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        Article contents

  Facticity
  Suture
  Modernity, Metropolis, Monstration
        A Poetics of Workmanship
  The Body and the Senses
Haptics
    An Aesthetic of “Attractions” (Conclusion)
Footnotes
    


    
     
		
	

    ARTICLE
    
Attention, Music, Dance: Embodying the “Cinema of Attractions”
                *
            
		

    Davinia Caddy
    


    Sound Stage Screen, Vol. 1, Issue 2 (Fall 2021), pp. 35–68, ISSN 2784-8949. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. © 2021 Davinia Caddy. DOI: https://doi.org/10.54103/sss15963.






    Who doesn’t love online cat media? Evil Cats, Incredible Singing Cats,
    Idiot Cats That Will Make You Laugh Out Loud: according to a recent
    estimate, a segment of the human race shares millions of cat images and
    videos each day, a global trend that both satisfies and stimulates a
    fondness for animal acrobatics, all things cute and wasting time, while
    modelling a liberated uninhibitedness (the cats) and self-facilitated
    entrapment (ourselves) by rampant corporate surveillance.
    
        [1]
    
    Particularly off-beat, and potentially off-putting, is a 22-second
    sequence—readily available on YouTube, the unofficial home of homemade cat
    media—titled Boxing Cats. Featuring two sparring felines (wearing
    shoulder harnesses and boxing gloves), a boxing ring (pushed to the very
    front of the picture plane) and a referee (one Professor Henry Welton,
    owner of a travelling “cat circus”), this short film dates from the very
    first crop of cat media to be commercially distributed across the US and
    Western Europe. This was back in the nineties, at the dawn of a new media
    age: that is, the 1890s.
    
        [2]
    



    It is this originary aspect—the historicity of the pugilistic pair—that
    interests me in this article. Filmed in July 1894 inside Thomas Edison’s
    New Jersey-based Black Maria studio, Boxing Cats is notorious not
    only as the world’s original cat video; it also has been seen to epitomize
    and encapsulate the so-called “cinema of attractions”—a genre of early
    silent film first identified and analyzed by film specialists Tom Gunning
    and André Gaudreault.
    
        [3]
    
    With minimal editing, a largely stationary camera, and limited depth of
    field, films of this kind aimed entirely at visual spectacle, foregrounding
    the act of display. Most of these bizarre products documented live
    performances (magic tricks, comedy skits, acrobatics, feats of strength) or
    simulated travel voyages across exotic terrains; others recorded public
    events (parades, funerals, sporting activities) or different kinds of
    objects in motion (trains, bullets, knives, waves). Storytelling and
    character psychology were avoided. Conveying a sense of immediacy and
    physical presence, the “cinema of attractions” aimed to show not to tell,
    to exhibit not to explain; as a result, the sense of punctual temporality
    denied any kind of narrative development, offering little in the way of
    diegetic coherence, sustained characterization, or causality. Equally
    significant, for present purposes at least, “attractions” cued a different
    configuration of spectatorial attention from that of now-standard,
    story-telling cinema: Gunning calls this “exhibitionist confrontation,” a
    type of sensory fascination or visceral jouissance that contrasts
    entirely with classic narrative absorption, its seemingly uncritical
    transport and panoptic projection into the fictional screen space.
    
        [4]
    



    Boxing Cats—
    preserved as a single 33-foot reel in the archives of the Library of
    Congress—is exemplary.
    
        [5]
    
    Clearly, there is no sense of narrative suspense, no linear plotting.
    (Indeed, the impulse, when watching online, is to click repeat—an action
    that echoes the workings of Edison’s own film loop system, used in his
    peep-show-like Kinetoscope.)
    
        [6]
    
    Instead, the cinematography appears to hypostatize a single, autonomous
    moment: lighting (from above, a Rembrandt-like luminescence), framing (the
    ring, a typical frame-within-a-frame), and planar dimensionality (the dark
    backdrop, conveying minimal depth of field) direct the viewer’s attention
    towards the fighting cats. As does Professor Welton—or, rather, as does his
    disembodied head. Grinning, the professor looks directly at the camera,
    acknowledging the viewer’s presence and seeming actively to solicit our
    gaze. More like a cinema showman (or is it shaman?) than a sports umpire,
    the professor performs a wholly pedagogical function, training his cats for
    the viewers’ scopophilic pleasure.



    The visual scene, the technology for capturing and projecting images, the
    conditions of viewing: these are defining components of what Gunning calls
    the cinematographic dispositif, a concept that embraces both the
    material apparatus of early silent film and the attention economy such
    apparatus appears to endorse.
    
        [7]
    
    Indeed, in the “cinema of attractions,” on both sides of the Atlantic, the
    apparatus was arguably the real star of the show, as intimated by firsthand
    accounts of the earliest Lumière screenings in the 1890s. Recalling what
    was a characteristic mode of presentation, spectators describe how films
    were initially presented as still, frozen images, before the projector
    cranked up and brought the images to life. Here is French film-maker
    Georges Méliès:



    A still photograph showing the place Bellecour in Lyon was
    projected. A little surprised, I just had time to say to my neighbor: “They
    got us all stirred up for projections like this? I’ve been doing them for
    over ten years!”

I had hardly finished speaking when a horse pulling a wagon began to walk
    towards us, followed by other vehicles and then pedestrians, in short all
    the animation of the street. Before this spectacle we sat with gaping
    mouths, struck with amazement, astonishment beyond all expression.
    
        [8]
    



    These “gaping mouths,” besides the intensity of physical movement, can act
    as a useful stimulus: in this article I want to take up the question of
    whether the “cinema of attractions” might be a useful tool for critical
    analysis not only of early silent film and its approach to spectatorship,
    but also of theatrical dance from the period. Certainly, as historicized by
    Gunning, Gaudreault, and other colleagues, the “cinema of attractions”
    appears to encode the culture of modernity from which it arose: the
    onslaught of stimulation, visual spectacle, sensory fascination, bodily
    engagement, mechanical rhythm, and violent juxtapositions, besides new
    experiences of time and space now available within the modern urban
    environment.
    
        [9]
    
    Moreover, as one of the most popular performing arts of the period, dance
    was central to the “attractions” industry (and to its origin in variety
    shows and vaudeville theater), prime raw material that starred The Body in
    Motion, a favorite fascination of contemporary cinema.
    
        [10]
    
    It seems inevitable, then, that there was some connective tissue: cinema
    and dance might not only share subject matter and affective lure; the two
    might also cue a similar mode of attention or visuality. And yet visuality
    is hopelessly narrow.



    While the topic of attention, as both a historical phenomenon and a
    theoretical problematic, has risen to prominence across the humanities, it
    has barely impacted scholarship on music and dance.
    
        [11]
    
    This is perhaps not surprising, given the fairly recent christening of
    so-called “choreomusicology,” besides its obvious (if rarely acknowledged)
    analytical-structuralist inheritance.
    
        [12]
    
    Yet the topic is surely ripe for questioning. How might we conceptualize
    dance theater as a form of attention, a perceptual complex embracing not
    only visuality but also the auditory sense, its cognitive capacities,
    affective intensity, and imaginative dimension? Alternatively, might dance
    be understood as a form of address, an exhibitionist regime of intermedial
    and purely “monstrative attractions”?
    
        [13]
    
    As for dancers themselves, how can we account for their individual and
    collective attentive capacities: their visual, aural, kinetic, and spatial
    relationships to their own music-drenched diegesis? And what has all this
    to do with the notoriously complex business of representation, invoking
    dancers’ various figurative, pictorial, decorative, indexical, symbolic,
    scriptural, or structural functions?
    
        [14]
    



    Clues to these questions might emerge from burgeoning conversations outside
    “choreo” confines: opera studies, for example, has developed a
    hermeneutical strain of musicology that was fashionable in recent decades,
    speculating at times wildly on issues of embodiment, materiality, and the
    senses, besides what Carolyn Abbate once called opera’s “transgressive
    acoustics of authority.”
    
        [15]
    
    More immediately helpful in my search for stimulus for this article has
    been an accumulation of ideas within now-canonic film literature, including
    Gunning’s and Gaudreault’s many similarly-themed studies, as well as books
    by Charles Musser and Ben Singer.
    
        [16]
    
    Before venturing further, though, I need to go back to my primary
    proposition—that the “cinema of attractions,” as both species of
    entertainment and discursive construct, might provide some purchase on
    theatrical dance of the period—and raise an objection, one that readers are
    likely to have sensed. Cinema, on one hand; theater, on the other: how can
    we reconcile the two? More specifically, how can we analogize the
    cinematographic dispositif—its reproductive aesthetic, industrial
    mechanicity, and silent politics of acknowledgement (embodied in the work
    of the camera)—to a theatrical and specifically choreographic context? In
    the pages that follow I want to suggest that music can play a role, can
    help determine and sustain a particular attentive praxis while pointing to
    itself—à la Professor Welton—as artifice or contrivance.




	Facticity



    My first and perhaps most obvious example is the American modern-dance
    pioneer Loie Fuller, known for her multi-colored dance-and-light displays.
    “Displays,” indeed, is apposite, for Fuller’s was a “dance of
    attractions”—she whirled giant veils around her barely-seen body while
    colored lights projected onto her shifting form—that rivalled
    contemporaneous cinema for novelty and sensationalism. Moreover, like the
    “cinema of attractions,” Fuller’s dancing was largely without narrative or
    characterization, besides any sense of linear trajectory. And it, too, was
    exhibitionary at base, designed to flaunt the spectacular potential not of
    Fuller’s dancing body, for that body was almost wholly concealed, but of
    her carefully coordinated props, the huge drapes of cloth attached to
    baguettes that she twirled, as well as her trademarked electric light
    inventions. This cinematic potential was not lost on historical observers.
    Along with phantom voyages and physical comedies, Fuller-style veil-dancing
    (she had legions of imitators) became popular silent-screen
    footage—providing a “goldmine” of source material, as noted by French
    observer Louis Delluc.
    
        [17]
    
    Perhaps the most famous example is the 1897 short film by Louis and Auguste
    Lumière, one of their earliest cinematic attempts. A short sequence of
    silk-swirling by a convincing Fuller look-alike, Danse serpentine 
    captures the striking iridescence of Fuller’s characteristic staged
    metamorphoses: the brothers tinted the veils of each frame by hand in order
    to depict the continually changing colored effects (see figure 1).
    
        [18]
    


    
    



    Fig. 1. Still frames from the Lumière brothers’    Danse serpentine [II], 1897. Lumière Catalogue Number 765,1. ©
    Institut Lumière.

    
    

    It might seem strange, then, that this cinematic aspect of Fuller’s
    performance has received relatively little attention in the academic
    literature on the dancer.
    
        [19]
    
    Following legendary critics Stéphane Mallarmé and Paul Valéry, both of
    whom wrote about Fuller’s dancing at the theater, scholars have tended to
    conceptualize a dance of abstractions, envisaging Fuller as an
    apparition—to Jacques Rancière, a (dis)embodiment of pure potentiality:
    “the poetic operation of metaphoric condensation and metonymic
    displacement.”
    
        [20]
    
    The role of the spectator, according to this line of argument, is primarily
    hermeneutical: attention is understood as an interpretive effort of
sustained contemplation and creative conjecture—a kind of theatrical    flânerie or imaginative license to investigate and intensify the
    mysteries of modern-day popular culture; and also a license that extends to
    musical experience. Listening to one of Fuller’s shows—she usually
    performed to preexisting instrumental pieces, familiar to audiences, such
    as Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries”—was thought to call on an audience’s
    imaginative insight, provoking a seemingly unending process of
    interpretation of music and its elusive, ever-shifting meaning. Fuller
    herself encouraged spectators to “read your own story into a dance, just as
    you read it into music,” seeming to endorse contemporary accounts of the
    mobility of musical meaning, the indeterminacy of the orchestra, and the
    special symbolic quality that her performance managed to exude.
    
        [21]
    



    It is doubly strange, then, that this Mallarméan habit of thinking gives
    way under pressure of enquiry, a recently tapped vein of evidence revealing
    an alternative reception history.
    
        [22]
    
    Reports of technical malfunctions, an acutely negative press, defeat in a
    US infringement suit, rampant commercialization and merchandising: an
    accumulation of historical sources reveals a kind of gestalt switch, a
    shift in perspective from envisaging Fuller as a unique, irreplaceable form
    of semiotic wealth to eyeing her image for its marketable potential,
    draining her body of that boundless metaphoricity so vaunted by the
    Symbolists.
    
        [23]
    
    In this revisionist analysis, attention can be understood as a kind of
    gawking or badauderie, an incredulity that has been dubbed “the
    lowest-common-denominator culture of the street.”
    
        [24]
    
    Indeed, this is the same open-mouthed astonishment that Gunning describes:
    “the viewer of attractions is positioned less as a spectator in the text,
    absorbed into a fictional world, than as a gawker who stands alongside,
    held for the moment by curiosity or amazement.”
    
        [25]
    



    As for music listening, evidence suggests that Fuller’s characteristic
    soundtrack functioned less as a launch-pad for interpretive reverie than as
    a signature tune or aide-mémoire, a form of branding that circulated in a
    repetitive orbit, bearing and gathering the authenticating weight not of
    origination, consent, or any kind of cultural patrimony, but of consumption
    and commodification, an ethos of multiplicity.
    
        [26]
    
    Consider, for example, the music used to accompany Fuller’s Serpentine
    Dance in her first run of solo performances at the Casino Theatre in New
    York City, February 1892. Ernest Gillet’s Loin du bal was chosen
    by theater director Rudolph Aronson not for its expressive potential or
    pictorial associations; rather, the tune, played initially by a single
    violin in a darkened theater, was immediately recognizable, identifiable,
    “hummable”—“a perennial drawing-room favorite,” according to an entry on
    Gillet in Baker’s Biographical Dictionary of Musicians.
    
        [27]
    
    What’s more, when relocating well-known “classical” extracts within her
    personal design aesthetic (based, as intimated, on the cinematic smack of
    the instant), Fuller could divest that music of its originary connotations.
    It is tempting to argue, even, that she metaphorized—or, rather,
    musicalized—the cinematic practice of gazing at the camera. While filmed
    “attractions” functioned by acknowledging the facticity of the cinematic
    apparatus (its mechanics, frames, dimensions, sequencing of shots), in
    Fuller’s theater, it was music that was factic: bits of Mendelssohn,
    Chopin, Schubert, and Wagner no longer simulated illusionistic depth or
    psychological nuance, but rather served to remind audiences of music’s
    rootlessness and repeatability, its a-signifying potential.




	Suture



    Before we turn to a second “dance of attractions,” one in which music also
    functions within a quasi-cinematographic dispositif, it will be
    useful to sketch a contrasting or, even, contrary example: an example where
    narrative and causality define onstage activity, voyeurism, and
    identification, and where dance music functions as an integrative component
    of a theatrical diegesis—if you like, as pure suture. If, in the above
    case, visual and auditory attention can be understood as a kind of gawping
    or incredulous amazement, here a form of what we might call “fictive
    absorption”—enabled by visual design, gesture, and music—characterizes the
    spectatorial experience. Or perhaps “conventional fictive absorption” is
    more appropriate, because this kind of spectatorship, and this kind of
    music, has of course a long and illustrious history.



    It is “La Loie,” perhaps ironically, to whom we can turn once again, here
    in a theatrical performance that flashes red in the dancer’s history.
    Unlike her typically abstract and decorative displays, Fuller’s production
    of La Tragédie de Salomé, premiered at the newly renovated
    Théâtre des Arts in Paris on November 9, 1907, was dramatic through and
    through. Based on a libretto by theater director Robert d’Humières and a
    newly commissioned score by the young French composer Florent Schmitt,
    Fuller’s “drame muet” (silent drama) comprised seven scenes, each designed
    to illustrate a particular aspect of the Judean princess’s changing
    character. Carefree and coquettish in the “Danse des Perles”; proud and
    haughty in the “Danse du Paon” (peacock); sensual and sinister in the
    “Danse des Serpents”; cold and cruel in the “Danse de l’Acier” (steel);
    lascivious and perverse in the “Danse d’Argent” (money); and terrified and
    delirious in the “Danse de la peur” (fear): Fuller portrayed them all (to
    varying degrees of success, according to contemporary observers), as can be
    seen in figure 2, the program front cover, with its six studio
    headshots—some distance from standard Fuller iconography. Moreover, besides
    these carefully choreographed in-character dances, the production offered a
    strong and detailed plot, replete with fin de siècle decadence and female
    seduction, as well as impressive scene and costume changes, including an
    outfit made from 4,500 peacock feathers, a six-foot artificial snake and a
    sea that turned to blood.


        




    Fig. 2. Program cover, La Tragédie de Salomé, Théâtre des Arts, Paris, 1907. New York Public Library Digital Collections. Accessed
    October 12, 2021.

          
        

    In terms of conveying the drama, Schmitt’s score did more than its share of
    heavy lifting. Praised in the press for its “skillful” and “sumptuous”
    orchestration, the music—dedicated to Igor Stravinsky—was thought to offer
    a “symphonic description” of the developing goings-on:
    
        [28]
    
    it supplied the unspoken words of the drama, conjured the somber mood,
    added a touch of mystery, and expressed the lascivious perversity of the
    dancing.
    
        [29]
    
    To one commentator, moreover, it simmered with an inner life that not even
    the onstage choreography managed to incarnate: Schmitt’s score almost
    single-handedly evoked the “demonic phantasmagoria,” besides the numerous
    cataclysmic events that unfolded throughout the drama.
    
        [30]
    



    Clearly, the music was dramatically contingent, an integrable part of the
    stage diegesis, and one that succeeded in enabling shifting
    identifications, variously binding spectators into the fiction. Consider,
    for example, the sixth scene (“Danse d’Argent”), which begins with Salome
    performing a diegetic dance before Herod. This was a typical “attraction,”
    we might suppose: indeed, the dancing seems purely exhibitionary, designed
    to be displayed; and the music seems to endorse this diegeticism, its
    melodic patterning, textural clarity, and rhythmic propulsion setting apart
    the stage spectacle within the scene. Yet the dance tune—shrieking woodwind
    sixteenth notes, punctuated by off-beat string and brass chords—screams
    Salome: it is a melodic inversion of the opening motif of the work,
    performed to a closed curtain, an undulating line in the cellos and basses
    that offers a sonic inscription of the dancing body absent from the stage.
    Here in the sixth scene, this formerly floating signifier takes corporeal
    form: it is, as it were, territorialized, bringing to the diegetic display
    a heavy dose of dramatic character, and one with which spectators are
    invited to identify.



    But identification is soon skewed. After only two bars, this diegetic dance
    is interrupted by a change of musical motif: blazing sixteenth notes are
    swapped for a drawn-out and sustained crescendo previously associated with
    Herod, just as—according to the stage directions—Herod himself gets up out
    of his seat. The two motifs jostle as Herod moves towards the dancer, grabs
    her, even throws himself on top of her, stripping her of her clothes.
    Salome lies naked on the floor, Herod’s motif blaring from the upper winds
    and strings, repeated no less than fourteen times (at rising pitches and in
    various rhythmic diminutions). The message here—what the music is insisting
    on with all its repetitions—seems clear enough. To gain maximum impact, not
    only does Salome have to be naked; she has to submit to patriarchal musical
    discourse.



    Whatever we might think of this gendered argument (and its resonance across
    a vast terrain of Salome-themed scholarship), music’s dramatic
    contribution—its interdependence with gesture and visuals—seems assured.
    
        [31]
    
    Even the most cursory analysis of Schmitt’s score reveals a striking
    incongruity within Fuller’s choreographic output: while her typically
    abstract dances paraded music as a mere postulate, an empty and
    de-territorialized signifier, her Salomé featured a specially
    simulated soundtrack, tightly interwoven with choreography and dramatic
    action. Moreover, as press critics suggest, listening to that soundtrack
    involved a kind of figural entrainment: figural, as in bound to forms or
    characters derived from life; entrainment, as in a process through which we
    as distanced spectators are incorporated into the diegesis and, as a
    result, invited to assume ideological complicity. Broadly speaking, this
    process itself can be conceptualized as an aural equivalent of the “optical
    visuality” described and historicized by film scholar Laura U. Marks
    (leaning on art historian Alois Riegl): a voyeuristic practice of dominance
    and control, associated with the emergence of Renaissance perspective, in
    which spectators distinguish figures as distinct forms within an
    illusionistic space, before imaginatively projecting themselves into that
    space.
    
        [32]
    
    Certainly, it is a mode of listening that, while traditional, falls some
    distance from the open-mouthed astonishment of the “attractions” industry.
    Indeed, the latter has more to do with what Marks identifies as
    “alternative economies of looking” associated with the “cusp of modernism,”
    economies in which the spectator relinquishes mastery over what is seen and
    heard in favor of an immediate embodied response.
    
        [33]
    




	Modernity, Metropolis, Monstration



    My second “dance of attractions,” as heavily mythologized as the first,
    encapsulates precisely this perceptual economy; in doing so, moreover, it
    rivals early cinema as a distinct aesthetic practice. To be sure, the
conceptual origins of productions such as L’Oiseau de feu,     Pétrouchka, and Le Sacre du printemps—staged in the early
    twentieth century by Sergey Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes—are thought to lie
    principally within Russian music theater and folk history. Since the
    pioneering efforts of Richard Taruskin in the early 1980s, scholars such as
    Tatiana Baranova Monighetti and Olga Haldey have located models for the
troupe and their productions in Russian folk song, the    Mir Iskusstva circle, and Savva Mamontov’s private opera, to name
    a few.
    
        [34]
    
    Yet the “cinema of attractions” might provide an alternative optic through
    which to view—and to hear—the famous Russian company, off-setting
    now-familiar claims of Russian primitivism with a vision of Euro-American
    modernity, distinctly urban, technological, and vernacular.
    
        [35]
    
    Suggesting this is not to deny the decade-or-so discrepancy between the
    two: the fact that, by the time of the Ballets Russes’s theatrical
    ascendancy in the early 1910s, the “cinema of attractions” had, according
    to Gunning, sunk “underground,” magic acts, moving trains, and other purely
    exhibitionist displays replaced on film by the narration of stories set
    within self-enclosed fictive worlds populated by relatable characters.
    Nonetheless, early cinema engendered an urban modernity—a particular
    experience described in terms of novelty, mobility, instability, and
    physical sensation—that continued to find expression, if not on screen,
    then in amusement parks, circuses, waxwork museums, postcards, posters,
    and, we might argue, music theaters.
    
        [36]
    
    Moreover, despite the superseding of “attractions” by narrative film in the
    second decade of the century, its perceptual possibilities became the focus
    of film-theoretical discourse in the 1910s (and into the 1920s). As the
    Ballets Russes were winning audiences in London and Paris, the first film
    theorists on both sides of the Atlantic were contemplating new kinds of
    knowledge, feeling, and sensation that (they thought) only cinema could
    create, cinema lauded not for its realism or objectivity, but for its
    radical possibilities of perception.



    Perhaps my particular example from this repertory will not surprise. Of all
    the Ballets Russes’s pre-war productions, Le Sacre du printemps is
    the most obviously monstrative, non-narrative, and confrontational: it is a
    ballet, at base, about the act of display. What’s more, in its ability to
    circumvent a developmental trajectory, Le Sacre is marked by the
    same kind of formal non-continuity, dynamism, and flux that characterizes
    the “cinema of attractions.” It too aestheticizes the effects of modernity
    on city life, proceeding by means of temporally disjunct bursts of
    presence, eruptions of activity that signal what Gunning describes as “the
    present tense” of pure display.
    
        [37]
    
    Musicologists have long pointed to the defining compositional principles of
    Stravinsky’s score, describing musical disjunctions and unsignaled
interruptions as typically Russian: according to Taruskin, examples of    drobnost’, the quality of splinteredness or fracture, of a whole
    being the sum of unrelated parts; and nepodvizhnost’ or
    immobility, a moment-by-moment absence of any forward-going motion.
    
        [38]
    
    Yet these principles are also emblematic of early silent film. Take, for
    example, the multi-shot films of Georges Méliès, in which, according to
    historian John Frazer, “causal narrative links … are relatively
    insignificant compared to the discrete events. … We focus on successions of
    pictorial surprises which run roughshod over the conventional niceties of
    linear plotting. Méliès’ films are a collage of immediate experiences
    which coincidentally require the passage of time to become complete.”
    
        [39]
    
    Collage as a structural technique (with distinct temporal ramifications)
    can also be associated with Le Sacre, which—as mentioned a moment
    ago—is characterized by the abrupt juxtaposition of musical ideas separated
    in time and space (register, texture, timbre, or instrumentation).
    
        [40]
    
    Indeed, the manner in which Stravinsky’s music foregrounds its own formal
    apparatus—devices of superposition, stratification, and what Pierre Boulez
    famously called “false counterpoint”
    
        [41]
    
    —is also reminiscent of the “cinema of attractions,” known not only for its
    characters’ self-conscious gazing at the camera, but also for its promotion
    of the latest technological machinery, often over and above the visual
    content to be displayed.



    Before drawing any further analogies in terms of spectatorship or
    attention, it might be useful to lend some specificity to this
    generalization about apparatus. To recall an earlier argument: in Fuller’s
    typically non-narrative productions, music’s overt familiarity—its function
    as a signature tune wiped of pictorial or expressive meaning—engendered an
    equivalent to the aesthetic of acknowledgement (the staring at the camera)
    characteristic of the “cinema of attractions:” put bluntly, her music drew
    attention to itself as part of the artifice of presentation, the theatrical
    spectacle. In Le Sacre du printemps, I argue, this same effect is
    created but by quite different means. For while Fuller’s dancing seems to
have proceeded regardless of her musical accompaniment, the dancers in    Le Sacre betray a striking receptivity to theirs. Indeed, such is
    the nature of this receptivity that the dancers function as another kind of
    mediating technology: an apparatus for the inscription of music as visual
    pattern and visceral force.




	A Poetics of Workmanship



    This idea of the dancers in Le Sacre as some kind of technological
    apparatus is not new.
    
        [42]
    
    Critics at the premiere described automatic and reflex movements, as well
    as an overall sense of dehumanization:
    
        [43]
    
    even the choreographer Vaslav Nijinsky admitted in a 1913 interview that
    “there are no human beings in it.”
    
        [44]
    
    Scholars and practitioners over the years have tended to agree, showing in
    careful and detailed analyses how Nijinsky’s choreography was strictly
    coordinated to Stravinsky’s underlying musical pulse, as well as to the
    complex play of rhythmic counterpoint that unfolded across it.
    
        [45]
    
    In “Rondes printanières” (Spring Rounds), for example—and as Stravinsky
    himself indicated in his choreographic notation—one group of dancers moves
    to the syncopated rhythms of one musical motif, while a second group
    accents the downbeats of another. Earlier in “Les Augures printaniers” (The
    Augurs of Spring), this choreo-musical interplay is visualized within the
    body: while the dancers jump to the musical downbeats, their arms and upper
    bodies bring out the music’s irregular accents.



    Underlying these examples is what we might call a poetics of workmanship, a
    model of the body as a laboring machine. But it might be useful to
    speculate further on the type or kind of machine we tend to envisage—such
    speculation might help us, now over a hundred years after the premiere,
    towards a more nuanced conceptualization of the original interrelations
    between music and dance. On the one hand, prompted by the ballet’s setting
    and scenario, it is tempting to conjure up the very earliest technologies
    of inscription: prehistoric bones, rocks, or other hard materials incised
    with series of notches, marks, or tallies. Clearly, visual artefacts such
    as figure 3—a broken baton from the Grotte du Placard, dating from
    Magdalenian IV (approximately 15,000 years ago)—have nothing to do with
    pictorial representation; they are evidence, instead, of the abstract
    origins of counting, a one-to-one correspondence between a notch and, say,
    the sighting of an animal or the appearance of the moon. This singular
    correspondence, as archaeologists have revealed, likely involved neither
    physical resemblance nor abstract numeration: no stories or words
    accompanied the notches; nor were they necessarily conceived mentally as
    incremental numbers. The notches simply recorded single, unitary events:
    one animal or moon, one mark.
    
        [46]
    







    Fig. 3. Magdalenian perforated baton, Grotte du Placard (Charente, France), PL 55064. Musée d’Archéologie Nationale, Saint-Germain-en-Laye, France. © Alexander Marshack.

        
    

    Is it possible for us to envisage Le Sacre as a similar
    technology, a form of prehistoric inscription that exists outside any and
    all pictorial, symbolic, and narrative domains? To follow this thread might
    be to recall the anecdotal history of the ballet, replete with tales of
    counting: Nijinsky, at the premiere, screaming the number of beats from the
    wings;
    
        [47]
    
    dancers trying to internalize complex meters (that often departed from
    notated musical ones).
    
        [48]
    
    We might also look afresh at the bent-over “stamping” motion—the
    hunkered-down bodies—that characterizes the ballet, at least in “Les
    Augures printaniers”: for what is this episode if not the ritual
    demonstration of non-figurative tallies, series after series of stubbornly
    illegible, meaningless notches inscribed onto three-dimensional space?



    On the other hand, attending to these notches—to a system of inscription
    that runs against our tendency to interpret images as signs or
    narratives—might lead us towards the opposite end of the historical
    spectrum: that is, to much more advanced apparatus. Recent commentators
    have argued that Le Sacre fractures and fixes bodily movement in a
    manner similar to contemporary technologies of visualization such as early
    film and chronophotography, the name given by French physiologist
    Étienne-Jules Marey to his method of capturing separate frames in
    succession and then graphically inscribing them alongside each other.
    
        [49]
    
    But, more important for present purposes, the ballet also fractures and
    fixes music, picking apart melodies and metrical systems, then rendering
    them as discrete, measurable units. The choreography, perceived in this
way, might be envisaged as a particular type of machine, a sound-writer or    phonautograph
    
        [CGL1]
    
    —the first instrument devised to inscribe the movements of a taut membrane
    under the influence of sound. Indeed, early technologies of sound recording
    (i.e., not playback) were understood as predominantly visual apparatus:
    they translated soundwaves into series of etches or grooves, a type of
    visual patterning not unlike the notches and tallies described above (see
    figure 4).
    
        [50]
    


        




    Fig. 4. Detail of a phonautogram by Édouard-Léon Scott de Martinville,    Phonautographie de la voix humaine à distance, 1857. INPI. Credits: FirstSounds.org.

        
        

    Of course, “reading” any modern art—literature, music, theater—against a
    backdrop of contemporary technological invention is a now-trending critical
    maneuver. Inspired by the work of Friedrich Kittler and, more recently,
    Sara Danius, scholars readily assume a dialectical relationship between
    technology and early modernist aesthetics: the two, we are led to believe,
    are co-constitutive.
    
        [51]
    
    The nub of the argument here seems to relate to the dancers’ perceived
    internalization of a technological mode (however prehistoric or modern we
    consider the apparatus): that is, their function as a sensory-perceptual
    machine, a technology of musical inscription that filters, segments, and
    registers sound as a series of atomized quanta. There is also a more basic
    point here: according to this argument, the dancers are defined
    phenomenologically not in terms of their visual capacity, as we might
    expect following traditional Enlightenment notions of self and narrative,
    but in terms of audition—hearing is thematized onstage, is privileged as a
    perceptual phenomenon.



    This point also resonates across the literature. Recent studies,
    particularly within literary criticism, have explored the heightened
    significance of sound and auditory experience in modernity, gesturing not
    only to the development of various acoustic technologies in the early
    twentieth century (the telephone, phonograph, and later radio), but to an
    emerging affiliation between the self and the ear—what Steven Connor calls
    “the modern auditory I.”
    
        [52]
    
    Indeed, at a time when increasingly complex visual apparatus brought into
    question the reliability of the naked eye, threatening a continuity between
    seeing and knowing, the ear opened up a new and different way of engaging
    in the world, a mode of lived experience defined in terms of presence,
    immediacy, and embodiment. More specifically, as Connor explains, if the
    visual self can be conceptualized as a single perspective from which the
    exterior world opens up in three-dimensional certitude, the listening self
    is defined “not as a point but as a membrane, not as a picture, but as a
    channel through which voices, noises and musics travel.”
    
        [53]
    



        

	The Body and the Senses


        
    Connor provides another—and especially useful—analogy, one that might well
    recall the above description of Le Sacre’s hunkered-down bodies,
    nudging us further towards that argument about the dancer as a laboring
    machine, an intermediary apparatus through which “noises and musics” pass.
    We could push the argument further by suggesting that Le Sacre 
    stages the “modern auditory I”: that, like literature by Auguste de
    Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, Marcel Proust, and Filippo Tommaso Marinetti (and,
    later, Dorothy Richardson, Virginia Woolf, and James Joyce), the ballet
    uses sound and auditory experience to subvert traditionally ocular
    conceptualizations of subjectivity, in doing so modelling a new kind of
    phenomenological experience. Indeed, if as Connor writes “visualism
    signifies distance, differentiation and domination,” then audition implies
    intimacy, immediacy, and immersion—a way of being in the world that appeals
    directly to the body and the senses.
    
        [54]
    



    Connor’s words are further instructive in that they provide a useful segue
    into the topic of attention: that is, the auditory experience of bodies in
    the audience, as well as those onstage, at the Théâtre des
    Champs-Élysées, Paris, on the evening of May 29, 1913. There is of course
an embarrassment of literature about spectators’ response to    Le Sacre, of which a good deal, particularly interviews and
    memoirs written many years after the premiere, has been exaggerated for
    effect. Historians, perhaps inevitably, have made much of the “tumultuous
    demonstrations”:
    
        [55]
    
    the hissing, snickering, shouting, laughter, whistling, hushing, and
    applauding of an audience seemingly divided into strongly opposing camps.
    But efforts have also been made to get to the facts, in particular, the
    consternation felt with regard to Nijinsky’s choreography: whereas
    Stravinsky remained well respected and highly esteemed by the bulk of the
    audience (the composer was merely heading in the wrong direction, having
    “compromised” himself by working with Nijinsky), the choreographer was
    subjected to a barrage of criticism, his choreography labelled “ugly,”
    “monotonous,” and “tedious.”
    
        [56]
    



    Less has been made, though, of two features of critics’ reviews that strike
    a resonant chord with Connor’s words, above. One is the sense of overall
    astonishment reported, an astonishment that no doubt contributed
    significantly to the infamous “ruckus,” but also to a critical loss for
    words. A number of commentators in the daily and specialist press
    acknowledged that Le Sacre seemed designed to shock, confuse, and
    startle;
    
        [57]
    
    some confessed their own professional bewilderment, admitting that they
    couldn’t express an opinion, couldn’t even understand the work, and
    couldn’t work out whether it was a masterpiece or not.
    
        [58]
    
    Certainly, there was a shared sense of critical non-comprehension: an
    inability to register, contemplate, and compare the ballet to works of a
    more assured and collectively approved greatness.
    
        [59]
    



    This feature of the reviews, which might seem ironic in view of later
    attempts to co-opt Stravinsky’s score into an emerging aesthetic of
    “cérébrisme,”
    
        [60]
    
    comes into greater clarity when viewed alongside a second feature: critics’
    visceral reactions to the ballet. For while their mental and intellectual
    capacities may have been compromised, commentators registered acute sensory
    stimulation. To be sure, this kind of intense physiological response was
    not unusual in the face of a Russian extravaganza. Describing, at the
    outset of his Le Sacre review, the effect of Diaghilev’s first
    Parisian ventures, composer-critic Xavier Leroux writes:



    We trembled on our legs like drunken men as golden pinwheels and diamonds
    danced before our eyes, as our temples pounded. Slowly we emerged from this
    state of numbness; and with our bodies still blue with ecchymosis we could
    finally reopen our eyes in which a thousand phosphenes were exploding.
    
        [61]
    



    Others thought—or rather sensed—in similar ways. Le Sacre brought
    about “an absolutely new feeling,” a feeling “never before experienced and
    of the most incisive acuity.” It had an “overwhelming,” “intoxicating,”
    “suffocating” effect: it “crushes us”; it “knocks us flat.”
    
        [62]
    
    In a long and perceptive review, Jacques Rivière elaborated further. To
    Rivière, the “oddities” of Stravinsky’s score in particular were designed
    not to startle or to provoke admiration, but, rather, “to put us into
    direct contact, into immediate communion with the most wonderful and
    amazing things”: “[they] bring us close … to introduce us to the object on
    an equal footing.”
    
        [63]
    
    That “object,” we learn, is “the passions of the soul”:



    We are brought closer to them, we are led into their presence in a more
    immediate way, we contemplate them before the arrival of language, before
    they are hemmed in by a host of innumerable and nuanced yet chattering
    words. … In the dark night of the intelligence, we are aware; we are there
    with our body, and it is that which understands.
    
        [64]
    



    Presence, immediacy, embodiment: this is a tantalizing proposition, and one
    that echoes Connor’s words on the lived experience of the “modern auditory
    I,” a condition shot through with visceral reactions and almost erotic
    stimulation. Are we to imagine, then, a shared mode of sensory
    receptivity—symptomatic of a self immersed in the world—both on stage and
    off? Are the spectators in the theater to be aligned, in their mode of
    auditory attention, with the dancers pounding the floor? Aligned
    might be the wrong word to use here, for at issue is the collapse of
    conventional boundaries between spectator and spectated: the capacity of
    auditory experience to disintegrate and reconfigure space. For the self as
    membrane, we might argue, spills out over the stage and into the stalls:
    with a marked auditory consciousness, that self enjoys direct, untrammeled
    access to the world, an affective experience that is inherently embodied
    and intersubjective.


    

	Haptics


It is tempting to describe this experience in terms of haptics, a
    relatively modern term, trending across phenomenology and film studies,
    that emphasizes proximity and mutually constitutive exchange: that is, a
    sense of reciprocity between subject and object, the former an active agent
    in a corporeal and quasi-erotic encounter with the latter. Laura U. Marks,
    mentioned earlier, has proved highly influential on the subject, exploring
    the remit of what she calls “haptic visuality,” a mode of experience in
which the eyes function like organs of touch. Marks’s seminal study    The Skin of the Film investigates “haptic aesthetics” in relation
    to a specific kind of intercultural cinema, a genre that, dealing with “the
    power-inflected spaces of diaspora, (post- or neo-) colonialism, and
    cultural apartheid,” appeals to an intimate, embodied viewing
    experience—the sensory and affective process of coming into contact with
    the skin of the film text.
    
        [65]
    



    Marks’s work is not only interpretive, not only concerned with the
    fundamental nature of the decisions we make about how films embody meaning.
    It also has a valuable historiographical dimension aimed at loosening the
    grip of art-historical narratives that uphold the superiority of Western
    illusionistic representation. “Haptic aesthetics,” she explains, emerge
    within distinct cultural historical periods, such as modernism, when
    “meaning came to reside in the embodied and intersubjective relationship
    between work and viewer or reader.”
    
        [66]
    
    Referencing a “modernist revaluation of tactility” (“the return of
    materiality to the mediums of art and literature”), Marks identifies the
    modernist period with a flare up of interest in the subjectivity and
    physiology of vision, gesturing towards her broader attempt “to redeem
    aesthetics from their transcendental implications by emphasizing the
    corporeal and immanent nature of the experience of art.”
    
        [67]
    
    Particularly important within Marks’ analysis, at least for present
    purposes, is a case singled out for its overt haptic dynamics: “the
    early-cinema phenomenon of a ‘cinema of attractions,’” a genre that,
    according to Marks, appealed to an immediate, “embodied response.”
    
        [68]
    

    Enabling what she calls “bodily identification,” rather than “narrative
    identification,” the “cinema of attractions”—as Gunning has not tired of
    telling us—addressed spectators directly, sometimes exaggerating the sense
    of confrontation such that it takes on the quality of a physical assault.
    
        [69]
    
    Contact between subject and object, not mimetic representation, was the
    source and means of meaning constitution; distanced identification was
    substituted for the immediacy and intersubjectivity of sensory perception.


        

	An Aesthetic of “Attractions” (Conclusion)


         
    Marks thus steers us back towards the framing analogies that this article
    has sought to elaborate: at base, between the “cinema of attractions,”
    Fuller’s dance theater, and the Russians’ Sacre du printemps; and
    between all three and the phenomenology of the modern metropolis. The first
    analogy, as I hope to have shown, is based not only on an equivalence of
    structure (fractured), temporality (disjunct), teleology (denied),
    narrativity (also denied), presentational mode (exhibitionary), and
    representational aspect (non-figural); parallel modes of attention
    (immediate, embodied, haptic, immersive) and experience
    (non-identificatory) can be discerned within historical source materials
    and envisaged in a hermeneutical sense. This is not to mention the
    positioning of music, in the two dance examples, as artifice, apparatus, or
    mediating technology—the sonorous equivalent of Professor Welton’s frontal
    stare: silent cinema’s aesthetic of acknowledgement. Indeed, I would argue
    in favor of this musical equivalence despite radically different means. To
    put this other words, how both examples establish and sustain a similar
    musical disposition differs drastically: Fuller tends to disregard her
    music’s expressive connotations, but powerfully foregrounds that music’s
    status as a signature tune, an artificial component of the theatrical
    spectacle; Le Sacre also foregrounds music as part of an apparatus
    of presentation, but does so by means of an intensity of inscription, a
    battery of music-movement alignments that suggests a distinctly modern and
    auditory phenomenological experience.



    In closing, I want to raise, albeit briefly, some further considerations on
    the historical stakes of my analogies. Following Gunning, Gaudreault, and
    others, I have presented “attractions” as unique to the early twentieth
    century, a contingent product of a specifically modern experiential
    landscape defined in terms of mobility, flux, incredulity, novelty,
    non-continuity, and perceptual change. Yet this claim surely
    oversimplifies: what, we might ask, of the emergence of “attractions” in
    other periods and genres? The cinematic “attractions” of Sergei
    Eisenstein’s montage practice, established in the early 1920s, come
    immediately to mind, as do the operatic “attractions” of nineteenth-century
    Italy (say, the typical Rossinian cabaletta), twentieth-century Brechtian
    theater, besides the “acinema” of Jean-Francois Lyotard’s philosophical
    imagination. A more obscure example might be the so-called “theater music”
    associated with the ancient Greek dithyramb—a choral hymn to honor
    Dionysus. This musical genre conforms almost exactly to the “attractions”
    template, with an emphasis on display, innovation, and variety, a
    formlessness of structure, an irregular temporality, an ethos of conscious
    display, and an appeal to the senses not to the intellect.
    
        [70]
    



    What if we were to embrace these far-flung examples as a call to envisage
    the “attractions” model not as a locus of stability or fixed meaning, but
    rather as an impulse of change, transformation, and mutability? Charting
    “attractions” across historical periods and places might well unlock
    dimensions of significance that help us chronicle emergent practices of
    looking, listening, and spectating, as well as, in a formal-aesthetic
    sense, shifting modes of presentation, enunciation, intermediality, and
    address. This call to problematize the cinematographic dispositif 
    might also lead inwards: that is, to a realization of the variability or
transmutation that can emerge within a single work. In the case of    Le Sacre, my thoughts on the hunkered-down “stamping” might well
    prompt a comparison of ballet and early cinema; but this comparison cannot
    be sustained across the entire work. To me at least, the very opening of
    the ballet does indeed epitomize the “attractions” aesthetic: the bassoon,
    acting as a kind of cinematic barker or bonisseur, accustoms the
    audience to a state of shock, its musical discourse (non-continuous
    temporality, wandering structure, agglutinative development, undisciplined
    rhythm



    and meter, as well as the uncertainty and variability of sound production)
    a means of mediating the theatrical “attraction” to follow.
    
        [71]
    
    But then there is the very end, the Chosen One’s Sacrificial Dance. Some
    commentators (Taruskin, Adorno) have described the vacuous dance of a
    helpless individual—Stravinsky’s “Great Victim,” the original title of the
    work—willing to sacrifice herself “to the collective,” “without tragedy”
    and through “self-annihilation.”
    
        [72]
    
    With an emphasis on shocks, reflex actions, and physical immediacy, as well
    as Stravinsky’s musical “hypostatization,” this now-standard description
    evokes a Chosen One acted upon by the theatrical apparatus—evokes an
    aesthetic of “attraction,” we might argue.
    
        [73]
    
    But what about an alternative perspective (following Tamara Levitz’s
    nuanced and historically sensitive scholarship) that emphasizes the
    communicative potential of dance, the emotional experience of the
    spectator, and Nijinsky’s/the dancer’s angry passion?
    
        [74]
    
    This line of interpretation might endorse the very opposite of the
    “attractions” principle—namely, narrative and causality, distanced
    identification, listening as that kind of “figural entrainment” described
    earlier.



    Going further might raise the issue not of identifying opposites and
    generating labels, but rather of sketching the displacement process: the
    ways in which dance theater reshapes a cinematographic dispositif in its primordial dimensions; and, in doing so, produces new and
    heterogeneous subjectivities. While the concept of subjectivity has
    remained under the surface of this study, it surely demands interrogation,
    if only as a way of deconstructing basic dualisms such as activity and
    passivity, subjugation and domination, identification and estrangement,
    absorption and theatricality. With this last pairing, one that gestures to
    the landmark art-historical work of Michael Fried, I may have stepped into
    perilous waters:


    [75]


    How does the concept and practice of theatricality—the assumption of
    objecthood and attendant self-consciousness of viewing—relate to the
    cinematographic “attraction”? Does absorption, into a kind of
    transcendental sphere, necessarily imply identification, what I loosely
    described as “figural entrainment”? What sort of phenomenological
    engagement might be shared by viewers of painting and performance art, and
    spectators of cinema and ballet? And how does art, not to mention Fried’s
    “non-art,” variously disclose, uphold, and subvert the positions and
    activities of its beholders? On these questions, as on the matter of
    subjectivity/-ties, there is much work to be done, work that might well be
    both extensive, invoking multiple genres or media, and foundational,
    grappling with longstanding issues of art, its ontological reality,
    agentive qualities, signifying regimes, and psychic address, not to mention
    its in-built concept of the spectator, their sensory perceptions, and
    physiological orientation. This is not to mention the significance of what
    is nowadays a loaded business, “context”: in the present case, the
    distinctly modern and newly sensualized spectacle characteristic of the
    Western metropolis. I hope that the wide-angled searching for conceptual
    equivalence attempted in this article might be productive going forward: on
    the one hand, it might help open up our subjects of study to truly
    interdisciplinary critique; on the other, it might prompt us to refine and
    refocus our attention on music and the intimations of meaning that flow
    from it.





    

    

   
        
            
                *
            
            Sections of this article were presented in preliminary form at the
            20th Congress of the International Musicological Society
            (University of the Arts, Tokyo, 2017) and the Annual Meeting of the
            American Musicological Society (Rochester, NY, 2017). I am grateful
            to the audiences at both presentations for their thoughtful and
            stimulating comments. This article has also benefited from close
            readings by Maribeth Clark, Roger Parker, Emilio Sala, and my
            anonymous reviewers.
        

    

    
        
            
                [1]
            
See Harriet Porter, “Why Cool Cats Rule the Internet,”            The Telegraph, July 1, 2016.
        

    

    
        
            
                [2]
            
A 2015 exhibition at New York’s Museum of the Moving Image—            How Cats Took Over the Internet—celebrated the history of
            cats on screen: see reviews in the New York Times (August
6, 2015), the Guardian (August 7, 2015), and            TIME Magazine (September 22, 2015). For a nuanced account
of the feline take-over, see E. J. White,            A Unified Theory of Cats on the Internet (Stanford:
            Stanford University Press, 2020).
        

    

    
        
            
                [3]
            
            See Tom Gunning, “The Cinema of Attractions: Early Film, Its
Spectator and the Avant- Garde,” in            Early Cinema: Space Frame Narrative, ed. Thomas Elsaesser
            (London: British Film Institute, 1990), 56–62. Gunning’s second
            essay on the topic is “An Aesthetic of Astonishment: Early Film and
            the (In)Credulous Spectator,” Art & Text 34 (1989):
            31–45. See also André Gaudreault and Tom Gunning, “Le cinéma des
premiers temps: un défi a l’histoire du cinéma?” in            Histoire du cinéma: nouvelles approaches, ed. Jacques
            Aumont, André Gaudreault, and Michel Marie (Paris:
            Sorbonne, 1989), 49–63; Eng. ed. “Early Cinema as a Challenge to
Film History,” trans. Joyce Goggin and Wanda Strauven, in            The Cinema of Attractions Reloaded, ed. Wanda Strauven
            (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2006), 365–80.
        

    

    
        
            
                [4]
            
            Gunning, “Cinema of Attractions,” 59; also see Gunning’s entry
            “Cinema of Attraction,” in Encyclopedia of Early Cinema,
            ed. Richard Abel (London: Routledge, 2005), 124–27.
        

    

    
        
            
                [5]
            
            Henry Welton, The Boxing Cats (West Orange, NJ: Edison
            Manufacturing Co., 1894), video, Library of Congress, Washington,
            DC.
        

    

    
        
            
                [6]
            
See Ray Phillips,            Edison’s Kinetoscope and Its Films: A History to 1896 
            (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1997).
        

    

    
        
            
                [7]
            
            There is a voluminous literature on the concept and definition of
            the dispositif, embracing film, media, and communications
            studies as well as critical theory and philosophy. Important work
            includes Jean-Louis Baudry, “Cinéma: effets idéologiques produits
            par l’appareil de base,” Cinéthique 7–8 (1970): 1–8; Eng.
            ed. “Ideological Effects of the Basic Cinematographic apparatus,”
            trans. Alan Williams, Film Quarterly 28, no. 2 (1974):
            39–47, and his “Le dispositif: approches métapsychologiques de
            l’impression de réalité,” Communications 23 (1975):
            56–72; Eng. ed. “The Apparatus,” Camera Obscura 1, no. 1
            (1976): 104–26; Raymond Bellour, “La querelle des dispositifs /
            Battle of the Images,” Art Press 262 (2000): 48–52; Gilles
            Deleuze, “Qu’est-ce qu’un dispositif?,” in
            
                Michel Foucault. Philosophe: rencontre internationale, Paris,
                9, 10, 11 janvier 1988
            
            (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1989), 185–95; Eng. ed. “What is a
            dispositif ?,” in Michel Foucault Philosopher, trans.
            Timothy J. Armstrong (New York: Harvester Wheatsheaf,
            1992), 159–69; Michel Foucault, “The Confession of the Flesh,” a
            conversation with Alain Grosrichard et al., in
            
                Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings
                1972–1977
            
            , ed. Colin Gordon (New York: Pantheon Books, 1980), 194–228;
            Jean-François Lyotard, Des dispositifs pulsionnels 
(Paris: Galilée, 1994); and Christian Metz,            Le signifiant imaginaire: psychanalyse et cinéma (Paris:
Union générale d’éditions, 1977); Eng. ed.            The Imaginary Signifier: Psychoanalysis and the Cinema,
            trans. Celia Britton et al. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press,
            1982). Davide Panagia offers a particularly useful account of the
            breadth of significance of the term as used by Foucault; see his
article “On the Political Ontology of the Dispositif,”            Critical Inquiry 45 (2019): 714–46. Specifically related
            to the topic of this article is Frank Kessler, “La cinématographie
            comme dispositif (du) spectaculaire,” CiNéMAS 14, no. 1
(2003): 21–34; and Kessler’s chapter “The Cinema of Attractions asDispositif,” in Strauven,            Cinema of Attractions Reloaded, 57–69.
        

    

    
        
            
                [8]
            
            Quoted in Gunning, “An Aesthetic of Astonishment,” 35.
        

    

    
        
            
                [9]
            
            On the emergence of cinema as part of the modern urban experience,
            see Ben Singer,
            
                Melodrama and Modernity: Early Sensational Cinema and its
                Contexts
            
            (New York: Columbia University Press, 2001) and the essay
            collection Film 1900: Technology, Perception, Culture, ed.
            Annemone Ligensa and Klaus Kreimeier (New Barnet: John Libbey,
            2009).
        

    

    
        
            
                [10]
            
            See Laurent Guido, “Rhythmic Bodies/Movies: Dance as Attraction in
Early Film Culture,” in Strauven,            Cinema of Attractions Reloaded, 139–56; and Charles
            Musser, “At the Beginning: Motion Picture Production,
            Representation and Ideology at the Edison and Lumière Companies,”
            in The Silent Cinema Reader, ed. Lee Grieveson and Peter
            Krämer (London: Routledge, 2004), 15–30.
        

    

    
        
            
                [11]
            
            From the wealth of recent interdisciplinary studies of attention, I
have found the following most inspiring: Richard Adelman,            Idleness and Aesthetic Consciousness, 1815–1900 
            (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018); Eve Tavor Bannet,
            
                Eighteenth-Century Manners of Reading: Print Culture and
                Popular Instruction in the Anglophone Atlantic World
            
            (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017); Thomas H. Davenport
            and John C. Beck,
            
                The Attention Economy: Understanding the New Currency of
                Business
            
(Boston: Harvard Business School Press, 2001); Lily Gurton-Wachter,            Watchwords: Romanticism and the Poetics of Attention 
            (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2016); and Tim Wu,
            
                The Attention Merchants: The Epic Scramble to Get Inside Our
                Heads
            
            (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2016). Earlier studies that remain
            important include: Jonathan Crary,
            
                Suspensions of Perception: Attention, Spectacle, and Modern
                Culture
            
            (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999); Michael Fried,
            
                Absorption and Theatricality: Painting and Beholder in the Age
                of Diderot
            
            (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980); and James H.
            Johnson, Listening in Paris: A Cultural History (Berkeley:
            University of California Press, 1995).
        

    

    
        
            
                [12]
            
            Dance scholar Stephanie Jordan offers a helpful review of
            music-dance research in her “Choreomusical Conversations: Facing a
            Double Challenge,” Dance Research Journal 43, no. 1
            (2011): 43–64. Jordan’s own research—including the award-winning
            books
            
                Moving Music: Dialogues with Music in Twentieth-Century Ballet
            
(London: Dance Books, 2000) and            Stravinsky Dances: Re-Visions Across a Century (Alton:
            Dance Books, 2007)—illustrates the dominant methodological and
            conceptual tendencies of music and dance studies over the past
            twenty or so years. Having said this, her more recent work—for
            example, Mark Morris: Musician – Choreographer (Binsted:
            Dance Books, 2015)—treads new ground, exploring perspectives from
            the cognitive sciences.
        

    

    
        
            
                [13]
            
            Gunning, “Cinema of Attractions,” 97–99.
        

    

    
        
            
                [14]
            
            I attempted to tackle this last question in my chapter
“Representational Conundrums: Music and Early Modern Dance,” in Representation in Western Music, ed. Joshua S. Walden (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 144–64.
        

    

    
        
            
                [15]
            
            Carolyn Abbate, “Opera; or, the Envoicing of Women,” in
            
                Musicology and Difference: Gender and Sexuality in Music
                Scholarship
            
            , ed. Ruth A. Solie (Berkeley: University of California
            Press, 1993), 235
        

    

    
        
            
                [16]
            
            See footnote 3 as well as André Gaudreault,
            
                From Plato to Lumière: Narration and Monstration in Literature
                and Cinema
            
            , trans. Timothy Barnard (Toronto: University of Toronto
Press, 2009); Charles Musser,            The Emergence of Cinema: The American Screen to 1907 (New
            York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1990); his later article “Rethinking
Early Cinema: Cinema of Attractions and Narrativity,”            Yale Journal of Criticism 7, no. 2 (1994): 203–32; and
            Singer, Melodrama and Modernity.
        

    

    
        
            
                [17]
            
Louis Delluc, “Cinéma: Le Lys de la vie,”            Paris-Midi, March 8, 1921.
        

    

    
        
            
                [18]
            
            Louis and Auguste Lumière, Danse serpentine [II] (1897),
            Lumière Catalogue Number 765,1. See, also, the short films by
Edison (Serpentine Dance, 1894) and Pathé (            Loie Fuller, 1905).
        

    

    
        
            
                [19]
            
            There are two notable exceptions: Tom Gunning, “Light, Motion,
Cinema!: The Heritage of Loïe Fuller and Germaine Dulac,”            Framework: The Journal of Cinema and Media 46, no. 1
            (2005): 106–29; and Felicia McCarren,
            
                Dancing Machines: Choreographies of the Age of Mechanical
                Reproduction
            
            (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003), esp. 43–64.
        

    

    
        
            
                [20]
            
Jacques Rancière,            Aisthesis: Scenes from the Aesthetic Regime of Art, trans.
            Zakir Paul (London: Verso, 2013), 99. For historical sources, see
            Stéphane Mallarmé, “Considérations sur l’art du ballet et la
            Loïe Fuller,” National Observer, May 13, 1893 and Paul
Valéry, “Philosophie de la danse” (1936), reprinted in            Oeuvres, vol. 1, ed. Jean Hytier (Paris: Gallimard, 1957),
            pp. 1390–1403. Kristina Köhler offers a summary account of both
            Mallarmé and Valéry on dance in her chapter “Dance as
            Metaphor—Metaphor as Dance: Transfigurations of Dance in Culture
            and Aesthetics around 1900,”
            
                REAL Yearbook of Research in English and American Literature
            
            25, no. 1 (2009): 163–78.
        

    

    
        
            
                [21]
            
            Fuller, quoted in “Lois [sic] Fuller in a Church,” n.d.; clipping,
            Houghton Library, Harvard University, Theatre Collection Clippings
            1. She continued: “No one can tell you what Beethoven thought when
            he wrote the Moonlight Sonata; no one knows Chopin’s point of view
            in his nocturnes, but to each music lover there is in them a story,
            the story of his own experience and his own explorations into the
            field of art … You can put as many stories as you wish to music,
            but you may be sure that no two people will see the same story. So
            every dance has its meaning, but your meaning is not mine, nor mine
            yours.”
        

    

    
        
            
                [22]
            
            See my chapter “Making Moves in Reception Studies: Music, Listening
and Loie Fuller,” in            Musicology and Dance: Historical and Critical Perspectives
            , ed. Davinia Caddy and Maribeth Clark (Cambridge: Cambridge
            University Press, 2020), 91–117.
        

    

    
        
            
                [23]
            
            See Caddy, “Making Moves in Reception Studies” and, on the legal
            case, Anthea Kraut, “White Womanhood, Property Rights, and the
Campaign for Choreographic Copyright: Loïe Fuller’s            Serpentine Dance,” Dance Research Journal 43, no.
            1 (2011): 2–26. Emma Doran provides an informative account of
            Fuller’s product branding—how she pioneered her own merchandizing,
            harnessing the press and the consumer industry to her advantage—in
            her article “Figuring Modern Dance within Fin-De-Siècle Visual
Culture and Print: The Case of Loïe Fuller,”            Early Popular Visual Culture 13, no. 1 (2015): 21–40.
        

    

    
        
            
                [24]
            
            Gregory Shaya, “The Flâneur, the Badaud, and the
Making of a Mass Public in France, circa 1860–1910,”            American Historical Review 109, no. 1 (2004): 51.
        

    

    
        
            
                [25]
            
            Tom Gunning, “The Whole Town’s Gawking: Early Cinema and the Visual
            Experience of Modernity,” Yale Journal of Criticism 7, no.
            2 (1994): 190.
        

    

    
        
            
                [26]
            
            For more on this, see Caddy, “Making Moves in Reception Studies.”
        

    

    
        
            
                [27]
            
            Quoted in Martin Miller Marks,
            
                Music and the Silent Film: Contexts and Case Studies, 1895–1924
            
            (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 251 n40. Marks notes
that Loin du bal was included in the volume            Masterpieces of Piano Music, ed. Albert E. Weir (New York:
            Carl Fischer, 1918), 365–67. For more on the Serpentine Dance, see
Sally R. Sommer, “Loie Fuller’s Art of Music and Light,”            Dance Chronicle 4, no. 4 (1981): 391.
        

    

    
        
            
                [28]
            
Addé, “Courrier des Spectacles: La Soirée au Théâtre des Arts,”            Le Gaulois, November 10, 1907; Henri Gauthier-Villars,
            “Théâtre des Arts – La Musique,” Comoedia, November 10,
            1907; see also Gaston Carraud, “Les Concerts,” La Liberté
            , November 12, 1907. Clair Rowden offers a useful account of the
            ballet in her chapter “Loïe Fuller et Salomé: les drames mimés de
            Gabriel Pierné et de Florent Schmitt,” in
            
                Musique et chorégraphie en France de Léo Delibes à Florent
                Schmitt
            
            , ed. Jean-Christophe Branger (Saint-Étienne: Publications de
            l’Université de Saint-Étienne, 2010), 215–59.
        

    

    
        
            
                [29]
            
See André Mangeot, “La Tragédie de Salomé,”            Le Monde musical, November 15, 1907.
        

    

    
        
            
                [30]
            
            Gauthier-Villars, “Théâtre des Arts,” 2.
        

    

    
        
            
                [31]
            
            Interestingly, Fuller’s production was regarded as a feminist
            statement by both Le Temps, a daily newspaper, and the
            journal Fémina. Ann Cooper Albright discusses this aspect
            of the production, and Fuller’s earlier Salome outing (1895), in
            her book
            
                Traces of Light: Absence and Presence in the Work of Loïe
                Fuller
            
            (Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 2007), ch. 4 “Femininity
            with a Vengeance: Strategies of Veiling and Unveiling in Loïe
            Fuller’s Performances of Salomé,” 115–43.
        

    

    
        
            
                [32]
            
            Laura U. Marks,
            
                The Skin of the Film: Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment, and the
                Senses
            
            (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2000).
        

    

    
        
            
                [33]
            
            Marks, Skin of the Film, 167, 169.
        

    

    
        
            
                [34]
            
See, for example, Richard Taruskin, “Russian Folk Melodies in The Rite of Spring,”            Journal of the American Musicological Society 33, no. 3
            (1980): 501–43; Tatiana Baranova Monighetti, “Stravinsky, Roerich,
and Old Slavic Rituals in The Rite of Spring,” in            “The Rite of Spring” at 100, ed. Severine Neff, Maureen
            Carr, and Gretchen Horlacher (Bloomington: Indiana University
            Press, 2017), 189–98; and Olga Haldey,
            
                Mamontov’s Private Opera: The Search for Modernism in Russian
                Theater
            
            (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010).
        

    

    
        
            
                [35]
            
            I should also note the alternative perspectives offered during
            centennial celebrations by two expert musicological voices:
            Annegret Fauser, “Le Sacre du printemps: A Ballet for
            Paris,” and Tamara Levitz, “Racism at The Rite,” both in
            Neff et al., “The Rite of Spring” at 100 (83–97 and 146–78
            respectively).
        

    

    
        
            
                [36]
            
            Gunning, “The Cinema of Attractions,” 57. For more on this body of
            primary literature, see Viva Paci, “The Attraction of the
            Intelligent Eye: Obsessions with the Vision Machine in Early Film
            Theories,” in Strauven, Cinema of Attractions Reloaded,
            121–37.
        

    

    
        
            
                [37]
            
            See Tom Gunning, ‘“Now You See It, Now You Don’t’: The Temporality
            of the Cinema of Attractions,” Velvet Light Trap 32
            (1993): 3–12.
        

    

    
        
            
                [38]
            
            See Richard Taruskin,
            
                Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: A Biography of the Works
                Through “Mavra”
            
            (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 2:1677–78. There
            is a sizeable music-theoretical literature on Stravinsky’s
            characteristic structural disjunctures, including Pieter C. van den
            Toorn, The Music of Igor Stravinsky (New Haven: Yale
            University Press, 1983); Jonathan D. Kramer, “Discontinuity and
Proportion in the Music of Stravinsky,” in            Confronting Stravinsky: Man, Musician, and Modernist, ed.
            Jann Pasler (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986),
            174–94; and Jonathan Cross, The Stravinsky Legacy 
            (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998).
        

    

    
        
            
                [39]
            
            John Frazer,
            
                Artificially Arranged Scenes: The Films of Georges Méliès
            
            (Boston: G. K. Hall, 1979), 124.
        

    

    
        
            
                [40]
            
            See Glenn Watkins,
            
                Pyramids at the Louvre: Music, Culture, and Collage from
                Stravinsky to the Postmodernists
            
            (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1994).
        

    

    
        
            
                [41]
            
            Pierre Boulez, Stocktakings from an Apprenticeship, trans.
            Stephen Walsh (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), 57.
        

    

    
        
            
                [42]
            
            Linda M. Austin explores the trend towards marionettes and
            activated dolls in ballets of the late nineteenth and early
            twentieth centuries in her article ‘Elaborations of the Machine:
            The Automata Ballets’, Modernism/modernity, 23/1 (2016),

            pp. 65–87. On dance’s centrality to modernist machine aesthetics,
            see McCarren, Dancing Machines.
        

    

    
        
            
                [43]
            
Truman Bullard collates and translates all extant reviews of            Le Sacre (dating from the months after the premiere) in
his doctoral thesis “The First Performance of Igor Stravinsky’s            Sacre du Printemps” (PhD diss., University of Rochester,
            Eastman School of Music, 1971), from which this article’s English
            translations are taken, unless otherwise noted. See, in particular,
Gustave de Pawlowski, “Au Théâtre des Champs-Élysées:            Le Sacre du Printemps,” Comoedia, May 31, 1913.
        

    

    
        
            
                [44]
            
“The Next New Russian Ballet,” interview with Vaslav Nijinsky,            Pall Mall Gazette, February 15, 1913, 5.
        

    

    
        
            
                [45]
            
            See, for example, Jordan, Moving Music, 36–42;
            Millicent Hodson,
            
                Nijinsky’s Crime Against Grace: Reconstruction Score of the
                Original Choreography for “Le Sacre du Printemps”
            
(Stuyvesant: Pendragon Press, 1996); and Hodson and Kenneth Archer,            The Lost Rite: Rediscovery of the 1913 “Rite of Spring” 
            (London: KMS Press, 2014).
        

    

    
        
            
                [46]
            
            My admittedly crude account of the prehistory of counting is
            heavily influenced by the work of James Elkins: “On the
Impossibility of Close Reading: The Case of Alexander Marshack,”            Current Anthropology 37, no. 2 (1996): 185–226, and his
            book On Pictures and the Words That Fail Them (Cambridge:
            Cambridge University Press, 1998), esp. ch. 5 “The Common Origins
            of Pictures, Writing, and Notation.” Elkins himself, as the title
            of the above article makes clear, draws on the writings of
            archaeologist and art historian Alexander Marshack, especially his
            
                The Roots of Civilization: The Cognitive Beginnings of Man’s
                First Art, Symbol, and Notation
            
(New York: McGraw-Hill, 1971, and on Denise Schmandt-Besserat,Before Writing, vol. 1,            From Counting to Cuneiform (Austin: University of Texas
            Press, 1992).
        

    

    
        
            
                [47]
            
            See The Diary of Vaslav Nijinsky, ed. Joan Ross Acocella,
            unexpurgated ed. (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux,
            1999), xiii; and Mindy Aloff,
            
                Dance Anecdotes: Stories from the Worlds of Ballet, Broadway,
                the Ballroom, and Modern Dance
            
            (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 15.
        

    

    
        
            
                [48]
            
            Stravinsky commented on this disparity in his notes to the
            four-hand piano version of Le Sacre; see Igor Stravinsky
and Robert Craft,            “The Rite of Spring”: Sketches 1911–1913 (London: Boosey
            & Hawkes, 1969), Appendix III, 38–39.
        

    

    
        
            
                [49]
            
            See, for example, Juliet Bellow,
            
                Modernism on Stage: The Ballets Russes and the Parisian
                Avant-Garde
            
            (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), esp. 57.
        

    

    
        
            
                [50]
            
            For more on the earliest technologies of sound inscription, see
Jonathan Sterne,            The Audible Past: Cultural Origins of Sound Reproduction 
(Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003); and Haun Saussy,            The Ethnography of Rhythm: Orality and Its Technologies 
            (New York: Fordham University Press, 2016).
        

    

    
        
            
                [51]
            
            See Friedrich A. Kittler, Discourse Networks 1800/1900,
            trans. Michael Metteer (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990),
            and Gramophone, Film, Typewriter, trans. Geoffrey
            Winthrop-Young and Michael Wutz (Stanford: Stanford
            University Press, 1999); and Sara Danius,
            
                The Senses of Modernism: Technology, Perception, and Aesthetics
            
            (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2002).
        

    

    
        
            
                [52]
            
            See Steven Connor, “The Modern Auditory I,” in
            
                Rewriting the Self: Histories from the Renaissance to the
                Present
            
            , ed. Roy Porter (London: Routledge, 1997), 203–23. I have also
            enjoyed (on literature) Angela Frattarola, “Developing an Ear for
            the Modernist Novel: Virginia Woolf, Dorothy Richardson, and James
            Joyce,” Journal of Modern Literature 33, no. 1 (2009):
132–53; and (on aurality more broadly) Douglas Kahn,            Noise, Water, Meat: A History of Sound in the Arts 
            (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999).
        

    

    
        
            
                [53]
            
            Connor, “The Modern Auditory I,” 207.
        

    

    
        
            
                [54]
            
            Connor, 204.
        

    

    
        
            
                [55]
            
            Pierre Lalo, “La Musique,” Le Temps, June 3, 1913, 3.
        

    

    
        
            
                [56]
            
            Lalo, 3. As Bullard notes, Lalo’s review offers a particularly
            severe criticism of Nijinsky (and his “lack of choreographic
            imagination”), while remaining deferential to Stravinsky (“a
            prodigiously ingenious and skillful composer”). See Bullard, “The
            First Performance,” 2:85. For a careful and thorough account of
            critics’ reviews, see Sarah Gutsche-Miller, “What the Papers Say,”
in The Cambridge Companion to “The Rite of Spring,” ed. Davinia Caddy (Cambridge: Cambridge
            University Press, forthcoming).
        

    

    
        
            
                [57]
            
See, for example, Gustave Linor, “Au Théâtre des Champs-Élysées:            Le Sacre du Printemps,” Comoedia, May 30, 1913;
and Marguerite Casalonga, “Nijinsky et            Le Sacre du Printemps,” Comoedia illustré, June
            5, 1913.
        

    

    
        
            
                [58]
            
            See, for example, Louis Vuillemin, “Au Théâtre des
            Champs-Élysées:
            
                Le Sacre du Printemps. Ballet en deux actes, de M. Igor
                Stravinsky
            
            ,” Comoedia, May 31, 1913; Georges Pioch, “Les Premières.
Théâtre des Champs-Elysées: Le Sacre du Printemps,”            Gil Blas, May 30, 1913; and Pierre Lalo, “La musique.” As
            Bullard notes, only the most hostile critics—Adolphe Boschot, Paul
            Souday, Henri de Curzon, and Adolphe Jullien—wrote with any degree
            of self-assurance; see Bullard, “The First Performance,” 1:166–67.
        

    

    
        
            
                [59]
            
            Jacques-Émile Blanche, writing an annual overview of theatrical
            life in the French capital, admits that “I hesitated a long time
            before I dared to take Le Sacre du Printemps as the
            principal subject of these remarks.” He goes on to acknowledge
            that, following the 1913 Russian season, “it has taken us a little
            while to regain our aplomb”; see his article “Un bilan artistique
de 1913. Les russes—Le Sacre du Printemps,”            La revue de Paris, December 1, 1913 (Bullard, 2:313–14).
        

    

    
        
            
                [60]
            
See the January–February 1914 edition of the short-lived journal            Montjoie!, including editor Ricciotto Canudo’s “Manifeste
            de l’art cérébriste,” 9.
        

    

    
        
            
                [61]
            
            Xavier Leroux, “La saison russe,” Musica 12, no. 131
            (August 1913), 153 (Bullard, 2:214).
        

    

    
        
            
                [62]
            
            See René Chalupt, “Le mois du musicien,” La Phalange 8
            (August 20, 1913): 169–75 (Bullard, 224–30); and Jean Marnold,
            “Musique,” Mercure de France 24, no. 391 (October 1,
            1913): 623–30 (Bullard, 250–68).
        

    

    
        
            
                [63]
            
Jacques Rivière, “Le Sacre du Printemps,”            La Nouvelle revue française 5, no. 59 (November 1, 1913):
            706–30 (Bullard, 280).
        

    

    
        
            
                [64]
            
            Bullard, 298.
        

    

    
        
            
                [65]
            
            Marks, The Skin of the Film, 1.
        

    

    
        
            
                [66]
            
            Marks, 168.
        

    

    
        
            
                [67]
            
            Marks, 167, 169.
        

    

    
        
            
                [68]
            
            Marks, 170.
        

    

    
        
            
                [69]
            
            Marks, 170–71.
        

    

    
        
            
                [70]
            
            See Penelope Murray and Peter Wilson, eds.,
            
                Music and the Muses: The Culture of “Mousikē” in the Classical
                Athenian City
            
            (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004); and Barbara Kowalzig and
            Peter Wilson, eds., Dithyramb in Context (Oxford: Oxford
            University Press, 2013).
        

    

    
        
            
                [71]
            
            For more on the traditional bonisseur, see Germain
Lacasse, “The Lecturer and the Attraction,” in Strauven,            Cinema of Attractions Reloaded, 181–91.
        

    

    
        
            
                [72]
            
            See Theodor W. Adorno, Philosophy of New Music (1949),
            trans. Robert Hullot-Kentor (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota
            Press, 2006), 111; see also Richard Taruskin, “A Myth of the
            Twentieth Century: The Rite of Spring, the Tradition of
            the New, and ‘The Music Itself,’” Modernism/Modernity 2,
            no. 1 (1995): 1–26.
        

    

    
        
            
                [73]
            
            Taruskin, Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions, 1:962.
        

    

    
        
            
                [74]
            
See Tamara Levitz, “The Chosen One’s Choice,” in            Beyond Structural Listening? Postmodern Modes of Hearing,
            ed. Andrew Dell’Antonio (Berkeley: University of California Press,
            2004), 70–108.
        

    

    
        
            
                [75]
            
            See Fried, Absorption and Theatricality, and his essay
            “Art and Objecthood,” Artforum 5, no. 10 (1967): 12–23.
        

    




    



                

            

                

            

          
          
        
        
        
