Waking Life and Liquid Caricature
If Calloway had appeared as a cartoon black man, with saucer eyes and innertube lips, he would've seemed less human (and less himself) than as a spirit-Walrus. The caricature of race was so smothering at that point that the caricatural "type" was bound to overwhelm a caricature of individual personality. The cartoon African version of Armstrong's face (not rotoscoped, but animated outright) can't immediately, from its facial characteristics, be identified as Armstrong: it's just another assembly-line jigaboo rictus.
A sequence in Waking Life at first seems to skirt some of the bad old days of racial caricature. One of the monologists, Aklilu Gebrewald, is a black man, and the animator chooses to exaggerate the size of his eyes and the bright white sheen of his teeth. These are such keystones of the minstrel mask, at first it's as though the gates of race have closed over his face. But after a short while they seem like real expressions of personality; there is a warmth and openness to Gebrewald that the eyes and blinding smile seem to invite in. As you listen to him speak, in the few minutes he occupies the screen, his cartoon figure seems, paradoxically, a more genuine human presence than real-life footage of 7-Up shill and professional eye-bugger Orlando Jones.
Besides which, it's clear pretty early into Waking Life that eyes are key, both as a visual and philosophical touchstone. The way the animators use the rotoscoping software, they often isolate each facial feature from the others, setting them gliding on different planes and oscillations. In this facial ripple (as if each face were a puddle that a stone has been dropped into, sending eyes, nose and mouth drifting on separate concentric rings), the eyes most often take precedence. Sometimes they break the frame of the face, giving the jarring sense of an intelligence or spirit that's sprinted one step ahead of its body.
More often, the eyes loom larger than scale, expanding outward; perhaps this Americanized dilation can finally lay to rest the notion that the Sailor Moon-eyes in Japanese anime are some swoony admission of Occident-envy. It's merely an attempt to widen the portals to the soul.
It's a graphic simulation of the sensation that occurs when you're involved in an intense conversation with someone and the person's eyes take over their face. Across that bridge of sight, the eyes may not seem to grow physically larger -- but they do appear to drift closer (it's the feeling of proximity that gives the linguistic formulation of eye "contact"), while the rest of the face blurs into generalities.
One of the grounding vignettes in Waking Life takes place between independent filmmaker/performer Caveh Zahedi and a friend. Zahedi excitedly talks about the "holiness" of every moment, a "holiness" to which we're ordinarily oblivious (he speaks of this in connection with Bazin, who felt that in an attentive recording of the unscrolling moment, cinema could potentially have truck with the divine). After some windy gusts of theory, Zahedi finally has had enough of it and turns to praxis: he suggests he and his friend have a "holy moment" right here, right now. He stops speaking, and for several seconds, they simply look into each other's eyes. It's a wonderfully awkward, charged scene. The camera zooms in on Zahedi's looming, fixed pupils.

























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