Analog Technologies in the Digital Age
In an article devoted to contemporary sound installations and performances, sound scholar Caleb Kelly points out that during the 2010s, many composers and musicians moved away from the previous decade’s prevalent digital sound production technologies. They did so because the complexity of digital processes, especially within the digital studio, “led to a schism between artists and their materials” (Kelly 2018: n.p.). Kelly gives several examples of materials-based sound practices, among them the installation Bunghole (2013–2014) by Australian artist Eric Demetriou. It comprises a series of 44-gallon drums neatly arranged on sturdy aluminum scaffolding, each drum displaying the logo of an oil company – Atlantic Oil, Nynas, Pertamina and Valvoline. The vessels are meticulously aligned until the first one unexpectedly implodes, creating a startlingly loud bang. This implosion – as well as the subsequent ones – is triggered by an automated vacuum pump that removes the air from the drums until their ultimate collapse. The logos painted on the containers make it difficult not to think about the oil companies and their petrochemical footprint. They prompt Kelly to reflect upon the “forgotten material origins” of these sounds and he concludes that “the materiality of Bunghole is not only physical and sonic, but also political and ecological,” because “the materials themselves always carry with them a multitude of histories, stories, cultural or political associations” (Kelly 2018: n.p.). According to Kelly, “few artists have a thorough understanding of how the algorithms behind their post-production software work, and the hardware itself, made from micro-scaled components, is locked within the physical casing of contemporary computing architecture” (Kelly 2018: n.p.). Kelly perceives this shift to basic means of sound production as a reaction to the ubiquity of digital technology and an indication of an underlying sense of “digital fatigue” (Kelly 2018: n.p.).
In the realm of cinema, the dominance of digital technology has undeniably sparked a renewed interest in analog techniques, or, more precisely, in hands-on approaches to film production. Yet, it is not accurate to attribute the contemporary “artisanal cinema movement” (Gehman 2019) solely to a backlash towards digital formats or even to digital fatigue. One of the driving forces behind the current trend toward analog technologies is the decline of celluloid film as a commercial medium.[4] Film manufacturers have scaled back production of photochemical film stock, and professional film laboratories have all but stopped processing film. As a result, filmmakers have had to adapt through self-skilling and developing do-it-yourself methods to continue working within their medium. According to filmmaker and critic Chris Gehman, the artisanal cinema movement is not a rejection of the present but rather “point[s] to one possible future for film as a thoroughly artisanal medium with the artist involved at every stage of the process” (Gehman 2019: 173).
In terms of perception, photochemical film and opto-mechanical apparatuses bestow distinct sensory experiences that are hardly achievable through conventional digital means. As filmmaker and theorist Paolo Cherchi Usai pointedly states: “There is something depressingly safe, condom-like, in the digital image, and as much as I respect it and realize its creative potential, I cannot really feel anything when I experience it” (Cherchi Usai 2002: 131). Contemporary experimental filmmakers, such as Vicky Smith, are striking a similar note, albeit from a production standpoint. In her article entitled “Full Body Film” (2012) Smith underscores the significance of physically engaging with the film stock, particularly at a time when film is disappearing commercially. With film materials and services dwindling, filmmakers “have assumed custodianship of film […] and seek to stake their investment in film by touching it” (Smith 2012: 42). Smith explains what the “tactile film” is about:
The concern here is with the extremity of what I call “tactile film” in which no camera is used, and all of the marks are generated by physically applied graphic methods, rather than through exposure of the photographic emulsion. I define this work as tactile film, as distinct from “direct” or “handmade” film, because the investment in this area arises from not only manual, but full body contact: film that has been bitten, kissed, bled on, wept onto for example. The full body film states that without the film industry the artist is forced back to their own body as resource. (Smith 2012: 42)
The idea of considering the human body as the ultimate reliable resource for filmmakers operating with the analog today might sound somewhat bleak. However, tactile film – as a physical object available to touch, a quality often deemed unavailable to digital cinema – has the potential not only to persist in the future, but even to carve out new ground.