Thursday, July 27, 2017

microcosmos and primitive anthropomorphism




Directed by Claude Nuridsany and Marie Pérennou, Microcosmos (1996) asserts its positions regarding insects’
 relationship to humans through visual representations and a multi-modal vocal and instrumental soundtrack
 rather than voiceover narration. Yet, as Janet Maslin of The New York Times declares, “Not content merely to 
let the spiders spin and the bees buzz, they also play with anthropomorphism wherever it can be found” (1996). 
Despite the fact that the film includes only two voiceover sequences to begin and end the film that nearly mirror 
one another, “heightened sound effects and nimble editing help shape the film into something other than 
a passive view” (Maslin, 2006). In fact, the film suggests that our macro-world is mirrored in the “unseen” 
world the filmmakers have constructed for us beneath tall grasses and trees in their creation of this categorical 
documentary. In Microcosmos, insects are anthropomorphized on multiple levels, but in Microcosmos
 the emphasis is on an authentic visual representation that builds sympathy for this micro-world, perhaps
 encouraging a more biotic perspective on the natural world that sees human and nonhuman 
nature as part of an interconnected web.



Microcosmos most blatantly connects humans with insects in relation to a primitive psychology level of
 anthropomorphism that highlights parallels between how they meet their basic needs. For example, the opening 
tranquil female voiceover establishes a peaceful tone for the morning scenes of insects’ very human-like ablutions. 
As the camera pans down from hills to long grasses a boys’ choir heightens its rhythm. On the surface below, 
however, the music ends, and only background noises and bird whistles accompany the variety of insects that 
seem to be preparing for a new day. The voiceover heightens the comparison of these insects to awakening 
humanity: “Imagine a morning somewhere on Earth … [where] even the smallest pond becomes an ocean. 
Time passes differently here. A passing season is a lifetime. Listen to its murmur.” 



It is the creation of this miniature insect world, however, that most effectively connects insects with humanity,
 illuminating how their everyday rituals align with ours. As Roger Ebert explains, “The makers of this film 
took three years to design their close-up cameras and magnifying lenses, and to photograph insects in such 
brilliant detail that if they were cars, we could read their city stickers” (1997). In close-up, a spider web 
shimmers with morning dew as various insects prepare for the day. A wasp polishes its face. An ant drinks 
water from a drop on a leaf, its reflection disappearing as the water evaporates. The tiny world is both 
contrasted and compared with the larger world above when the camera pans up to trees and then back
 down to the ground, where a praying mantis washes its leg and a bee wipes its stinger and wings. 


            
After their morning baths, these insects eat breakfast, just like other animals, including humans. A bee searches
 for nectar in a poppy field. A ladybug climbs up a thorny twig and eats grubs. Ants feed their infants on the 
same twig after chasing off the ladybug. A caterpillar emerges from its cocoon and eats its own shell as its 
first nourishment. When a grasshopper jumps into a spider web, a single drum erupts, and when other 
percussion instruments join the rhythm, the spider wraps it in webbing. Another grasshopper feeds, as well. 
At a water hole, ants feed water to their young. Others pull seedpods and carry flower stems to their anthill. 
The mound of food grows tall. In a wasp hive, adult wasps feed larvae, who, when they emerge from 
their pods, clean themselves, dry their wings and begin feeding other wasps. Their basic needs are met 
just as ours are, and the camera amplifies the primitive rituals on display.

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