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Abstract

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This article traces the life of a representationally elusive and stubborn landscape, the Hoo Peninsula in Kent, through various forms of visual culture. Beginning with its invisibility during the great period of landscape painting in England, during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it examines how the Hoo Peninsula nevertheless appears multiple times in film during the twentieth century. Drawing on the theories of Gilles Deleuze, Patrick Keiller, and Giuliana Bruno, it explores how the unique qualities of film as a medium have captured the mysterious and unstable nature of the Hoo Peninsula. It similarly shows that the very unpalatability of the marshy and sometimes dangerous landscape, which precluded it as a subject of traditional landscape painting, enshrouded it in a degree of invisibility that film directors later fruitfully exploited in both documentary and fictional film projects.

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Introduction: “The Dark Flat Wilderness”

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When eighteenth- and nineteenth-century artists were venturing out “en plein air” with the aim of capturing the sublime on canvas, the Hoo Peninsula in Kent, situated between the Thames and Medway estuaries remained stubbornly invisible (Fig. 1 and Fig. 2).1 Yet where this landscape was mute as a source for painting, it later emerged as a subject matter in the medium of film. In different evocative manifestations, it was the opening backdrop in David Lean’s Great Expectations (1946) and appeared as a fictitious Vietnam in Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket (1987).2 It was also the subject of a film made in 1952, called The Island, to promote British Petroleum’s new oil refinery in the area.3 This omission of the Hoo Peninsula—with its persistent, “brackish zone” of marshland and estuary waters—from painting, made it, nevertheless, ripe territory for film-makers (Fig. 3).4

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In these three films, the camera lens functions as a memory tool, which captures the landscape in a unique synthesis of the real and the imagined. Operating beyond the limitations of painting, the medium of film allowed for the imagined and the real to become fluid and interchangeable. Film, for example, possesses a composited methodology of elements with which to articulate its work. It draws upon movement, light, sound, music, dialogue, costume, and scripts to unfurl its story. Familiar to the human experience, these elements shift between factual evidence and the imaginary with ease.

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For the audience, film evaporates whereas painting is present. The mechanics of creating a film are largely hidden; painting, on the other hand, is subject to the tools and techniques of its trade. The materiality of the canvas, paint, and brushstroke are its purpose, focus, and pleasure. A frame around a painting maps the territory of the work and locates its physical presence in the space. It could be argued that a painting is reliant upon a more limited palette of tools and techniques to convey an image, and that whereas a film moves between any number of scenes, a painting must be an enduring image

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Where the subject matter of the Hoo Peninsula was too unpalatable in what has been identified as the great period of landscape painting—the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—these qualities (e.g. “the dark flat wilderness” described in a phrase written by Charles Dickens) were readily utilized by film.5 If the landscape of the Hoo Peninsula was unattractive to the painters of the period, then its wilfully broad, flat marshland was an asset to the film-maker, who could render its pliable nature into a backdrop for an orphaned boy.

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As an artist, I have been working in the Hoo Peninsula for over twenty years, continually drawn there to explore it, through the mediums of film and photography. At the start, the work was a visual exploration of the physical and material characteristics of the place but latterly it has focused on the aura that I experience there, which is unique to the peninsula. Using lens-based media is a means of unfolding the embodied nature of the place and navigating this “diffuse” atmosphere.6 A lens presents both a detached and a simultaneously intimate mechanism where I can observe, in close proximity, the detail of the Napoleonic fort’s crumbling wall or position myself in the exposed marsh landscape and film container ships passing to Tilbury, beyond the seawall.

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My work as an artist has piqued my interest in the Hoo Peninsula’s absence from landscape painting and its emergence as a site of special interest in mid-twentieth-century film. Following Deleuze’s work on the multifaceted nature of cinema, I argue that the filmic modulation of images through cutting, sequencing, and reorganizing creates a methodology for re-illuminating the landscape of the Hoo Peninsula. Drawing upon Giuliana Bruno’s work, “Light spaces and Screen Surfaces: On the Fabric of Projection”, I propose that the screen is the anchor point for the ephemeral experience of viewing the Hoo Peninsula on film. Building on the work of Jacques Rancière, Bruno develops the notion that the cinematic surface “comes into play as a partition that ‘mediates’ … [and becomes] … a form of dwelling in the material world.”7

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A Black Spot: Perceptions of the Hoo Peninsula

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The Hoo Peninsula is an area of land in north Kent that is positioned between two river estuaries: the Thames and the Medway. In 2013, English Heritage described it as largely characterized by arable and marshland pasture of a low-lying nature with pockets of large industry. It was the site of prison hulks in the 1800s, a centre for the manufacture of cordite and ammunition in the early 1900s, and more recently, was proposed as a site for a new London airport.8

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I had stumbled upon the Hoo Peninsula in North Kent in the mid-1990s, whilst living on a Dutch barge with my young family. Rising costs brought us to the cheaper moorings of the River Medway in Rochester, underneath the M2 motorway. One day, we cycled towards a place called Cliffe in the Hoo Peninsula—a village set on the edge of an open expanse of reclaimed marsh, bounded by the seawall in the distance. As we headed towards the seawall, we got hopelessly lost (we had no map) and our route became constantly thwarted by hidden creeks and drainage ditches.

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On a summer’s day, getting tangled up in the landscape with a bicycle was inconvenient, but never as foolhardy and threatening as it would have been on a winter’s day in the 1500s. As early as the sixteenth century, the peninsula was regarded as an “unpleasant and unhealthy place” and the word “unwholesome” was used to describe it by William Lambarde in 1570.9 According to the academic Mary Dobson, marsh parishes such as those in the Hoo Peninsula, were “the most notorious black spots during the early modern period” (Fig. 4).10These black spots were often the result of malaria, known locally as marsh fever or the ague, as they were a breeding ground for mosquitoes due to the continual flooding of the land that breached ineffective sea defences in the sixteenth century. The fleets and ditches, characteristic of the peninsula, continued to provide perfect conditions for malaria into the present era, with the last case being reported in the 1950s. Even as late as the 1980s, lofts spaces belonging to houses in the Isle of Grain, on the edge of the Hoo Peninsula, were routinely sprayed to eradicate mosquitoes.11

2015, gouache on layers of tracing paper, 42 x 29.5 cm.
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Figure 4.
Anna Falcini, Black Spots, 2015, gouache on layers of tracing paper, 42 x 29.5 cm.


Digital image courtesy of Anna Falcini.

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Within this context of disease and a sense of unpicturesque flatness, we can begin to identify reasons why the landscape of the Hoo Peninsula was omitted from the great period of landscape painting in England. Edward Hasted noted that even vicars would not live in these marsh parishes.12 It was hardly the picture of pastoral England that might attract the artist. Arguably, apart from its coastal activity, the landscape itself also lacked the features that would attract the painter of the picturesque or the sublime of the period.

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Here was also a decided absence of Horace Walpole’s “arrant strollers” gallivanting across the peninsula, who might stumble upon an example of William Gilpin’s perspectives and prominences.13 With the exception of Cliffe (whose name is derived from its “cliff top position” 10m above sea level), and Northward Hill at High Halstow that overlooks Cooling and Halstow marshes, there were few elevated perspectives from which to view the largely flat, marginal landscape.14

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The peninsula appeared void of those features that had come to define a “landscape” under the conditions of the industrial modern. Lacking either charming vistas or pleasant agrarian scenes of farming, it repelled the ideals of landscape as they were developed by artists, poets, novelists, and theorists from the eighteenth century onwards. It was hardly worth getting out a pencil for, never mind the bulky paraphernalia of the painter—or so it seemed for many. Even its proximity to London did not draw citizens from the city to dwell upon its unpopulated marshes.15 The natural philosophy that determined the “aesthetics of nature”: “harmony, order, design and beauty” were evidently amiss in the Hoo Peninsula. As Harman notes in his work The Culture of Nature in Britain 1680–1860, the emergence of natural philosophy, a branch of “inquiry into the phenomena of nature and their causes” laid the groundwork for these ideals to emerge and subsequently, as scientific and industrial developments shaped society, the aesthetic values of “the natural world” became more desired.16

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The Hoo Peninsula, however, was neither a “cultivated landscape of ordered farmland” or Ruskin’s misty eyed “untouched pristine wilderness”, but a “featureless” place.17 In a particularly low point for the peninsula, the apothecary Dr Thomas Johnson, who set foot from a boat on the Isle of Grain in 1629, to seek out plant specimens, noted its “inhuman wilderness”, and he and his companions found little to “arouse our fainting spirits to any breath of hope”.18 This perspective of a dark and untrustworthy place maintains a currency in the cultural psyche. In his book Thames: Sacred River (2008), the writer Peter Ackroyd reflects upon how the Hoo Peninsula “exerts a primitive and still menacing force, all the more eerie and lonely because of its proximity to the great city.”19

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On the final page, Ackroyd reaches the end of his Thames journey marked by an imposing obelisk, the London Stone (Fig. 5). It rises out of the mud, at Yantlet Beach between Allhallows and the Isle of Grain. An identical obelisk across the river, the Crow Stone in Essex, provided a boundary across the river, demarcating the edge of the city, asserting “the eastern limit of the city’s jurisdiction from the 12th century to the mid-19th century”. The stone is notoriously hard to access, and at low tide, the London Stone becomes marooned on the mud, its foundation of humble timbers incongruous with the stone obelisk above and its lofty pretensions to Ancient Egypt and Rome.20

2016.
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Figure 5.
Anna Falcini, The London Stone, 2016.


Digital image courtesy of Anna Falcini.

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The Island: Memorising the Landscape through Filmic Methodologies

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In 1952, British Petroleum (BP) began to construct the Kent Oil Refinery on the Isle of Grain. To allay the fears of the local communities nearby and to promote its construction, BP commissioned a film that would document the refinery’s development and subtly embed the message that change was inevitable and that progress for Britain was dependent on oil (Fig. 6).21

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Figure 6.
John Ingram and Peter Pickering, The Island, 1952, 35 mm black and white film, 25 minutes. Collection of BP Video Library.


Film courtesy of John Ingram, Peter Pickering, and BP Video Library.

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The film tells the story of the refinery through a tightly scripted narration, using a series of characters including the construction manager, workers, local farm labourers, and the Parish vicar. Directed by John Ingram and Peter Pickering, The Island is an artistically constructed film that cleverly manoeuvres the film camera between industrial progress and ancient landscape, persuasively presenting the argument that progress inevitably takes prominence over the irrevocable loss of landscape (Fig. 7 and Fig. 8).

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Figure 7.
John Ingram and Peter Pickering, The Island, 1952, 35 mm black and white film, 25 minutes. Collection of BP Video Library.


Film courtesy of John Ingram, Peter Pickering, and BP Video Library.

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Figure 8.
John Ingram and Peter Pickering, The Island, 1952, 35 mm black and white film, 25 minutes. Collection of BP Video Library.


Film courtesy of John Ingram, Peter Pickering, and BP Video Library.

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Through numerous visits, I had become familiar with entering Grain through the threshold of industry before you could reach the village or coastline. I traced a pathway around the shoreline and came up against a whole section of ancient marsh compressed under concrete. The marsh, that had existed for thousands of years, was superseded by an oil refinery that existed for only thirty years and whose concentric pools of black liquid were reminiscent of the black spots of disease that had earlier been described in Dobson’s marsh parishes (Fig. 9).

2016, film still with text.
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Figure 9.
Anna Falcini, Glistening Black featuring still and script from the film “The Island” (1952), 2016, film still with text.


Digital image courtesy of Anna Falcini.

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Initially, The Island, inhabits its purpose as a marketing tool for an oil company wanting to smooth the way for this “80-million pound job with 80 million headaches”.22 The refinery was a huge feat of engineering and a substantial development in the Isle of Grain. It consumed a third of the land and required “the filling in of fleets and channels and the alteration of the coastline”. Roads were moved and the population swelled as 1,000 construction workers arrived in Grain along with heavy machinery. This once remote and cut-off part of the peninsula was radically changed in a short span of time.23

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Getting beyond its matter-of-fact narration and reasoning as to why an oil refinery should be situated here, which is delivered largely in the clipped 1950s dialogue of male authority, I was strangely captivated by the film: viewing Grain through a camera lens, as a landscape in transition, that was captured at a critical point of change. As the camera recorded the activity, the memory of it became indelibly imprinted onto the celluloid, absorbing the transformation of landscape.

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In The Island, there is a notable porousness of both past and present, between scenes where the landscape has changed very little in the Isle of Grain, contrasted with scenes where the landscape is mechanically manoeuvred into new geographies. From a position of posterity and time past, the immateriality of film (the act of its projection and viewing), has nevertheless portrayed a landscape that is evocative and provokes the palpable.

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In his essay “Film as Spatial Critique”, the artist Patrick Keiller discusses how film “offers possibilities … to experience spatial qualities no longer encountered in ordinary experience.” “Spaces that no longer exist,” he says, “may still exist physically but not socially or they may no longer exist at all..24

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Through the medium of film, my encounters with the Isle of Grain were richer and more complex than what Keiller described as “ordinary experience”.25 I could go beyond what I knew personally into an expanded experience. This multifaceted aspect of the cinematic is at the core of The Island, enabling a destabilising and disrupted sequence of events that shifts between the building of the oil refinery and the pastoral scenes of Grain. The viewer is presented with the future (the construction of the oil refinery) and the past (a bird watcher in the marshes or agricultural activities), although every scene was in fact filmed within the same period of time. It creates an altered “possible perception of life”.26

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Entangled in the 26 minutes of irreversible change to Grain, I am suspended into in-betweenness that is a rhizomatic network of memory, of the mis-remembered, of archaeology and of the primary experience. It first manifests itself through a faded industrial past (the oil refinery being constructed in the film but now long since closed) and then a past/past of the pastoral before industry (landscapes of birdwatchers) set against my more recent time-frame of light/past experience in the landscape where changes continue, such as the recent demolition of the Grain Power Station. The effect is to linger (and toil) in this space of that which is experienced through the film, set against the embodied in the landscape and bringing these two things in parallel with each other at a jaunty angle.

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The point here is that the scenes in The Island are temporally mobile, even if they are visually static. Of the few scenes where the camera is still, the landscape is in motion—even if not visibly so. The film’s mobility, between scenes of disruption to the landscape in both the semi-permanent (the building of the refinery) to the settled and rooted (ploughing of a field) is an encounter through the film camera that pinpoints an anxiety about time.27

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The Peninsula as a Backdrop: Setting the Scene for Dark Episodes

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The Hoo Peninsula appears as a setting in the two feature films I have identified: Great Expectations (1946) and Full Metal Jacket (1987). Where landscape painting in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was excited by the Claudian prospects and panoramas and later, by what Ann Bermingham described as “intimate and occluded views that presented nature as rough, shaggy and humble”, the estuary’s stark, uncompromising, windswept extremity could be put to good use for settings of dark and obdurate narratives.28

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In the novel Great Expectations, Dickens builds a vivid visual image of the marshes in the opening chapters of the book, through the climatic phenomenon of fogs, bitter winds, and mists that are familiar motifs of the North Kent marshes. Dickens writes that: “the dark flat wilderness beyond the churchyard, intersected with dykes and mounds and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and the lower leaden line beyond which the wind was rushing, was the sea.” The few landmarks Dickens describes in this flat place fall to a beacon to guide ships and a gibbet to hang criminals from as an example to others.29

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In 1946, David Lean created a film of the story.30 In the opening shot, we observe the central character, Pip, running along this “low leaden line” with an aural soundscape of an eerie wind, menacing music, and birdsong (Fig. 10).31 Lean faithfully recreated Dickens’ evocative prose in this opening scene and, although I recognize the territory of the marshes, it appears as a disembodied and distinctly constructed image.

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Figure 10.
David Lean (dir.), Great Expectations, 1949, film, 113 minutes.


Film clip courtesy of Cineguild.

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Where the real and the imaginary begin to synthesize is in a scene between Pip and Biddy, who comes to run the Gargery house when Pip’s sister dies (Fig. 11). Lean has successfully embedded the subtleties and details of the place into the scene that are resonant in the contemporary landscape: the continual wind across the flat marsh, the very particular birdsong that you hear in summer, the light on Pip and Biddy’s faces, the large open skies, and the line of reeds behind Pip.

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Figure 11.
David Lean (dir.), Great Expectations, 1949, film, 113 minutes.


Film clip courtesy of Cineguild.

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In contrast to Great Expectations, where the location is critical to the story, the Hoo Peninsula featured in the film Full Metal Jacket as a stand-in for Vietnam.32 The film director of Full Metal Jacket, Stanley Kubrick, was meticulous in his work and finding the right locations was critical. The choice for Kubrick to use Cliffe, a wide-open expanse of marsh in the Hoo Peninsula in one section of the film, seems pertinent. It was an area that he readily transformed into scenes of rural Vietnam and which came close to his original vision to film the authentic landscape of that country.33

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Cliffe Marshes is an open, expansive part of the Hoo Peninsula, of predominantly agricultural use with the remains of past industries—cement and munitions production—criss-crossed by channels of water. In a sense, it was already a scarred landscape with the physical marks of explosions from the nitro-cotton stoves of the Curtis and Harvey explosives factory active in the early 1900s; one could see the logic of Kubrick’s decision to use it in a small number of scenes.34

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In one particular scene, the camera frames three soldiers inside a military helicopter as one of them fires at innocent civilians below running over the terrain (Fig. 12).35 The scene is one of violence and menace, yet simultaneously, the mysterious landscape below is a counterpoint that Kubrick interweaves into a binary image. The camera shows the landscape at an alternative viewpoint and angle to its stubborn “flat” rhetoric of old, that might have emerged from painting and which had so irked the Hasteds and Johnsons of the past. The aerial shot from a dummy military helicopter momentarily produces a viewpoint that is a filigree of inlets and creeks, layered with a palette of pinks, greens, oranges, and browns—a rare glimpse only revealed through this bird’s-eye perspective.

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Figure 12.
Stanley Kubrick (dir.), Full Metal Jacket, 1987, film, 116 minutes.


Film clip courtesy of Natant, Stanley Kubrick Productions, and Warner Bros.

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The multiple framing—of the camera’s lens, the helicopter door, and of cinema screen—sets the landscape into an ambiguous position. I try to lay my own memory over the image from the screen, to visually register the Cliffe of Kubrick with my own mental images, never quite lining up the register perfectly, creating a double image that blurs at the edges. Kubrick frames the scene as though it is seen through the soft glow of a Claude glass and he achieves what Alexandra Harris, in her book Weatherland: Writers & Artists Under English Skies, attributes to the device: “an atmospheric viewing” of Cliffe.36 The Claude glass was surely a filmic device in its infancy, with its many ranges of tinted glass for all different scenes, and viewing strategies that distanced the user from the subject matter and created illusions of landscape.

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The Claude glass, the painter’s convex blackened mirror held up to the eye in order to view the landscape behind the user’s head, is an early lens technology that “mediate(d) human perception in a new way”, and chronologically sits somewhere between the invention of the telescope and the film camera.37 All of these lens devices became articulated by the body and situated the viewer in an embodied position.38 The development of the lens technologically produced new experiences of visualizing the world that not only revealed new phenomena previously unseen to the naked eye but also positioned a machine between the body and the object being observed. The lens then becomes an extension of the human eye, creating both an intimacy with the scene being observed and a physical distance through the intervention of a machine.39

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In the helicopter scene of Kubrick’s film, I experience this duality of intimacy and distance as the camera becomes what Giuliana Bruno describes as a “filament of visual existence”, as if the camera was a speck of dust inside the helicopter and yet views the scene of Vietnam/Cliffe marshes below its aperture.40 Bruno says that, “film literally comes to life as light dancing on a surface-screen”, and she cites Peter Greenaway’s words that: “cinema is the business of artificial light … catching or trapping the light permanently on a surface”.41 I can play this scene repeatedly and bring alive—through luminosity—this particular section of the Hoo Peninsula. Long after the film is finished, the image still dances on my eyes.

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Conclusion

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I might conclude that I have, in fact, contracted my own version of marsh fever, or the ague that Mary Dobson identified, because since that first bicycle ride I made, I have returned to the Hoo Peninsula regularly over twenty years, drawn to its awkward, strange, and flat vista. Early experiences of landscape through my grandfather’s influence and subsequent Art History studies at A Level schooled me in the archetypal pastoral landscapes of Constable and Turner, not the “sunken levels” of the North Kent marshes; so how has this landscape become so resonant through film and in the broader concerns of this article? Can it be concluded that the Hoo Peninsula has been re-illuminated by film?42

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Working in close proximity with the landscape of the Hoo Peninsula through painting would have presented a number of physical and cultural hurdles to overcome, which an embodied position of the film lens could navigate more fluidly. As a subject matter for painting, the Hoo Peninsula was, for example, too dull, too diseased, too dark, too incomprehensible. But cinema could, in its framing of narrative, embrace these negatives and exploit them for dramatic purpose.

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Whilst the Hoo Peninsula has remained on the periphery of painting, its invisibility has created the ideal setting for the works of film discussed in this article. The film-makers could utilize the Hoo Peninsula for their own motives. David Lean could draw upon the open and windswept marshes at dusk, to convey the vulnerability and terror that Pip experiences in the opening sequence of Great Expectations (1946). In Full Metal Jacket (1987), Kubrick pokes a camera out of a helicopter door and fictionalizes it as Vietnam; and in The Island (1952), the peninsula becomes a tool in the propaganda for convincing a small island of the merits of an oil refinery. Its relative obscurity allowed for these film-makers to imprint their individual motives onto the landscape. Furthermore, the very technique of manipulating time, light, and angles of vision, offered the possibilities to “alter the perceptions of life”.43

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The three films I have discussed in this article, feature the Hoo Peninsula, in various situations: as a key landscape for the story of a boy, who becomes a gentleman, in Great Expectations; as the place where change is inevitable in The Island; and as a fictitious Vietnam in Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket. In each of these examples, the Hoo Peninsula appears as both a backdrop for fictional stories and as a real place. The camera lens is able to navigate both of these expressions of the landscape convincingly and the qualities of the imagined and the real become fluid and interchangeable.

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As an embodied medium, film produces an “instrument-mediated vision” that goes beyond what could be captured in a single moment by the eyes.44 Where the naked eye has a fleeting chance to take a snapshot of visual information, the camera has an ability to retain the information, to show things missed by the human eye, and then to replay that information. It can, as Deleuze asserts, use multiple angles, cuts, and construction to create a structured image of a scene.45 This is where I am arguing that the camera lens becomes a memory tool and where the synthesis of the real and the imagined can operate.

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From my own embodied position, when I work with the camera lens, it has acted as an extension and focal positioning of my gaze.46 It is a filter with which to organize the complex material of the landscape, and through this filtered viewpoint, what may be returned back to my own eye is an altered perspective of the scene. It cannot capture, for example, the clamminess of a marsh fog or the smell of the estuary’s salty mud in Egypt Bay, but it can record multiple scenes that can be compressed into a film and then replayed.

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Bruno suggests that there is a fascination with the surface that came to prominence in modernity and which resurfaces today. The cinematic surface allows for the landscape of the Hoo Peninsula to be re-illuminated, through filmic play and projection, so that using a variety of visions, perspectives, and treatments, the subject matter emerges through the porousness of not just past and present but fictions and narratives. The treatment of it in these fictions is, at the margins, authentic to its geography and to its memory in cultural terms. Caught in this obscure creek, the Hoo Peninsula remains elusive and ambiguous—a place of Kubrick’s “functional unreality”.47

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Acknowledgements

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I would like to thank Dr Terry Perk, Professor Andrew Kötting, and Dr Mary-Lou Barratt at the University for the Creative Arts for their support in writing this article. It was in conversation with the writer Iain Sinclair on a walk in the Hoo Peninsula that I learned that Cliffe Marshes was used as a location in Full Metal Jacket and I am very grateful to him for the generosity of his knowledge. I would like to thank the Paul Mellon Centre and British Art Studies for their support and encouragement, for the opportunities of presenting this article at the Landscape Now Conference in 2017 and for publishing this article.

About the author

  • Anna Falcini

    Anna Falcini is an artist and PhD student of Fine Art at the University for the Creative Arts at Canterbury, Kent. 

Footnotes

  1. Ann Bermingham, Landscape and Ideology: The English Rustic Tradition 1740–1860 (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1989), 1–6, 87–105. See also Tate, Introduction to Plein Air, http://www.tate.org.uk/art/art-terms/p/plein-air. Accessed 3 October 2017.

    1
  2. David Lean, Great Expectations (1946) DVD film, Carlton Visual Entertainment. Stanley Kubrick, Full Metal Jacket (1987) DVD film, Warner Bros.

    2
  3. John Ingram and Peter Pickering, The Island (1952) DVD film, from British Film Institute, In Shadows Of Progress: Documentary Film in Post-War Britain 1951–1977 (London: BFI, 2010).

    3
  4. Peter Ackroyd, Thames: Sacred River (London: Vintage, 2008), 395.

    4
  5. Charles Dickens, Great Expectations (Ware: Wordsworth Press, 1992 [1868]), 3.

    5
  6. Gernot Böhme, “Atmosphere as the Fundamental Concept of a New Aesthetics”, Thesis Eleven 36, no. 1 (1993): 113–126.

    6
  7. Giuliana Bruno, “Light spaces and Screen Surfaces: On the Fabric of Projection”, in Surface: Matters of Aesthetics, Materiality, and Media (Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 2014), 13.

    7
  8. Edward Carpenter, Sarah Newsome, Fiona Small, and Zoe Hazell, Hoo Peninsula, Kent: Hoo Peninsula Historic Landscape Project (Eastney: English Heritage, 2013), 9–13.

    8
  9. Carpenter et al., Hoo Peninsula, Kent, 15.

    9
  10. Mary Dobson, “Contours of Death and Disease in Early Modern England”, in Edward Carpenter et al., Hoo Peninsula, Kent: Hoo Peninsula Historic Landscape (Eastney: English Heritage, 2013), 15–16.

    10
  11. This information was gathered from a conversation with a resident in the Isle of Grain, during my exhibition, Coming Out of That Glistening Past, 24–25 September 2016 at St James Church, the Isle of Grain, as part of Metal Festival 2016.

    11
  12. Dobson, “Contours of Death and Disease in Early Modern England”, 16.

    12
  13. Ann Bermingham, “System, Order, and Abstraction: The Politics of English Landscape Drawing around 1795”, in W.T. Mitchell (ed.), Landscape and Power (Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 2002), 87.

    13
  14. Rebecca Pullen, Sarah Newsome, Andrew Williams, and Wayne D. Cocroft, Curtis’s and Harvey Ltd Explosives Factory, Cliffe and Cliffe Woods, Medway: Archaeological Survey and Analysis of the Factory Remains, Vol. 1 (Eastney: English Heritage, 2011), 8. See also Gravesend and Rochester: Hoo Peninsula (2015) OS Explorer, Sheet 163, 1:25 000 Scale, Southampton, Ordnance Survey.

    14
  15. Bermingham, Landscape and Ideology, 182.

    15
  16. Peter M. Harman, The Culture of Nature in Britain: 1680–1860 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2009), 4–5.

    16
  17. Harman, The Culture of Nature in Britain, 2–5. Carpenter, Hoo Peninsula, Kent, 19.

    17
  18. J.S.L. Gilmour (ed.), “Thomas Johnson: Journeys into Kent and Hampstead”, in Edward Carpenter et al., Hoo Peninsula, Kent: Hoo Peninsula Historic Landscape (Eastney: English Heritage: 2013), 18.

    18
  19. Ackroyd, Thames, 396.

    19
  20. Peter Ackroyd, Thames, 400. Edward Carpenter, The London Stones: Marking the City of London’s Jurisdiction over the Thames and Medway (Eastney: English Heritage, 2014), 1–12.

    20
  21. BFI Screenonline, The Island, directed by John Ingram and Peter Pickering (1952), http://www.screenonline.org.uk/film/id/1397294/index.html. Accessed 7 August 2018.

    21
  22. Henry Longhurst, Adventure in Oil: The Story of British Petroleum (London: Sidgwick and Jackson, 1959), 165.

    22
  23. Carpenter, Hoo Peninsula, Kent, 36.

    23
  24. Patrick Keiller, “Film as Spatial Critique”, in The View From the Train: Cities and Other Landscapes (London: Verso, 2013), 147–157.

    24
  25. Keiller, “Film as Spatial Critique”, 149.

    25
  26. Claire Colebrook, Gilles Deleuze (London: Routledge, 2002), 29–54.

    26
  27. Colebrook, Gilles Deleuze, 43–46.

    27
  28. Bermingham, System, Order and Abstraction, 81.

    28
  29. Dickens, Great Expectations, 3–14.

    29
  30. Lean, Great Expectations.

    30
  31. Dickens, Great Expectations, 3

    31
  32. Kubrick, Full Metal Jacket.

    32
  33. In notes and correspondence about the making of Full Metal Jacket at the Kubrick Archive at University of the Arts London (ASCC), Kubrick proposes filming this scene in Vietnam and razing farmland to make it authentic to the original scenes of the Vietnam War.

    33
  34. Pullen et al., Curtis’s and Harvey Ltd Explosives Factory, Cliffe and Cliffe Woods, Medway, 289.

    34
  35. In the manuscript for Full Metal Jacket, the scene is identified as Scene 41 and begins “Joker and Rafter Man look out of the open door of an S-55 helicopter”.

    35
  36. Alexandra Harris, Weatherland: Writers & Artists Under English Skies (London: Thames and Hudson, 2015), 192.

    36
  37. Don Ihde, Postphenomenology and Technoscience: The Peking University Lectures (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2009), 51.

    37
  38. Claude Glass, V&A Search the Collections, 2017, http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O78676/claude-glass-unknown/. Accessed 4 June 2018.

    38
  39. Ihde, Postphenomenology and Technoscience, 51–52.

    39
  40. Giuliana Bruno, “Dressing the Surface”, NECSUS (Autumn 2017) #Dress, https://necsus-ejms.org/dressing-the-surface/. Accessed 4 May 2018.

    40
  41. Bruno, Surface, 55.

    41
  42. My Grandfather was a trained artist who worked in watercolour, often depicting landscapes that harked back to the pre- and post-war period of change and transition in the British countryside.

    42
  43. Colebrook, Gilles Deleuze, 31.

    43
  44. Ihde, Postphenomenology and Technoscience, 52.

    44
  45. Colebrook, Gilles Deleuze, 31.

    45
  46. Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Structure of Behaviour (Pittsburgh, PA: Duquesne University Press, 1983), 185.

    46
  47. Jay Cocks, Full Metal Jacket: Between Good and Evil, directed by Gary Leva (Finland, Warner Bros, 2007) DVD.

    47

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Imprint

Author
Anna Falcini
Date
29 November 2018
Category
Article
Review status
Peer Reviewed (Double, Blind)
Licence
CC BY-NC International 4.0
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PDF format
Article DOI
https://doi.org/10.17658/issn.2058-5462/issue-10/afalcini
Cite as
Anna Falcini, "Re-Illuminating the Landscape of the Hoo Peninsula through the Medium of Film", British Art Studies, Issue 10, https://doi.org/10.17658/issn.2058-5462/issue-10/afalcini