One of Tim Burton’s distinct qualities as a celebrity director is his penchant for adapting pre-existing properties for the screen. In addition to traditional literary properties (i.e., novels, a short story) and a dramatic source (i.e., a Broadway musical), Burton has also adapted, remade or drawn extensively from other films, comic books and a series of trading cards. Thus, he is an exemplary figure in the contemporary shift towards “postliterary adaptation”: Thomas Leitch’s term for Hollywood’s tendency to poach from sources other than literary or dramatic texts and for reasons other than the narrative appeal of these sources.  Burton’s selective directorial preferences must not only be situated within the economics of postliterary adaptation, but must also be understood as being indicative of a corporate strategy that aims for the strategic cooption of potentially unruly niche audiences. Often explicitly advertised as “reimaginings,” Burton’s films are neither remakes nor adaptations in the familiar sense, but rather paradigmatic examples of an adaptive management system – a contemporary industrial practice that harnesses and regulates the creative energies of both filmmakers and fans.</p><p>The notion of a “reimagined” property, then, is a corporately-conceived taste-category that serves principally as a strategy of risk-management. The label is an honorific that circumvents cultists’ complaints by implicitly acknowledging and authorizing the creative liberties taken by the new adaptation. Thus, the discriminating fan-spectator is placated rather than dismayed at the prospect of (yet) another Alice in Wonderland because it is “reimagined” by the singular artistry of an auteur such as Burton. More crucially, a reimagined text is fundamentally fan-oriented: it is a deliberately structured and marketed invitation to certain niche audiences to engage in comparative activities. That is, its preferred spectators are often those opinionated and outspoken fan cultures whose familiarity with the texts is addressed and whose influence within a more dispersed filmgoing community is acknowledged, courted, and ultimately colonized.

Direct cinema’s attempt to withhold itself from the world is ethically problematic. The helplessness of documentary subjects and audiences is underscored by this observational style. In Gimme Shelter – a concert film by Albert and David Maysles and Charlotte Zwerin about the Rolling Stones and the fatal violence at the Altamont Speedway Free Festival – social actors are forced to submit to a representational frame they cannot ‘see’, let alone access. Moreover, the audience’s own distance from the pro-filmic events is doubly assured: the film-maker’s policy of non-interference precludes and/or renders moot a viewer’s impossible desire to intercede on the subjects’ behalf

Adam Sandler’s popular success is not tantamount to the infantilizing of a once-revered commercial genre, nor is his persona inimical to the concerns of contemporary comic love stories.  Instead, the cultural resonance of his persona speaks to a number of complex industrial, social and theoretical conditions. Sandler and many of his male contemporaries currently produce frantic meditations on such androcentric themes as the emasculating effects of prolonged adolescence, virility as masquerade and the inadequacies of serial monogamy. This essay analyzes the cultural instrumentalities of Sandler’s leading man status – their significance to and use-value for producers and consumers alike.

This comprehensive collection provides theoretical accounts of the grounds and phenomenon of film acting. The volume features entries by some of the most prominent scholars on film acting who collectively represent the various theoretical traditions that constitute the discipline of film studies. Each section proposes novel ways of considering the recurring motifs in academic enquiries into film acting, including: (1) the mutually contingent problematic of description and interpretation, (2) the intricacies of bodily dynamics and their reception by audiences, (3) the significance of star performance, and (4) the impact of evolving technologies and film styles on acting traditions.

If naturalistic acting serves the interests of diegetic absorption and functions as a metaphorical bridge between irredeemably separate subjects, then theatricality re-establishes an insurmountable barrier. Just as Stanley Cavell maintains that cinema cannot offer the mutuality and co-presence of actors and audience that is essential to live theatre, and that it must always screen the audience from a staged reality, theatrical screen acting similarly obstructs intersubjective connectivity between viewer and viewed. On film, ostentatious presentational acting reinforces the insurmountable separateness of individuals. Daniel Day-Lewis’ recent turn in There Will Be Blood (Paul Thomas Anderson, 2007) as a monstrous turn-of-the-century oil baron is a case in point. The critical reception of his performance is decidedly divided between rapturous accolades for its ferocity and the hostile belittlement of its apparently overripe histrionics. Indeed, the film’s infamous final sequence does more than present Day-Lewis at his most unhinged; for his detractors, his apparent theatrics bring about an unwarranted shift in the film’s tonal register that destroys the work’s stylistic and emotional continuity. Such criticism misses the point entirely. There Will Be Blood is a sustained exercise in theatrical alienation, and its subject is a fundamentally metaphysical one: the irredeemable separateness of an other.</p><p>By reconfiguring ostentatious performance from an alienating mode of expression to a rhetorical strategy that affects the self-consciousness of viewers, theatricality transcends its typical characterization as the antithesis of dramatic absorption. Theatrical screen actors do more than present us with a set of stylized gestures; they speak of an inescapable ontological dilemma. Hailing us as viewers rather than confederates, far removed from any possibility of proximity or shared subjectivity, their radical otherness does not permit intimacy, only helpless scrutiny.

Re-examining David Lynch’s Eraserhead in the context of recent studies and developments in body theory, the author suggests that the malformed infant is a complex textual body which carries many more potential meanings than our contemporary culture is willing to prescribe. By employing an opposition of the "open" versus "closed" body, Lynch critiques dominant readings and depictions of the infantile body as a site of innocence, transforming it, instead, into a locus of horror and astonishment in an endless chain of signifiers.

The essay undertakes an investigation of the concept of the supporting player, identifying the narrational, performative and cultural assumptions that underlie this dramatic category. Disentangling these intertwining constituents reveals certain dominant assertions about cinematic characters and the actors who portray them. Such dramaturgical norms implicitly suppress alternative conceptions of character, performance and narrative engagement. Consequently, the supporting player – as textual function, delimited bundle of traits, social type, performative category and professional designation – will be resituated as an agent that might prompt a contemplative reassessment of a fictional scenario.</p><p>    The author’s contribution to performance studies is to suggest the means by which a supporting actor’s performative embodiment of a character opens up a textual construction for critical investigation.  Supporting players are asserted here as figures that trouble narrative coherence.  Rather than limit them to the structural position of an actant that assists or resists a protagonist, the performance of a secondary character can rupture the integrity of a narrative, throwing a story’s explicit concerns into critical relief.</p><p>    Supporting players are often posited as a mere allies or adversaries, lacking complexity as “flat” characters or types, and their performance style seems devoid of star autonomy.  However, they are not simply beholden to the demands of narrative economy, teleology and dramatic coherence. Contrarily, attendance to the minutiae of their gestures can alert viewers to narrative possibilities that transcend actantial functionality. Ultimately the essay demonstrates how an overlooked or “integrated” performance can redirect viewers’ narrative interest toward an associational contemplation of experiences that lie beyond the parameters of the dramatic.