Aaron Kerner – författare

Examines the cinematic strategies that elicit visceral pleasure in the face of content that is crass, politically problematic, or unethicalDiscusses the ways in which the cinematic elicits pleasurable sensationsEmphasizes the pleasure drawn from abject contentFocuses squarely on the visceral experience, as distinct from the emotional appeal of the cinematicAbject Pleasures in the Cinematic examines the cinematic strategies that elicit visceral pleasure tears, goosebumps, sexual arousal, laughter even in the face of content that is crass, politically problematic, or unethical.While there might be a progressive predisposition within our discipline, affect pledges no allegiance to any particular political inclination. Progressives, or progressive content, does not hold a monopoly on affect. The beautiful has no inherent bond to the good (i.e., morally good, or having cultural merit), rather it is an affective experience, and it might come to us in the most unlikely and unsavory places. Pornography, even with the most regressive content, wields the possibility to be sexually arousing even despite our own ethical objections. While well-intended academics routinely claim that watching people get hurt is not funny, and we might appreciate the gesture to cultivate our better angels, but such assertions do not necessarily align with our lived-experience.

Abject Pleasures in the Cinematic examines the cinematic strategies that elicit visceral pleasure tears, goosebumps, sexual arousal, laughter even in the face of content that is crass, politically problematic, or unethical. While there might be a progressive predisposition within our discipline, affect pledges no allegiance to any particular political inclination. Progressives, or progressive content, does not hold a monopoly on affect. The beautiful has no inherent bond to the good (i.e., morally good, or having cultural merit), rather it is an affective experience, and it might come to us in the most unlikely and unsavory places. Pornography, even with the most regressive content, wields the possibility to be sexually arousing even despite our own ethical objections. While well-intended academics routinely claim that watching people get hurt is not funny, and we might appreciate the gesture to cultivate our better angels, but such assertions do not necessarily align with our lived-experience.

This is a sweeping survey of how global filmmakers have treated the subject of the Holocaust. When representing the Holocaust, the slightest hint of narrative embellishment strikes contemporary audiences as somehow a violation against those who suffered under the Nazis. This anxiety is, at least in part, rooted in Theodor Adorno's dictum that 'To write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric'. And despite the fact that he later reversed his position, the conservative opposition to all 'artistic' representations of the Holocaust remains powerful, leading to the insistent demand that it be represented, as it really was. And yet, whether it's the girl in the red dress or a German soldier belting out Bach on a piano during the purge of the ghetto in "Schindler's List", or the use of tracking shots in the documentaries "Shoah" and "Night and Fog", all genres invent or otherwise embellish the narrative to locate meaning in an event that we commonly refer to as 'unimaginable'. This wide-ranging book surveys and discusses the ways in which the Holocaust has been represented in cinema, covering a deep cross-section of both national cinemas and genres.

This is a sweeping survey of how global filmmakers have treated the subject of the Holocaust. When representing the Holocaust, the slightest hint of narrative embellishment strikes contemporary audiences as somehow a violation against those who suffered under the Nazis. This anxiety is, at least in part, rooted in Theodor Adorno's dictum that 'To write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric'. And despite the fact that he later reversed his position, the conservative opposition to all 'artistic' representations of the Holocaust remains powerful, leading to the insistent demand that it be represented, as it really was. And yet, whether it's the girl in the red dress or a German soldier belting out Bach on a piano during the purge of the ghetto in "Schindler's List", or the use of tracking shots in the documentaries "Shoah" and "Night and Fog", all genres invent or otherwise embellish the narrative to locate meaning in an event that we commonly refer to as 'unimaginable'. This wide-ranging book surveys and discusses the ways in which the Holocaust has been represented in cinema, covering a deep cross-section of both national cinemas and genres.

Extreme Cinema examines the highly stylized treatment of sex and violence in post-millennial transnational cinema, where the governing convention is not the narrative but the spectacle. Using profound experiments in form and composition, including jarring editing, extreme close-ups, visual disorientation and sounds that straddle the boundary between non-diegetic and diegetic registers, this mode of cinema dwells instead on the exhibition of intense violence and an acute intimacy with the sexual body. Interrogating works such as Wetlands and A Serbian Film, as well as the sub-culture of YouTube ‘reaction videos’, Aaron Michael Kerner and Jonathan L. Knapp demonstrate the way content and form combine in extreme cinema to affectively manipulate the viewing body.

“The father of the French New Wave . . . Rohmer’s surfaces aren’t placid but taut; they’re smooth because of their almost unbearably high tension.” —Richard Brody, The New YorkerWitty banter, lust, ennui, and an undercurrent of violence percolate beneath a seemingly paradisiacal summer on the eve of World War II, in this landmark translation of the first and only novel by Éric Rohmer, the French New Wave’s most prolific and beloved filmmaker.Fifteen years before completing his first feature film—and ten before beginning a transformative editorial stint at Cahiers du cinéma that would usher the journal, and French cinema, into a new era—the man who would become known worldwide as Éric Rohmer published a single novel. Released by Éditions Gallimard alongside the early works of Claude Simon and Marguérite Duras, Élisabeth was part of the first flowering of what would come to be known as the nouveau roman—and was also the “matrix,” as Rohmer himself later put it, of the images, ideas, and formal concerns of his first sequence of films, Six Moral Tales.Set in the sunstruck countryside east of Paris during the summer of 1939, a year ahead of the German invasion, where the upper-middle-class Roby family and its eponymous matriarch are spending a listless summer, Élisabeth is a war-novel awaiting a war. While the teenage Roby children and their friends swim, flirt, and lie to one another among the baking fields and icy meanders of the Marne, the novel becomes the scene of an anticipatory haunting. The simmering paranoia, calculated blankness, and potential violence of the coming Occupation are already present—as it were, in mufti. With a cool, kaleidoscopic eye, Rohmer lays out his protagonists and their precarious peace—their restlessness, their desperate boredom, their petty romantic agonies—with the unsettling chilliness and the sinister exactitude of details on a tactical map.

This book explores the stupid as it manifests in media—the cinema, television and streamed content, and videogames. The stupid is theorized not as a pejorative term but to address media that “fails” to conform to established narrative conventions, often surfacing at evolutionary moments.