The film essay is a strange beast. To simply define it as a form that foregrounds a voice and sketches a persona falls short. At the core of all essays is an interest so intense that it precludes the possibility of naming it simply and efficiently, of filming it in a straight line, so to speak. The essay is rumination in Nietzsche's sense of the word, the meandering of an intelligence that tries to multiply the entries and the exits into the material it has elected (or has been elected by). It is surplus, drifts, ruptures, ellipses, and double-backs. It is, in a word, thought, but because it is film it is thought that turns to emotion and back to thought.
The strange thing is that the essay film flirts with genres (documentary, pamphlet, fiction, diary . . . you name them) but never attaches itself to one. It flirts with a range of aesthetics but attaches itself to none. It is, in both form and content, unruliness itself, “termite art” and not “white elephant art.” I am, of course, borrowing from Manny Farber. Farber might be writing about Laurel and Hardy, but the words stick even tighter to the film essayists: “The most inclusive description of [their] art is that, termite-like, it feels its way through walls of particularization, with no sign that the artist has any object in mind other than eating away the immediate boundaries of his art and turning these boundaries into conditions of the next achievement.”
The films in this series are lines of force that crisscross a field. From the push and pull that is curating emerged something as extensive, unruly, and contradictory as the essayistic energy it set out to explore. A proposal for a tussle.
—Jean-Pierre Gorin, Guest Curator