Describe a “strange adventure” or “image sequence” motivated by two films on the unit of study, and any other films you might care to interpose

The Visceral Language of Film and the Surrealist "Strange Adventure"

By Vanessa Gazy

The lights go down… and a curtain opens… and then, the magic of cinema starts …Into a new world, which only can be visited because of this beautiful language of cinema. In we go, in we go, in we go… So beautiful.

- David Lynch (in a press conference in Israel, 2007)

At another press conference in Cannes, the cast of Mulholland Drive is facing journalists from a long table on a platform. In the center sits David Lynch, patriarch, or king. So far he has answered questions with polite disagreeability (a contradiction that he pulls off quite benignly. Like many “difficult” artists, he is loath to discuss his work). “What is Mulholland Drive about?” hazards one newspaperman, with a winning smile that cracks. Lynch’s mouth flickers upwards and he says placidly, “It’s lovely to be here.” Everybody laughs obediently; nobody presses the issue.

Now somebody else ventures the question of whether Mr. Lynch thinks people will understand Mulholland Drive. David Lynch leans into his microphone and fixes America-Blue eyes on his questioner.

“I know people understand it.” [1]

This is far less the non-sequitur it seems. Emphasise the “know” and we have ourselves an idea.

* * *

Introduction

My interests in this extended entry lie in that which this coy little sentence implies but does not say. How does David Lynch know with such certainty that people will understand Mulholland Drive, despite the fact of its supreme illogic and its defiance of linearity, coherence, and the distinction between conscious and unconscious thought? For Jean Cocteau, director of the surrealist film Le Sang d’un Poete (1930), “a film is not the telling of a dream, but a dream in which we all participate together through a kind of hypnosis.” [2] In this idea, Lynch’s emphatic I know is explainable: Mulholland Drive, in the tradition of surrealism, functions not on the logic of the conscious, but rather the logic of the dream. Both Lynch and Cocteau are most certainly alluding to a certain commonly recognisable order in the disorder of the dream – a language of dreaming. It is in this language that Mulholland Drive speaks to its gathered audience, and in this language that somehow, in a way that cannot easily be put into words, this audience does indeed understand. It is in this language that Cocteau’s “hypnosis” occurs: you are feeling very sleepy as the pendulum sways. And it is to this language, I dare say, that Lynch was referring when he made his comment to the congregation in Cannes, although every journalist there must certainly have received his answer resentfully, privately thinking that they for one certainly did not understand this film in any coherent way, and wishing that the venerable Mister Lynch would explain at least some of Mulholland Drive’s dangling threads so they could go home and write their reviews for tomorrow’s Daily Something.

To which Ludwig Wittengenstein would have told them, had he been present at the time: “… I want to say: Here is the whole. (If you complete it you falsify it)” [3].

Jean Cocteau writes that film functions as a dream - that is,

…a succession of real events that follow on from one another with the magnificent absurdity of dreams, since the spectators would not have linked them together in the same way or have imagined them for themselves, but experience them in their seats as they might experience, in their beds, strange adventures for which they are not responsible. [4]

In this lies the key to the readability of surrealist flm. I shall navigate my way through an understanding of this comment in relation to the special language of film, combined with an attempt to articulate the “strange adventures*” experienced in Cocteau’s Le Sang d’un Poete (1930), Joseph Cornell’s Rose Hobart (1936) and Lynch’s Mulholland Drive (2001). In choosing to discuss surrealist films I do not wish rule out the relevance of Cocteau’s comments to the logic of the film medium as a whole. Robert Curry quite effectively identifies those elements of film-as-a-whole which invite comparison with dreaming:

In general our dreams simply seem more cinematic than our days. A curious, discontinuous way of unfolding characterises films and dreams. Dreams are characterised by the spatio-temporal discontinuities that are very like cuts in a film. The dream, like the film, freely leaps from one place or situation, to another. [5]

However, my particular concern is with the “strange adventure” of the surreal film. For my purposes, the surrealist exaggeration of these “free leaps” and discontinuities serves to provide the most dreamlike and logically problematic sequence of events with which to highlight my theories about the language of film that echoes subconscious "ramblings" beyond the abilities of verbal communication. The surrealist film is that which most profoundly imitates the logic of the dream, and most fully hypnotises its audience, which is captive in the fantasy, or nightmare, unable to click three times on the heels of their collective red shoes until they wake up – or the rolling of credits releases them from their paralysis. To watch a surrealist film is not to gaze removedly at a screen, but rather to become submerged inside the cinematic world world on screen, surrounded by sight, sound, and feeling. This is not a familiar stroll through a logical mental progression, but an adventure whose route and destination is unknown.

Rose Hobart Speaks Louder When Mute: The Visual Language of Dreaming

But it wasn't a dream. It was a place. And you and you and you... and you were
there. But you couldn't have been could you? No, Aunt Em, this was a real truly live place and I remember some of it wasn't very nice, but most of it was beautiful – but just the same all I kept saying to everybody was "I want to go home," and they sent me home! Doesn't anybody believe me?

- Dorothy, The Wizard of Oz (1939)

I have used Dorothy to fill in for Rose Hobart, who does not do me the favour of “waking up” and attempting to put into words the intense world of the dream. But Dorothy does, bless her, showing us immediately the failure of verbal communication in expressing the vivid logic of the dream (bless her). This is a stock example of the vernacular recounting of a dream, and the stock example of the realisation that the magic of the dream world dies with the intrusion of every new phrase of the everyday that tries to do it justice. After her harrowing adventure in Oz – a strange adventure, for our purposes – these are the only words that Dorothy can find to explain her dream. Her aunt only half listens, and Dorothy at once gives up, with an “oh well, Toto.” What this speaks to is a marked disconnection between the expression of the dream, and verbal expression in the conscious world. In the dreamscape, a whole visual world is created into which we enter, like Dorothy in Oz. This is a world rich in “vividness and immediacy” [6] and – and always accompanied by some overarching mood that seems to drip tangibly into everything.

Using one of his own dreams in which a corner store from his childhood, the same even down to the Greek owners’ voices sifting out onto the street, is set next to the school at which he now teaches, Elmer S. Day Jr. analyses the logic of this dream world. He comments that this world is formed as a “visual concantation” depicted entirely without the verbal. This, he says, is “a definitive example of a dream reflecting metaphorical meaning in a non-verbal manner, using a cinematic-like mode of imagery to reflect on the past and the present simultaneously” [7].

In Joseph Cornell’s Rose Hobart work we truly find a “strange adventure”, perhaps all the stranger for Cornell’s – and Rose’s – maintained silence. In this film, not a word is uttered – Rose’s mouth opens and closes, reciting her East of Borneo lines, but it is as if she is suspended underwater, in a bluish haze, and we can’t hear her. What we hear, absurdly, is a strange musical score which sounds remarkably like elevator music, but which oddly compliments the Rose images, which are disjunct sections of East of Borneo pieced together by distant but, in the words of Brian Frye, “still vaguely plausible” connections. For example, Frye goes on, “Hobart’s clothing may change suddenly between shots, but her gesture is continued or she remains at a similar point in the frame” [8].

Upon viewing Rose Hobart for the first time, Salvador Dali became incensed, claiming that Cornell had somehow stolen the idea for this film from his subconscious. This, coupled with the fact that I too can imagine waking up from this dream, hints that in this strange, non-linear film, there is a language being spoken that both awakens notions of the subconscious, and which raises questions about the abstruse language of a dreamed, shared, “strange adventure”. Frye writes that Cornell’s films are “unsettling because their inexplicable strings of images are like reflections from the deep well of the subconscious” [9]. Yet I can imagine myself trying to describe this dream, phrasing it with the passion of she who has just woken from what was certainly a spectacular and strange world, and finding it terribly difficult. Articulated in the vernacular, the “strange adventure” of Rose Hobart would sound like this:

I had a dream (I would say) about that actress from that movie East of Borneo – just bits of her, you know – and it was weird – I don’t know – it’s so hard to explain. It was just a feeling I had like I couldn’t get out of the dream. Just this feeling… and she was beautiful, but I couldn’t stop the dream…and there was a lunar eclipse, and it sort of dropped into this lake…

It reminds me of a dream I once had about a photocopier. Floating in blackness, it was spewing paper, non-stop and frantically. It was frightening and incessant, and my mind would not move on. I semi-woke, but I still could not lurch myself out of the photocopier’s world. Ridiculous, it looks, now that I write it. But in this world, I was captive and increasingly discomfited. In this world, there were no words, only images, and a feeling which spoke to me with some profundity without a name. Dreams make anything potentially real: we believe our dreams when we are in them in ways we never believe things in the conscious world.

In a chapter in his The Remembered Film, Victor Burgin uses Barthes’ analysis of the nature of the language of his own semi-conscious mind as he rests drowsily in a public bar. “The words passed through me,” Barthes explains, “small syntagms, ends of formulae, and no sentence formed, as if that were the very law of this language.” [10] This “non-sentence” is “not a preliminary to the sentence, it is rather ‘eternally, superbly outside the sentence’” [11]. In Freudian terms, this inner speech “represents the persistence of the ‘primary processes’ that historically precede ‘secondary’ modes of thought – preferring images to words, and treating words like images… [that is, in Vygotsky’s words] ‘a single word is so saturated with sense that many words would be required to explain it in external speech’” [12]. Barthes’s and Vygotsky’s discussions of the language of the unconscious mind ring true in the light of this discussion about the indescribable nature of the dream. Barthes maintains that the mental processes of the dream exist “beyond linguistics” [13]. This is why the “strange adventure” of the dream can be adequately articulated through film. Relying only on the visceral realm of the image, the filmic cinematic representation of the dream world uses a “primitive”or prisitine visual mode of expression, which is more concrete than the linguistic mode of expression” [14]. Concrete, because it is visible. Concrete, because it is tangible.

Through the Looking Glass: Le Sang d’un Poète and the Surrealist Mirror to the Babbling Subconscious

The movie screen is the true mirror reflecting the flesh and blood of my dreams.

- Jean Cocteau [15]

If, as I have discussed, we experience the surreal film viscerally, then Cocteau’s notion of his films as the “flesh and blood” of his dreams becomes imbued with significance. This idea calls into question ideas of the cinematic reflection not just of Cocteau’s subconscious world, but of the spectator who enters the dreamscape. According to Curry, The “strange adventure” that is Le Sang d’un Poète is one in which the spectator is taken into the artist’s fantastical “descent into the self” [16] through a mirror. As spectators, we must go too: we are like sleepwalkers now. And because this is the “flesh and blood” of Cocteau’s subconscious, we can feel, see, touch, know the world behind the mirror. The inexpressible realm of the subconscious at once becomes expressible – visible.

In discussing the focus of Russian writer Dostoevsky on the dream as a narrative device, Ruth Mortimer explains that “the dream allows portrayal of the unconscious of a character. Unconscious motivation, much more significant than conscious, may be illustrated rather than stated, dramatized rather than discussed.” [17] If this is true of the novel, then it is ever more true of the surrealist film, which not only illustrates and dramatises the unconscious motivation, but makes it real through actually structuring the text around the very logic of the dream. The moving image breaths life into the dreamscape and invites a shared experience of this dream. This shared experience of the subconscious is a vital element of the commensurability of the language of film. Mortimer later explains that Dostoevsky’s characters’ “dreams express the essence of man’s nature, and his dream symbols are basic concepts distorted and particularised by the individual.” [18]. In this we see that Dostoevsky was interested in dream symbols as a kind of universal language which is “particularised by the individual” in relation to their own lives and experiences. In the same manner, I believe, the surreal film is concerned with speaking a universal language of “man’s nature” through the shared experience of one man’s dreamscape. Le Sang d’un Poete thus becomes a great mirror spanning All Of Humanity, reflecting what we do not articulate through words in the language of the everyday. (N.B. this is a markedly modern perspective; postmodernism has rendered it less effective now, although in the existence of films such as Mulholland Drive, we understand that the idea still holds some sway).

As a child – and, I admit with some relinquishing of dignity, as an adult – I have played games with myself alone with my reflection. Moving my body into certain shapes, I see a cat, a woman. Moving closer, and gazing into my own eye, a see the black circle of my pupil embedded in what looks like a great, three dimensional crater: my iris, or the surface of the moon. At other times, I have distorted my face into ghastly shapes, frightening myself quite sincerely so that I have to look away, not sure whether it is me in the mirror or some terrible reflection of evil. Let us think for a moment of the mirror as a screen, into which we look to see the flesh-and-blood embodiment of our minds and hearts, which are otherwise our only company. Employing dream logic, the logic of the imaginary and the illusion, I see a different world inside my mirror, with me in it. Through this same language of visceral immediacy and unformed sentences, we comprehend Le Sang d’un Poet, although Cocteau takes the idea a step further when he actually enters the mirror, making visible the world of the dream. While my subconscious mind is embodied, made visible only insofar as my mirror allows it to be, Cocteau demonstrates the manner in which the qualities of cinema can lay out the realm of this “parallel world” as visual and sensory, in the words of Day, “embodied in the concreteness of sensuous visual imagery which combines different but meaningful elements of time and space” [19].

As a subject involved in the “strange adventure” of Le Sang d’un Poete, we are granted access to the world behind the mirror – the locked chambers of Cocteau’s subconscious which we view through keyholes. Like Alice falling down the rabbit hole to Wonderland, this is an experience of complete immersion, which we understand because all of us have experienced a dream before. The strangeness of this film when recounted verbally is overwhelming. Imagine it:

I had a dream… That I was painting a picture – but the mouth came to life – and so I tried to rub it off, but it transferred itself to my hand – and the mouth felt nice when I held it to my skin – but I wanted it off, it was too strange – so I put it on the mouth of a statue that I had in my room – and then the room changed – and it was just me and the statue and nothing else, not even a door – only there was this mirror. And the statue told me to go into the mirror – try, try – she kept saying, and so I did – I saw myself go through as if I jumped into a pool – and then I was floating in a dark tunnel, inside the mirror…

This particular “strange adventure”, held together with this distinct logic of the dream in which places shift, bodies achieve the impossible, and nothing is a barrier, takes us into Cocteau’s subconscious, represented by locked rooms in which a random collection of things are taking place. An Indian is shot in one chamber, in another a little girl is crawling up the wall a la Pippi Longstockings (whom, I feel it appropriate to note, I had nightmares about as a small child wherein she was walked up my walls in a highly sinister manner). In another is a strange image of a painting reclining in a bed, with a large hypnotic swirl rotating in the background. These images are not coherent, and yet, when we trace the fragmentary logic of their presence in the sequence, we invariably link them to an understanding connected to our individual life experiences using “a multitude” of Michel de Certeau’s “‘tactics’ fashioned from the ‘details’ of daily life” [20]. In this manner, the strange adventure of Le Sang d’un Poete becomes uniquely our own, self-reflecting, self-induced hypnosis which will be the same cinematic experience as nobody else. Hence the reason for Cocteau’s assertion that “the audience’s role is huge and has to be relearned” [21].

No Hay Banda: Your Adventure is an Illusion and You Are Very Much Fooled

No hay banda. There is no band. It is all a recording... Il n'y a pas d'orchestre. It is all an illusion.

-Mulholland Drive (2001) at Club Silencio

These words come from the magician at Mulholland Drive's superbly inexplicable "Club Silencio". He shows us a man playing a trumpet; the man moves the trumpet from his mouth but the music keeps playing. "No hay banda," he says, "- but yet - we hear the band." His act ends, and on comes the next, a woman's heartfelt rendition of Llorando. We become absorbed in the sadness and beauty of the act: the truth of her performance. And then - all at once - she collapses. And the singing continues from somewhere overhead. A tape recording. You are dreaming. This is an illusion. Your eyes lie to you.

Mulholland Drive is a fitting way to end this discussion, as, in the words of one blogger named "RPC" in his "Mulholland Drive Panning From the East: A Personal View", this film is delivered "intravenously... under our cortex", bypassing the conscious and resonating directly in the realm of the "strange adventure" of the dream. "At a conscious level, there’s not much you can do," he says. "Going to see Mulholland Drive is just like going to bed at night: you never know what your dream will be, if you are going to dream at all, or dream and forget when you wake up." This film is immersed entirely in the language of the dream. Fantasy, desire and fear are echoed through the internal eye of Diane's subconscious in the form of a dream. People's names change, odd and random things happen, identities shift, things encountered in everyday life bubble up in strange and deeply significant forms. Love is more beautiful, sex more shudderingly lovely, and evil and guilt are expressed in the terrible language of the nightmare. This is a language we feel at a primal level. Though it makes little rational sense, it makes sense somewhere under the tip of the iceburg of our conscious mind.

“I had a dream about this place… It’s the second one I’ve had – but they’re both the same. They start out that I’m here – but it’s not day or night – it’s kind of half-night, you know – but it looks like this – except the light. And I’m scared like I can’t tell you. Of all people, you’re standing right over there. By that counter… You’re in both dreams - and you’re scared… Then I realise what it is. There’s a man – in back of this place. He’s the one who’s doing it. I can see him through the wall. I can see his face. I hope that I never see that face ever outside of a dream… That’s it.”

“So. You came to see if he’s out there.”

- Mulholland Drive (2001)

The sequence of events that follows this particular Mulholland Drive scene results in one of the most elementally terrifying moments I am yet to encounter in film. We do not know the identity of this strange man whose nightmare we are to witness, only that his damply red-rimmed, tortured eyes are fixed on another identified man – friend? Psychologist? We can only assume in retrospect that he is a part of Diane's dream, connected directly to the moment in reality when she hired a hitman to kill her lover. Yet even of this we can't be sure.

Following the mens' short exchange, the latter one gets up and motions to his trembling counterpart to follow. No more words are spoken; the scene reverts entirely to the realm of the nightmare – some unspeakable horror looming and terror in everything, from the sign on the diner door – “please use other door” – to the green metal of the stair railings, to the sunlight and shadow washing the drab backlot. The sound we hear is a low and deeply ominous, unremitting rumble of impending horror, right there, in the middle of the day. We dread together, me, and this tortured man. We know what we will see and we don’t want to see it – and then at once, as the roar reaches its crescendo, the man whose very idea paralyses us slides out like some terrible figure from the depths of hell. Our worst nightmare has come true: the young man’s face contorts with fear before he drops to the ground; my mouth is an O of horror each time. Like every recurring nightmare, it does not become gentler when next I view the scene.

Again we see that the young man’s verbalised description of the horror of his dream sounds childish and irrational next to the actual, cinematic playing out of the nightmare, which is an expression of pure terror. This scene repeatedly nearly brings me to tears of fright; it brings my hands involuntarily to my eyes in the second before I know he will appear, it makes me dizzy and stunts my movements. For hours after seeing this apparition I am not the same: I move fearfully through my own physical world, expecting to see him slide out from every corner I pass. That's because I was there in that alley. I experienced the moment with all the heady terror of the reality of the dream. I am reminded of the stuff of one my own childhood nightmares in particular: on a similarly sunny day, the air became inexplicably full of some unplaced terror, and as I looked at my house – which for some reason was now in its skeletal form, just a wooden frame – a clown appeared to me with all the menace of Lynch’s bogey-man.

The “strange adventure” of the fantasy dream or the nightmare is based on the illusory qualities of the dream, and how fears and desires are echoed in these illusions. Mulholland Drive is founded upon the logic of the fantasy-turned-nightmare: the film is a direct reflection of Diane’s subconscious. And yet, we do not immediately pin Mulholland Drive down as another Dorothy-in-Oz scenario, for Lynch has us hynotised; we are inhabiting his illusionary space; living it. And, as Cocteau says, “one of the characteristics of the dream is that nothing surprises us in it.”[22]. We are willing to be taken on a journey without doubting it, at first, despite the early appearances of several strange and illogical elements – a maniacally smiling elderly couple waving “Betty” (Diane) off, mention by “Coco” of someone once keeping a kangaroo on the lawns, a hitman whose bungling of a hit and subsequent murder of a vacuum cleaner is characteristic of the strangeness of a dream. But we nod along, unaware that we are dreaming, enjoying our adventure into a new “reality”. Lost in the illusion of the dream.

This film frightens in a strange way. It is not a movie about murder or crime directly, although Diane’s subconscious creates narratives of a "gang", mafia style Hollywood underworld in an attempt to divert the dream in its fantasy stage from self-blame. There is no tangible source of evil, except for the monster, but we know that he too is the product of a dream. Rather, the terror or this film lies somewhere in the unspeakable and unknowable feeling of this world, which is represented onscreen through images and sounds that strike some dissonant and menacing chord in our subconscious minds. In other words, we feel the nightmare, we see it in three dimensions; our eyes fool us. What Lynch shows us is the power of film to represent like nothing else the workings of the subconscious - and moreover, the power of film to make the spectator dream.

Conclusion: Silencio

This entry began with an emphatic David Lynch telling us that he knew that the audience of Mulholland Drive would necessarily understand what is, essentially, an illogical dreamscape of a film. I have interpreted Lynch to mean that his film, and all surreal film, can be universally understood at a visceral, primal, immediate level, because it is speaks in the language of the dream. This entry has sought to explore three facets of this language of the surrealist film: firstly, the inherently more compatible relationship between the visual and visceral communication of the film than verbal communication in the articulation of dream logic; secondly the idea of the surreal film as a mirror, which brings an audience into a collective state of hypnosis and self-reflectivity; and finally, the illusionary qualities of the dream/film language which renders the route of our "strange adventure" unknowable and makes us participents in the dream itself. My aim in this has been to bring forth the idea that the subconscious and the surreal film speak the same language exclusively. No other mode of communication is capable of truly embracing, at a visceral and visual level, the logic of the dream. The cinema shows us the failings of verbal language, for which some things are ultimately, in the words of Barthes, ‘eternally, superbly outside the sentence’” [23].

I will therefore end with a quote from Flaubert, which in the context of the verbal versus the visual, seems quite apt: “Great art,” he says, “is silent and incomprehensible and makes us dream” [24]. Which bears a marked similarity of Mulholland Drive’s final line, uttered by a strange unrelated woman with a blue beehive, sitting in the wings of Club Silencio. Her words? “Silencio”: silence. Silence viewers. Do not mull over what you have just seen, but be still as it sinks to where it belongs inside you: the mysterious chambers of your subconscious, dreaming mind.

* I will refer to Jean Cocteau's phrase, the "strange adventure" throughout this entry as a means of uniting the dreamscape and the cinematic experience as indistinguishable elements of the same language of the visceral and visual.

Works Cited

[1] Mulholland Drive (dir. David Lynch, 2001), DVD special features, Cannes Press Conference

[2] Jean Cocteau, The Art of Cinema, trans. Robin Buss, London and New York: Marion Boyars, 2001, p.40.

[3] Quoted in Victor Burgin, The Remembered Film, London: Reaktion Books, 2004, p. 7

[4] Jean Cocteau, The Art of Cinema, trans. Robin Buss, London and New York: Marion Boyars, 2001, p.40, my emphasis

[5] Robert Curry, ‘Films and Dreams’, The Journal of Aesthetic and Art Criticism, Vol. 33, No. 1. (Autumn, 1974), p. 83

[6] ibid, p. 89

[7] Elmer S. Day, Jr, ‘Toward a Phenomenology of Dream Imagery and Metaphor’ in Art Education, Vol. 32, No. 7. (Nov 1979), p. 17.

[8] Brian Fry, "Rose Hobart" at Sense of Cinema, Accessed: http://www.sensesofcinema.com/contents/cteq/01/17/hobart.html. Last Accessed: 27/10/07.

[9] Ibid.

[10] Roland Barthes quoted in Victor Burgin, The Remembered Film, London: Reaktion Books, 2004, p. 10

[11] Ibid, p. 11

[12] Vygotsky quoted in Victor Burgin, The Remembered Film, London: Reaktion Books, 2004, p. 11

[13] Roland Barthes quoted in Victor Burgin, The Remembered Film, London: Reaktion Books, 2004, p. 14

[14] Elmer S. Day, Jr, ‘Toward a Phenomenology of Dream Imagery and Metaphor’ in Art Education, Vol. 32, No. 7. (Nov 1979), p. 17.

[15] Derek Malcom, "La Belle et la Bete", Guardian Unlimited, July 1, 1999. Available: http://film.guardian.co.uk/Century_Of_Films/Story/0,,62195,00.html (Last accessed 27/10/07)

[16] The Jean Cocteau Web Page, Available: http://www.netcomuk.co.uk/~lenin/jean_cocteau_boap.html (last accessed 26/10/07)

[17] Ruth Mortimer ‘Dostoevski and the Dream’, in Modern Philology, Vol. 54, No. 2. (Nov., 1956), p. 107.

[18] Ibid, p. 108, my emphasis

[19] Elmer S. Day, Jr, ‘Toward a Phenomenology of Dream Imagery and Metaphor’ in Art Education, Vol. 32, No. 7. (Nov 1979), p. 17.

[20] Victor Burgin, The Remembered Film, London: Reaktion Books, 2004, p. 8

[21] Jean Cocteau, The Art of Cinema, trans. Robin Buss, London and New York: Marion Boyars, 2001, p.41

[22] The Jean Cocteau Web Page, Available: http://www.netcomuk.co.uk/~lenin/jean_cocteau_boap.html (last accessed 26/10/07)

[23] Roland Barthes in Victor Burgin, The Remembered Film, London: Reaktion Books, 2004, p. 10

[24] Neal Oxenhander, ‘On Cocteau’ in Film Quarterly, Vol. 18, No. 1. (Autumn, 1964), p. 12

Bibliography

Burgin, Victor The Remembered Film, London: Reaktion Books, 2004.

Cocteau, Jean The Art of Cinema, trans. Robin Buss, London and New York: Marion Boyars, 2001.

Curry, Robert, ‘Films and Dreams’, The Journal of Aesthetic and Art Criticism, Vol. 33, No. 1. (Autumn, 1974), pp. 83 -89.

Day, Elmer S. Jr, ‘Toward a Phenomenology of Dream Imagery and Metaphor’ in Art Education, Vol. 32, No. 7. (Nov 1979), pp. 15-17.

Fry, Brian, "Rose Hobart" at Sense of Cinema, Accessed: http://www.sensesofcinema.com/contents/cteq/01/17/hobart.html. Last Accessed: 6/8/07.

Malcom, Derek, "La Belle et la Bete", Guardian Unlimited, July 1, 1999. Available: http://film.guardian.co.uk/Century_Of_Films/Story/0,,62195,00.html (Last accessed 27/10/07)

Mortimer, Ruth, ‘Dostoevski and the Dream’, in Modern Philology, Vol. 54, No. 2. (Nov., 1956), pp. 106-116.

Mulholland Drive (2001) dir. David Lynch

Oxenhander, Neal, ‘On Cocteau’ in Film Quarterly, Vol. 18, No. 1. (Autumn, 1964), pp. 12 -14.

The Jean Cocteau Web Page, Available: http://www.netcomuk.co.uk/~lenin/jean_cocteau_boap.html (last accessed 26/10/07)