better life and proud acceptance of reduced circumstances makes the house and its owner quite believable in a comedy full of wonderful caricatures and lots of interaction with the environment. The Ladykillers has been one of my favourite films ever since I watched a rather poor copy on black-and-white television and every time I have the opportunity to watch it again my appreciation of it increases. It's also interesting from an architectural viewpoint, both for the way architecture contributes to the comedy and for the way they faked the built environment. In a sense, this is exactly what often happens in architectural design: what matters is the impression one gives to clients, users, juries etc. If the design can exist in reality, that's a different matter.