Database, Anarchéologie, the Commons, Kino-eye, and Mash
Database, Anarchéologie, the Commons, Kino-eye, and Mash
How Bard, Kaufman, Svilova, and Vertov Continue the Revolution
Abstract and Keywords
This chapter discusses Perry Bard’s Man with a Movie Camera: The Global Remake (2008–present). Bard’s collaborative project is an international collective remake of Dziga Vertov’s Man with a Movie Camera (1929) that redeploys Vertov’s kinoks (roving camerapersons/reporters/witnesses dedicated to the making of moving images as “a living evolutionary process” that depicts “life-as-it-is”). They upload their own remade sequences and link them to Vertov’s original frames, which then can be viewed as a part of a database of overlapping uploads that merge into multiple versions of the remade film and/or projected onto urban spaces.
We blow up cinema, For CINEMA to be seen.
» Dziga Vertov, The Laboratory of Hearing, 1917
There’s never one nal answer for any of this, it’s always a remix.
» DJ Spooky
Is it necessarily to found, always in the ruins of the archive, a shadow archive? Another archive that replaces the archive that takes place in its own ruin as an afterthought and effect of destruction?
» Akiru Mizuta Lippit, Atomic Light (Shadow Optics)
“There in the pyroprosthesis of the archive, are cinders. Nothing will have taken place but the place. How will we think of there?”1 This is the question for videobased projects that play with the parameters of the epic and propose a reconguring of how the moving image is fabricated and displayed. How we think of there is the question for much of the artifactual debris that constitutes a reimagining of the modernist European avant-garde’s promise of montage-driven revolution. The there of these diverse video practices is located on a meandering collision course with Siegfried Zielinski’s Deep Time of the Media, Alexander Kluge and Oskar Negt’s contested and shifted public sphere, and Dziga Vertov’s anticanonical Kinopravda. This fertile trajectory of theory, moving images, audio remixes, and makers proposes a disintegrated alchemical framework that reenvisions media history and puts forward an anarchéologie-excavated legacy in its place.2 Place is constructed here as a vibrant social reactivation of monumental debris and domestic meanderings and the requisition of street and domestic screens for rationales both political and purposeless.
The monumental artifactual fragments of empire, revolution, resistance, and surveillance are contained and often distilled via video debris. These materials (p.93) can be articulate tracings that are buried in official archives, objectified as searing memorials, recorded as trace souvenirs, or existent in domestic disregard on laptops haphazardly shoved under unmade bedclothes. They function as witness, artifact, or elegiac ephemera and often invite and require the touch of remembering to activate and transform into organized pictures and sounds. Trace recordings and public and/or discrete dispersions have always driven the experience of recording and reordering. To share is to retrieve and compile and, perhaps, broadcast. Multiple cultural activities rely on debris both found and discarded and then rediscovered and recycled. The personal archive produced by the prosthesis camcorder or phantom-limb cell phone insists that the tourist, fan, repeat viewer, and visitor are interlaced, interpolated, and annotated daily within the “official” memory bank. Reinventions of this vault have been articulated through forms and access systems that are designed to interrogate spatial histories, whether the manifestation is the modernist 1920s city symphony of the European avant-garde, current open-source repositories like the U.S. National Archives Digital Vault and the Prelinger Archives, or the fertile, cannibal fields of You Tube and the nouveaux auteurs of Vimeo.
Our desire-fueled, sometimes collectively authored epics, remakes, and sequels are often facilitated by the both utopian and dystopian potential of perpetual documentation and preservation. Our propensity to record audio and visual material alters flotsam and jetsam such that it will now take longer than the remaining life spans of its producers, audience, and collectors to archive, view, and catalog it all. The origin story of our current situation holds some clues and templates and more than a few incendiary admonishments. Dziga Vertov’s barely postrevolutionary kinoks sought to destroy the artifice of unquestioned documentary witness. The solicited reportage of multiple cameramen was shaped into the possibility of a projected new society formed by the new (hu)man with freshly retrained eyes. Kinoks would have come from anywhere, been trained in the field, and become contributors who in turn would train the succeeding generations until a new visual order was established in the fabric of everyday life. “Vertov and his kinoks dreamt of a newsreel that would not merely present ‘Life-as-it-is’ but also stimulate viewers to participate in the ‘associative construction’ of the projected images.”3 Kinoks would make the film-thing together and, in making it together, fabricate a moving image—a living evolutionary process built on an armature, a series of modular “bloks” that ultimately could be reused indefinitely without removing them from either their efficacy or their morphing truths: truths made truer than truth. Never one to claim veracity in documentary ethics as foundational, Vertov and company strove, as true Constructivist workers, to manufacture a composite closer to experience and ethically devoted to the future Communist society.4 He and his work fell into oppressed and enforced silence after Stalin’s Socialist realist lockdown ended (p.94) the brief Russian Constructivist experiment. That his body of work, excavated several decades later simultaneously by experimental filmmakers and documentarians in the 1960s, reemerged just as the moving image was subject to multiple revolutionary programs seems a just and lasting reinvention.5 Article 18 of Vertov’s “Artistic Calling Card (1917–1947),” in which he refers to himself in the third person, lays out the kinok challenge:
Humanity of Kinoks (Celove cestvo kinokov) one of Vertov’s earliest ideas was to create an army of film scouts (kino nabljudateli) and Kinoks in order to abandon single authorship and proceed to mass authorship, to organize an “I-see” montage, “not a coincidental but rather a necessary and all-encompassing global review of the world every few hours.” (Knifot Nr. 2).6
Man with a Movie Camera (1929), alongside Bruce Conner’s A Movie (1958) and Peter Kubleka’s Unsere Afrikareise (Our trip to Africa) (1965), has served multiple generations of post-World War II image makers as an iconographic model for investigational strategies in the moving image and aural ether, inspiring varied activities of recombinatory archival-based work that in turn have triggered myriad reinventions of appropriative remontage well into the twenty-first century. These diverse offspring, productively rustling around in various open archives, range from the Situationist International to DJ Spooky—or Abigail Child and Santiago Álvarez rumbling around Girl Talk with some detour grazing on De La Soul.7 This module of makers using solicited, unedited, or found images and sounds fabricates works that teeter among ethnography, media genealogy, archival restoration, documentary, art product, and the archaeology of the found, the spent, and the reexamined. Siegfried Zielinski has spearheaded a new multidisciplinary rubric, christened Variantology, that proposes a deep time of mediums and their origins. This composite refuses material constraints, finite academic definitions, and stable boundaries and builds a critical force beyond discipline specificity and accepted historical narratives. Variantology is another project of reorientation and forced paradigm shift—if you will, a remix of the telling of media (mystic) mistic origins.8 Image recovery haunts many of these pursuits, whereas reimaginings of time-based archival, remix, and remake-based projects explore the promise of avant-garde film, video art, found sound and image, database access structures, and disturbed archival repose. Recombination, replacement, reenactment, screen-face annotation, compositing, subtitling, sampling, MU (mash-ups), and the DJ remix are just some of the strategies currently applied to the reconfiguring of witnessed, received, or remade media material.9
There are multiple origin points. One such node that examines and performs the appropriation and states the implications of such tactics in contemporary (p.95) work is Perry Bard’s Man with a Movie Camera: The Global Remake, an unending, frame-by-frame international collective remake of Vertov’s Man with a Movie Camera that went online in 2008 and is designed to infinite layers, perpetually morphing as people overlap sequences and overlay their reinterpretative images on an ongoing and infinite basis.10 The upload interface has metered every shot, categorized each section, and laid out a fastidious template online that documents each shot and gives instructions for uploading a remake side by side with the original frames.11 One can enter a shot into the database, indexically attached to a specific sequence, and watch the overlapping uploads that merge into multiple versions of the remade film. Which version of the rebooted film is seen at any one time depends on how the algorithm cycles through the material available for each current annotation. If no one has uploaded material, then the original will play alone in the left frame with a black void to its right. This space serves as an invitation to the viewer to remake herself as maker.12 No screening can ever be identical; its linearity is upended by the possibility of the space of the moving image that is not just three-dimensional but hyperdimensional (hypertextual), with layers cascading unseen behind every shot, potentially accessed at the next screening and the next. The work becomes a site that can be revisited and reworked alongside the steady invitation of the original work, which continues to unspool in the left-hand frame as its database restlessly reconfigures.
Man with a Movie Camera: The Global Remake exists on the Web, at media festivals, and in the gallery and museum but also travels and is launched on outdoor public commons screens. Perry Bard states, “My research is walking the streets,” a contemporary flâneur with electronic tendrils.13 Her quandary is getting people up on the screen by making the screen itself permeable. The public open-source archive feeds the machine that simultaneously reimagines, preserves, and subverts the archive. Her project is an ephemeral replicant of Russian Constructivist cinema. These Soviet culture and literacy trains presaged contemporary linkage structures that can be accessed remotely and reconfigured intimately for multiple purposes; the lines of connectivity are not carved out of landscape and hard-won steel but rather etched in networks of fi ber-optic cables, transmissions, and hotspot nodes. From the Prelinger Archives to more discrete, personalized activities such as Moby’s open-source sound tracks, DJ Spooky’s recombinations for Adbusters, and Danger Mouse’s Grey Album (2004) and its offspring to larger epic and globally projected challenges to corporate and individual copyright like Creative Commons, the potentially radical promise of open-source material communities, these image collators, and their stratagem(s) inform foundational questions about the reconfiguring of collective authorship or reauthorship, video’s promise, experimental documentary, and the ability to reexamine representation and power itself using rubrics many centuries old that morph into ever-more-complicated, iridescent, unexpected, promising, and uncontainable tangents.
(p.96) Bard’s collective remake is contingent on redeputizing kinoks. Vertov and cadres moved toward a profound realignment of the Communist struggle, reinventing montage along the way, battling with Eisenstein, and single-handedly attempting to combat narrative “play” films: “I put it to you once more: Revolutionary cinema’s path of development has been found. It leads past the heads of film actors and beyond the studio roof, into life, into genuine reality, full of its own drama and detective plots.”14 The new film was constructed of composite intervals, of “life caught unawares” (often very much aware), that posited a utopian future of broadcast images and sounds made collectively and scattered far afield to be gathered and scattered again in a repetition of energetic and transient remakes. It was an investigation, a challenge to see like a kinok, process like a kinok, and make like a kinok. The camera prosthesis of the new twentieth-century (hu)man was to be firmly welded to the low-powered organic nineteenth-century eye and to affect a sea change from which no one would want to or could recover.
In an attempt to write what should be and could not materially be made to happen (just yet), Vertov hypothesizes the connectedness we now take for granted: “Given the swiftness of communication between nations, given the lightening-fast turnover of footage, Kinogazeta should be a survey of the world every few hours.”15 Vertov’s sacred quest to sever the new audiovisual continuum from a poisonous dependency on literature, narcotic fairytales, and bourgeois melodrama was, as Yuri Tsivian outlines, “complemented by no less manifest intentions to wed them to science—social as much as natural, which in Vertov’s frame of reference was the same as saying that cinema must become Marxist.”16 This required a specifically materialistic moving image that would literally enact a dialectic of upheaval triggered by newly born eyes that would transform the lm-object by constructing images of life as witnessed in order to train the next audience of potential makers. Materialist cinema was constructed and was invested in the demolition of destructive illusion by the new-eye weapon, the kino-eye of an enacted, living Marxist ideology. Vertov’s desire to implant his ideological mission into the very fabric of the reimagined moving image template was tied to a specific locational Marxist intervention. Anne Friedberg outlines the very scenography that Vertov implemented and enacted as the basis for his oppositional understanding and discharge of the moving image as a tool against illusion: “If in all ideology men and their circumstances appear upside down as in a camera obscura, this phenomenon arises just as much from their historical life-processes as the inversion of objects on the retina does from their physical life-processes.”17 Friedberg reimagines Marx and Engel’s primal site/sight thusly:
The inversion of “men and their circumstances” in the camera obscura implies that there might be a positivist alternative to illusions of ideology. (p.97)(p.98) Many commentators have remarked on the timing of Marx and Engel’s metaphor. Marx ridicules the camera obscura at the very moment that its apparatical—the photographic camera—was seen as veridical. In 1845 and 1846, the years that The German Ideology was written, William Henry Fox Talbot had just produced The Pencil of Nature (1844 –1846). A few sentences before this passage of The German Ideology, Marx and Engels assert that the production of ideas is “directly interwoven with the material activity and material intercourse of man, the language of real life.” Marx finds the dual nature of the camera obscura—as scientific instrument and device for illusion—to be a perfect visual analogue for the invisible workings of ideology. While 1845 was the year that marked photography’s introduction as an instrument for exact drawing of the natural world (the “pencil of nature”) and hence it would seem odd to question the mediating effects of the camera obscura, that year was also the height of the magic lantern’s popularity as a projective technique for illusion.18
Vertov’s hopeful Marxist supraorthodoxy and dogged belief in haptic and optic reeducation required the demise of such an illusion in order to build a Soviet ground zero, a field in which the potential of the moving image could be realized by constructing an ideological key to the very matter of the moving and aural image, a materialist montage made manifest with the building blocks of the true quotidian.19
Contemporaneous attacks on Man with a Movie Camera as a purely formalist, tricked-out rollercoaster ride decidedly missed the point of Vertov’s conception of a materialist cinema. This was a cinema open to sequences of infinite intervals, reimaginings, and self-reflexive wonders designed to reconstitute an anti-illusion of the new man, woman, and child. The reimaging of this project within Bard’s remake suggests, consciously or unconsciously, a universalist moving image language made of atomistic, possibly off-handed images designed to be replaced and effectively erased in perpetuum. The project devises a screen on which anyone can riff on his interval matrix or dice it into MU morsels with his or her corresponding newly fabricated twenty-first-century interval, abutting the anachronistic but still promising twentieth-century frame by frame, the interstitial space created in between abutted frames being implicitly and invitingly porous.
This is a leap of faith, an investment in the ideological construction of the aural and visual container within which Bard has redeputized the kinok.20 Echoing Vertov’s protoprogrammer vision of the endless archive—where the recombinatory promise of recordings are tied not to merely indexical representation or notions of documentary verisimilitude but to the orchestration of moment, movement, emotional impact, catharsis, and impact rhythm response—Bard essentially reintroduces the possibility of repurposing and reinvention (while (p.99) presently adrift in the overkill of mediascapes) through a template that means to unabashedly upend the world order. Bard is explicit about the importance of range, inclusion, and potential, echoing a certain humble Vertovian zeal in proposing that her project is well situated for continuing the journey while pinpointing the absences that demand redress:
The work explores the capabilities of the Internet to achieve global collaboration by encouraging (organizing) culturally diverse participation and by developing software, which accepts input from many sources (e.g. mobile phone, digital still camera, video, screen-grab) allowing for the greatest range of participation. To ensure that uploads would not be from the usual places the commission (biggerpictureuk.net) was used to commission 12 foreign correspondents (Brazil, Lebanon, Israel, Columbia, Pakistan, Russia, Serbia, Japan, China, Korea, Mexico, and Thailand) whose role it is to spread the word through their mailing lists and to organize the upload of scenes or shots that add up to a minimum of one minute in length. In the beginning of the project I You Tubed soldiers who had gone to Iraq—I found footage and invited them to upload their footage, even suggesting where it would fit in the film. The answer I got was it’s free to use you have my permission. From my perspective now, if you look at Ruttman vs. Vertov, class is the first thing that comes to mind. Those hierarchies in relation to the remake, to the internet, have to do with the digital divide that manifests itself in my project through absences. 21
By uploading according to Vertov, Svilova, and Kaufman’s template, a participant in Man with a Movie Camera: A Global Remake unwittingly or consciously becomes a reenactor of revolutionary montage predicated on the belief that the moving image can reorganize society and sight, reform vision, and liberate maker and viewer alike. Vertov demanded new eyes, and he hoped to help train them. By deploying his template and reinvigorating its rubric, the audience and contributor examine the stretch of movement in time between a 1929 Moscow/St. Petersburg hybrid and a world composite that posits a FIN that might never arrive.
These are atomic and cellular shifts. There is a reason Gilles Deleuze spends a slice of hyperfueled time in Cinema 1 : The Movement-Image tangoing with Man with a Movie Camera. He identifies Vertov’s work as a moment of the moving image’s complete recognition of itself and of our entry into its field of play. Deleuze is clear in his outline of Vertov in opposition to Eisenstein, an oft-quoted battle that had no rest among Soviet montage debaters. A material evocation of Communism’s promise is the very undergirding of Man with a Movie Camera. Our present question simply is, What is triggered by this now anachronistic undocumentary? Deleuze posits that part of the answer is a complete redefinition (p.100)
Whether there were machines, landscapes, buildings or men was of little consequence: each—even the most charming peasant woman or the most touching child—was presented as a material system in perpetual interaction. They were catalysts, converters, transformers, which received and re-emitted movements, whose speed, direction, order they changed, making matter evolve towards less “probable” states, bringing about changes out of all proportion to their own dimensions. It is not that Vertov considered beings to be machines, but rather machines which have a “heart” and which “revolved, trembled, jolted about and threw out flashes of lightening,” as man could also do, using other movements and under other conditions, but always in interaction with each other. (p.101)What Vertov discovered in contemporary life was the molecular child, the molecular woman, the materialist woman and child, as much as systems, which are called mechanisms of machines. Most important were all the (communist) transitions from an order, which is being undone to an order, which is being constructed.22
Perhaps, Bard’s programmer role is to reconnect the synapses of regard, the potential of this molecular child to a network already imagined by Vertov and cadres as broadcasting a recombined everyday archive that will be constantly drawn down and refilled by the kinoks who will in turn shepherd fresh kinoks. The new eye involves an uploading, a matching, and an annotation of a reseen text. It is always in training, as it is integral to participation, deconstruction, interrogation, and enjoyment of human society. Integral to this reimagining is the understanding of what needs to be broken down, how one reconfigures a moving image, how one choreographs and then rechoreographs a tenuous time sample.
But between two systems or two orders, between two movements, there is necessarily the variable interval. In Vertov the interval of movement is perception, the glance, the eye. But the eye is not the too-immobile eye; it is the eye of the camera, that is an eye in matter, (p.102) a perception such as it is in matter, as it extends from a point where an action begins to the limit of the reaction, as it fills the interval between the two, crossing the universe and beating in time to its intervals. The correlation between a non-human matter and a superhuman eye is the dialectic itself, because it is also the identity of a community of matter and a communism of man.23
As we upload according to template and incise a present image in juxtapositioning to the artifact of 1929 we create an interstitial space that vibrates with possibility. It is a place of ricochet; Vertov’s left side of the frame and our own right side form a tertiary montage—a tension of intention and interpretation, a shimmering border begging to be infiltrated. This is a place of possibility, of becoming (again to channel Deleuze). Bard’s editorial matrix is sometimes synchronic, annotative, or discordant and in this gumbo, but it also is a space for talk back, the remark, the aside, and the deferred conclusion. It is a site of conjecture born of contribution, an insertion into a fixture that will periodically hold its shape but invites the wavering and wandering pair. To understand the project, simply collect, upload, and then stand back and see how you are echoed, bounced, and partnered. Contribute to the ether-based infinity vault, and you might just be amazed.
I fondly dedicate this essay to Lynne Kirby, Michel de Certeau, and Tom DeBiaso, who always knew which train to take and kindly took me along for the ride.
(1.) Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression, trans. Eric Prenowitz (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 34, quoted in Akira Mizuta Lippit, Atomic Light (Shadow Optics) (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2005), 27.
(2.) This is Rudi Visker’s term as redeployed in Siegfried Zielinski, Deep Time of the Media: Towards an Archaeology of Hearing and Seeing by Technical Means, trans. Gloria Custance (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2006), 27.
(3.) Vlada Petric, Constructivism in Film: The Man with a Movie Camera: A Cinematic Analysis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 70.
(4.) This was a Communist society that never actually existed in the USSR, of course, but Russian Constructivism enjoyed a brief moment of hopeful postrevolutionary, pre-Stalin experimentation.
(5.) Never a modest man, Vertov wrote a remarkable magnum opus in which he painstakingly lists all his contributions. The essay is prescient for all that he did presee/presage, from the “theory of relativity on screen” to a “mobile projection unit” that took twelve minutes to erect to the “application of montage during shooting.” Dziga Vertov, “Artistic Calling Card (1917–1947),” in The Vertov Collection at the Austrian Film Museum, eds. Thomas Tode and Barbara Wurm (Vienna: Gesellschaft für Film und Medien, 2006), 72.
(7.) Remarkably, it was Peter Kubelka starting in the early 1960s, along with Peter (p.103) Konlechner, who was responsible for proposing the collection and nurturing and maintaining Vertov’s archives under the auspices of the Austrian Film Museum. An integral story of intrigue, censorship, and loving restoration is related in the aforementioned volume. Kubelka holds a pivotal position in the education or reeducation/reformation of the Euro-American avant-garde.
(8.) Zielinski, Deep Time of the Media, 27. Zielinski’s Variantology indeed takes on the structure of the upended or infiltrated open-source archive in its own self-definition: “Our work on deep time relations between arts, sciences, and technologies does not seek to reinvent the concepts of the media or the arts. The aim is to open up both media and the arts via their interactions with scientific and technological processes. It is our hope that media experts will see their research areas in a broader light than before, and that disciplines which have so farof outstanding scientists, artists and scholars who engage with the deep time r not participated in these discourses (such as theology, classical studies, many areas of the history of science and technology) will develop openness for media questions. Right from the beginning Variantology/Archaeology of the Media was conceived as an international research and exchange project. A central part of it is the development of an open and temporal network of outstanding scientists, artists and scholars who engage with the deep time relations of arts, sciences and technologies.” “Variantology: On Deep Time Relations of the Arts, Sciences and Technologies,” variantology.com.
(9.) For a wonderful unpacking of MU, or mash-ups, see Paul Miller (aka DJ Spooky), ed., Sound Unbound: Sampling Digital Music and Culture (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2008); Rhythm Science (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2004); see also Douglas Kahn, Noise, Water, Meat: A History of Sound in the Arts (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2001).
(10.) Collective authorship is extrapolated upon in Petric’s Constructivism in Film, although Dziga Vertov is used as the legal and facile signatory to the author function in my own text. It is clear that Man with a Movie Camera, correctly translated as (Hu)man with a Movie Camera, was collaboratively authored on multiple intricate levels by Vertov’s brother, Mikhail Kaufman; a cadre of now anonymous kinoks; and Vertov’s partner, Elizaveta Svilova. When Vertov is mentioned in conjunction with this film, authorship should be attributed to this collective. This remarkable and fraught topography of early Soviet silent cinema is outlined beautifully in multiple scholarly and fanciful texts. See Yuri Tsivian, ed., Lines of Resistance: Dziga Vertov and the Twenties (Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2005); Alexander Kluge, “The Filming of ‘Added Value’: A Plan of Eisenstein and of Dziga Vertov’s Brother,” in Cinema Stories, trans. Martin Broday and Helen Hughes (New York: New Directions, 2007); Dziga Vertov, “About Love for the Living Person,” in Kino-Eye: The Writings of Dziga Vertov, ed. Annette Michelson, trans. Kevin O’Brien (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984); and Petric, Constructivism in Film.
(11.) See dziga.perrybard.net.
(12.) For a beautiful teasing out of the erased female maker, gendered labor, voyeurism, and the figurative power of women in relation to Vertov’s author function, see Lynne Kirby, “Vertov and the Cinematic Woman-Machine: The Railroad in the City,” in Parallel Tracks: The Railroad and Silent Cinema (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1997), 178–88.
(13.) Perry Bard, e-mail message to author, December 22, 2009.
(14.) Vertov, The Writings of Dziga Vertov, 32.
(16.) Tsivian, Lines of Resistance, 9.
(17.) Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, The German Ideology, ed. C. J. Arthur (New York: International Publishers, 1970), 47, quoted in Anne Friedberg, The Virtual Window: From Alberti to Microsoft (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2006), 71.
(19.) Even though Man with a Movie Camera was a silent film, Vertov actually began much of his theoretical writing by proposing a radio laboratory. His concept of visual media and audio media were in fact quite similar in intent, and with the advent of sync sound, he began to treat sound and image as equal layers, each subject to reconstitution outside veracity.
(20.) It follows in the footsteps of the Berlin film academy students who renamed their film school the Dsiga-Wertow-Akademie and Jean Luc Godard and Jean Pierre Gorin’s Groupe Dziga Vertov, which was established around the same time, in a 1968 of hopeful radicalities. There are several contemporary examples of redeputized kinoks from Austria to Mexico. See Tode and Wurm, eds., The Vertov Collection, 29–42.
(21.) Perry Bard, e-mail to author, December 22, 2009, sent in response to questions about the project and her intersection with Vertov in terms of ideology and intent.
(22.) Gilles Deleuze, Cinema 1: The Movement-Image (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), 39.