Malus 1

Le fabouleux destin du Six Feet Under: Mirror Images of European Values

“It’s not about finding a groovy angle,

it’s about finding out what that angle tells us about the character”

(Alan Ball, as quoted in Magid, 2002)

For many, original fiction HBO programming is picking up where American PBS should

be regarding offering quality fiction: original, envelope-pushing, daring, venturing into niches to

attract not the advertisers but as many fragments of audiences (which are fragmented as never

before) as possible. It is no wonder then that most of the HBO programs available in worldwide

distribution (through Warner Bros. International) were, at least in Europe, acquired by and

shown on public service broadcasting systems (PSBs)—or, rather, they were until about two

years ago when HBO introduced its first (Eastern) European service.

While aware of the possibility of shared ethics and values between American and

European cultures (an/or) programs, the universality of the stories told, and the (arguable)

American cultural media imperialism and its implications, this paper will argue HBO aesthetics

is one of the important components of its (relative) success on Europe’s PSBs: because it draws

from the aesthetics of European cinema. I will compare the aesthetics of HBO drama series Six

Feet Under by Alan Ball to the aesthetics of Jean-Pierre Jeunet's Fabuleux destin d'Amélie

Poulain, which I believe to be a representative European feature movie. I will approach the task

using, after placing it into wider contest of aesthetics, Zettl’s (1999) Applied Media Aesthetics,

more specifically the use of color and space (composition) in both programs.
 Malus 2

But unlike most of the writings on TV aesthetics that usually simply code the scenes

and/or shots in the show according to their production techniques, and list the results in a very

quantitative fashion, rarely explaining the motives behind those techniques, or the impact they

have on the viewer’s pleasure (other than Zettl’s notion of intensifying, clarifying and interpret),

I will attempt to connect the aesthetic choices made in my samples to European values,

particularly those connected, but not limited, to values in (public) broadcasting standards. To

avoid relying only on my perception only, I will also incorporate the creativity behind the Six

Feet Under visual language, as Alan Ball and his cinematographer Alan Caso explained it in an

interview for American Cinematographer Online Magazine.

EUROPEAN VALUES DISSECTED

Due to nationally highly fragmented audiences in Europe, and still not unified ratings

gathering services—contrary to the American practice, they are usually hardly or at least

painstakingly available to researchers outside the subscribing (surveyed) media—it is very hard

to establish what these programs did for ratings where they were shown, and if the ratings

differed in those rare examples where the shows aired on commercial channels (which is mostly

the case with the “dramedy” Sex in the City anway). The lack of accessibility of this kind of data

is reflected in the academic research on inflow of US programs to EU so far: most of it explores,

through content analysis, the quotas of US and EU programs on European channels, their formats

and their public vs. commercial channels dissemination (see De Bens & de Smaele, 2001;

Dupagne, 1998; Sepstrup, 1989). No reports are available on the performance of the European

HBO outlet, but the word among industry experts (not even dismissed by HBO Eastern Europe’s

acquisition representative in a casual conversation when we last met at the LA Screenings) is that

the pay-channel seems to not attract a satisfying number of subscribers.

 Malus 3

Whether the reason behind this is a far less attractive schedule than the original one—due

to license windows and many existing series being bought by other channels prior to the

European HBO introduction to the market—or the fact that, again, the most famed series were

already shown on other channels, remains to be explored (as well as their reception on those

channels), and it needs to include some form of audience research.

As it is, the one unified perception of shows like Sopranos, Oz, Six Feet Under, Angels in

America, and Carnivále, no matter the channel and production year, is the critical acclaim. As in

the States, throughout Europe, in both entertainment and specialized, “expert” media, these

shows were (and still are) hailed as original, inventive, quality programming everyone deserves

to, and should, nay: must, watch. This seems a patronizingly elitist appeal; and one that perfectly

suits an objectivistic approach to aesthetic theory, which, in turn, corresponds the fact that values

that are proclaimed to drive European broadcasting are partially defined and enforced by what

Saxer (1992) lists as transnational actors, national authorities, representatives of economic

interests, of cultural interest, media organizations, and ordinary citizens (the latter being on the

end of the decision chain).

So—what are those values? According to various sources, most of them being authorities

in the field of European audio-visual policy or even contributors to the European Broadcast

Union’s (EBU) directives (Bašić, 2002; Blumler, 1992; Rumphorst, 2003; Saxer, 1992; Silj et

al., 1988; Wolton, 1992), they are: quality of programming; universality; diversity; individual

identity connected to the identity of the community; equality regardless of the individual tastes,

beliefs, abilities, and values; independence from commercial and political influences and

pressures; striving for further knowledge and understanding; welfare of children and juveniles;

and maintenance of standards. These values are a prerogative for all public broadcasters, but

commercial media is encouraged to incorporate them into their strategies as well.

 Malus 4

Whereas American broadcast TV is perceived as a medium that offers the least offensive

program and caters to the widest audience possible, in Europe, particularly public TV needs to

offer information, entertainment, education for everybody; credibility; present and promote

culture (cultural identity); offer reference point; be impartial; and be the factor for social

cohesion (the integrity of civic communication).

A research promoted by the Italian Council for the Social Sciences Silj et al. (1988) about

the alleged Dallasification of European audiences and TV production, established that the

difference between American and European TV is not so much in the content as in the “narrative

style and packaging of the product … The themes and situations may be the same, but in general

their treatment will wary as well as perspective and the emphasis on values” (p. 207, italics

Silj’s). Packaging in this case meaning the scheduling practices. Also, the differences and

similarities are greater among genres than countries of production. More importantly for this

paper, the research, using basic analysis of production techniques such as the length of the

sequences, number of close ups, etc., established that in countries like (then) Federal Republic of

Germany and Italia certain genres rely heavily on cinematic tradition. In Germany this is evident

in authorial and “heimat” approach (like Fassbider’s series Acht Stunden sind kein Tag and

Berlin Alexanderplatz), and in Italy in the fact that for the longest time, RAI produced movies for

theatrical release, and after periods of “teleromanzi”, literary adaptations, and contemporary

drama, returned to producing TV movies which are chopped into series. In years after Silj’s

research, there have been many similar cases, like Lelouch filming both TV series and movie

version of Les uns et les autres; von Trier creating the Danish series Riget, etc.

According to Silj et al., Europe is slow to embrace and assimilate the notion of “popular”

program and is stuck on traditional genres. But does this assertion still hold water in the age of

reality programming and invasion of commercialism? Seeing, as buyer, an ever bigger trend in
 Malus 5

lavish co-produced period mini-series, I would argue “quality” is still regarded in its traditional

sense, but combined with high level of inventiveness (the argument supported by Blumler,

1992), as proven in case of the German biographic series Die Manns).

These assertions, particularly the ones about different scheduling practices, inventiveness

and film-likeness (or cinematic tradition!), apply to HBO programming, at least as far its

dramatic series are concerned.

HBO RESTORATED

American cable channel HBO proclaims itself as “It’s not TV, it’s HBO”. This (for some

critics exaggerated) exclusivity is by all means, as Jaramillo (2002) claims, means to attract as

many subscribers as possible: HBO is a paid service and its revenue doesn’t rely on advertisers.

Furthermore, this exclusivity is only possible because of the deregulation of the broadcast media:

in the US, cable is not subject to FCC standards that govern broadcast TV, the ones on decency

being the most controversial (and influencing the most advertisers’ choices, apart from the

ratings).

To summarize Jaramillo’s exploration of HBO in an article trying to explain the notoriety

and success of its series The Sopranos, and HBO branding, the pay channel became the “not TV”

for various reasons, and under certain circumstances: one, already mentioned, is deregulation.

The other is that, originally established as an outlet for uncut and uncensored theatrical movies,

HBO needed to distinguish itself from other channels, first broadcast and then, in the wake of the

competition, cable (such as Showtime and TNT; and now even more specialized movie channels)

the channel also needed to end its dependency of movie distributors: “This resurfacing of a

winning strategy involves the systematic co-optation of traditional broadcast formats (hour long

dramas, half-hour-long sitcoms) through the addition of a pay cable sensibility—more leeway in
 Malus 6

the area of explicit content and no commercial interruptions” (Jaramillo, p. 63). In Jaramillo’s

mind, HBO programming (specifically The Sopranos) is not shockingly far from genre (family,

drama, soap …), but it borrows heavily from cinematic tradition (as does European TV,

according to Silj et al., 1988!).

By advertising values such as “refreshing, uncensored, groundbreaking, “HBO

necessarily attributes the opposite to programming of its broadcast and basic cable ‘competitors’:

boring, constrained, routine. This eagerness to differentiate its product from that of broadcast

television amounts to the creation of a brand” (Jaramillo, p. 64). Meaning that HBO wants do

differentiate itself from the mainstream TV (traditionally denunciation of the broadcast TV) and

appeal to niche audiences. And

there is no better way to appeal to a niche audience than to relocate a standard broadcast

series format to a site that boasts its antitelevisuality. HBO has used its relative lack of

FCC regulation to co-opt traditional broadcast series formats. In doing so, HBO has not

only transformed industrial circumstances into an opportunity to brand but has also used

its privileged position in pay cable (financially, legally, and demographically) to welcome

the use of a very specific brand: “quality.” (Jaramillo, p. 65)

The term “quality”, of course, is highly elusive, as even Jaramillo points out, linking it to

realism, creative vision, authorial freedom, and “pure, unfiltered voice” (p. 66). In other words,

perhaps nowhere is HBO's bent for counter-programming more evident than in the way it

produces its series. While ABC, CBS and NBC are known for barraging writers with

script changes and hemming them in with rules (happy endings, blatant story lines, heroes

motivated primarily by good), HBO has a reputation for leaving writers alone, except

perhaps to coach them on how to break the rules. Its programmers nudged Oz creator
 Malus 7

Tom Fontana to be unflinching in his portrayal of life in a maximum security prison, and

gently reminded Six Feet Under creator Alan Ball to avoid the formulas he'd gotten used

to while working on shows like Grace Under Fire. (“The Way of Success,” 2002, pp. 6A,

8A)

As many other authors discussing the historical notion of quality programs (Brook, 2004;

Palmer, 1997), Jaramillo mentions shows like Mary Tyler Moore, Hill Street Blues, M*A*S*H.

All in the Family, St. Elsewhere, and thirtysomething, which, according to Brook and Palmer,

exampled strong authorial (creative or productive) vision, and led to shows like The Simpsons

(Brook) and David Lynch’s Twin Peaks (Palmer). But contrary to others, Jaramillo somewhat

questions the notion of the “authorial, claiming that producer’s main concern is getting the

money for the production, while most programs are helmed by various directors and writers, as

in case of The Sopranos.

The producer is legally and financially responsible for the final product and oversees

entire projects, whereas directors and writers may only work on a program for one

episode (Newcomb and Alley 1983, xii). David Chase has filled all of these roles, and

discursively, this lends an air of legitimacy to the series. (Jaramillo, p. 67)

That aside, Jaramillo states that the biggest “asset” HBO claims to have, namely “quality

drama”, is merely obscuring HBO’s real programming strategies:

The press sees in Oz and The Sopranos a combination of HBO’s “inherent advantages”

and creativity, amounting to a qualitative difference from broadcast television (Hamilton

and Brown 1999, 68). Evaluative descriptors do nothing more than obscure the basic

industrial factors behind HBO’s strategies, though. HBO does not have to fill an entire
 Malus 8

weeklong primetime schedule with programming. Its movie library is always at its

disposal. Similarly, HBO’s original series producers are not bound by the broadcast

standard of a season of twenty to twenty-five episodes; one season on HBO is thirteen

episodes, approximately half that of broadcast networks. Fewer episodes ordered means

more money to spend and more production time in which to spend it. Because of the

calculated and self-perpetuating system of commerce that has supported broadcast

television since its inception, the broadcast networks have neither the luxury nor the

immunity from advertisers and ratings that HBO boasts. Without the financial constraints

under which the networks function, HBO can target narrowly segmented niche markets, a

concept essential to its branding. (p. 63)

Firstly, HBO opted to discard the formulaic volume requirement and go for miniseries—

an approach characteristic to most European, particularly public, broadcasters that would

produce anywhere from 3 or 6 to 13 episodes per series, and order further seasons if the first one

is successful. According to Ann Thomopoulos, senior vice president of original programming

and the executive in charge of miniseries development at HBO, “the similarity is intentional …

There's something about a miniseries that tells a great story and is only as long as it needs to be”

(as quoted in “The Way of Success,” 2002, p. 6A). Secondly, even though HBO is not subject to

ad revenues, there are still economic pressures—they need to retain and draw new subscribers to

keep up the specific look of their production, which is, no matter the format of 13 or even less

episodes, still very expensive.

And this very “specific” look is the focus of this paper: the HBO aesthetics and how it

corresponds to European aesthetics and the above discussed values embedded in European

broadcasting. The task is demanding; and even if it proves to be futile and inconclusive, that
 Malus 9

doesn’t mean the aesthetic sensation of HBO shows is an imaginary one: “Though our audiences

may not be able specifically to articulate the sense of beauty they are deriving from a program's

characteristics, their enjoyment is not dependent on their ability to verbalize its cause” (Orlik,

2000, p. 222).

AESTHETICS EMBALMED

A casual conversation with a friend not long ago ignited a profound revelation: in trying

to explain why I don’t like my picture taken, I whined that when I was a kid, I really enjoyed it

and liked the results, but as I get older I just don’t think camera does me justice. Every single

photography portrays me the way I believe I’m not. Or, not to come across as someone

narcissistic enough to think he’s Brad Pitt, it portrays me differently from what I see every

morning in my mirror. Now Lacanians could argue that the image in the mirror is a mere illusion

of the real self anyway, but since they argue that so are images on photographs or on screen, I

think I have a case here stating that my image in the mirror is somewhat different from the

images on my photographs. On those, I either seem wasted, silly, over-posing, usually

uncomfortable, or, courtesy of over-posing and, not infrequently, PhotoShop, ethereally lifted

above the pure flesh-and-bones triviality. Again, no one in their (Lacanian) mind should think

the image they see corresponds the true “I”; but the thing about images re-producing real people

(and, in fact, all reality) is that they never do the reality justice. In one way or the other, for better

or for worse, they distort it. Bring forward some particularities and hide others. How many times

do we hear that a camera adds 10 pounds …? How many times have each of us met someone in

person after seeing their picture first, and was overwhelmed, either pleasantly or disappointingly,

by their “real” appearance? (And I use the word “real” because we tend to change our perception
 Malus 10

of someone’s appearances according to our further knowledge of them and their other—as in

non-physical, of course!—attributes.)

You’re probably wondering what this non-scholarly and seemingly egocentric blabbing

has to do with aesthetics, let alone aesthetics of HBO programs I try to prove to be European.

Bare with me. Just like experimenting with different lighting or colors, just like positioning a

camera in a certain spot, framing in a certain way, editing in a certain approach to achieve a

certain effect within the shot or within the whole movie, the above anecdote is supposed to frame

further discussion of this paper: no matter how emotional and/or academic I may get about

aesthetics of European movies, of Six Feet Under, and of applied aesthetics, and how well-

referenced and researched my arguments may be, let us not forget for a minute that every single

field of applied aesthetics (as Zettl, 1999, calls it; other, such as Block, 2001, may call it “visual

components”) is, in shaping—more specifically, to borrow from Zettl, clarifying, intensifying

and interpreting—the message, an illusion. A mere image of reality. And let us not forget that

mirror always distorts. Needless to say, this paper is inevitably distorting the already distorted

reality of European aesthetics, because I am the one holding the mirror to it—the one shining a

particular light on particular segments, framing the argument and references in a particular way,

coloring them with what I find proper colors, while leaving some of them on the imaginary

editing floor.

So much for fidelity Orlik (2000) praises as a stimulant for “a pleasurable (aesthetic)

response similar to that evoked by the original” (p. 215)—the original in this case being reality.

Talking about HBO programming (on the example of Six Feet Under) as an aesthetic copy of

European movie tradition, now that’s a completely different reality which, originally, is already

only a copy. Actually, at its best, as I already said, it is a mirror image. A mirror image of the
 Malus 11

milieu that produced it—be it culture or human race in general—these are, according to cultural

relativists and biopsychological relativists, respectively, setting the aesthetic standards.

This is exactly why it is hard to completely dislocate aesthetics from “its origins and

consequences”, as Jerome Stolnitz (quoted in Orlik) would have us do in search of art work’s

intrinsic value. Sure, “aesthetic activity is ‘perception of an object just for the sake of perceiving

it’”; “the fundamental definition of aesthetics/esthetics revolves around the sensuous

appreciation of beauty” (Orlik, p. 215; italics his); and “the study of beauty, of what might give

us sensual pleasure, has its roots in emotion and not ethics” (p. 216).

Aesthetics is not exactly a science. In fact, “aesthetic experience is not understanding”

(Osborne, 1986, p. 337). Aesthetic analysis, therefore, “can only inform us about the expressive

nature of works of art. [But] to fully appreciate the work and to appraise it critically, it is also

essential to know about the historical-cultural milieu in which it was created” (Silverman, 2001,

the “How do we engage in the aesthetic analysis of works of art?” section).

The consumer’s side of the coin is that

“Whether we are experiencing the world through the lens of speech or printed word or the

television camera, our media metaphors classify the world for us, sequence it, frame it,

enlarge it, reduce it, color it, argue a case for what the world is like.” (See Postman,

Amusing ourselves to death). (Schirmacher. Chapter II, Bullet 2)

Most scholarly texts on the subject apply or talk about the aesthetic values predominantly

in the field of fine arts (such as painting, music, and dance) and literature (see Frontiers of

Transculturality in Contemporary Aesthetics, 2000), and, lately, cinema (see Bellantoni, 2005;

Block, 2001; Haskins, 2001). Television aesthetics, on the other hand, is rarely explored (see

Barbatsis & Guy, 1991; Barker, 1985; Burch, 2002; Kellner, 1999; Salt, 2001). Probably because
 Malus 12

television is, like film in its days, still regarded as an art-wannabe, a sad attempt of mere

entertainment becoming art. “As high art, television is denied inclusion; as popular art, television

is judged according to criteria associated with high art” (Piccirillo, p. 339). In other words, “all

experiences with media have been held up to a value system not found in media itself”

(Schirmacher, 2000, Chapter I, ¶ 1).

METHODS OPEN CASKED

One of the ways to establish a proper value system is to strip the text to its formal

elements and analyze what they communicate. In TV (as in film), those elements are production

techniques. Introducing applied media aesthetics—which, in contrast to conventional aesthetics

that analyzes the already existing art, also offers a point of reference in the actual encoding

process—Herbert Zettl proposed a way to distinguish those elements from, and examining how

they contribute to, the narrative. His indisputable seminal work (see Barker and Timberg, 1992)

in the field of television aesthetics, and to this day principal to the field, Sight, Sound, Motion:

Applied Media Aesthetics (1999), first published in 1973, introduced aesthetic fields which

replace the traditional preoccupation of aesthetics with beauty and the philosophy of art. He

argued that light, space, time/motion, and sound are important part of the production process;

that the media plays significant role in shaping the message; and that media aesthetics can be

used for both analysis and synthesis. Therefore,

“A thorough knowledge of such production tools as cameras, lenses, lighting, audio, and

so forth [is needed], as well as [a knowledge of] applied aesthetics, such as the proper

framing of a shot, the specific use of color, selective focus, and the use of a specific piece

of music” (1999, p. 11).

 Malus 13

Through these means, the function of applied media aesthetics is to clarify, intensify, and

interpret. However, the method to achieve this is not deconstructing the existing messages. The

method is what Zettl, drawing from theories and practices of painter Wassiliy Kandinsky, calls

“inductive abstraction” (p. 12): using formal elements of a given medium (painting,

photography, TV, movie) and aligning them in a way that will best communicate the message.

This means isolating the five “fundamental image elements of television and film” (p. 11) within

the TV text:

1.) Light and color: lighting as manipulation of light and shadows for purposes of a

specific communication; and the aspects of color and its structuring for a specific function;

2.) Two-dimensional space: aspect ratios, image size, framing, vectors, and their

interplay;

3.) Three-dimensional space: depth and volume (the z axis) and how graphic factors,

graphitization, characteristics of lenses, field of view, and point of view contribute to the

construction of screen volume and its perception;

4.) Time/motion: defining the four-dimensional field; terms such as slow and accelerated

motion, timing, pace and rhythm, and principles of continuity and complexity editing discussed;

and

5.) Sound: sound structures and sound/picture combinations constructing the five-

dimensional field.

Mastering of these aesthetic fields is, as Zettl (1998) explained in his essay on media

literacy, also of crucial importance to media analysis—contrary to Block (2001), who claims that

understanding visual structure (he breaks down the basic visual fields to space, line, shape, tone,

color, movement, and rhythm) is beneficiary in the process of production (i.e. encoding). How

the aesthetic fields are structured, how they affect the viewer and his perception and
 Malus 14

interpretation of them, and their place in the larger media analysis frameworks is, according to

Zettl, what makes this method a precursor to any other analytical method, “because light, color,

and sound have a tendency to bypass our rational faculties and penetrate directly to our

emotional sphere” (p. 86).

In fact, drawing upon theories developed by scholars like Susanne Langer, D. W. Prall,

and Kurt Koffka, Joseph Gerard Brennan (1954) argues that the emotional component of (a

given work of) art is just as objective as its other components—like color, texture, or form.

Emotion, according to Brennan’s reading of Langer, is “present in all art objectively; emotion …

stands independent of its maker” (p. 425). If expressing feelings was the sole purpose of art, only

the artist would be eligible to evaluate his work. Therefore, evoking emotion in the viewer is the

propriety of any given aesthetic field or, in Block’s case, visual structure. Understanding how it

works “allows you to communicate moods and emotions, give your production visual variety,

unity and style, and most importantly, reveals the critical relationship between story structure

and visual structure” (Block, 2001, p. xii). But, as said, it also allows an adequate analysis of

how the production techniques shape the message: in what could easily be one of the most

interesting studies (as much as the studies of the afore mentioned fields are rare), Patti Bellantoni

(2005) took on a task of determining how movies use colors to—planned or instinctive, but

usually on a sublime level—communicate a certain message, emphasize a scene, or define a

character. By attributing different characteristics to different colors, and different (emotional)

characteristics to the same color, she explains how they affect our perception and reactions to the

movie. For example: if it’s purple, she claims in the very title of her book, someone is going to

die. Similarly, Zettl (1999) talks about saturation as means of intensifying an event, and

desaturation being used to direct the viewer into the “inner reality of an event” or “innerscape”

(p. 69).
 Malus 15

Some researchers (Barbatsis & Guy, 1991; Salt, 2001) take on a task of coding the scenes

and/or shots in the show according to their production techniques, and dryly list the results

without explaining the motives behind those techniques, or the impact they have on the viewer’s

pleasure (admittedly, Barbatsis & Guy do explain the construction and perception of reality). I

will (as much for the lack of time as not seeing much sense in take on such an exhausting

enterprise for the purpose of this essay) closely observe the screen space, its structure and

visualization (the blocking, camera and lens motions, points and fields of view, vectors, and

other concepts explained by Zettl, 1999, and listed under two- and three-dimensional space), and

the usage of lighting (color) in Le Fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain,, and connect these

production techniques to emotional responses they are supposed to evoke, or supposedly evoke

in the viewer. Furthermore, I will tie them to the above discussed values of European

broadcasting in order to find similarities with the HBO series Six Feet Under, which I will also

dissect according to Zettl’s techniques, assisted with what the creator/writer/direcor Alan Ball

and his cinematographer Alan Caso had to say about the visual composition of their series.

This approach is closer to what Burch (2002) uses to analyze how different cultural

groups interpret media texts. He examines aesthetics of Indian soap Ramayan, and compares it to

western televisual aesthetic: “The production elements in Ramayan are compared to those held in

high regard by film and television department educators in US universities, many of whom

incorporate Zettl’s textbooks on television production into their curriculum” (p573). Still. Burch

doesn’t compare specific usage in specific program (let alone soap!), but lists the conventions, or

even standards, that he claims are perpetuated through media education. Using the cultural

relativism argument, he claims that

Indian artisans did not always embrace traditional Western technical standards applied to

the five levels of production, especially in the case of colour composition, sound and
 Malus 16

movement. Continued research of this kind may show that Western professional

television conventions are not universal across all cultures, nor should they be. (p. 577)

Moreover, “audiences seem to remain loyal to their own societies” (p. 577). According to

Orlik (2000), “cultural aesthetics are not always … brutally enforced or manipulated .... Indeed,

virtually every culture strives to take steps to preserve and promote its own aesthetic heritage and

outlook” (p. 218). This is supported by many researchers (De Bens & de Smaele, 2001;

Dupagne, 1998; Sepstrup, 1989), thusly rebutting the so-called Americanization or

Dallasification, i.e. the imperialism of American values and aesthetics through American-

produced TV programs. In other words, non-American audiences are not being Americanized,

because they “make sense of imported programming through local frames of reference”

(Harrington and Bielby, 2005, p. 910).

Contrary to most criticism of inflow of American and other programs, Sepstrup

repudiates the notion of the European, particularly smaller, countries, being culturally

endangered, and maintains that the diversification in origin of programming in general “may

diminish the risk of television consumption contributing to development of culturally narrow,

chauvinistic, provincial attitudes and increase the possibility of knowledge of an open minded

toward other cultures and societies” (p. 46).

LAID OUT FOR VIEWING: AMÉLIE

Le fabuleux destin de Amélie Poulin, a story about a young Parisienne that takes on a task

of making people’s life better, but in process doing everything possible to complicate her own

chance of being happy (as in getting her guy), became in France the best grossing film ever made

there, despite critics driving a stake through its heart, especially by condemning it as a fantasy
 Malus 17

without any consciousness about social reality. Spittles like “Eurodisney goes to Montmartre”

(as quoted in “Audrey the Second”, 2001) or “Jeunet's Paris has been cleansed of all its ethnic,

social, sexual and cultural differences” (Kaganski, as quoted in “Audrey the Second”) were

flying around in the midst of French people being outraged that the movie didn’t make it into

Cannes Palme d’or selection.

Truth to be told, Amélie is a modern fairy tale, and,

although ostensibly set in 1997, director Jean-Pierre Jeunet's portrayal is pure 1950s: the

cafe with its selection of misfits; the surly market-stall owner and his put-upon slave; and,

at its heart, the apartment block where Amélie lives and spins out her dreams. (“Audrey

the Second”)

Besides trying to fix other people’s life, Amélie comes into a possession of a photo album

in which Nick, who se is enamored with, collects photographs from photo-booths for ID photos

people threw away, and becomes obsessed with finding a man whose photos keep poppingup in

many booths.

The movie is a fairy tale to the extend of using particular aesthetic means to achieve the

look as much detached from reality as possible (with means such as soft lighting, black-and-

white picture, and saturated flashbacks, or overexposure when Amélie finally meets the man

from many of the photos; and photos coming alive), if only to juxtapose it with the fantasy-

within-fantasy scenes that appear more real than the fairytale itself. “What Jean-Pierre's films do,

from Delicatessen to Alien, is deconstruct reality, to go beyond. That's what he does, he goes

beyond reality” is how Audrey Tatou’s, who plays the title heroine, takes on the director’s

vision, claiming Amélie is like a painting. Which, in view of one of her neighbors being a

painter, makes a lot of sense. Especially since he tries to paint a reproduction of Renoir’s
 Malus 18

masterpiece and can’t ever paint the right expression on a face of “The girl with a glass of

water”—an elusiveness connoting both our heroine’s restlessness, and the movie’s unwillingness

to stick to one single aesthetic style.

From the very start of the movie, the oversaturation of colors is overwhelming, matching

the over-exaggerated title sequence narrative with a narrator’s overvoice introducing the heroine

through a series of bizarre personal particularities and histories (such as Amélie’s pet fish’s

attempted suicide); actors occasionally speak to camera (Zettl calls this direct address and

stresses it doesn’t always work well on the big screen; it truly is disturbing in this case); a little

girl juxtaposed to a big chair; and editing is fast-paced cuts.

With the progression, the movie piles up different, and often inconsistent means to

underscore the fantasy: camera motions change from slow to qick and back; camera also tilts,

pans, and assumes unusual positions, such as aerial (wide shots from high above, like when the

grocer’s boy changes the bulb in the painter’s apartment; or Amélie on the dam). Extreme close-

ups underscore the emotions and extreme long shots the uneasiness. There is a particular over-

the-shoulder shot where Amélie stands behind Nick who is sitting, reading her note without

knowing it’s from her; the shot exhibits the power of knowledge she has over him.

The most apparent device in this movie, though, is color: every single scene is

accentuated with a prevalence of a certain color (subway bathes in green, the café has a soothing

tender gold shade, Amélie’s apartment is red). But this prevalence is always contrasted by a

small item in a complementary color, or a warm color spiked by a cold one (like red Amélie’s

room and a blue shade light, or the green TV set; the greenness of the subway with red paintings;

a blue car on a sandy gold Paris street; the grocery man’s apartment is green-walled, but there are

a red vase, red curtains, red chair; the blueness of the porn shop, and the pale Snowhite-ish

appearance of Amélie in the foreground; etc.); some transitions between the scenes fade to white
 Malus 19

instead of the usual black; superimposition and ambiguous figure-ground relationship are often

used to incorporate fantasies and memories into the “reality” picture, creating a soft, almost

invisible transition between the “worlds” (as opposed to sharp multiple screen option, dissolves,

or wipes).

Amélie is itself rather beautiful to look at, shot by cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel in a

glazed, buttery light whose novelty hasn't been completely exhausted (yet) by commercials

directors. Interiors glow with fairytale hues, like the ruby-reds of Amélie's bedroom and the day-

glo greens of a metro subway. There have been complaints among French critics that the one

area on which colour doesn't impinge is skin—this is a white-bread Paris, unrecognisably empty

of the city's multiracial faces. True enough, but this would be to assume that the film has some

truck with realism; it doesn't, unless you wish to count magic realism. This is Paris seen through

a glass lightly, tricked out with all kinds of distortions—undercranking the camera,

superimposition, back- projections—and peopled with characters who have all the moral

substance of a Teletubby. (Queen, 2001)

LAID OUT FOR VIEWING: SIX FEET UNDER

Six Feet Under, which was soon proclaimed another groundbreaking series for the

American cable channel HBO—alongside The Sopranos—and received countless Emmy

nominations for each of the 5 seasons it stayed on air since its debut in 2001, follows the trials

and tribulations of a family owning a funeral home, or, as their corporate competitor puts it, “the

death care industry”. Part of its notoriety derives from the fact that it was conceived (and

occasionally written and directed) by Alan Ball of American Beauty fame.

 Malus 20

Apart from the characters that end up dead in explicit scenes at the beginning of each

episode, and their bodies end up in Fisher’s funeral home, thusly providing each episode with an

(additional) subplot or twist, the main characters are David Fisher, his older brother Nate,

younger sister Claire, their mother Ruth, and their father Nathan, Sr .The latter is, after a horrible

bus accident, the first cadaver we are treated to in this series, and keeps reappearing to both us

and his family as a ghost , or rather, as Alan Ball puts it, as “a literary device to articulate what’s

going on in the living characters’ minds” (as quoted in Magid). There are also the hired

“restoration magician” Federico Diaz; Nate’s girlfriend Brenda Chenowith and her mentally

disturbed brother Billy; Claire’s junkie boyfriend Gabe; and David’s African-American

boyfriend Keith.

After Nathaniel, Sr.’s death it is David—so “compartmentalized” about his private and

family life that he introduces Keith as his racket-ball partner—who takes over the family

business. Nate, who only got from Seattle to be with the family over Christmas, has to decide

whether to stay and join the business. He also needs do decide whether he wants a relationship

with Brenda, whom with, a total stranger, he had a quick sex in the airport broom closet. Claire is

a pretty messed up teenager, falling into bad company, and using drugs, and Ruth falls to pieces,

not only because she lost her husband, but because she cheated on him for years. The simple

premise worthy of a daytime soap; but it’s the narrative and aesthetic choices that make Six Feet

Under one of those “must see TV” programs.

Starting with the title sequence, the show establishes a completely different, or what Ball,

in an interview with Magid (2002), calls “anti-TV”, language. In the DVD commentary to the

Pilot, he describes the opening scenes, which consists mostly of close-ups of objects traditionally

connected to funeral business, as abstract; cinematic; spooky but beautiful. The shots are frigidly

desaturated, but occasionally also play with light (the hands in chiaroscuro lighting, evoking a
 Malus 21

dark, depressing, devastating feeling; or the overexposure in the shot with the cadaver being

pulled down the corridor, evoking the perception of death being a journey towards the light). The

prevalent color is green, evoking sterility and inevitability.

The transition into the first scene, which is the first of the highly stylized commercials for

funeral business products we are treated to, is, instead of the usual fade to and from black, a

transition to and from white, another reminder of this show dealing with death and its

consequences. It is important to mention that these commercials are only featured in the pilot

episode and are a humorous take on commercial breaks in commercial TV as well as the notion

of “sex sells”, and the funeral business,.

After that, frigidity is limited to some scenes (Brenda’s parents’ home, the morgue); the

uneasy scenes are either shot with ominous mist (as the one where Claire smokes crystal meth),

or with frigidly colored background (David picking up his father’s corps in the morgue). The rest

of the scenes are much more soothing, particularly the ones in the kitchen in Fisher’s home,

which seems to be the only real refuge the family has. Despite, or maybe because, the toned

down, pastel colors, the room seems to give a reassuring feeling of familiarity, love, and

togetherness.

Show’s cinematographer Alan Caso describes the show as “a combination of very

painterly, motivated, natural lighting, desaturated colors, and lots of depth” (quoted in Magid).

He is talking about colors being muted, and bright hues such as red or violet desaturated to point

of their pastel variations (except for rare occasions, such as the fake commercials and the scene

where Nate describes an experience in Italy—but more about that later), reflecting both Zettl’s

concept of “innerscape” of the event, as well as the funeral homes being known for their soft and

calming environment.
 Malus 22

The show’s famously “frigid” imagery is captured on Kodak film stocks. “This show

needed a sharper, more contrasty edge, and Kodak renders the pastels really well,” Caso

details. "I use low-contrast Vision [320T] 5277 for most exteriors, but I’ll use [Vision

800T] 5289 when I’m outside in an available-light, night situation. For every other night

exterior and all interiors, I like [Vision 500T] 5279, which is a multi-use workhorse that

has great color and contrast range. It’s also pretty malleable; I can underdevelop and

overexpose it, it desaturates easily, and it holds secondary colors very well…. The

combined effect of these choices is imagery that evokes a black-and-white look—but in

color. “We didn’t want to go too dark and bleary, but we wanted really muted,

desaturated tones,” Caso recalls. “I let the blacks sit down really well, but I always have a

little bit of detail in there. I like mixing light, and I always have something bright in the

frame, like an edge or a hot spot on a body or a wall—a little light at the end of the

tunnel, you might say, because I think death is in the backwater of everybody’s

consciousness.” (Magid, 2002)

As said, the rare overwhelming colors in the pilot emanate from the commercials and the

scene in which we see what Nate is describing to his sister as his most genuine experience of

death and mourning: traditional (hired) mourners on an island off the coast of Sicily. “It was just

so … so real”, are his exact words. “It’s so much more healthy than this”. The scene is saturated,

particularly in red (as if reflecting the setting sun?), and even Nate wears a red anorak. And the

“ghost” of Nathaniel Fisher at his own funeral wears bright, colorful Hawaiian shirt, whereas

everybody else wears black, and the background reflect the aerial perspective (the farther colors

are even more desaturated). Also popping out of the frame at the funeral are some flower
 Malus 23

arrangements in the background (contrary to the ones on Nathaniel’s grave they are all brightly

red), creating a spitefully lively pattern amids the sorrow and family feud.

Another interesting use of color is painting the scenes with Nates’ boyfriend Keith darker,

killing the brightness. Similar to the Fisher’s kitchen being soothingly light and desaturated,

Keith apartment has a feel of another refuge, but one with much more masculine, rough, solid

energy.

But, of course, there is more to this “anti-television language” and character- and space-

defining techniques than the use of colors.

Caso consciously avoids most of TV’s visual vernacular, such as keeping the camera at

eye level. “I insist on some bizarre compositions. I like low and high angles, stacking

two-shots, getting everybody involved and using depth diagonally in the frame. We play

with deep focus a lot, working with planes of color so that there’s always something more

than the main subject to look at. I also like to split focus, with a big face welling up with

tears in the foreground and the person in the background also in focus.” (Magid)

By doing so, Six Feet Under doesn’t strive for a “look” but creates visual themes to

distinguish its characters, and delves into their personal space by camera movements, framing

(composition), POV and field of view.

“It’s about making each shot reflect what’s going on internally for these characters, and

in the story, on an unconscious visual level,” Ball states. “Why do we shoot Ruth sitting

far away from everyone? Because she’s so disconnected from her family and herself.

Alan really understands the visual language. It’s not about finding a groovy angle, it’s

about finding out what that angle tells us about the character.”
 Malus 24

Similarly, Caso tries to position and shoot David, the gay family member, so that

his discomfort is palpable. “We put the camera inside David’s personal space, which

takes the audience inside the action,” Caso explains. “Viewers are not just armchair

observers of this world; we’re putting them right in the middle of it, forcing them to feel

the discomfiture of David and the other characters. There’s no backing away, there’s no

getting out of it.” (Magid)

I would say that the sanest and the least aesthetically “outlined” character in the series is

Federico, whose storyline gets more messed up only in later seasons, and this reflects on his

appearance in the frame, and lighting; but

Caso considers Nate and Claire to be the series’ sanest characters, so he often

poses them casually in a shot. “That’s probably the most normal filmmaking we do.

Nate’s a casual guy, the emotional lock of the family, so although he’s dealing with a life-

threatening [brain injury] and is really the most fragile of all, we keep him stabilized

compositionally. He’s usually the centerpiece. While Claire may look normal in the shot,

we like the world around her to be really skewed because her world is very skewed.”

When Nate and Claire get stirred up, though, Caso likes to pull out all the stops.

“When Claire’s freaking out, the cinematography will reflect it,” Caso says. “Likewise,

when Nate gets himself in crazy places, we get right into his face. There’s a first-season

scene where he’s really stoned at his girlfriend’s house, and we had him wear a rig so that

the camera would be 10 inches from his face no matter where he walked.” (Magid)

Indeed, Caso uses close-ups in a very cinematic way, usually to show characters’ state of

mind, such as when we go “into” David’s mind and he imaginarily screams; or when a mourner
 Malus 25

talks annoyingly to David; or, a bit subversively, Claire’s car abruptly stopping (close up of the

bumper), reflecting Nate’s aggravation and Claire’s being under influence of crystal meth. Close

ups are also used to inductively set a scene, such as the remains of the pizza and the flies

establishing the scene in which Claire gets stoned; Nate and Brenda having sex in the airport

broom closet; the afore mentioned “horror-like” descend to the embalming room; or even the

title sequence.

On the other hand, one obvious “unorthodox” framing choice in Six Feet Under is a fair

amount of extreme long shots (XLS), or as show’s creators call them, wide shots, starting, most

effectively, with the scene where Ruth learns about her husband’s death. Camera not being

scared of closing on the faces of all members of the family when they learn about the death,

changes position when Nate finds his devastated mother on the kitchen floor. It is shot in an

extreme wide angle: Ruth is almost detached from her environment and the mess of the kitchen

utensils on the floor in the foreground. The camera is also unbearably static.

“Producers have this desperate need to constantly move the camera” says Caso, who adds

that this trend is not always appropriate. “I think that shows like CSI, NYPD Blue and ER

really need [movement], but this show absolutely does not. We actually took our

approach to the other extreme. We said, ‘Let’s just format this like we’re shooting 1:85:1

and it’s going to be on the big screen. Let’s not be afraid of the wide shot—let’s go really

wide. Let’s provide these proscenia for the actors to play in and make bold statements

about the emptiness of someone’s life by isolating him, creating a conflict within the

composition of the frame, or show his misery by making him look small and insignificant

in the frame.’” (Magid, 2002)

 Malus 26

Another wide shot is when the Fishers are in the morgue—and Ball blocks the actors

along the z-axes, detaching them from each other. Also, the pilot consists of an unusually great

number of one-shot scenes, a very cinematic tradition, and the editing in general is opposite of

modern TV practice of over-saturating shots and cuts as means of speeding up the dialogue.

“That’s not because it’s expedient, but because it gives the show a slightly different

rhythm. Our show is not so much about cutting back and forth between close-ups; it’s

about actually composing a picture within a frame, and I wanted those compositions to

have some subtext. I think Alan loves the wide shots because that’s when he really gets to

paint with the light.” (Ball, as qouted in Magid)

One rare instance when the pilot succumbs to a quicker pace and typical cutaway shots is

David’s recollection of descending to his father in embalming room—the scene is shot and

edited as a horror movie. Apart from that, most camera movement and fluidity in the pilot are,

excluding the mentioned instances are provided by Nate’s “quickie” Brenda and her brother

Billy (when we first see him, he wears a bright-red sweater). First of all, as Ball states in the

commentary to pilot episode on DVD, a lot of time Brenda is in shot there is also water present

in the background, or reflection of it, because her boundaries are much more fluid, unrestricted;

she’s uninhibited. Secondly, the change in editing pace is most apparent in the scene where

Brenda drives Nate from the airport, and editing has no respect for what Zettl calls motion

vectors continuity, and creates uneasy, jittery dialogue. This is intentional:

Brenda is all over the place, bouncing off the frame walls. She’ll be doing something

normal, just sitting off in the corner, lying in a wacky position or dropping out of frame,

and then she’ll loom out and do her thing. Billy is her alter ego, so he’s also a roll of the

dice. When they’re in a scene together, they push each other’s buttons and drive each
 Malus 27

other crazy, so we position them at opposite ends of the frame to show that the dynamic

between them, and its effect on their world, is pretty crazy. (Caso, as quoted in Magid)

These choices are related to the fact that Ball, with his theater background as a graduate

of Florida State University’s School of Theatre, feels that TV

tends to spoon-feed viewers. I don’t like doing that because I want subtext to remain

subtext, and I enjoy the possibility of creating different interpretations so that the show is

not exactly the same experience for everyone. I didn’t want a constant parade of close-

ups, and Alan’s always been on board with that. When we were shooting the pilot, we set

up a shot of Nate and Claire looking down a forced-perspective hallway, and everybody

said, “They’re too far away.” But I said, “No, let’s leave it wide.” (as quoted in Magid)

LAMENT

As Audrey Tatou said, Amélie is like a painting. And so is Six Feet Under, even though

with less grandiose and picturesque swings of the brush. Both the movie and the HBO show use

colors to distinct between what’s real and the fantasy or dream (but the movie reverses the usual

assignment of color to fantasy); they both desaturated colors, and accentuate certain color theme

with a detail in a complementary color or one that contradicts the warmth of the prevalent color.

The both use fade to white to denote the lightness (or journey towards something unknown, yet

promising), and make use of very filmic composition, framing, POV and fields of view. There

are, of course, many differences—Amélie keeps changing the (editing) pace all the time, camera

gets completely crazy sometimes, colors, as said, are almost unbearably vivid in the scenes that

are supposed to be reality (which, actually, makes sense if we remind ourselves that the movie,

according to creators and critics as well, is a fantasy, a fairy tale, an unreal dream). It is, like its
 Malus 28

main heroine, uncontrollable, nimble, elusive to exact definition and standards of what a movie

(perhaps a Hollywood movie?) is supposed to look like. In a way, Amélie may be too

experimental for the task I undertook, especially in the view of critics that it completely

disregard the diversity of its real surroundings.

But both texts are the exact opposite of what American broadcast TV, and Hollywood

production, are all about: about least offensive programming, so the can attract enough viewers

—one for the ad revenues, the other for box-office revenue. Not to forget that HBO has to also

attract viewers to get a sufficient subscribers base, but its programming strategy alone (one of 13

instead of 22-25 episodes per season,) indicate the path it wants to follow: one that is similar to

European scheduling practices. Even though it does not seem so at first, this has much to do with

the aesthetics of the show, as much as the fact that there is no commercial breaks. Like in a

movie. Not to mention it deals with the subject that, particularly in American TV, is not

addressed as straightforward, unapologetic, and without denial: death, and, in general, mortality.

As Brenda’s question to Nate inquires, are we upset that someone beloved died, or because we

are also bound to die?

In no way I am claiming say that Six Feet Under (deliberately) drew ideas and aesthetic

choices by viewing Amélie (in fact, they both reached audiences the same year), and I am not

implying Alan Ball consulted European movies to see what he can do with the show. As he

himself admits, much of his aesthetic preferences come from the theatre, and others are

conscious decisions of his cinematographer Alan Caso, influenced by much more than just an

arsenal of (European) movies. What I am saying is that there is an inherent characteristic in

Western culture (we could talk about cultural proximity) of what is aesthetically and narratively

above the mainstream, “least offensive”, popular, disposable texts. It is hard to prove that the

texts analyzed in this essay follow exact list of what I established as values in European
 Malus 29

broadcasting, and it might be so because of the method and the unsuitable samples; but they do,

despite some critics, aesthetically connote quality, universality (universal usage of colors and

POVs, or their reversal, to present charcters, situations, emotions), diversity (Amélie with

uncontrollable change of pace and framing techniques, Six Feet Under with the incorporating un-

televisual wide shots), individual identity (complementary colors against the prevalent

background, colorful details creating patterns, as the flower arrangements in Six Feet Under), but

not, truthfully, welfare of children and juveniles (of course Amélie looks like a fairy tale, but

there’s sex in the restroom!). Their hommages to other TV or movie experiences (Amélie having

black and white dreams, Six Feet’s horror scene, its take on commercials, etc.) as well as other

genres offer reference point to other media texts, be popular or “high” art.

Of course, following the position of biopsychological relativism, one could argue that all

this is obvious, and thus irrelevant; that comparing Amélie and Six Feet Under in order to

establish similar or the very same (or contradictory, for that matter) aesthetic means of

intensifying similar, same or contradictory values in European and American film and TV

production is a futile enterprise. According to biopshychological relativism teachings, aesthetics

of a particular text can only be judged “based on psychological laws that grow out of common

human … sensory system factors”—shapes, colors, sounds “enticing sense of symmetry” and

presenting “no long-term psychological barrier to the acceptance of even radically different

systems for pleasure production so long as they do not ignore fundamental perceptual laws”

(Orlik, 2000, p.221). But even if this is the best explanation to grab, it still proves the point I was

trying to make with this essay: that acquiring HBO programs for European PSBs represents no

shame, no hidden agenda, and no cultural threats to European diversity and striving for quality,

multivocal, and non-commercial programs.

 Malus 30

But there is one more similarity, and one that steps, so to speak, through that Lacanian

mirror I made such a big deal of when speaking about aesthetics in this essay. Bear with me

again: Amélie is like a painting. One of the characters is a painter, trying to imitate Renoir but

always coming short of capturing the exact expression the master painted on the girl with a glass

of water (in the movie allegory for the heroine). It features ID photographs people tore apart and

threw away, but Nick picked them up, reassembled them, and put them in an album. The man

that keeps appearing on many of the photographs is not what Amélie perceives him to be. Nick

works in a porno shop where they sell titillating images (sex toys, movies). In Six Feet Under,

the undertakers reassemble, reconstruct (also dress) dead people, according to their old

photographs and/or how those they left behind want them to look like. Nathaniel, Sr., is

appearing to his family as an image they need him to be at that point, and how they always

perceived him. The pattern emerging here is the image, any image, always being different from

reality. It is always based on our perception and what we want to perceive—of reality, of the

image, of ourselves, of our society, of our values. It is our perception in front of a mirror, trying

to become that image, or making others, or world, become what we see in the mirror. We mourn,

buy pornography, see ghosts … but we never quite get there (like the painter never getting the

girl with the glass of water’s expression), so we shatter the mirror (as in case of the torn ID

photographs) or get cremated, hoping that the next time around, the image in the mirror will

correspond the image we think we are—or were before we first realized the one staring at us is,

to quote Douglas Adams, “almost, but not quite, entirely unlike, us. That I am one.

Which may explain the yearning for afterlife where, supposedly, we get to not have a

body, and we are unified with “the source”.

But if our mind is supposed to be part of our soul and not the body, I’m sure those souls

try to vainly look at the mirror somewhere out there …

 Malus 31

REFERENCES

Audrey the second. (2001, September 21). Irish Times, p. 64. Retrieved April 2, from ProQuest
database.
Ball, A. (Writer & Director) (2001). Pilot [Television series episode]. In A. Ball, B. Greenblatt,
& A. Poul (Executive Producers), Six Feet Under. Los Angeles: HBO.
Barbatsis, G., & Guy, Y. (1991). Analyzing meaning in form: Soap opera’s compositional
construction of “realness”. Journal of Broadcasting & Electronic Media, 35(1), 59–74.
Barker, D. (1985). Television production techniques as communication. Critical studies in mass
communication, 2(3), 234–246.
Barker, D., & Timberg, B.M. (1992). Encounters wit the television image: Thirty years of
encoding research. Communication yearbook 15. Newbury Park, CA: Sage.
Bašić-Hrvatin, S. (2002). Serving the state or the public: The outlook for public service
broadcasting in Slovenia. Ljubljana: Mirovni inštitut. Retrieved October 18, 2005, from
http://mediawatch.mirovni-institut.si/eng/mw09.htm
Block, B. (2001). The visual story: Seeing the structure of film, TV, and new media. Boston:
Focal Press.
Blumler, J.G. (1992). Vulnerable values at stake. In Jay G. Blumler (Ed.), Television and the
public interest: Vulnerable values in West European broadcasting (pp. 22–42). London:
Sage Publications.
Brennan, J.G. (1954). The role of emotion in aesthetic experience. Quarterly Journal of Speech,
40(4), 422–428. Retrieved November 4, 2005, from Communication & Mass Media
Complete database.
Brook, V. (2004). Myth or consequences: Ideological fault lines in The Simpsons. In J. Alberti
(Ed.), Leaving Springfield: The Simpsons and the possibility of oppositional culture
(pp.172–196). Detroit: Wayne State University Press.
Haskins, C. (2001). Art, morality, and the holocaust: The aesthetic riddle of Benigni's Life is
beautiful. Journal of Aesthetics & Art Criticism, 59(4), 373–384. Retrieved November 4,
2005, from Academic Search Elite database.
 Malus 32

Harrington, C.L., & Bielby, D.D. (2005). Global television distribution: implications of tv
"traveling" for viewers, fans, and texts. The American Behavioral Scientist. 48(7), 902–
920. Retreived March 13th, 2005, from Proquest database.
Jeunet, J.P. (Director). (2001). Le fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain [Motion picture]. Paris:
Claudie Ossard Productions.
Kellner, D. (1999). The X-Files and the aesthetics and politics of postmodern pop. Journal of
Aesthetics & Art Criticism, 57(2), 161–175. Retrieved March 14, 2006, from Academic
Search Elite database.
Magid, R. (2002, November). Family plots. American Cinematographer Online Magazine.
Retrieved October 22, 2005, from http://www.theasc.com/magazine/nov02/six/index.html
Orlik, P.B. (2000). Electronic media criticism: Applied perspectives [Electronic version].
Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Retrieved May 5, 2006, from SFSU
InvestiGator.
Osborne, H. (1986). Aesthetic Experience and Cultural Value. Journal of Aesthetics & Art
Criticism; 44(4), 331–337. Retrieved November 4, 2005, from Academic Search Elite
database.
Palmer, P. (1997). Auteur TV: Twin Peaks, quality TV and the cult-ivated audience. (Doctoral
dissertation, University of California, 1997). Dissertation Abstracts International-A,
58(07), 2433. Retrieved August 19, 2005, from ProQuest Dissertations & Theses
database.
Piccirillo, M.S. (1986). On the authenticity of televisual experience: A critical exploration of
para-social closure. Critical studies in mass communication, 3(3), 337–355. Retrieved
November 4, 2005, from Communication & Mass Media Complete database.
Queen, A. (2001, October 5). The Big Picture: A feyness that's worse than death. The
Independent, p. 10. Retrieved April 2, from ProQuest database.
Rumphorst, W. (2003). Model public service broadcasting law [Electronic version]. Retrieved
October 30, 2005, from
http://www.ebu.ch/CMSimages/en/leg_p_model_law_psb1_tcm6-14334.pdf
Salt, B. (2001). Film Theory and its Application to TV Series Dramas. Journal of Media
Practice, 2(2), 98–113. Retrieved March 13, from Academic Search Elite database.
 Malus 33

Saxer, U. (1992). Television in a small multicultural society: The case of Switzerland. In Jay G.
Blumler (Ed.), Television and the public interest: Vulnerable values in West European
broadcasting (pp. 22 42). London: Sage Publications.
Schirmacher, W. (2000) Media aesthetics in Europe. Lecture presented at the 1991 conference
The Media in Europe (Revised). Retrieved November 1, 2005, from
http://www.egs.edu/faculty/schirmacher/aesth.html
Sepstrup, P. (1989). Implications of Current developments in West European broadcasting.
Media, Culture and Society, 11(1), 29–45.
Silj, A., Alvarado M., Bianchi, J., Chaniac, R., Fahy, T., Hofmann, M., et al. (1988). East of
Dallas: The European challenge to American television. London: BFI Publishing.
The way of success. (2002, November). Broadcasting & Cable, 132(45), 6A, 8A. Retrieved
October 11, 2005, from Communication & Mass Media Complete database.
Wolton, D. (1992). Values and normative choices in French television. In Jay G. Blumler (Ed.),
Television and the public interest: Vulnerable values in West European broadcasting (pp.
22–42). London: Sage Publications.
Zettl, H. (1998). Contextual media aesthetics as the basis for media literacy. Journal of
Communication, 48(1), 81–95. Retrieved November 3, 2005, from ProQuest database.
Zettl, H. (1999). Sight, sound, motion: Applied media aesthetics (3rd ed.). Belmont, CA:
Wadsworth Publishing.