The Ax Fight: A Critical Engagement with

the Work of Tim Asch and John Marshall

ANNA GRIMSHAW AND SYDNEY M. SILVERSTEIN

Although The Ax Fight is one of the most discussed films in the history of ethnographic cinema, we argue that com-
mentators have overlooked certain key aspects of the film. Critical engagement with Asch’s techniques and how they
work to shape a particular interpretation of the Yanomamo is crucial to understanding the kind of anthropological
work that ethnographic film does and can do. Offered as an exercise in close reading, this essay is intended, first, to
highlight the kinds of analytical skills necessary in taking film seriously as a medium of scholarly inquiry. Second,
by juxtaposing The Ax Fight and associated Yanomami shorts with the work of his contemporary John Marshall, we
extend our evaluation of Asch by challenging assumed continuities between the two filmmakers. We suggest that a
careful examination of the complex web of overlap and distinction in their respective practice allows for a more nu-
anced understanding of technique, knowledge, and reflexivity in anthropological work. [Asch, ethnographic film,
Marshall, observation, reflexivity, technique]

Introduction clearly the kind of anthropological work that The Ax

Fight does, and can do. To this end, we are interested in

T
he Ax Fight (1975) is one of the most discussed
films in the history of ethnographic cinema. It
has long served as a foundational document in
visual anthropology, but its importance stretches far
beyond this field, engaging diverse audiences through
its focusing of key questions–the role of the camera in
fieldwork research, representations of conflict and vio-
lence, images of the “primitive,” and, more recently, the
ethical problems and culpability of Napoleon Chagnon
(and by extension, Tim Asch) with respect to newly
exposed contentious fieldwork practices that followed
the publication of Tierney’s book Darkness in El Dorado
(2000). Indeed, so intense was the scrutiny surrounding
Chagnon a decade ago that there were calls for The Ax
Fight (and related Yanomamo films) to be withdrawn
from circulation. Since then, debates about Chag-
non and his work have cooled considerably, and the
Yanomamo films continue to occupy a central place in
the discipline.1
Given the consistently high profile of The Ax Fight
in debates about the nature of documentary film, forms
of knowledge, and the politics of representation, is there
anything more to say about it? We argue that certain
aspects of the film have been overlooked and critical
engagement with them is crucial to understanding more
exploring the relationship between this classic film and
the Yanomamo short films Asch subsequently edited
from his footage. It is often held that the focus on vio-
lence in The Ax Fight, with the concomitant danger that
the Yanomamo would only be seen as “fierce people,”
led Asch to complement his portrayal through more
intimate, domestic scenes (Loizos 1993). The latter make
up many of the short films. To what extent do these
pieces modify the prevailing image of the Yanomami
conveyed by The Ax Fight?
Central to our reevaluation of Asch’s work is the
juxtaposition of his films with those of his contempo-
rary, John Marshall. Although the approaches of both
Asch and Marshall are held to have considerable over-
lap (MacDonald 2013; Ruby 2000), we argue to the con-
trary. Crucial to our case are the much debated questions
of observation and reflexivity. Looking more critically
at the work of Marshall and Asch enables us to parse
significant variations in their practice and to highlight
complex understandings of these key anthropological
terms.
In offering a new evaluation of a classic film, we
intend to provide a case study in what is usually called
close reading. Although this kind of critical activity is
well established in film studies, there are surprisingly

Visual Anthropology Review, Vol. 34, Issue 2, pp. 113–123, ISSN 1058-7187, online 1548-7458. © 2018 American Anthropological Association. DOI: 10.1111/var.12170.
114    VISUAL ANTHROPOLOGY REVIEW Volume 34 Number 2 Fall 2018
few examples within the tradition of ethnographic film.
Flaherty’s Nanook of the North and Gardner’s Forest of
Bliss are, with The Ax Fight, notable exceptions.2 But
anthropology students (and faculty) often lack the skills
necessary to identify specific filmmaking techniques
and how they work to constitute knowledge about the
world. Our objective is to offer a case study that makes
manifest what is involved in an analytical engagement
with film as a medium of anthropological inquiry. Cru-
cial is recognizing the limitations of “reading” as a term
to describe such work. For, as The Ax Fight reveals, the
experience of the film–the sensory, embodied, indeed
visceral response catalyzed–is at the heart of how and
what it communicates about the Yanomami. Taking
account of subtle, nondiscursive dimensions of The Ax
Fight and the ways they work with, and against, its dis-
cursive aspects opens up new perspectives on one of
anthropology’s most important films.
Our interest in how, as anthropologists, we can
properly engage film as a medium of inquiry is linked
to a broader conversation about the emergence of non-­
traditional kinds of scholarship. Problems of evaluation
are always raised with respect to work that does not
conform to disciplinary norms and conventions. What
insights can be drawn from ethnographic film, since
questions of evaluation have long been central to this
field?
The Ax Fight: A Reevaluation
Critical literature on The Ax Fight is extensive (Cohen
1979; Loizos 1993; Nichols 1981, 2004; MacDonald
2013; Ruby 1995, 2000; Winston 1995). But a cursory
review of this material immediately suggests a prob-
lem: a lack of agreement among commentators as to
how many parts compose the film. Ruby (1995) follows
Asch in recognizing four parts, a view shared by Cohen
(1979) and MacDonald (2013), whereas Nichols (2004)
highlights five. Only Winston (1995) identifies six parts,
labeling the segment before the “unedited” footage of
the fight as a discrete part. Winston’s recognition stands
in contrast with a lack of attention by commentators to
the film’s opening. A closer examination reveals that
each part engages the audience differently–not just in
terms of content, but also in terms of particular tech-
niques and temporal duration. Crucially, however, the
Sydney M. Silverstein is a Research Assistant Professor at the Center for Interventions, Treatment, and Addictions
Research at the Boonshoft School of Medicine, Wright State University. She is an anthropologist and filmmaker.
Anna Grimshaw teaches anthropology at Emory University. Her films Mr Coperthwaite: a Life in the Maine Woods
and At Low Tide are distributed by Berkeley Media and the Royal Anthropological Institute.
film’s opening serves as its interpretive frame and the
lens through which we enter the work.
The first part of The Ax Fight is one minute in
length. It precedes the sequence of the actual fight and
comprises unforgettable sounds juxtaposed with visual
materials. We hear commotion–shouting, screaming,
crying by unidentified people, then an anxious, slightly
breathless male voice saying, “February 28, 1971…after-
noon…ten minutes after three.” The sound of a collec-
tive disturbance continues, and the first image, a map
of the extent of Yanomamo territory, is shown. As we
look down at the map, the film title comes up. A second
cartographic image is presented: the camera zooming
in to offer a closer view of the geographical location. A
second male voice announces, “two women are fighting
with each other.” This is followed by the superimposi-
tion of text over the map: “Large Yanomamo villages
are volatile, and the slightest provocation can start a
violent outburst.” It goes on to explain that on Feb-
ruary 28, a fight erupted; it drew in 270 inhabitants
of a particular village; its cause was the beating of a
woman; and the rise to her defense by her brother pre-
cipitated collective upheaval. The sound of loud voices
and crying continues. The second male voice returns:
“Bring your camera over here, it’s going to start.” The
screen goes black, shouting continues, followed by a
blurred, shaky image as the camera pans and tries to
find focus. A second text appears: “You are about to see
and hear the unedited record of this seemingly chaotic
and confusing fight, just as the fieldworkers witnessed it
on their second day in the village.” This marks the end
of the film’s opening.
Through the description of its aural and visual ele-
ments, we can see how within a single minute a complex
web of associations has been evoked, with much of it
lodged subconsciously in the viewer’s mind. This shapes
everything that subsequently unfolds, positioning us
in very distinctive ways in relation to the presented
materials. Its importance cannot be overstated, and its
neglect in critical literature on the film is surprising.
For the viewer, there is an ominous, unsettled, anxiety-­
filled atmosphere manifest in the constant screaming
and crying, and echoed in the apprehensive tone of the
first male voice to be heard. Looking down at a dot on a
map, the film’s bird’s-­eye view underlines the position-
ing of the viewer as an outsider and increases a feeling
of incomprehension.
 The Ax Fight: A Critical Engagement  Grimshaw and Silverstein   115
In the on-­ screen text marking the beginning of
part two, the fight sequence is referred to as “unedited.”
Although this implies that what follows is a record of
what happened spontaneously in front of the camera,
such a description is misleading. What it actually means
is that Asch shot an eleven-­minute sequence without
changing his roll of film, since the fight sequence is not
a single unbroken take but comprises twelve shots.
Asch was making decisions about when to start
and stop his camera as action developed. The first
few minutes of the second part reveal a fixed camera
mounted on a tripod. They also show Asch’s struggle
to find focus, his awkward pans and wobbly zooms.
Not only are we aware of the sheer physical distance
between the camera and the action, but we are also
conscious of the filmmaker’s anxious and uncertain
frame of mind. Using the zoom, Asch transports us to a
place closer to where things are happening, all the time
reminding us that we are uncomprehending spectators
of an apparently escalating conflict. For although the
fight sequence was filmed with synchronous sound,
subtitles are not used until the final minutes, when they
are used to convey insults hurled by the women. We
experience the latter as collective chaos rather than a
series of actions and responses instigated by particular
individuals.
Looking at his techniques as a cameraman, we can
discern the different ways Asch actively constructs the
event, at the same time his choices preclude alternative
interpretive perspectives. What is presented as some-
thing “found” disguises the complex decisions on the
part of the filmmakers that actually served to “create”
it. Not least, the fight’s theatricality raises the ques-
tion as to the role of the camera in what happens.
Was it a spontaneous outburst or precipitated by, and
performed for, the camera?3 Part three, like the film’s
opening, is barely a minute in length. Its brevity again
belies its importance as an interpretive intervention.
Ruby describes this section favorably, revealing of the
“reflexive, deconstructive nature of the film” (1995,
25): the acknowledged lack of understanding by the
filmmakers and anthropologist of what has just hap-
pened and why. But the tone, indeed the prurience, of
the conversation between Asch, Johnson (the sound
recordist), and Chagnon reveals something else alto-
gether–a certain kind of macho posturing, already
hinted at by the nervous, excited male voices of the
film’s opening and heard again in part two. Again
there is the sound of a collective commotion in the
background. We are alerted not just to the uncertainty
of Asch, Johnson, and Chagnon but, above all, to a
particular kind of gendered investment shaping the
film’s interpretive possibilities.4
The subsequent parts have been much discussed
as evidence of the film’s importance as a “subversive”
text (MacDonald 2013; Ruby 1995). As Asch himself
explained, the assembling of a multipart work grew out
of his experience of screening versions of the footage
to audiences and growing realization that his original
analytical framework was untenable. Despite drawing
on different techniques–authoritative commentary,
freeze frames, slow motion, arrows identifying individ-
uals, kinship diagrams, explanatory text–he found it
impossible to reconcile the film materials with a con-
vincing anthropological explanation about Yanomamo
conflict. Hence, in place of a clear, definitive thesis, the
film makes manifest not just the problematic nature of
visual and aural evidence but the problematic status of
anthropological explanation itself.
But overlooked in established readings of the film
are the complex ways the viewer is positioned from the
outset. While Asch goes to great lengths to demonstrate
that anthropological knowledge is indeed constructed,
and sometimes erroneously, he never relinquishes
control over how his weaknesses and successes as an
anthropological filmmaker are read. We are set up,
through the chronology of the film, to identify where
the team has erred in its interpretation, but, as viewers,
we are never given the space to do our own work with
the materials. This does not mean offering the viewer
more materials, as Biella proposed (1997), but allowing
the viewer to “read against the grain.”
As we have seen, the film’s first three parts have
already proposed a particular interpretation, and Asch’s
“conversion” experience does not represent a relin-
quishing of authority. Although he acknowledges errors
of explanation, he nevertheless posits a new reading
according to his interpretive guidelines (listen to us
deciding to film, here are our initial hypotheses, here
is what “really” happened). The Ax Fight, as a filmic
document, generates “excess” (Barthes 1977). Despite
attempts at control by the filmmaker, excess haunts and
unsettles the filmmaker’s narrative.
One such instance occurs at 7:35 (and again during
the second iteration of the events). Chagnon’s narration
tells of two “powerful male agnates…trembling with
anger,” who position themselves around the injured
Mohesiwä, protecting him from further conflict. What is
most perplexing about this sequence, in both iterations,
is that beyond protecting Mohesiwä, one of the men
engages the camera. While Asch’s frequent zooms and
pans make it clear he is distant from the action, there
is a steadiness in the man’s gaze that suggests he is
looking back at the filmmakers. While it is possible that
some of the “enemy” group may have been between the
man and the camera, no one else in the crowd seems
116    VISUAL ANTHROPOLOGY REVIEW Volume 34 Number 2 Fall 2018
FIGURE 1. A returned gaze, from The Ax Fight. Image courtesy Documentary Educational Resources. [This figure appears in color in the
online issue.]
concerned to look in this direction. Indeed, the fuss
and activity is directed in nearly every other direction.
Engaging closely with the film, it is hard to miss this
gaze that questions the presence of the filmmakers (Fig-
ure 1). If this is a punctum (Barthes 1981), how does its
acknowledgement disrupt the interpretation proposed
by Asch?5
Despite revisions to the rushes and the re-­editing
of the film into one with distinct parts claiming to lay
bare the constructed nature of its narrative, it is curious
this moment of direct engagement with the camera is
never acknowledged. It could be argued Asch is him-
self unsure how to engage his camera in a social space,
mitigated by dialogue as an afterthought. Such an over-
sight might be seen as an initial mistake reflecting the
filmmaker’s cultural unfamiliarity. The subsequent, less
incendiary shorts, however, expose a problematic rela-
tionship between Asch and his Yanomamo subjects.
The Yanomamo Short Films
During the period of his collaboration with Chagnon,
Asch shot additional material later edited into a series
of short films about the Yanomamo. Asch’s interest in
short pieces was part of his broader commitment to
pedagogy, since he recognized that many of the clas-
sic ethnographic films (for example Nanook, The Hunt-
ers, Dead Birds) were too long to be of use within a
classroom (Asch 1996; Lutkehaus 1995; Martinez 2004;
Ruby 2000). To work intensively with students around,
responses to unfamiliar cultural practices required ma-
terials of a more manageable length–one that allowed
for repeated screenings and open-­ended discussion. In
his thinking about the educational possibilities of short
films, Asch had been influenced by work he had carried
out a decade earlier with John Marshall. Hired by Robert
Gardner in 1959 to assist in the editing of Marshall’s
Ju/hoansi footage, Asch had discovered a remarkable
number of discrete sequences among the hundreds of
hours of footage he reviewed at Harvard’s Film Study
Center (Lewis 2004; MacDonald 2013; Ruby 2000). He
was impressed by their detail and recognized that what
had been sacrificed in terms of extension had more than
been compensated by filmic density (Ruby 2000, 117).6
Between them, Asch and Chagnon produced
seventeen short films about the Yanomamo of
Mishimishimabowei-­teri. The titles reveal their every-
day focus: Children Roasting Meat, A Woman Spins,
Sand Play, Children Make a Hammock, to name just a
handful. In his discussion of Asch’s short films and their
relationship to those of Marshall, MacDonald suggests
particular pairings (2013, 117). He places Asch’s A Man
and His Wife Weave a Hammock and Weeding the Gar-
den with, respectively, Marshall’s A Joking Relationship
and A Group of Women.
We take MacDonald’s pairings as a catalyst for our
discussion. Despite apparent overlaps, the juxtaposition of
 The Ax Fight: A Critical Engagement  Grimshaw and Silverstein   117
FIGURE 2. Hammock scene from A Man and His Wife Weave a Hammock. Image courtesy Documentary Educational Resources. [This
figure appears in color in the online issue.]
Asch’s and Marshall’s work reveals significant variation
in how they used the camera to explore small moments
of domestic life. In moving beyond superficial similari-
ties–for example, their interest in “sequence filming,” our
concern is to probe differences in their anthropological
praxis. These differences are important in understanding
what kinds of anthropology are generated in and through
the medium of film.
Weeding the Garden (1974, 14 mins) focuses on
Dedeheiwä in his garden. The opening shot is a striking
long take of just over three minutes in length. It estab-
lishes the filmmaker’s perspective, revealing Asch, the
cameraman, to be situated at a distance from two figures
cutting vegetation in a small clearing. The figures appear
tiny, almost lost in luxuriant vegetation as the camera
looks down on them from its place above the action.
Then the camera begins to move, rather hesitantly. Asch
awkwardly executes a 365 degree pan, surveying the
landscape from a place removed from the human activ-
ity. The pan slowly unfolds and a series of texts offers
information about Yanomamo gardening. These begin
as general statements before introducing Dedeheiwä,
along with a description of what the film will show. The
pan completed, however, does not conclude this opening
shot. Instead, extending the single take, Asch uses the
zoom to move closer to Dedeheiwä from his external
vantage point. Although subsequent shots appear to be
located at ground level, we quickly realize that the zoom
is the basis for our proximity to the film’s main sub-
ject. With every shot, Asch struggles to remain still and
focused. Repeatedly, as soon as we reach a place closer
to Dedeheiwä, Asch zooms out. This nervous reflex, the
constant zooming, is a hallmark of the work.
Dedeheiwä cuts and tosses branches. We become
aware of other voices close by. Eventually, the camera
pans uncertainly over to a group of women and children
in the forest. The remainder of the film is an affection-
ate family scene. Cutting between Dedeheiwä and the
children, Asch shows the playful side of Yanomamo life.
The children massage his tired body; the women pick
through his hair and enjoy friendly banter. Despite this
change of focus, Asch’s location as a filmmaker remains
consistent. He continues to shoot from a place outside
the group–peering at it, with some difficulty, through
the trees. The scene is framed like a tableau rather than
comprising a dynamic web of interlocking relationships
between men, women, and children.
Many of the same characteristics can be seen in a
subsequent film, A Man and His Wife Weave a Ham-
mock (1975, 9 mins). A short opening text introduces
the main characters, Moäwä and his wife, Daeyama. The
first image reveals the location of the camera. It is off
to the right and outside the scene of Moäwä weaving
at a loom with his wife and small child visible in the
background (Figure 2). Again, Asch’s first shot is an
extended take, not a full three minutes as in Weeding
the Garden, but it is over a minute in length. From his
position, Asch zooms into a close-­up of Daeyama, who,
118    VISUAL ANTHROPOLOGY REVIEW Volume 34 Number 2 Fall 2018
lying in a hammock, smiles and acknowledges the cam-
era. Asch then pans over to Moäwä as he stands at the
loom. He too acknowledges the camera with smiles. The
second shot is almost a repeat of the first shot, with
its zoom and pans between the hammock and loom,
between Daeyama and Moäwä. Subsequent shots offer
close-­ ups of Daeyama and the child playing at her
breast–and we know that the camera zoom is the only
basis for our proximity. Eventually Asch moves to a sec-
ond camera position –­slightly closer to his subjects but
still off to the right and hovering outside the space in
which the interaction is unfolding. Asch, and by exten-
sion the viewer, remains external to the scene. The most
unusual shot of the film is a close-­up of the loom with
Moäwä’s hand appearing through the threads. Typically,
Asch does not linger here but zooms out before cutting
to the final shot of the film. The camera has returned
to its original placement. From a distance, we watch
Moäwä being helped by his wife at the loom.
Asch’s filmmaking approach is built around a static
camera. There are two positions, both outside the scene.
There is ittle variation in shot; the zoom creates prox-
imity. At one point, about two-­ thirds into the film,
Moäwä jokingly asks Chagnon if he knows how to plait
a hammock. For MacDonald, this moment (and others)
marks a positive distinction between the work of Asch
and Marshall, since it does not involve a “suppression”
of the presence of filmmaker and anthropologist (2013,
177). But it resonates beyond a simple acknowledge-
ment of presence. Moäwä’s joking inquiry to Chagnon
(we see that the Yanomamo too have a sense of humor)
exposes, at the same time, Asch’s awkward, peripheral
presence to the scene.
In these short films, Asch presents glimpses of every-
day life among a small group of Yanomami. Certainly,
their quiet, affectionate tone marks the work off from the
noisy, chaotic scenes of The Ax Fight, and, although their
content also differs from the latter, Asch’s camera tech-
nique remains the same. Given his earlier studies with
photographers Edward Weston, Ansel Adams, and Minor
White (Ruby 2000), Asch’s camerawork is surprisingly
uninteresting. By this, we are not sugesting camerawork
should always be highly self-­conscious in the style of
someone like Gardner, but when Asch’s approach is put
alongside Marshall’s quiet, unobtrusive, and, above all,
deeply sensuous style, its limitations are hard to ignore.
Turning to the other side of MacDonald’s pairings,
Marshall’s A Group of Women and A Joking Relation-
ship, in terms of length and focus on everyday events
there are obvious overlaps. A more careful examination
of the work, however, reveals important differences. If
there is one thing that Asch and Marshall do share, it
is consistency in their respective approaches as film-
makers. Like Asch, in each of his short pieces Mar-
shall employs the same set of techniques and occupies
a consistent position with respect to his subjects. But
Marshall, unlike Asch, is never situated anywhere other
than inside the situation he is filming.
A Group of Women (1961, 6 mins) opens with a still
wide shot, the camera located on the ground with the
sleeping women. Then Marshall cuts to a close-­up along-
side his subjects. Quietly and unobtrusively, the camera
inhabits the same space as the women. Marshall offers no
overview, but from a place inside, we see intertwined bod-
ies, textures of skin, relationships, arms, hands, breasts,
faces. The camera explores interactions between the
women, between the women and their children–transi-
tions prompted by shifts in dialogue and mood. There is
no zoom but carefully attentive shots that always show
us something in particular, a specific moment, rather than
something in general. Sometimes Marshall looks up to
a woman standing on the edge of the group or across
women lying next to one another. A slow, careful pan
moves between a woman holding up her child to the place
where its foot rests on the torso of his mother.
Likewise with Marshall’s A Joking Relationship
(paired by MacDonald with Asch’s A Man and His
Wife Weave a Hammock), we observe how the embod-
ied camera is woven into the relationship at the center
of each film. In contrast to Asch’s zooming camera,
highlighting parts of bodies rather than exploring a
kinetic social dynamic between Daeyama, Moäwä,
and the anthropologists, Marshall remains attentive
to the interaction between N!ai and Ti!kay. He fol-
lows their hands, playfully interlocking and wrestling,
he tracks their responses, and, with his camera, he
traces currents of teasing as they shift back and forth
between them. Marshall’s film is less about some-
thing and more of a fluid, unfolding interaction that
includes the viewer.
What can we learn from Marshall’s techniques and
what marks his approach as expressive of proximity
and not distance? Much of the distinction is present in
Marshall’s bodily practice, as he moves with the cam-
era to follow the interaction between N!ai and Ti!kay.
At many points, he is positioned beneath them, close
to the ground and to their bodies (Figure 3). That the
two continue their playful interaction in such close
proximity to the filmmaker is proof of what Marshall
subsequently recognized to be crucial to his work–
learning how to be with and move with one’s subjects
(Marshall 1993). In place of Asch’s zoom, Marshall
relies on an embodied knowledge, a corporeal antici-
pation of his subjects’ movements. Crucially, he is not
external to the scene. His presence was registered and
used by N!ai and Ti!kay in their contest. Ti!kay jokes
 The Ax Fight: A Critical Engagement  Grimshaw and Silverstein   119
FIGURE 3. Proximity, from A Joking Relationship. Image courtesy Documentary Educational Resources. [This figure appears in color in the
online issue.]
that N!ai should come down from the tree (so that
Marshall can photograph them). In turn, N!ai teases
Ti!kay that she will go gathering in the filmmaker’s
truck, suggesting that Marshall has agreed to help her
accomplish the chores Ti!kay taunts her for being too
lazy to do.
Marshall’s distinctive skill lies in his ability to facil-
itate an open-­ ended encounter between himself, his
subjects, and the audience. Its context is not defined
at the onset by maps, texts, voice-­overs, or zooms and
pans. Only towards the end of the film are we given a
sense of where these figures are situated in a broader
geopolitical space. The camera, positioned away from
N!ai and Ti!kay, shows us a baobab tree framed by the
savannah. Marshall has stepped back. It is a physical
traversing of space, rather than a shift of the lens, that
reveals his subjects in a larger landscape. Hitherto we
have been immersed within the web of unfolding rela-
tionships, rather than looking at a place, a culture, a
predetermined identity. While Asch’s films begin with
a map and move us closer to people and place from
this privileged optic, Marshall works in the opposite
direction. He insists on the primacy of intimate space.
Through their respective techniques, we are alerted to
the priorities of the filmmaker. For Asch, the figures are
illustrative of a larger paradigm about place or culture.
By contrast, for Marshall, the texture and nuance of
unfolding relationships between people are the central
focus of his work.
Sequence Filming and Observational Practice
Comparisons between Marshall’s and Asch’s short films
run through much of the critical literature on Asch
(Loizos 1993; MacDonald 2013; Ruby 2000). As noted
earlier, Asch himself was the first to acknowledge his
debt to Marshall, having worked closely with him at
Harvard in the late 1950s and early 1960s. At the cen-
ter of the apparent convergence in their respective film
practice is “sequence filming.” Asch described his under-
standing of this notion in the following terms:
In an effort to make the best use of his Ju/hoansi
(!Kung) footage, the filmmaker John Marshall de-
veloped a new approach: the sequence film meth-
od. After I had worked with Marshall on such se-
quence films as The Meat Fight and An Argument
about a Marriage, I was eager to apply this ap-
proach to filming the Yanomami. Thus, whenever
I turned on the camera, I tried to film long sus-
tained shots of social interaction that comprised a
sequence. (cited in MacDonald 2013, 116)
As Asch explained, sequence filming was a term
that Marshall had coined to characterize the shift in
his approach following the completion of The Hunters
(1957). In eschewing the ambitious, synthetic filmmak-
ing techniques he previously used–one that involved
the stitching together of different hunts as though they
120    VISUAL ANTHROPOLOGY REVIEW Volume 34 Number 2 Fall 2018
were a single, extended event–Marshall now radically
changed the scale and focus of his concerns. Marshall’s
extended essay “Filming and Learning” (reprinted in
Ruby 1993) offers valuable insights into his thinking:
My work as a filmmaker starts from one observa-
tion: What the people I am filming actually do
and say is more interesting and important than
what I think about them. My second observation
is equally simple. When I filmed people from a
distance they were easy to understand. If their ac-
tions were not obvious, I could explain what they
were doing with a few words of narration. The
closer I got to people with my camera, the more
interesting they seemed, and the more surprised I
was by what they did and said. (quoted in Ruby
1993, 20)
He continues, “I tried to film events carefully and
comprehensively from within, instead of standing off
at a distance to take a few shots. I tried to use the lan-
guage of angles and distances to shoot from the per-
spectives of the people in the film. I thought of myself
as a participant-­observer with my camera” (quoted in
Ruby 1993, 20).
Paradoxically, Marshall’s description of how he was
not working allows us to see clearly the differences in
Asch’s approach as a filmmaker. What is tangible and
manifest in Marshall’s short films is sensuous, embod-
ied, and exploratory camerawork: close, intimate shots
generated from inside a nexus of shifting relationships
along with a keen sensitivity to subtle modulations
in mood and feeling. Moreover, there is striking con-
fidence in the shooting and editing. The lack of syn-
chronous sound does not serve as a limitation, given
the remarkable richness and detail of images. Above all,
Marshall’s short films are less about “events” as a series
of actions and more about the nuance of interpersonal
relationships. Given MacDonald’s keen appreciation for
the unusual qualities of Marshall’s short films (2013,
30-­32), it is curious that he finds their resonance in
Asch’s Yanomamo work. Not only does he claim them
to be analogous bodies of work, he implies that Asch’s
short films are more “advanced” than those of Marshall.
MacDonald notes approvingly that in contrast to Mar-
shall, Asch does not disguise the presence of the film-
maker and anthropologist (2013, 117).7
While there are overlaps in terms of subject matter
and duration, these apparent convergences disguise deeper
and more interesting distinctions. As we have highlighted,
paying close attention to the work of Marshall and Asch
lays bare divergent approaches. Indeed, it is hard to see
how it could be otherwise, considering the vast distance
between Asch’s relationship with the Yanomamo (hired
as a “jobbing” cameraman) and Marshall’s extended, inti-
mate engagement with the Ju/hoansi over many decades.
Perhaps what is most intriguing is the question of tech-
nique. For, despite apparent similarities in the filmmaking
approaches of both men–an absence of narration or inter-
view, a commitment to following subjects not directing
them, a respect for the temporal and spatial integrity of
events, an interest in detail, the eschewing of dramatic
narrative, and so on–the resulting work could not be
more different. If Marshall’s films are distinguished by a
sensuous immersiveness that envelops the viewer, Asch’s
films position the viewer as a voyeur, looking on from
an uneasy distance. If Marshall opens up subtle shifts
in individual relationships, Asch offers general views. If
Marshall’s understanding of sequence filming involves
the exploration of an unfolding web of relationships, for
Asch sequence filming comprises a series of actions.
One of our objectives in juxtaposing the work of Mar-
shall and Asch has been to call into question apparent
similarities in approach. In particular, we shifted atten-
tion from a superficial convergence around the notion of
“sequence filming” to engagement with actual practice.
Moreover, attending carefully to the work of Marshall and
Asch enables a productive engagement with two import-
ant tenets of anthropology: observation and reflexivity.
In visual anthropology, “observational” approaches
have been among the most intensely debated (Grim-
shaw and Ravetz 2009). Usually such approaches are
assumed to be underpinned by positivistic notions asso-
ciated with ideas about how the camera might serve as a
medium for anthropological inquiry. Critiqued for sup-
posed filmic and anthropological naivete, observational
work is frequently presented as a stage on the way to
more advanced or self-­consciously reflexive styles. This
is to overlook its complexity as an approach and its
continuing saliency in contemporary anthropological
cinema (e.g., Leviathan).
In using the term observational with respect to Tim
Asch’s Yanomamo work, Faye Ginsburg contrasts his later
collaborative filmmaking in Bali with Linda Connor and
Patsy Asch (2004, 152). For Ginsburg and others (includ-
ing Asch himself), The Ax Fight is interpreted as the turn-
ing point in Asch’s maturation as an anthropological film-
maker–the film’s so-­called reflexive qualities indicative
of an abandonment of outmoded epistemological frame-
works and embrace of more “progressive” techniques. But
what appear to be the same “observational” techniques
in the hands of Marshall point to something quite differ-
ent. Far from expressive of distance, detachment, and a
commitment to objective knowledge–to building knowl-
edge about something–the Ju/hoansi short films reveal
Marshall’s entanglement (along with the viewer’s) in a
 The Ax Fight: A Critical Engagement  Grimshaw and Silverstein   121
complex web of relationships from which knowledge is
produced. Knowledge is not conceptualized as an “object”
about something, but as an ongoing generative process.
Crucial to distinguishing the projects of Asch and
Marshall is an acknowledgement of different under-
standings of “observation” itself. Anthropology is
often described as a contradictory practice, combining
observation (detachment) with participation (immersive
experience). This is to interpret observation narrowly. It
can be understood otherwise.8 To observe the Sabbath,
for instance, is not to stand outside an objective “event”
looking in, but rather it describes active participation in
the making of the event itself. This elision matters. For,
as we have argued, different conceptions of knowledge
are at stake here. On the one hand, in Asch’s hands, his
observational techniques are predicated on a concep-
tion of knowledge as an object to be accessed through
particular methods and representational strategies. On
the other hand, Marshall’s techniques are expressive
of what Ingold has called “observing from the inside”
(2014, 387): knowing as an active, open-­ended process
generated through unfolding relationships between
people, nonhuman animals, and the material world.
Closely related to these different understandings of
observation are contrasting notions of reflexivity. For
many commentators, the importance of Asch lies in the
reflexive qualities of his work, from The Ax Fight to the
later Balinese films. These features are taken to be evidence
of progressive practice: “…being reflexive means that the
producer deliberately, intentionally reveals to his audience
the underlying epistemological assumptions which caused
him to formulate a set of questions in a particular way, to
seek answers to those questions in a particular way, and
finally to present his findings in a particular way” (Ruby
2000, 156). But MacDougall cautions against this kind of
understanding–what he calls “external” reflexivity (1998,
88–89). One of the most frequent criticisms of observa-
tional filmmaking is its apparent anonymity, the failure
of the filmmaker to explicitly acknowledge herself and
her relationship to subjects in the work itself. As we have
noted, this is a criticism made with respect to Marshall’s
short films when compared to those of Asch (MacDonald
2013). It is a response at the expense of a more interesting
and subtle understanding of reflexivity.
In place of explicitly reflexive techniques that tend
to function as a legitimating frame around the work,
MacDougall proposes an alternative understanding: “A
concept of ‘deep’ reflexivity” requires us to read the posi-
tion of the author in the very construction of the work,
whatever the external explanations may be” (1998, 89).
As he points out, not only is the author unable to prop-
erly define the critical terms by which her work should
be read, but the author herself is not a fixed, singular
identity but something that shifts and changes in the
course of her unfolding encounter with her subjects
(1998, 89). Deep reflexivity, then, is present not only
in self-­
conscious decisions in editing or presentation
of materials, but it inheres in the corporeal relationship
of filmmaker and subjects, a relationship that is con-
stantly recalibrated according to the unfolding, yet often
unstated, dialogue between bodies and cameras.
Conclusion
In this essay, we have proposed a reassessment of one
of ethnographic film’s central personalities, Tim Asch.
We have also made a case for the importance of John
Marshall, a figure who has long hovered uneasily on the
edge of this tradition. Taking a critical analysis of The
Ax Fight as our starting point, we have highlighted how
filmmaking techniques give shape to particular anthro-
pological interpretations of the world.
One of our objectives in revisiting The Ax Fight is to
move beyond its much celebrated “external” reflexivity
to probe the film’s deeper levels. By shifting our focus in
this way, attending carefully to specific techniques and
what they reveal about Asch’s relationship with his sub-
jects and audience, we can better assess the scope and
nature of his anthropological work. The juxtaposition of
Asch’s Yanomamo short films with Marshall’s Ju/hoansi
work allowed us to expose fundamental differences in
conceptions of knowledge, despite an apparent shared
commitment to sequence filming.
Given Asch’s commitment to film in the service of
pedagogy and the prominence of The Ax Fight in anthro-
pological teaching, this kind of fine-­ grained critical
work is crucial to grasping how filmmaking functions
distinctively as a medium of anthropological inquiry.
Not least, it involves taking notice of the ways that film
works experientially, fusing the senses and the body in
interpretive practice. Ethnographic film has often been
understood as “illustrative” or preliminary to anthro-
pology proper, but we argue otherwise. Using the films
of Asch and Marshall, we have sought to model critical
engagement at an experiential level, as situated ways of
knowing about, and through, social relationships.
At the center of our analysis is a concern with how
filmmaking techniques articulate anthropological ways
of knowing. We suggest this kind of approach offers a
model for engaging work presented in a range of dif-
ferent media. For questions about how particular tech-
niques serve to generate, craft, and communicate knowl-
edge cut across anthropology whatever the medium of
inquiry (performative, literary, photographic, digital).
Recent calls for new and expansive multimodal anthro-
122    VISUAL ANTHROPOLOGY REVIEW Volume 34 Number 2 Fall 2018
pologies acknowledge problems of evaluation and legit-
imatization with respect to nontraditional work (Collins
et al. 2017, 144). These problems are all too familiar to
ethnographic filmmakers. But to move beyond the old
division between “textual” versus “visual” anthropol-
ogy requires a change in the terms of debate. We have
proposed a focus on technique as a different point of
departure in understanding how anthropological knowl-
edge is made. Such an approach opens new perspectives
on classic films, bringing them into a more productive
relationship with broader debates within the discipline.
It also has the potential to catalyze an expansive dis-
cussion about how we might work with the myriad of
forms, sites, and media that constitute contemporary
anthropology.
Acknowledgments
The authors wish to thank the editors of Visual An-
thropology Review and the anonymous readers for their
valuable insights and editorial suggestions.
Notes
1  lthough many of the assertions made by Tierney have been
A
hotly contested, his intervention brought questions of eth-
ics and fieldwork practice to the forefront of contemporary
anthropological debate. The continuing importance of The
Ax Fight can no longer be confined to its value as an eth-
nographic record or to issues about the veracity of film as
a medium of inquiry. Anthropological ethics stand at the
film’s very core.
2 For example, see Rony (1996) and Coover (2001).
3 The question of whether Chagnon deliberately started the
fight has long been a point of contention. Peter Biella first
challenged this claim in the introduction to his Yanomamo
Interactive: The Ax Fight on CD Rom (1997) and, follow-
ing the publication of Tierney’s book, he again reiterated his
position in a circulated letter of 2000 (http://www.egroups.
com/message/evolutionary-pyschology/7419, accessed Feb-
ruary 2, 2018). Our point here is somewhat different. We ask
whether the presence of the camera and a group of outsiders
served to catalyze a situation or raise tensions. Theatricality
does not necessarily mean a performance done expressively
for, or at the request of, the anthropologist/filmmakers, but
it signals an awareness of, and recalibration following from,
their presence as part of the unfolding event.
4 See Ruby (2000) and MacDonald (2013). Interestingly, both
commentators reproduce in full the exchange between
Asch, Chagnon, and Graham Johnson, the soundperson.
By gendered investment, we refer not only to the language
style itself (something that might be called “locker room”
talk), underlined by the breathless tone that combines high
excitement with nervous anxiety, but also to the initial
explanations for the fight: wife beating, incest, seduction
that generates, in turn, jealousy, betrayal, revenge, and
punishment—making clear the default interpretive frame-
work.
5 In Camera Lucida, Barthes distinguished between the “studi-
um” and the “punctum,” referring to the latter as “sting,
speck, cut, little hole” (1981, 27).
6 Equally, Asch owed a debt to Margaret Mead, with whom he
had studied anthropology (MacDonald 2013). The early film
and photographic work Mead had carried out with Gregory
Bateson in Bali and New Guinea during the 1930s had been
organized according to the notion of the sequence–observ-
able segments of behavior to be isolated and analyzed for
distinctive cultural content and the basis for cross-­cultural
comparison (Bateson and Mead 1942).
7 Although clearly Marshall’s presence is acknowledged: N!ai
and Ti!kay draw him into their bickering, and his physical
presence is rendered through his camerawork.
8 See Ingold’s extended discussion of participant observation
(2014).
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