# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
A Level Media - Titanium by David Guetta - Media Language & Representation

# data[].attributes.headline
Postmodern Terms - do they apply to Titanium?

# data[].attributes.subject
Postmodern Terms - do they apply to Titanium?

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
This article originally appeared in Vulture.

The most overtly political film Steven Spielberg has ever made was his very first feature assignment. In 1971's L.A. 2017, a 75-minute-long episode of the TV series Name of the Game, a media mogul (Gene Barry) falls asleep in his car and wakes up in the year 2017. The surface of the Earth has become toxic, and what's left of humanity now dwells in underground cities. Governments have collapsed, and the U.S. is run as a "shareholders' democracy" called America, Inc., with a new Corporate Constitution. While the rich and powerful hoard resources and live in relative luxury, normal citizens are closely monitored; rumors abound that laborers are being sent to the poisoned surface to work in industries that support the privileged class.

Though it has elements that would one day return in his 2002 Philip K. Dick adaptation Minority Report, L.A. 2017 is not a very Spielbergian film. It doesn't feature much action, save for a brief, indifferently staged hostage standoff and car chase near the end. (It's hard to believe the director made his incredible automotive thriller Duel around the same time.) While the film is weirdly compelling in its own right-Spielberg's facility with actors has always been underrated-it mostly consists of on-the-nose dialogue scenes, with occasional throwaway lines to suggest how much the world has changed. (" There are unconfirmed reports of a Negro in Cleveland ...")

Of course, L.A. 2017 and its societal themes were rarely discussed in the late 1970s and '80s when Spielberg was ascending to godlike status in American cinema. The films propelling his swift ascent- Jaws (1975), Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), or E.T. The Extra Terrestrial (1982)-were free of anything resembling politics or ideology. But over the course of his career, Spielberg's cinema has become increasingly self-aware and culturally engaged. His latest movie, Bridge of Spies, is a Cold War spy drama that's interested not so much in the cloak-and-dagger espionage stuff, but rather in the moral and political issues at stake, both within its narrative and in present-day America. This is a fascinating reversal from earlier in the director's career.

One reason the shift feels so pronounced is because, to some onlookers, the apolitical nature of Spielberg's early hits was in itself political-whatever his own beliefs, his cinema was a conservative one of comfort, of old-fashioned values returning in the wake of Vietnam, Watergate, and the economic turmoil of the era. In his films, communities were healed and families were reassembled or reunited (albeit often symbolically). As Robert Phillip Kolker wrote in his influential book about American film of the period, A Cinema of Loneliness: "Steven Spielberg is the great fantasist of recuperation ... the great modern narrator of simple desires fulfilled, of reality diverted into the imaginary spaces of aspirations realized, where fears of abandonment and impotence are turned into fantasy spectacles of security and joyful action." Spielberg's films made for a perfect, albeit unwitting complement to the so-called Reagan Revolution's culture of reassurance and its return to a golden-hued vision of the past.

To such critics and theorists, Spielberg's technical expertise was also suspect. His films were self-contained units that prompted very specific, universal, and unambiguous responses: "Spielberg never permits the viewer reflective space," Kolker asserted. "Should they occur, they might bring down the entire structure of belief each film works so hard at erecting." He had a point, too: Even those of us who adore Spielberg's films from this period can see a kind of overwhelming, mystical benevolence at work in them, calling on us to give up agency and power. Look at how many of his films end with big, bright light shows in the sky, which the characters watch in awe-and which we ourselves watch in awe. As Pauline Kael wrote in her rave review of Close Encounters: "God is up there in a crystal-chandelier spaceship, and He likes us."

Even as Spielberg branched out into more difficult material, the criticism of his work as facile and childlike remained. Never mind that, with his 1985 adaptation of Alice Walker's The Color Purple, Spielberg took a fairly daring novel about lesbianism, domestic violence, and race relations in the early 20th century, cast it with mostly unknown African-American leads (including Whoopi Goldberg and Oprah Winfrey in their feature acting debuts), and turned it into a huge financial and critical hit. To many, he had scrubbed the novel of its more risqué, subversive elements to create another Spielbergian tale of innocence lost, families reunited and returned, patriarchies redeemed.

Such criticism, of course, largely ignored the humanism of Spielberg's films, and the generosity they demonstrated toward even the most debased characters. It also ignored the ways in which the director had started to break free of his comfort zone. Jim (Christian Bale), the young expat hero of Empire of the Sun (1987), is a Spielberg protagonist par excellence. As the Japanese invade China, and Jim is separated from his parents and winds up in a detention camp, the film becomes, yes, another tale of innocence lost. But along the way, Spielberg shows a willingness to consciously undermine his own, by-then-patented cinematic flights of fancy. There are even two "bright white light" scenes near the end: The first is a sharp lens flare that repeatedly overwhelms the screen as Jim tries (and fails) to revive a young, dead Japanese soldier accidentally killed by Americans; the second is what turns out to be the distant flash of an atom bomb, which Jim thinks is God.

Empire of the Sun wasn't a big hit-one of Spielberg's few financial disappointments-and the director didn't attempt a more serious "prestige" film for some years. In the 1990s, however, he directed a series of historical dramas that surprised many of his earlier critics. When looked at together, something fascinating emerges from Schindler's List (1993), Amistad (1997), and Saving Private Ryan (1998): They're movies in which human lives are reduced to the level of what amounts to business negotiations.

Oskar Schindler (Liam Neeson) manages to keep his Jewish workers alive by discussing issues like productivity and fair value with the Nazi officials who would otherwise kill them. Similarly, in Amistad (1997), a pair of Abolitionists played by Stellan Skarsgard and Morgan Freeman have to make common cause with a shady real-estate lawyer played by Matthew McConaughey in order to win the release of a group of Africans who have seized the title slave ship in the Atlantic. Early on in the film, we see various groups trying to claim the mutineers; one group refers to them as "goods," another "property," yet another "salvage."

The abolitionists have to make their stand on this compromised territory-a heartbreaking concession. (The gamble is echoed in 2012's Lincoln, when the president admits that the Emancipation Proclamation was itself a compromise, since it had to treat slaves as property under the law in order to free them in the Confederate states.) In Saving Private Ryan (1998), there's no business negotiation per se, but there is another brutal, ironic calculus at play: the idea that numerous soldiers have to die in order to save one, simply so the U.S. military can score a PR victory. It's true that these films aren't overtly political, but there is a sly undercurrent of social critique to them-of the way that society, politicians, and the law often reduce human beings to numbers in a ledger.

After September 11, however, that subtlety began to fade as Spielberg's work gained greater political urgency. Whereas earlier films had certainly tackled worthy, important issues, now each film seemed to reflect an aspect of present-day American reality. Look at Minority Report's pointed portrait of a society where individuals are accused, captured, and convicted of crimes before they even commit them, and how it speaks to our growing fears of a police state and the curtailing of personal freedoms in the service of security. The Terminal (2004), ostensibly a romantic comedy about Tom Hanks stuck at JFK airport, addresses the closing off of borders and "Fortress America," and contrasts it with the American ideals of inclusion, generosity, and diversity. War of the Worlds (2005) evokes sense-memories of 9/11 with its scenes of people being incinerated and walls filled with "missing" posters. Bridge of Spies tackles the question of how a nation treats prisoners of war, and the corrosive nature of debasing one's values during times of crisis.

Then there's Munich (2006). Probably Spielberg's most direct look at the issues America has wrestled with post-9/11, it's his most open-ended film, consciously tending towards uncertainty-politically, narratively, even morally. Tasked with avenging the murder of Israeli athletes at the 1972 Munich Olympics, the group of agents led by Avner Kaufman (Eric Bana) are initially given all the force of cinematic justice. Their mission is birthed in the bosom of an Israeli government that's portrayed like one of Spielberg's countless family units, with Prime Minister Golda Meir (Lynn Cohen) presented as a maternal figure; early scenes show the agents sharing big, happy meals around a dinner table in a nice apartment. As the narrative proceeds-and as our heroes get their hands dirtier and dirtier, with each killing seemingly messier than the last-the film's spaces become darker and more cramped; at one point, the agents actually have to share a room in a safe house with their Palestinian enemies, who argue with them about the importance of home, that all-important Spielberg motif. (" You don't know what it is not to have a home ... We want to be nations. Home is everything.") The film closes on Avner, alone in Brooklyn and abandoned by his government-he, too, has no homeland anymore-no longer sure if the people he killed were responsible for Munich. The twin towers of the World Trade Center loom in the background, suggesting that the general cycle of violence he has become a part of will circle back one day to this very same spot.

A similar willingness to frame complex debates within the narrative prevails in Lincoln. True, Abraham Lincoln (Daniel Day-Lewis) is presented from the very beginning as a character halfway toward becoming a myth. But the film isn't afraid to bring that image down to earth. As Lincoln becomes obsessed with passing the Thirteenth Amendment, which banned slavery, he and his associates have to navigate, harness, and manipulate disparate points of view in Congress, often compromising their own beliefs to do so. And much of the film circles around this horrific trade-off: Realizing that support for the Amendment will fade if the Civil War comes to an end before it passes, Lincoln must extend the war in order to get the legislation through. Late in the film, as the president rides through a field strewn with dead soldiers-part of the "Spring Slaughter" many deemed avoidable earlier in the film-he's facing the consequences of his actions, and struggling to make his peace with it.

But perhaps more than anything, Lincoln-like Munich, and to some extent Bridge of Spies-is a film about politics, and the internal and external debates a nation has about what it stands for and what it wants to achieve. It allows its characters to converse, to examine, to contradict one another-and it does so with a surprising degree of respect, even toward those who profess monstrous opinions. Spielberg, whatever his own beliefs, has never been an ideologue. He has always approached his stories from this humanist angle. But in these later works, he has shown a surprising willingness to examine the issues of his day-and to do so in a way that, aesthetically and structurally, reflects that very dialogue. The young wunderkind whose awestruck reveries once avoided debate and discussion altogether has now become the grand old man of mainstream American cinema, and he has done so not by overwhelming us with technique, but by calling on us to listen, and talk, and think.
See also: All 29 of Steven Spielberg's Movies, Ranked From Worst to Best

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Examining Steven Spielberg's Fascinating Shift From Popcorn Movies to Politicized Ones

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
This article originally appeared in Vulture.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Ultimate Guide To Steven Spielberg And His Directing Techniques - Indie Film Hustle®

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Ask anybody with a passing interest in movies who they think of when they hear the word “director”, and 9 times out of ten, you’ll get the same name: Steven Spielberg. The man is undoubtedly the most successful director of our time, perhaps of all time. He single-handedly invented the blockbuster with 1975’s JAWS, but he’s also responsible ... Read more

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Steven Spielberg on the set of The Sugarland Express, 1974

by Steven Rybin

Steven Spielberg's America,
by Frederick Wasser,
Polity, 200 pp.

In his book Citizen Spielberg, Lester D. Friedman notes the intellectual disrespectability sometimes attached to studying a filmmaker as commercially successful as Steven Spielberg. As Friedman reveals in an anecdote, one of his colleagues, upon learning of the author's chosen topic, characterises scholarly work on Spielberg as 'the academic equivalent of appearing in a porn movie: how would I ever regain scholarly legitimacy?' (Friedman 2006, 2). Fortunately, several thoughtful volumes on the director in the last five years prove the worthiness of Spielberg as an object of study. In addition to the Friedman book, these include Warren Buckland's Directed by Steven Spielberg: Poetics of the Contemporary Hollywood Blockbuster, Nigel Morris's The Cinema of Steven Spielberg: Empire of Light, Dean A. Kowalski's edited collection Steven Spielberg and Philosophy: 'We're Going to Need a Bigger Book' (reviewed by Daniel Bleasdale in Film-Philosophy 14.1), and the title reviewed here, Frederick Wasser's Steven Spielberg's America.

Unlike Friedman, however, Wasser bears no traces of guilt over his chosen subject, and dismisses any concerns over scholarly legitimacy: 'It is no longer in question whether Spielberg's films are worthy; the world-wide audience long ago delivered that verdict' (4). The commercial success of Spielberg's films, far from impeding serious analysis, is central to Wasser's claim that the films 'can serve as the visible marker of larger forces which are more difficult to track without such an index' (2). Wasser's take on Spielberg, informed primarily by cultural studies, film industry research and close textual analysis, analyzes Spielberg's films in relation to 'how mainstream film handles the socio-political world' (4), an approach that occasions frequent comparisons of Spielberg's films to other seminal moments in popular cinema, such as Star Wars (George Lucas, 1977) and Batman (Tim Burton, 1989). As his analysis unfolds, Wasser charts three stages of development in Spielberg's filmmaking and its relationship to the larger world of society and politics: his early apprenticeship, including a brief flirting with counter-cultural politics and his development of the blockbuster style; his refinement of the blockbuster style and his first tentative forays into the historical film; and a later synthesis of the immersive style of his earlier successes with a more reflective form of politically conscious historical filmmaking.

Duel, Universal pictures, 1971

The first chapter dates Spielberg's discovery of a love for cinema to his family's move to Arizona in the 1950s. Spielberg discovered the movies of 1930s Hollywood through television, a vision of the world that sharply contrasted with images offered by the American cinema of his childhood. 'Two sets of values competed,' Wasser writes, 'and on television Steven Spielberg could watch the populist 1930s movies, while in the theater the current Hollywood movies would reflect a backward movement towards private domestic stories' (23). Lacking a frame of reference beyond the movies in the sunbelt culture of his childhood, Spielberg's early attempts at filmmaking focused less on the development of an original historical or mythical perspective and more on honing the stylistic techniques that would grow into a visceral and immersive film style in his later blockbusters. The situation produced a filmmaker 'whose imagination wanted to engage the history of the Arizona landscape, but did not have the native stories with which to do it' (22). As Wasser shows, this focus on style rather than an original, clearly articulated engagement with history and culture results in films that, at least early in the director's career, are exciting but that sometimes lack intellectual focus and clarity. As the author discusses in a passage on the early telefilm Duel (1971), Spielberg's surprise at sophisticated readings of his film from serious (and mostly European) critical perspectives, as well as the director's own rather confused responses to these readings, indicates the lack of a coherent worldview brought to the early films by the director.

As Wasser argues in the second chapter, Spielberg's earliest films also reflect an ambivalent attitude toward the counter-culture that defined their context. In his short film Amblin' (1968), for example, Spielberg tells the story of a young boy who becomes fascinated with a hippie girl and her lifestyle. But the boy ultimately rejects this counter-cultural way of life even as the film evokes both his and the filmmaker's fascination with it. Spielberg's films before the success of Jaws (1975) thus reflect less an interest in asserting an alternative set of values than in exploring the aesthetic possibilities of new film techniques. Wasser argues that filmmakers such as Spielberg and Lucas suffered visual deprivation due to the encroaching medium of television in the 1950s, which reduced the grandeur of classical cinema. Spielberg subsequently compensated with a visceral approach in his own films that aimed at immersing the viewer in spectacle. In some respects, this is a curious argument, given that Spielberg and Lucas grew up in the 1950s, the age of improving color processes and the development of widescreen cinema, whose visceral qualities were thrown into relief by television's relatively tiny screen. But Wasser shows how Spielberg's visceral approach was not cinema-specific: Spielberg's early experience in television, directing episodes for series such as The Night Gallery (1970-1973) and Columbo (1971-1990), provided a training ground for immersive visual storytelling even in cases where the director did not craft the story or characters.

Goldie Hawn as Lou Jean Poplin,
Sugarland Express, Universal Pictures, 1974

By the 1970s, Spielberg also developed an ideological relationship with his subject matter and by extension his audience, that for Wasser has as much to do with his early success as his interest in visceral filmmaking. Spielberg's first theatrical venture, The Sugarland Express (1973), a lovers-on-the-lam film cut from the same counter-cultural cloth as Terrence Malick's Badlands (1973) and Robert Altman's Thieves Like Us (1974), nevertheless sympathized with the character of the police captain Tanner (Ben Johnson). As Wasser writes, Tanner signaled in Spielberg's work 'a further interest in the middle figure; the everyman as the hero' (61), or in other words, a step toward the crowd-pleasing blockbuster cinema of Jaws, Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977), and Raiders of the Lost Ark (1983), which form the subject of Wasser's third chapter. Here the author argues that Spielberg papers over the ideological contradictions and ambivalences of his earlier work, effectively setting into motion a critique of American authority while at the same time mitigating that critique with an immersive film style and sympathetic characters. As Wasser writes, Jaws presents a 'jaundiced view of local government' that 'mirrored a general loss of respect for authority' (71). But by the end of the film - after the three central characters, including the authority figure Sheriff Brody (Roy Scheider), unite to kill the shark - the greater emphasis is less on critique of authority and more on 'the director's desire to stitch together his own generation and everyone else as members of an all-inclusive audience' (73).

Here the ideological ambivalence of the earlier films is eschewed through characters that, theoretically, any viewer can identify with, and through a perfection of a visceral style which for Wasser relegates any direct political engagement with subject matter to the background (7). In the fourth chapter, Wasser shows how this retreat from political engagement continues in the director's 1980s blockbusters, E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial (1982) and Raiders of the Lost Ark, which represent less an engagement and critique of authority and more a satisfaction of the audience's desires for wish fulfillment. For Wasser, in the early 1980s Spielberg thus become complicit with the marketplace values and the retreat of the private citizen from public life that were characteristic of Reagan's America in the 1980s.

In the fifth chapter, however, Wasser locates a gradual emergence from this political cocoon through both early experiments in the historical film and blockbusters that tentatively distance themselves from the right-wing ideology of 'hard body' films such as First Blood (1982) and Die Hard (1988). 'Hard body' cinema represents a mythic revision of the Vietnam War and a public acceptance of the vigilante hero. Such films function for Wasser as a 'cultural expression for male anxiety as the workplace (including the military) let more women into a variety of jobs' (141). In this context, Spielberg's later blockbusters Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (1989) and Jurassic Park (1993) are more forward-looking, offering 'soft body' male heroes (such as Ford's Indiana Jones), significant roles for women (Alison Doody in Last Crusade and Laura Dern in Jurassic Park) as well as an international cast that reduces any sense of American exceptionalism (143). So too do these films, particularly Jurassic Park, strengthen Spielberg's commitment to honing his immersive film style through the latest technologies while at the same time retaining his commitment to shaping believably human characters. Thus, in Jurassic Park, 'the cinematic payoff is not only that Spielberg can create a dinosaur but that he can also convincingly combine the dinosaur with the photographic elements, i.e. the human actors, within the same space' (150).

Wayne Knight as Dennis Nedry,
Jurassic Park, Universal Pictures, 1993

As the book proceeds, Wasser finds that Spielberg's filmmaking matures through its engagement with historical subject matter. As the author discusses, films such as The Color Purple (1985) and Empire of the Sun (1987) grant Spielberg a historical frame capable of reaching a more diverse and, in the case of the latter film (which was more successful overseas than in the United States), a global audience. The turn to history also signals a larger ambition on Spielberg's part: 'The historical film uses history to speak of present times and to intervene in contemporary politics' (11-12). For Wasser (influenced here by the work of Frederic Jameson), Minority Report (2001) is a more historical film than Schindler's List (1993), because the former occasions a more direct critical engagement with 'realistic representations' of presently existing human society than Spielberg's ostensibly more 'historical' treatment of the holocaust, for Wasser 'a relatively easy look at the past' that 'does not urge us to reform the present' (159-160). Spielberg's gradual synthesis of his earlier immersive style with his new interest in historical filmmaking occasions the most intriguing question Wasser asks: how does the director reconcile his blockbuster style, which for the author tends to encourage an unreflective mode of spectatorship, with the mode of the politically engaged historical film, which seeks to actively involve its audience in thinking through the implications of cinema's representation of history and its relevance to the present?

This question occasions both Wasser's strongest praise for the director as well as his highest degree of ambivalence about the value of the films. Wasser notes how a dichotomy at work in discussions of Spielberg's career - a separation between the style of the "popcorn films" and the ambition of the 'serious' historical films - becomes a dialectic at play in the films themselves. Wasser locates a false start to this dialectic in Amistad (1997), a well-intentioned historical drama that falls short in terms of both historical inquiry and film style (the author argues it is one of the director's most aesthetically stilted works, rejecting the visceral style that characterizes almost all his other films). With Saving Private Ryan (1998), though, Wasser finds a productive tension at play in Spielberg's use of style and his ambition to involve the audience with questions of history. His style is as immersive as ever, particularly in Saving Private Ryan's Omaha Beach sequence. However, Spielberg's commitment to immersion is so extreme that, paradoxically, it begins to call attention to itself as a technique: 'The placement of the explosions were random, and unnerved the audience, confounding the usual expectation that explosions would either be featured in the center of the frame or placed far in the background' (177). While Wasser critiques Spielberg's focus on the private experience of the soldiers rather than the collective goals of the war (a move in which the director effectively rejects the social populism on which the 1930s Hollywood films he revered were based), the style of Saving Private Ryan succeeds in prompting its audience to think through the very idea of historical representation in the cinema.

But it is in this discussion of Spielberg's historical films, valued by the author as the director's most vital contribution to a socially engaged mainstream cinema, that certain problems in Wasser's approach to Spielberg's relationship with his audience also become apparent. Early in the book, Wasser presents the thesis that Spielberg's films are meaningful not as an expression of a personal vision but in negotiation with his audiences. In discussing the director's blockbusters the author qualifies this thesis by writing that Spielberg actually anticipates and articulates anxieties in the mainstream audience, effectively granting the director a larger degree of agency in any potentially dialogic relationship with his viewers that might emerge from his dialectical play with the popular and the serious (100). Elsewhere, Wasser links Spielberg's cinema directly to the zeitgeist, showing how the desire to please the audience animates Spielberg: 'All his films reflect the audience's desire. The audience wanted Jaws and Close Encounters to be escapist and so they were' (10). This reflects the rather mechanical, deterministic picture of the meaning-making relationship between the auteur and his audience at work throughout the book.

It ultimately remains unclear why Spielberg's filmmaking choices should necessarily result in the realization of an already existing audience desire. For Wasser, when Spielberg turns to the genre of the historical film, the director begins to challenge his audience to think through the meaning of the very way in which his blockbuster style represents history. While the author's discussion of the complex relationship between the historical films and their audiences is in many respects the strongest part of Wasser's argument (one of the book's highlights is its analysis of Minority Report), it is not immediately clear why an audience member could not bring a similar perspective to Jaws or E.T. After all, even if the films themselves, on a textual level, are 'unreflective' (that is, lacking aesthetic distance in favor of visceral immersion), this does not mean they necessarily preclude reflective, philosophical analysis. A more nuanced conception of spectatorship, and perhaps even of aesthetics, might have usefully subtended Wasser's engaging discussions of the way in which the films themselves encourage (or not) further reflection with the ideas and social issues they present.

Despite these quibbles, the merits of Wasser's study lie in his ability to clearly show how Spielberg's films dynamically develop in relation to their social and cultural context over the course of the filmmaker's career. The socio-political approach to the material does not mitigate Wasser's ability to analyze Spielberg's approach to film style. The author nicely teases out how Spielberg's commitment to an immersive film technique operates in different ways during different social moments. Good discussions of Spielberg's use of computer-generated imagery on Jurassic Park as well as the director's use of color, sound, and camera work in engaging his audience with his historical films - the author's discussion of the stylistic approach to Saving Private Ryan is excellent - offer useful opportunities for the text to open up further questions in the classroom about the relationship between social meaning, the historical film, and film style. At times, of course, the reader may find herself questioning the assumptions that the author occasionally falls into during his discussion of style. At one point, for example, Wasser suggests that Spielberg's filming of The Sugarland Express was, in comparison to Terrence Malick's Badlands, 'less contrived and more mobile ... because his setting was the near present' (59). But it is not at all clear why a contemporary setting should necessitate a particular kind of style or protect against contrivance. However, in exploring Spielberg's relationship to his audiences and in carefully investigating the development of the director's career over the course of over fifty years of American history, Steven Spielberg's America continues to disprove the notion that in studying the most popular director in the world one gives up scholarly legitimacy.

E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, Universal Pictures, 1982

Piece originally published at Film-Philosophy |
Bibliography:
Buckland, Warren. (2006) Directed by Steven Spielberg: Poetics of the Contemporary Hollywood Blockbuster. London: Continuum.

Friedman, Lester D. (2006) Citizen Spielberg. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press.

Kowalski, Dean A., ed. (2008) Steven Spielberg and Philosophy: We're Gonna Need a Bigger Book. Lexington KY: University Press of Kentucky.

Morris, Nigel. (2007) The Cinema of Steven Spielberg: Empire of Light. London: Wallflower Press.

Wasser, Frederick (2010) Steven Spielberg's America. Cambridge UK: Polity.
Filmography:
Altman, Robert (1974) Thieves Like Us. USA.

Burton, Tim (1989). Batman. USA.

Kotcheff, Ted (1982) First Blood. USA.

Lucas, George (1977) Star Wars. USA.

Malick, Terrence (1973) Badlands. USA.

McTiernan, John (1988) Die Hard. USA.

Spielberg, Steven (1968) Amblin'. USA.

Spielberg, Steven (1997) Amistad. USA.

Spielberg, Steven (1977) Close Encounters of the Third Kind. USA.

Spielberg, Steven (1985) The Color Purple. USA.

Spielberg, Steven (1971) Duel. USA.

Spielberg, Steven (1982) E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial. USA.

Spielberg, Steven (1987) Empire of the Sun. USA.

Spielberg, Steven (1989) Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. USA.

Spielberg, Steven (1975) Jaws. USA.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
In his book Citizen Spielberg, Lester D. Friedman notes the intellectual disrespectability sometimes attached to studying a filmmaker as commercially successful as Steven Spielberg.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
A Guide to Films of J.J. Abrams | DIRECTOR'S TRADEMARKS

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
David Guetta - Titanium (Behind the Scenes) ft. Sia

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
David Guetta 'Titanium' feat. Sia | The Making Of An EDM Anthem

# data[].attributes.headline
Intertextuality and Ideologies in Titanium

# data[].attributes.subject
Intertextuality and Ideologies in Titanium

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
3) Titanium Intertextuality and Ideologies