Earlier this year, on a trip to Ottawa, my husband and I spent the day at the National Gallery. While he explored the collections, I spent three hours in a dark room, mesmerized by The Clock, a massively ambitious, 24-hour-long homage to cinema by the Swiss-American multimedia artist Christian Marclay. I was aware of the hype surrounding the piece, of the gushing it provoked in art critics and the fact that it had won the Golden Lion prize at the 2011 Venice Biennale. But I was not prepared for the giddy rush of emotions it triggered in me. Nor did I expect to lose most of the afternoon watching it.
Marclay’s masterwork, which begins a two-month run at the Power Plant this month, is compiled from thousands of movie and TV clips that reference time. There are clucking cuckoos and booming grandfather clocks; watches that count down the minutes before a heist or a romantic date; famous clocks like the one in Grand Central Station, and more obscure timepieces, like the watch Christopher Walken gives his war buddy’s son in Pulp Fiction. Some are central to the scene in which they appear, like the clock tower holding a dangling Harold Lloyd in the climax of his 1923 silent film Safety Last!. Others are no more than casual props, like Richard Gere’s clock radio in American Gigolo. The movie ticks off the minutes, one cut at a time, and also functions as a real clock, synchronized to local time. So, when Matthew Broderick is shown calling his lover at 4:32 p.m. in a clip from the 1999 black comedy Election, it’s 4:32 p.m. in
Marclay shows complete indifference to the quality, genre or vintage of his source material—in the universe of The Clock, Orson Welles in the 1946 film noir The Stranger coexists with MacGyver and razor-fingered slasher Freddy Krueger. Tension builds and is released, buildings explode, lovers carry on illicit affairs, there are nightmares and wars. In Ottawa, I shared a front-row seat with two middle-aged women. The first time a gun appeared onscreen, the woman beside me let out a yelp, and she gasped at every act of violence or burst of expletive-filled dialogue. The narratives never resolve, however—there is only the ever-present passing of time.
Subtle themes and commentaries do crop up: over the course of the 24 hours, Nicolas Cage grows paunchier, balder and less discerning about his choice of role. The sight of long-dead or past-their-prime actors living out each minute of the day onscreen gives The Clock the feel of a memento mori. (At times, it reminded me of the annual death montage at the Academy Awards.)
Marclay, who was born in 1955 in California and raised in Switzerland, has been creating these fractured montages for years. His fascination with sampling and deconstruction began in the late 1980s, with a series of performance pieces in which he broke apart record albums and reassembled the shards into discs that played dissonant static and stutters. The musical experiments led to collaborations with Sonic Youth, John Zorn and the Kronos Quartet. Transferring his obsessions to a more visual medium, Marclay created 1995’s Telephones, a pre-YouTube collage of phone scenes from Hollywood films. (He later accused Apple of ripping off the piece for its 2008 “Hello” iPhone ad.)