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    Plan détaillé Texte intégral Godzilla, the bomb reincarnate Hiroshima, a natural catastrophe Godzilla Reloaded: a paper cinema Notes de bas de page Auteur

    Architectures of memory

    Ce livre est recensé par

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    Table des matières

    Godzilla Reloaded

    Patrick Nardin

    p. 118-131

    Texte intégral Godzilla, the bomb reincarnate Hiroshima, a natural catastrophe Godzilla Reloaded: a paper cinema Notes de bas de page Auteur

    Texte intégral

    1When one looks at certain screenshots of the first Godzilla, directed in 1954 by the Japanese filmmaker Ishiro Honda, one might be struck by how close they seem to documentary and by their resemblance to photographs taken in Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the atomic bomb attacks of 1945. Destruction, scenes of panic, or views of overrun hospitals here make up an iconography whose realistic effects revive the memory of a real-life event. The black and white, reinforced by chiaroscuros that heighten the drama, serves to blur the difference between realty and fiction, thereby transforming a mere entertainment into the depiction of nuclear disaster. In this inaugural version of a very long series, Godzilla, a fanciful monster and the last of the dinosaurs, becomes more than a simple metaphor for the bomb; Godzilla is, as the American journalist Steve Ryfle underscores, its actual “physical manifestation.”1

    Godzilla, the bomb reincarnate

    2The first sequence of the film shows sailors relaxing on the deck of a cargo ship suddenly blinded by a bright flash that leads to the sinking of the vessel along with the crew on board. The action recalls the then-recent tragedy of the Japanese tuna boat Daigo Fukuryu maru (Happy Dragon 5), which was accidently exposed to fallout from the Castle Bravo H-bomb test at the Bikini Atoll. Sailing in an area supposedly safe, the boat was subjected to a steady stream of radioactive particles over several hours, severely contaminating its crew, who were trapped on the open sea with no means of escape. Coming only a few years after the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the incident’s diplomatic impact was disastrous, with the Japanese press calling Castle Bravo a third atomic-bomb attack. Nearly forgotten today, at the time the accident catalyzed a major anti-bomb movement, one of whose main protagonists would be the philosopher Günther Anders.

    Godzilla, 1954 (screenshot).

    Image

    3The story of Godzilla, Japan’s first monster film, references a current event then on everyone’s minds, but it replaces the catastrophe’s scientific origin with an antediluvian creature, asleep at the bottom of the ocean until awakened by nuclear tests that destroy its habitat. Developed by the producer Tomoyuki Tanaka, the project took its inspiration from a big-budget Hollywood film, The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, directed by Eugène Lourié in 1953 and based on a Ray Bradbury story about the sudden appearance in Manhattan of a giant lizard, it, too, awakened by an atomic bomb triggered during a test under the ice of the North Pole. Since the funds available to the film’s producer, the company Toho, couldn’t compare to those of the American studios, the creators had to fall back on special effects; Lourié’s creature, animated image by image, is here replaced with an actor dressed in a rubber costume who moves among small-scale models and miniatures in order to make him look bigger by contrast. The sustained shadows, the nighttime settings, combined with the destruction, produce an aesthetic synthesis that balances natural shots and artificial reconstructions.

    The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, 1953 (screenshot).

    Image

    4We are thus made to believe that Godzilla is indeed trampling Tokyo, smashing train lines, or crushing locomotives with his teeth. The special effects’ creator, Eiji Tsuburaya, turned his lack of funds into an ingenious and defamiliarizing new form, following in the footsteps of Méliès. No doubt old-fashioned today, his effects seek to shock without hiding the process underlying their creation, a contrast with current digital effects, which are supposed to go unnoticed. In this first Godzilla, the shock depends on viewers’ desire to believe that the creature is real and to enjoy the spectacle while they simultaneously make up, with their own imagination, for the authenticity or verisimilitude the film lacks. Paradoxically, the bare-bones aspect of the sets and props endows the film with a sculptural originality that has some resonance with contemporary artists like Mike Kelley, Jim Shaw, or Tony Oursler, each of them attentive to the kitsch of 1950s science-fiction films. Among the numerous films involving monsters, robots, Martians, or other extraterrestrials, Godzilla nonetheless occupies a special place in that it intervenes in the memory of an unimaginable tragedy; it metaphorically evokes the memories of the bombings while at the same time constructing a militant central character who embodies the moral injunctions against the atomic bomb.

    5Awakened from a long slumber by a nuclear explosion, Godzilla concentrates in himself the destructive powers of an atomic weapon in order to become a walking disaster resistant to the traditional means of warfare. He doesn’t represent a technology but rather a vital force that exceeds technology, like Mother Nature’s revenge on human creations; Akira Ifukube,2 who composed the film’s music, remarks that the monster’s energy is stronger than the technology that destroyed Japan. The last sequences show Godzilla’s death, as a high-intensity explosion sucks up his oxygen and leads to his disintegration, paradoxically making him the first victim of a new device for annihilation as terrifying as the A-bomb. The ending isn’t a happy one, however; realizing that his own genius has become a danger to humankind, the young scientist who invented the weapon sacrifices himself when he denotates it to kill Godzilla. But there are perhaps other Godzillas; if the nuclear tests continue, says a scientist at the end of the film, another creature will appear, leading to new destruction. Are we capable of learning from the disasters we have caused? This rejection of a future plunged into chaos makes plain the film’s antinuclear position; yet seeing Godzilla through the lens of the era’s great fears isn’t enough.

    Hiroshima, a natural catastrophe

    6In the journal he kept during his voyage to Hiroshima and Nagasaki in the 1950s, Günther Anders remarks that the victims of the catastrophe aren’t able to call it for what it is, but constantly speak of it “as an earthquake, as a tsunami or asteroid. The determination they put into not talking about the guilty, into not mentioning that the event was caused by human beings, into not harboring even the least resentment, even though they were the victims of the very worst of crimes, defies the understanding.”3 The event was so swift, barely a few seconds, that the survivors were unable to experience the catastrophe “as such”; no wave of flight squadrons appeared in the sky, as was the case in conventional attacks, only a flash that no one saw coming. According to Anders, there is a before, that is, the life that precedes the bombings, and an after, which is apocalyptic; on the other hand, the decisive moment is too terrifying and too sudden for it to be grasped. “Even now,” he writes (in 1958), “they [the victims] generally describe it with an it (then it happened).” The enemy has become invisible, and the relationship between the shock and the people who bear that shock within themselves can no longer be established, leaving the victims “deprived of hate.” This effect of irresponsibility produces a world in which what happens becomes, according to Anders, “unattributable.” Foreshadowing the work of drones, he believes that in “the age of rockets” we won’t see who delivers the blow, we won’t see the weapon, “we won’t even see the effects of the strike.” In Hiroshima and Nagasaki, people obviously knew who was responsible, but according to Anders, “emotionally,” such information had no weight. Then, when the guilty become invisible, guilt itself tends to disappear. Surrounding Hiroshima and Nagasaki, there is an impossibility of interpretation, which Anders compares to a kind of “mutilation of perception.”

    7The absence of hate is an effect of derealization, a form of “soft” dehumanization in which bad people and criminals no longer exist. “The instant the world becomes apocalyptic […],” Anders writes, “it presents the image of a fata morgana, the image of a paradise inhabited by murderers without malice and by victims without hate. Nowhere is there a trace of malice; there is only rubble.” Afterward, those who caused the tragedy would look after the survivors, treat them with care, as if an event had occurred which no one could have stopped. In the United States, on the other hand, the scientists and especially the airmen were celebrated as heroes. Accordingly, Roland Joffé’s film Fat Man and Little Boy (1989) makes the Manhattan Project into an industrial epic with neither executioners nor victims. The awkward figure in this atomic adventure is Major Claude Eatherly, with whom Anders began a still famous correspondence. Eatherly participated in the bombing of Hiroshima as the pilot of the weather-observation plane that preceded the B-29 carrying the bomb. After his return home, Eatherly did his best to ruin the image of the hero that he had involuntarily become through attempted suicides, petty robberies of stores, banks, and gas stations, before winding up in a psychiatric hospital. Despite what was essentially only a technical role in the operation, Eatherly no doubt suffered from post-traumatic stress, akin to the problems emerging today among certain drone pilots, who nonetheless operate at a great distance from their targets. In this faraway war waged without hate, like a technological feat accomplished without animus, the aggressor’s wounds become psychological, the result of individual guilt. Through film, Godzilla reinstates the identity of the guilty and at the same time “humanizes” them, making them the victims of a bomb like those it destroyed. How can such an event find a place in collective memory, beyond the trauma of the direct victims?

    8In a lecture on the destruction of German cities by heavy Allied bombing during the Second World War,

    9W. G. Sebald recounts how the experience of the devastation was collectively repressed and didn’t cross, in his words, “the threshold of the national consciousness.”4 The episode of destruction, which was comparable to the atomic bombs in the intensity and scope of the material damage, if we set aside the specific effects of radiation, was experienced as something inevitable, poetic justice for the calamities caused by the Germans throughout Europe. “People’s ability to forget […],” he says, “was seldom put to the test better than in Germany at that time.” Reconstruction and what is called the German economic miracle quickly erased the scars of war and led, according to Sebald, to a “second liquidation in successive phases of the nation’s own past history”; it forestalled memory, compelling the population “exclusively toward the future and enjoining on it silence about the past.” The removal of the wreckage of war thus also came with collective amnesia, the silence affecting art as well as literature. Günther Anders shares the same perspective with regard to Hiroshima, comparing reconstruction to the falsification of history. Looking at the rebuilt city, he has the impression that “everything seems like it has been this way since the beginning of time”; the removal of the rubble shows disloyalty toward the dead, but the outrage “isn’t that the dead are invisible. It’s that their absence is missing. Their absence is invisible.”5

    10Sebald recalls the same phenomenon, citing Elaine Scarry6: in such circumstances, the victims are not collateral damage, casualties of the strategic necessity of a military objective, but the target itself; that is, because of their sheer numbers, they are the objective. The industrial nature of the destruction produced by these flying “industrial plants” has something insupportable about it, something that seems to feed off of its own excess; the strategic reason - here, putting a quick end to the war - equivocally combines, as Sebald points out, with economic pressures that dictate that the “accumulated potential” be put to a logical end. In other words, once set in motion on such a massive scale, the industrial machine can no longer be stopped; it feeds off of itself. This is what Roland Joffé’s film reveals in an indirect way: the scientists’ misgivings have a primarily cosmetic function, designed to show that the men aren’t heartless; although they created this horrifying device, they did so reluctantly, for the good of mankind and to finish the war as quickly as possible. In response to Dr. Oppenheimer, the scientist responsible for the Manhattan Project and suddenly the victim of a crisis of conscience, the American general overseeing the operation (played by Paul Newman) says, “You tell me how I’m gonna face a senate inquiry and say we spent two billion dollars on a show that’s never gonna open.” Stupefied, postwar Japan could finally see that it had served as a “guinea pig for Western military technology” in a “technological competition between nations,”7 nations among which Japan’s own level of development, lacking comparable efficiency in mass production, foreclosed any hope of a victorious outcome. According to certain commentators,8 we should look for the reasons for Japan’s “economic miracle” in the new competition between businesses following the Second World War.

    11The reality of the event, which surpasses our understanding, fades away behind the stereotypical phrases mentioned by Sebald: “a prey to the flames,” “that fateful night,” “all hell was let loose,” “we were staring into the inferno,” “the dreadful fate of the cities of Germany”9 - these are another way to stifle memory and foreclose personal narrative. In the context of postwar Japan, Godzilla is a symptom through which a repressed history resurfaces. It places phantasmatic images over the very thing that cannot be recounted, that is, the few seconds it took to annihilate Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The devastating flash is extended in time as the monster moves through space; the catastrophe assumes a form that allows the fiction to reclaim the event while avoiding what would be an impossible reenactment. Godzilla stands between dream and reality. While the action involves a several million-year-old amphibian, its consequences are molded into a documentary form that reminds viewers of the real victims of the previous conflict. A tension thus arises between the grand spectacle of a sci-fi film and the unexpected gravity of certain images reminiscent of actual historical documentary. Godzilla is at once a partisan film and a catharsis, allowing its viewers to confront the trauma of the event through the lens of the imagination and reestablishing the possibility of personal narrative. The film’s narrative form, which borders on the grotesque, with a creature whose ferocity doesn’t much frighten anyone anymore, transforms the past by reinscribing it in contemporary consciousness; the anecdote and the fable make it possible to revive memory in order to establish a present tense of history.

    12In Alain Resnais’s Hiroshima mon amour (1959), the Japanese lover repeats to his French mistress, “Tu n’as rien vu à Hiroshima” (You saw nothing in Hiroshima), thus confirming that what happened is impossible to imagine and that it is pointless to look for its traces in the new city. To which she stubbornly responds, “J’ai tout vu à Hiroshima” (I saw everything in Hiroshima). What she has seen doesn’t have to do with a traumatic event but rather with its gradual erasure. Forgetting is inevitable and can’t be dissociated from the necessity to remember, which in turn becomes a hopeless struggle. The work of memory is inseparable from our ability to let go as the event gradually recedes in time. For Resnais, there can be no question of the past without taking into account what ends up missing from it. But in that case, asks Michael

    13S. Roth in an essay on the film’s relationship to history, “What kind of life can be built from a past that refuses translation or assimilation into the present but that will not be forgotten?”10 For Anders or Sebald, reconstruction is an amnesia; what they suggest, which is obvious in Roth’s remark, underscores the strength of repression. What is repressed, even collectively repressed, is liable to resurface in unexpected forms: Godzilla, who has all the features of the atomic bomb, is the return of the repressed. He makes it possible to reimagine a traumatic event and has a consoling effect through which nature seems to triumph over the technological forces that defeated Japan. The enemy that he embodies exists beyond resentment and hate and turns warfare into a natural calamity, thereby eluding any guilt.

    14However, although Honda’s film returns to what has happened by way of metaphor, it takes a stand in the fight against nuclear tests and the balance of terror; it becomes a popular mediation of the political realm. In 1956, an adaptation of the film was made for the American market, Godzilla, King of the Monsters, which retains about an hour of the original film but adds the new character of an American journalist. The remake had some success, although it was opportunely stripped of any bothersome references to the ongoing nuclear tests. It reconstructs the story through flashbacks, replacing Honda’s disconcerting ending with a happy one wherein life returns to normal without the unpleasantness of hidden agendas. A far cry from this comforting optimism, the original Godzilla is at once a “fictionalization” of the disaster and an instrument of memory that allows the disaster to be reimagined, which indeed makes the film, beneath an exterior of now-outmoded cinematographic kitsch, political.

    Godzilla Reloaded: a paper cinema

    15After the first Godzilla, the remakes with the monster came hard and fast; they included the sometimes silly additions of a variety of monsters, from a giant moth (Mothra vs. Godzilla, 1962) to King Kong himself. The 2014 version of Godzilla (directed by Gareth Edwards) is striking for the interminable length of its closing credits, mostly made up of the teams in charge of special effects.11 Showing up in San Francisco, the monsters had to be made to blend in with their surroundings in order to ensure a spectacle of mass destruction in locations familiar to all. The picture reveals its fascination with its own means of production, discovering in the Japanese monster at once a sci-fi fable, an ethical message, and a certain cinematic credibility in a lead character that had made history. The film revives the original message, using Godzilla to reiterate the danger of nuclear weapons and the wrath of nature. Here, the hero is positive; he exhibits a biological force that surpasses the power of technology, reminding humankind of its precarious condition.

    16The different versions of Godzilla through the years all revolve around the design of the monster, his movements, and his place in the frame. Between the first and the last Godzilla, parallels exist in the way Godzillas are presented, revealed in certain shot details, the choice of nighttime settings, and the off-camera effects. In Ishiro Honda’s film, the monster exists in sound before he is seen. His unique roar, a distinctive feature throughout the years, is not a composite of animal noises, as one might have thought, but rather the sound of a bass string rubbed with a glove, a repurposing that shows the makeshift methods of studios at the time. His appearance has undergone multiple iterations, from the rubber costume donned by an actor, with puppets, models, and miniatures, to digital design. The tension that reigns everywhere, however, regardless of the sometimes lamentable quality of the subject matter, stems from the sight of an invariably gigantic creature sowing fear and destruction; Tokyo is consistently in the grip of panic and always reduced to ashes. The virtual Godzilla is very close to the original; the slow movements of the first actor, dressed in a 200-pound costume, reappear in the movements of the digital monster, who has also retained the glossiness typical of rubber skin, as if the costume dreamed up in the 1950s had now become one with the character. What has changed is the “naturalization” of the creature and the end of mechanical artifice in the production; the digital iteration thus works to absorb the viewer’s gaze in the effects of reality.

    17The aim of the 2014 remake was to take antiquated effects and enhance their sensational character through digital technology; the endeavor paradoxically brings techniques from the early cinema back to life. Lev Manovich has highlighted how the “manual construction and animation of images” has been reborn through digital techniques, bringing the “history of the moving image […] full circle.”12 This emancipation from the limitations of shooting a film, according to him, represents a return of what the cinema had erstwhile repressed; that which history had marginalized to creative niches as a “particular case” today has become “foundational” with the advent of new technologies. In a context where the image is endlessly transformable, the cinema, he explains, can be viewed “as painting”; if a film is a series of photographs, these same photographs, in the case of a digitized sequence, become essentially manipulatable. Given the artist’s ability to “manipulate digitized footage either as a whole or frame by frame, a film in a general sense becomes a series of paintings.” Digital thus redefines what is possible for one to do in film; the digital revolution didn’t do away with the hands-on processes of early or experimental cinema, it incorporated them “in the commands and interface metaphors of computer software.” Sixty years after its inaugural version, the new Godzilla is in fact a continuation of the first thanks to an overhaul of its effects; the work of memory here has less to do with the metaphorical dimension of the main character than with the visual production of the film. Beneath the appearance of a spectacle whose genesis seems unfathomable lies the same ambition of world creation that held sway during early popular cinema. Computers have updated an aesthetic narrative that one would have thought anachronistic or outmoded. The contemporaneity of the spectacle is in fact shaped by a paleo-cinematographic ambition that here makes modernity an illusion.

    18My installation-film Godzilla Reloaded remakes Godzilla alone, leaving out sets and props. Very short sequences are excerpted from the series beginning with the original in 1954; they inventory the creature’s bearing, facial expressions, and gestures but without any discursive delineation. The selection of sequences of only a few seconds from the composite whole of all the Godzillas thus creates a raw material that transfers the character into an aesthetic realm in which the cinema is no more than an outward appearance. The collected fragments are broken down into still photographs, transforming the films into a database with which one can freely engage without worrying about a cohesive linear narrative or chronological development. Digitally repurposed for a new configuration of forms and movements, the pictures are turned into paintings on paper, which form a succession of scenes that constitute the matrix of a film. The choice of very greasy materials brings numerous smears and residue to the work, including halos formed from dried oil paint that sometimes appear around the figures, like meta-drawings added to the piece. In the film, these traces also move, a chance recollection of the marks or wear on actual film. As the movement perceptibly changes from picture to picture, there is the sense that the image is constantly made and unmade as part of an animation of the surface itself, pushing the limits of a flicker. Transformed into a volatile-looking colored creature, Godzilla becomes a character whose threatening demeanor leads to nothing; his tics reappear, but, within this new pictorial space, they resemble pantomime. The isolation of the figure, the elimination of the original context, incidentally reveals his human side; Godzilla never moves like an animal, he walks and raises his hands like a human. Through his gestures, we are reminded of the actor in the costume. The relocated, repainted, and transformed creature thus remains inhabited by the ghost-person inside him who gave him life in the first films of the series.

    19Although the initial pictures are hand-sized, they become monumental when projected; the size of the figure can then no longer be understood in relation to the models or digitally reconstructed space, which, by contrast, allows one to imagine the figure’s dimensions, but rather in relation to the viewers themselves. Godzilla Reloaded is designed as an apparatus within which Godzilla sets the scale. The reappearance of the monster as a painted surface is accompanied with sound work that transforms parts of the original soundtracks and mixes them with external material made up of recorded sounds and chance fragments; the overlapping of sound layers creates an environment that gives cinematic consistency to the animated figure. The goal is not a critique of the character’s tumultuous history, but rather a shift, a change, of context that reactivates its function in imagination. From cinema, there remain the creature’s sound and visual effects, synthesized from all the films, but with a Godzilla transformed into always changing, colorful material.

    Patrick Nardin, Godzilla Reloaded, 2,464 paintings, 2014. HD film, color, sound, 3’33” on a loop. A plate painted before reframing (original in color).

    Image

    20In this paper cinema, the film is primarily a picture database wherein each element is an autonomous “tableau” indexed to a series that makes up a shot; the projection is an opportunity to view a film that exists first of all as an archive bringing together a digitized and sorted set of paintings. There are thus two facets to the piece: it is, on the one hand, a film in which each element becomes a time-image and, on the other, a spatial installation that exhibits a serial method of painting. In practice, it is a structural form of cinema, one that figures movement within a physical dimension created from the combination of fixed images. This structural interplay is concealed beneath the effects of blockbuster cinema, in which Godzilla, like an archetype, acts on memory.

    21The back-and-forth between antiquated methods and digital processes calls for new approaches that integrate an array of resources; scanners, printers, postproduction software, digitized shots, found images - all are technologies for creation that here combine with traditional workshop practices. The high definition video in Godzilla Reloaded accurately retains the look of the original material, that is, the details of the painted surfaces. In this way, the paper no doubt represents a paradox: in opposition to the immateriality of the digital files (or elsewhere the transparency of film), it offers the opacity of its surface, a surface that turns the image into an object. Between the hands-on manipulations and the distance that the computing tools require, apparently antagonistic forms of work coexist; the digital archive and selection and crosschecking procedures are confronted with a moving image that makes a painting. Memory here appears technological, narrative, historical, or “functional” in nature, in other words, it employs at various levels the contemporary methods of an artistic practice located at the crossroads of painting and digital cinema, always avoiding a clean break that would erase its genealogy.

    Notes de bas de page

    1 Steve Ryfle, “Godzilla’s Footprint,” VQR 81: 1 (Winter 2005). Available at: https://www.vqronline.org/vqr-portfolio/godzilla%E2%80%99s-footprint.

    2 Quoted in Steve Ryfle, ibid.

    3 Günther Anders, “L’homme sur le pont. Journal d’Hiroshima et de Nagasaki,” Hiroshima est partout (Paris: Seuil, 2008), 168.

    4 W. G. Sebald, On the Natural History of Destruction, trans. Anthea Bell (New York: Modern Library, 2004), 11.

    5 Günther Anders, “L’homme sur le pont. Journal d’Hiroshima et de Nagasaki,” op. cit., 257.

    6 Elaine Scarry, The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985).

    7 Fredrick L. Schodt, Inside the Robot Kingdom: Japan, Mechatronics, and the Coming Robotopia (Tokyo-New York: Kodansha International, 1988); quoted in Alan Colodenko, “L’animation apocalyptique. Dans la foulée d’Hiroshima, de Nagasaki, de Godzilla et de Baudrillard,” in Techniques et technologies du cinéma, ed. André Gaudreault and Martin Lefebvre (Rennes: P.U.R., 2015).

    8 Ibid.

    9 W. G. Sebald, On the Natural History of Destruction, op. cit., 25.

    10 Michael S. Roth, “Hiroshima mon amour: You Must Remember This,” in Revisioning History: Film and the Construction of a New Past, ed. Robert A. Rosenstone (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995), 95.

    11 The website The Movie Bit reports that a single computer would have needed 450 years to process the film’s digital effects.

    12 Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2001), 302.

    Auteur

    • Patrick Nardin

      Associate Professor of Visual Arts at Université Paris 8, as well as an artist and theorist. His work explores the problematics of the moving image in the field of contemporary art, with research especially focusing on obsolete or defective techniques and with the way they are handled by new media. He has recently published a book entitled Effacer-Défaire-Dérégler… with a foreword by Pierre-Damien Huyghe (L’Harmattan, 2015). In 2017, he coedited two volumes: Cambodge, cartographie de la mémoire (Paris: L’Asiathèque), with Soko Phay and Suppya Nut, and Archives au présent (Presses universitaires de Vincennes), with Catherine Perret, Soko Phay, and Anna Seiderer. Patrick Nardin is also the president and cofounder of the contemporary art center Faux Mouvement in Metz.

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    Godzilla Reloaded

    Patrick Nardin

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    Godzilla Reloaded

    Patrick Nardin

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    1 Steve Ryfle, “Godzilla’s Footprint,” VQR 81: 1 (Winter 2005). Available at: https://www.vqronline.org/vqr-portfolio/godzilla%E2%80%99s-footprint.

    2 Quoted in Steve Ryfle, ibid.

    3 Günther Anders, “L’homme sur le pont. Journal d’Hiroshima et de Nagasaki,” Hiroshima est partout (Paris: Seuil, 2008), 168.

    4 W. G. Sebald, On the Natural History of Destruction, trans. Anthea Bell (New York: Modern Library, 2004), 11.

    5 Günther Anders, “L’homme sur le pont. Journal d’Hiroshima et de Nagasaki,” op. cit., 257.

    6 Elaine Scarry, The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985).

    7 Fredrick L. Schodt, Inside the Robot Kingdom: Japan, Mechatronics, and the Coming Robotopia (Tokyo-New York: Kodansha International, 1988); quoted in Alan Colodenko, “L’animation apocalyptique. Dans la foulée d’Hiroshima, de Nagasaki, de Godzilla et de Baudrillard,” in Techniques et technologies du cinéma, ed. André Gaudreault and Martin Lefebvre (Rennes: P.U.R., 2015).

    8 Ibid.

    9 W. G. Sebald, On the Natural History of Destruction, op. cit., 25.

    10 Michael S. Roth, “Hiroshima mon amour: You Must Remember This,” in Revisioning History: Film and the Construction of a New Past, ed. Robert A. Rosenstone (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995), 95.

    11 The website The Movie Bit reports that a single computer would have needed 450 years to process the film’s digital effects.

    12 Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2001), 302.

    Architectures of memory

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    Nardin, P. (2022). Godzilla Reloaded. In J.-M. Dallet & B. Gervais (éds.), Architectures of memory (1‑). Presses universitaires de Paris Nanterre. https://doi.org/10.4000/11tt8
    Nardin, Patrick. « Godzilla Reloaded ». In Architectures of Memory, édité par Jean-Marie Dallet et Bertrand Gervais. Nanterre: Presses universitaires de Paris Nanterre, 2022. https://doi.org/10.4000/11tt8.
    Nardin, Patrick. « Godzilla Reloaded ». Architectures of Memory, édité par Jean-Marie Dallet et Bertrand Gervais, Presses universitaires de Paris Nanterre, 2022, https://doi.org/10.4000/11tt8.

    Référence numérique du livre

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    Dallet, J.-M., & Gervais, B. (éds.). (2022). Architectures of memory (A. Chrétien & J. D. Jordan, Trad.; 1‑). Presses universitaires de Paris Nanterre. https://doi.org/10.4000/11tv3
    Dallet, Jean-Marie, et Bertrand Gervais, éd. Architectures of Memory. Traduit par Armelle Chrétien et Joshua David Jordan. Nanterre: Presses universitaires de Paris Nanterre, 2022. https://doi.org/10.4000/11tv3.
    Dallet, Jean-Marie, et Bertrand Gervais, éditeurs. Architectures of Memory. Traduit par Armelle Chrétien et Joshua David Jordan, Presses universitaires de Paris Nanterre, 2022, https://doi.org/10.4000/11tv3.
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