This article originally appeared in the June, 2000, Number 9 issue of *spark.
Be still. Slow down. Take in your environment. Listen to the hum of your computer or feel the texture of the paper in your hand. Hear the whir of your air conditioner or feel the sun on your face. Feel your heart beat. Look at the contours of whatever is in front of you; I’ll bet they aren’t as smooth as you thought. Look closer. Look at the colours of whatever is in front of you; there are probably more shades than you at first thought. These types of sense impressions are always there, and many more besides. Yet, most of the time, we are not aware of them. Our brains filter the raw information they get from our sensory organs. Why?
Evolution, of course. A species that could not pick important elements out of the raw data its senses were constantly funneling to its brain would miss the prey that was coming to attack it, and soon die out. We don’t live in such an environment any more, of course. Still, if I were unable to filter information not relevant to an immediate task at hand out of my perceptions, I would not be able to concentrate on completing that task, whether it be finishing my dissertation, hugging a friend, or…writing an article for an online magazine.
This is why I believe Mike Figgis’ Time Code will ultimately be a failure. A worthy experiment, to be sure, but a failure nonetheless. Time Code is a film that displays four images. Nothing new here: Split screen effects have existed in film since Abel Gance’s Napoleon. Each image contains a continuous 90-minute take. The viewer is invited to watch as much or as little of each story as interests him or her.
Unfortunately, human beings are not equipped to follow multiple storylines that unfold simultaneously. It’s that damn evolutionary attention thing. Worse, Figgis cheats. Rather than have four overlapping soundtracks, he fades dialogue from the four scenes in and out throughout the film. In this way, he uses sound to direct the audience’s attention, rather than allow viewers to choose for themselves which story to follow.
Imagine a different way of achieving what Figgis has attempted with Time Code. There are four images, one in each corner of the screen. By choosing one of the four images, the viewer causes it to appear–larger–in the middle of the screen. In this way, the viewer has complete control over what she or he sees. Better: Beside each of the smaller images is a sound icon which, when activated, allows the viewer to hear the soundtrack associated with the image. The viewer can listen to what is happening in the main image, or listen to an unrelated soundtrack. This can’t be done in film. It can, however, be done in truly digital media such as CD-ROMs or the World Wide Web.
I’ve been arguing for years that hypertext and hypermedia are fundamentally new art forms, with their own “language” and esthetic challenges and possibilities. Time Code is an attempt to create the interactivity (in the way viewers can choose which scene to follow) and multiple storylines that are the hallmark of digital hypermedia in an analog medium.
Time Code is not the first film that aspires to interactivity. In the mid-1990s, a film called I’m Your Man had a brief, limited release. Each seat in the theatres where it was shown was equipped with a device that had three buttons. At strategic points in the short film, viewers were given three choices of where to take the story; a computer tallied how many people chose each branch, and displayed whichever one got the most votes. The film was panned (Roger Ebert called it the worst film of the year) and that particular experiment hasn’t been repeated. There have also been texts that have tried to break out of the bonds of linearity. Ancient Hebrew religious books, for instance, often feature a central block of text surrounded by commentary that accumulated over centuries. In the early 20th century, a French poet published a book that contained passages written on 100 loose pages; readers were encouraged to arrange and rearrange the pages in order to create their own narratives.
The problem with these (and other) experiments in interactivity is that they go against the nature of the media in which they were conducted. Print text, as all good students of McLuhan know, is linear; devices such as tables of contents, footnotes and bibliographies notwithstanding, it is natural for us to start at the beginning and read to the end of a text. In a similar vein, a film may contain many temporal or physical shifts, but, no matter how complex, we expect it to unspool from the first reel to the last.
While it is possible to tell interactive stories in linear media, it isn’t natural to do so, and the results are usually not esthetically satisfying. This suggests that some works are better suited to a given medium than others. Interactive narratives seem best suited to digital media; we could say that the World Wide Web is interactive fiction’s native habitat. So, why waste your time with wannabes when the real deal is only a click away?
Can’t get enough of *spark? For more intellectual stimulation, go to the source: *spark online.