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Ryan Fitzgerald Peter Greenaway: Privileging the Paratext Words: 5,000 Peter Greenaway describes his methods of film making as various ‘attempts to dislodge this apparently unquestioned presumption that narrative is necessary and essential for cinema.’1 He calls this presumption ‘the Tyranny of the Text,’ his language conveying the clear hierarchy that he sees in cinema.2 It is not simply a case of greater importance, but of ‘Tyranny,’ with text dominating at the cost of all else. The content of Greenaway’s films often shows a concern with the perceived importance of narrative in printed and written text as well, implying that it is not only in cinema that narrative is unnecessary, or unjustly prioritised. Speaking of books in particular, Greenaway says; ‘Books can also be catalogued by the total sum of their pages, by the numerical proportion of upper to lower case letters, by the number of times any particular word appears, by the evidence of mould and the prevalence of yellowing paper.’3 His sensitivity to the physical nature of books, elements that contribute to the way that the book is visually experienced, and his disbelief in the centrality and necessity of text prompts Greenaway to ask ‘Why do we have to have text before we can have image?’, a preoccupation that is apparent in much of his work.4 In his 1977 film Dear Phone, for example, text is itself an image; the audience is shown a piece of paper which has been both typed and hand-written upon, where any changes to the text are visually presented with an equal status to the edited words themselves. Simultaneous to this image of text is a voice-over narration of the corrected version of the text, spoken without any visual action corresponding to the narrated content. Once the text has been read aloud, the shot cuts to a phone booth, a different booth each time, with no explicit narrative accompanying the change; the shot remains static for a short time, before cutting to a new piece of paper. The film


Peter Greenaway, quoted in Bridget Elliott and Anthony Purdy, ‘Skin Deep: Fins-de-Siecle and New Beginnings in Peter Greenaway’s The Pillow Book’ in Peter Greenaway’s Poststructuralist/Postmodern Cinema, p.260 2 Greenaway, ‘Body and Text: Eight and a Half Women: A Laconic Black Comedy’ in Poststructuralist/Postmodern Cinema, p.286 3 Greenaway, quoted in Elliott and Purdy, ‘Skin Deep,’ p.261 4 Greenaway, quoted in Peter Greenaway: Interviews, p.176

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Ryan Fitzgerald continues in this way for its duration, with images of text, imageless text and textless images all mixing together with no clear hierarchy. The relationship between the physical, visual nature of the book and its content has been studied in Western literary theory through concerns with the paratext, which Gerard Genette defines as the matter that surrounds a text ‘precisely in order to present it.’5 He goes on to quote Phillp Lejune, who writes that the paratext is ‘a fringe of the printed text which in reality controls one’s whole reading of the text’;6 both recognise that whilst the paratext is invested with a degree of ‘control,’ it is simultaneously marginal and central. As J. Hillis Miller notes, the term para itself suggests something ‘equivalent in status and also secondary, subsidiary, submissive, as of a guest to host, slave to master.’7 Indeed, Genette clarifies and emphasises the ‘slave to master’ hierarchy, writing ‘Whatever aesthetic or ideological investment the author makes in a paratextual element [...], whatever coquettishness or paradoxical reversal he puts into it, the paratextual element is always subordinate to “its” text.’8 In a study of the alternative elements that control or contribute to the way in which a text is read, text itself is still the ‘Tyrant,’ since any essential function that the paratext possesses is essential solely in terms of promoting the text. It is this theoretical tradition that Greenaway is unconvinced with. One film in particular that promotes the importance of image at the cost of text, and is equally concerned with the look of text as the text itself, is Greenaway’s 1991 film Prospero’s Books, his cinematic adaptation of The Tempest. In this film, Greenaway makes ‘the central narrative periphery’; the text that acted as one potential starting point for the film becomes marginalised.9 Greenaway achieved this by privileging as the film’s ‘central structuring device’ the twenty-four


Gerard Genette, Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation, p.1 (emphasis in original) Phillip Lejune, quoted in Genette, Paratexts, p.2 7 J. Hillis Miller, quoted in Genette, Paratexts, p.1 8 Genette, Paratexts, p.12 9 Greenaway, quoted in Interviews, p.130 6

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Ryan Fitzgerald books that Shakespeare mentions only in passing;10 these are used by Shakespeare as explanations for Prospero’s magic, but in Greenaway’s film, as implied by their presence in the title, they are of greater importance. Each is explored more fully, shown on screen individually and accompanied by a narrated explanation of their content. Significantly, Greenaway points out that with this film, he has ‘turned text into image.’11 Whilst this can refer to the transformation of The Tempest from script to screen, it also refers to the way in which the film treats Prospero’s books themselves. The introduction of each of Prospero’s books often prompts the appearance of related images onscreen; the first book that is presented is the Book of Water, images of which are interspersed with a droplet of water splashing into a pool, an inkwell and Prospero’s body in a pool of water. Whilst a voice-over informs the audience that the book contains ‘drawings of every conceivable watery association,’ the sequence cuts between images of the book and these images of water, eventually blurring both into one another by presenting them transparently and at the same time. The image is prized above the text within the book, which for the audience is impossible to read or study because the writing is faded, wet or written too small; the audience can, however, appreciate the aesthetics of the text and how it is arranged on the page, and significantly, the drawings, which take up a larger portion of the page, are easier to understand. However, just as the voice-over narration does not read the actual text of the book, the images presented are not content alone; the pages of the Book of Water are shown being turned, reminding the audience that these are images from within a book and revealing the blank space on the reverse of the page on which the image was drawn. What is presented is an image of the physical book itself, and importantly, this physical, paratextual nature of the book is also narrated;


Paula Willoquet, ‘Prospero’s Books, Postmodernism and the Reenchantment of the World’ in Postmodern/Poststructuralist Cinema, p.179 11 Ibid. p.128

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Ryan Fitzgerald ‘waterproof covers,’ ‘loss of colour through much contact with water’ and the ‘different thickness of paper’ are mentioned at the same time as the content. The content is made equal with the paratext. It is clear that the books are firmly related to images; of the books themselves, of the action occurring behind the books, and of the images within the books. Indeed, the visual nature of the film is well commented upon; it has been called an ‘epic of the eye,’ a ‘surrender to visual spectacle’ and a ‘pornography of the visual.’12 The wording in these statements suggest how strongly image orientated the film is; ‘epic,’ ‘spectacle,’ ‘pornography.’ Indeed, Greenaway speaks of ‘image after image’ coming from Prospero’s inkwell,13 and one sequence in particular that emphasises this is the procession that takes place whilst the opening credits appear. Preceding this is a fast paced sequence of images, such as Ariel urinating from a swing, sudden bursts of fire and Prospero’s elaborate cloak, all of which is set to music. As these appear on screen, a number of Prospero’s lines are spoken, but these are disjointed and fractured; as Judith Buchanan points out, in many cases throughout the film the sound of words ‘appear in such profusion, and are worked to a point of such excess, that as semantic agents they are inevitably emasculated.’14 The manner in which these lines are delivered, obscured by their own echoes and a powerful musical score, prevents them from existing as effective textual entities, rendering them instead as part of the sensory excess of sound and image. Significantly, it is the non-diegetic soundtrack that overlaps into the start of the procession, and throughout this sequence the only legible texts that appear are the credits and the title, both of which are non-narratively driven. The procession involves four female dancers who act as a sort of voiceless guide. As they make their way across both the landscape and the screen from left to right, the figures that are revealed behind and in front of them form a visual introduction to the island. Image has replaced spoken narration, and this is emphasised by the highly stylised visual language of the dance. The 12

Willoquet, ‘Prospero’s Books,’ pp.180-1 Greenaway, quoted in Interviews, p.140 14 Judith Buchanan, ‘Cantankerous Scholars’ in Peter Greenaway’s Prospero’s Books, p.45 13

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Ryan Fitzgerald sequence is shot with little lighting, and as a result, when moments of illumination do come, through lightning, fire or moonlight, the audience is offered striking visuals that stand out in strong contrast to the surrounding darkness. These are attuned to the importance of books; for example, a giant book, itself filled with pictures, acts as a slide, whilst in the foreground, a book is passed from person to person as Prospero marches behind. But these are often only momentarily lit, before being absorbed back into the shadows as part of the visual background. None of these images are taken up later in the film or offered any form of narrative explanation, and Prospero’s slow stride, emphasised in contrast to the quick movements of the dancers, implies an indifference to the events around him. The length and steady pace of this panning shot asks the audience to share Prospero’s indifference, and accept the images without seeking narrative motivation. Indeed, Greenaway is said to use ‘human bodies as visual forms or “superficial” compositional elements’ in his films, being more concerned with characters as part of a larger image than for any psychological depth,15 and this sequence, through its use of bodies as background, prevents image from becoming textualised as a part of the narrative. As prevalent as image is within the film, it could be argued that it is content that is important to the character of Prospero, for it is the knowledge gained from the contents of his books that gives him power. This said, if content is indeed important, text’s position within the film is still undermined; Judith Buchanan points out that ‘it is the aesthetic patterning that words create as visual and aural design articles that gives them value,’16 and this holds especially true for Prospero’s books, where knowledge is often presented in a ‘pictoral form,’ or as ‘vision generated knowledge.’17 The ‘Book of Colours’ reflects this at its most basic level, where each page contains an example of a particular colour, the effect of which is so strong that an ‘associated sensory sensation is directly experienced.’ ‘An Atlas Belonging to Orpheus’ contains maps of Hell on fire-scorched paper, just one of the many of the books that contain maps and diagrams as the means to impart their knowledge. 15

Elliot and Purdy, ‘Skin Deep,’ p.273 Buchanan, ‘Cantankerous Scholars,’ p.45 17 Willoquet, ‘Prospero’s Books,’ pp.179-180 16

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Ryan Fitzgerald ‘Vesallius’s Lost “Anatomy of Birth”’ is ‘full of descriptive drawings’ of organs that throb and become three-dimensional, as does ‘A Bestiary of Past, Present and Future Animals’; the creatures here transform from flat images into creatures with depth and volume that are shown moving across the page. These creations come into being only as the book is read; like the ‘Book of Mirrors’ which might reflect the reader in a number of different ways, or the ‘Book of Utopias’ that allows the reader to ‘sort and match his own utopian ideal,’ the reading and authoring processes are blurred, challenging and undermining the notion of a fixed text.18 This idea is central to the film. The authoring process that is frequently presented occurs simultaneous to the action that accompanies it; early in the film, Prospero is shown to be sitting at his desk writing, whilst at the same time he walks from one end of the room to the other. Prospero does not read his lines, but rather writes them, authoring them simultaneous to the audience’s reading or hearing of them. This lack of a definitive text causes a loss of integrity and confidence in the written word; the first book that is introduced is written ‘A Book of Water’ but spoken ‘The Book of Water,’ and, though it is pronounced correctly, Prospero’s shouting of ‘Bossun’ at the start of the film seems to contradict the written text presented as ‘Boatswain.’ Moreover, ‘Boatswain’ is shouted and written a number of different ways, signalling that the text is not yet certain; it is open for changes as the author magician dictates.19 And yet, Greenaway says that ‘text is desperately important in the film’;20 indeed, it is only through writing that Prospero controls the island. Prospero is, after all, not a painter, but a writer, and spends most of the film writing; there is little suggestion that should Prospero write any less elegantly, or arrange his text in any other way, the magic would have less control. Whilst text is at many points uncertain and, within the books, is less important than image, it cannot be ignored that the writing of text is the driving force behind the film. It arrives simultaneously, and is equal to, image. Greenaway has succeeded in creating a film which does not necessarily ‘start with text’; but image has not yet triumphed. 18

Ibid. p197 Buchanan, ‘Cantankerous Scholars,’ p.47 20 Greenaway, quoted in Interviews, p.140 19

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Ryan Fitzgerald This would change with Greenaway’s film The Pillow Book (1996). Set in Japan, Greenaway is able to portray ‘the ideal marriage of both text and image’ through calligraphy, saying that ‘when you read text, you see image, when you view the image, you read the text’.21 The Japanese tradition embraces the visual form of words and the way in which they are ‘presented to the reader,’ privileging the look of words more than the West; Bernard Rudofsky writes that ‘Compared to Japanese books, ours are characterized by an insipidity that no efforts of designer and printer are able to overcome’ and that the Western alphabet is ‘no match for the wealth of characters available to a Japanese.’22 In contrast, whilst Genette proposes that typesetting, being both the font and its arrangement on a page, is ‘obviously the act that shapes a text into a book,’ he goes on to concede that it ‘may seem trivial or marginal.’23 The contrast between the Eastern and Western view of typeset is apparent throughout The Pillow Book. A significant moment in the film comes when a Japanese calligrapher tells Nagiko that ‘The word for rain should fall like rain. The word for smoke should drift like smoke,’ also mentioning a brother who ‘writes in green ink to remind his bosses of their green responsibilities.’ Nagiko’s reaction is to walk into the rain so that the ink runs down her body, showing that she understands this prioritisation of aesthetics. The words, distorted by water, can no longer be recognised as spelling ‘the word for rain’; instead, the look of the text now represents rain in its own appearance as consideration for the semantic dimension is washed away. Nagiko is later introduced to the Western perspective when she meets Jerome, an English translator, who writes on her breast in Yiddish; she tells him, ‘This is not writing, this is scribbling! [...] You are not a writer, you are a scribbler!’ The implicit suggestion is that writing, being here the opposite of scribbling, should always be beautiful, and that being a writer does not only mean that one writes, but that one writes beautifully. The word ‘Brusten’ did not, in an aesthetic sense, represent the breast; the fact that the word is placed correctly in an anatomical and semantic sense is unimportant, portraying the 21

Greenaway, ‘Body and Text,’ pp.287-8 Bernard Rudofsky, ‘Japanese: Book Design Yesterday’ in Design Quarterly 55, p.7 23 Genette, Paratexts, p.34 22

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Ryan Fitzgerald inequality of aesthetics and semantics, of image and text. When Nagiko later writes her own books, word placement is not semantically defining, as ‘Brusten’ was for breast, but, in two cases in particular, solely fulfils the paratextual function of the typesetting, and ‘shapes a text into a book.’ The ninth book, ‘The Book of Secrets,’ only becomes such through the unusual placement of words in locations such as the eyelid, whilst the following book, ‘The Book of Silence,’ is formed solely by the title’s placement on the tongue, leaving the rest of the book textless. Nagiko then tells Jerome that she has seen him ‘with his little type-writer going click-clickclack.’ The derogatory and patronising ‘little’ reflects her belief that the printed word is not true writing since it is mainly concerned with the meaning of text rather than the look of the text. Her priorities are evidenced by the ‘click-click-clack,’ which is attentive to the aural effect of the typewriter but not to the text that it writes. The typewriter is portrayed as the opposite of the calligrapher, and indeed, Greenaway says that; ‘It is the West that invented the printing press, after all. In Japan, the one-off was held as a sacred sort of talisman, the basic icon of which was the actual physical mark of the author, and its form was as significant as what that author had to say.’24 This difference is evidenced within the film, with the careful brush strokes of the birthday message written upon Nagiko’s face being some of the first things that the audience sees. Nagiko later writes the same message with a typewriter, holding the wet ink to her body in an attempt to replicate this annual ritual, but it is insufficient, and the paper and message on it are both discarded. The fact that the personal mark of the author is a central element of the Japanese experience is further conveyed when Jerome is shown sitting on the left-hand side of the screen with his typewriter, whilst Nagiko is positioned on the right with her calligraphy, neatly representing the difference between the ideology of the Eastern and Western writers. Tellingly, Genette chooses to use the word ‘typeset’ in his analysis of the aesthetics of a word’s presentation, betraying his prioritising of the typed and printed word over the hand-written. 24

Greenaway, quoted by Yves Jaques, ‘The Pillow Book’ on The Online Daily of the University of Washington, <>, (08/10/09)

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Ryan Fitzgerald The film’s indifference to semantics is further emphasised by the presence of so many different languages over the course of the film. Much of this is left untranslated, which ‘distracts from the functional deployment of dialogue and voice-over for the purpose of story-telling and character development, and instead foregrounds, for both eye and ear, the materiality of language in all its strange diversity, its sound and rhythms as well as its visual shapes and forms.’25 When the words’ meanings are left unclear, attention is forced towards the words’ other attributes, such as the ‘materiality’ that is often left untouched. Indeed, untranslated language causes semantics to drop away, leaving the audience with a solely sensory appreciation of the words in both their look and their sounds. This perfectly encapsulates the ideal of the prioritisation of the paratext, since it is the material nature of the words that becomes central, and not the story that they tell. The final book that Nagiko sends to the publisher is, at first, left untranslated; the shot pans around the body of a sumo wrestler, revealing all of the writing that covers him, whilst the publisher reads it aloud in Japanese. The text and spoken word are there for sensory appreciation; other than the names ‘Sei Shonagon’ and ‘Nagiko,’ the words are likely to be unfamiliar to a Western audience. It is three minutes before the words ‘Book 13: The Book of the Dead’ appear on the screen, and another minute until Nagiko finally narrates the text in English; during this time, the publisher has been killed, and there is little in the way of an understandable explanation for a Western audience. At the conclusion to the revenge-plot, perhaps the most vital point in the film in terms of its narrative, the audience is given only delayed access to the text. Rather than starting with text before image, or text simultaneous to image, here the image and its sensory materiality are first. The publisher has nodded, accepting his death, and the implication is that something he has read has brought him to this acceptance; what exactly the words say is secondary. Such a preoccupation with aesthetics over semantics is also found in the lists that form Sei Shonagon’s original ‘Pillow Book,’ which in turn forms the literary tradition from which Nagiko’s own writing emerges. These lists are sensual and sensory, detailing things that Sei Shonagon has come 25

Elliot and Purdy, ‘Skin Deep,’ p.264

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Ryan Fitzgerald into contact with, presented in terms of her appreciation of them, rather than a contemplation of what they might mean or represent. Indeed, the lists are not like those of a dictionary, cataloguing words by their semantic meaning, but, for instance, ‘words that look commonplace but that become impressive when written in Chinese characters,’ and this difference between words that mean and words that look epitomizes the tradition of privileging aesthetics. When Nagiko’s mother recites a ‘list of elegant things,’ she speaks of ‘duck eggs, shaved ice in a silver bowl, wisteria blossom, plum blossom covered in snow, a child eating strawberries,’ and in each of these moments, the Japanese speech and Japanese text appears before the English translation and a picture of the ‘elegant things’ in question; the audience is asked to listen to and look at the aesthetics of the words before considering what they could mean. Such listing also takes words out of their context, referencing them alongside things that they often would not normally invoke; ‘duck eggs’ in semantic terms has little in common with ‘a child eating strawberries,’ but their aesthetic appeal unites them. This otherwise arbitrary cataloguing is something that Greenaway has been interested in before; in his 1992 exhibition One Hundred Objects to Represent the World, Greenaway finds that the system of the English alphabet allows him the means to catalogue ‘the disparate concepts represented by Hell, Heaven, happiness, health, His Holiness, hysterectomy, Hitchcock, Hitler and hiatus in one bracket and under one section.’26 The Pillow Book does not only deal with the look of words, but the surface on which they are written on as well. Whereas Genette describes the choice of paper as ‘much less significant’ and ‘obviously less relevant to the text’ than the typesetting when considering the iconic or material paratext,27 The Pillow Book inverts this hierarchy; it is in fact the choice of paper that most prioritizes the paratext over the text within the context of the film. Skin and paper are repeatedly equated, through both filmic techniques and character dialogue; Greenaway writes of ‘using flesh as paper,’28 both Nagiko and Sei Shonagon compare the scent of paper to the scent of skin, and Jerome asks 26

Greenaway, quoted in Elliot and Purdy, ‘Skin Deep,’ p.280 Genette, Paratexts, pp.34-5 28 Greenaway, ‘Body and Text,’ p.291 27

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Ryan Fitzgerald Nagiko to ‘use [him] like the page of a book.’ Moreover, this tradition of skin being similar to paper is not uncommon in Japan, where ‘Just as Westerners donate their organs after death, a Japanese wearing the work of a grand tattoo master may donate his skin to a museum or university. Tokyo University has three hundred such master pieces framed.’29 The framing of these skins portrays the fact that they are treated as art, and the difference between East and West is again a telling one; whereas the West donates organs, or that which lies beneath the surface, the Japanese are more concerned with that which lies on the surface itself. It is after all Jerome’s skin, and not the rest of his body, that is sought by the publisher after his death. Greenaway embodies this concern in his filming of The Pillow Book, where ‘adding an extra visual layer to the action portrayed on the main screen, [his] views within views draws attention to the filmic surface, to the film as skin.’30 By drawing attention to the surface, attention must inevitably be drawn away from the substance; the larger visual layers obscure the action occurring behind them, and very small frames present difficulties in determining any great detail from within them. Significantly, these layers are often used to indicate something without confirming it through text or narration; Serge Gruzinski notes that in order to do this, Greenaway ‘selected and combined three distinct screens.’31 Visual clues replace spoken word, and although they help an understanding of the text develop, it is impossible to ignore their presence at the surface and as part of the screen’s image. One of Genette’s first definitions of paratext is that it is that which ‘enables a text to become a book,’32 and using this definition, there is no greater paratext in The Pillow Book than the page through its association with the body. Bernard Rudofsky credits the Japanese ‘with perfecting papermaking to a degree unmatched by other nations,’33 and the importance of the quality of the writing


Diane Ackerman, quoted in Elliot and Purdy, ‘Skin Deep,’ p.255 Ibid. pp.273-4 31 Serge Gruzinski and Deke Dusinberre, The Mestizo Mind, pp.81-2 32 Genette, Paratexts, p.1 33 Rudofsky, ‘Book Design Yesterday,’ p.3 30

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Ryan Fitzgerald surface is evident throughout the film. The first writing that the audience sees is upon flesh; initially on Nagiko as a child, and later on Nagiko as a model. Photographs are taken in this latter instance, returning the text from her body back onto paper; but significantly, there is little more shown of these particular photographs, their importance relegated by their placement onto paper. Nagiko’s search for the best surface for her writing takes her through various paper, and even to the condensation on her bathroom mirror, but until she meets Jerome, she has limited choice and limited success; Hoki, a Japanese photographer, offers himself as a writing surface, but is rejected by Nagiko because his skin is not of a high enough quality. The first book that she submits for publication is a set of photographs of her body-writing, which is returned with the words ‘It is not worth the paper it is written on’, a further rejection of the transformation from skin back to literal paper. Nagiko immediately responds ‘So they are not satisfied with the quality of the paper,’ and her response is an entirely accurate assessment; when the same text is sent to the publisher a second time, using Jerome’s flesh as the writing surface, the publisher readily accepts the paper, the body, and the text. It is the quality of the paper, the physical presence of Jerome, that ‘enables’ Nagiko’s text to become a book. The paper selected for the remaining books is of central importance to their message; the fifth book, ‘The Book of the Exhibitionist,’ is written upon the skin of an American who was initially told by Nagiko that he was unsuitable as a writing surface; she thus uses him for this negative book which also ‘exhibits’ Nagiko’s decision to use men other than Jerome. The sixth book, ‘The Book of the Lover,’ returns to Jerome’s body as its paper, with the writing extending onto his penis, whilst the eighth book, ‘The Book of Youth,’ returns the text to the paper of photographs, reflecting upon Nagiko’s initial youthful attempts to get her writing published. Lastly, a sumo wrestler is used for the final book, his large body a fitting home for the copious amount of writing which tells Nagiko’s story to the publisher.

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Ryan Fitzgerald The importance given to the font and the paper, two aspects of paratext that Genette considers marginal in something that is already viewed as being of ‘subordinate’ stature to the text, paired with the relative unimportant nature of semantics in the film, leads to the text falling away as a central driving force behind The Pillow Book. The paratext takes its place as the textual entity and as that which occupies the position of greatest importance, not only determining how and what is read, but more significantly, becoming that which is read. The paratext is more important to Nagiko’s ‘Pillow Book’ than it is to Prospero’s various books, since it is the paratext of Nagiko’s books which in some cases forms their entirety, and in all cases enables them to exist at all; and whilst Prospero’s books show an interest in image, Prospero’s own interest in text in general, and writing specifically, balances their respective importance in the film. The traditions behind each film are, to a degree, responsible for this difference; Prospero’s Books has an unavoidably Western culture at its root, being taken from Shakespeare, whilst its lines are delivered in English. On the other hand, The Pillow Book has the freedom to explore image at the expense of text offered by its setting in Asia, its use of calligraphy and its twenty six foreign languages, left in many cases untranslated.34 The importance of the Japanese tradition as a means to promote image over text extends between both films; it was in Japan’s NHK studios after all where the work was done that produced the visual excess of Prospero’s Books.35 But just as Nagiko is attuned to the differences between Eastern and Western textual or paratextual traditions, so too are the two films; with both, however, it is safe to say that they no longer start with text and end with image.

34 35

Greenaway, ‘Body and Text,’ p.290 Howard A. Rodman, ‘Anatomy of a Wizard’ in Interviews, p.124

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Ryan Fitzgerald

Filmography Dear Phone (British Film Institute, Peter Greenaway, 1977) Prospero’s Books (Allarts, Peter Greenaway, 1991) The Pillow Book (Studio Canal, Peter Greenaway, 1996)

Bibliography Secondary Texts Buchanan, Judith, ‘Cantankerous Scholars’ in Christel Stalpaert, ed., Peter Greenaway’s ‘Prospero’s Books’ (Academic Press, 2000), pp.43-85 Genette, Gerard, Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation, (Cabridge: CUP, 1997), first published 1987 Gruzinski, Serge, trans. Deke Dusinberre, The Mestizo Mind (Routledge, 2002) Jaques, Yves, ‘The Pillow Book’ on The Online Daily of the University of Washington, <>, (08/10/09) Paula Willoquet-Maricondi and Mary Alemany-Galway, eds, Peter Greenaway’s Postmodern/Poststructuralist Cinema (Scarecrow Press, 2001) Rudofsky, Bernard, ‘Japanese: Book Design Yesterday’ in Design Quarterly 55 (1962), pp.1-32 Vernon Gras and Marguerite Gras, eds, Peter Greenaway: Interviews (University Press of Mississipi, 2000)

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Greenaway and Paratext