How movies work 9780520076969

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a HOW MOVIES

WORK

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Bruce F. Kawin UNIVERSITY OF COLORADO

University of California Press | BERKELEY « LOS ANGELES « LONDON

University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California

University of California Press, Ltd. , London, England

© 1992 by Bruce F. Kawin | Kawin, Bruce F., 1945How movies work / Bruce F. Kawin

p. cm. Reprint. Originally published: New York : Macmillan, 1987. Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 0-520-07696-6 (pbk.) | 1. Motion pictures. 2. Cinematography. 3. Motion pictures

791.43—dc20 CIP : industry. |. Title.

[PN1994.K34 1992] 91-23049

Printed in the United States of America . 08 O07 06 O05 04 O38 O02 O01 OD

9876§

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (R 1997) (Permanence of Paper).

This is a book of film appreciation. Although it is pri- well as to the nonfiction, animated, and avant-garde marily designed to be used as an introductory textbook, film. Whatever generalizations may arise about the cinit should answer many of the questions anyone might —_ema will be rooted in the close observation of particular have about the movies. How Movies Work is addressed movies, and in most cases, frame enlargements will be to the filmgoer who wants to know more about the art, offered as evidence and as material for further study.

to the prospective filmmaker, and to the critic/student, The illustrations are very much part of the text and, in school or not. The movies are their own school, and _ in fact, took the same amount of time to prepare. They most readers will already have learned a great deal there —_ have no captions, but their figure numbers are in bold-

before ever opening this book. face so that you can readily match the photo with its disAs a subject, “how movies work’ covers a lot of — cussion in context. Nearly all of the illustrations are

ground: how they achieve their aesthetic purposes, how __ either frame enlargements or production stills. A frame their essential technology functions, how they are pro- _ enlargement is a blow-up of a complete individual frame duced, and how their parts work together so that from _ from the film as released; see Fig. 2-73 (p. 175) for one them we generate the impression of a whole. Subject to — from Citizen Kane. A production still is taken with a still the limitations of space, all of these matters are exam- camera, on the set or at various other stages of the filmined from a variety of viewpoints, of which the most per- —_—s making process; it relates to the film but is not from it. vasively applied is systems analysis. Part II, for example, It can be of anything from a storyboard to a posed verconcentrates on the cinema as a signifying system, and __ sion of a scene in the film, like Fig. 2-72 (p. 174), also Part III looks at filmmaking as a creative system in state- from Kane.

of-the-art detail. How Movies Work is dedicated to an Classical examples are taken from silent and sound understanding of film that is at once technically sophis- _ films, virtually from Georges Méliés to George Lucas ticated and intellectually intriguing. It is just as impor- = and from Mothlight to Once Upon a Time in America. tant to learn how a camera crew works with a director as The use of the moving camera, for instance, is explored to realize how a pattern of reverse-angle cross-cutting along with frame enlargements from two of the most rescan create the impression of a conversation between two __ onant shots in the history of the art, one from the moon-

characters. lit tryst in Sunrise and the other from the vertiginous Rather than track down the “best” ways to compose __hotel-room kiss scene in Vertigo. The differences among and intercut shots or the “best” reasons to make a movie, the long shot, full shot, medium shot, and so on are ilwe shall take an inventory of those that have been the __lustrated by such shots of the same actor in the same most widely adopted, whether commonplace or in- movie (The 39 Steps). When scenes from Citizen Kane, triguing, conventional or radical, shot by independent King Kong, and Hiroshima, mon amour are analyzed, at film poets or by union crews. While concentrating onthe _ least one high-quality frame enlargement is provided for model of the Hollywood narrative 35mm feature (which — every shot and significant movement, and any dialogue is what most people mean by “a movie’), we shall pay __ transcriptions are complete and taken from the screen, significant attention to the non-Hollywood product as not from the script. Soundtracks, music, and songs are

vil

considered in detail, and in one case (Cabaret), musical Acknowledging the fact that we all talk about movies and theatrical beats as well as poetic stresses are inte- —_in general and those we admire or despise in particular, grated into a discussion of editing and camera rhythm. whether or not we have ever been on a set, let alone The related arts of photography, painting, drama, liter- studied any film shot by shot, this book begins with a ature, and dance are brought to bear on the cinema, and discussion of the cinema as an art and examines many so are the disciplines of chemistry, physics, history, psy- | completed films, both as individual works and as mem-

chology, semiotics, economics, and sociology. bers of such significant groupings as genres. In attemptAs an introduction, then, this book adopts a diverse, ing to show how movies achieve their purposes, Part I far-ranging, and open-minded approach to the art. It concentrates on the relationships between film and the simply accepts that film study is a phenomenally rich — physical world — particularly on how photography, field — one that can give you a great deal more than a __ framing, and cutting create signs and images as well as degree in Godzilla — and that film appreciation isacom- __ records. It discusses the major categories of the narraprehensive, developing, and intensely exciting process. tive, nonfiction, animated, and avant-garde film; the reAlthough this book is occasionally quite technical, it lations between montage and mise-en-scéne; what one also turns to the central issues of film criticism and the- |= might want to know about any movie before discussing ory. As a guide to some of the issues that dominate con- _it; and some of the more useful critical methodologies

temporary writing about film, How Movies Work high- _ for organizing an understanding of film. , lights such controversial matters as the auteur theory, Part II examines film as a physical object and as a narrative structure, audience response, the portrayal of structured discourse. It starts with the raw materials of sex roles, the implications of continuity editing, the role filmstock, tape, and equipment, then builds the cinema of ideology, the uses of genre, and the continuing rele- _—‘ from the individual frame to the shot. Then it explores vance of classical film theory. At the same time it pre- scenes and sequences, the primary structures into which sents the most comprehensive explanation of profes- shots themselves are assembled. Part II begins with a sional filmmaking procedures available in any single box camera and works its way up to a close examination book, introductory or otherwise, unraveling in the pro- — of the baptism sequence from The Godfather. It is a cess such tail-credit mysteries as “Best Boy,” “ADR,” __ structural description of the art.

and “Foley.” | , Part III outlines the stages of film production, from Film is the art of light — filtered by crystals and dyes, the development of an idea to the release of a projectable and casting some kind of shadow on a screen (or, for that _ print. If Part I offers a number of ways of thinking about matter, a photocell). Most of the interest in film study is movies and Part II takes a detailed look at what film is in what kind of shadow that might be, how it looks and _in the first place, Part III explains how movies are made.

why its elements have been arranged in a certain way. Where Part I discusses montage, for example, Part II But that study will do well to be grounded in a solid __ illustrates the various kinds of cuts, and Part II at last understanding of the medium itself, its physical prop- pays attention to the editor. erties and the circumstances of actual film production, Each part ends with a series of close readings, in not in a critical vacuum. Otherwise we won't really know — which various interlocking ways of thinking about and —

what it is we are appreciating. paying attention to movies are shown in action. Some of For many people, the appreciation of literature begins —__ these apply the critical methods and perspectives introwith the love of stories. But the study of literature anda duced early in Part I; for example, the discussion of sexreal grasp of its immense resources would not get very __ role stereotyping and the ways women are often defined, far without such terms as “word,” “line,” “sentence,” and limited, and denigrated in the movies, which plays a “stanza.” It is the same with film. How Movies Work pro- small role in the section on feminist criticism and A vides a working vocabulary of film terms. Like “shot” in Clockwork Orange, becomes the focus of the relatively this introduction, some of these terms are inevitably — lengthy reading of High Noon in Part III and concludes used before they are defined — otherwise page | would _ with the reading of Flashdance, also in Part II, where be 200 pages long. (All crucial or problematic terms can the female subject is shown to be a “split” construct, be found in the Glossary.) As each term is defined or both ideologically and cinematically. (A Clockwork Orsignificantly redefined, it is printed in boldface. Out of — ange is taken, in Part I, not as an exemplary film but as these terms, the structures of film emerge: the frame, a random example of a movie about which many valid

the shot, the scene, the sequence. but conflicting critical observations might be made.) The

VIN =PREFACE

majority of the readings are devoted to exploring one or __ grace of a Keaton gag. We can learn as much from The more key elements of the cinema: a scene from King Wizard of Oz as we can from Potemkin. And from Chuck Kong, for example, for what it reveals about the dramatic Jones and Alfred Hitchcock, Stan Brakhage and Richard

and editorial construction of a scene. Leacock, Dick Smith and Nestor Almendros, Bernard As the readings become more detailed, the intensity | Herrmann and Douglas Trumbull, Sergio Leone and of film study catches hold, and the value of the close and Alain Resnais, Walter Murch and Greta Garbo. well-informed look begins to speak for itself. One comes This book is open to all of them, to others like them, to respect and enjoy — in a word, to appreciate — just —_and to all the artists behind them who rarely are heard how frame-by-frame study can unlock the editing strat- _—_ of. It attempts to be open to the whole of film and to egies of one scene in The Birds, for example, as well as respect each of its elements. As it examines and builds what that scene reveals about the relations between — up a working technical and critical vocabulary, it also shooting and editing in general, or how Eisenstein made __ keeps in touch with the extraordinary pleasure and ani-

composition serve his purposes, or how framing and mating genius of the movies, the touch of the glittery camera movement define and clarify what is going on — wand on the sequined slippers. Because there will albetween the characters in one shot in Citizen Kane. To — ways be a part of us where they are made of rubies. perform a deconstructive reading of Flashdance, as odd

as that might sound, or to compare Alien and Heavens A great many people helped to make this book possi- — Gate in terms of genre strategy, becomes as exciting and __ ble. I have never encountered such a host of generous satisfying as to find that one understands exactly how the __ experts, people who spent hours explaining their jobs, most complex special optical effects are achieved, or why — hunting down stills, opening doors, checking over what

depth of field makes a difference. I had written, and offering professional advice. Many of

What this book teaches, then, is a series of ways of | them found in this book the opportunity to set the reclooking deeply and carefully at movies, together with a _ ord straight: to sort out and present accurately, for the great deal of more-or-less universally applicable infor- use of a generation of students, the primary creative, mation about the key elements of film construction (the — technical, economic, and critical aspects of the cinema. frame, the shot, light, sound, etc.) and a scrupulously Although I have been teaching film history and analysis researched introduction to the intricacies of film produc- —_ for many years and have had some dealings with the film tion. All of these interlock continuously throughout the —_ industry, more than half of the “elementary” information book, and they accumulate eventually into a full-fledged _ finally presented here was news to me, and to run my model for the appreciation of film. If there is a credo __ well-meaning ignorance to earth was no solitary project.

here, it is not that of any particular critical school; rather, Those interviewed specifically for this book include it is an attitude of openness, curiosity, and respect. It is | Jack Anderson (cameraman), Jim Berkus (agent), Stan in that spirit that such different matters as the job of the — Brakhage (filmmaker), Norman Burza (costume desound editor, the focal properties of a biconvex lens, and _ signer), Joy Gorelick (production assistant and editor), the implications of camera movement are discussed in —_ Ricky Leacock (filmmaker), Avi Levy (estimator), Tom

equal detail. Luddy (producer), Chester Luton (lab director), Bill

Many of the films discussed here are classics, some are McLeod (publicist), Herbert Nusbaum (lawyer), Bonnie just interesting and wonderful. This is not a film history | Rothbart (researcher), Fred Runner (sound man), Dick book (and a good one, along with a host of other books, Smith (makeup artist), Agnés Varda (director), Betty journals, and movies, ought to be consulted as you pro- Walberg (musical coordinator), Rose Ann Weinstein ceed — see “For Further Reading’), but great films from (writer and editor), Marcia Sakamoto Wong (choreograall periods and avenues of film history are called forth — pher), and a development executive at a major studio and worked with, so that sooner or later virtually every | who requested anonymity. These people not only spoke significant aspect of film study and filmmaking is touched —_ about their work and provided me with invaluable ma-

on and, however briefly, made vivid. terials but, in most cases, read over and corrected por-

There is no rule that a movie must be difficult in order tions of the manuscript. I owe special thanks to William to be worthwhile. In practice, much of the best work Hines, the author of Job Descriptions, who shared inforappears almost transparently simple — from the classical = mation that has never before been available to academic Hollywood continuity practiced by Howard Hawks to researchers and who corrected the whole of Part III of

the ineffable clarity of a Days of Heaven or the brilliant this book.

PREFACE IX

While researching other projects or through various __ nal versions and realized the finished product. The dehappy accidents, I have in the past interviewed other — signer was Andrew Zutis. Among those who critiqued film artists whose indirect contributions to this book are the complete manuscript line by line, I wish particularly significant. Among them are Robert Breer (filmmaker), to thank Robert Carringer, Bill Costanzo, Dan GreenLinwood Dunn (special effects artist), Gabriel Figueroa berg, Beverle Houston, and Gerald Mast. (cinematographer), Horton Foote (writer), Lillian Foote I also want to thank my first film teachers, Gordon (producer), Lillian Gish (actress), Howard Hawks (direc- | Beck and Hugh Grauel, and the many friends and coltor), Chuck Jones (director), Sam Marx (story executive), leagues whose encouragement and support meant so Brian Moore (writer), Marcel Ophuls (director), Alain much as this book was being written. Robbe-Grillet (writer), David Seltzer (writer), Peter Watkins (director), Meta. Wilde (script supervisor), and Boulder, Colorado Fay Wray (actress). The actual process of obtaining high-quality prints and

shooting frame enlargements was nearly as formidable as that of securing the legal permission to print them in this Acknowledgments

book. Bob Harris, of Images Film Archive, provided ex- :

traordinary prints and unfailingly expert advice, both technical and historical. In the Film Studies office at the The author and publisher gratefully acknowledge the folUniversity of Colorado at Boulder, where I comman- __ lowing sources and thank them for their permission to deered the Steenbeck every morning for a year, Virgil | reproduce owned and/or copyrighted materials in this

Grillo, Marcia Johnston, Jim Palmer, and Don Yanna- book: cito were consistently helpful and encouraging. The neg- Alinari/Art Resource, NY, for Raphael, Marriage of

atives were printed under the extremely careful super- _ the Virgin. ,

vision of Tito Roberts and Fred Woelfel at Jones Drug Stan Brakhage for stills from Mothlight.

and Camera in Boulder. Superior 35mm negatives of Kevin Brownlow, Rachel Ford, David Gill, Dave Kane and Kong were struck specifically for this book by Kent, and Pam Paumier for stills from Unknown Chaplin

George Herndon of Guffanti Labs, and Paramount pro- (Thames Television Ltd.); see “Kobal,” “Roy,” and vided 35mm interpositives of sequences from The God- “Thames.” father. Among those whose practical, technical, and le- Cine 60, Inc. for Fig. 2-11. Courtesy of Cine 60.

gal assistance proved invaluable are James Boyle Cinema Products for Figs. 2-25, 2-31, 2-32, and 2-33. (educator), Kevin Brownlow (historian), Ernest Callen- | Courtesy of Cinema Products Corporation. bach (Film Quarterly), Anna Catalana (editorial assistant Columbia Pictures and Steven Spielberg for the still and interviewer), Sam Chavez (Dolby Laboratories), | from Close Encounters of the Third Kind: The Special Don Civitillo (Cine 60), Mary Corliss (Museum of Mod- Edition, © 1977, 1980 Columbia Pictures Industries, ern Art Film/Stills Archive), Nancy Cushing-Jones — Inc. Courtesy of Columbia Pictures. (MCA), Stacy Endres (Academy Library), Kim Fowler Walt Disney Productions for stills from Snow White (Foley artist), Dore Freeman (MGM), Daniel Furie = and the Seven Dwarfs, © 1937 The Walt Disney Com-

(Paramount), Gretchen Gerken (Tyler), James James pany. (LTM), Jim Kincaid (critic), Stan Kinsey (Disney), Diane Larry Edmunds Cinema Bookshop for Figs. 3-50, 3-

Lawrence (Columbia), Susan Lewis (Cinema Products), 73, 3-75, 3-91, 3-136, and 3-137. ,

Ivy Orta (Columbia), Bill and Stella Pence (Telluride), Dore Freeman for Fig. 3-65. Photo by George HurAdam Reilly (Denver Center Cinema), Tom Savini _ rell. From the collection of Dore Freeman. (makeup), Harold Schechter (special effects), Don Shay Hudson Bay Music Inc. for lyrics from “Tomorrow Be(Cinefex), Judith Singer (Warner Bros.), Jerry Sole(New — longs To Me’ (John Kander, Fred Ebb), © 1966 Alley Yorker Films), Robert Stein (Criterion), Terri Tafreshi | Music Corporation and Trio Music Company, Inc. All (Lucasfilm), Earl Weldon (Disney), Drake Woodworth rights administered by Hudson Bay Music Inc. Used by

(Technicolor), and Ruth Zitter (RKO). permission. All rights reserved.

Editors Paul O'Connell and Sara Black saw the man- Images Video & Film Archive for stills from Battleship uscript through its crucial first stages; the book was, in Potemkin, Breathless, Broken Blossoms, The Cabinet of fact, Paul's idea. Julie Levin Alexander, D. Anthony En- Dr. Caligari, The Cameramans Revenge, Entr acte, glish, and J. Edward Neve, of Macmillan, edited the fi- | Flash Gordon Conquers the Universe, Hiroshima, mon X PREFACE

amour, Intolerance, Its A Wonderful Life, Ivan the Ter- Corporation. Ren. 1952 Loew's Incorporated), Mad Love rible Part Il, The Last Laugh, Man With a Movie Cam- (© 1935 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Corporation. Ren. 1962

era, Ménilmontant, Metropolis, Napoleon (© Copyright Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Inc.), Poltergeist (© 1982 1981 The Images Film Archive, Inc. All Rights Re- Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Film Co. and SLM Entertainserved. Courtesy of Images Film Archive/Zoetrope ment, Ltd.), Queen Christina (© 1934 Metro-GoldwynFilms), Nosferatu, October, Olympia, The Passion of | Mayer Corporation. Ren. 1961 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Joan of Arc, Return to Reason, La Roue, Strike, AStudy —__Inc.), Royal Wedding (© 1951 Loews Incorporated),

in Choreography for Camera, Symphonie Diagonale, Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo (© 1944 Loew's Inc. Ren The 39 Steps, The War Game, Wild Strawberries, and 1971 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Inc.), 2001: A Space Od-

Young and Innocent. yssey (© 1968 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Inc.), and The

The Kobal Collection for Fig. 3-1, © The Kobal Col- Wizard of Oz (© 1939 Loew’ss Incorporated. Ren. 1966 lection. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Inc. ). LTM Corporation of America for Figs. 2-42, 2-43, 2- Mike Minor for stills from Flesh Gordon.

44, and 2-45. Courtesy of Herbert Breitling and Gilles Moviecam for Figs. 2-6, 2-7, and 2-8. Courtesy of

Galerne-LTM Corporation of America. Moviecam.

Lucasfilm Ltd. for stills from Star Wars (© Lucasfilm The Museum of Modern Art for Fig. C-3: Salvador Ltd. (LFL) 1977. All rights reserved), The Empire — Dali, The Persistence of Memory, 1931, Oil on canvas, Strikes Back (© Lucasfilm Ltd. (LFL) 1980. All rights 94, xX 13”. Collection, The Museum of Modern Art, reserved), and Return of the Jedi (© Lucasfilm Ltd. New York. Given anonymously. (LFL), 1983. All rights reserved). Courtesy of Lucasfilm The Museum of Modern Art Film/Stills Archive for

Ltd. stills from Broken Blossoms, The Conjuror, Drame chez

MCA for stills from Duck Soup (© 1933 by Universal — les Fantoches, Dream of a Rarebit Fiend, Entr‘acte, Pictures, A Division of Universal City Studios, Inc.), Fatty and Mabel Adrift, The Great Train Robbery, InEarthquake (© 1974 by Universal Pictures, A Division tolerance, The Love of Jeanne Ney, The Man with the of Universal City Studios, Inc.), The Egg and I (© 1947 Rubber Head, Nosferatu, Olympia, Sunrise, and Vamby Universal Pictures, A Division of Universal City Stu- pyr. dios, Inc.), The Mummy (© 1932 by Universal Pictures, NASA for Figs. 1-4, C-1, and C-2. A Division of Universal City Studios, Inc.), The Phantom The National Film Archive/Stills Library, London, for of the Opera (© 1925 by Universal Pictures, A Division Fig. 3-12. of Universal City Studios, Inc.), Taza, Son of Cochise (© New Yorker Films for stills from The 400 Blows and 2 1954 by Universal Pictures, A Division of Universal City or 3 Things I Know About Her. Courtesy of New Yorker Studios, Inc.), Vertigo (© 1958 by Universal Pictures, A _— Films. Division of Universal City Studios, Inc.), and The Wolf Paramount Pictures for stills from Friday the 13th — Man (© 1941 by Universal Pictures, A Division of Uni- Part I (© 1980 Paramount Pictures Corporation. All versal City Studios, Inc.). Courtesy of MCA Publishing — Rights Reserved) and The Godfather (© 1972 Paramount

Rights, A Division of MCA Inc. Pictures Corporation. All Rights Reserved). Courtesy of MGM Entertainment Co. for stills from Anchors Paramount Pictures.

Aweigh (© 1945 Loew's Inc. Ren. 1972 Metro-Goldwyn- RKO Pictures for stills from Citizen Kane (© 1941 Mayer Inc.), Ben-Hur (© 1959 Loews Incorporated), RKO Pictures, Inc. All Rights Reserved), The HunchThe Boy Friend (© 1971 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Inc. ), back of Notre Dame (© 1940 RKO Pictures, Inc. All Casablanca (© 1943 Warner Bros. Pictures, Inc. Ren Rights Reserved), King Kong (© 1933 RKO Pictures, 1970 United Artists Television, Inc.), Devil Doll (© Inc. All Rights Reserved), and Son of Kong (© 1934 1936 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Corporation. Ren 1963 RKO Pictures, Inc. All Rights Reserved). Courtesy of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Inc.), Diane (© 1955 Metro- RKO Pictures, Inc. Goldwyn-Mayer Distributing Corporation. Ren 1977 Raymond Rohauer for stills from Sherlock Jr. CourMetro-Goldwyn-Mayer Inc.), Doctor Zhivago (© 1965 _ tesy of Raymond Rohauer. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Inc.), Forbidden Planet (© 1956 Roy Export Company for Figs. 2-22, 2-23, and 2-99, Loews Incorporated. Ren. 1984 MGM/UA Entertain- © Roy Export Company Establishment. ment Co.), Gone With the Wind (© 1939 Selznick Inter- Fred Runner for Fig. 3-135. Photo by Fred Runner. national Pictures, Inc. Ren. 1967 Metro-Goldwyn- Tom Savini for stills from his collection (Dawn of the Mayer Inc.), Greed (© 1925 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Dead and Friday the 13th).

| PREFACE Xl

Dick Smith for stills from his collection (Little Big served), East of Eden (© 1955 Warner Bros. Pictures

Man). Inc. All Rights Reserved), The Right Stuff (© 1983 The _ Swiss Professional Movie Equipment, Ltd. for Fig. 2- Ladd Company. All Rights Reserved), and Them (© 1955

10. Warner Bros. Pictures Inc. All Rights Reserved). Thames Television Limited and David Gill for Fig. 3- Zoetrope Studios for the still from Apocalypse Now

139, © David Gill. (Fig. 3-48). Photograph courtesy of Zoetrope Studios. All

Olivia Tiomkin. Volta Music Corporation for “High rights reserved. ,

Noon’ lyrics. Figs. C-93, 2-89, 3-44, 3-45, 3-46, 3-47, 3-128, 3-129, Tyler Camera Systems for Figs. 2-29 and 2-30. Cour- 3-130, 3-131, 3-132, 3-134, and most of the frame en-

tesy of Tyler Camera Systems. largements were shot by the author. Owned materials Warner Bros. Inc. for stills from A Clockwork Orange not listed above come from private collections (anonym(© 1971 Warner Bros. Inc. and Polaris Productions, Inc. ity requested), are in the public domain, or have been All Rights Reserved), Blade Runner (© 1982 The Blade specifically approved for reproduction here under “fair Runner Partnership. All Rights Reserved), Duck Amuck use’ conventions. (© 1953 The Vitaphone Corporation. All Rights Re-

Kil, =PREFACE |

Film and the Physical Worid

1. Film Appreciation 2 2. Parts and Wholes 45 3. Primary Categories 59 4. Montage and Mise-en-Scene in the Narrative Film 97 From Shot to Sequence

1. Raw Materials 120

2. The Frame _ 157 ,

3. Black-and-White and Color 178 4. The Soundtrack 191 5. The Shot 201

6. The Scene 243 7. The Sequence 264 The Film Artist and the Movie Business

1. Who Makes a Movie? 288 2. Development 302

PART lll 3. Pre-production 327 4. Production 362

, _ 5. Post-production 410 6. Distribution 481 For Further Reading 523 A Note to the Instructor 531 —

| Glossary of Key Terms 539 Index 559

xiii

BLANK PAGE

PART | FUM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD = 1. Film Appreciation 2 The Nonfiction Film 79 Saturday Night at the Movies 2 The Animated Film 84

Critical Approaches to Film Appreciation 8 The Avant-garde Film 89

Electric Shadows 41 A Beautiful Friendship 95

2. Parts and Wholes 45 4. Montage and Mise-en-Scone in the Narrative Film 97 Fragmentation and Synthesis 45 Organizing the Filmed World 97

Film As aLanguage 54 Citizen Close Kane 102 Encounters 110

3. Primary Categories 59 The Narrative Film 59

PART FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE — = = 1. Raw Materials 120 4. The Soundtrack 191 The Camera and the Eye 120 The Ear and the Microphone 191

Film 127 Sound Please! 192 Lenses, Exposure, and Focus 132 Synchronization 196

Camera Equipment 140 Sound and the Camera 198

Lights 148 Creating in Sound 199

2. The Frame 157 5. The Shot 201 The Perimeter 157 Takes and Shots 201 Aspect Ratio and the Shape of the Frame 162 Shot Description 202

3-D 166 Pivoting and Moving the Camera 211

Composition 167 Specialized Functions and Characteristics 218

Color 184 , Shot Transitions 222

8. Black-aad- Witte and Color 178 Shot Relations 225

Black-and-White 178 The Moving Camera 234 Black-and-White Versus Color 182

XV

6. The Scene | | 243 7. The Sequence 264 Dramatic Unity and the Task of the Scene 243 October: The Raising of the Bridges 265 King Kong: The Scream Test 247 The Godfather: The Baptism 275 Hiroshima, mon amour: The Twitching Hands 253

PART Mf THE ALM ARTIST AND THE MOVIE BUSINESS _ = = 1. Who Makes a Movie? | 288 TheActor 367 | The Stages of Production 288 The Cinematographer 376

Authorship, Design, and Execution 291 Makeup 384

Production and Mechanical Special Effects 390 2. Development 302 Choreography 394 | | The Writer and the Screenplay 302 Sound Recording 397

Agents and Story Editors 311 The Production Team 402 _ The Producer, the Studio, and the Money 315 _

The Legal Department 321 9. Post-production 410 The “Go” 326 Special EffectsFilm Cinematography 411 | Editing 435 , : 3. Pre-production 327 Music 447 , Casting 327 Sound Editing and the Stereo Mix 459 | Location Scouting 328 The Laboratory 474 ee suas and the Shooting Schedule 329 6. Distribution 481

Production Design 333 Theatrical and Nontheatrical Distribution 481 | Costumes 351 Ratings, Previews, and Marketing 482 Testing 361 Exhibition, Revenues,495 and Archiving 488 | , Film and Society

The Director 363 a -

4. Production 362 Conclusion 519

Index 559 | | For Further Reading = 523 a A Note to the Instructor 031

Glossary of Key Terms 539 -

XVI CONTENTS

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Ingmar Bergman was six years old when he saw his first movie. It

= was Black Beauty, and the fire scene scared him so badly that, 1. Film according to one account, he hid under the seat. Soon he had - om bought the book and had learned the fire scene by heart. That is

A pp reciation the and wayits most of us are firsthuge, comelike to the children. The | , screen figures themovies world — of as adults but even bigger, full of intriguing shadows and bright colors, charged with messages that may be difficult to figure out, capable of opening up vistas of experience and fantasy, mysterious and overwhelming and fun. Like the challenge of life itself, the movies become something to learn about and to grow into. The beginning filmgoer of whatever age has some of this child inside, and that child, with its love of movies and all that they can show, remains a continuing resource, even as critical innocence is supplemented by knowledge and experience. Many adult filmgoers are sustained by the hope of encountering a work that will bring forward again that quality of surprise and freshness that they may have experienced when encountering film for the first time.

Saturday Night at the Movies _.-—=SEs——S People go to the movies for different reasons. After a hard day at

work, or in the middle of an unstructured afternoon, it can be relaxing and exciting to be swept into another world. The movies can provide entertainment, a temporary “escape” from the routines of daily living. And they can also provoke enlightenment, can

structure. - ,

organize the terms of the world into a significant and resonant

Entertainment, Enlightenment, and the Bottom Line. Although the movies certainly have their limitations, they also have special capacities, like the ability to present a fragment of history as it occurred, or to include a landscape rather than a backdrop, or to jump instantly from one unit of time and space to another, virtually at the speed of thought. Although there is no device that only the cinema can manipulate, it is still true that the cinema is a unique structure, and to understand that structure is an engaging.

and rewarding project. | ,

A movie can give us a lot more than we may have bargained for when plunking down our cash for a ticket. Some films are virtually bottomless — endlessly interesting. And even in a garden-variety

entertainment there may be resonant images, subtly arresting , sounds, intriguing characters, and significant story lines that will stick with us whether we want them to or not. For some people, — there is no clearer way to think through the nature of romantic obsession, for instance, than by talking about Alfred Hitchcock’s

Vertigo (1958).* , oe ey.

*Please note that at the first mention of any film in this text, it is identified by director, title, and release date. This is purely a convention and is not meant to imply that the director was the sole author of that movie. Where more than the director(s) are named, however, collaborative authorship is implied.

2

The movies can affect us in subtle ways that have little to do

with entertainment or enlightenment. Whether or not being macho is a problem for him, a boy may carry around the images of John Wayne and Montgomery Clift, Mel Gibson and Clark Gable, or Eddie Murphy and Morgan Freeman, and may consult these, even unconsciously, as he sorts out the options for “correct” mas-

culine behavior. A girl may begin by internalizing — and later on, evaluating — a host of sex-role stereotypes, including the good girl, the bad girl, the wife, the mother, the mistress, the careerist, and the adventuress, and go on either to model herself after one of those types or to begin a deliberate and even urgent search for a more personally appropriate role model. Decisions about how to live and what sort of person to become will be made in reference

to social pressures and normative expectations, and the movies are , an important contributor to such social codes — at times, even a

force for social control. Like any art, film is one of the ways a society talks to itself and exchanges information with other cultures. It is an art, a business, and a mediuin of international understanding. It is the site where

the aspirations of the artists, the calculations of the backers and distributors, and the expectations of the audience come together. Each of these groups may have a different conception of the “bottom line.” For someone primarily concerned with the business angle, the bottom line is whether the picture earns a profit. __ For the filmmaker, the crucial question may be how well executed the picture is, the degree to which it has approached or surpassed its original artistic goals. For the audience, what may finally matter is how interesting and entertaining the film is, how it stacks up as an experience. For the critics and film students in the audience, the bottom line may be how “good” the movie is — in other words,

how it relates to the critic’s own set of informed standards and what | it may be contributing to the history of the art. Such standards are relative, of course; notions of “good” and “bad” change as the art, the conditions of its reception, and the

critics own sophistication develop. But most people who care about the movies and spend a lot of time thinking about them and

going to them carry some kind of “excellence meter,’ an expecta- , tion of how good any film can be, when they open themselves to a new work. A “poor” film may leave us feeling not only that we

have wasted our time, but also that something important has been : betrayed — that everyone has missed an opportunity. But when the opportunity has been appreciated and fulfilled, the movie really shines, and what it shows us takes on a special, charged quality, like a privileged communication or a moment of vision.

The Business of Art. No one really knows what this opportunity ,

is or what makes it tick. If there were a formula for making a good ,

movie, the lives of Hollywood executives would be considerably more calm. Even without having to worry about making back advertising costs and selling $40 million worth of tickets, the filmmaker has to confront that blank moment before getting an idea,

1. FILM APPRECIATION 3

7 the glimmer of insight, the gradual changes of structure and tex, ture as the idea takes shape, the suspicion that the idea positively

style.

| | that idea to an audience. | |

a , stinks, and the problem of what it might mean to communicate

oo , Some filmmakers begin with something to say and a style in | which to say it, and from that point they may have to go out and , convince someone to invest millions of dollars to realize the project. Others may begin with a marketable proposal, have the good

, luck to get backing for it, write a screenplay with the available - talent and budget in mind, direct and cut the film, and find at the , | | end of it all that some message has expressed itself in an effective

? Some filmmakers have nothing personally urgent to say but are good at their jobs, that is, good at bringing projects to full reali-

, - , zation and letting those finished projects make their own points in a their own terms. Some filmmakers are crass and stupid, and oth, — ers, like Charles Chaplin, have been among the authentic geniuses of the century. There are also those who simply need to believe

, , that they are geniuses and have to work out a compromise be-

, , tween their egos and their achievements. But all of them are in

, the business of filling a movie theater with the best possible material, with something they respect. It is important to remember

, that virtually no one sets out to make a bad film. ,

, Within the film industry — a term that denotes Hollywood and

| | its subsidiaries and imitators around the world — the normative expectation is that an audience will see a movie once, even though

, | , big money flows in only when word of mouth is so good and the ex, perience so worth repeating that audiences go back to see it several times during its first release and even when it is re-released.

ne Some films, like Steven Spielberg and George Lucass Raiders | of the Lost Ark (1981), are calculated both to work in the short run and to attract repeat audiences, making their statements and portraying their actions in ways that are clear enough to be absorbed

the first time around, yet in a manner so direct, efficient, and , complete in itself that it will be a pleasure to see those things again. Others have twists and turns that become entirely comprehen-

sible only with repeated viewings, like Ingmar Bergman's Persona

| (1966). Oddly enough, the videocassette revolution has increased a the demand for pictures that have what Hollywood is now calling a “repeatability, as there is little point in owning a copy of a film that

oo , one intends to see only once. But the classics have always been

, worth seeing repeatedly. ,

a , The key here is the self-sufficiency of the work, the way it forms | , a universe of style, mood, and action. Its primary references may _ be to the outside world, but its primary lines of communication , , are internal. That is, it works in its own terms, in terms that it , | creates and interrelates, and the connections among those terms

, , , are the laws of that movie's world. To recognize those laws and to stick to them are matters of artistic integrity, of following out the

4 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

rules of a particular movie's game. To codify those laws into a formula that can be imitated is a matter of business acumen, and it |

does not always lead to an artistic success.

Film and the Industry. To anyone who takes a hard look at the cur- a rent state of the industry, it is clear that film — at least, narrative , film — is a business, and that an individual picture is a deal, a pack- — age of talent. That package is assembled not by an expert in film . aesthetics but by executives with access to experts in marketing. , It used to be true that the industry depended on films and that

films depended on the ticket dollar, but that is no longer the case. , ,

At this point many of the major studios are subsidiaries of giant | corporations. These corporations are so large that the revenue contributed by their motion picture and TV divisions, even in , the year of a major hit, might amount to less than 20 percent of that

on films. , a a

corporations annual profits. These corporations do not, then, absolutely depend on studio profits and, to that extent, do not depend

Nor is film revenue as dependent as it used to be on box office receipts, for although blockbusters earn their $100 million primarily in theaters, a picture that performs indifferently in theaters can still make back its costs through sales to TV. In this sense, releas-

ing a movie can be like sending up a trial balloon. If a picture proves to have “legs” — that is, shows signs of being able to attract

large audiences — it will be promoted more extensively, perhaps ,

with a new ad campaign and a shift in release pattern. If a picture does poorly in its first week or two — as measured by the number

of admissions and the gross revenues reported in the industry's a daily tabloids, like Variety (called “the trades” because they are trade publications) — that picture might well be pulled from do- , mestic distribution, hustled into video stores, and leased in a package with more desirable films to cable and network TV. , A picture that the studio considers a “bomb” may be released to hundreds of theaters at once, so that it can make its money before , word of mouth catches up with it. An anticipated hit, or a very good film that the studio feels will need to build up a reputation before a chance is taken on wide release, usually opens in one theater in each of several major cities. This approach often creates

a widespread desire to see the film that “everyone” is talking about, and when that desire is measurable, the film comes to local

theaters. Reviews, as useful adjuncts to ad campaigns, are impor- , tant here only when they are raves. Film criticism is ignored, film

history is irrelevant, and film theory is a joke. Audience appeal is measured in terms of how many people will go to see a movie on the basis of its title, cast, and ad campaign, especially during its

first week of release. ,

Although there would be no blockbusters without the industry,

it is still true that the cinema, as a medium of human expression, does not entirely depend on the industry. The executive in search

4. FILMAPPRECIATION §

of a marketable hit is very different from the artist who has something to say and feels the urgent desire to say it in the language of cinema. With the passage of time, the cinema has become open to independent filmmakers, and the studios have lost their monopolistic control of the medium. There are independent producers and filmmakers who finance and complete their own pictures and then sell them to studios, which distribute them under the studio logo (this is called “negative pick-up,’ as the studio buys the finished

, negative), or make deals with unaffiliated distributors. There are

TV companies that produce films directly for broadcast — called “TV movies,’ even if many of them are shot on motion picture lots

— and some of these have turned out to be important works. There are businesses that make movies for internal distribution, and there are amateurs who make low-budget films for their own

amusement or as an adjunct to the family album. , Most significantly (from an aesthetic, if not from an economic, point of view), there are those filmmakers who used to be called “independent” — until that term was co-opted by the producers and directors not affiliated with the studios but emphatically part of the narrative film industry — and who now have no name, though it is convenient to label them “avant-garde.” These artists, who often work in solitude and have little or no access to theatrical distribution, make films for the sake of making films and advancing

the terms of the art. The importance of documentaries and animated films too is inestimable. No overview of the state of film production or the aesthetic opportunities of filmmaking would be complete without taking all of these into account, and it is possible

to argue that the real health of cinema, its living and breathing, depends much more on the state of the art in general — as measured by the excellence of particular films, no matter what cate-

, gory they fit into — than on the state of the industry.

Just as there is no recipe for making a successful film, there is no rule for determining what constitutes a great one. There is, however, that matter of respect and the question of self-sufficiency. It is unlikely that anyone will do wonderful work on a picture that he or she doesn't respect. People set out to make “good” films, not just because they are investing years of their lives, their reputations, and their (or their meal ticket's) financial resources in a single project that could make or break them — in an absolutely

watching. ,

unpredictable manner — but also because they want to make something worth all that effort and risk and, above all, worth The serious filmmaker usually tries to make a picture that will be clear and interesting to an audience that will see it only once, yet rewarding to those who will see it again. Shakespeare did much the same thing, writing Hamlet so that one could follow it if one were interested only in swordfights and sneaky poisons, or if one had seen it before and knew how it came out, or if one knew it backward and forward and were in a position to study every

: word. The aspiration to contribute to film history is made of this G PARTI. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

stuff: to create a work of art that declares its own terms and forms |

a complete world, that is self-sufficient even if it also forms part of ,

the mortal universe. ,

Patronage and Response. To achieve what is sentimentally

called the immortality of art, a work has to make sense by itself : , and has to continue to demonstrate its integrity even when the | culture that gave rise to it has vanished. It may be hard, looking a | at a film like Jean Renoir’s Grand Illusion (1937) or Orson Welles's , oe Citizen Kane (1941), to remember that it was made in the context , , of a film industry, that it had to make back its costs, and that it was ,

by patrons. , , subject to flip reviews in the daily papers. It is hard because such ,

films have been accepted as classics, but even Shakespeare's son- a

nets and many of the paintings we are accustomed to seeing in |

public galleries and museums were made for hire, commissioned

It might be nice if the studios and the deal makers considered , ,

themselves the patrons of new and proven talent, but they do not. |

They are most interested in making or buying a product that they a can sell, and they naturally try to get the most capable and reliable , , people to do the job. Because they control the purse strings, stu- , dio executives have the decisive say on which projects the studio

will consider developing, which they will “pass” on (reject), and

which they will actually produce and release. Just as the history of

literature is, for better or worse, the history of what happened to , get published and not the totality of human literary expression, a , the history of film is the history of produced films. And it is a | familiar line in Hollywood that “No one ever got fired for saying |

no — even to Spielberg's E.T. (1982). Even if it is the “money men’ who determine which pictures | get made — and somebody has to pay for every movie — it is not

the executives but the filmmakers, the critics, and the informed | ! audiences who have the real voice in determining the ultimate value of a picture. They can “vote” with their ticket money, se- Oo lecting a “good” movie from those that happen to be available; they | can gather around an interesting picture as if it were an oasis; they can think about it, be influenced by it, write about it, and pass it

along to future generations as an object of special merit. What people do when they make such a determination is a com- ,

plex process involving degrees of personal satisfaction, a sense of

what matters in film history, and an intuition about the nature of Oo great art. They do not check off a given film against a list of rules

for good filmmaking. If anything, they check it against their hearts, , their sense of form, and their most enlightened and unbiased critical range. A film that passes this test will be seen repeatedly, and not only when it is re-released by a studio. It may be shown in a

class, for instance, and written about in magazines, journals, and , books. If it stands up to such a torrent of interest and scrutiny, then the film might ultimately be called a classic: not in the sense

of box office performance, but in the context of the history of art, as an achievement of enduring value. Such a distinction almost 1.FILMAPPRECIATION 7

never means additional revenue for a studio, though it can give prestige to a long-term portfolio. It means a great deal, however, to filmmakers and to those who care passionately about film as an art and as a medium of communication. What keeps the movies alive is the wonder of vision: the filmmaker's quest for an appropriate and memorable image, sound, or scene and the audience's appreciation of the achievement. “Appreciation” is a term that can sound rather cold and distant, but in

its best sense it refers both to enjoyment and to understanding, and both of these responses are most effectively tapped in a mood of intense engagement supported by a long-term critical education. The sense of wonder, the emotional and intellectual excitement generated by a compelling image or a perfectly realized sound effect or a brilliant line of dialogue — that is the essence of

film appreciation and the foundation of film study. |

Critical Approaches to Film Appreciation ===> When I was a kid, I thought that movies were made in an hour © and a half and that they were shot in sequence. I was vaguely aware that there had to be a camera, but I imagined that it could

change setups instantaneously. I figured that films were like Chinese dinners, with the food washed and sliced for hours in advance, then prepared in minutes once everything was ready to go. It took a long time for me to realize that movies are made. I had to step back even further to notice that they are made of shots, that each shot is a unit in itself as well as part of the whole, and that it is possible for the way a film is shot to convey its meaning.

, Howard Hawks’s Land of the Pharaohs was released in 1955. These days people watch it because it gave Joan Collins her first starring role, or perhaps because they are interested in Alexander Trauner’s art direction or in William Faulkner's contributions to the screenplay. But when it came out, the principal attraction was the way the gigantic pyramid sealed itself through an ingenious use of sand hydraulics, trapping the evil Collins. What most children and innocent filmgoers get from a movie, besides a good time in the theater, is the idea or spectacle that makes the movie exciting and unique: in this case, the pyramid. Watching the sand pour into the central chamber and the huge blocks slide into place, we don't count the setups or categorize the shots. We say “Wow!” and

let it go at that. ,

Beyond “Wow!” But one of the first things you learn to notice in film study is how a film is put together out of individual shots, and at first, noticing all the cuts and thinking about how the artist is getting the job done can interfere with the simple pleasures of filmgoing. You begin to look at the film, like a painting, rather than through it, like a window. You get used to seeing films over again, surrendering the pleasure of not knowing how they will come out and concentrating instead on the presence of each shot and the ways it does its job. After a while this new way of looking at a 8 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

movie begins to pay off, and you can see why certain artistic decisions were made and how they work.

When you come out the other side of the tunnel, when you really understand how movies work, all this noticing becomes second nature. You find yourself watching a new film or an old favorite with all the absorption in premise and spectacle that you felt

as an “innocent, and with a rich, almost automatic understanding | of the techniques that went into the film’s construction. A brief closeup may excite you not only because it presents, say, a quick

view of a gun in a crowd, but also because you have come to ap- , preciate how that information was presented, the choice of the proper camera position and lens. At the end of the analytical route

— of picking things apart to see how they work — knowing all about how Trauner, Hawks, and Faulkner designed the pyramid and how the climax works as a cinematic unit, you may find that all that sophistication was, in fact, focused on putting across the core idea — the spectacle, the pyramid — in an effective and unobtrusive manner. In other words, all that expertise was put in the service of clearly presenting what, as a 10-year-old, you may have entirely understood. As T. S. Eliot wrote at the end of his poem Four Quartets, you get back to where you started from and “know

the place for the first time.”

There are many filmgoers — and believe it or not, filmmakers — who have never heard of Sergei Eisenstein, who don't know that Chaplin directed the films he starred in, and who wouldn't know an answer print from an answering machine. Once Chaplin and Eisenstein have truly come into your life, however, their works become part of the way you see things — and not just cinematic things. This may be true whether or not you like what they

do. The way Eisenstein conceived of the shot as a montage element, or the way he composed his images, will stick with you, and

you will never see film editing in the same way again, any more ! than you will forget the ending of Chaplin’s City Lights (1931).

After a while you might come to expect that any filmmaker will

have Eisenstein in the back of his or her head while thinking about , a current project; you might expect the art to build on its own achievements in full appreciation of those achievements. You

might wish that the fellow who thinks he invented camera movement had studied F. W. Murnau'ss The Last Laugh (1924) and Welless The Magnificent Ambersons (1942), or that the raw youth who decides to show what life is really like in the Bronx had heard of Rossellini and Open City (1945). At that point the problem is to avoid becoming a film snob. Whether or not every filmmaker or filmgoer thinks about these matters, the fact is that cinema itself is a coherent body of work and manner of expression that does have a history and a tradition

in film history. , and that does build on what has been learned and achieved in

previous films. To want to learn more about this is to be interested ,

It is also true that an image, whether or not the person who |

found or imagined it was worrying about this at the time, is a prob-

| | 1. FILMAPPRECIATION 9

lematic construct, at once both a real thing (an image) and a fictitious presence (an image of something that isn't really there). This

, doubleness is part of the way cinema functions as a language, even in its most nonverbal moments (because language is a system of references, not of literal presences). To want to know what film is

, and to sort out its fundamental structures and paradoxes is to be interested in film theory. And there are other things to learn about: how movies are made (production), how they work as art (aesthetics), how to evaluate

them for an audience (reviewing), how to interpret and analyze them (criticism), what they reveal about the workings of the mind (psychology), how they interact with the cultures that produce them (marketing, sociology, and ideology), and so on.

Where to Start? Film study begins with you and with films. As

| you set out on this journey, examine the assumptions you already hold about the movies. Do you think they are “just entertainment’? Does the “just” keep you from taking them seriously, or

, , from taking entertainment seriously? Do you take them only seriously? Do you agree that at six bucks and carfare, a movie had better be good? How do you feel about subtitled foreign films? Given a free block of time, would you rather go to a movie or work

in the garden? Do you make a fuss when the picture is not in focus? Do you get irritated at people who point out “deep meanings in movies? Whatever you bring to film study will affect the encounter, and it may be best to arrive at a neutral critical posture, open to whatever turns out actually to be in the art. There are many ways to approach the study of film and to organize an understanding of it, and it is best to have command of several of them and to be at least on speaking terms with the rest — and, of course, with new ones as they arise, because film studies _ is a rapidly developing field. Some people do become utterly committed to one particular methodology (a systematic way of thinking about and analyzing a subject) to the exclusion of others. In most

, cases, of course, they will have checked out their methodological , alternatives extensively before having settled on the one that best

answers the questions that most interest them. They might focus

, on a single aspect of the field — for example, the art of the director

(an emphasis that can promote the impression that film history is a lonesome train each of whose cars is the work of a great director, and that’s it), or the psychology of audience response, or the ideological aspects of representation, or the encoding and constitution

, of the female subject within the film, or the history of film technology, or genre work, or whatever. But all of these matters are interesting, and there is no reason not to test many of them on a movie one cares about and is in the mood to analyze deeply. At first that might feel like opening every door in a long hallway when

, all you really want is to find the bathroom. Even so, there is no

, telling what you may find when you take a good hard look at a film from a number of different perspectives. Very often a valid and

10 PARTI. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD |

surprising critical insight will flash out at you from the unexpected fit between a movie and a method.

Frankenstein Meets the Ivory Tower. It is a familiar complaint of filmmakers that film critics have little or no understanding of

how movies are made and that they are always finding meanings , where none were intended. And some critics retaliate by arguing that only those filmmakers who think about high art and who labor to put complex and personal material into their pictures are worth

to end. ,

discussing, as if those people had struggled out of an oily sea of , ignorance and commercialism. This is one battle that really ought There was a study group that spent months looking at a print of Carl Theodor Dreyer’s Vampyr (1932), one of the all-time great

horror films. They noticed that the image went totally black from time to time, even in what appeared to be the middle of a scene. They worked up a very complex analysis of why Dreyer had “as if

randomly cut these black areas into his film. When they presented their findings, someone who knew a thing or two about how

films are copied for distribution pointed out that they had been using a print made by a faulty machine — that the printer's shutter had not stayed open when it was supposed to be open. When the

shutter had remained inappropriately closed, the frames on the © printing stock had not been exposed; they came out black. The occurrence of the black areas was random because the shutter malfunctioned at random. There was no “secret message’ being conveyed by Dreyer, and the study group could have saved itself from embarrassment by checking another print of the film and by learn-

ing the ins and outs of contact printing. a We cannot ask the current crop of filmmakers to cancel their

shooting schedules and enroll in film courses. We may never get some of them to see that the industry was wrong to give such a hard time to D. W. Griffith, Abel Gance, Erich von Stroheim, or Orson Welles. But we can hope that those who intend to go into film production as a career will take the time to study film aesthetics before they are swept into the industry, and that they will cultivate their aesthetic ideals along with their business acumen. To be a professional is not just to know how to do a job; it is also

to have a vision of the range and importance of that job and to feel

that it is worth a lifelong commitment. And in the meantime, we can learn the language of the professionals, study their working methods, learn about their priorities. If the proverbial mountain won't come to us, we can still go to it. We can avoid the disastrous and embarrassing situation of making

big statements when we dont really know what we are talking about. We can work out a balance between aesthetics and produc-

tion — as film itself already has. Vital Statistics. There are some things we are going to want to know about any film before making up our minds about what it is

1.FILMAPPRECIATION 11

and what it says. They help to anchor the terms of discussion and put the shadows in context. | As a random example, take Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange (1971). That simple citation tells us the name of the director, the exact title of the picture, and the year it was released to the public. That's a good start.

Director, Title, and Release Date. The director's name is significant for a number of reasons, the most controversial of which is the assumption that the director is the ultimate “author” of the

picture. Film is a collaborative enterprise, and it is sometimes hard to see how a group of people could put together a coherent movie. If we assume that one person — the director — was in a position to coordinate al] the filmmakers, that would make it simpler to discuss the coherence of the picture, as if it had proceeded full-grown from the mind of that person. But there are many films that were the product of significant top-level collaborations. Out of the hundreds of people who worked on King Kong (1933), for example, there were four who were absolutely essential: Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schoedsack, who co-directed and coproduced the film; Ruth Rose, who wrote the final screenplay; and Willis O’Brien, who acted as chief technician and, among other things, animated the model of Kong. And that is not even to men-

, tion the lead actors — Fay Wray, Robert Armstrong, and Bruce Cabot — nor the people who designed and executed the optical special effects. In the absence of reliable production information, to identify a film by its director is littlke more than a critical convenience. In Kubrick’s case, as it turns out, there is considerable evidence that he is the primary creator of “his” movies. The title of a picture may seem a simple matter, and in the case of A Clockwork Orange, it is. But Vampyr is known by many titles:

, The Dream of Allan Gray, The Strange Adventure of David Gray, , Castle of Doom, Not Against the Flesh, and, of course, Vampyr. | Which is the “right” one? (And what's the name of the main char, acter?) The most acceptable title is the one that the picture bore in its country of origin when it was first released. In the case of a _ foreign film and an English-speaking audience, the film may also be known by an English title, although that might not be a literal translation of the original. Some of these new titles can be as farfetched as Castle of Doom. In the case of Vittorio De Sica and Cesare Zavattinis Ladri di biciclette (1948), the American release title was The Bicycle Thief. Translated literally, however, the title would be Bicycle Thieves. Because there is more than one bike-

stealer in that picture, the literal translation would be preferable — but most Americans call it The Bicycle Thief anyway. When

| citing a foreign-language title, it is important to observe the capitalization and punctuation conventions of that language. Film titles are conventionally printed in italics (underlined in manuscript). But the title of a film does more than just sit there and demand

to be cited accurately. Often it is a significant key to the work, calling attention to its central figure or point. In the case of Ladri

12 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

di biciclette, the point is that the central character is not simply the victim of a thief but becomes one himself. A Clockwork Or- Oo ange evokes the image of a mechanical fruit, a wind-up toy. The oo implication is that the garden of this particularly empty and over- oO controlled world can produce only imitation fruit. This notion ex- Oo

tends to the main character, Alex, who is conditioned to behave “well,” but at the expense of his free will. As a specific Cockney | | oo slang expression, “a clockwork orange” is something useless, es- , , -

pecially something uselessly technological; that describes both a

Alex and his rehabilitation. Although the film reveals no sympathy

for the means by which Alex is conditioned (and points out their | | , similarity to narrative film techniques), it does not imply that Alex , - , is any valid heroic alternative. Instead it continually asks us to Oe | consider the value of Alex’s freedom — not just to be upset at the OS he usually puts it to destructive purposes. The title may also be oe

ways his society controls people — because, when he has freedom, Oo

thought of as a self-descriptive gesture, for the film itself has a , So mechanical quality: it is a cold movie, elegant and nasty, with an a

extremely formal and linear structure. In contrast, a film like Alex- 7 oo | ander Dovzhenko’s Earth (1930) could be thought of as an “or- , The release date is the exact day (loosely, the year) a picture was , first shown publicly to a paying audience. It does not necessarily a , indicate when that picture was made. It took several years to plan |

ganic orange, a natural plenitude. , , a

and shoot A Clockwork Orange, but rather than write those years oe co ,

inclusively, it is simpler to have a date by which the picture was ,

known to have been completed and after which it could have be- re come an influence on other filmmakers. When the release date is |

several years later than the date of completion, it is best to provide , ee , both. Chris Marker’s La Jetée was finished in 1962 and released in 1964, and so the date citation could be written “(1962, rel. 1964).” The date citation can be helpful in sorting out films that share the oo , same title: King Kong (1933) is not at all the same movie as King , | i |

Kong (1976). ,

Script and Source. Kubrick directed A Clockwork Orange, but , ,

he didn't exactly make it up. The film was based on a novel of the , , same title by Anthony Burgess. Right away we know something , significant about a film when we learn that it is an adaptation of a pre-existing work. Whatever artistic decisions were made by the 7 filmmakers can be compared with what went on in the source, on a

the assumption that what was changed was changed for a reason. , , Oo Some changes will have been mandated by the change of medium: , what Burgess could write, Kubrick had to show. Others may have oo a a

been made because the filmmakers were trying to make their own , , i points or to change the emphases of the story. ; a On the whole, A Clockwork Orange is a “faithful adaptation” of | ; | Burgess novel: it tells the same story, and in much the same way, ; oe

and it seeks out effective visual equivalents to the novel's crucial 7 narrative devices and ironic tone. Nevertheless, the adaptation is not at all slavish and reflects a distinct interpretation of the mate- | OS a 4. FILMAPPRECIATION. 18

rial. The song “Singin’ in the Rain,” for example, does not appear in the novel, but it plays a significant role in the movie and was obviously a thoughtful — and nasty — addition. Novel and film end differently, too. The British edition of the novel ends with a chapter (deleted from the American edition) in which the main character and narrator, Alex, begins to grow up. The film ends, like the American edition, by quoting the last line of what was originally the next-to-last chapter, when growing up is the furthest thing from Alex's mind: “I was cured all right.” In the last scene of the film, then — to accompany and illustrate this line — Alex is shown cavorting with an undressed woman while some upper-class types applaud in slow motion; it is an image that is supposed to show that he has been cured of his anti-sex-and-violence-and-Beethoven conditioning. (In fact, a variant of that image does appear in the novel, but it comes a few pages earlier.) In the novel, when Alex notes that he has been cured, what he is fantasizing about is not antiseptic decadence and stylized lovemaking but slashing the face of the world with his lovely razor. That change makes quite a

, bit of difference.

The script of A Clockwork Orange happens to have been written

by Kubrick. It is the screenplay that provides the underlying structure for the majority of films, and so it is very important to identify the writer. Where the director is also the writer, we can feel slightly more comfortable about crediting that person with the fundamental design of the movie. And there are many cases in which the most significant contribution was made by the writer

and not by the director or anyone else. Whether or not it was directed by Bruce Beresford, Tender Mercies (1983) is primarily the work of its writer, Horton Foote, and it looks and sounds more like the other films Foote wrote (among them Robert Mulligan’s To Kill a Mockingbird [1962], Joseph Anthony’s Tomorrow [1972], and Ken Harrison's 1918 [1984]) than the other films Beresford directed, such as Breaker Morant (1979). In A Clockwork Orange, one of the most significant decisions that Kubrick made as screenwriter was to preserve the bizarre teen slang that Alex speaks in the novel; even if that slang made the movie more difficult for the audience, it preserved the essential tone of the original and kept in touch with a good deal of its aesthetic energy.

, While thinking about the writer, we might well take a look at

the picture's narrative structure — that is, the way its storytelling is organized. Narrative structure is in part a question of time: the decision to present certain information in a certain order, and with an almost rhythmically calculated degree of emphasis. As in the mystery, such decisions may amount to a “narrative strategy.” But narrative structure takes shape not only as the work unfolds in time but also as it comes together for the audience; it takes on a kind of conceptual shape in the consciousness of the viewer, as it develops into a vision of the organized whole. If A Clockwork Orange has a shape, that shape has three parts. The first and third major segments of the movie trace essentially the same series of encounters and locations, except that in the first

14 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

part Alex is the aggressor, and in the third part he is the victim.

Acts 1 and 3, then — though they do not have those names in the |

script — are mirror images of each other, the outer wings of a ,

triptych. Act 2, the shortest of the major segments, relates the story of Alex's imprisonment and conditioning; it is the turning point of the story, and it is structurally appropriate and aesthetically pleasing that it should also form the center, or perhaps the

hinge, of the narrative structure. The symmetry of the first and , last hours of the movie gives Alexs story, and the film itself, a sense

of rigor, a formal elegance, and what might almost be called the quality of a demonstration or a formal proof. It also encourages before-and-after comparisons, as precisely as a well-rehearsed argument, between Alex's natural and conditioned lives. There are, of course, other ways of conceptualizing structure, not all of which are so logical, and many other kinds of structures than Kubrick's elegant 1-2-1’. The structure of Alain Resnais and Alain Robbe-Grillet’s Last Year at Marienbad (1961), for instance, can only be described as involuted: not just convoluted, but also turning back inward on itself, like some chambered-nautilus tape loop or Mobius strip. The structure of Vampyr is linear, but it has been built to include and to shift among various levels of waking, dreaming, and unnatural reality. Dead of Night (1945) is a loop within which there are at least five distinct stories, each of which is told in its own style and with its own particular strategy. A great deal of what we respond to in a film like Dead of Night is its structure, and the same might be said of The Godfather, Part II or La Jetée.

Narrative structure is also a matter of masks and voices. The author (or, in the case of an anonymous or collaborative project, the authorial level of intention and decision, which is implied by the majority of texts and which might be thought of as “the impression that this text comes from an author of some kind”) often masks his or her voice. That mask might be a “narrative persona,’ which

is neither a specific character nor the actual author, but instead a

characterized way of speaking, a tone or a pose that performs the function of a mask, obscuring the author and offering an adopted face. The Woody Allen who narrates Manhattan (1979) is an authorial persona, although he is also a character in the story; a purer example might be the characteristic tone and implicit presence of

“the master of suspense, who is not the same as Alfred Hitchcock.

A classic example from literature is Jonathan Swift's An Argument | against Abolishing Christianity. There are also authors who speak in their own voices — especially in documentaries — and there are complex syntheses of medium and maker that cannot be sorted out, as I believe is the case with Abel Gance. It sounds gushy, but is also accurate, to say that

Napoleon (1927) is narrated by the cinema and Abel Gance. , , Voice is itself a complex structural concern. Who is chosen to |

tell a part or all of the story, or whether it appears to tell itself, are _ decisions that affect the conceptual shape as well as the ironies of any narrated work; they determine a great deal of what is meant

1. FILMAPPRECIATION 19

by the form of a work, and they are the way its attributed meanings are organized. Citizen Kane may be quite adequately described as a sequence of narrative voices (accompanied by the ubiquitous “voice,” or personalized narrating presence, of the camera, which in Kane is unusually curious, resourceful, and in-. tent). So may Faulkner's As I Lay Dying, and the play of presenters is no less complex in Kane than it is in that novel. Both the novel and the movie of A Clockwork Orange are narrated in the first person, and by Alex. In the movie, Alex addresses the audience voice-over, so that we hear him talking to us about the events we are watching; he takes us on a guided tour of his past. But it is much more interesting to note that the whole film

| reflects Alex's personal attitudes toward his situation, and that that

| is the subtler and more interesting way that the discourse of A Clockwork Orange becomes first-person. If Alex finds violence in Beethoven, that is how the film presents Beethoven. If Alex thinks that he feels real pain but that his victims do not, that is how the audience is led to feel about what Alex does and what happens to him. The audience may find itself rooting for this character (be-

cause he is shown having a hard time) and utterly ignoring the horrible ways in which Alex has treated his own victims, because

that is how Alex sees it. He is the narrator, and this is how he presents the story. Alex is not the same as Kubrick; we do not know from this movie whether Kubrick enjoys violence, nor even whether he is celebrating it. At the same time, of course — and just like Burgess before him — Kubrick is presenting the story as he sees it, using Alex as a vehicle for his own ironies, and standing

behind him but, one imagines, well off to the side. .

Before and Behind the Camera. Alex is also not the same as Malcolm McDowell, the actor who played that role. The narrative cinema is unthinkable without actors (a term that refers to both — males and females), and we will want to know who they are when we begin to think about the film they helped to create. Whereas Alex is an abstraction in the novel, a flow of discourse to be fleshed

out by the reader, in the film he is inseparable from McDowell. Nor is McDowell the only actor in this picture; some of the supporting players are superb, especially Anthony Sharp in the role

of the Minister of the Interior/Inferior. ,

We would also want to know who designed the picture, who gave it its clean, hard, outlandish look. The cinematographer on this film was John Alcott; he balanced the lights, selected the lenses and the filmstock, and supervised the placement and movement of the camera. The production designer was John Barry; he was responsible for coordinating the design of the sets and costumes, the choice of props, and the overall color scheme. The costume designer, the art directors, the set decorators, and the hairdressers all contributed to the visualization of Alex’s world, but it was Barry who ensured that their creations would work toward a particular and calculated effect. The design of the picture was the result of a collaboration among Kubrick, Alcott, and Barry, with

16 PARTI. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD |

ducer. Kubrick making the final decisions — not as director, but as pro- , , Producer and Studio. The producer is the one who raises the

money to make a picture and who decides how it will be spent. As Kubrick was both director and producer, he was in a position to

approve his own spending plans, but directors in a less fortunate , situation must be prepared to have their more expensive ideas rejected or modified. When a picture “looks expensive,” it is said

to have high production values; in other words, the film reflects , how much the producer was willing to spend on it. Most of Kubricks films have very high production values, but so did Joseph

L. Mankiewicz Cleopatra (1963), and they didn’t save the pic- _

ture. The important issue is not really how much money was available, but how well it was spent. As the person in charge of those

decisions, the producer plays a crucial creative role in the film- | making process. Even without knowing the name of the director, | ,

you can immediately recognize that certain of the great MGM musicals were produced by Arthur Freed, just as you can tell that Victor Fleming's Gone With the Wind (1939), King Vidor’s Duel in

the Sun (1946), and William Dieterle’s Portrait of Jennie (1948)

were all produced by David O. Selznick. Your critical sensitivity to the “style” of a particular film artist — whether it be a director, a producer, an actor, a cinematographer, a choreographer, or a production designer — will increase as you see more films and take note of who did what in each of them. It is also valuable to know the name of the studio that released

the picture. There are many studios that have had recognizable styles in specific periods. In the 1930s, for example, MGM was associated with polished, high-quality dramas, whereas Warner

Brothers concentrated on graphic urban melodramas and Para- |

mount turned out sophisticated comedies. But this is not just a matter of genre (a particular type of story, like a Western, with recurring figures, like horses). Karl] Freund directed one horror film at Universal in 1932 (The Mummy) and another at MGM in

1935 (Mad Love). They are both great films; they share genre and

director and were made within three years of each other; yet Mad Love has the high production values of an MGM picture, a certain classy approach to its subject, and The Mummy has the uniquely

intense flavor of a Universal horror film. In many cases, to identify , a picture by its studio is to provide at least as much reliable infor- , mation about it as to identify it by director or writer. But not al-

ways. There is little point in implying that the author of Abel |

Gance's Napoleon was the Société Générale de Films; all it did was distribute what Gance had created and Charles Pathé had helped to finance.

In the case of A Clockwork Orange, the studio was Warner Brothers. But if you look carefully at the credits, you will notice that Warners acted only as releasor/distributor. The film was pro-

duced by Kubrick’s own company, Hawk Films Ltd., and it was : made in England. This was not, then, “a Warner Brothers pic1.FILMAPPRECIATION 17

sial movie.

ture,” but it is still significant that Warner Brothers contributed to

the financing and agreed to release and distribute this controverRunning Time. It is valuable to note the running time of a film. Because films are sometimes recut after first release, perhaps to attract a wider audience or to merit a different rating, different versions usually have different running times. Five versions of Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch (1969) were shown during the year of first release, running 190, 148, 145, 143, and 135 minutes. It can be assumed that the earliest version (190 minutes) reflected Peckinpah’s intentions, in other words, that it is the most authoritative text — but only the 145- and 135-minute versions remain in circulation. A Clockwork Orange is a bit more tricky. The original release version ran 137 minutes and was rated X. In order to obtain an R rating, the film was cut by a few seconds. The R version, too, is 137 minutes long. You will also want to know who edited a film, the person or group who trimmed what was shot on the set and put the pieces in their final order. Even if he or she works in close consultation with the director, it is the editor who gives the picture its ultimate rhythm and draws all of the parts into a whole. One of the most striking differences between Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove (1964) and A Clockwork Orange is in their editing rhythms, and they were, in fact, cut by different people: Strangelove by Anthony Harvey and Clockwork by Bill Butler.

Sound and Music. Sound makes an essential contribution to most films today — and has ever since the “talkies” took over the industry in the late 1920s. Although a sound crew includes many hardworking professionals, it is most valuable for the critic to be aware of who recorded the sound and who mixed it. To capture the texture of an environment, as did John Jordan (the sound recordist on Clockwork), is a matter of great skill. And to edit and mix a soundtrack can be as demanding and exciting as to edit a picture track (the sound editor on Clockwork was Brian Blamey). Of the many pictures that Francis Ford Coppola has directed, notice the differences in their soundtracks. Those supervised by Walter Murch — notably The Conversation (1974) and Apocalypse Now (1979) — have far more interesting effects than some of those on which Murch did not work, like One from the Heart (1982). As a simple example of how much the soundtrack can contribute to an image, consider a silent shot of a hammer’s pounding a nail into a board. That shot will convey the essence of the action; it will show us what happened. But with sound added, we might also discover how hard the hammer hit the nail, how thick the board

was, perhaps even what kind of wood it was, and what kind of room or environment the action ANS place in. Music is especially important in A Clockwork Orange, partly because Alex is a great fan of classical music. The selection of the

18 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD | | |

best possible recordings was made, in this case, by Kubrick, who to that extent acted as his own music editor. An original electronic score was also composed by Walter Carlos, and it filled out the musical landscape. These are some of the most important roles in the filmmaking collaborative, but there are many others — as you will see in Part III of this book. Depending on which movie you are working with, it might be crucial to know who did the makeup, who designed and executed the special effects, and so on. But you will always want to know the title, the release date, the director, the writer, the source, the producer, the production designer or art director, the lead actors, the cinematographer, the editor, the studio/distributor, and the original running time. An Educated Look. Now that you know which film you are talking about and the names of some of the people who worked on it, you are ready to make use of the information, to make sense of it. You can draw on a variety of critical tools and see which of them yields the most interesting and accurate view of the movie, that is, which provides the most useful approach. The first thing to do, of course, is to watch the movie. Ideally,

your first viewing should be uninterrupted so that you can have

something like the original theatrical experience and can see the :

film as it was intended to be seen. And you should, if at all possible, be looking at a complete release print of the film in its original format. A film that was released in 35mm (the norm for theatrical exhibition) has far more visual information per frame than a 16mm copy of that same film. In fact, the 16mm is not the “same film” but an approximation of it. Some 16mm and TV prints have been seriously modified during copying. A wide-format image may include significant information throughout the frame, but a TV print can show only part of that image at a time. At any given moment, you will be looking at only

a portion of the image, and there will be cases where what was one shot in the original will have been made into two or more shots

in the cropped print. Outside the domain of TV, there are 16mm prints that can yield a wide-format image and full-frame 16mm prints of pictures with standard formats. But even there, the visual information is much less dense — there is about one-fifth the area of a 35mm frame, so the loss of detail is noticeable — and it just can t be the original picture. But you take what you can get. Whether or not you are looking at an original print in its theatrical gauge, give yourself a chance to enjoy the movie. See what it does to you. Check out how you feel at the end of the picture and compare that with how you felt before it began. Then write down the ideas that occurred to you during this first viewing.

There is not always an opportunity to see a film over again whenever that happens to be convenient, and so you should train yourself to remember accurately what you see and hear. Try this —

experiment with a TV. Turn on a movie or a commercial and watch 1. FILMAPPRECIATION 19

it for a few seconds. Then turn off the set and write down the last _ shot you saw. Describe it in detail: where the camera was, whether and how it moved, what was in the shot (actors, actions, and back-

| grounds), what was on the soundtrack (including the exact dialogue), and approximately how many seconds the shot lasted. Then repeat the procedure, building up your skill until you can describe five continuous shots. This experiment works better with a videotape or a laserdisc because you can check your descriptions

against what was actually being shown. | ,

The next time you see the film, feel free to take notes. Note taking is quite distracting, and in a first viewing, you ought to restrict yourself to writing down only those insights that you ex-

, pect to forget or that are really stunning. You may want to get a

pen with a built-in flashlight so that you can write in the dark; that

is preferable to watching the film in a lighted room because the ambient light washes out the picture. Or you can train yourself to write in your lap while looking at the screen — whatever works best for you. During this second or third viewing, you will get a better grasp of how the movie has been organized and perhaps why it was shot as it was — but keep in touch with your first impressions, too.

Any field of study has its special emphases. When you are looking hard at a painting or trying to talk about it, you notice the brushstrokes, what kind of paint was used, whether the backing was canvas or wood, and so on, and you use such terms as “line,” “value,” and “composition.” You pick up on references to other paintings and note the ways certain conventions have been employed. In film study, there is a great deal of emphasis on the look and organization of the image — light values, for instance, and the arrangement of people and objects within the visual field — and on the ways images work with each other and with the soundtrack. In the narrative film, there is a further emphasis on story values,

narrative structure, dialogue, and characterization. Among the many other areas of special interest are factuality, the psychology

| and politics of audience response, the theatrical experience, and the influence of distribution networks. What you have to ask yourself is, What difference does it make that this is @ movie rather than a painting, a novel, or an outdoor swimming meet? In answering that question, you will know what to emphasize in your analysis, what goes to the heart of this particular work. Thus a great deal of the interest in A Clockwork Orange is in the cinematography and the production design, the use of music, and the way Alex functions as a cinematic narrator. In a film like Hitchcock's Psycho (1960), many of the essential communications are made via the editing, the framing of the images, the music, the tone of the lighting, and the extremely ironic twists of the story. The point to remember is that when you talk only about the story of a movie, you might as well be talking about a novel.

As a general rule, then, you will want to keep your eyes and ears open as well as your mind. In Part II of this book, you will

20 PARTI. FILMAND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

learn more about the essential sound and picture elements that make up a film and, in Part III, about the practice of film production. Distributed through both of those discussions is information about aesthetic intentions and priorities, so that you can see, for instance, why a filmmaker might have wanted to use a low-angle shot (where the camera points upward) to create a certain effect, or what an editor might have been trying to accomplish while cutting a picture. But you will have to supplement that information with a deliberate effort to become especially sensitive to light val-

ues, composition, sound textures, and significant relationships among films (historical and otherwise), because no one can make

you see what you just dont see. | Criticism. Critics are sometimes thought of as parasites on the juicy body of art. Rather than create their own work, they take potshots at the work of others; they dont take the same risks that artists do, and whatever they do publish can be only, at best, “sec-

ondary’ work. In truth, some critics deserve to be characterized

in such a manner, although “parasite” is rather harsh; perhaps “sni- ,

per’ (a term that would allow the major critic to be a “big gun’) would be better. But, as with any other professional commitment, one must come to understand the nature of the work — in this case, criticism itself — before one can make judgments about its worth or the stature of those who do it well. The point is that criticism is an independent activity, a primary field in its own right, sharing as much with philosophy as it does with the art of writing essays. It is, in most cases, an analytic discipline; one spends a good deal of time taking things apart, to see how they work, and then making sure that they function properly when reassembled. It is an interpretive discipline, too; the goal is

to make sense of what one has found interesting, to clarify and

perhaps to enlarge upon the questions raised by the work or to

uative.

sort out what the artist has accomplished. Not all criticism is about |

works of art, of course; there are social critics, critical theorists, , critics who criticize critical works (“metacritics’), and so on. Criticism is often descriptive (like this book) as well as analytic and interpretive. And very often, though not always, criticism is eval-

That, however, is where the vague, public notion of the critic usually begins and ends: that the critic is one who makes value judgments about the fruits of the labors of others, the one who gives the work “thumbs up’ or “thumbs down.” But even the critics who are of the evaluative persuasion do not simply “like” or “dislike” a work. That level of personal preference is not particularly worth sharing with a public audience; we dont care whether

George liked the movie, we want to know whether we are liable

to like it (if George writes reviews), or just what made it so enjoyable and interesting, or why it’s worth paying attention to in the

first place, or where it came from and who made it, or what it reveals about the state of the art in general (if George isn't meeting a journalistic deadline and has the time to write full-length criti-

| 1. FILMAPPRECIATION 21

cism). If the film critic makes an evaluation, that rarely springs from matters of sheer personal preference; instead the critic evaluates the film as a film, putting it to a variety of tests. Is this as good a film as it might have been? How has it made use of the cinematic potential of the material? How attentive were the filmmakers to (the critics favorite) technical and aesthetic problems? What does this film set out to teach its audience, and what means does it use to reach that audience? What wonderful ideas does it

give rise to? And so on. ,

But to ask all possible questions and to take on a film comprehensively, whole-hog, may fling open too many doors at once; the critical discussion might not achieve sufficient focus to yield insights of value. Therefore the critic has access to a variety of critical methodologies, each of which, in its own way, facilitates and clarifies the encounter with the text. The text or work, here, might be thought of as a painted splinter that is being analyzed in a lab; first one looks at it through a microscope (Method A), then one might dunk it in a test tube full of some useful solution and run it around

in a centrifuge (Method Q), and so on, until one compares the results and finds out what it is. ©

Methodologies are tools of analysis as well as areas of critical concern. Those who specialize in feminist critical methodologies, for example, are likely to be concerned with feminist issues. A work may be extremely diverse, but a methodology will ask a cer-

tain question of it and will be best equipped to work with the answer it receives to that particular question. In other words, if you ask what kind of a Western Michael Cimino’s Heaven's Gate (1980) is, and concentrate on that aspect of the work, you may not find out very much about the images of women, or the conceptual space within which the diegesis (see the glossary) takes place, or whatever. The critic who has worked long with a variety of critical tools and approaches learns eventually which set of tests and questions will unlock not simply one aspect of a work but the entire work and the best of its secrets. Say that the work is a screw that needs tightening; the critic might take a hammer out of the toolbox, but the better choice, in this case, would be the screwdriver. The film student's critical toolbox includes a growing number of methodologies, which are systematic ways of tackling and thinking about a subject. These include auteur criticism, deconstruction, genre analysis, political criticism, production analysis, semiotic analysis, and more. None of these is inherently better than any other, but some are more useful for particular applications and some are especially useful to the beginner. Semiotics, the study of signs, will be taken up in the next major section of this part of the book, “Parts and Wholes”; deconstruction will have to wait until the discussion of Flashdance in Part III. Ideological criticism in general takes up a significant portion of “Film and Society” in Part III. But some of the others will be introduced shortly, and all of them are used at various times throughout this book. Beyond the matter of analyzing works of art or social conditions, and as a direct extension of that activity, the critic is often in the

22 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD |

process of exploring (or reflecting a commitment to) a certain view of the world and a system of values. Most people are. But the critic is especially concerned with the ways those matters find expression and focus in the subject at hand, in other words, with applying the system of values and the work (or whatever) to each other. Critics share the assumption that things are worth talking about. That implies that discourse itself matters. A significant critical work is not just a parasite on the body of

some other work or problem. It is a work on its own, an original |

contribution to human thought. That is not to say that a review is independent of the film it is reviewing, nor a film history free of its period; it is to suggest that the best critical works are also able to stand on their own merits and that they have their own things to say. Many of the more interesting critical works are those that directly tackle major and even philosophical matters (a school that dates at least from Matthew Arnold), rather than specific works. Others set up a dialogue with the text or problem under discussion, to see where its leads can lead; a movie can prove a jumpingoff place for an original argument, a kind of pre-text. Among those whose criticism sets up this level of intense dialogue with the cinema and with movies, André Bazin and Stanley Cavell are eminent examples.

Criticism can be playful or somber in tone and method, but it is almost always both serious and creative. An idle critic does not hold an audience, nor does one who reveals ignorance about the subject. The seriousness of criticism lies in its commitment to sorting out things that need to be sorted out. That can be a matter of separating the true from the false, the great from the ordinary, or the irresponsible from the necessary. If someone wrote a book saying that heroin was good for you, a critic would take seriously the effort to set the author and the public straight — assuming that the critic had carefully researched the issue before forming a judgment. The creativity of criticism is often a matter of bringing things into new combinations, putting this idea next to the other, or testing that movie against both of those methodologies. Creativity itself has often been defined as the ability to achieve fresh juxtapositions. An intellectual structure can have just as much beauty as any other, and it can require just as much artistic skill to bring an argument into a satisfying balance as to write a poem or to design an interior.

Values and Value Judgments. A critic wants to make sense of something, to show what's going on. In most cases, he or she is ,

committed to a model of the truth, and “truth” is a word that means different things to different people, like “reality.” It is a

cultural fact that value systems vary among different groups and periods; they also change and develop. That relativistic perspective does not tell us anything about what might be going on outside the system of human values, nor about whether any particular view of the truth corresponds to The Truth. But however the critic happens to think about his or her values and sense of the truth,

1.FILMAPPRECIATION 20

else, if not more so.

the odds are that he or she believes in them as much as in anything

When the film critic tests a movie against a vision of the possibilities of film, that vision is being tested as much as the film is. If

a terrible picture moves a critic to denounce it as a betrayal of cinema, it is the value system of cinema, as that critic sees it, that is being defended. And the critic does not simply defend a vision

| of the true and the good, but continually re-examines and attempts to improve it. In the best cases, the critic does not assign value but finds it, opens it up to the light. Critically, the bottom line is_ rarely a matter of “good film/bad film,” but instead a spirit of working with and honoring a film and the questions it gives rise to. When reading evaluative criticism, it is important to remember

that value judgments change and develop, even as value systems and conceptual models do. The Academy Awards provide an example of an implicitly critical, evaluative system. True, the Oscars —

are not awarded by critics, and sometimes the judgments of the members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences utterly fail to jibe with both critical and box office judgments. But they are awarded as the direct reflection of a clearly understood set of standards (in this case, professional ones), and they have followed a relatively consistent logic over a long history. So it may

, be of interest to offer Academy Awards as value judgments that reflect their specific origins as well as some of the general attitudes of the times in which they were awarded. In 1952, the year of John Ford’s The Quiet Man, the Oscar for

Best Picture went to Cecil B. DeMilles The Greatest Show on

Earth. That is a value judgment that most people today would not support, even within the Academy. The inherent characteristics of the two pictures have not changed in the meantime, but some of the ways in which we think about the cinema have. In 1947, the Best Picture Oscar went to Elia Kazan’s Gentlemans Agreement, a “problem picture’ about anti-Semitism. But these days, Gentlemans Agreement looks stodgy and tame compared to Edward Dmytryk’s Crossfire, which was also in nomination. And the 1947 films that have the greatest interest today, utterly eclipsing Gentleman's Agreement (which is lost somewhere in Outer Late Show), are the films noirs, the dark melodramas, like Henry Hathaway's Kiss of Death. All this shouldn't imply that “we now know the truth and those poor fools couldn't see their

| own period correctly.” There has simply been a change of emphasis, a change in the way we see things and in what we find of

interest.

In the Best Supporting Actor category, both Richard Widmark and Edmund Gwenn were nominated; Gwenn won. Gwenn had played St. Nicholas in George Seaton’s Miracle on 34th Street and had done so brilliantly. Widmark had played the sleazy creep who pushed an old woman in a wheelchair down a staircase in Kiss of Death. Today Widmark’s performance is considered a definitive example of great character acting. He won, from our perspective, the larger contest. At some future time, Gwenn’s performance

24 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD ,

may well come to look better than Widmark’s, as it apparently did

to the Academy in 1947. What will be interesting is the critical shift that would make such a value judgment defensible. Outside the realm of the Academy, there are countless examples of analogous shifts in critical consensus. In the early 1960s, for instance, Douglas Sirk’s melodramas were not given serious attention while Michelangelo Antonionis masterpieces were being acclaimed and

argued about around the world. Today Sirk’s Imitation of Life (1959) is held in higher regard by many critics, and is certainly

more widely discussed, than Antonioni’s La Notte (1961). , As much as some artists bemoan the reception of their works by , critics or complain that critics have no understanding of what it ,

means to be on the front lines, it is also true that the critic is on another kind of front line — that of reception and analysis — and

that it is important for the artist to feel that “someone is listening,” _ that a well-informed critic is out there to pay attention to what the artist may have achieved. Training yourself as a student is much the same as training yourself to be a critic. You learn the subject as deeply as possible, feeling your way through its structures and implications, trying to see it from the inside and the outside. In the process, you learn what matters about the subject and how that might relate to other things that matter. And as you learn to explain the subject to yourself, you also discover the urge to communicate that understanding to others, to explain to them what you have learned. In that sense the critic is always on the edge between student and teacher —

and so is the artist.

Critical Options. A methodology is a kind of filter, and it can make the subject easier to see or reduce its “colors” to a single wavelength. The following are some of the more widely applied methodologies.

The Auteur. Auteur criticism posits that a significant film has an author or a guiding creative intelligence. That person, usually the director, becomes the offscreen site or implicit source of coherence. This is one way of accounting for the apparent “intentionality” of what is clearly a collaborative effort. A film like A Clockwork Orange could be analyzed not just as an independent work but as a segment of Kubrick’s artistic devel-

- opment. One might work up a “biography” of Kubrick's imagina- , tion, arguing, for instance, that Kubrick has always been interested in irony and that he has found different ways to express it. One of his early melodramas, The Killing (1956), was about a robbery, and it ended as the loot spilled out of a suitcase and blew all over the landscape. (That image itself could be compared with the ending of John Huston’s The Treasure of the Sierra Madre [1948], where the gold dust is blown back to the mountain it came from; in that case, one would be examining how movies build on, influence, and refer to each other, which is one aspect of cinematic

1.FILMAPPRECIATION 29

“intertextuality.”) In Paths of Glory (1957) Kubrick exposed the self-serving hypocrisy of the officer class in World War I, but the irony exploded into anger. Not since Paths of Glory has a Kubrick protagonist “lost his cool” as the colonel (played by Kirk Douglas) does in that film, spelling out for the audience that the bad guys are bad guys. In Dr. Strangelove irony is the dominant tone, and there is no inner “lecture” about what constitutes good and bad behavior; instead, virtually everyone in the film is a little crazy — or a lot — and the tone of “black humor” is unrelieved. In 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) the Kubrick world appears to have turned much colder. The editing rhythms have nothing like the urgency and complexity of those in Dr. Strangelove (which is, in fact, one

, of the best-edited films of its decade); instead Kubrick begins to pursue what has been called a “one-point-per-scene’ method. 2001 can be interpreted as the point where Kubrick’s cinema

turned cerebral and where his ironies came under very tight control. A Clockwork Orange is so thoroughly and unrelievedly ironic that it is difficult to find in it any positive vision for the human race. Although that tone tended to jibe with Burgess's, it was a bit foreign to Thackeray's Barry Lyndon, which Kubrick adapted in 1975, and had nothing whatever to do with Stephen King’s The Shining, which Kubrick adapted in 1980. His next film was Full Metal Jacket in 1987.

But The Shining, which builds on the heartless elegance of A Clockwork Orange — particularly in its production design and color scheme, all that clean white and red — is a very interesting film in its own right, and where King’s story is explicable, Ku-

: brick’s is not. Instead it is a cold labyrinth, and the camera tracks

through the ¢orridors of the Overlook Hotel just as it does through the hedge maze and through the twists of the story; it is all a labyrinth, a telepathic trap, and at its center is a frozen victim. It is also interesting to note that A Clockwork Orange is the first Kubrick film to have a first-person narrator, that Barry Lyndon experiments with a more impersonal voice-over narrator, and that The Shining tackles the problem of subjective vision even more rigorously than 2001. The point of all this would be to show how Kubrick has developed as an artist, to set A Clockwork Orange in the context of a coherent body of work. That would not have to be done in terms of authorial irony or narrative sophistication. One could just as easily examine the differences between Kubrick's color and blackand-white movies, or his American and British ones, or those he wrote alone and those that were co-written with Jim Thompson (a novelist of bitter genius, author of Savage Night and The Killer Inside Me, who worked on The Killing and Paths of Glory), or his reasons for adapting certain novels. To carry out such discussions, however, it is necessary to have some proof that Kubrick has, in fact, been the guiding artistic intelligence of the pictures he has directed. Auteurism works well with Kubrick because he has written or co-written most of the scripts he has directed, in addition to acting

26 = PARTI. FILMAND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

as his own producer or co-producer. There is a great deal of power

associated with approving a production design, telling people where to put the camera and what to do with it, and insisting that actors perform a scene in a certain manner, and so it is often reasonable to think of the director as the “maker” or “author” of a

movie. On the other hand, you will not learn much about The , Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1919, rel. 1920) by studying the career of its director, Robert Wiene, for Wiene contributed much less to that picture than did its writers, its producer, its designers (whom he did help to select), and the first director assigned to the project (Fritz Lang).

Production History. Another methodology that can prove useful, then, is production analysis. This is a matter of finding out just

what happened, both on the set and in the front office, when a particular picture was being planned and made, and then applying that information when examining the finished product. In studying Caligari, a look at the production history reveals that the basic story concept — which can be found in the original screenplay — was modified by the producer (Erich Pommer) and by Lang before

Wiene ever got his hands on it; the bright idea the three of them , shared, which was that the tale should be told by a lunatic, sabotaged what Janowitz and Mayer had written. Wiene cannot take

exclusive credit for that interesting disaster, but he is often awarded it. What remains is a very intriguing movie, and one of

the more effective ways to sort it out is to examine the different ideas that its various makers held about it as it was being readied for shooting. It can be just as important to know when the filmmakers might have run out of money, whether the film was taken out of the director's hands during the editing process, whether the ending was changed in response to preview reactions, and so on.

Sometimes a creative act turns out to have begun as the solution |

to a technical or economic problem. In the movies this is practi-

cally the rule. During pre-production on The Shining, for instance, there were serious attempts to design mechanical special effects that could realize King’s shape-shifting animal hedges, but

the results were unsatisfactory and very expensive. The hedge ,

maze, with its high, wide corridors, was easier to construct, and it ,

was used as a departure for the design of the hotel. The result was

that the hotel corridors became a related maze, and the whole

picture was structured as a labyrinth. Even if it was not “true” to King's concept, the maze had a visual and dramatic integrity of its own. The point is that none of this was part of the original plans for the movie — yet it dominates the finished work. In another sense, production analysis is, quite literally, the analysis of a production. On a general level, a film crew may subscribe to or reflect an attitude (which might even be an industry-wide

consensus during a particular phase of film history) in regard to ,

what constitutes good filmmaking practice. The specific manner in which a film is shot may reflect not just industry standards, however, but virtual ideologies of shooting. A cultural code may be

1. FILMAPPRECIATION 27

embedded in the consistently different framing of men and women in midshot, for example, or in the ways the gauze filter comes and goes in Gone With the Wind, depending on which actress is on-

. screen. The overall manner in which Hollywood films were shot in the 1930s or 1940s (the highpoint of the “classical Hollywood | cinema ) is of considerable interest in itself, and to recognize it as a relatively consistent structure, however complex, is to have a handle on the movies whose form and manner it determined.

Reading the Mise-en-Scene. Mise-en-scéne analysis is the study of the “look” of a film, the selection and organization of the elements of the image. A movie can be full of meanings that are

almost entirely visual.

, In Citizen Kane, for instance, there is a moment when Kane (played by the director, Orson Welles) walks between facing mirrors that extend his image into infinity (see Fig. 2-125). While the

“story element here may be simply that Kane walks down the _ corridor, the implications of the image are vast: notably that Kane is himself an unknowable figure, an infinite series of reflections — like the versions of him presented by those who “knew” him — rather than a single object. The key elements in the mise-en-scéne here are the mirrors and the angle from which one of them is seen

by the camera. , When performing this kind of analysis, pay attention to the lay-

out of the visual field. Ask what the camera is doing while the characters go about their business, and notice how the actors are arranged and where they move.Check out the sets and props, the lighting, the shadows, the color scheme. Look for recurring images or compositions and ask yourself what they may have to do with the overall project of the film. Ask why, for instance, a character steps into the shadows while saying a particular line. In the case of The Shining, it is a real key to the picture to notice that the corridors of

_ the hotel and of the hedge maze are similar, and one could go on from there to compare the ways in which the camera moves down

the trenches in Paths of Glory.

Tales and Telling. Narrative structure can be studied in many kinds of films, not only in those that tell stories. To narrate is to tell, to present something to an audience and often to color that presentation with a particular point of view or way of seeing the subject — whether or not that subject is imaginary. In the case of A Clockwork Orange, you will not get very far without asking what Alex contributes as the narrator. Is this his vision of the world, or

Burgess’s, or Kubrick’s, or that of the film as a whole? We have already considered the triptych form of Clockwork’ narrative structure, so let us take up a more ambitious example. In Citizen Kane, the complexity of the narrative structure is particularly interesting. On the one hand, it is a series of “inner narrations (preceded by a newsreel), visualizations of the monologues delivered about Kane by several different characters. Those inner

renditions are sometimes highly subjective, and as we look at 28 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

them, we notice what they reveal about their tellers as well as

about Kane, their ostensible subject. On the other hand, the camera itself functions as a kind of narrator, a more objective one, and part of the fun of watching that movie is to sort out the objective

from the subjective, to navigate our attention among the various kinds of narration that are going on, often simultaneously.

Genres and Codes. Genre analysis takes for its point of departure what kind of film a film is. Within the domain of the narrative film, there are such major genres as the Western, the mystery, the

romantic melodrama, and so on. It would be hard to say much about 2001 without acknowledging that it is a science fiction film and wondering how it relates to other works in the same genre. By the same token, The Shining is a horror film, Barry Lyndon is

a period piece, and Dr. Strangelove is a political satire. But A Clockwork Orange is a bit more problematic. Set in the future and full of intriguing techology (notably the conditioning equipment), it has claims to being science fiction. But it may be more precise

and more useful to think of it as a satire, in the Swiftian mode, and |

to identify its genre as that of the dystopia, or the vision of a society ,

with which something is terribly wrong. Since the dystopian fiction is often set in the future (from Samuel Butler's Erewhon to Aldous Huxley's Brave New World), it may well be considered a subgenre of science fiction in any case, but the value of considering Clockwork a dystopia is to lay the emphasis on its social satire rather than on its attitude toward the continuing drama of human- | ity and technology, or on the ways it re-imagines the limits of the possible. To decide what genre a picture belongs to is to make a decision

about its narrative project, what it appears primarily to be at-

tempting to accomplish. A horror film, for example, often sets out , to scare the audience, just as a musical often attempts to generate terms of artifice. Some pictures follow generic formulas closely and try to live up to them, but it is just as common for a picture to play with generic expectations and even to work against them.

at once. |

And there are many films that cannot be neatly pigeonholed into particular genres or that set out to work in terms of several genres

It often happens that the recurring figures, images, and story

situations of a genre are used as a kind of coded reference system, a nonverbal shorthand. In the early Westerns, for instance, black and white hats had relatively consistent meanings: white for good, black for bad. One way to complicate that moral universe might

have been to dress the hero in a black hat. The audience would

begin by recognizing the black hat as a sign of a bad guy — through familiarity with other Westerns and their narrative conventions — and then go on to enjoy the ways in which this film plays with and against the codes of the Western. In some cases, familiarity with generic conventions can be a key to the problematic aspects of a work. At the end of John Ford's The

Searchers (1956), Ethan (played by John Wayne) walks off into the | 1.FILMAPPRECIATION 29

landscape even though he has the opportunity to settle down. The hero of George Stevenss Shane (1953) does the same thing. In fact, many Westerns end this way, for reasons that genre analysts continue to probe. Wim Wenders and Sam Shepard's Paris, Texas (1984) ends as the father heads for the hills just when he has, after great difficulty, reunited his wife and son. If Paris, Texas were primarily a romantic melodrama, that ending would make very little sense. But once you realize that Wenders and Shepard were trying to make a modern Western — to examine the survival of that mystique in the West of the 1980s — it becomes clear that the father is simply following out the dictates of the genre, and that recognition opens up the most basic intentions of the movie, that

, is, why this particular story has been conceived in this manner. There are also genres within other major cinematic categories. The nonfiction film is a major category, and some of its genres include the industrial documentary, the home movie, the educational film, the newsreel, and cinéma vérité.

Political Criticism. Rather than a specific methodology, political criticism implements a set of concerns and questions. Typically it adopts, of course, the political vantage point of the critic, who may lean to the left or the right. The critic may be concerned with the issue of social realism, for example, hoping that a particular class or group will be represented in a certain manner in mainstream pictures, or praising an obscure picture because it raises what the critic considers to be the important questions about the world and the ways it is represented on film. Political criticism is attentive to the overt and covert political

, content of specific films as well as to the cinema itself as a political

entity (comparable, perhaps, to a highly expressive and influential member of a community). In general, it seeks to clarify and interpret what a particular movie might be arguing about the proper organization of people in society, the political aspects and dynam-

ics of the relationships among the characters, and the role that film, or the medium of cinema itself, can play in creating and/or reinforcing a set of political attitudes. An interlocking set of attitudes, assumptions, values, and expectations concerning how the world works and ought to work is called an ideology. Although an ideology may be personal, in the sense that an individual or even a text may hold or reflect one, the term normally refers to the system of attitudes and values shared by a group, a subculture, or an entire culture. The members of a society tend to accept the dominant ideology and to ignore it, so that the filter it imposes on their perception of unsocialized reality becomes familiar, automatic, and finally invisible. A good deal of political criticism is concerned with identifying and analyzing the ideological content of specific films and even of certain aspects of

filmmaking practice. : If an ideology is a way of representing and interpreting the

world, it is appropriate to ask how an ideology may be reflected in

a particular system of representation, such as an industry-wide

30 = PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

consensus as to what constitutes good filmmaking, or in a particular representative system, such as a movie. Many critics today value the subversive project of movies that set out to challenge what they consider “the dominant system of representation,’ by

which they often mean continuity editing, the untroubled per-

spective of the normal lens, narrative and thematic closure, and :

characters who are either good, bad, or good/bad. If a movie imposes its way of seeing and organizing the world on an audience (whether its sway is temporary or nagging or, in some cases, overpowering), then the way it has been structured to represent the world is an issue of power, both politically and psychologically.

Texts have real power in a culture; they also express power and , may reinforce power relationships.

A picture may be evaluated, then, in terms of the degree to which it reinforces, undermines, or departs from the dominant ideology, as well as the (related) ways it encodes and represents the “real.” In this light, virtually any film is a political film, whether or not it treats an overtly political topic. A work of art may, however, choose to address a political subject or a representative public concern. In this sense, Alan Pakula’s All the President's Men (1976) is a political film, and so is Costa-Gavrass Z (1969). The critic might evaluate such a film for its historical accuracy or the credibility of its falsehoods; how successfully it puts across or dramatizes a political message; the value of that message; and how likely the movie is to be able to persuade an audience to agree with it or take issue with it. One criterion of value might well be the quality of public discussion (about the issue, not about the film) the movie has been calculated to generate or has proved to have generated. Does the movie provide facile solutions to serious problems? Are facts distorted for emotional or rhetorical

reasons? Does it shove the audience, or lead it, or stimulate independent reactions? The political critic has good reason to investigate the production history as well as the social, historical, and ideological contexts that

affected and are reflected in the cinematic product. It makes a difference, for example, to know that one movie about urban poverty was made by the actual members of a slum and was distrib-

uted through an underground network, whereas another was |

made by the fat cats in Hollywood and was intended to be shown to people who could pay five or six dollars to see it. The former picture might be radical, and the latter either oppressive or “out of touch,” but it would be just as possible that the former would aspire to the conservative narrative structures of the “bourgeois” entertainment film and that the latter would be subversive.

The critic might also examine the politics of audience response: |

Does this film make people comfortable with existing conditions, even if those are unjust and even if it appears to be demanding

some kind of change? The picture may well do that if its story

presents the problem as having been resolved by the actions of the characters. There can be a “worked-out-ness’ to any dramatically

resolved situation, so that the resolution of the story appears to — , 1.FILMAPPRECIATION Sl

settle the problems of the real world. Rambo freed no prisoners, and Mr. Smith did not clean up the real Washington. There are also pictures, like Adrian Lyne’s Flashdance (1983), that almost deliberately present political and social arguments while they appear to be overwhelmingly concerned only with the “personal” problems of the characters. (Part of a thoroughly political perspec- | tive is to see personal problems as political ones in any case, as reflections or specific expressions of more general conditions, but in this case the critic might well point out that a distinct political project is being masked by a personal one.) The success of the main character in Flashdance implies that “America works,” and a

political critic might be especially concerned with pointing out that this “innocent” film is a subtle exercise in propaganda. In the worked-out film, the audience is encouraged to identify

with the character who, in most cases, provides the solution to whatever problem the picture is addressing. That character's

, triumph becomes ours, and we may not notice that the solution has taken place only in the realm of fantasy. Such works are some-

times referred to as “bourgeois art,’ whether or not they have any political project or touch on political subjects. The point is that they provide an escape but also strengthen the prison. What the term “bourgeois art” implies is that such works, produced within capitalist cultures, reflect the interest of the dominant class (in capitalist culture, the middle class or bourgeois, a term that dates back to the middle ages, when a trading class emerged in the towns or “burgs,’ a class that was made up neither of nobles nor of serfs and that exchanged the goods produced by others) or of the government. Assuming that there were some political problem that the official culture (the government and the media) did not want people to worry about and perhaps change, one way to keep the public happy surely would be to encourage them to pay attention to other (resolved) or unreal problems, or to divert their attention into realms of neatened fantasy. The political critic might well wonder about the effects (both on people and on the distribution and exercise of power within the culture) of our

spending our evening hours in front of the tube or in a movie theater. Commercial television can easily be interpreted as a continuous indoctrination in a tightly coordinated world of product preferences, role models, and summarized news, in other words,

an entertaining lecture on the coherence of capitalist culture. Whether or not all this constitutes a conspiracy between government and media, or a coincidence within a consistent ideology, it is hard to shake off that image of a contented audience (and hard not to ask whose interest this engaged passivity might serve), sitting in the dark and having their values reaffirmed, or rehearsing and assuaging their anxieties, or just enjoying some very good art, while outside the theater the real problems of the real world con-

tinue undisturbed. :

But a good audience is not cattle. The playwright Bertolt Brecht found that if the audience's desire to identify with the characters and to believe in the illusion were frustrated or systematically dis-

32 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD |

couraged, the audience might adopt a more critical view of what . was presented. The figures in the play (or movie) could be held at a distance, estranged, rather than embraced and taken as models for fantasy identification. The “estrangement effect” or “alienation effect” stimulates the audience to evaluate the story and to devise its own solutions to the (usually unresolved) problems presented. A number of filmmakers, notably Jean-Luc Godard, have been influenced by Brecht, but there is also a long history of reflexivity

in the cinema that has proved capable of being politicized in a diversity of ways, not only Brechtian ones, and there are many films that set out to engage and heighten the audiences: critical and creative awareness. As suggested before, politically-oriented people tend to view virtually all conditions and relationships as inherently political. Everything becomes a political decision, from the choice of a car to the selection of a pronoun. Nothing is innocent. Any individual film is produced under specific historical conditions and, upon release, becomes an element in the discourse, or the exchange of texts, that is society. And the same may be said, on a much larger scale, of the discourse of film itself, the role that the movies in general play in our lives and in the models we construct for ourselves of how to live. If society is a language system, or even a

cluster of texts, cinema is one of its tongues. What sort of political act is A Clockwork Orange? It has a political subject, perhaps several. Its dystopia is a parody of some aspects of British government and culture as well as a projection of a very oddly socialist future. Its battleground is the familiar one of personal expression and free will versus government control. It appears to argue that this particular government and society (and sociopathic narrator) are the interlocking elements of a nightmare, or in any case that this is no way to run a world. But it makes that world be fun. It appears to endorse Alex’s “cure” on the grounds

that free will is preferable to government control. Furthermore, it , identifies free will with artistic flair and government control with the dreary or horrific. Alex is the one who has style in this picture,

and the picture has style (and the violence is “only stylized vio- ,

lence,” the pain, it was said, not painful), and so to the extent that we appreciate the artistry and clean boldness of the film, the more

we have to be on Alex’s side. We may enjoy Beethoven, too. But | as much as Alex wants us to consider ourselves his “only friends,” some of us may persist in not liking him one bit. We may feel or respect some of that pain, in spite of all the irony. Alex may be

held at arm’s length, not our secret other self but a stranger from , whom we are critically alienated. The estrangement effect, to the

extent that it is a calculated aspect of Clockwork's narrative strat- , egy, augments the film’s satiric project. At such a juncture, political and genre criticism would both be useful. One could go on to ask what Clockwork teaches its audience or encourages them to think about the world. Some have criticized it

for offering pure stylishness as an elitist alternative to political ,

chaos; others have seen it as an oddly direct extension of Dr. | 1. FILMAPPRECIATION 3o

Strangelove and 2001, both of which present politicians in an extremely ironic and unfavorable light. If the generals were yelled

at in Paths of Glory, they were skewered in Dr. Strangelove, brought down to size in 2001, and coldly parodied, in Clockwork, as monsters of genteel power and as air-conditioned bureaucrats. But this is still not a movie that is calculated to side the audience

entirely with Alex and against the government, nor to sprout a generation of punks. It may even have been perceived as an apolitical project. One way to focus and test this is to look critically at

the ways women are portrayed and treated in the film. After watching A Clockwork Orange, do you feel like kicking a woman?

Feminist Criticism. It has been argued that the relations between the sexes are inherently political, that “male” and “female” are as much social classes and power levels as are “noble” and “peasant or “boss” and “worker.” And there clearly are movies that imply that men should do some things whereas women should do others (see the discussion of High Noon in Part III), and that ground those notions in often sexist constructs of what the natures

| of men and women “really” are. One concern of feminist criticism

is to analyze a film for its “images of women,’ in other words, for the evidence of these constructs across a spectrum of roles, role models, and stereotypes. But the image of woman on the screen is itself a problematic one, virtually regardless of what a female character might be shown doing (or doing for a living), and that problem is of very active interest to feminist critics today. Ever since Méliés trotted out a line of showgirls in A Trip to the Moon (1902), the image of woman has been used, among other things, as a spectacle. She compels the gaze. It can be argued that the camera has a more intimate relationship with the faces of Greta Garbo or Ingrid Bergman or Grace Kelly than it has with Gary Cooper, Cary Grant, or James Stewart. It can be argued that Jane Russell is there (on the screen) to be looked at in a different way than James Stewart is. Now it can also be argued that the camera has a more intimate relationship with Henry Fonda than with Jane Fonda, and that male and female viewers have different responses to Grace Kelly and Cary Grant, respectively. But it remains well within the realm of possibility, and has given rise to much valuable

, debate, that the cinema of a patriarchal or male-dominated culture _may be determined by a patriarchal structure of discourse (a patriarchal society or, more precisely, the terms in which that society prefers things to be phrased, which determines the terms and the structure of communication and of self-definition within that society, which itself can be seen as a structure of interlocking texts). There may be a “male camera’ and an implicit male viewer to whom the spectacle of woman is presented, and the female viewer may be prompted to identify with the implicit power of that gaze. Or the camera may be neutral (making all of this a matter of projection, the viewer's reading-in), or neutral only when a woman is not onscreen, and the female viewer may have any of a variety of

34 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

responses to the spectacle and to the camera. These questions are wide open. Feminist criticism has taken many avenues. The examination of woman as a sign, as a spectacle, and as a subject who acts independently has called on and interwoven the disciplines (and the

textual strategies) of semiotics, psychoanalysis, Marxism, and poststructuralism, as well as feminist theory itself. Such a cluster allows the feminist critic to analyze, for example, the ways that human subjects (both onscreen and in the audience) are “ideologically positioned” within the text and in relation to the text, focusing in particular on the ways we are led to read films and on the

ways women are portrayed and defined.

On a less academically complex level, feminist criticism has explored ties with genre theory, film history, and production analy-

sis. The critic may find that it makes a significant difference

whether women were behind the camera as well as in front of it. It could prove of interest, for example, that the role played by Sigourney Weaver in Ridley Scott's Alien (1979) was originally written for a male, or that the crudely exploitative The Slumber Party Massacre (1982) was made by women (directed by Amy Jones and written by Rita Mae Brown). Along with the growing critical interest in women filmmakers (particularly those of Martha

Coolidge’s generation), there has been a real opening-up to women within the industry itself. The majority of job descriptions have been revised so that they will not imply that the job is customarily done by a male or a female: “script girl” is now “script supervisor, for example, and “prop man” is “prop handler,” although “best boy” and “cameraman” remain. Feminist criticism is concerned, among other things, with the politics, or politicized nature, of sex in films. Although the manner

of portrayal of specifically sexual activity is of interest (at one ex-

treme, as it takes place in pornography; at another, in romantic comedy), the more interesting questions revolve around the sex of a character or the power-and-role dynamics of encounters between men and women, mothers and daughters, etc. To examine a movie for what it appears to be saying about — or implicitly in the terms of — sexual politics is one common aspect of feminist criticism, and the field is called that because the feminists were the first to take seriously this set of problems. Nevertheless, males are invited to practice and to learn from feminist criticism, and males are subjects of feminist analysis nearly as often as females are. The “images of men’ in cinema are no less limited and programmatic, and effective as conditioning, than the “images of women.” Women have created many crucial forms of artistic expression:

arguably the dance, certainly the lyric poem (Sappho) and the

novel (Murasaki Shikibu, The Tale of Genji). World literature has, | however, been dominated by males, just as politics has, with the result that we have an extensive library of largely male perspectives on the world. The first autobiography in English, for example, was written by an illiterate woman, Margery Kempe; but

| 1. FILMAPPRECIATION OO

when her male scribe died, the book had to remain incomplete, and it was not even discovered until 1934, some 500 years after the unknown date of her death. In all the films made by men, how has the reality of woman’s experience been expressed? Is the story

, told differently when it is told by women, and is there an emerging gynocentric discourse that may find its own expressive terms and cinematic codes? How would a cinema made by and for women

| proceed, and what might it accomplish? Film can be a way for

women to talk to women, as men have long talked to men; that is of just as much interest as the filmmaking opportunities that have allowed women as well as men to address everybody. Of some movies, one might ask to what extent they represent contributions to a genuinely feminist discourse. Examining a story, one might ask whether the women are active or are acted upon:

whether and how genuinely they are talking to each other; for

, what reasons they have been placed in the foreground or the back-

ground of the image or the action; and whether they are defined primarily in relation to the men around them (that is, as Norma

: Jean Baker, as Marilyn Monroe, or as Mrs. Arthur Miller). Some genres have embedded formulas that may well be considered sexist, like the emblem of “the monster and the (fainted or screaming)

girl.” The death of the beautiful woman, which Poe considered ineffably Romantic, is felt everywhere in the cinema from Camille to Rambo. It may be quite valuable to examine a picture in terms of whether it critiques or throws into question sexist treatments of

, women in the movies as well as in life.

And there are, of course, those films that unabashedly portray women as sex objects, as dependent bubbleheads, as black widows, as helpless victims, and as deserving victims. Some films, like

A Clockwork Orange or like Sam Peckinpah’s Straw Dogs (also 1971), may readily be perceived as “male’ films, comfortably ensconsed in the dominant patriarchal discourse, and may even be

perceived as pernicious and offensive. ,

, Looking at the sexual politics of A Clockwork Orange, there is a great deal of upsetting and problematic material. The film opens with a scene in a drugged-milk bar, and the furniture looks like naked women. One might defend this controversial piece of art | direction by saying that milk, after all, comes from female mammals — but that would be to ignore the implied message that women are furniture. All of the major characters in this film are males. The women appear to matter only because of the ways they

relate to Alex, and they are given a limited repertoire: the ludicrously weepy mother, the half-nude model whose sexiness tests

victim. !

, Alex’s conditioning, the pickups, the rape victims, and the murder _ There is only one woman in the entire film who is presented as being in charge of her own life. She takes care of her body, appreciates art, and lives by herself — with some cats. Alex beats her to death with a phallic sculpture. While that choice of weapon might be taken as an intentional irony, a critique of the “only males and their problems matter” attitude of this picture, the fact is that

36 PARTI. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

only males and their problems do matter in this picture. The au-

dience is manipulated to root for Alex throughout the murder | scene, and the victim is made to look ridiculous. (As observed be-

fore, this is his version.) To add insult to injury, this woman is identified in the cast list not by her name — which would have

acknowledged her existence as a significant character — but sim- | ply as “Catlady.” Thus there is a problem with the so-called existential humanism of A Clockwork Orange, one that seems not even to have occurred

to its makers. Bureaucracy and conditioning are threats to free-

dom, and the major point about Alex is that his freedom, no matter how he exercises it, is morally valuable. But no one in the story seems to care about what happens to the women. They become

sacrifices, the vehicles for Alex’s self-expression, furniture on

which he can rest his storm-trooper boots. And at no point is the audience encouraged to see past or to correct this perspective. It is not a movie about freedom, but a movie about male freedom.

Close Reading. Critical attention is not necessarily a matter of , examining a text in relation to a particular theoretical perspective and by means of a particular analytic methodology. Nor is it necessary to discover who created an effect, or even a whole movie,

in order to enjoy, respect, and interpret it. Although any text is , related to the culture, time, and people that produced it, it is also

an independent and self-contained structure. | Of all the available “methods,” the one that is indispensable and

that is also the most open (in the sense that it requires an open mind and yields results that are often open-ended) is simply that of watching a movie carefully, surrendering to it and seeing where

it goes and how it gets there — in effect, how the movie, as a ,

discourse, proceeds and succeeds; not just what it does right, but what it does; how it works. This is a matter, first, of appreciating the movie as a movie, of

discovering its major terms and observing how they are established, clarified, interrelated, and, in general, played with. It is a matter of finding the rules of a particular text in that text, of ob-

serving it closely and drawing out its apparent meanings. In both ,

literary and film criticism, this process is known as “close reading’ ; it is the equivalent of a long, tight, mental closeup, an intense act

of critical attention to every nuance, every camera movement, every line — in fact, every aspect of the text itself, as it declares

and deploys its major and minor terms. This is, not surprisingly, the primary analytical and critical method followed in How Movies

Work, a book that developed out of the close study of films and whose goal is to demonstrate how meanings are expressed and rec-

ognized in cinematic works. , In 1958 — to take a simple example of a recognizably cinematic

expression — William Wyler’s The Big Country appeared on American screens. It opens with a series of shots of a stagecoach crossing a vast landscape, over which the opening titles are superimposed. The main title, THE BIG COUNTRY, appears over an

, 1.FILMAPPRECIATION OF

extreme long shot of the dry prairie; the coach is approximately in

the middle of the frame, but the camera is so far away that the coach appears small. The wide screen is filled with country. What one immediately notices — or, in any case, is inevitably affected by — is the huge scale of the image. The wide screen format reveals the “bigness” of the country, and the choice of an extreme long shot accentuates just how large and rich a field the wide, color image is capable of surveying. This is, in other words, a deliberate use of the wide format to convey a wide impression, and it reflects back not only on the expanse of the West but also on the expanse of the wide screen. The fact that the coach remains more-or-less

, in the center of the image asserts its dramatic importance and implies that both the lead character (who is, unknown to us, in the coach and on the way to his destiny) and the big country are to be the movie's central subjects — in other words, that the figure and the landscape, microcosm and macrocosm, are of equal importance here; that the story concerns both people and their environment; and, by implication, that the character will have to rise to the demands of the landscape just as the country will itself be changed by the morally elevated actions of the central character. When the main title is superimposed, the music states its principal theme; the music is both exciting and, in its own way, definitive: it points to the central subject and says, in essence, here is the title statement and this is how its essential energy feels. The coming of the title itself accomplishes a similar grounding of the text, a sense of having arrived at the subject, even as it marshalls and releases the narrative momentum, the spectacular drive, of the beginning of a long and dynamic presentation. All of this adds

, up to a spectacle, a wide-screen vista of color, music, and so on — a sense of “big,” of “country,” and of “cinema.” For what one is watching is both a well-calculated long shot and a view of the Old West — the spectacle of the cinema as well as the spectacle of the

immense landscape, both of which light up and somehow erase the front wall of that box full of seats, the theater. It is not absolutely necessary to worry about who devised that juxtaposition of image, music, and title, nor even who took the

, long shot. One could, of course, go to town on the question: read

the script to see whether this shot is described there in this manner, interview people who worked on the set, identify the composer and compare his other work with his work here, etc. The odds are, in fact, that this was a second-unit shot, taken by the second-unit cinematographer, and that its placement was determined by the supervising editor who may, in fact, have orchestrated this entire opening sequence. But for a full appreciation of the credits sequence of this movie, one will necessarily return to the shots themselves: to the ways they have been arranged, to the fact of their projected “presence, and to the ways they, in them-

selves, affect us. |

There is a scene in Fritz Lang’s Fury (1936) that may help to

clarify this way of reading movies. The story concerns Joe Wilson (Spencer Tracy), an innocent man who is accused of murder and

$8 PARTI. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

_ apparently burned to death in his prison cell by a small-town mob As it turns out, Joe survives the conflagration but pretends to be , dead so that his murderers (it is not, as Joe continually points out, |

their doing that he was not actually killed) will be condemned. The ,

ruse demands that Joe's fiancée (Sylvia Sidney) not be told of his survival, because Joe knows that she would not support his re-

venge by lying on the stand. In the end, in order to regain his self- , respect and in the hope of effecting a reconciliation with his be-

loved, Wilson appears in court as the verdicts are being read. ,

About halfway through the movie, Wilson shows up as his broth- , ers are discussing his death. Up until now, Tracy's face has been , | evenly if not brightly lit. Now his face is in shadow, and his

makeup is dark. In raincoat and hat, he appears shrouded, a figure |

of the shadows — and “shroud” and “shade” are terms long asso-

ciated with the dead. Standing in his brothers’ doorway, dressed , and made up and lit as he is, he appears to be (as his brothers see , him) a figure returned from the dead. But the lighting also shows , the brothers, and particularly the audience, that Wilson's charac-

ter and attitudes toward the world have changed. He is now very , , dark inside, and the lighting implies this by darkening his outside. A movie is a structured revelation. Fury opens by establishing

the “terms” of the lovers and of the quality of emotional honesty

and moral innocence they share; this relationship becomes a cri- , terion of value, something for the audience to root for and the , filmmakers to endorse. As the story develops, the lovers are sep-

arated, and we observe how each of them reacts to the devastating , turn of events. Wilson's decision whether to reveal himself to the , court and save his enemies is, in these terms, a decision whether , ,

to continue in his exile and solitude. He chooses relationship and a

human community, and so the separated threads of man and

woman are woven together again at (and as) the resolution of the

story and of its meanings, as Joe and his fiancée embrace. The fact , that this reconciliation occurs in the courtroom asserts that it is . , also a social gesture, a coming to terms with the larger forces of 7 social order and the law. In this way the coming together of the lovers clarifies the healing of the culture and implies a compre- , hensive system of values. The lovers incarnate a value that is chal- | lenged, redefined, strengthened, and mended by the course of

that was fractured at the lynching. , , Two other scenes from Fury reveal some of the fundamental , , events; their reconciliation shows the resetting of the moral order |

pleasures of simply watching a movie for all it’s worth. In a barber ,

shop, where some of the townspeople are discussing the Wilson , a nearby deputy — know that he has often felt the impulse to cut

case, the barber lets the customer whom he is shaving — and a

throats rather than groom them. The camera holds on the barber , and the deputy during the last half of the barber's speech. The

barber then returns his attention to the customer, but the cus- , | tomer has, understandably, disappeared. The flight of the cus- ~ , a tomer is not shown. Instead, the camera pans over to the empty barber chair and then to the front door, which is just swinging 1.FILMAPPRECIATION 69

closed. What the camera is doing here is acting as the vehicle of the barber and deputyss attention, and also of ours; all of us notice, at the same time, that the customer has fled. It would have been possible for the camera to show the man’s leaving and the barber’s _ speaking at once, as they purportedly occurred in the “time of the story, but this particular narrative strategy — of showing the discovery of the man’s just having left — enhances the comedy of the | scene and puts us, for a moment, in the barber's shoes. Out of the | many snippets of time and space and action that might have been shown, these snippets were chosen. These are the time/space fragments that constitute the story and its presentation; this is the path that leads us through these woods; this series of shots is the gold

, vein that runs through this pre-filmic mountain of quartz. The camera, or the particular series of views, charts a path by selecting and following certain actions, certain sections of time and space; this path is the work. Looking at that scene, we can also observe the play of continuity. A shot of a door’s swinging closed need not “mean” anything in particular, but in this context and in this order, this shot implies that the customer (unseen) fled (unseen) for reasons (unseen) that we fill in. We fill in virtually all of this, in fact, supplying the emo-

, tions and the comedy ourselves (which makes them more vivid for

us, more a matter of our own experience) on the basis of a carefully calculated visual hint. We can learn something similar about camerawork and narrative strategy in general by considering the scene in which Wilson feels pursued by his soon-to-be victims, walks hurriedly home, and decides to turn himself in. As he walks down the street, Wilson turns to look over his shoulder. The next shot is of the pavement as it unrolls behind him. What it actually is is simply a low-level tracking shot. The shot of Wilson’s looking behind him and the shot of

the receding pavement work together and encourage us to read them in terms of each other, almost as if there were an invisible staple or “suture” between them. We understand that the pavement shot is taken from Wilsons vantage point and that (since he turned around and since the pavement is receding) he is thinking not of where he is going but of what he is trying to walk away from or, in context, being pursued by (the unseen ghosts of his victims; in other words, his conscience). All we have been doing here is looking at a few shots — as shots, as choices, and as clues. We could well go on to examine Fury in relation to other pictures directed by Lang, noticing the ways it

, relates to his 1931 German picture, M (which is an equally complex treatment of the nature of justice and which also ends with a lengthy trial) and to the other American films he made that dealt with the problem of revenge, such as Rancho Notorious (1952) or The Big Heat (1953). We could study Fury in relation to other courtroom melodramas, other Tracy performances, other MGM pictures of the 1930s, other “problem pictures,” other visions of America directed by recently arrived foreigners, and so on. Wherever you start, the point is to keep going.

40 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD | }

Electric Shatows = == As our tour through A Clockwork Orange has demonstrated, it is possible to say a great many things about a movie, and it is impor- | tant to have a grasp of critical discourse. As a corrective, by way of The Big Country and Fury, we have also seen that simple attention to what is onscreen at a given moment can reveal just as much as can the well-informed application of, say, genre criticism. In film appreciation, it is film and not the critical apparatus that is primary; it is the movies that have the secrets and that reveal them to our patient and involved scrutiny. Accordingly, this book con-

centrates on movies and draws appreciative strategies out of them. , Whether a movie is a controversial piece of “high” art like A

Clockwork Orange, an intensely political and romantic melodrama like Fury, an action spectacle like The Big Country, or a paradox-

ical trap like Dead of Night, it can prove intriguing once you take

terms are. , a close look at it. But before advancing a rigorous critical argument, it is necessary to have a grasp of the art as a whole. Before

analyzing what kind of movie the picture that interests you is, or

how it employs the terms of the art, you have to know what a movie is in the first place and what the most important of those That means that we will have to start from scratch: with the eye and the ear, the screen and the projector, the filmstock and the frame. As a way of anchoring and organizing all this, the discussion will repeatedly touch base with one critical problem and one major text. The text will be Citizen Kane, a phenomenally rich film that

so thoroughly explored the possibilities of the cinema that one could explore the cinema by studying that movie. The critical problem will be the “auteur theory,” and it will be tested against the complex realities of production. But many other films and problems will come under discussion, and we should finish this inquiry with a relatively full understanding of the art, an understanding on which a deep appreciation can be based.

Terms As Tools. None of this is a matter of learning rules, al- , though one does learn a great many terms, like the names for certain kinds of shots and how certain pieces of equipment are used. One learns these because they are the fundamental tools of the craft of filmmaking as well as of film analysis. One doesn't, responsibly, import a slew of terms from literature or psychoanalysis or Marxism and use them to explain what is happening in a film — or at least, if those terms do prove useful and appropriate, one has to set them in relation to the terms of actual film practice. The film student has to learn the filmmaker's language, and beyond that the student or critic has to use that language clearly, not to obscure

matters with a cloud of jargon.

What all this leads to is an understanding not of rules but of

conventions and options. There are many ways of making films, , none of them graven in stone, and the filmmaker has the option of selecting whatever will work — or of inventing something new.

| | 1.FILMAPPRECIATION 419

These options expand with time as more and more films demon, strate new ways of achieving their purposes.

Cinema and the Movies. The first term to learn is cinema, the name for the whole shebang. Cinema denotes the system of film,

; the “language” that all movies “speak’; it is a collective term for motion pictures. The origin of the word tells a great deal about it. When Edison

_ introduced the Kinetoscope (a nonprojecting viewing device) and | the Kinetograph (a camera), he had in mind the Greek word that is also the basis of the word “kinetic”: kinein, “to move.” The Lu-

miére brothers, who were the first to project films for a paying audience (on December 28, 1895), called their integrated camera/ printer/projector the Cinématographe, and the French c eventually replaced the Greek k, leaving the English word “cinema.” The German Kino and Russian kino reveal the same root. Just as “pho- _

tography,” made up of the Greek for “light” (phds) and “to write” (graphein), means something like “writing with light” or “written

, light,” cinematography denotes written movement, or the process - of recording motion. This sense of the motion picture as a picture of motion is not only descriptive; it also shows that what was first considered important about cinema was its ability to capture and re-create the illusion of movement. Its aesthetics, then, are rooted

: in kinetics, and that implies that there is something “uncinematic” , about a movie that doesn't move. Of course, the opinions of those

who coined the word in the late nineteenth century do not have to mandate certain kinds of film practice in the late twentieth cen-

, tury — there have been a lot of good, unmoving images in films — but this is a useful way to understand how “cinema” advances a position about the nature of the art and the process of making movies, while it also functions as a neutral, collective term. Movie began as a slang term for “motion picture.” It too has built into it the implication that movement is the crucial and definitive aspect of a film. It denotes the finished product of the cinematic process, the “speech act” of that “language” (perhaps, to extend the metaphor, a speech act in the “tongue’ of a particular

movies.” | _

, genre). It is also a collective term for motion pictures, as in “the | Film, which is loosely considered interchangeable with both “cinema” and “movie,” specifically denotes the physical medium — the celluloid strip — on which the images are imprinted, although it also refers to the totality of the finished product, as in “that was a good film,’ and to the whole of the art, as in “film appreciation.” If “movie” spotlights the importance of the pictures moving, “film” emphasizes the importance of the plastic ma-

, terial and its specific qualities of transparency, flexibility, the ability to be spliced (taped or cemented together), and so on. In this fairly rigorous context, “cinema” — the medium-specific process of intermittent movement and projection — is what allows “film,” the plastic material, to become a “movie,” or moving picture. Within the industry, an idea that is being considered for pro-

42 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

duction is often called a property, whereas a film that is in production or that has been released is usually called a picture. These terms are revealing and precise: a property is something that can be bought, owned, and sold; a picture is something to look at, to be seen by an audience.

From here, things get a little more complicated. In common usage “cinema, “film,” and “movie” are considered denotatively

interchangeable, whereas their connotations are very different. , “Cinema can refer to a theater, and “film” and “movie” can refer

to what is shown there. If “movie” is a populist term whereas , “film” is a highbrow or academic one, “cinema” can sound positively snooty. The underlying notion that a movie is something to eat popcorn with, whereas a film is something to ponder, is well entrenched, though it is unfortunately misleading. Any motion picture, if it is good enough, is there to be appreciated in the full-

est sense. _ , Most countries refer to motion pictures by some variant of “cinema, that is, of “to move’ + “to write.” The Chinese, however, have.an extremely interesting term, dianying, which means

“electric shadows.” In this word the emphasis is not on the content of the image (on whether it is a moving or a still picture) nor on the process of its recording, but on what the spectator sees in the theater: the shadows cast on the screen as the electrically gener-

ated light is blocked and filtered by the frame in the projector.

The implication here is almost like that in Book VII of Plato’s Re- , public, where the world is compared to a cave in which an audience is shown only the shadows of real things, and in which it is argued that one must leave the cave entirely if one is to find out what is ultimately Real. Whether or not a Platonic interpretation of cinema proves useful, dianying puts its finger squarely on the problem of the nature of the image and its relation to reality, while

also grounding itself in the theatrical experience. :

Sherlock Jr. There are two sequences in Buster Keaton’s Sher-

lock Jr. (1924) that address all of these problems. Keaton plays a |

projectionist (call him Buster) who wants to be a detective. At one

point, despondent at being rejected by his girlfriend for a theft that he didn't commit, Buster goes to the theater and starts up the movie Hearts and Pearls. Then he falls asleep, and his dream self

leaves the projection booth and eventually jumps into the screen. ,

What he has to learn is that film (and fantasy) work in a manner different from the world. For one thing, a film can be cut. The landscape begins to shift instantaneously, suddenly yanking Buster

from a garden to the middle of a busy city street. At one point he | finds himself on a rock in the ocean; he starts to dive into the

water, but there is another cut, and he lands in a snowbank. Eventually he is incorporated into the image — so that he is not left in the same screen position while everything around him shifts with every cut — and takes on the idealized fantasy role of “Sherlock Jr.” When he wakes up, the audience has to make a similar image— reality shift, thinking of him not as “Sherlock Jr.” but as “Buster”

1. FILMAPPRECIATION 40

again, while remaining aware all along that he is also “Keaton,” the

actor and director. :

The girlfriend is in the projection booth now, having proved

: herself the better detective and discovered the thief. Their engagement is on again, but Buster is hopelessly shy. He looks

through the window of the projection booth, at the end of Hearts

| and Pearls, which is still being shown. He takes his cues about

what to do from what is done by the people on the screen — conveniently, a romantic couple. When the screen hero kisses the heroine, Buster kisses his girlfriend; when his role model produces an engagement ring, so does Buster. But what to do next? On the

theater screen there is a fade-out on the romantic couple and a fade-in on them as a married couple with children. This transition — which has discreetly skipped over the reproductive process — leaves Buster scratching his head, because he cannot figure out how to accomplish such a shift in the physical world. He doesn't yet know where movies come from. What Buster has to learn, and what Keaton is showing us, is that the cinema has its own way of working. We may use movies as a vehicle of escape or of fantasy, as Buster does when he imagines

, himself to be Sherlock Jr., “the world’s greatest detective.” We

may confront them as a metaphysical problem, as Buster does in the landscape montage and at the end in the projection booth. We may enjoy the ways in which they are able to refer to their own processes, the way Sherlock Jr. is a reflexive film — that is, a film

| , that calls attention to the fact that it is a film. But no matter what,

we have to know what we are looking at before we try to maneuver

our imaginations through the world of the movies. We have to _ know how they are different from the physical world, what are the

terms of their art and the tools of their craft, who makes them, why people watch them, and what they are capable of meaning.

, We have to know what movies are and how they work.

44 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

Our experience of the world is a relationship. Between the sub- |

jective reality of the self — our thoughts, emotions, and physical

condition — and the objective reality of the external environment, 2. Paris and ,

we draw connections so rapidly and efficiently that we are often , |

pieces of information. unconsious of the process. Yet even the simple impression of walk- Wholes ing down the street is something we construct out of a great many

The feet feel the pressure of pavement, shoe, and sock. The skin , , feels the temperature of the air. The inner ear adjusts to the pull of gravity and to shifts in position, maintaining the body's balance

and equilibrium. Muscles all over the body contract and stretch, | sending messages without which coordination would be impossi-

ble. The nose samples the environment, reporting a pleasurable sensation from the new-mown grass on the left, an unpleasant one

from the car exhaust on the right. The ears and brain decipher

sound waves into a robin, a chittering squirrel, the wind, a car that OO

needs engine work, the shoes on the pavement. The eyes discern , color, shape, depth, movement, and distance, seeing the street,

the grass, the car, the animals, and a good portion of the body.

And the conscious mind selects which of these items is to receive |

particular notice, shifting from the robin to the reason for taking | this walk — the memory of an appointment, perhaps, and the plans for what to do upon arrival — in some manner inhabiting

of who the person is.

the past, the present, and the future at once, while holding a sense | ,

The sense of being oneself and of being in a place and time, which feels like a whole, is an automatic accomplishment, an integration of data from inside and outside the body. Even if the

mind, in this example, may be entirely preoccupied with the ap- |

pointment that will start in five minutes, the brain keeps doing its

job, both reporting on and constructing the relationship of subject and object, self and world.

Fragmentation and Synthesis = == SEE | We are always making connections. Consider the eyes and the fact | that we have two of them. Each eye receives a two-dimensional image, and that image is inverted as light passes through the lens. |

The brain does not simply accept the information on the retina; it ,

knows, through experience, to turn that information upside down , ,

— that is, “right” side up — so that the visual impression will a coincide with the way things are in the outside world. The brain receives two flattened and inverted images, each of them com- | plete. Computing the parallax created by the angles at which each

eye sees the objects before it, the brain constructs an impression ,

of a three-dimensional image that neither eye can see, and this , ,

hallucination is what we take for granted as visual experience.

What the eye cannot see at all — X-rays and so on — we may ,

consider irrelevant or somehow not there.

45

Or consider language. Each word is an individual symbol, a frag-

ment of a referential system. To express a complete thought, we usually have to string words together in a sentence. And to interpret a sentence, we have to break it down into its components, understanding each word both as an independent symbol and in relationship to the symbols that surround it. A sentence is a whole, and it is made up of parts. The most obvious such parts are the

individual words; others include such syntactic structures as , phrases and clauses, which may be thought of as subsystems. There is a difference between a string of words and an understood sentence, and that difference may be a response to the “sys-

: temness or the systemic coherence of the organized parts. A system, as a whole, is greater than the sum of its parts, just as a working automobile is something more than a ton of car parts. To learn to read is to discover how words work individually and in significant arrangements, to unlock the secrets of the linguistic system. When speaking or listening, writing or reading, we are always breaking wholes down into fragments and reassembling fragments into wholes, and that activity is not very different from the normal process of integrating sensory data into a model of the

world around us. ,

Frames and Shots. We draw on much the same skills when watching a movie. Although the soundtrack is continuous, the picture track consists of a series of individual still pictures. Fig. 1-2 is a diagram of a section of 35mm film. The width of a

piece of film is called its gauge, and most movies are shot and printed onto stock that is 35 millimeters wide. Other commonly used gauges are 8mm, 16mm, and 70mm. Running down the outer edges of the film are regularly spaced perforations called sprocket

holes; these are engaged by toothed wheels, or gears, called sprockets, so that the film can be advanced and stopped in the camera and in the projector. Each individual picture is called a frame, and in most 35mm systems, each frame is four sprocket-

holes high. The unexposed area between frames is called the frame line. The soundtrack runs between the frames and the left sprocket holes. In 16mm there is only one line of sprocket holes (on the left side), each frame is one sprocket-hole high, and the soundtrack runs down the right side, as shown in Fig. 1-3. There are 16 frames per foot of 35mm film and 40 frames per foot of 16mm film. In almost all cases, sound film is projected at 24 frames per sec-

ond (abbreviated 24 fps). This projection rate was standardized with the advent of the “talkies.” Silent films usually ran at between 16 and 20 fps; the higher rate of 24 fps yielded better sound fidel-

ity, and in any case sound required a predictable and consistent projection rate. The length of a silent film was measured in feet, meters, or reels; the length of a sound film is measured in minutes. A reel is approximately 950 feet of 35mm film, with a maximum length of 1,000 feet, and approximately 380 feet of 16mm film, with a maximum length of 400 feet. At the more-or-less standard

46 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

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Figure 1-2 | ) _ Figure 1-3 | | silent projection rate of 16 fps, a full reel took about 15 minutes to | project; at sound speed, a reel lasts about 10 minutes. The standard projection reel today holds up to 2,000 feet of 35mm film, but “one reel” remains a standard, if approximate, unit of measure. One process that is peculiar to the cinema (in other words, “medium-specific’) is that of generating the impression of a moving

picture. Like a still camera, a movie camera can take only one picture at a time, and the same is true of a projector, which can show only one frame at a time. The strip of film does not move during the split second necessary to expose the negative or to shine a light through the image onto a screen. In both camera and projector, the film moves intermittently, driven and stopped by the sprockets, which, in turn, are driven by a crank or a motor. When the film is held still, a rotating plate with one or more wedges cut out of it (the shutter) is positioned so that an open wedge is between the film and the light source, allowing the light to expose the frame from the front (in a camera) or to shine through

it from the back (in a projector). While the film is moving from

one exposure or projection position to another, the shutter is 2.PARTSAND WHOLES 47

closed — that is, shut. The shutter is open about the same amount of time that it is closed; therefore, for about half the time we are watching a movie, the screen is totally dark.

The flicker from which the “flicks” got another one of their names is caused by the opening and closing of the shutter during projection. Below 12 fps, this flicker is extremely distracting; at 16 fps, it becomes relatively unnoticeable — to the conscious mind, that is. But the brain works very rapidly and is, on some level, aware of each frame as a still picture and of the dark intervals. To render the flicker even less noticeable, it is now common for each frame to be shown and blocked out as many as four or five times, , depending on the design of the shutter. There will still be a new frame every twenty-fourth of a second, but the flicker rate might be as high as 120 per second.

, The illusion of motion in a movie depends on a physiological quirk and a mental process. As it happens, the retina retains a brief afterimage of each still — a quirk that is enhanced by keeping the

theater dark, so that each frame makes a particularly distinct impression. This effect, called the persistence of vision, accounts for our not being especially aware of the darkness between frames,

because the retina continues to “see” the image even when the screen is dark. When a coin is spun and both sides appear to be superimposed, or when a burning stick is whipped in rapid circles and we see curlicues rather than a moving orange point, those “unreal” sights are the product of persistence of vision.

But that effect is not enough to account for the impression of movement. The eyes see one distinct frame after another — successive glimpses, for example, of a hand in the act of waving. The brain applies the real-world laws of cause and effect to this series of stills and deduces that the hand must have moved from one photographed position to another — and so we imagine that we have actually seen the object move. This process, called the phi phenomenon, is comparable to the hallucination of a noninverted three-dimensional field generated by the brain from what the eyes actually register: two inverted two-dimensional images from predictably different vantage points. On the very simplest level, then, watching a movie involves making connections among fragments (frames) and generating a holistic impression, even if most of this

, is done without conscious effort. 7 , A more conscious process is involved in making connections between one moving picture and another. It is very unusual for a

movie to consist of only one shot. |

A shot is a continuously exposed piece of film, or the view provided by that continuous series of frames. In camera terms, a shot

, begins when the camera is turned on and ends when the camera is turned off, although on the set that continuous exposure might be called a take, that is, an attempt to get a shot on film (one may

shoot many takes before being satisfied with the shot). In the terms of a completed film, or from the perspective of the editor, however, a shot begins and ends with a cut or with some other

transitional device, such as a wipe oradissolve. =

43 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD |

A shot may also be thought of as a printed take, in other words, a take that is approved by the director and is printed (copied) so that the editor can cut it into the film. The editor may divide a single take into several shots or may use only part of the take as a single shot. A shot can be as short as a single frame, though most last for a few seconds. When an edited shot lasts longer than a minute, it is

sometimes called a long take. To cut or edit a film is to join its :

shots together physically into the order in which they are intended , to be projected. | It is impossible to take a picture of the whole world at once. |

(Even from outer space, the camera would see only one half of the planet at a time.) Instead, the photographer or filmmaker selects a portion of the visible field and records that in a still or a shot. The movie audience watches each shot and is led — by the film-

maker or by an understanding of basic cinematic conventions — ,

to assemble those parts into a conceptual or spatial whole. In Shot . A, for example, we may see a man who is leaning against a brick wall and looking to his right while doffing his hat and saying, “Hello.” Shot B may show a woman who is leaning against a brick

wall and looking to her left. In the absence of further information, , we would assume that the man in Shot A is saying “Hello” to the

woman in Shot B, that they are looking at each other, and that they are leaning against the same wall. If the woman looks up and points to something at the end of Shot B, and Shot C shows a flying

bird, we would assume not only that she is pointing at that bird

— which might have been photographed five years ago in Tibet, , for all we know — but also that the sky in Shot C is above what we can see in Shots A and B, even if it has not been shown in Shot A or B.

The world is a whole, but the filmed world is usually a series of selected fragments. Our experience of the visible world is itself constructed out of a series of glimpses. The eyes do not simply stare and absorb; they move about almost continually. The part of the retina where the optic nerve joins it is blind, and only one portion of the retina (the fovea) is extremely acute. The eyes keep — moving — in what are called “saccades” — in order to direct the fovea toward the thing we want to see best at the moment. These

saccadic movements are so brief and rapid that we accumulate many distinct perceptions into an impression of a focused visual field.

It is easy to test this process by looking at someone who is watching a train pass by. While the person may have the simple

experience of seeing that train, the eyes will flick back and forth, ,

directing the fovea to one car after another. Even when people make eye contact, unless they are having a staring contest, their eyes dart from one part of the face to another: the mouth, the hair, this eye, the other eye. One reason that television induces a kind of mental numbness is that the screen is so small that saccadic movements are minimalized and, with them, the degree of conscious alertness. (Reading, conversely, stimulates mental alert-

| 2.PARTSAND WHOLES 49

ness.) In a movie, where the image is larger, the eye moves about in the visual field much as it does in the physical world, taking in various bits of information and integrating them into a sense of the whole. Much of the art of making an interesting film is in keeping the audience's eyes moving, not just to forestall boredom — which would set in quickly if the viewer were not distracted from the experience of simply sitting in the dark for hours — but also to trick the brain into thinking that it is looking at or moving around

within something like the real world.

The Filmed World. There are many ways in which the image on a movie screen is not like the brain’s impression of the visible world. Most obviously, it is two-dimensional, like the image seen by one eye. The black perimeter of the image does not correspond to our experience of the limits of peripheral vision. Only a part of the visual field can be shown at a time — something that frustrates amateur or home movie makers, who often attempt to defeat the

, limits of the frame by panning and tilting all over the landscape, trying to fit it all into one shot. Size relationships are constantly

, changing, so that a face may be twelve feet high at one moment and two feet high the next. A black-and-white image converts colors to shades of gray, and even a color film has a limited rep-

ertoire of dyes and chemicals. | It has been argued that it is the ways in which film is not like reality that allow it to be an art. Rudolf Arnheim, for one, made the case that because the frame cannot include the whole visual world and is limited by a black rectangle, the border can be used as a structuring principle, like the frame of a painting. An image can be composed in relation to the shape and limits of the frame, and to include or exclude part of the visual field can become a matter of artistic choice. Black-and-white offers a controllable palette, and these days even colors can be precisely selected and modulated. And because the film image is (leaving 3-D out of this) two-dimensional, perspective can be exploited, size relationships varied, and so on. © It has also been argued, by theorists like Siegfried Kracauer and André Bazin, that film is justified by its resemblance to the physical world and that its ideal is realism. A photo can have the authenticity and authority of a fingerprint, as if the physical world had imprinted its image directly on the photosensitive emulsion. Even if realism is not reality but a way of looking at or conceptualizing reality, it remains true that the technology of photography gives film a special claim to being an art of the real. Something

that would “have to be seen to be believed” can be shown in a photo or a nonfiction film and can then demand to be believed. A drawing or a verbal description would not have the same virtually automatic claim on belief. To have a complete grasp of what film is, it is necessary to un-

derstand how both of these arguments are, in their own terms, correct. Film gives us a picture that is both like and unlike the world. It works, most often, with the materials of audible and vis-

50 PART. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

them. ,

ible reality, and it both transforms those materials and arranges

One of the original polarities in film history and one that remains useful in sorting out the cinema is that between the work of the Lumiére brothers and that of Georges Méliés. The striking achievement of Auguste and particularly Louis Lumiére was that they put an objective view of physical, daily reality on the screen. Although they also dabbled in the narrative film (The Gardener and the Little Scamp [1895], remade as The Sprinkler Sprinkled [1896], was the first narrative film) and in cinematic manipulations

of reality (Demolition of a Wall [1896] was sometimes cranked backward), they are best remembered for their recorded frag-

ments of human activity. They chose their subjects from the ordi-

nary world, or posed their friends, or encouraged people to show off for the camera. Louis thought the cinema was a toy, but he knew it was a great toy. The Lumiéres, whose name means ° light, ”

delighted in capturing the world and projecting its image on a , screen; each film was a single shot and had no reason to be any

longer. That was the key to its integrity. Georges Méliés, the magician who made A Trip to the Moon, exploited the cinemas ability to transform reality — stopping the camera in mid-take, for instance, to allow a man to change into a

woman or to turn a moon dweller into a blast of smoke. Méliés knew the cinema was magic. The Lumiére/Méliés dichotomy may be expressed as the ten-

sion, in almost any film, between the actual and the fantastic. These are opportunities, creative decisions, that the photographer and the filmmaker can pursue, faced with the world. (It has sometimes been expressed as “realism versus expressionism,” but that

formulation takes “realism” — which is problematic — for granted | and confuses the desire to transform the real with a particular artistic movement.) The selected and photographed image is linked to the physical world, the actual, by the technology of photography. Yet it can be framed, cut, arranged, and made to function however the filmmaker desires.

Within Frames and Between Them. Shots and cuts make up virtually the entire visual world of film, much as words and their ordering make up the sentence, or a sequence of sentences makes up a book. The general term for what has been arranged within

the shot is mise-en-scéne. The general term for how shots are joined together is montage. (These are two of the most important and problematic terms in film study, and they will be defined at greater length in the course of this book, but for now it is useful to introduce them as relatively simple notions.) Just as the viewer interprets the mise-en-scéne to establish, for example, what is important within a given shot and how it corresponds or does not to the physical world and the world of the imagination, the viewer interprets the montage to establish what these separate views may have to do with one another. Let us return to that walk down the street, but this time with a

2.PARTSAND WHOLES 91

movie camera. One way to shoot this epic might be in a single continuous shot — a long take that would privilege mise-en-scéne. We select a lens with a fairly wide angle of view so that we can

take in the sidewalk, the lawns to the left, the street to the right — but probably not the moving body, as a lens with that wide an

angle would introduce “fish-eye” distortions, bending straight lines into pronounced curves. We decide between a hand-held camera, which will convey the shifting of our body as we walk (but

not too much, as our brain compensates for such motion when walking, and we do not experience the visual world as bouncing up and down), and a dolly shot, where the camera moves smoothly on a wheeled platform. We turn on a tape recorder and obtain a continuous soundtrack, complete with bird, squirrel, passing car, and footsteps. As the bird attracts our attention, we swing the camera over to the right, and this movement induces some blurring that does not correspond to our real-world experience, but cameras have their limitations at 24 fps. Then we swing back to a forward view, and so on. After a while the audience may become bored with this unchanging point of view and may feel as if the camera were staring, regardless of whether we have chosen to let

it bounce or glide. |

For the sequel, Sidewalk II, we opt for montage. This time we begin with a wide field of view (a long shot) to establish the setting and the action. We maintain the illusion that the camera is showing what the walking character sees (subjective camera), but this

time we can vary the distance between camera and object to indicate the relative importance of the objects in the field, not only in themselves but also to the character who is noticing them. When the squirrel chitters, we cut to a closeup of the squirrel, indicating that it is the principal current object of attention by excluding other objects from view, and suggesting its importance by making it large. (The closer view might indicate that the character has moved closer to the squirrel, but more often it would indicate that the character has concentrated his or her attention on the squirrel. In that sense the cinema is capable of imitating or

| alluding to the activity of the mind, as the early film theorist Hugo Miinsterberg observed.) We cut and move the camera back — or change the lens — for a view of the branch and more of the tree (a medium shot) as the squirrel becomes aware of us and leaps away. Then we cut to a long shot of the sidewalk, similar to the establishing shot but taken from several yards further down the street, to indicate that a certain distance has been traveled in the meantime and also that all these actions are to be considered con-

tinuous, part of a single extended action.

If we wanted to give an even fuller impression of what is going on here, we might cut to a long shot, taken from the middle of the street or from somewhere further down the sidewalk, showing the character in the act of walking. This would mean abandoning the device of subjective camera in favor of an objective, exterior view, and its principal advantage would be to let the audience know just who is doing the walking. We might give the piece some rhythm

52 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

by cutting to a closeup of the character's shoes (like the opening of , John Badham’s Saturday Night Fever [1977]), or we could alter-

nate shots of shoes and legs in a regular rhythm (each shot on the , screen for the same length of time), making the walking more kinetically immediate. We could then inject some drama by cutting to a medium shot of the car’s passing suddenly by, suggesting that

the character is surprised by it, and then to a closeup of the robin’s but also that the character and the bird share a certain perspective, |

flying away, suggesting not only that the bird is startled by the car , both of them regarding the car as an intruder. In that case, we would have made the cameras limited view work for us, arranging the parts in the interest of a particular significance.

Continuity. The car and the robin might have been shot on separate days, but the audience will read the montage as if the events

shown in the two shots are related and will attempt to discover or | invent a reason for this juxtaposition. The various shots of the side- , walk, the character, and the environment will be connected by the viewer into an impression of continuity, the even flow of events from shot to shot. This applies not only to conceptual continuity — as in “bird plus

walker versus car equals a symbolic statement about being in har- | mony with nature’ — but also to spatial and temporal continuity. Continuity demands that the events portrayed in Shot 3, in most cases, follow and conform with those portrayed in Shot 2, and that

the spaces of Shots 2 and 3 both be locateable on some kind of | mental map. Thus, if the character opens his top shirt button in Shot 2 while in the middle of the block, that button had better be

open in Shot 3, where he is shown a few steps further down the , block. If there is no deliberate time-juggling going on, a cut from an actress with a half-finished cigarette in her hand, as she begins a speech, to that same actress with a three-quarter-length cigarette, as her speech continues, will be interpreted as a continuity flaw, a mismatch. But a continuity flaw is not necessarily an error. Because film works with fragments, it has the ability to assemble parts into any kind of whole. This is one of the essential ways it plays with time,

space, and logic. Film allows us to put the future before the past, , to make a memory appear to live, to cut from a “real” landscape

to an artificial one, and to violate the laws of cause and effect. One of the most brilliantly sustained continuity “flaws” in film history was Luis Bunuel’s using two actresses to play the same character in That Obscure Object of Desire (1977). Another occurs in the “Odessa Steps’ sequence of Ejisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin (1925), where a baby carriage begins to roll down a staircase over and over again; here “real time’ is stretched into a highly expres-

tinuity. , sive “cinematic time, an effect that could never have been

achieved if Eisenstein had felt compelled to observe normal con- , One filmmaker's “flaw” may be another’s “creative effect”; it de-

pends on what the filmmaker wants to accomplish. Keeping in

2.PARTSAND WHOLES 93

mind that presentation and structure are artistic choices and that the cinema allows a story, a record, or a vision to be presented in any order, most students and filmmakers begin by studying continuity — which is a matter both of shooting and of editing — because it requires a mastery of normal continuity in order to cre-

ate (or understand) significant discontinuity.

In the absence of signals to the contrary, the shots in a film are normally assembled — by the editor and by the viewer — into the most likely impression of completeness and continuity, giving the sense that there is a 360° three-dimensional world within which

the eye could roam if it chose to do so. One mark of an accomplished filmmaker is that he or she shows the audience something

just when (or just before) the audience wants to see it — cutting to the squirrel, for instance, when the viewer may want to know what is making that funny sound — because this gives the impression that the viewer is free to look where he or she wants to, as if

, in the spatial and temporal whole of the physical world.

Film As alanguage = = = = =—SS Photography itself, on which the medium of cinema principally depends, directs the viewer in two opposite directions, and to reconcile these directions is a vital aspect of understanding any movie or even any shot. When speaking of the Lumiére/Méliés distinction, we naively assumed that all one had to do, in order to have a reality fragment to leave alone or to distort, was to take a picture

of it. But a photograph is not a simple thing, and once several photographs are arranged into a structure, that structure reveals a mystery of its own, for it begins to display some of the attributes

of a language: a signifying system. :

Signs and Referents. On the one hand, photography offers us a picture of a thing or an event that had to exist in the physical world long enough to be photographed. The fact that the event may have been staged by actors — in other words, that it may be part of a fiction — does not take away from the fact that the actors were real

rence.

and were there to be photographed. In a nonfiction shot — a highly magnified view of feeding microbes, for example — what is

most important is that it presents the record of an actual occur-

On the other hand, photography is a signifying system, comparable to language in that it does not give us the referents; instead, it refers to them. While a shot is present, its referent is literally absent. And the cinema gives us audible and visible signs — which evoke the mental images of their referents — in a particular order. In that sense, the cinema is an artificial, arranged structure that can be manipulated like any other language, not a torrent of refer-

ents but a series of signs. ,

Semiotics — also known as semiology — is the study of signifying systems, including everything from a thermometer to Moby-

54 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

Dick. The root of the word is seme, Greek for “sign” or “symptom. ” (Diagnosis is the art of interpreting symptoms, which are signs of particular disorders; it was the original semiotics.) The goal of this science is to identify the minimal units of signification and the nec-

essary logic of their arrangements if they are to make sense in relation to other units of meaning. Photography poses special problems for semiotics because so much information — often of differing types — is presented at once: in the foreground and background, for instance, or as a complex action. To sort all this out, the semiotician hunts not only for signs but also for codes, subsystems by which information is organized and selectively emphasized. An image may be “encoded” and in need of “decoding.” A low-angle shot can encode the subject as a figure of power, just as a white hat can encode a cowboy as a hero and a jump cut can act as a code for discontinuity. Each word is an individual symbol. The word “tree” stands for

a certain kind of vegetation; “tree” is the sign, and the leafy wooden thing is the referent, the thing being referred to. In Sidewalk IT the medium shot of the tree is a sign, and the tree itself is the referent. Watching that film, we would never see the referent — only the sign, the picture. Yet even as a discrete item the sign cannot be understood on its own; it depends on our understanding of its role in a relationship. As a verbal sign, a word is not simply a “name’ for a “thing,” nor is a photo simply a “picture” of a “thing.” The sign is itself a relationship between a signifier (a sound or image) and a signified (a concept or idea). The picture of a tree evokes not the actual tree but an idea of the tree, a mental construct of it. This is obvious in verbal language, but it is just as true in the cinema.

As a referent, the tree may be signified via the written word “tree, the spoken sound “tré,” a drawing, a photograph, or even a gesture such as pointing to a particular tree. When you say “tree, you do not bring the plant itself into the room, or language would be a cluttered business. Nor do you bring back a complete event when you remember it (memory is a sign system). It is more accurate to say that “tree” works as a reference, or sign, because both the speaker and the listener are familiar with the relationship

between t-r-e-e or tré (the signifier, whether read or heard) and the general idea or particularized abstraction (the signified) of the leafy wooden thing (the referent). Signifier and signified are interlocking abstractions. As a team they constitute the sign. If you do not know Japanese and are looking at a page written in that language, you are confronting something that you suspect is intended to signify something, although you don’t know what. Although each Japanese character is a sign (a signifier and a signified, working together to evoke an image of the referent in the

mind of a native speaker), to you it may appear to be a “pure” signifier — something that is meant to stand for or to evoke some mental construct or other. If you had never learned any language but had an image in your head of something that you didn’t know was called a tree, you might be having an experience of a “pure”

2.PARTSAND WHOLES §@

signified. The connection between signifier and signified is made so rapidly, by one who knows language, that it is difficult, without such examples, to consider what a pure signifier or signified might be like, and the fact is that they cannot exist independently of one

another. , , |

To understand the sign “tree” is to know that t-r-e-e and the idea of a certain class of objects go together, that signifier and signified are linked. The next step is to know that “tree” is the sign for that referent. Once this set of connections has become second nature, it becomes easy to forget that the signifier t-r-e-e is not the sign “tree,” just as the signified (the concept of a tree) is not the referent (the tree itself). The character in Jean-Luc Godard's Les Carabiniers (1963) who tries to climb into a bathtub with the heroine of a stag film — and, of course, tears the screen — has lost sight of the distinction between sign and referent. Nor are words the only kinds of signs. The level of mercury in

a thermometer signifies the temperature. (The degree marks on the thermometer are a code — specific to that shape and size of thermometer — by which the level of mercury can be interpreted.) A red octagon on an American street tells the driver to come to a full stop before proceeding through the intersection. A picture of an apple refers to an apple, and a photograph of your face refers to your face. The kind of sign, or category, depends on the kind of relationship that exists between the signifier and the signified. An icon or — iconic sign functions by the resemblance or likeness between its elements: a picture of an apple looks like an apple. (Actually, to perceive this you have to learn how to “read” the sign. Until you see that it is a photograph and know what that implies, the object could look simply like a piece of stiff paper with a random pattern of light and dark on one side.) An index or indexical sign points to or indicates its referent, and this reference depends on some essential and inevitable link between signifier and signified, as seamless and predictable as a physical law and often a matter of cause and effect. A weathervane points (like an index finger) in the di-

rection of the wind that is blowing at the time, just as an increase in temperature causes the mercury in a thermometer to expand in

: an inevitable manner. A symbol or symbolic sign is one in which the relationship between its elements is arbitrary or agreed upon. Most words are symbols. The idea of a tree is agreed to be signified by t-r-e-e in English, B-a-u-m in German — an arbitrary system, but one that works because it is consistently applied in those lan-

guages. -

In the cinema any given sign may take on more than one of these

properties. A picture of Paul Newman, for instance, is iconic in the sense that it resembles the real Paul Newman. And it is indexical, because the pattern of light and shade that we recognize as Newman's image is the product of light’s having struck the photosensitive filmstock in a specific manner; a photo can be as index-

ical as a fingerprint. It may also be symbolic if the audience is expected to read Paul Newman “as” Cool Hand Luke (in Stuart 56 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

— Rosenberg's 1967 film) rather than as Newman himself — and even more intricately symbolic if Luke, stretched out on the prison dining table, is encoded as a reference to the crucified Jesus.

Syntagms and Paradigms. It is one thing to understand a sign, another to draw or perceive the connections among several signs. For verbal language, this problem is most directly raised by the sentence. The rules of grammar and syntax help us to sort out the words and the possible or intended relations between them, and the habit of reading or speaking in sentences suspends our sense of full understanding until the sentence has been completed. It is possible to analyze a sentence in a way that clarifies how meaning is built up from word to word. Each word to be presented or interpreted occupies a discrete place in the sentence, and for each word that is in that place, there are others that might have been chosen. These two properties of every word — that it is in a certain place and that it, rather than some other word, is there — can be described in terms of the syntagmatic and paradigmatic axes that semioticians find at work in every sentence. The syntagmatic axis, which runs horizontally across the page

or forward in time, denotes the sequence of words as they are linked by the relations of syntax. In the sentence “I went to the store, “went follows “[" on the syntagmatic axis and bears the syntactic relationship to “I” of verb to subject. The adverbial phrase “to the store” falls into place once we understand the previously established relationship between “Il” and “went” and have gone on to ask, prompted by the syntax, “Went” where? The paradigmatic axis, which runs vertically, contains all the words that could make sense in the same context at a given point in the sentence. At the point in this sentence where there is to be

a verb, a position along the syntagmatic axis currently occupied by , “went, there is a whole category, or paradigm, of alternative

words: “ran, “stumbled,” “drove,” and so on. Taking another selection from the paradigm, one could say, “I drove to the store” or “T ran to the store,” or one could make other choices from other collections of alternatives and say, “I ran from the store’ or “I hid from the monster.’ Although the paradigms are astronomically extensive, it is possible to simplify and condense the system into something like this:

He ran from a house

She drove around one __ district

Bill walked _ into that theater

| went to the store In this sentence there is one syntagmatic axis, and there are five paradigmatic axes. Their points of intersection are linguistic decisions in time. These axes are tidy systems, governed by rules. If a word is in a given position, it obeys the rules of that position. In this sentence, “store” cannot be replaced by a word taken from the para-

2.PARTSAND WHOLES 97

digm of verbs because no verb would make sense in that context in that position. “I store to the went’ may be interesting, but under the constraints of this particular structure, it doesn't signify. No one has worked out an entirely satisfactory way of analyzing film editing in these terms. Film may, in fact, have no firm syntax, and a shot is not the same as a word in any case. But in the simple case of a shot of two people who are being held at gunpoint, followed by a closeup of a revolver's being fired, the audience will

, wait for the third shot to find out who, if anyone, gets wounded.

That third shot could be of the bullet's striking Person A, or Person B, or a lamp in the back of the room. Any of these would make sense at this point and would complete the action, and all might be thought of as having come from the same paradigm. Because it is made up of parts and also has a working, functional integrity that appears only when those parts have been assembled,

, film is a system. What makes film different from other referential

systems is that the referents appear to be almost present, so that one appears to be looking at the world. What makes film like other signifying systems is that it can present only signs. Whether or not the arrangement of cinematic signs can be analyzed with a methodology that has proved useful for the sentence is another matter.

There is still a great deal we do not know about how, exactly, a moving picture and a sound field communicate what we take to be their meanings, that is, how they signify. But it is clear that both picture and sound are selections from the continuum of the physical world and the world of the imagination, and that those parts are organized into an act of communication that depends on a re-

| ferential system, the language of cinema.

58 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

The cinema can be divided into four major categories or avenues _

of expression: the narrative film, the nonfiction film, the animated 7 film, and the avant-garde film. In practice there are many films 3. p he imary

that belong in several of these categories — like Walt Disney's -

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937), which is an animated Categories

film and which tells a story. But in theory these classifications can be very useful as guides to the possibilities of cinema. Even when we have a grasp of some of the essential characteristics of cinema

as a signifying system and as a stew concocted from the materials | of the world, we need to take stock of its most general applications. As an analogy, consider the English language: a coherent system,

but one that reveals different resources in a poem, a novel, or an entry in an encyclopedia.

The Narrative Film = == SESE Perhaps because of the important role played in film history by the narrative film and those who merchandise it, the first thing most people want to know about a film is whether it tells a story, and then what kind of story that is. Narrative films tell stories. Usually the term “story refers to a fictitious series of events, but it is also possible for a narrative film to tell a true story.

Story and Discourse. Within the majority of narrative structures, whether or not what is being related is a fiction, useful distinctions can be drawn among story, plot, and discourse. The story is the series of hypothetical events as they “happen” in the time of the fiction or of factual events in history. The plot is the order in which selected story-events are arranged; it is the site of narrative

strategy. The story of Citizen Kane begins when Kanes mother decides that her son should be raised by a banker, but its plot begins with Kanes death. The discourse is the narrative line, the vehicle and manner in which the story is told or presented to the audience; it is the site of style. The discourse of Kane begins with the opening titles and presents the story, structured as a plot, in a complex and intriguing style. In a movie the time of discourse is the time of projection: in

the case of Kane, 119 consecutive minutes. | Although “narrative” is properly an adjective, some people use

narration to refer to the act of telling and narrative to refer to what is told. Within fictions, the recounted story is sometimes known by the ancient Greek term diegesis; the laws and events of the recounted world are diegetic, and what comes from outside that world or pertains only to the discourse is extra-diegetic. —

It is conventional to use the past tense when recounting any event that occurred in real or historical time, including the activities of filmmakers. Thus, “Hitchcock directed Vertigo.” Within the time of the fiction, the convention is to use the present tense, with past and future tenses referenced to the narrative present.

09

looked.” |

Thus, “When Scottie meets Judy, he remembers how Madeleine

, Showing the Story. Whether or not a film sets out to tell a story, every film does set out to show something. In most cases the whole does not need to be shown, and in any case the fragmented nature

of the filmed universe — chopped into shots — makes it appropriate to suggest a whole by presenting carefully selected parts of it. There may not be any inherently more significant parts in any whole, but the fact that the filmmaker has selected certain parts rather than others asserts their importance and defines both the

story and the discourse.

Suppose that we want to make a film in which a man gets out of

, a car, walks into a building, goes up a staircase, unlocks a door, and goes into an apartment. To get from the car to the living room, he has to go through all these actions, but to show his doing this, we do not have to shoot every step. We could leave out his ascent of the stairway as well as the walk to the building, cutting from the closing car door to the opening apartment door. Or we could devote most of the screen time to his going up the staircase, perhaps

| to suggest that his eagerness or reluctance to reach his goal is the

most important element in this phase of the story. In the earliest days of filmmaking it was considered essential to show complete actions, just as it was a rule to show the actors from head to foot. D. W. Griffith changed all that by demonstrating that fragments of actions and bodies could be built up into a whole, with each fragment’s bearing its own particular significance and emphasis. The working assumption then became that whatever was included in a film was there for a reason; the irrelevant could be (and, pre- —

sumably, had been) left out.

A narrative film tells a story by showing us parts of it. The choice of which parts to show clarifies the intentions and announces the

emphases of that movie. A competent filmmaker selects these parts carefully and shows the audience how to interrelate them. A “part might be an event, an image, a shot, a track, a portion of a

shot such as an action or camera movement, a scene, etc.

Some stories are easier to show than others. Even if there is no kind of story that one could confidently say the movies cannot tell, it has proved true that the dramatic and pictorial strengths of the film medium have made it easier to figure out how to shoot a Western than how to shoot a philosophical tract. However exciting it may be to sit at a desk and stare out the window while writing a love letter, most filmmakers would prefer to dramatize how boy met girl than to show how it feels to write that letter or to get into the drama of the exact choice of phrasing. In virtually any narrative film something has to happen, and to happen in such a way that it can be watched with some degree of comprehension. Whether or

not they are intellectually complex, the movies work primarily

with action and emotion. The ancients divided literature into such master categories as | the epic, the lyric, and the drama. Most narrative films are dramas

GO PARTI. FILMAND THE PHYSICAL WORLD |

or acted out. ra in that they are meant to be performed. Dramatization is the art oo

of making something clear in performance, of constructing a pre- : sentation so that what is important about the subject can be shown

If dramatization is theisnarrative film’sWhat stock-in-trade, willing hoe. suspension of disbelief its currency. the willing the suspension Mee of disbelief means is that the audience voluntarily agrees to be- y =6a lieve in the reality a fiction — to forget, for example, thatspecial there yl {0 Lc have not been any of Star Wars except those created through walker fromtoDarth Vader. The audience of a nonfiction film some4 |I2| times has think in the other direction, to notice that Fig.i fe 1-4, for example, is not a frame from a science fiction movie but NASA y

footage of the actual surface of the moon, with the Earth rising in . , 77 Oo . the background. And in avant-garde films one must sometimes un- hee pos

dermine the concreteness of the referential system in the interest Ae a

tation. Figure 1-4

to be free of it, nor is it always an evasion or avoidance of confron- Pe A a ee

The worlds of life and fiction are often very different from each other. Not everything in the real world has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Not everything works itself out in relation to a paradigm of poetic justice. Nor is every meaningful event a matter of conflict, although drama would have it so. When a narrative cliché is offered as the resolution of what the audience recognizes as a

real-world problem, such an artificial gesture may feel like a cop- , out. As Roger Ebert once put it, “Car chases may solve the problems of the director, but they have nothing to do with real life.” On the other hand, it can be very satisfying to enter a made-up world that is tightly organized. We do not know what will finally happen in our own lives. We can, however, become interested in fictional characters and find out what happens to them, to some degree allaying anxiety about the unknown ending of our own story. We can share in a life more exciting and colorful than our own, or one that is more depressing, or focused, or significant. A “good story (which does not, of course, begin to exhaust the possibilities of fiction) has a pattern, a structure, a significant order; it creates expectations and lets them fall into place, as life often does not. “Once upon a time’ takes us to a place of order and arrangement, of meaningful actions with meaningful and related consequences. The “escape’ it offers is often not to a world of car chases. and trivial pastimes, but to one in which vital matters are clarified. Manuel Puig’s novel Kiss of the Spider Woman is a wonderful exploration of the paradox of escapism. It concerns two cellmates in a Buenos Aires prison. Molina, a homosexual with no interest in politics, tells the stories and evokes the images of his favorite movies. Valentin, a political activist, listens to these tales with increasing fascination but insists to Molina that they are only fanta-

3. PRIMARY CATEGORIES 61

sies with no relevance to the revolution, and he almost resents the way they allow him to forget about his problems for a while. The fact that they are imprisoned makes this tale spinning appear a perfect model of escapism — the desire to avoid the reality of one’s immediate situation. But as the novel progresses, we come under the spell of Molina’s versions of Val Lewton and Jacques Tourneurs Cat People (1942), a Nazi romance, and others, and we

, , begin to understand the importance of their beauty. We may even question whether they are politically useless. Movies are the web Molina spins to seduce Valentin, and he has to teach his literalist cellmate how to love them, how to share his passionate attachment

, to them and recognize their disarming profundity. In this romantic otherworld, where everything has meaning and is perfectly real-

| ized, the two characters surprisingly confront the terms of their

imprisonment and find hope. In the course of the action the two men switch roles, with Val-

entin participating in a homosexual encounter and Molina — released by the prison officials in the hope that he will lead them to Valentin’s comrades — getting killed “like the heroine of a movie” in his first and only political gesture. And Puig gracefully allowed

the novel to have a happy ending, in which the mechanics of oppression are suspended for a moment, long enough for Valentin to dream a vision of kindness and political integrity in the terms of one of Molina’s movies.

Gather Round the Fire. In Peter Bogdanovich’s first film, Targets (1968), Boris Karloff played an aging star of horror films, Byron Orlok. At one point Orlok tells the following story (slightly

reworded from its source, W. Somerset Maugham’s 1934 play Sheppey):

Once upon a time, many many years ago, a rich merchant in Baghdad sent his servant to the marketplace to buy provisions. And after awhile the servant came back, white-faced and trembling, and said, “Master, when | was in the marketplace, | was jostled by a woman in the crowd and | turned to look, and | saw that it was Death that had jostled me. And she looked at me and made a threatening gesture. Oh Master, please, lend me your horse that | may ride away from this city and escape my fate! | will ride to Samarra, and Death will not find me there.” So the merchant loaned him the horse and the servant mounted it and dug his spurs into its flank, and as fast as the horse could gallop, he rode towards Samarra. Then the merchant went to the marketplace, and he saw Death standing in the crowd, and he said to her, “Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning?” And Death said, “I made no threatening gesture; that was only a start of surprise. | was astonished to see him here in Baghdad, for |

have an appointment with him tonight — in Samarra.” , That is an efficiently told, perfectly constructed, “good” story. It begins by establishing a relatively stable situation — Baghdad, the marketplace, and the normal course of human activity — and two central characters, the merchant and his servant. Then some-

thing happens to jar events into motion: the servant meets the

62 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD ,

antagonist, Death, in the marketplace. (The rules of this story’s world are revealed at this point and are honored from here on; they are that Death can appear as a woman in a marketplace and that one’s fate is inescapable.) The servant arrives at a course of action and, in a brief but complete scene, convinces the merchant to help him realize it. Then the merchant himself confronts Death, and the situation is given a brilliant twist that puts everything in a

different perspective, teaching a lesson about destiny and an-

nouncing a resolution — that the servant and Death will meet | again in Samarra — that has exactly the right combination of the unanticipated and the inevitable.

Audiences gather around the light source of the movie or the ,

television screen just as they once gathered around a fire to submit to the spell of a storyteller. And although film dramas are primarily

intended to be watched, there are moments when the power of telling a story in words — the age-old power of narration itself — proves compelling in the cinema. When the old entertainer tells the Samarra story in Targets, Bogdanovich declined to cut, letting

the tale unfold in one continuous shot. This is not to suggest that ,

visual and verbal values are opposed in cinema (nor to imply that there is anything uncinematic about a long take), but to indicate how both are useful and how they may sometimes step out of each

other's way. ,

Hollywood Formulas. The makers of narrative films often rely on classical precepts about what constitutes a “good story.” These

can be summarized as follows: There ought to be one or more major characters. They ought to be in some kind of conflict. That conflict ought to be acted out (dramatized). Some degree of tension ought to accumulate as the events proceed, until that tension

peaks and is released at a climax. The climax should be followed , by a resolution that wraps up the threads of the story. Both the characters and the meaning of the events ought to be clarified and

advanced by this progression from exposition, complication, re- |

versal (or twist), and climax to resolution.

To the extent that it can be codified, the Hollywood formula depends not only on the conservative dramatic principles outlined above, but also on audience identification and rooting interest. That is, the members of the audience are presented with characters with whom they can identify — usually played by stars — and conflicts in which they can be led to feel that they have a personal stake. The audience identifies with the hero, in the simplest of all formulas, and collectively roots for him or her. We are led to care about the characters and to hope that they will get what’s coming to them. In a film like Sidney Lumet’s The Verdict (1982), for example, the central character is a seedy, unreliable, and alcoholic lawyer in the full momentum of professional decline — someone with whom one might not expect an audience to want to identify. But that lawyer is played by Paul Newman, who is physically attractive and a star, and this makes it easier for the audience to enjoy play-

3. PRIMARY CATEGORIES 68

ing with the idea of being in his shoes for a couple of hours. This lawyer is defending the interests of a highly sympathetic client, and the opposition is presented as a huge and inhumane organization, practically in league with the Devil. That is where rooting interest comes in: we want the lawyer to discredit the bad guys, to win his client’s case, and to clean up his own life. Having cre-. ated those desires, the film goes on to satisfy them. “Identification plus rooting interest” is not a new formula. It is at work in The Odyssey, King Lear, D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance (1916), and Frank Capra’ Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939). But there are many works — like Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill’s The Threepenny Opera, or Jean-Luc Godard’s Weekend (1967) — that set out to undermine that formula or turn it against itself, encouraging the audience to adopt a distanced, critical attitude rather than to behave like an emotionally manipulated mob. One of the most time-tested ways for an artist to get across a point or to convey a value judgment is to identify a character that the audience likes with an idea that the artist likes, and to link a villain with a position that the audience is encouraged to reject. This strategic manipulation of identification and rooting interest is so effective that even a sophisticated audience is liable to find itself rooting for the Ku Klux Klan at the climax of Griffith's The Birth

of a Nation (1915). ,

A newer formula, buried in jargon but very powerful today (per-

haps because no one is quite sure what it means, but everyone feels answerable to it), is “high concept and a hook.” To get past many studio heads in the 1980s, a story must be high concept. What this means is that its plot and appeal should be capable of being summarized in a short, clear sentence. This does not mean that the story should be organized around a concept or idea, nor that the idea ought to be elevated or high; it means that the film as a whole should be a marketable and easily identifiable product. It will achieve this status if its “concept” — something between a gimmick and an organizing principle — is both intriguing and easy to understand. “High” means something like “highly visible.” This does not make for great movies. One of the first properties recognized as high concept was Goldie Hawn and Howard Zieff’s Private Benjamin (1980). Its concept was “Goldie Hawn plays a Jewish American Princess’ who joins

the Army.” Such a sentence often serves as the basis for an ad campaign and may end its days as a descriptive blurb in a newspaper's TV listings. High concept is not just a demon of the marketing executives but a full-fledged story criterion as well as an indication of the importance of marketing considerations in the process of story approval. If the story can’t be summarized that directly and with that much attractiveness and market visibility, the dominant assumption — valid or not — is that people won't

go to see it. 7

| A more genuine structural value is embedded in the mystique of the hook. A hook is what hooks or immediately captures the audience's interest in a story. But the term is also used as another

64 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

primary elements.

word for “structure.” In that sense the hook is the spine of the

story, what the ribs latch onto, what everything hangs on. It is the _ central, intriguing idea that motivates the story and dictates its In Colin Higgins’s 9 to 5 (1980), whose subject is office politics,

the hook (or dramatic premise and approach) is that a group of secretaries become so angry at their boss that they kidnap him. For a screenwriter, to find the hook hiding in his or her material is to know how to tell that story, much as Michelangelo looked for

the sculpture that was latent in a block of marble. For an agent, to ,

identify the hook is to know how to sell that story. There are times when a formula will work against originality or

will occupy the place of invention. But there are many cases in | which a formula can provide a structure on which the filmmaker can improvise creatively. What Gertrude Stein said about truly original work was that it strikes its first audiences as ugly or somehow disturbing. Once its time is past, it is recognized as a classic, and from then on, all that anyone says about it is how beautiful it is. It is not that a great artist is ahead of his or her time, she argued, but that the audience is behind its time. At present, however, the disturbingly stimulating represents too extreme a finan-

cial gamble. So the Hollywood ideal, at least in the 1980s, appears , to be a product that will depart enough from its predecessors to , be recognized as new (like a NEW version of the laundry soap , you ve been using for five years), but not so drastically original that

Innovations. a 7

no one will know what to make of it. This is one reason that so many original works today are genre films, because the generic formula keeps the audience and the executives oriented, while the filmmakers are free to slip in their variations, subversions, and

genre. oe ,

Genre. A genre is a particular variety of film that deals with a - | characteristic subject and that is often organized around a specific , repertoire of conventions and recurring figures. When people ask what kind of film a film is, what they usually want to know is its

Familiar genres include the Western, the musical, the stag film, , a the horror film, the science fiction film, the mystery, the gangster , film, the satire, the romantic melodrama, the screwball comedy, 7 the biography or “biopic,” the problem picture, the martial arts 7 film, and the adventure film. There are also subgenres, like the backstage musical or the adult Western, and genres that remain to Oo Most genres are distinguished by their use of certain elements.

be explored, like the letter. a The Western almost necessarily includes the American West in the latter half of the nineteenth century, horses, guns, fledgling towns, cattlemen, sweet young women and tough old women, good guys and bad guys. But a genre can also be characterized by an attitude, not just by a cluster of elements. Thus the Western typically involves a split attitude toward the call of the wide-open spaces and the importance of a warm hearth and a safe, honest town, and it

3. PRIMARY CATEGORIES 69

organizes itself around the moral validity of heroic and often violent action. There are films not set in the American West that behave like Westerns — like Paris, Texas or Michael Winner's Death , Wish (1974) — just as there are films set in the frontier that behave like horror films (Edward Dein’s Curse of the Undead [1959)). Although most genres involve the meshing of common subject matter and shared attitude, there are many films whose elements and attitudes appear to be moving in different directions. In such cases, what validates or informs the decision to place a film within

a particular genre is the nature of the element or attitude that dominates the system. Fred Zinnemanns Oklahoma! (1955) is more a musical than it is a Western. Even though Howard Hawks and Christian Nybys The Thing From Another World (1951) and Robert Wise’s The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951) share the elements of flying saucers with intelligent alien pilots who challenge both military and scientific personnel, The Thing is a horror film, and The Day is a science fiction film.

, In The Thing, the scientist who wants to communicate with the alien is presented as a fool, whereas the soldiers who decide to destroy it are presented as correct. In The Day, the scientists who respect the alien and listen to his messages are presented as the hope of the world, whereas the soldiers who attempt to kill him are presented as shortsighted and destructive. It is typical of the science fiction film to celebrate the scientific imagination, to be curious about the unknown, and to open its system — as the human community in The Day is opened to the possibility of joining the galactic community. It is typical of the horror film to surrender to curiosity and then reject it as dangerous, to show the follies of the scientist who would play God, and to reclose the system and

heal the damage done by the eruption of the monstrous or the repressed — as the community in The Thing, having destroyed the monster, is urged to “keep watching the skies” in the event that any other monsters should make their appearance. The difference between these two films is one of attitude, though they share virtually all the same elements. This is a particularly useful example because both films were made in the same country during the same year, and because both were addressing the same contemporary problem, the Cold War — to which The Thing took an isolationist and militaristic attitude, whereas The Day argued that

lutely necessary. a

international cooperation and nuclear disarmament were abso-

Genres create expectations as well as ritual formulas. There are thousands of Westerns that follow the formula exactly and offer their audiences the satisfaction of attending a ritual performance, like a ceremony in which everything is in place and shows up at the right time. It can be extremely pleasant for someone who is addicted to horror films to go through the familiar progression of the introduction of the threat, the killing of the “first victim,” the emblem of “the monster and the girl,” the solution of the problem (the Blob hates cold!), and the restoration of normality. Sometimes these expectations can be fulfilled in a bizarre manner, making

66 PARTI. FILMAND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

little sense in the world of the story but making perfect sense as ritual elements of the genre. Thus in Gene Fowler's I Was a Teenage Werewolf (1957), which is set in America in the late 1950s, the sheriff's posse carries torches rather than flashlights.

Some of the best generic payoffs come when a formula is respected but is approached from a slightly unusual angle or is given

a twist, like the wonderful use of the “first victim” figure in Alien, whose curiosity compels him to touch the vicious egg while the audience is screaming “Don’t!” but knows that he will, and who survives only long enough to be victimized a second time — or

like that moonlit moment at the end of Reginald LeBorg’s The , Mummy's Ghost (1944) when the monster gets the girl. Much of the delight in watching Mark Sandrich’s Top Hat (1935) comes not just from enjoying Fred Astaire’s dancing, but also from recognizing that it is time for a certain kind of “number” to begin and appreciating what Astaire does with that opportunity, how he varies and enriches the formula for his own purposes.

Narrative Structure. In a story the beginning, middle, and end succeed each other in chronological order; a plot need not answer to such restrictions, and beyond that a plot can be presented to the audience in a variety of discourses. A linear structure is one in which the beginning, middle, and end follow each other in chronological order not only in the story but also in the plot, as if along a straight line. Information, often in the form of scenes, is provided as needed or appropriate. However complex or simple the narration (the telling), the narrative (plotted story) proceeds from first event to last. A linear structure may be organized around , a single string of events or narrative line, or it may interweave several narrative lines that share the same time frame. In the simplest narrative structure, then — the one common to the majority of narrative films — a linear story is presented in a

linear discourse. (Discourse includes plotting as well as such other , properties of the telling as style and voice; strictly speaking, it is the film — the image and soundtrack.) At the beginning of the film a relatively stable situation is catalyzed into significant action; it

unfolds and develops; and near the end of the film, it is resolved. , |

The unfolding middle is usually the longest portion, and it evolves out of the conditions established at the start. In fact, what makes

a certain cluster of events the beginning is that it does establish the conditions that will evolve into that particular confrontation or dramatic situation.

By the same logic, the dramatic situation ought to dictate the conditions of its own most appropriate resolution, and what makes

an ending the ending is that it does resolve the problems of the central action. This is called a closed ending, one that wraps up loose ends or has a strong sense of conclusion, like the last scene of Howard Hawks’s Red River (1948). An open ending prefers to leave matters up in the air or to adjourn while the story can readily be imagined as continuing, like the last scene of City Lights. As 3. PRIMARY CATEGORIES 67

, feels like the “right” moment. ,

different as they may be, both endings conclude the film at what Acts. Many dramatic film structures are divided into acts. An act

is a major structural unit, usually consisting of more than one scene, that moves the plot forward while accomplishing a rela-

oe tively self-contained dramatic action. Acts are a standard screen, , writers convention; a three-act structure is the norm today. We , . can see how.acts work in a linear structure by taking a brief look

at Francis Ford Coppola and Mario Puzo’s The Godfather (1972). The Godfather has five acts, each of which corresponds to a ma-

| jor plot development. The overall story concerns the transfer of power from Vito Corleone (Marlon Brando) to his son Michael (Al , Pacino). The five acts may be identified as follows: (1) King Vito,

Michael. os

, (2) Sollozzo, (3) Prince Sonny, (4) Prince Michael, and (5) King

, The first act shows Vito in power. The values by which he lives

, integrity.

, and runs his business are clarified by the ways he handles various requests on his daughter Connie's wedding day, and the wedding itself is a ritual that implies family continuity and valorizes tradition. What hides in this situation, the seed of imbalance and dis-

oe solution, is Carlo, the new son-in-law, who lacks judgment and

, , | In the second act Vito's power is challenged by Sollozzo, who , wants Vito to bankroll a narcotics operation. Vito refuses, and Sollozzo has him shot. From there on, the principal conflict is between the Corleones, with their Old World sense. of family and

, business values, and the relatively unscrupulous forces of the “new Mafia: Sollozzo, Barzini, and the rest.. Because it is a historical fact that the new Mafia won this battle, the Corleones become the “underdogs” at this point and hook the audience's rooting

interest. At the same time, we root for them as a family.

ae The third act shows how Sonny, the eldest son and heir apparent, takes over while Vito is in the hospital. Sonny uses power

, badly, showing a murderous lack of self-restraint and political judgoe ment. The third act includes Michael's killing of Sollozzo and the oo policeman, Barzinis covert manipulations of Connie's marriage,

a Michael's Sicilian marriage and the murder of his bride, and the death of Sonny, all of which are related to the ways in which Sonny uses power and the family’s attempts to cope with Vito's absence.

oo , Sonny's death is the plot's turning point, upsetting the succession and making it necessary for Michael to play a more active role. | In the fourth act Michael takes control of the family business but continues to take direction from his father. Michael's power is

equivocal here, partly because he is not entirely independent (though this makes him a better don than Sonny was) and partly

, because his character is in transition, but mostly because the Barzini threat is still present. This act ends with Vito's death by natural causes shortly after he has given Michael a last crucial piece of advice (how to identify the man who will try to assassinate him).

, , In the fifth act Michael comes fully into his power, killing off all 68 PARTI. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

his enemies. Because he has got rid of Barzini and the other heads of “the Five Families,” Michael has removed the immediate threat

first introduced by their agent, Sollozzo; that implies a new stabil- , ity, which is formalized in the final line of dialogue when Clemenza kisses Michael's ring and calls him “don Corleone.” But because Michael has also taken vengeance within the family (by killing Connie's husband), because he has violated the essence of a fun-

damental ritual (by playing the hypocrite at the baptism of Con- , nies baby), and because we have just seen him lie to his wife at a

crucial moment, the foundations of Michael's new regime are per- |

ceived as corrupt. Thus the ending has an unsettling edge, how- , ever neat its sense of closure. There is a new Godfather, but he

does not know best.

Narrative Complexity. Not every interesting line is a straight one. In more complex situations, a linear story may be told out of chronological order (Citizen Kane), or a story that defies chronol-

Year at Marienbad). ,

ogy entirely may be told in whatever order will do the job (Last ,

The Greek epics typically begin in medias res — in the middle of the action — and then double back to present the beginning. Martin Scorsese's Raging Bull (1980) begins in 1964 as the hero, Jake La Motta (Robert De Niro), rehearses for a one-man show,

and it ends when he leaves the dressing room to go onstage. Within this bracketing frame or framing story (the dressing-room scene, which establishes a narrative reference point), the story of La Motta’s career is presented in a series of flashbacks. We see what happened to him between 1941 and 1957 and come to un-

derstand how this trim contender became an overweight loser. In |

Betrayal (1983), directed by David Jones from a play and screenplay by Harold Pinter, the order of the discourse begins with the end of the story and advances, in a complex forward-and-backward

progression, to the beginning of the story. ,

The Godfather has a linear structure, but Coppola’s The Godfather, Part II (1974) tells the stories of Vito’s rise and Michael’s _ fall in parallel, alternating from one to the other in 40-year leaps and letting each story comment on the other. When these two films were edited into a linear discourse for presentation on network TV, beginning with Vito's story, moving through The Godfather itself, and ending with the rest of Michael’s story, the story

was easy to follow, but the discourse was much less interesting , than it had been originally. It is not just that the stories of Michael and Vito collide ironically in Godfather II to generate a statement

that neither story can make on its own, but also that the linear / structure of the first film collides with the intricate structure of the

second film. Together they show that there is more than one way | to tell a story, just as the careers of Vito and Michael, taken together, imply that there is more than one way to run a family business.

A linear structure is organized around one major plot and may involve various subplots, like the subplot of Michael’s Sicilian mar-

3. PRIMARY CATEGORIES 69

riage. In more complex structures there may be several major plot

lines, and each may have its own pace and logic, its own time frame, and its own degree of verisimilitude. The classic example of multiple plot lines is Intolerance, which presents four stories from different historical epochs and intercuts them to demonstrate that they share a common lesson. Rather than present one complete story after another, Griffith cut back and forth among all

four, joining them into one narrative drive. In Akira Kurosawa’s | Rashomon (1950), several different versions of a crime are related

, by those who participated in it and by a woodcutter who saw what “really” happened. Each of the renditions is different because each

| narrator saw things from his or her own perspective and is trying to justify his or her own actions. The truth that emerges from a com-

parison of the stories is that none of the narrators behaved as well _

, as possible. The four stories in Intolerance are all presented as

| true, and the audience’s job is to find the lesson or theme that emerges from their juxtaposition. The stories in Rashomon, on the other hand, undermine each other’s apparent veracity; the complexity of Kurosawa’s structure complements and advances the complexity of his insights into human behavior. Another way to achieve complexity is to play against the audience’s structural expectations. Nicolas Roeg’s Walkabout (1971) has two endings, one in which the heroine grows into an impossibly exact image of her urbanized mother and one (framed as a memory) in which she still enjoys the romantic innocence of nature. Rather than end the story, the two scenes—which present the dialectic of her walkabout, between the overcivilized and the wild—conclude the argument. Although the audience may at first believe that the

urban scene happens, it comes to realize that both scenes are ex- __ trapolations launched from an open ending.

Paradoxical Structures. The narrative present is the time in which the primary action is taking place. In Citizen Kane the narrative present is that in which the reporter attempts to find out the meaning of “Rosebud ’; the story of Kane's life belongs to the narrative past. The narrative present in Raging Bull is 1964, the time of the frame. But in Last Year at Marienbad there is no last year, no Marienbad, and not even a fictitious year and place in which the movie's actions can be thought of as “taking place.” There is only the present in which the film is projected, and all of

its “realities are equally suspect.

Marienbad points, then, to another order of complexity. It is not just intricate, not just multiple, but authentically paradoxical. A paradox is an impossible fact, a contradiction that makes sense or feels true. The task of a paradoxical structure is to enmesh us in a pattern that may appear absurd but that eventually becomes compelling as we learn its rules. One of the only ways to talk sensibly about this kind of film is to talk about its narrative structure.

a A good example of a paradoxical narrative is Dead of Night, which was directed by Alberto Cavalcanti, Charles Crichton, Basil

Dearden, and Robert Hamer, and released in England in 1945.

70 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

The frame story concerns a man named Walter Craig (Mervyn , Johns) who has been troubled by a recurring dream that changes abruptly into a murderous nightmare and that he can never entirely remember upon waking. As the film starts, Craig arrives at a cottage in the English countryside where he has never been before. He meets six people, all of whom he recognizes from his

dream. Five of them, prompted by Craig’s growing concern that

he is now living out his nightmare and that the recurring dream has offered a warning to which he had better pay attention, tell stories about their own encounters with the supernatural, with madness, and with prophetic warnings. Eventually the catastro_ phe occurs: Craig strangles one of the storytellers, a psychiatrist who has refused to believe in the power of the supernatural. Then the characters from the inner stories pursue Craig, and one of them kills him. Then he wakes up, shakes off the dream, and is invited to spend the weekend at a cottage in the countryside . . . The film ends with exactly the same shots that began it, in exactly the same order.

There are two ways of reading that ending — as first-person or ,

third-person — and both of them make sense. It is clear that the whole film, up to the point of Craig’s waking and receiving the invitation, has been a dream — in fact, the recurring dream — and that Craig is the dreamer. That interpretation makes him, however

unconsciously, the primary narrator or presenter of the film, within which five of his country companions act as secondary nar-

rators of their own supernatural stories. What is not clear is whether the ending is still part of his narration, that is, whether it is the dream’s starting up again, or whether this is the actual visit

against which the dream has been warning him, narrated in an objective voice. Because the dream is presented as an absolutely

dream does.

accurate foreknowledge, its fulfillment would look the same as the

If the ending rebegins the dream, Dead of Night is a loop, an infinite structure. If the ending is supposed to be “real,” the implication is that Craig will behave just as he did in the dream. Either way, he is trapped by a warning that he cannot entirely remember and from which he cannot escape. The paradox is that neither Craig nor the audience can tell whether the ending is a dream or a reality, because it would have to look exactly the same in either case. It can be either and is somehow both. And beyond that is the implication that the line between dream and “reality” cannot easily be drawn, in this movie or anywhere else — but

especially in a narrative film, which looks factual but is also an , illusion. When one of the characters says that she is a figment of Craig's imagination, she is right — but what she does not know is that she is also part of the “dream” called Dead of Night. Voice. One way to complicate a structure, or to find a discourse that can communicate the complexity of experience, is to work with more than one narrative voice. In the majority of narrative films the discourse is presented “di-

3. PRIMARY CATEGORIES /1

rectly” by the cinematic apparatus — which it is sometimes convenient to call “the camera,” but which might just as well be the filmmaking enterprise or the screen — as if by an invisible, single, and objective narrator. Sometimes that narrator or presentational apparatus transfers authority to another voice and steps aside so that we can see things the way a character within the story sees them or can listen to another storyteller. There are numerous ways to keep the audience abreast of these shifts in narrative voice — so that we know an objective from a subjective image, if we are supposed to be able to — and it can be useful to think of many of those ways as codes.

In a sentence it is always easy to indicate who is speaking, that

, is, who is the source of the utterance. The first-, second-, and

third-person pronouns are highly efficient signs. But in film, which has no pronouns, it is necessary to encode an image so that it may be decoded by the audience (or may not, if the paradox is good enough, as in Dead of Night). In Victor Fleming's The Wizard of Oz (1939), for example, the Kansas scenes are objective — are presented as really happening in just this manner — whereas the dream of Oz is subjective, a private vision that appears to Dorothy after she has been knocked out during a Kansas tornado. To make this clear to the audience, the waking material is in black-andwhite, most of the dream material is in color, and the transitions between these sequences are marked by whirling optical effects. At the end of Walkabout we realize that both endings are hypothetical because each contains highly improbable material. The wilderness ending includes a living character who has died a few scenes ago, and the urban ending shows the heroine in her mothers clothes and kitchen, now married to a man who behaves like an idealized fantasy of her father. So it is possible to encode an image as hypothetical or subjective by bracketing it within special transition effects and/or by shooting it in an unusual but consistent manner, as in The Wizard of Oz, or by including “unreliable” subject matter, as in Walkabout. Dorothy is not aware of sharing her dream with an audience; we eavesdrop on her unconscious. Yet she is the one who presents the dream of Oz, rather as does Walter Craig. Her narration is unauthorized. An authorized narration is one whose presenter is aware of the act of telling, like the stories told by the characters in the country house in Dead of Night, or Alex’s deliberate presentation of A Clockwork Orange. All of these can be thought of as firstperson narrations, “delivered” by characters in their own words and/or images, showing how they “see” things, in contrast to the

manner. |

third-person voice of the cinematic apparatus, which presents

, what happened to him, her, it, or them in an apparently objective First-Person Voices. There are several common ways to encode cinematic discourse as first-person: voice-over narration, subjective sound, subjective camera, and mindscreen. In voice-over narration the narrator, who may or may not be a

72 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

e e ° ° . : ee eeeee: | .

e e e ° e e e 7 °eee ee ee .e . :

character within the fiction, speaks directly to the audience but is ,

not shown while speaking. We hear his or her voice over the con- .

tinuing soundtrack. Voice-over — abbreviated V-O — is free to encode itself with the pronouns of spoken language, and so it is easier to use and much less problematic than voices that must be

encoded visually. When voice-over is used by a character, as in a Apocalypse Now or A Clockwork Orange, we beean certain fFf _ ee can ee nea sagen that EEE ie A EER

== a first-person narrator is deliberately telling the story as he oree sheessag r=Cl | ee ee ee ey, sees it. (Voice-over 1S also a common convention for interior mono- 3 Ck -. . ,. . logue, where authorized narration and direct address are rare.) -. «Gg eee

re ee + 7: ;". [ey M SD MLeLo 2 ee eeeea : . . . eB | _ eid BE oe d: 1siH d.htoi hguide DD es and willing usBo through Clr hd eet gg Nee ee :it.:ee When it is used by someone outside the fiction, as when Orson hCOUrU@ y :

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identifies himself voice-over during the final credits“oo of fF The 7 4lL| Melles agnificent Ambe rsons, 1t often sounds like the VOICE of authority, 2 aes (| 7 CcrlUlU a

>> e “< >> : \ ? . e e e a e.e°eeee°.. ee ea ee ? ee Se ee _ a . ee ee ee IE I : SEES 2 . ei ti ane a a . 3 te SS a rae aaron Be a a Rc Ee ee - “ : Seneca on ana

an obj ective pre senter who iS very much in char ge of the system = | &#& = —S—OLCW a

; ; : : > hearing. ; . 2 .@®©=D imagines In Hitchcock's=énR9EAERNRNRNR.._—==g Strangers on a Train (1951) the — 7 [_— .rCoe | villain meets a woman who reminds him of a woman he killed in i - 4 _ an amusement park while the merry-go-round was "CCE playing ; =|ecnstceeai =F —_— 2 RRR“The iit eR Re 1 ; oh & EES Subjective sound directly presents what a character hears or .—rti) tC CC “ Sg = =>lll lll COULUCUrmD,”,—~—S—E““ CC lL identity of — the killer. Li eck 6 Ue . a ee Ba ee DLL ie CHER Sea ia es BG Sues In Hitchcock’s The 39 Steps (1935) we share the visual experi— i —— lhe ee ee gee Eg aa EE of the looker. This sequence might be called a “POV sandwich.

(Some critics call it “suture editing.”) Although the subjective cam- 3 3% -— é#«... é# =@

: PE EE SEs A SEE EL ee a ao SS as eh : SE a have been shot in this voice, notably Robert Montgomery’s Lady [4aa@ | $#& ' = =£. = =—h6he era is normally used only for brief intrusions, some entire films — —rt—“‘CNNCOCOCCOCCCCCizCisdsCwszstrdiarézN‘(COCONCricCUL

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ence of the hero (Robert Donat) while he scans a newspaper (for a sell — t~—~—~—~—

involved) and peeks above the paper at a man who is studying him ee ee C—~™ with unnerving cur 1osity. Part of this scene 1S shown in F 1gs. 1-5 ce ea See

through 1-11. In the first shot (Figs. 1-5 through 1-7) the hero - —rr—“—t—eCt (...ChU™C™C™€™C—C™CCrCCsCc cc cre

orrows the newspaper from a man sitting across from him in a :

railway compartment and begins to read the story; it is a POV Figure 1-7 ?

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shot. Shot 2 (Fi1g. 1-8)

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nat, Shot 2 Fig. is an objective view

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To 1-10). and ris is other POV -h)ading 19indica ane in focus fro i‘ ro is looki nee the news ore 10 thes Senger rahe e

, re W mn me m cr y of encodi ee Be ) , € g of th an rea oe ae LO er passenger rath

hs een lowe ewspaper. In Fig VI , view after the pa

.ompartment. ! sandwich.” Fihad ian cbjec : If »whol scene bithet ected cofrh mp . If the an fh

ment ‘e : erm isPe notsen iit Toned ys m | wet amera =. present bylf the am sequence ade ssmot the :in1eS tane ed acters on nnem |edrthe an‘oh eheareml position of Fig. ccuatioual contefirom he came Tt 1-11 the awi 2 n shot

of F3 ontent , the emotional c nen iosition 11, the of th ald is mo immedi © pet s me ary personalizati eff vi >men ization, ae is atially d i ‘fete

as reen presents th rhe matt| ind th ot , subjective c se e

‘dream in wide use i on °Y the al ex .

dream seq e’ see seemed inadequat ere tane ne in ; ) uence quate. There

or in which m patie onthe m ander, or dintend me ory ) me The mi nepone em «dreams aay pproximate ane endec reams. ,wander, orare think th aoedTeae and not all of them ch the movie screen hve ie

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may envisi

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sprocket holes used as reference points. Fig. 1-20 shows a strip Sam a eT eel yo from Mothlight, and Figs. 1-21 and 1-22 are frames of leaves and SAI ae aah

wings respectively. It is almost a pity that these beautiful images a ie ee oe es go by so rapidly, but it is their animation that evokes the sense of =~ . = 5 NN a

life, as if the moths were flitting around the light of the projector lms lil in a radically compressed and energized time, or as if the world of Figure 1-22 the moth had been essentialized to the terms of light and motion.

Brakhage has not lost his interest in animation. As this book goes ,

to press, he is painting existence is song on Imax footage, advanc-

ing at seconds per month. Some of the huge, densely layered

frames look like dried tide pools or exploding oil slicks. Animation and the Cinema. Although animation can be uniquely free of the normal cinematic practice of photographing the physical world — free even of the camera itself — it is very much a cinematic art. The movies are, by nature, single frames in series, and it does not make an essential difference whether 24 frames are shot in a second or a week: it’s still a movie.

3. PRIMARY CATEGORIES §7

Figure 1-23 Figure 1-24

= | AL . Ww |

Figure 1-25 Figure 1-26 Although it makes sense to think of cinema as an extension of

| photography — first there was the still, then the sequence of stills

with their impression of movement — the fact is that the earliest

~ cinematic experiments were devoted to making drawings move, 7 and it was in such toys as the Zoetrope that the principle of the , ra V shutter was first investigated. VA \ Eo | The Zoetrope was a black drum — a low cylinder looking some-

f \kO SZ thing like a hatbox — that was painted matte black and had slits

Ko, fo pying

J fr" cut at regular intervals along its upper half. A strip of drawings fit Bo SS [fe inside the drum, occupying its lower half. The drum was mounted ave y (f on a rod and could be spun by hand. Looking through a slit and Ka | (\ downward across the interior of the drum, one could see an indiNS) a vidual drawing. When the Zoetrope was spun, the whole drum = acted as a shutter, blocking one’s view for a few degrees of spin

Figure 1-27 and then allowing one to see, through the next slit, the next draw, ing. The drawn action would repeat with each complete revolution

of the drum — forward or backward, at whatever rate one chose — and the loop of drawings was the earliest “film strip.” What this implies is that the animation of individual stills, whether they are drawn or are taken from nature, is the essence and genesis of the

88 PARTI. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD

cinematic. The motion picture can be thought of as any image that | has been given the illusory property of movement. , ae Without question, animation has given the cinema some of its DS fi

finest works and even some of its major stars. The only screen , a Lae A figure who is as well-known, worldwide, as Chaplin's tramp is , i a 4 Mickey Mouse. Without Mickey, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Jiminy i a ia,“

Cricket, and Betty Boop, this world would be a different place. i i 4 Freed from physical limitations, the animated film is capable of a 4 {f~

indulging in an original plastic logic, a holiday of the impossible. . a Ve Sy A

The transformation of figures, first explored by Méliés, became a, ee A utterly fluid in the hands of Emile Cohl, who turned one image © ~y YY ‘ into another in celebration of the animator’s creative freedom, as f,/ in this sequence from his 1908 cartoon Un Drame chez les fantoches / (A Love Affair in Toyland; Figs. 1-23 through 1-27). And in Symphonie diagonale (Diagonal Symphony, 1924) Viking Eggeling ex-

tended that experiment into the realm of pure form (Figs. 1-28 Figure 1-28 , through 1-31). This play with form is one of animations greatest con- . tinuing resources. mAh

The Avant-garde Film ooo SoZ AY Avant-garde films are made outside the industry, usually by indi- ~ SAVERR

vidual artists or small groups, and are often designed and executed \ JPLLae

in order to explore some aspect of film or to advance a specific \ “#SAA AB aesthetic. If the mainstream narrative film can be compared with Osa ae

popular fiction, the avant-garde film can be compared with poetry: \ GF 4S | a form of compressed and heightened discourse, often personal, \ yt ew

and addressed to an audience of other poets as well as to the ap- ,\ preciative general reader. Because they are made on relatively \ small budgets, avant-garde films do not need to reach huge audi- _ -i ences, but many of them have proved to be far more influential _

than their limited circulation might suggest. Figure 1-29

is . :.\ \\ 7,\

Figure 1-30 Figure 1-31 3.PRIMARY CATEGORIES 89

An Open Name. The term “avant-garde” (“in the front ranks”)

, implies that such films are both outside and in advance of the

, mainstream of film practice. Most of them are embattled with con-

ventional notions of realism and “good style,” not because their makers belong to cliques that share certain aesthetic attitudes, but because, for most of these artists, to arrive at a viable way of making a worthwhile film is to resolve a lifelong quest. There is noth-

: ing so personal as a worldview, and nothing so difficult as to share an inner vision in a way that will both do it honor and make it clear. To find the terms of an aesthetic after years of trial is as personal and urgent as to come to terms with one’s own life, and may well involve the same issues. This category has gone by many names, some of which are still in use: experimental film, underground film, personal film, poetic film, abstract film, absolute film, visionary film, structural

film, art film, and independent film. “Independent film” was among the better of these terms because it was free of value judgments and aesthetically unspecific, leaving the door open for any kind of film made by an artist who worked on his or her own. That term was, however, successfully appropriated by mainstream narrative filmmakers whose independence is from the studios, not from normative structural expectations. No matter how much you may appreciate an independently-produced picture like George Romeros Night of the Living Dead (1968), that is clearly not the

same kind of movie as Maya Deren and Alexander Hammid’s Meshes of the Afternoon (1943) or David Lynch’s Eraserhead

(1978).

| “Experimental film” implies that the artist is always trying out things that may not work (sometimes taken as a license to be

sloppy), and furthermore that mainstream filmmakers never take artistic risks. “Underground film” sounds like a convention of moles, and “art film” has also been used to refer to pornography. “Abstract film” perfectly describes a subcategory, but many avantgarde films include representational photography. Although in its most negative sense “avant-garde” conjures up an image of a self_ righteous and hyperaesthetic artist, sitting in the corner and nursing a private project whose goals only an “in” group can understand, or waving a can of film above the battlements, the advan-

tage of the term is that most people have accepted it. As Robert Breer put it, avant-garde is “a deteriorated term, but it’s OK with me.

This terminological walkabout yields a valuable insight into the richness and complexity of the films in this category, which refuse to conform to or even to suggest an adequate label. What do you know about something once you have named it? Does that mean that you have successfully identified and honored its integrity, or that you no longer have to think about it or fully confront it? Sometimes, to reflect the living quality of a subject, the description of

that subject must be made new. As Gertrude Stein and Ezra Pound demonstrated during the Modernist period, not just a word or a phrase but the entire language can atrophy if it is not contin-

90 PART |. FILM AND THE PHYSICAL WORLD .

ually prodded and renewed. Avant-garde film has kept itself new while its old names have expired. No other area of filmmaking has provoked so many attempts at definition, and that is one proof that it is a living art. We shall adopt “avant-garde” here, but that does

not close the discussion. The name is open, and it will doubtless | give rise to others.

Representationality and Abstraction. A representational painting is a picture of something. An abstract film is comparable to a nonrepresentational painting; working with pure forms and colors, and sometimes with music or a constructed soundtrack, it aspires to a condition of absolute self-sufficiency. The majority of abstract films set out to be purely visual events, sustained by and often commenting on their own formal principles. They may be thought of as abstract paintings endowed with the gift of time, or as music that can work with color and space. But to the extent that they rely on photography, even many abstract films are forced to present pictures of things.

Some filmmakers avoid representationality by avoiding photog-

raphy entirely, painting or scratching directly on raw filmstock.

Some use photography but restrict their subjects to pure shapes, : tion, as Viking Eggeling did in Symphonie diagonale, which is one , ,

lines, and colors — with or without sound — or resort to anima-

of the definitive examples of abstract film. Nonrepresentational film might be thought of as a choreography of light — a light that is not descriptive, not a representation of anything but itself. The majority of avant-garde films use representational, photo-

graphic imagery but systematically defeat the normal signals by | which such imagery becomes conventionally comprehensible. The filmmaker may throw the lens out of focus, frame only part of an

object without ever revealing what it is, cut so rapidly and errati- , cally that no consistent setting can be established, refuse to tell |

stories and undermine whatever threatens to establish a coherent narrative, or deliberately insert continuity flaws. Fernand Léger’s Ballet mécanique (1924) is such a film. All this is very much like what Gertrude Stein did with language, using terms that were inevitably representational (any word is) but repeating and rearranging them in a syntax of her own invention so that the reader was encouraged to see each word as a new and exciting construct. Like much of Stein's work, many of these films are embattled with representation rather than utterly free of it. Dada and Surrealism. A number of avant-garde films were outgrowths of specific radical movements in the arts. Among the most influential of those movements were Surrealism and Expressionism.

Lautréamont encapsulated the pleasures of Surrealism in his famous image of “the chance encounter of an umbrella and a sewing machine on a dissecting table.” Dada, the movement out of which

Surrealism evolved in the mid-1920s, applied both wit and sarcasm to the project of undermining the traditional bases of social 3. PRIMARY CATEGORIES 91

REL." aesthetic order. Among the few films that the Dadaists pro i ———__C___ pet, and other debris (Fig. 1-33) over raw filmstock, turning on

Ss & Pook See camera. At its premiere this 3-minute film literally caused a riot.

ew i, Lr The Surrealists, under the guidance of André Breton, endorsed . ae ee this dismantling of established values but felt that it was necessary er eC 0 explore the interstices of the network that the Dadaists had ex-

|. ; oe . a neath the mundane surfaces of the all-too-well-organized world, re ttr—ia SCC’ tthe Surrealists threw images together in a spontaneous and often

ow oo that might yield juxtapositions of obscure yet startling validity.

Fj 4-32t guage In this of respect their films dreams, working the lanigure condensation andresemble displacement explored byinSigmund SRT ER 2 Fo ait lB ag Freud in The interpretation of Dreams. This is not to say that the re ae 2 iE maa a -_ 5, Surrealists were Freudians — most of them were not — but to zs my. wy. | re nS Ase eA ‘ingie out their interest in the relations between dreaming and r an # @ he wt Pian ¢ ak aly’ . i ~ key to the language or the signify ing system of the unconscious. )

CA bk eh a i as — - The Surrealists were interested in the coherence of the apparare ye a Oe em ently incoherent, the revelatory value of puns and secret messages

2 oa va 1. ean a « . “oe and weird juxtapositions. They sought to liberate the unconscious, A Ave che Lo TT gg re ay resonant images of dreams erupted into daylight, and to critique

Re D> 3 me Gaines =the complacency of those who felt that the world made a rather tas. 4 Ee Bo [a -eeeeee §8=6dull but entirely reliable kind of sense.

Ne te ed) ee +f gf Like the Dadaists, the Surrealists often deliberately assaulted aee vat i? TM Arde contemporary expectations of proper behavior and narrative con-

FP aie yy eS eee, * ~ tinuity. Luis Bufiuel and Salvador Dali's Un Chien andalou (1929)

af i. “7. ee Oe opens with a brutal assault on the audience, as what looks like a Figure 1-33 human eyeball is slit open by a straight razor. This scene is introduced by a title that reads “Once upon a time,” and the tones of the scene and this title clash ironically. Within the scene, two similar visual elements predominate: a thin, dark cloud passing over

the round moon, and the line of the razor across the eyeball. If this juxtaposition has a logic, it is the logic of dreams. , When a Surrealist “explains” an image, what often emerges is an obscure psychological association. Dalf once told an audience at Columbia University what he meant by the melting watches in his 1931 painting The Persistence of Memory (Fig. C-3). He said, “Christ is Camembert cheese.” Under a certain amount of baffled prodding he grinned, stroked his extravagant mustache, and out-

lined the association. The watches have the runny yet pliable shape of warm Camembert, Camembert has the consistency of flesh, Christ vanquished time, and/but Christ was mortal and of the flesh. Dalf’s concern was not that the viewer should understand his painting in those exact terms, but that the obscurity and

§2 = PARTI. FILMAND THE PHYSICAL WORLD .

precision of its imagery should open a conduit to the viewer's un- a

————— Expressionism. Expressionism relies more on the emotions —— ee

than on the unconscious, though it too is concerned with uncov- CC ——_—_——

ering hidden — and sometimes repressed — material. In its most eee S| general sense, Expressionism is the art of rendering inner states —— as aspects of the outer world. In its loosest sense, it means crea- iad tively motivated distortion. As a specific movement in the arts that FZ" emma) reached its peak between 1880 and 1920, primarily in Germany eS... | and Northern Europe, Expressionism was an outgrowth of nine- A ns teenth-century whosebetween special the concern the Ss {gia points of contactRomanticism, and correspondence naturalwas world ii i)eee J

and the world of the imagination. But even in the work of Vincent SNS ae TA a

Van Gogh, who straddled both traditions, it is clear that Expres- Ta 3 SSNS al) 4 |) {| Ca

sionism had a far more tragic and frustrated outlook on both of IV BN el ee) | (4 HAMA VG those worlds than Romanticism ever did. As an image of the Ro- TW) e e e e e

up — via the willing suspension of disbelief — in the story of their ,

e LN ° ee EE ee _— ae - |g oe : Ee 8

love for each other and the reasons for their parting. Nevertheless,

we are just as attentive to the play of light and shadow on their faces; the ways the mise-en-scéne creates a mood that is both ro-

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a Pe ee rn ee ee ee Ey,

— scelhlmrmrt—? :(when ll lr r,r— there is an even more precise mechanism for advancing the film

- ~ and stopping it during exposure; it is called the pulldown claw.

Figure 2-9 Inspired by the mechanism that drives the needle of a sewing machine, it converts the rotation of the shaft from the motor into an cg up-and-down, forward-and-backward movement. The claw moves 2 ah forward into the film path and engages the sprocket holes, then

a Om». | pulls them and the film down, and then retracts. Then it moves

LL fj .. 1 up again and forward to engage the next set of sprocket holes. = yee ) rhea All of this rapid jerking would tear the film if there were no

Sees (> loops above and below the film gate. The loops provide some oop i cll Le | slack, but not so much that the emulsion will be scratched by the oA JO) XQ a Qe [22 ee interior walls of the camera. , ior ONT On a *b ni a ~ — The motor of the camera may be spring-loaded, like that of the Cee ee See §=6$16mm Bolex camera shown in Fig. 2-10; the crank, shown in its - E ways 72. disengaged position, is the handle at the side of the camera. More

| am 3 | | toy often the motor is electrical, and it is driven either by a portable

a a ~ede 2-11. la mh Although 4 generatorthe or by a battery. A Cine is shown in Fig. ee | (¢-) motor usually runs60atbattery 24 fps,belt it can be adjusted = a) oo to run slower or faster than that. The Bolex, as you may be able to a [ see from the dial on its side, can be set at any rate between 8 and i... mena 64 fps. Slow motion is achieved by shooting at more than 24 fps;

Figure 2-10 fast motion, by shooting at less than 24 fps. When an action shot at 48 fps is projected at 24 fps, it will take twice as long to show,

yielding the effect of movement at half-normal speed.

ee can 2 . , 124 part il. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE |

The motor drives both the pull-down mechanism and the shut- ,

ter, whose actions must be coordinated exactly. The shutter of a a movie camera usually has one or two blades, and it turns in a cir- -

cle. The one shown in Fig. 2-5 is a two-bladed shutter; a one- : bladed shutter resembles a pie with a huge wedge cut out of it, i.

and the size of that wedge, in degrees, identifies the shutter. Thus | a 180° shutter is a hemisphere; most are between 120° and 175°. a

At 24 fps, a 180° shutter will let in light for one forty-eighth of a / ,

second. The cinematographer does not have as much freedom as ,

the still photographer when it comes to setting the shutter speed, , | as the normal upper limit is well under one twenty-fourth of a second (under one twenty-fourth because it takes some time for , the film to advance while the shutter is closed). The normal ex- , , posure time is one fiftieth of a second. For that reason, most movie ee , frames are slightly blurred, though this blurring becomes unnot- | ,

finder. , iceable in projection. Many movie cameras are equipped with a

variable shutter whose degree of openness can be adjusted, yielding greater control over exposure. At the instant of exposure, the shutter’s open area is between the film and the lens, allowing the light to pass through. While the film is being advanced, a blade blocks the light. During that instant, a mirror on the blade reflects the scene into a reflex viewThe line along which the film is moved through the gate is called

the film plane. The cinematographer focuses the lens by varying the distance between the film plane — the place where the film is — and the optical center of the lens. After leaving the film gate, the film makes its way over a takeup sprocket wheel and past a series of rollers back into the magazine, where it is rolled up on the take-up reel. The Movie Projector. The essential difference between a movie

camera and a movie projector is that the light comes from inside , the projector and from outside the camera. But there are other differences as well.

The majority of projectors in use today can run only at 24 fps, though many have a switch that allows them to run at 16 or 18 fps __ to approximate silent speed. Projectors have no need for exposure controls and thus no iris diaphragm, though they do have interchangeable aperture plates. The shutter may have up to five or six blades in order to show each frame several times and render the flicker less noticeable. The lens is designed to throw an image and to make it converge on a screen. The film path in a projector is slightly more intricate than in a camera. The film is wound off a feed reel, is advanced by a feed sprocket, and is formed into loops above and below the film gate. After reaching the take-up sprocket, however, its movement is smoothed out by several rollers in order for the soundtrack to be read continuously by a magnetic head or by a photoelectric cell. We shall take up the soundtrack in a later section, but for now it is enough to note that the soundtrack that is meant to accompany 1.RAW MATERIALS 129

| the frame in the gate must be read when the film is moving evenly

, rather than jerking up and down, and so it is usually located 21 - 6 wit, frames ahead of the picture on the same strip of celluloid. “Ahead”

- Cr) means nearer to the take-up reel; the start of a length of film is ;_ ~ called the head, and the end is called the tail. After passing by the

—. a The reels on a projector can accommodate only a certain amount , S oa . of film, depending on the design of the projector. In the silent

- ee period, the upper limit was 1,000 feet of 35mm film, and that . - length was — and still is — called a reel. Throughout the sound , period, the majority of theatrical projectors have been loaded with

double reels, that is, single but larger metal reels that can hold up to 2,000 feet of 35mm film. Feature films are longer than 20 minutes, and so it has always been common to use two projectors and to change over from one projector to another as one reel ends and

Figure 2-12 another begins, a shift that is called a changeover and that is flagged with changeover marks. The marks themselves are tiny white dots or circles that appear briefly in the upper right corner of the frame, just before the end of each reel. A changeover mark | from Napoleon can be seen in Fig. 2-12. (When the film is pro-

| jected through an anamorphic lens, the marks widen to ovals. Thus if you see elliptical changeover marks in a theater, you know you re watching scope; if you see them in a flat or TV print, you know you re watching pan-and-scan.) The marks appear briefly,

twice; in order for the projectionist to see them, each circle appears for 4 consecutive frames. At the head of each reel is a strip of film with numbers that count

down, usually to 3, called the head leader. From the start of the countdown to the first frame of picture is a distance of 12 feet (in 30mm). The last few feet of the head leader are opaque. By the time the reel being shown (call it Reel A) is nearly over, Reel B has been loaded into the other projector, perhaps with the head leader’s “7” or “9” in the gate (that is, in projection position). Upon seeing the first changeover mark, the projectionist turns on the motor of Projector B. The two marks are separated by a distance of 11 feet, and in that interval, Projector B has time to get up to speed. (Knowing the projector intimately, the projectionist has

learned which number to start from.) Upon seeing the second changeover mark, which ends 20 frames from the last frame of Reel A (after which comes the tail leader), the projectionist has just under a second to switch on the lamp in Projector B and to switch off the lamp in Projector A (or, leaving both lamps on, to block one beam and unblock the other). If a changeover is performed properly, the audience will never notice it; if it is performed perfectly, the first frame of Reel B will be gleaming in the gate at the instant that the last frame of Reel A calls it a night. In order to avoid changeovers, it is now possible to splice the reels of an entire feature together and to wind all that film onto a horizontal metal platter. The film runs over rollers into the projector and then back onto another horizontal platter. These platters, which might be thought of as open-faced magazines, are incredibly

126 part il. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE

heavy when fully loaded, and even they cannot hold much more i) NS than two hours of film; thus for those longer movies that rarely are i PS 00 booked into cineplexes (rarely, for just this reason), anintermission aay a must be scheduled in order to allow time to reload the single pro- | i pen eid There are several different light sources that can be used in pro- [a | 4 oe

jectors, from high-intensity lamps to carbon arcs. In a standard (amy § | ee he | 35mm projector, two rods of carbon are brought into proximity (qj) (I aii al

oxide. Trading quality for convenience, other projectors use lamps _. | that last many hours and produce no gases. The majority of l6mm_ Figure 2-13 |

projectors use a tungsten-halogen lamp or a quartz arclamp. The sareeunese sn s

best alternative to the standard carbon arc is the xenonlamp; only =~] Sa a trained eye can tell the difference between the light ffomaxenon (i es lamp and that from a carbon arc, and the lamp lasts longer. The [am | ee

xenon lamp is found in the majority of new 35mm projectors. _ ; “es

a We) ; _

Unexposed film is referred to as filmstock or raw stock. Once it (a f | o aes a he , has been exposed, it is usually called, simply, film; a specificlength [aa (x. ae

of exposed film is called footage. oo a.

port called the base and a light-sensitive coating called the emul- $4 no °° — sion. The only essential difference between filmstock and film, in ; these terms, is that the emulsion — the image-bearing area — on Figure 2-14 processed film is no longer photosensitive. Leader, which is primarily found at the heads and tails of reels and has many uses in film editing, is clear or colored film base.

Base. From the 1880s through the 1940s, most base was made of cellulose nitrate. Nitrate film, as it was called, produced an extremely sharp and richly detailed image. Unfortunately, it was highly inflammable — even explosive. Flaherty once lit a cigarette while working on early footage for Nanook, and not only the entire negative but also the editing shack were blown to cinders. Nitrate

base had a tendency to shrink with time and could not tolerate | moisture, so that after 10 or 20 years, unless they had been stored under ideal conditions, nitrate prints could not be projected. Since 195] a relatively noninflammable support made of cellulose

tri-acetate (an improvement over cellulose acetate) and called

safety base has been used exclusively. Although its image-bearing |

qualities are inferior to those of nitrate base, safety base will not blow up in your hands and will not shrink or deform as readily as

: 1.RAWMATERIALS 127

nitrate did. A good proportion of the budgets of many film archives

, is devoted to transferring nitrate prints to safety-base stock.

A new polyester base called Estar is especially flexible and

, scratch-resistant; it is used only for high-wear prints.

Emulsion. Most photographic emulsions consist of photosensi-

, tive silver halides — usually silver bromo-iodide — suspended in

gelatin. This gelatin includes several organic compounds, one of the most bizarre and highly prized of which is prepared from the ears and cheeks of calves that have grazed on certain ranges. The gelatin dissolves in warm water, so that it is easy to apply to the

, base, then chills to a solid gel whose flexibility improves the life of the stock and keeps it from becoming brittle. The gel allows processing solutions to reach the suspended crystals easily, yet , keeps the crystals from clumping together. Its organic compounds improve the light sensitivity of the silver halides. Once they have been developed, the silver halides turn to metallic silver, each crystal of which is a unit of film grain. This grain becomes noticeable when a very small negative is blown up on a

large screen, when the emulsion has been developed at a very high temperature, and under certain other conditions. An ex-

: tremely grainy film resembles a field of madly jiggling salt and 7 pepper. In general, fine-grain emulsions produce a perfectly de-

, tailed, clean image and are slower — that is, they require more

, image. ) , | , Film emulsion comes in two major varieties: negative and relight for proper exposure. (See Fig. 2-53 for an example of a grainy

versal. Negative stock, the kind used by most professionals, yields

| an image whose black and white values are reversed. This happens because silver halide crystals turn black when exposed to light. When the negative is printed onto a second strip of negative stock, these values are reversed again, and the result is a positive copy

, whose black and white values match those of the original subject. In color negatives the situation is similar: the color values are re-

| versed, and the negative bears the complementary color, that is, _-a blue sky will appear orange, and a blue-green shirt will appear red. When a print is made from a color negative, these values are | reversed to normal. Reversal emulsion, designed for reversal processing, produces a direct positive image. The same film that is run through the camera can be projected, because it has been processed to yield normal color or black and white values. As a camera stock, reversal is the most common choice for amateur use, where it is expected that no prints will be made from the original, and for newswork, where a projectable copy may be needed almost immediately. Projection scratches film and exposes it to dust, and it is virtually unheard of for a professional filmmaker to project a camera original. Instead the original is stored in a dark, dust-free environment from which it is removed only to be cut into final form or to be used to make intermediate prints. Reversal is quite useful as a laboratory

128 Part i. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE

stock — for example, when striking a printing negative directly | from the camera negative. - eo ; , A print is a copy of a film. Because a print has a useful life of |

less than 400 runs through a clean projector before it is unaccept- — ably scratched or torn, it is important to have a source of new oo

prints. The camera original — the negative or reversal stock that os,

was run through the camera and then edited — is copied onto

special printing stock, and this intermediate print is used for mak- ce

ing release prints, which are the only professional prints intended , to be projected. Printing stocks are typically more fine-grained 7 , : Another kind of stock, magnetic film or mag stock, is not in- ,

than camera stocks. | a | |

tended to be run through a camera. It is coated with magnetic , ,

jection.

oxide, just as is magnetic tape, and it carries the soundtrack. It has

the same base and comes in the same sizes as filmstock, and it is perforated so that it can be kept in synchronization with the pic-

ture track during the editing process and sometimes during proSmall quantities of dyes are mixed into the emulsion just before :

it is dried onto the base. Without these dyes, filmstock would be

sensitive only to blue and ultraviolet light. Most silent films were a

shot on orthochromatic stock, which is sensitive to blue and

green. Panchromatic film is sensitive to the entire visible spec- ,

trum, from blue to red; since 1926 it has been the most widely _ used black-and-white stock. Most color filmstock has three layers , of emulsion separated by binding and color-filtration layers, allow- | io ing each layer to respond to a primary color or its complement. , | Color stock will be discussed at length in a later section. ae Gauge. Filmstock comes in several standard gauges, or widths, , of which the most common are 8mm, 16mm, 35mm, 65mm, and |

70mm. 8mm (as Super8) is used almost exclusively by amateurs. 16mm offers the least expensive results that can be considered -

professionally acceptable. 35mm is the standard professional

gauge. 65mm is a camera stock, and 70mm is exclusively a printing ,

stock. The wider the stock, the heavier and more expensive the ,

film — and, in most cases, the better the picture quality. | a

Fig. 2-15 shows three lengths of film, each of them six frames (Ys second) long. They have been reproduced life-size. In order to facilitate comparison, they all show the same image: part of the

head leader on a reel, just before the countdown starts. The one on the left is 70mm, 35mm is in the middle, and 16mm is on the right.

They have been turned upside down and flipped left to right, so that “PICTURE START” will be easily legible. Remember that

any biconvex lens, whether in the camera or in the eye, inverts © , ,

the image. In order for the image to look correct on the screen, the action of the projector lens must be taken into account; thus when film is loaded into a projector, its head faces downward. In this figure, the head is near the top of the page, the tail near the

| -1,RAWMATERIALS = 129

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Figure 2-43 largest and brightest light currently made for the film industry,

154 PART Il. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE

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V 4 PART Il. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE

— ~~ ie a @ 7, /~ -—

7 a” 2 | | Figure 2-73 even though his volume is small. He does this partly because he a

is isolated in the center of the frame, but primarily because his ,

angular, but in depth. ,

figure is at the point of convergence of the deep V whose fore- , ground points are Bernstein and Thatcher. This composition is tri-

Fig. 2-73, a frame enlargement from Kane, shows how a com-

position can be organized both laterally and in depth. It also shows

how lines of sight can alert the audience to a composition, can | direct the eye along selected imaginary lines. The composition is

in a V: down from Leland and past Bernstein (Everett Sloane) to , , Kane, then up to Thatcher (George Coulouris) on the right. But it is also a V in depth: forward from Leland in the background, to Kane in the middle ground, and to Thatcher in the foreground. The center of interest, the point at which the lines of the V converge, is Kane. The fact that the characters are looking down these lines makes

the lines even more prominent and clarifies the reason for the |

composition. In this scene Thatcher is confronting Kane, a pow- , erful but upstart editor. Lined up behind Kane, Bernstein and Leland appear to be extensions of his personal power; even if we

are interested in them, our eyes follow the line they make down | | to Kane, like the line in the beard of Raphael’s rabbi. That line a also gives visual importance to the telegram that Bernstein is read- | |

ing, the temporary center of dramatic interest. But the line of

Thatcher's sight points directly to Kane, and that line tells us that | : ,

Thatcher is more interested in Kane than in the telegram.

Vacuum and Volume. The “empty” spaces of a composition are just as significant as its occupied areas. Vacuum and volume inev2.THEFRAME 1/70

itably work together: it is the relatively empty background area that allows Kane to dominate Fig. 2-72, just as the line in Fig. 2-60 is created equally by the ocean vacuum and the jetty volume. A composition can clarify not only what is in the frame but also what is missing from it or is about to happen in it. If a figure is —

: alone in the frame — near screen right, for example, and facing a, ae ee ae 3 the right edge of the frame — we normally expect that someone i rs | & a? m™ will sneak up on that person from the left. A large, empty field re fe - OO may call out to be occupied; a composition can demand to be bal-

|peare €. ee a anced by an absent figure. i. ee fe 4 In Intolerance, when Griffith wanted to indicate the moral iso. , - ve lation of a boss named Jenkins, he framed him in long shot so that a Jenkins is surrounded by fields of barren room (see Fig. 2-162). A

wonderful use of space that calls out to be occupied occurs near the beginning of Top Hat. Fred Astaire is shown walking, and the

| camera pans to follow him — but it moves more than it would have se Soe had to if all that had been intended was to keep him in view. The ose camera soon takes in an open area of parquet floor, and the attentive viewer knows that Astaire will soon complete the composition

Figure 2-74 by dancing in the space of that floor. The camera, slightly anticipating Astaire’s movements, works with him here like a dance

tts partner. Because it does more than simply to keep Astaire in view, —_— | expectation arises when we read the composition.

lt. the new visual arrangement sets us up for what is to come. This Bees ¢ 2. Composition and Meaning. Early in Queen Christina the ee EEE is promoted to the throne. She is so small that the crown must be wer fd — held above her head by two courtiers. In Fig. 2-74 Christina is

a jae slightly off-center, with the courtiers to either side and her adviser ies @ wey | at screen right. That composition clarifies the power structure at , a this point and implies that Christina needs — or in any case will 7 receive — the adviser'’s help; the group of four is centered. The queen has just been asked how she intends to continue her father’s

Figure 2-75 military campaign, and she is delivering a prepared speech when she forgets a phrase. “We promise —” she says, and falters. . —_—— Then there is a cutaway (a cut away from a setup to which the

a : , cs camera may soon return in a cutback) to a closeup of the adviser | ee ae ate (Fig. 2-75). He prompts her, whispering, “To wage it with cour| re re: ae a age. The closeup gives him an impression of power, and as a cut> PP.i aaay it facilitates the — change of camera—position seenisincentral. Fig. 2-76. ¥. away | In this final frame the cutback Christina The ON frame has been redefined to exclude the adviser, who, of course, : cP has not moved. What she says here is “We promise to win it!” This

charming line is significant because it is in the girl's own language;

fats indicates sheown understands thecomposition issues and will handle e. .. °| itherself andthat in her way. The asserts thethem same thing, showing her in a position of centrality and autonomy. She _ has balanced the frame herself: Mamoulian’s way of showing that she has resolved the political crisis of the succession. |

Figure 2-76 Another fine bit of authorial commentary, and one that helps to 176 PARTI. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE

clarify the emotions of the main character, comes near the end of the film. Christina has abdicated the throne in order to live a more ,

fully human and spontaneous life, and in a profoundly moving | scene she has removed the crown from her head with her own hands. But as she addresses the court, the camera has been positioned so that a carved figure of the crown in the background ap- ,

pears directly over her head. That composition asserts that she is still essentially a queen, both for the audience and for the director; it also shows how the aura of the throne remains a part of Chris-

tina's being, how this transition feels to her. For further examples , of how composition affects meaning, review the “desert island” scene between Kane and Leland, discussed in Section 4 of Part I.

Movement and Succession. What makes cinematic composi- | , tion fundamentally different from composition in painting and still _ photography is the element of motion — the challenge of composing movement, not just stable geometry. Regardless of whether it

is the camera or the subject that changes position within the shot, , |

it is important that they move from one significant composition to another and that those compositions work together. As organized

movement, cinematic composition can well be thought of as choreography. Whereas the composition in a painting or a still can be analyzed

at leisure, a cinematic composition must declare itself quickly, must make its impression before it is displaced by another shot. Along with this constraint comes the opportunity to devise compositions that will succeed each other in an interesting and signif-

icant manner. Many of the shots in Citizen Kane were set up so that continual reframing and reblocking create several distinct compositions, one

after the other. A more conventional practice is to cut between

compositions, as Eisenstein did. In a nonfiction film, where the :

subject is usually autonomous, the cameraman’s challenge is to

frame the figure in an interesting manner. From Fred Wiseman's

High School (1968) to Jeff Margolis's Richard Pryor — LiveinCon- oe cert (1979), there is a subtle drama as the camera follows the sub- ee

ject, achieves focus, and seeks out a composition. Se

It should be kept in mind that many filmmakers are more-or-

less indifferent to composition and simply make sure that the sub- a ject of interest is visible, in focus, adequately lit, and — as often : as not — in the central foreground and within the TV safe area. But that does not tell against those filmmakers who respect com-

position and know how to make it work for them. ,

2.THEFRAME 1/77

| The frame may be in color or in black-and-white. This aspect of , ities the frame is so important and provides the filmmaker with so many

3. Black-and-White artistic resources that it requires a separate discussion.

The earliest photographs and movies were all shot in black-and-

ang Color white. Many early films, however, were presented to their audiences in color. In some cases the individual frames were handpainted. More often the entire image was bathed in a single color; this was done on the print after the film had been shot in blackand-white. In the 1920s some films began to be shot in color. In the 1930s and 1940s the dominant color system was Technicolor, a process that in most cases used three strips of film to transfer dyes onto a single print. The 1950s saw the advent of Eastmancolor, a single

: strip of film capable of recording the entire visible spectrum in-

stantaneously. One way or another, then, filmmakers have long had the choice whether to present their films in black-and-white or in color, even

if shooting in color was a relatively late development. Since the

| 1950s it has been common practice to shoot features in color — at first, because the competition, TV, could not broadcast color, and now because color TV is a major market for films — but the resources of black-and-white remain available, and so does the opportunity to mix the two within a single image.

Black-and-White = FS SS According to one school of thought, the mark of an excellent blackand-white photograph or movie frame is that it includes the com-

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plete range of tones from black to white, with fully realized and distinct intermediate grays. These production stills from Broken Blossoms (Fig. 2-77) and Casablanca (Fig. 2-78) live up to those demands. In the Broken Blossoms still there is a clear separation between black and white, and the subdued grays under the stairs and the brighter grays in the display case are equally clear and well-defined. The range in the Casablanca still is more limited, with most of the grays in a

complex middle range, but the emulsion has still done justice to the pianists dark coat, the high-lit champagne bottle, and the

bright sheet of music, which is, of course, “As Time Goes By.” Although black-and-white may be thought of as the “absence” of color, it is actually a complete palette or repertoire of shades. It is a system with its own terms, comparable to the two-dimensionality

of the frame: its limits make its art possible. Nor is it devoid of

“psychological” color, because many people read color values into

the grays and may find color film overstated — in fact, psychologically limiting because it provides so much definite information.

Because many of the resources and techniques associated with

black-and-white have been covered in previous discussions of filmstock and lighting, we shall concentrate here on a few examples of what can be done with black-and-white itself.

Two Vampires. Mention black-and-white, and the first thing many people will think of is the opportunity to work with shadows. In color, shadows are in danger of being washed out or of appear_ing as patches of muted color. But a shadow in black-and-white can

be rich, deep, and satisfyingly dark. Black-and-white lends itself

| 3. BLACK-AND-WHITE AND COLOR 179

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kill the soldier — becomes oddly beautiful. Like the frame from re ‘ AEA ‘ Vampyr, these images can be appreciated for the subtle textures Pr Flee ES We, — a wo

of their surfaces and their masterly control of shading and tone. ae PA, aes - Bian t cyt

. . . 27 he gh ee ee A. ee “ie

Separation and Depth. When a dark figure is against a dark ot Ce. 7 we, oe Tl

background, it is easy for that figure to get lost. It is relatively PMT he. Se " anes ow G simple to isolate centers of interest and to keep them from bleed- meee ES ing together when working with color, but to separate one gray Figure 2-82

from another may require careful blocking and lighting.

In Fig. 2-83 a back light has been used to separate Raymond, a

Kane's butler (Paul Stewart), from the stucco wall behind him and aa

to accentuate the texture of that wall. The match flame separates oo EY his hands from his face and motivates a rich shadow. A motivated ; aoa lighting effect is one that has its apparent origin in a light source on Ge SEAR

that is part of the set: a ceiling fixture, a table lamp, a window, a a. ae ; POET E Ay flashlight, a match — and in the case of exteriors, the sun, moon, eg Bs A 7 SESE AN a Light can also contribute to the impression of depth within the [qNNAIEE Ve ag SLE eat) al

frame. This goes well beyond considerations of depth of field (fo- a oe » HN RENN

cus) or perspective. Even when are inlighting focus, effects, one mayperneed yi |ve alah to separate disparate planes furtherthey through , ; taf ba haps by giving each area of the set its own texture, by interposing | SOO fe light and dark areas, or by introducing clearly readable perspec- | Bae

tive lines. In Fig. 2-84, also from Kane, it is the lighting that is te most responsible for the apparent depth of the image. If the set |

had been fully illuminated, it would have appeared more shallow Figure 2-83 : | - 3, BLACK-AND-WHITE AND CoLoR = 181

, & - a a \ | i) é — Figure 2-84

even if the depth of field remained unchanged. Fig. 2-84 may also

| serve as a summary example of a rich and fine-grained black-andwhite field whose motivated low-key lighting creates a full range of grays.

Black-and-White Versus Color == == SE

, , Both color and black-and-white have their own distinct merits. Given the choice, filmmakers decide on one system or the other because of what it can contribute to the project at hand. As a simple indication of how drastically this decision can affect the fin-

, color.

- ished product, imagine how much would be lost if Disney's Fan-

, , tasia (1940) had been in black-and-white, or if Psycho had been in | Or imagine if Its A Wonderful Life had been in color. When , Video Review (June 1986) asked James Stewart his opinion of colorization (imparting colors to black-and-white movies), he said:

, | think it’s terrible. It’s a shame that they’re doing it. Frank Capra and |

, talked them out of colorizing /t’s A Wonderful Life last year, but the picture’s in public domain now, and nobody can really stop this colorization thing for long. | think it’s an insult to the people who did the movies in

/ black-and-white. . . . In black-and-white, you had to mold not only the , | people’s faces but also the background and everything, to give it depth and to make it interesting to look at. ... When they put that color on a girl’s face, a face that had these beautiful lights at a correct angle, then all those shadows are taken off and she just has sort of a light-orange

Oe face. And the background — one thing's red, the other thing’s green. There’s no composition to the thing. ,

182 PART il. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE |

George Romero’ decision to shoot Night of the Living Dead in black-and-white was deliberate. That is one film anyone can agree

is better for being in black-and-white, for it is a dark, relentless nightmare of the Vietnam-and-civil-rights-movement period (it was released in 1968), and its deep shadows and sharp contrasts heighten the tension and emphasize the quality of massive, cheap,

uncanny nightmare. It proved just as appropriate that Romero's Dawn of the Dead (1979) be shot in color, for it is (in the uncut version) an extremely funny parody of the more professedly

“open and narcissistic 1970s, of “mall consciousness and elevator music, yet with a keen eye to contemporary urban conflicts and the failures of the media. Color, daylight, and comedy worked to-

gether in Dawn, as black-and-white, night, and terror had in Night. Neither film lacked in horror or in gore. To show the world in natural color, color film is necessary — but

beyond that, color can function as a coded system, with certain , moods and meanings assigned to certain colors. (At the start of Dial M for Murder, for example, her red dress encodes Grace

Kelly as a “scarlet woman.”) The palette, or range of colors used, can be limited to certain hues and degrees of saturation. The kinetic and psychological effects of particular colors can be exploited: a restful blue, for instance, followed by a bright orange. The overwhelming limitation of black-and-white — that it can show only a range of grays — is also its greatest advantage. By reducing the world to a consistent and single spectrum, black-andwhite has a scale of values that can be precisely controlled and

interrelated. _ Using Both. A number of movies have included both color and black-and-white, sometimes within the same image. A little color can be extremely powerful. In Byron Haskin’s War of the Worlds (1953), colored flames were superimposed around the edges of black-and-white footage of running crowds and falling buildings. The newsreels shown in theaters at the time were invariably in black-and-white, and so black-and-white gave these scenes the aura of authenticity: one could have assumed that one was looking at genuine news footage. The colored flames link those images with the world of the rest of the film, which is in color, and provide an effect that is visually exciting in itself. In Coppola's Rumble Fish (1983), the fish of the title are in color,

and the rest of the film is in black-and-white. The fact that the

heroes see the fish as colored tells a great deal about their romanticism and their isolation, and it trades on a conventional reading

of black-and-white as “colorless.” It is also a simple way to call special attention to the fish, to lend them symbolic weight, to make them more vivid than the world, and to create some utterly beautiful images.

Black-and-white and color have also been used in alternation, most notably in Night and Fog and The Wizard of Oz, whose Kansas is inconceivable except in monochrome. 3. BLACK-AND-WHITE AND COLOR 183

Colom Basic Terminology. Any color can be defined in terms of its hue,

its saturation, and its brightness. — |

The hue, which can most simply be thought of as the name of the color, defines the relation of a particular color — say, burnt orange — to a primary reference color, like pure red. The range of hues can be thought of as linear (like the line of the spectrum that runs from red to violet) or as an endless circle that runs from red to yellow to green to blue to violet to red (the arrangement of

, the color wheel). If you think of orange as occupying a position on the color wheel comparable to that of 2 o'clock on the face of a watch, then a particular burnt orange may be located on the wheel at 1:57; that position is its hue. Some colors, like black, white, and gray, have no hues and are called achromatic colors. Those that

have hues are called chromatic colors. | oe

Saturation indicates how much a given chromatic color differs from the nearest achromatic color — how different it is from gray. A pure white or black would have zero saturation, as would gray. © Dull or pale colors have low saturation, and intense, vivid colors

have high saturation. : a Brightness refers to how light or dark a color is, in other words

how much light it is emitting or reflecting. The sun is brighter than

the moon, and a rose in full sunlight is brighter than a rose seen by moonlight.

Brightness can be divided into the factors of luminosity and lightness. Luminosity is the amount of light that appears to be coming from a specific color patch or colored area; that is, how much light comes from the portion of the visual field occupied by the rose. Lightness is the proportion of the total available light that is being reflected by the color patch; that is, how much of the light in the complete visual field is being reflected by the rose. Directly across the color wheel from any hue is a hue with opposite properties. Pairs of opposite hues are called complementary colors. Blue and yellow are complementary colors. A color that cannot be produced by the mixture of other colors is called a primary color. Any other hue can be produced by the mixture of primary colors in specific proportions; thus orange, which is not a , primary color, can be made by the combination of red and yellow, but no combination of orange and violet will yield the primary red. On a color wheel, the primaries are equidistant.

Additive and Subtractive Systems. There are two sets of primary colors, depending on whether the color system is additive or

| subtractive. In an additive color system, whose primaries are red, green, and blue, the various lights add to each other so that the final color is the sum of their information. When all three primaries — or any two complementary colors — are projected onto a screen at the same levels of brightness and saturation, they add to

, white. In a subtractive color system, whose primaries are yellow,

cyan, and magenta, the various dyes and filters absorb color in-

184 Parti. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE |

formation — subtract it from white — so that the resultant color is what they leave to be seen. When the subtractive primaries — .

or any two complements — are mixed equally, the result is black. : The subtractive primaries are the complements of the additive primaries: cyan is the complement of red, magenta of green, and yellow of blue. For convenience, the primaries are abbreviated to RGB and YCM (or CMY). In the case of colored bodies or paints (not lights), the subtractive primaries are red, yellow, and blue. Color film is a subtractive system. Colors are produced by the selective removal of hues from the spectrum of white light. If you look at life through rose-colored glasses, all the wavelengths except pink are being subtracted from the spectrum. The color emulsion (and black-and-white emulsion exposed through a colored filter) keeps a record of the wavelengths it has absorbed. Dyed, that record is a color image.

Three Emulsions. The most satisfactory way to record a complete color image is to work in terms of the primaries: to make discrete records of the cyan, magenta, and yellow information. (YCM is for negatives, RGB for positives.) This can be achieved with three separate strips of film or with a single strip of base coated with three emulsions; the latter is called an integral tripack

or monopack system, and as Eastmancolor it was introduced in : 1951. We shall take up three-strip Technicolor® and some of the , older color processes shortly. If a cyan filter is placed in front of an emulsion, the complement

(red) is removed from the spectrum, and the emulsion will be ex-

posed only to the cyan information in the visual field; for this reason a cyan filter is often called minus-red. A magenta filter is minus-green, and yellow is minus-blue. In monopack, each of the three sandwiched emulsions responds to approximately one third of the spectrum. As the light passes through each layer, some of its color information is absorbed by that layer and is not allowed

to pass further. Monopack color depends on both filters and couplers. Between

the blue-sensitive emulsion and the blue-and-green-sensitive

emulsion, for example, the light encounters a yellow filter. Each emulsion layer includes dye couplers, fine globules that react during development to release their dyes. These dyes form colored images that remain suspended in the gelatin in a pattern dictated by the exposure of the silver halide crystals with which they are associated, or “coupled.” During processing, the exposed silver halides are developed

into metallic silver, and the couplers react to form colored dye | images. Then the silver image is removed by bleaching and fixing, leaving the colored image. That single image is, of course, three

perfectly superimposed microthin images, each of which subtracts

its information from the white light of the projector. ,

Technicolor. Imbibition printing, also called the dye transfer process, was perfected by the Technicolor company. From 1926 to >

3. BLACK-AND-WHITE AND COLOR 189

1932, complementary color records were exposed onto two strips of black-and-white film; beginning in 1932, the RGB records were exposed onto three strips of black-and-white film; and in the 1960s

| matrices.

and early 1970s the camera was loaded with monopack stock.

Much as in the process of silk-screen printing, the YCM dyes are applied directly onto the printing stock by means of individual

The three-strip Technicolor camera — which went out of use with the introduction of monopack Technicolor, but whose operation is easier to explain — exposed three frames at a time, each on

: a separate strip of film. The camera had two magazines; the first ran a single roll of stock, but the second magazine was loaded in bi-pack, which means that it ran two rolls of film at once. Without getting into the intricacies of bi-pack camera loads (which we will take up along with special effects cinematography in Part III), let us just say that the camera simultaneously exposed frames on three perfectly synchronized rolls of stock and that those frames were kept in tight horizontal registration during the instant of exposure. Each frame was exposed through a primary-color filter (or the equivalent), so each recorded its third of the spectrum in blackand-white. These three negatives were then used to produce three

positive matrices. ! |

The matrix is a celluloid strip bearing various thicknesses of hardened gelatin, and it both absorbs dyes and sheds them. It absorbs more dye where the negative is denser, that is, where

| there would be more of a particular color. The information from the red record is converted to a matrix that soaks up cyan dye.

, Then each matrix is laid on top of the print stock, and the dye is

transferred onto the print. After one pass from each matrix, the

Technicolor print is complete. ,

The dyes used in the integral tripack represent a working compromise between the color effects desired and the fact that these dyes have to go through many chemical processes that must be compensated for in advance. Imbibition dyes simply have to be absorbed by the matrix and deposited on the film, and so they can be relatively pure. In the color stills pages Fig. C-6 has been reproduced directly from an original Technicolor frame, and it may help to suggest how an instant of John Huston's The African Queen looked when the film was first released in 1951. (To convey the full effect, that frame would have to have been printed by the publishers in dye transfer.) The last American film made in Technicolor was The Godfather, Part II, in 1974. It used monopack camera stock and matrix printing.

Hand-Painting, Tinting, and Toning. During the silent period there were three principal ways of adding color to a black-andwhite image. The earliest, used rarely because it was so expensive and time-consuming, was to hand-paint every single frame. Fig. C-7 is a hand-painted frame from Edwin S. Porter's The Great

Train Robbery (1903). |

The more widely used silent color processes were tinting and

186 Part i. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE

toning. Both were achieved during the printing stage rather than

in the camera. For tinting, the black-and-white negative is printed , onto specially colored filmstock (or else the print is run through a vat of dye), and the image is evenly monochromatic. A blue-colored tint might be used for night scenes, sepia for interiors, or red for battles. Fig. C-8 illustrates the red tint used for a night battle in Napoleon. Fig. C-9 shows the sepia tint, here used for a Napoleon daylight exterior, and Fig. C-10 shows the blue. The image in Fig. C-10 is rushing water (cut by Napoleon's boat as he fled Corsica, much earlier in the film): one wing of Napoleon's concluding triptych, which at this point has blue water at one side, white

(untinted) water in the middle, and red water at the other side: the colors of the French flag. This is one example of a stylish gesture that can lift color into the realm of symbolism and authorial commentary. For toning, the black-and-white image is chemically converted to a colored image, and the color appears only where there are silver crystals. Where the print is transparent, or free of silver, the dye does not adhere to the filmstock. Thus the darker the image,

the deeper the color. Note the whites of the soldier’s eyes in this : toned frame from Napoleon (Fig. C-11), and compare them with

Napoleon's eyes in the accompanying tinted frame (Fig. C-12).

Tinting and toning afforded the artist a great degree of emotional and aesthetic control over the image, well at odds with con_ ventional realism. Some of the colors in Broken Blossoms are un-

usually beautiful and appeared in no other films, like the rich purple of the harbor in Fig. C-13, or the delicate pinks in Fig. C14,

Monochromatic color effects did not, however, disappear with

the silent film. In Fig. C-15, from 2001, the full-screen red not : only characterizes the otherness of the computer area but also acts as a sign for the danger of the astronaut’s situation. Tobe Hooper's

Poltergeist (1982), from which Fig. C-16 is taken, often uses a sin-

gle color to characterize a scene. When the child sits in front of the TV, early in the film, the image is an eerie gray-blue, as if the light from the TV were about to engulf the living room. When the mother attempts to rescue her children from their chaotic bedroom, the image is red. In Fig. C-16, where the heroes are about to enter the spiritual territory of the ghosts, the wash of blue light is both calming and mysterious; if the light had been red, the connotations of violence and danger would have been emphasized. This frame also indicates the cinematic power of colored light, which can be as specific to cinema as colored pigments are to painting. Furthermore, as an effect that can be found in Spielberg films from Close Encounters to E.T. (Spielberg produced Poltergeist) but that has no precedent in Hooper's work, this flood of immaterial blue may prove important in sorting out which of the two brainstorming collaborators was most responsible for creating

particular sections of this movie. In other words, an attitude to-

ward the use of color can be part of a filmmaker’ personal : style.

3 BLACK-AND-WHITE AND COLOR 187

, Color and Realism. A system of carefully chosen and integrated , colors is called a color scheme. A color scheme can be extensive, , like those in Gone With the Wind or The Wizard of Oz (both of which were shot in Technicolor), or it can be deliberately limited 7 for particular effects. Figs. C-17 and C-18 are production stills from Ken Russell's The Boy Friend (1971). Fig. C-17 has a sub-_ , dued color scheme, mostly in grays and blues with little saturation, whereas in Fig. C-18 the palette is saturated and bright, al-

most to the point of loudness. — |

Although there is a noticeable difference between natural and artificial colors, some filmmakers are determined to get the actual colors of the world into their movies; that is, they use an intensely

, realistic color scheme. Brakhage accomplished this in Mothlight (Fig. C-19) by taking his images as directly as possible from nature. Apart from the Mothlight solution, which involved no camera, realistic color is a matter of choosing the proper filmstock, lighting the subject at the correct color temperature, and developing and printing according to precise, normal specifications. One can obtain unrealistic color — to create a mood, express a state of mind, or redefine the world — by changing the natural color of the subject (painting a tree blue), using filters, unbalancing the light, developing at an unauthorized temperature, or whatever else works. Most filmmakers achieve their color schemes by realistically photographing a visual field whose colors have been preselected,

, like a room full of silver furniture. Sets, costumes, props, and even

flesh tones may be chosen with an eye to what they will contribute to the complete color effect, which is an important aspect of miseen-scéne. What most filmgoers do not realize is how carefully the

, colors for a “realistic” scene are chosen and how much they contribute to the design and even the meaning of the film. ,

In an expressionistic film like Masaki Kobayashis Kwaidan (1964), where pure blue dyes fall through clear water or a wild red painting can stand in for ‘the sky, it is easy to appreciate that color

, is being used as an emotional vehicle or even as an exercise in sheer artistic flair. On the other hand, consider the green light that , illuminates Judy's transformation back into Madeleine (“both” played by Kim Novak) near the end of Vertigo. This light, which has a great deal of symbolic value in context, is motivated by a neon sign outside Judys hotel room. We could look at the light and say, well, it comes from the sign — or we could appreciate the way it acts as a magical, glamorous force, a transformative and ro-

, mantic agency. This is a classic example of the expressive potential

of “realistic” color and lighting. , ,

Color Composition. Just as a black-and-white image may aspire to the full range of grays, some color schemes attempt to include the majority of the visible spectrum. In this production still from Gone With the Wind (Fig. C-20) high-key lighting brings out the _ brightness and saturation of a wide range of hues: the variety of reds, yellows, greens, browns, blues, and even the pure blacks

188 part i. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE

and whites. There is a similar range of colors in Fig. C-21, from , er

The Wizard of Oz, but here the color areas have been separated | | within the frame. To screen right, Dorothy and the scarecrow and the yellow brick road occupy an area of brightness and enthusiasm; a to screen left, the gray tree and the witch’s black cape promote a

darkness and doom. These two areas, which themselves are the OO dramatic content of the scene, are integrated by a clever use of , , a green: the grassy bank that borders the yellow brick road leads our : ee eye to the green face of the witch. Finally, the bright apples unify | re the scheme, distributing spots of red across the top of the field and , : a bringing the two areas together. Both of these are good examples Ce As one aspect of composition, color can be used to highlight the | , , , center of interest. In the production still from Gone With the Wind ee shown in Fig. C-22, the eye is immediately drawn to the spot of , , , oe

of what is meant by color composition.

red that is Scarlett’s dress. - OO |

Heightened and Expressionist Color. Some filmmakers com- ee

pletely depart from realism in the interests of personal style, au- , en thorial commentary, or even outright Expressionism. Eisenstein , , experimented with color in a sequence near the end of Ivan the ee Terrible, Part II. In Fig. C-23 he divided the image into bands of , ee red, black, and green, apparently out of sheer delight at being able , ce to compose in color. At another point, figures in black robes and , oo carrying candles are seen against a vivid red background: a stylish ; _ gesture with classically Expressionist intentions. , re In Figs. C-24 and C-25 Eisenstein changed the lights falling on oe the subject to render the core of the dramatic situation as an aspect | ee of the visible world. In Fig. C-24 a loyal subject asks Ivan, “Does | . not the blood we shed tie us closer to you?” What he is really , , ne asking is why Ivan might consider elevating a numbskull to the ne throne, rather than choosing a successor from among those who , , ee have proved loyal to him. Although the lighting at this point is rs more-or-less realistic, with the questioner in a red-brown shadow ae that may have been motivated by the reddish light of the room, | | res the light changes instantly when Ivan answers, “You are not my , , a kin” (Fig. C-25). Now both figures are washed by a blood-red | a a floodlight; the questioner falls into an even deeper shadow, signi- : oe fying his disappointment and his fears. Ivan is truly terrible in this re moment — formidable and in charge. The light on his face is as , ee bloody as his true thoughts (he has no intention of keeping his kin a , Oc on the throne but will have the pretender murdered within a few a minutes). This unmotivated shift in color — no “realistic” red light tO, source has entered the room — is entirely artificial, genuinely ex- _ oo

pressionistic, and dramatically to the point. a Color can also be manipulated to characterize a world. The ,

green face of the witch in The Wizard of Oz (Fig. C-26) defines - Bn her character and is inseparable from the fun of that movie. Colors a a

were played with throughout Oz in order to separate the phases , So of the landscape (the Emerald City and the yellow brick road), to ,, 3. BLACK-AND-WHITE AND COLOR =188

heighten the emotional tone of a scene (the red hourglass), or for the sheer pleasure of changing colors (the horse of a different color

— colored not with lights but with dry Jell-O).

Color and Animation. The animator has complete freedom to

, choose colors and to apply them with all the control of a painter. —

In the transformation scene from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (Fig. C-27), the wicked queen is enveloped in great, free strokes of green, yellow, and red — in effect, a whirlpool of pure color. In Fig. C-28, which shows the dwarfs backlit by the sunset as they walk across a tree bridge, the animator’s choice of colors has been restricted by the intention to make this look like a natural scene. Even within those limits, however, this frame shows a great deal of creative expression. The yellows, browns, and reds of the sunset are coordinated with the darker brown of the tree, and all these earth tones give the scene a quality of easy, grounded naturalness. In more abstract animations, like Oskar Fischinger’s Composi-

tion in Blue (1935) or Motion Painting #1 (1949), colors may be selected because of the pure ways in which they interact. Both for Fischinger and for John Whitney — who has explained some of his ideas in a book called Digital Harmony — the systematic play of colors is comparable to that of musical tones. Lighting for Mood. In the hands of a great cinematographer it is possible for color to achieve many of the effects regularly associated with great black-and-white, and we can close this section with a look at two masterful examples of color lighting. Figs. C-29 and C-30 offer two frames from The Godfather, which was shot by Gor-

quite different. Me

don Willis. Both show the same set, but the lighting in each is Fig. C-29 comes from the beginning of the movie, where don Vito Corleone (Marlon Brando) dispenses his own brand of justice from the sanctuary of his office. The light is at once rich and subdued; the yellows and browns give the office a sense of intimacy, comfort, and security. What the colors establish here is the position from which the Corleones will fall when don Vito is replaced as the head of the family business. There is an Old World quality to Vito's values, a sense of propriety, good manners, and warmth that is reflected not only in the feel of his private office but also in the way he is dressed here: a black tuxedo and a white shirt, taste-

fully highlighted by a red rosebud.

Fig. C-30 comes from a later scene, in which Tom (Robert Duvall) has to give Vito the news of the death of Sonny. The tone of the image here is considerably darker. Rather than being seen in a white light at the rear of the frame, upright in his desk chair, Vito is seen in a yellow-brown light that expresses his sadness, while other subdued lights call attention to the desk chair, now empty, in the rear at screen right. The fall has clearly begun.

190 PART I. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE

The soundtrack is the final component of the contemporary shot.

In this section we shall examine few of the basic of 4the Th a e sound recording, the nature anda placement of theprinciples soundtrack, issue of synchronization, and several representative and creative

uses of sound in the cinema. Soundtrack The Ear and the Microphone = = SSE | When something vibrates, it causes the medium around it — air, water, or whatever — to move. Should an object move rapidly

forward and backward, it generates waves of pressure (with the | forward movement) and rarefaction (with the backward move- | ment). The same happens when an object vibrates slowly, but the frequency may be too low to hear. The range of human hearing is approximately 20—20,000 Hz (cycles per second). A cycle may be : thought of as an individual sound wave; the number of cycles per second is the frequency of the sound, the rate of vibration.

The Ear. The ear is divided into three sections: the outer, middle, and inner ear. The outer ear gathers sound waves and chan-

nels them into the middle ear. At the entrance to the middle ear

is the tympanic membrane, or eardrum. It vibrates in response to the advances and retreats of the sound wave, at the same frequency; in other words, it is pushed and pulled by the air. These vibrations are then transported via three small bones, which con-

vert the waves so that they can be interpreted in a fluid rather than a gaseous medium. The inner ear, a shell-like structure called the cochlea, is filled with liquid.

There are two channels in the inner ear, and the upper channel

is lined with extremely fine hairs. As the fluid vibrates, the hairs respond to individual frequencies. Should a gong produce a C%, the hairs whose position in the narrowing channel allow them to respond to C* bend and send nerve impulses — one per bend, or

cycle — to the brain. The lowest frequencies (the longest waves) ,

are picked up by those hairs at the narrowest, deepest end of the

channel. What enters the ear as a movement of air is thus made readable as a complex of distinct frequencies. Volume, as opposed to frequency, is conveyed by the intensity

of the pressure of the sound wave, not by its rate of vibration. The harder a gong is struck, the louder it sounds. Volume is measured | in decibels (dB). The decibel denotes a ratio between two amounts : ,

of power, whether electrical or acoustic. Because decibels are log_ arithmic, every 10-dB increase involves multiplication by a factor of 10. Thus the sound waves from a gong at 10 dB would have 10 times more acoustical energy than the gong at 1 dB, and a gong at 20 dB would have 100 times more energy than the gong at 1 dB.

Power, however, does not translate directly into perceived changes in volume. Volume doubles with every increase of 3 dB.

181

The Microphone. Just as the ear converts sound waves into nerve impulses that can be interpreted as sounds, a microphone

, converts sound waves into electrical energy. Microphones vary substantially in design, but in most cases the sound waves encoun-

, ter a diaphragm that vibrates rather as the eardrum does. As the

7 — air pressure changes, the diaphragm moves, and these changes in pressure are converted into changes in electrical voltage. ,

Recording. The microphones electrical signal is fed into an instrument capable of recording it. Assuming that the sound is not fed into a computer and digitalized, the electrical waveform remains analogous to the acoustical waveform: as one goes up, so

, ' does the other, and the electrical waveform is as continuous as the acoustical waveform. As opposed to analog communication, which is continuous and signifies differences by having more or less of something, digital communication works in a binary fashion, as when a current is either on or off, and information is highly discrete. Virtually all theatrical film soundtracks are analog. Today, most film sound is recorded on magnetic tape. The %4inch tape recorder of choice is the Nagra; in a recording studio or

mixing room the sound might be recorded directly onto 35mm

magnetic stock. _ , Like film, tape has a backing — usually plastic — and a coating.

The ferromagnetic coating, which contains the particles to be mag-

netized, is like the emulsion that contains the photosensitive chemicals. Magnetic patterns are inscribed and later retrieved by the recording and playback heads. A head is a transducer (somesateen snot caraen eae ns ser acmrcammmernoncmmarace: 4 ; thing that changes one form of energy into another), and it con| =h—Cf—rt—“N™OCrs ee yyy SG pe Ee fe LOSS a tee eres ee nee Eee ee OT SSE ERS Aes Ca oe ey seg Le ee ee Gigs Ie oe Se ee Ce ae oe “ae ee me ee ag ea EE ee eer Bee TE I SEES SS sag ee — =~ Chee c rdrmhLrnrCrCrCclrC Bo Se : oe Bee oe oe : . ee es BRM Yes Lg es EB oe Bei i ee eect e ee eee ce ae oe Se Sees abemens es Be se Ly Lee EDO EE Ee ae : ee YS ge A GS SE EE pseaae am Rk ce BEL a RO aa a Sa ee ee EEE ee EAN RIE ECE ane nee nc m eo ee a SEES SS ee ir ES EE LE Sch BEE oe oes + + ~~—hECMp LE ER a es LE LE EEE Le Yee es Bae, ERC OSE a a E Bane ee ee a CROLL ot ee ae Ue MRO Si a pe in Spereraneees teeta Bape es sone URE ee SRSA SOS Tipe Sacamenteae CAL SO SSNS EE Se REE OS ee sa OTR SE ore LEE gs SEE REE: «RA Be ns Sees es LE pe ge ee ee LIES eee a eae mm Oe ea ae 2 a A Ce LR OOS LE Ee: :apes Soe aeRRR 2raars ere apes 2eee gy CE BREE RT LE UES as 5.LE oe aeLCR _ened PSS EyLR pecs Bee Le EE Cee Le EER SEE Seas EE ae eran SS23re Leo iyema iio De aati gane eee 7ee COI ris OEE ESS ae a RR on SE: LO RES ee apenas LTS Ee: LEE ES LAS ar ee oie Gece EES EEE agora EES ee es LE TL ae iesee ciEe erie SLE aaa ee ee aSee ae iLT Be eeapes ee ye LE a RT SSR YS Ee aSE: Sees LE aa Se Ty oa pica aae aBe ea en oP cae ase: ee Se A RE ioe UE RR SSeS ee SUS . ee ee Sa BLE sips: ae a ae :iBee iSete Sa oeSSRN IBR Pe SRR EC aoe ita ieCRORE ee ABET: See as iteeg: rans LE GMIEE Basea EE etapa cco & ESOS LUO ROE Ls LU fee ase aS oe SES aBee: ee ii TIRE ga reeee eee oR Sp aieaBa iES ee ne es ES Les Lie Ue RE ES RAREST Seis, a 1 EP Se SR eee ee pee Ui ygee ES RE ee ae LO RRR Been Pep ee DT EERE ES Cee Bee Lee EE Be eae Ee eae EES a namecage LL ge i oe : act Ree ee ee BR ose LE a ee ‘ EEE age La eas EE ee be: Ee Bee es ea Ly EE SOs ae LE EE es Be EES PS A EG ‘ ES ie ee See en iee Oa RIE Sees SEUSS EEBESS ee ee SO i i A RR i4Be Bere ee eeeSeBenani oe ea eecae ELSaeEEG es SE eae Lee ELE PECL CRLh ee EN REREEE a ee oe ONE ng:LE ;Seger ae carers: eat teescna eaEES astesia tetas eeaeSee [oC Eee Tay errs Se ee ee aes .LES ee He RE Oi oii. iah IAA eyee z og iti:SSS ons :eee SOT HE mse LE psEEoS aeRR Bere 2i esis | Lr ES ee ae SES ee ee Beira ee ee 7 EE ee AE ee Een Goi. SSS. ee Bee eee LSE BEE ae Pe Sa eee Yee OE: Sonar ee SR ara Ra DOSE anc aR aod SE ES ah Oo ER Rae EE gs et, SEES MGR EEE a ES pasa LEGG Ey ee = ee Bigs ena SR Re : CERES Bees Se Eee SSeS SETS : SESE Sa eae Scarce se AA ae Si ee ee eee e See Co eee ee eee ee LE a Pg EES coo : : eee re so cece Rae ee LE I oe LIE OIE LEE OG Beem tipi LEA BE eer Sig Be SE SoS Be SS a 7 Pe es aeennuen venta coe a oot ee LE EE LE: Oo Sareea: 7 Bas Bea Og Seg econ Seti ; Eee Pe a ea Ee LE ae TR RE Le BeEERE {SSSR RES eeCeCC cee 2: Lee Lr ie LL Sreiecntiia ieneeee caper eeEe ee ee eeePegg ee PRNES areA er ee I Bearea ie USE EES: ::: 2S SoSRa hh Ee ae Be | »~=~=FS—hrtsé—“_eSsSsé SNS Na So Seen SRS | Ne Se. ESSE: Se Nae — SSS Seo eeSe RR eSSS NSRENE SRR Re SERRE ot SERRE ORESRS ESAS RS SASS SSS BS 2ae RRSe SoretSe Re [RR Ee RRR Ge RRR oa ee A Se ke . 2 SRA. Soe eee Sees oe a — Saeen See a ee ff USSF SSE eR Bo REET PRR SS = a BSCR SR : aDee SER eC SRG a SR SEER RRR RE Bee Se ae Roe Pe Se Bas SRS ESN . Teche ne ONS USES : : SESE RRR RSE = RO VO ES ENS oe. Ge ee =.

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_ . Near the opening of The 39 S teps there i l gth followi & & abe shot involving a police officer and the start of a tight. At the en . | of that shot we see the agitated crowd (Fi 2-1 Then there 1S

r= a cutaway trom the principal action to a close shot of a firing hand-

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226 Part I. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE ,

ened; that is where the soundtrack would eventually go. When .

printed for projection, the whole image would be reduced, and its |

his enemies. top and bottom would be masked to 1.85 : 1.) Fig. C-31 is a close shot, and its tightness determines that the subject matter to notice at this moment is Luca himself: his pain and surprise, the furious and desperate look in his eyes, and the way he is surrounded by

Fig. C-32 is a full shot of the next phase of the same action, but the change of setup radically alters the content of the image. Here Luca is a figure in the distance, and if we feel for him, it is with a

different kind of intensity: he is already lost. The brownish red |

color scheme injects an impression of blood, or bloody business, and it contrasts markedly with the blue-gray scheme of the later scene in which Vito is shot down in the street, as if the key to this scene were its reddish violence and the key to the latter its downbeat, cold winter blue. Still later, the Corleones will be informed that “Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes” — in other words, that he

is dead. This line is set up in Fig. C-32. The fish are seen here to

be an important part of the bar’s decor, and they stamp Luca’s fate. Taken together, these frames show very clearly how significant as-

pects can be isolated out of a field of action and given selective

emphasis through camera placement and control of color. Each ,

shot has distinct content, and the shots are linked by the continuity of action and setting... |

Creative Geography and the Mozhukhin Experiment. It is

important to realize that most films are shot out of sequence; that

is, the shots are not taken in the order that they will follow once the picture has been edited. This is a matter of simple economy: it makes sense to shoot everything that will take place on a particular set at the same time. In a shot/reverse-shot conversation, there is no reason to change setups after every speech; the whole

scene can be run through with the camera looking over the first , |

actors shoulder, then again looking over the second actor's shoulder. Whether continuity or discontinuity is the filmmaker’s goal, , each must be carefully anticipated during shooting. In either case,

the audience will do its best to read sequential shots in terms of

each other, making sense of the ways they clash or cohere. , When the Russian director Lev Kuleshov was first trying to es-

tablish how movies worked, sometime in the early 1920s, he con- : ducted an important experiment. He found some old footage of a pre-Revolutionary actor named Ivan Mozhukhin, a single long take (probably a makeup test) in which the face showed an unvarying, neutral expression. Kuleshov then cut three different shots into this take: one of a child playing with a toy, one of a bowl of soup, and one of an old woman in a coffin. The sequence went as

follows: face, child, face, soup, face, woman, face. When he ,

showed this short film to an audience (although this may be a bit of cinematic folklore), they remarked what a great actor Mozhukhin was. They enjoyed the subtle way he expressed affectionate delight at the child's playing, hunger for the soup, and grief at the

oo - 5.THESHOT 227

: , death of the woman, whom they assumed was his mother. The | Mozhukhin experiment, as it has since been called, had a perma: nent impact on the theory of screen acting. It showed that audiences will read shots in terms of each other and therefore that a film actor — who ought ideally to underact — could allow the

, montage to suggest some of his or her emotions and thoughts. The

, , , | point for our immediate purposes, however, is simply that the

impression of continuity is often generated by the audience. In a related experiment, Kuleshov cut together views of a walk-

, , ing man, a waiting woman, a gate, a staircase, and a mansion. All of the shots had been taken in different locations, and the mansion was in fact the White House, but when the shots were assembled, the audience read them as having both spatial and temporal continuity. They imagined (or decided) that they saw a man meet a - woman in front of a gate, beyond which were stairs leading to a

| mansion. Kuleshov called what he had discovered “the artificial _ landscape” or “creative geography.” The filmmaker has the oppor-

tunity, then, not only to shoot out of sequence but also to join _

together shots that come from utterly unrelated sources. One familiar use of creative geography is to intercut studio interiors with location exteriors. Another is to lift shots from pre-

7 vious films: when Hawks made The Road to Glory (1936), he took — | much of the: battle footage from a French film by Raymond Ber, nard called Wooden Crosses (1932). In terms of sound, an analo-

, gous practice is to intercut lip-syne shots with shots that were pho| tographed silent. There is usually no reason to record live sound

| _ ina scene that does not include dialogue. When a film is “salted” , with lip-sync shots, distributed every so often, the audience will

, bring its expectation of continuity to bear and will think that the whole movie is in perfect sync. > Be oe | -Intercutting and Cross-cutting. The regular alternation be, implies that the actions are somehow parallel, or proceeding in the , a tween any two ongoing actions is called cross-cutting; because it

- same dramatic direction — usually in the same time frame — it is also called parallel montage. The process of inserting shots into

, another series of shots is called intercutting; it does not necessarily _ involve a regular pattern of alternation. An insert shot, for exam-

| ple, is cut into an ongoing scene. we |

_ As arepresentative example of cross-cutting, consider this scene

from G. W. Pabst’s great romantic thriller, The Love of Jeanne Ney

, (1927). Jeanne (Edith Jehanne) and her lover Andreas (Uno Henning) are spending the night together at a hotel. They open the

: - window and look across the street at a wedding reception, and the sight upsets them. They feel that being unmarried makes them a less-than-legitimate couple. Then Andreas takes a closer look (Fig. 2-178) and sees that the bride is looking tearfully at them (Fig. 2-

, 179). To their surprise they find that she envies their romantic _

, freedom and how good they look together. We can tell that they

are looking at each other because the shots are separated by an | angle of less than 180° — the line has not been crossed. Shortly

228 PART II. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE | oo .

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230 PART FR HOT ] : 1

similar or analogous shots are said to be bridged by match cuts. Over a match cut there is a change of setup while an action appears to continue seamlessly. Figs. 2-182 through 2-185 show a rigorous match cut from The 39 Steps. The woman has just told the man that he can identifya =— certain character by his missing pinky-joint; the man frees his hand

and gets up from the kitchen table. The first shot (Figs. 2-182 and

2-183) ends as he begins to rise. Between Figs. 2-183 and 2-184,

which are consecutive frames, a match cut intervenes, and the | , second shot shows the completion of his action from a more distant setup. A slight change of camera angle usually makes a match cut less noticeable. Whereas the two elements of a match cut “match” each other, the elements of a jump cut do not match each other seamlessly, if at all. A jump cut leaps over time or creates an odd transition, and it often creates the impression that something has been left out. If you have a 1-minute take of a woman putting on eye shadow, and

you delete the middle 40 seconds, the result will be a jump cut

from her beginning to apply the makeup to her examining the , completed job.

Figs. 2-186 through 2-191 show a series of jump cuts from Go- , Paul Belmondo) is driving down a country road, and he is impa- :

dard’s first feature, Breathless (1959, rel. 1960). The hero (Jean-

tient to pass any vehicles that happen to get in his way. In the first | ,

shot (Figs. 2-186 and 2-187) he passes a white car; the view is

through his windshield. Then there is a jump cut to the second , shot (Figs. 2-188 and 2-189), which shows his passing a gasoline ,

truck. By the position of the trees, it is clear that the driving time between the two passes has been deleted. This cut conveys the driver's impatience and speeds up the presentation of the complete action, as if both time and distance were being leapt over. The action “jumps” forward. Another jump cut takes us to the third shot (Figs. 2-190 and 2-191), where a black car is passed.

A jump cut can also be defined as a mismatch between shots

that are not ordinarily put together — what some would call a “bad cut.” Time is not necessarily a factor in this kind of cut, nor is the

leaving out of some aspect of a process. An example of a “bad” cut , would be from one medium shot of an unmoving figure to a similar

medium shot of that same figure. Such a figure will appear to

“jump from one position to another. Even when the figure is moving, if the second shot picks up the action in a position earlier than

that at which the first ended (producing a brief jump backward in

time) or just slightly ahead of that point (producing an odd leap forward), the flow of events may be jarred. We can summarize by saying that the shots in a jump cut do not “go together, ’ whereas those in a match cut go together perfectly. Between these alternatives are what may be called ordinary cuts, those that are neither seamless nor radically odd. It is an important aspect of the development of film style that some filmmakers experiment with new approaches to continuity, some of which — like Godard’s jump cuts — are eventually accepted as valid, revising

5.THESHOT 2ol

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| Beginning with Fig. C-36, the background begins to change. The room disappears, and an obscure view of the livery stable glides into view (Fig. C-37). In Fig. C-38, Scottie looks up for a _ few seconds, and his face shows his confusion. It is as if kissing Judy has been so much like kissing Madeleine that he has been transported to his memory of the last day he saw her and to the moment when he felt that everything could be explained. He feels that he is back in the stable with Madeleine, not in Judy’s room. The shift in background expresses his disorientation, but it is also the seed of the solution he will eventually find. At this point he is 180° away from the position in which he began the kiss. He is opposite, then, to the mood of surrender with which the kiss began and will end. On the other hand, he is also opposite from the

, position in which he was aware of his real surroundings. What this shows is that he has been thoroughly drawn into the fantasy and that part of him remains skeptical. He both believes and wants to believe in the transformation, glad that Judy is so like Madeleine

but suspicious that she is so like Madeleine. ,

240 = PART I. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE

Then Scottie returns to the full embrace (Fig. C-39), and soon |

the stable disappears. As the room comes back into view, the cam-

era moves forward while the circling continues (Fig. C-40). By Fig. C-41, the neon sign has returned to the frame. At screen

right, backlit by an expanse of blue-green light, Scottie bends for |

a deeper embrace (Fig. C-42), and the shot fades out as Bernard

Herrmanns music, which has been playing the “Madeleine” theme throughout this shot, peaks and fades. Like a circle, this shot ends much as it began, with the emphasis on romantic transformation and dizzying surrender. In its course, the circle has included a moment of skepticism, confusion, and transformation. As a circular movement — let alone as an intricate double circle — the camerawork here is part of an elaborate symbolic pattern. Scottie’s acrophobia has been an important part of the plot — the key to Elster’s plans. The stretching stairwell has vividly rendered his giddy, vertiginous reaction to heights. But this is also a story about guilt — not Elster’s, but Judy's and particularly Scottie’s. As mentioned earlier, the association between height and guilt is first made in the scene of the policeman’s death, for which Scottie is partly responsible. The circular kiss, for all its dizzy romanticism,

begins another kind of guilt and a more elaborate moral trap. , While Elster manipulates his acrophobia-vertigo, Scottie’s love for | Madeleine involves him in romantic vertigo. In the whirl of emotions, he cannot be sure who this double woman is, cannot get his

bearings; he is caught between his own authentic emotions, how- , ever perverse they may be, and the sense that he is caught up in some indecipherable manipulation. The mystery, the murder, and _ the romance — the three central elements of Vertigo — are linked in this one shot, and inseparable from all three is the problem of

guilt: the link between love and death, between desire and mur- , der.

Up to this point in the film, Scottie has been seen mostly as a victim. When he takes Judy to the mission, we are a bit distanced from him as the center of sympathy because we know more than he does about Judy’s true feelings. (When one sees the film again, Kim Novak’s performance is revealed in its true complexity, and our sympathy for her becomes even stronger. Throughout the film she plays either Judy or Judy-as-Madeleine. She is utterly Madeleine only in the circular kiss, which itself is one of the most brilliant gestures in the picture.) Once they return to the mission, we see Scottie as — to whatever extent — her executioner. His surrender to his romantic obsession and his professional code is murderous, as if Hitchcock were remembering Oscar Wilde's obser-

vation that “each man kills the thing he loves.” It it also an act of |

self-healing, of shaking off the burden of guilt and finding that he was not responsible for Madeleine's death; it is that realization that cures him, at the end, of his vertigo. But he is left looking down

at the body of the only Madeleine who ever mattered. , The dynamics of guilt and disorientation, the key to Scottie’s vertigo as it is fully realized in the kiss scene, are conveyed by the

| 5.THESHOT 241

circular movement of the camera. It is the circle of obsession and

of the loss of control. It is also the romantic high point of the movie, and the truest and falsest moment in their tragic relationship. It is in the kiss that the execution of Judy begins, the seed of an extraordinarily intricate guilt, and Judy surrenders to it just as Scottie does. It is this vertigo, and not acrophobia, that gives

the film its title. (The original novel, by Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac, was called Among the Dead.) And it is this long take that gives vertigo, and the title, their full meaning.

242 PART Il. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE

The scene is an occasion for significant behavior and dramatic in- | teraction. As a theatrical unit taking place in continuous time and 6 Th S

space, it has a long history of definition. = e cene In conventional English dramaturgy, scenes are divided according to changes in time and location: the living room at noon (one scene) and at midnight (another scene), the front yard at midnight

(still another). The French theater divides scenes according to

their participants: two people talk in a living room (one scene), , and then another person enters, setting the stage for a three-way interaction (another scene). Regardless of how scenes are conven-

tionally divided, however, both playwrights and directors under- a stand the scene as a distinct dramatic entity with its own beginning, middle, and end, and often with its own momentum toward

climax and resolution — in fact, a miniature play. | As explained at the start of the previous section, “scene’ is used in two related ways in motion pictures. Within the screenplay and as a production term, a scene is a complete unit of action capable of being covered in a single shot, although in the completed movie it may be presented in more than one shot. But scene is also used in its conventional dramatic sense, which we can simplify as a significant event taking place in a single location, often involving only one character but usually a heightened interaction between characters. In this section we shall concentrate on the scene as a dramatic unit, not as a production term.

Dramatic Unity and the Task of the Scene _._ In theatrical terms, a scene is a portion of an act. Each act carries the story through a major phase of the action. In Samuel Beckett's

Waiting for Godot, for example, the action divides logically into

two parts, and each is given its own act. The five-act structure of The Godfather was discussed in Part I of this book. The term “act” is not universally employed in motion pictures, however; a group of logically and dramatically related scenes is often called a “sequence,” even though “sequence” can also denote any series of related shots. What sets a scene apart from the simple flow of action is the way

it brings dramatic elements into focus. Let us imagine a story in which a man walks agitatedly down the streets of a major city. He has just discovered that his wife is a spy, although she has led him to believe that she simply works for an answering service. After pacing in front of the office building where his wife works (Scene 1), he walks into the lobby and asks to see the manager (Scene 2). When he enters the manager's office, he confronts the boss with

the truth, and they engage in a major argument (Scene 3). That last scene will stand out in the viewers memory as a scene, a moment of heightened drama, whereas the two previous scenes may

be absorbed, in memory, into the general flow of events. Confrontation and Resolution. Whether or not it resolves the action of a whole story, a scene does not usually end until it has

| 243

, dealt with the issues and the dramatic opportunities that gener-

; a ated it. Each scene has a job to do. It brings the characters from

oo, - one state of affairs to another, from dramatic point A to B. It may

, be a question of an understanding, so that by the end of the scene the characters know more about each other, or perhaps of confron-

tation, as in a showdown. It is vital, then, to consider what the characters bring to a scene and what the writer, actors, and direc-

, tor want that scene to accomplish — what it contributes to the

forward momentum of the story. a

- Capra's It’s A Wonderful Life is the story of George Bailey (James Stewart), a man who has markedly enriched the lives of

, , many of his neighbors in the small town of Bedford Falls, particularly by opposing the financial manipulations of a heartless capi-_

, , talist named Potter. When everything goes wrong for George at once, he contemplates suicide but is saved by Clarence, his guard-

ian angel. Responding to George's wish that he had never been _ born, Clarence shows him how Bedford Falls — now named Potterville — would look if George had never lived. This isa powerful _

and terrifying sequence. George recognizes everyone, but they | have no idea who he is, and the town itself has turned into a night-

mare of nightclubs, low-key lighting, and hardened, combative

people. — tee ot, gen ys ee

Within this sequence there is a scene in which George goes to the boarding house run by his mother (Beulah Bondi), and they

talk at the front door. What George brings to this scene is the desperate need for his mother to recognize him, to acknowledge his existence and to prove that he is not going mad or the victim of some hypnotic prank. What the mother — who, of course, does not recognize him — brings to this scene is the whole of her al-

| , ternate life, the one she would have led had George never been

born. In this version of her life, her son Harry (saved by George during a youthful winter accident) died in childhood, and the family business fell victim to Potter's manipulations. She has become

lonely and bitter. Ss, |

These two sets of attitudes and expectations — George's and the alternative mother’s — collide, which both makes the scene and

| _ drives it to its conclusion: the mother does not know who George is and tells him to go away (the scenes climax), which leaves him even more upset (its resolution). This scene does not resolve the entire story by any means, but it does set George and his mother on a collision course, play out their interaction, and through that

interaction effect a change in their lives.

: The George who staggers away from his mother's door is not quite the same man who arrived there. What he brought to the | scene was his need to be recognized; what he takes away is a - heightened despair. When a character takes away the same things

, | that he or she brought to a scene, there may be something wrong with the scene. One way to begin to analyze a scene, then, is to ask what the characters bring to a scene, to compare that with what

they take away from it, and then to discover how the scene has

, , effected that change. It is important to ask what difference the

244 part il. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE a |

scene has made to them — what it has taught the characters about themselves and each other, and what it has taught us about them.

Distinct from what the characters bring to this scene is the task

that Capra and his co-writers wanted it to accomplish: another step

in George's terrifying but steady enlightenment. Each time he

meets another character, he comes closer to understanding Clar- , ences point, which is that every life touches other lives and that

George's has been “wonderful” because he has helped so many , people. In the scene with his mother and in the confrontation that , follows with his wife (now an “old maid” librarian), George’s night-

mare education climaxes, and when the world is finally returned to normal, the audience’s relief is almost as great as his own. Capra

did not let go of these scenes, or cut them off, until they had fulfilled their dramatic and structural purposes. Each scene is a crucible, transforming the elements that are “heated” within it.

Business. Some scenes include elements that might at first ap-

pear extraneous or superfluous. The most common of these are distractions called business. They can be used to provide extra

visual interest in a scene whose primary element is dialogue — ,

having someone fiddle with a prop, for example — or they can give a secondary character something to bring to the scene.

In Ford's The Quiet Man there is a scene in which a woman

(Maureen O Hara) goes to talk with her priest (Ward Bond) about problems she is having with her husband (John Wayne). She , brings to the scene her embarrassment and her need to confide. , If the priest had been in church, he would have brought only his role as listener. Instead, Ford’s priest is on the verge of landing the big fish he has been trying to catch for years. This gives him something extra to bring to the scene, and the result injects com-

edy into their serious confrontation. The priest is torn between his duty to listen to the wife and his desire to catch the fish. The fish is way ahead. This bit of business — enriches the scene but does not detract from its essential purpose, which is the wife's confiding in the priest and his giving her some

impatient advice. Only when the important lines have been said ,

between them — in other words, when the basic “story-advancing oe purpose’ of the scene has been accomplished — does the trout

bite. But the business is more than a capricious distraction in this , case; in itself it coheres with and advances the comical tone of the film, and it is also one of many examples of the conflict between the demands of a conventional social role and the quirks and atti-

tudes that make each person unique, which is a central theme in ,

ally “masculine” manner. , oo , this story of an ex-prizefighter who refuses to act in a convention-

Character and Action. Part of what we bring to a scene is the , expectation that a character will act in character. Character has a logic of its own, and there are some things that some people simply

will not do, or that they will consistently do. Much of the drama |

| 6. THE SCENE 245

of watching a scene depends on our not knowing exactly what a

| character will do, but when the action does occur, it should fall into place with an intuitive sense of “rightness.” : , It's A Wonderful Life goes to great pains to ensure that George's thoughts of suicide will make sense, will be in character, will appear to have developed logically out of the situation and his personality. Because a film character is often played by a recognized actor and is, in performance, virtually inseparable from that actor (an identification that is momentary in the theater, as one role can be played by different actors in the course of its history, and irrel-

evant in prose fiction, where the character is not enacted), the logic of character can yield to the logic of persona. In this sense, “George” is a mask being worn by Stewart, and we would have _ different expectations of George if he were played by Gary Cooper

or Woody Allen. a

We should not forget, however, that certain films deliberately ~ set out to violate our expectations of character and story logic. The eye-slitting scene in Un Chien andalou has a Surrealist illogic that teases our notions of what makes sense and of what sense is. There is an independently produced feature called Out (1982) by Eli Hollander in which the characters change identity every few minutes. Like the novel by Ron Sukenick on which it is based, Out has a purposeful alogic of character. Because these shifts are as “logical” as everything else in the film, Out manages to remain dramatically

, consistent in a very unconventional manner: its rules are odd, but they are observed as rules. In other words, any movie sets up certain terms, selecting them out of an infinite number of possibilities. These choices determine other choices; they become parameters. Once a character has been defined, certain actions and attitudes will follow. Once an action has been set in motion, it will develop on its own terms. This is what many writers mean when they say, “The character made that decision, I didn't,” or “It had

to turn out that way.” a | It is sometimes said that “action is character.” The scene is the site where that is most true, where what someone does lets us see

_ who that character really is. In the Thanksgiving dinner scene from The Gold Rush, the ways in which the tramp (Chaplin) and Big Jim (Mack Swain) eat the shoe — one in disgust, the other converting it into an elegant feast — tell us plainly who they are.

Near the end of that film, when the narcissistic dance-hall girl (Georgia Hale) offers to pay the tramp’s passage, thinking that he is a stowaway, that action lets us know exactly how she has changed

since we and the tramp last saw her. , ,

In a fiction film, the challenge is to construct characters whose - actions will appear to be autonomous and appropriate so that the audience will forget that they have been made up. In a nonfiction film, the problem is to find and record an action that will reveal the nature of the truly autonomous characters who have not been made up. In either case, every well-considered scene moves the story or presentation in a desired direction, like an individual step in a staircase. To plot either a story or an argument is to structure

246 = Part Il. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE |

what order. ,

the staircase — to decide which steps need to be present and in To examine some of these workings more specifically, let us con-

sider two complete scenes — one classical and one relatively recent — that have markedly different visual styles and that function as essential steps in the staircases of their stories. The first, from King Kong, reveals the workings of conventional master-shot construction. The second is the “finger-twitch” scene from Resnais’s Hiroshima, mon amour (1959), which has an intrusive mindscreen and a subtle yet definite visual unity. Both of these might well be contrasted with the long-take style in Kane (review the “desert island” shot, which is one of three in its scene but is itself capable of having been constructed out of many more conventional, limited shots).

King Kong: The Scream Test —...-_=> === Adventurer and filmmaker Carl Denham (Robert Armstrong) has

cast Ann Darrow (Fay Wray) to play the female lead in a picture _

he plans to make about the legendary Kong. She has no acting : experience, and while they are en route to Skull Island, he gives

her a screen test. Figs. 2-217 through 2-234 are frame enlargements from the 14 shots that make up the entirety of this scene. . Construction. The scene fades in as Carl finishes setting up his camera and Ann comes up the stairs (Fig. 2-217). “Oh, you've put

on the Beauty and the Beast costume, eh?” he says, and she re- | plies, “Mn-hmn. It's the prettiest.” “All right,” he says, “just stand over there.” What the dialogue implies here is that Ann naturally

inhabits her role in Carl’s proposed movie. She has selected, on This continues a theme that has been running through King Kong: , her own, the costume that epitomizes his vision of the project.

that illusion and reality often overlap. (The film’s first line is “Say, , is this the moving picture ship?’) It is in this scene that Ann begins

to play the role of Beauty to Kong’s Beast, not in the planned film ,

but in the action of King Kong itself. She has been cast better than

Carl Denham could have known. Eventually he will lose control 7

of Kong and the rest of the show, but for now he is very much in , control, and Ann’s choice of costume has made it easier for him to | treat her as the object of his creative fantasies. — , ] |

There is a match-cut to shot 2 (Fig. 2-218), a medium shot of Ann. She tells Carl that she is nervous she may not photograph well, but he reassures her and she smiles. “What'll I do?” she asks. In the next shot (Fig. 2-219) a reverse-angle cut shows Carl beside

the camera in medium shot. “Well,” he says, “we'll start with a profile,,When I start cranking, why, hold it a minute and then turn slowly toward me. You see me —” Then there is a cut to the fourth shot (Fig. 2-220). He continues to speak, so that the cut is bridged both by matching action and by the continuity of the soundtrack: “ — You smile a little, then 6.THESCENE 24/7

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Ve W Is eSequence deserve spemention and gunner. Each of th y g, an e° Sever al of the . juxtapositions ith in th

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the OC I b — | ; | y e. This stuttering montage h i , ese shots is only 2 or 3 frames lon d

cur 1n pursts approximatel 14 ata tim Th ri e

In aiternation), ra id 5V] resses violence and ite kinetic visua €xX | Silence as the binary quality of a machine guno1se (noiana d si

As of the h(Figs.I 2-279 € falis, a Dourgeols woman succeeds in breaki g th eFie °I pole annercaptur ed2-280ba and , airly of the firing. iri

7. THE SEQUENCE 271

complex symbolic juxtaposition. On the one hand, it asserts that

, the attack on the youth and his banners is analogous to the ma-

, chine-gunning of the demonstrators — that both are part of the __ | same general counterrevolutionary assault. The banners them, selves are symbolic of the Bolshevik program, not only because

they are carried by the workers but also because they are covered | with Bolshevik slogans. And the horse, like the youth, has been attempting to take banners to safety. On the other hand, the white

, horse itself becomes a kind of banner, a symbol of massacred in-

nocence. All this is asserted when the pole breaks as the horse collapses (the backbone of the demonstration has been broken), and the connection is enriched and complicated until it climaxes

, with another symbolic juxtaposition (Figs. 2-307 and 2-308) as the | horse and banners fall simultaneously into the river.

In Fig. 2-281 the youth is stabbed to death by parasols, and then he, the horse, and the woman are juxtaposed as analogous victims.

, The horse and the woman are visually linked in an especially forceful manner, as both lie in similar positions across the midpoints of | their respective bridges (Figs. 2-282 and 2-283). The woman’s body is like the coach; her hair is like the horse: vulnerable, nat-

, ural, and hanging over the edge (Figs. 2-294 and 2-295).

As the bridge begins to rise, the woman's hair and hand are lifted away from the rest of her body (Figs. 2-290 through 2-292). This stunning image is rebegun and partially repeated for several

seconds. If it had been shown only once, the audience might barely have noticed it. As it is, the image absolutely compels our

, attention, and the way it is stretched out in time gives it special

poignancy and power. Like the baby carriage that begins to roll |

| down the Odessa Steps several times in Potemkin, this is an ex-

| ample of the expressive control of time. | _ Now Eisenstein shifted to a larger object that can be seen hang-

: ing over the lip of the bridge from a distance: the horse. As you

can see in Fig. 2-297, the expressive potential of the womans hair is exhausted once the bridge has been raised only a few feet. Be- _

, cause the hair and the horse have already been rendered symbol-. _~ ically equivalent, this transfer of attention continues the visual ar-.

gument while shifting between analogous terms. , As the horse continues to rise, there are many shots of the undersides of bridges (Figs. 2-293 and 2-300). They loom as symbols of repressive power, but Eisenstein inserted a joke at their expense. In Fig. 2-299 the coach with its banners is level (because the camera, or point of view, is on the rising bridge), and the ho-

rizon is tilted; in other words, it is the world that will change whereas the revolution will retain its own dynamic stability as the

reference point for a new order. | |

In Figs. 2-302 and 2-303 the imposing face of a nearly vertical bridge is compared — in a straightforward instance of dialectical montage — with a statue of an Egyptian pharaoh. The low angle | of Fig. 2-303 reminds us that the pharaoh, like any monarch, was a figure of power, and in this context that power is presented as

272 PART Il. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE |

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oppressive. The bridges themselves are imposing and are often | seen from below. The straight cut from Fig. 2-302 to Fig. 2-303

makes it impossible to ignore the parallel that Eisenstein was asserting between the autocratic power of the pharaohs and the murderous power of the Mensheviks. The pharaoh would inevitably remind a Soviet audience of the czar, but the crucial point here is that the Mensheviks are themselves being equated with czarism. It was the czar who commissioned this sculpture (October was shot

entirely in authentic locations, and many of the actors had taken ,

part in the original events), but the Mensheviks are portrayed

throughout this movie as endorsing the czar’s tastes and carrying out policies that the Bolsheviks opposed as much as they had those of the czar. In other words, Menshevik power (the raising of the bridges) is being presented in czarist terms. The rising bridge in Fig. 2-304 is a symbol of counterrevolutionary oppression, and the horse dangles from it as a representative symbolic victim, like a flag hoisted up the enemys flagpole. _ Near the end of the sequence, most of the attention shifts back to the aftermath of the youth’s murder. Copies of the revolutionary

leaflet Pravda (“truth”) are thrown into the water (Fig. 2-306) along with one of the banners (Fig. 2-307). At that moment the horse falls, too, and their symbolic equivalence is restated (Figs.

2-307 through 2-310). A shot of the dead youth, also in the water , (Fig. 2-311), ties up the major terms of the sequence. Without abandoning the image of the bridges, Eisenstein now

turned to the river itself; this shift has been prepared by many

shots of the undersides of the bridges as they reflect the light from

the water. The bridges are an image of oppression, but the river

itself has no politics. It has been there since before the czar and ,

will be there, one imagines, long after even Stalin has been forgotten. For now, the water is a medium in which the truth, or the

Bolshevik platform, can be symbolically drowned. As horse, leaf- |

lets, and banners all fall into the river, they are quite obviously shown to be symbols of the same order. The link between leaflets and banners is summed up in Fig. 2-312, where a number of leaflets cling to a flamboyantly floating banner. As a bourgeois gentleman applauds (Fig. 2-313), the “truth” sinks below the surface of the river — but the word can still be read (Fig. 2-314).

Role in the Film. October was made to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the October Revolution. Within that context, the major function of this sequence was to remind the Soviet audience how far they had come since the “July Days.” Its extreme violence

was meant to justify the October Revolution, to present the Bol- , sheviks as heroic victims and to re-create the demonstration and the massacre in terms that were at once intensely realistic and symbolic. The Provisional Government is presented as a lackey of the bourgeoisie and as comparable in most important respects to

the ousted government of the czar. This asserts that the February , Revolution was incomplete and that another revolution was nec-

7. THE SEQUENCE 2798

essary. In other words, this sequence draws extremely clear distinctions between those the Bolsheviks perceived as the good guys | and the bad guys. By building sympathy for the victims, the sequence builds sympathy for their cause. This is a very old trick in the narrative arts, to encourage us to identify with one set of characters against an-

, other even when both sets are rather similar. If you step back from

The Godfather, you will notice that the Corleone good guys and _ the Barzini bad guys are both bad guys. The Corleones have one attitude toward business, and their antagonists have another, but they are in the same business. When Sonny has Bruno Tattaglia murdered, the event does not seem worth showing — but when Sonny himself is killed, we are treated to a long and painful scene

, of his being massacred by machine guns while en route to help his sister. Although October is an outright propaganda film and The Godfather is a “bourgeois” narrative film (that is, a movie that encourages the audience to be sucked into a fantasy and to forget the __ political world outside the theater, making the film itself a tool that keeps the ruling class in an unchallenged position of power), both of them manipulate audience identification in the interest of mak- _

ing what their makers considered an ethical argument. This sequence does more than record an unhappy episode between revolutions. Through its dynamic compositions and extraor-

dinarily kinetic editing rhythm, it celebrates the energy of the coming October Revolution. It projects and realizes the dynamic enthusiasm that Eisenstein felt the revolution brought to the world of politics and of art. By celebrating the revolution in a radically creative way, it demonstrated the energetic originality of the new Soviet culture. As we have seen, Stalin did not share Eisenstein’s view of the symbiosis between political and. aesthetic development — or perhaps he realized that creative artistic attitudes _ might stimulate further, and for him unwelcome, political developments. Whatever happened behind the scenes, it is in October

that these two revolutionary energies support each other most completely and in which their causes are asserted to be the same. Formally, October is an experiment in montage, and at its heart is a particular attitude toward the nature of metaphor. Essentially, what a metaphor does is to juxtapose two or more terms that do not immediately appear to have anything to do with one another. The form of the metaphor itself compresses these terms into one

| figure, as in Marcel Proust’s resonant image of “the blue flame of _

a violet.” For Eisenstein, the terms could be juxtaposed withina __ single shot, like that of the tilting horizon and the “level” coach, or in consecutive shots, like those of the slaughtered animal and the massacred workers near the end of Strike. He left the audience to draw the terms together and to decode the metaphor.

The dialectically generated synthesis between the terms of a

, metaphor is utterly conceptual. The proper site for an idea is in the consciousness of a human being, and so Eisenstein provided the audience with images and encouraged them to “connect the dots” on their own. Although this enthusiastic “encouragement”

274 PART Il. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE

left him in the position of closely manipulating the audience to arrive at certain conclusions, it also made the audience nearly equal participants in generating the final, conceptual work. The

audience was led, then, but not spoon-fed. 7

As a phenomenological whole, virtually any work of art is the product of an interaction between the text and its audience, but

not every artist has adopted this as a working principle. Eisen- stein’s attempt to include the audience in the extended whole of the film experience followed logically and naturally from the Bolshevik agenda, which sought to include the people in those power

structures that had previously been controlled by autocrats. The |

specific way in which the “Raising of the Bridges” sequence contributed to this effort was to present a number of major images in alternation and to teach the audience where to look for points of contact. Putting them together, the audience could discover how all of these were not only characters and props but also interrelated symbols, and how the separate actions joined into the flow

of a larger action. The ultimate metaphor to which all of these

elements contributed was that of the revolution itself. The juxta-

position and asserted complementarity of political and aesthetic ,

place in 1927.

radicalism was the essence of the October Revolution, which took

The Godfather: The Baptism === === SESE The Godfather was directed by Francis Ford Coppola; was written by Coppola and the author of the original novel, Mario Puzo; was

photographed by Gordon Willis; and was edited by William Rey- , , nolds and Peter Zinner. The sound — by Christopher Newman, Bud Grenzbach, and Richard Portman — was mixed under the

supervision of Walter Murch. The production designer was Dean :

Tavoularis, the composer was Nino Rota, the costumes were by Anna Hill Johnstone, and the makeup was by Dick Smith and Philip Rhodes. All of these people made substantial contributions

to the baptism sequence as well as to the whole. The Godfather ,

won the Academy Award for Best Picture of 1972, and its sequel

won the same award in 1974. ,

Two Puns. The story of The Godfather begins late in 1945, with don Vito Corleone in power, and it ends approximately 10 years later, with his youngest son Michael in power. The title refers primarily to Vito, but in the baptism sequence the term is extended

toForinclude Michael. , , Vito, the role of Godfather is a natural outgrowth of the social, political, and economic structures of his native Sicily. He

sees himself as the head of his family, the protector of his friends, , and the leader of the family business. That business is, of course, criminal, but it is tied into a social network that is presented as having real validity. At the foundation of this structure are the Old World values of family unity, religious devotion, and personal

7.THE SEQUENCE 279

, honor. From his point of view, the godfather rules from a position of moral authority, informed by shrewd business judgment, insight into people, and an efficiency that can be tactful or ruthless, de-

. pending on the circumstances. , , _

Michael is a far more ambivalent figure. A war hero with strong family ties, he has been groomed by his father for a role in legitimate politics. By avenging the attempt on Vitos life, fleeing to Sicily, and there marrying Apollonia, he becomes more like his

, brothers. After his wife is murdered in an explosion meant to kill him, Michael returns to America a changed, hardened man. He marries a Protestant, Kay Adams, and they have children. Counseled by his father, Michael takes over the reins of the business. After Vito dies of a heart attack, Michael finds the opportunity to kill all of his enemies at once. He arranges for his soldiers to murder Barzini, Tattaglia, and several others while he is acting as god-

, father to his nephew, Michael Rizzi, at the infant's baptism. By the time this sequence is over, Michael is a lost soul. His perversion

, of the ritual of baptism cuts him off from the moral authority of the

, role of godfather. | oe 7

Baptism is a ritual of exorcism, purification, and acceptance into a spiritual community. Its central symbol is water, which washes the infant clean and is a sign of inner spiritual purity. It is also a

, ritual of anointment, and a mixture of oil and balsam called , “chrism” is used to honor the new Christian. The infant, who of course knows no prayers, has no religious convictions, and cannot speak, requires a godfather. The godfather must be a devout, practicing Catholic who will answer for the child when the priest asks him whether he believes in God and the Catholic Church. As he fulfills this role, Michael Corleone has his mind on murder. Within the context of the ceremony, he is a hypocrite; if noth-

, ing else, he is a poor spiritual father to his nephew. | In terms of the story, this series of killings will consolidate Mi_ chael’s power. Thus he is coming into the role of Mafia godfather even as he “stands godfather’ to his sister's baby. Michael is being baptised into a new phase of his life, but the baptism is in blood, not in water. He converts the service into a ritual not of purifica-

tion but of spiritual pollution. For Vito this would have been a shocking contradiction in terms. For Michael it is a practical solution, and it marks the start of his reign as a “New World” godfather. As the story develops in Part II, Michael drifts even further from Vito's values, ultimately turning against his own family in a misguided, paranoid attempt to save it. At the end of Part II he is —

honor than he does. , In this sequence, then, both “baptism” and “godfather” are

utterly alone, and the family business has no more integrity nor

puns. Coppola presented two baptisms — one in water, one in blood — and showed Michael's standing godfather to Michael

| Rizzi while coming into his power as Mafia godfather.

These terms are brought together, both as a sequence and as a

metaphor, by a pattern of cutting back and forth between the scene in the New York church and the preparation and execution

276 PART II. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE

of more than five murders taking place at the same time, most of , them in New York but one in Las Vegas. The dominant soundtrack : is that from the church service, and its continuity links all these oO scenes into one coherent action. The ritual device of Michael's an- | , swering the questions put to the baby makes it even more clear , that this sequence is of his baptism, and that becomes the focus of | these events of ritual purification and ritual violence. Although

some audiences were offended by this sequence — feeling that it © ,

respected no discrepancy between baptism and murder, as if both

were equal partners in Mafia culture — a close look makes it clear | that Coppola was, in fact, emphasizing that discrepancy, exploring

its ironies, and using it to dramatize and judge this new stage of , Michael's career. To prepare the pun, Coppola and the editors cross-cut early in the sequence between two shots of anointing (see the color insert for all these full-frame enlargements). In one shot the priest wets , | his finger from a vial (Fig. C-43), and the camera pans to the right | , as his hand moves to touch the child’s chin and mouth (Fig. C-44). In the next shot a barber takes shaving cream from a dispenser

(Fig. C-45), and the camera pans to the right as his hand moves to Oo

apply the cream to the chin of his customer, Willi Cicci (Fig. C-

46), who is getting a shave — in context, a ritual purification —

before going upstairs to kill one of Michael's enemies. The parallel . montage indicates the events are simultaneous. The exact complementarity of these two shots asserts the equivalence of their content — or makes us look for what is similar in them — while their — contents assert their differences. Both are purifications, but only one is innocent. This intensely charged metaphor offers a perfect visual equivalent to Michael's ambivalence and the moral contra- , dictions of his “godfather” project. These two shots are the key to —

the cutting pattern of the sequence and also to its message. , Construction. The baptism sequence lasts 5 minutes and | sec- , , cuts. The first 36 shots last 3 minutes and 41 seconds, with an | | average shot duration of just over 6 seconds. From Shot 37 to the oe end of the sequence — the part illustrated in Figs. C-47 through , ond; it consists of 67 shots, all of which are bridged by straight

C-77 — the elapsed time is 1 minute and 20 seconds, with an

average shot duration of just over 24% seconds. In contrast to the

sequence from October, the Godfather baptism includes a great |

many match cuts and is a good example of continuity editing at its most complex. Shot 1 is a full shot of the interior of the church. Low organ

music is heard, and the baby is crying — but not very loudly. In Shot 2, Michael and Kay bring the baby to the altar. Connie and Carlo, the baby’s parents, are in attendance but are not singled out by the camera. The organ continues, the crying stops, and the priest begins to pray in Latin. These become the basic terms of the unifying church soundtrack: the organ, the Latin prayers, and

the intermittently crying baby. As the prayer continues, there is a , . match cut to Shot 3, a medium shot of the priest as he exhales

7.THE SEQUENCE 2/7

three times in the baby’s face. Then comes a close shot of Michael, and the Latin at that point translates, “Let us pray...” In Shot 5, a close shot, Michael and Kay’s hands loosen the ribbons and remove the bonnet from the baby's head so that he can be anointed. Then come three shots of one of Michael's soldiers (Rocco) assembling a machine gun in a dingy room. The sound-

: track, however, is only that from the church; we hear none of the sounds that Rocco is making in his room, but the organ and the prayers continue uninterrupted. The same is true in Shot 9, a long shot of Clemenza, one of Michael’s most trusted lieutenants, leaving his home with a large cardboard carton under one arm and polishing the fender of his car before he gets into it. Shot 10 returns us to the church for a close shot of Michael as the priest’s

hand makes a cross. a _ The continuity of the soundtrack accomplishes several things

here: (1) it indicates that the actions of Rocco and Clemenza are going on during the service; (2) it makes those actions part of the service; and (3) it makes them slightly less vivid or autonomous as scenes. As the sequence progresses, we will come to hear what goes on in these distant scenes while we continue to listen to the service, so that they will all convey their own impression of reality while the service remains dominant and gathers them into its

context. ,

Shot 11 is the anointing of the infant (Figs. C-43 and C-44), and Shot 12 gets the shaving cream onto Cicci’s face (Figs. C-45 and C-46). Cicci is in a barber shop in the basement of a hotel. Shot 13 is a full shot of the barber shop, joined to Shot 12 by a match

nounced echo. :

, cut. The organ is still going on, rather softly now and with a proIn Shot 14 (also a full shot), Al Neri takes the uniform he used to wear as a police officer out of a suitcase. He is in a dingy room,

dressing for the role he will play in the murder of Barzini. The organ is heard, Al is not. Shot 15 is similar to Shot 11, again with a pan as the priest anoints the child a second time, making the sign

of the cross on his forehead. Then there is a cut back to Al, and this time we hear him. In Shot 16, a close shot, he takes a police revolver out of a crumpled paper bag, along with his old badge. We hear the paper, the gun, and the clink of the badge distinctly, while the organ and the praying continue; the organ, however, has

happen.

taken on a lower tone. The deepening of the music is ominous,

and the presence of the direct sound makes Al's actions seem more

immediate; together they announce that something is about to

In Shot 17 Al wipes the sweat off his face with a cloth. Shot 18 shows Clemenza walking up a hotel staircase, still carrying the carton, and wiping the sweat off his face. These parallel actions make it plain that Al and Clemenza are carrying out similar roles. The parallelism helps to knit the sequence together, much as the central figures in the October sequence are interrelated. The ed_ iting problem here is that the church scene must stand as one of two major terms in the sequence, the other being the series of 278 = PART il. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE

murders. Because the murders take place in five locations, they could have occupied five sixths of the audience's attention, which would be too much. The editors and Coppola evidently arrived at the strategy of making those five extra-ecclesiastical actions cohere as one, and to do that, they emphasized the parallels among them,

creating continuity within fragmentation. The sound works in a , similar way: just as we heard Al's actions in Shots 16 and 17, in

Shot 18 we hear Clemenza’s footsteps on the marble stairs, along ,

with the prayer and the organ. Shot 19, from the same setup as Shot 2, shows the priest's making a crossing motion in the air. In Shot 20 he touches the baby's

mouth. Shot 21 is a close shot of Michael, looking impatient or in ,

conflict. As he looks from the floor to the priest, the organ gets slightly louder. In the next two shots the priest touches the baby’s head. Shot 24 is a closeup of Michael. The closer camera position in-

dicates that this is a critical moment. It is at this point that the

editing rhythm begins to accelerate as the sequence narrows in on the killings and on the core of the ritual. This is the moment when Michael must declare his faith and actively play the role of godfather; it lays all of the moral issues on the line. The priest asks him, “Michael, do you believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of Heaven and Earth?” Michael looks up and says, “I do.” The organ continues, rising a little in volume. Shot 25 is a long shot of Barzini in the lobby of an office building,

perhaps a courthouse. He walks to the foreground, and after he

Latin. |

leaves the building, he will be killed. The organ is somewhat

louder. The priest continues, “Do you believe in Jesus Christ, his ,

only Son, our Lord?” We hear Michael’s answer, “I do.” “Do you |

believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy Catholic Church?” By now Barzini is almost out of the frame. There is a cut to a medium shot

(Shot 26) of Al outside that same building. Dressed as a police officer, he knocks on the fender of Barzini’s car and motions the chauffeur to drive away; he does this twice, but the driver ignores him. We hear the knocking on the fender, and below that the or-

gan and Michael's answer, “I do.” The priest continues to pray in a : The order of the baptism is wrong at this point. In this part of

the service the normal order is first an exorcism, then a confession of faith, and then the baptism itself. It is over these shots of Barzini and Al that we hear Michael's confession of faith. The exorcism (“Do you renounce Satan,” etc.) will be heard over the actual murders. This rearrangement, which most of the audience could not

vant juxtapositions. ,

be expected to notice, is in the interest of more forceful and rele- | Shot 27 shows Clemenza going up the stairs, turning at the land-

ing, and then starting up another flight. We hear his footsteps, his |

heavy breathing, the Latin, and the organ. The camera pans to , follow him when he crosses the landing. In most of the shots in this sequence the camera does not move. The few movements that do occur, therefore, have more weight.

7.THE SEQUENCE 2/79

In Shot 28 Rocco walks to the door of his room with the two machine guns he has assembled and gives one to his partner. The camera pans left to follow him, reversing the movement it has just made to follow Clemenza. The parallel here is that both Rocco and

Clemenza are on the way to do murder with the guns they are carrying. We hear the sounds Rocco makes while the church

sounds continue. oe Shot 29 shows Cicci leaving the barber shop and dragging on a

cigarette. We hear the muffled shutting of the glass door — and the prayers and the organ. Shot 30 is a close shot of the priest's red stole, extended toward the baby. This is the part of the service when the infant is to open to the sweetness of God and when the devil is commanded to depart, “For the judgment of God is come.” Shot 31 is very similar to Shot 1, and it effectively rebegins the sequence. We see the interior of the church in full shot. The organ becomes more ominous, and the baby starts to cry again. Now the judgment of God has come. The double message here is extremely ironic. On the one hand, Michael is closing himself to the Lord and making himself liable to Judgment; on the other hand, this is the moment of Michael’s judgment against his enemies, the climax of his plans. Either way, we realize that the murders are about to

, begin. - a : Shot 32 is a medium long shot of Barzini as he walks down the

outside steps. We hear his steps, the organ, the prayer, and the gradually louder crying. His bodyguard walks beside him, and

Barzini gestures in the direction of the police officer (Al), who is giving a ticket to the chauffeur: obviously this cop doesn't know. the rules. There is a match cut to Shot 33, in which the bodyguard goes down ahead of Barzini and approaches the police officer; the soundtrack is the same as in Shot 32. When the bodyguard reaches the lower center of the frame, there is a match cut to Cicci in the same screen position (a cut on eye movement) in Shot 34, a highangle full shot of the basement stairs. Cicci walks more than halfway to the top, then stops for a puff on his cigarette. We hear his steps, the organ, the prayer, and the crying. It is as if the baby

were crying for all the pain that is about to come. In Shot 35, Clemenza finally reaches the fifth-floor landing and pushes the elevator button. He wants the elevator to open at that floor. We hear the sounds he makes and the sounds of the baptismal service, just as in the previous shots. Shot 36 is a medium shot of Moe Greene on a masseur'’s table. He is in the massage room of his own hotel in Las Vegas. The masseur puts oil on his back — _ another anointing — and Moe twists his neck as if it were stiff, then rests it on his arm, looking preoccupied. We hear all that as

well as the continuing service. | At this point all of the murders have been visually prepared for.

Al is waiting for Barzini, Clemenza is ready outside the elevator, Cicci is about to trap his victim in the upstairs lobby, Rocco is on the way to Tattaglia’s hotel room, and Moe is naked and off guard.

The stage is set, then, for the major action. |

And the exorcism goes into its climax. In Shot 37 (Fig. C-47) the

280 = part il. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE

priest touches the babys mouth and asks, “Michael Francis Rizzi —” At the start of the shot the organ goes into a loud, rapid arpeggio; halfway through “Francis” it becomes silent for the first time in this sequence, as if on a precipice. In shot 38 (Fig. C-48) the line is completed: “— do you renounce Satan?” Except for the

priest’s question, this shot is absolutely silent. Michael just looks. , We receive his answer in the following shots.

At the beginning of Shot 39 (Fig. C-49) the organ repeats the a

loud arpeggio as the elevator door opens. The elevator contains

two passengers and an operator. At the end of the shot, one of the men catches sight of Clemenza. In Shot 40 (Fig. C-50) Clemenza kicks the man back into the elevator, discards the carton, and fires his shotgun twice. We hear the sounds of this scene and the organ.

In Shot 41 (Fig. C-51) Michael answers the priest, “I do re-

nounce him.” His face reveals that he is looking inside himself, or |

perhaps thinking about the murders. The juxtaposition of the elevator shootings and his renunciation of Satan is utterly ironic, a montage whose terms, when put together, advance the metaphor of the new godfather and declare Michael's personal damnation. In simpler terms, we can see that he has not renounced anything, except perhaps his peace of mind. Beneath the sound of his voice, the soundtrack of Shot 40 dies rapidly away, leaving the shot in

silence. | | In Shot 42 (Fig. C-52) the organ sounds another loud arpeggio as one of Michael's men walks into the massage room. Now the

organ is not part of the church service, but an accompaniment to

the murders. This sound trope makes it even more clear that the baptisms are advancing together. It is almost as if the two actions were cross-linked. Up to now the organ has gone naturally with the service, but the play with sound has let it spill over into the murder preparations. In Shot 41, an instant of the murder soundtrack has been heard in the church scene. Now, thanks to Michael,

the organ and the service have been made part of the killings themselves; the service has been redefined. As the thug comes into the room, Moe reaches for his glasses to

see who it is. We do not hear his movements, only the organ. | There is a match cut to Shot 43 (Fig. C-53), in which Moe puts on |

the glasses. Then there is another match cut to the even tighter , Shot 44 (Fig. C-54), in which Moe is shot in the eye and his head

slumps down. We hear the gunshot and the organ, whose level is fairly loud. Shot 45 (Fig. C-55) returns us to Michael, who looks tired — or as if he would rather be somewhere else. The organ is playing in the background, but now it appears to come from the sites of the

killings. The priest asks, “And all his works?” |

Shot 46 (Fig. C-56) picks up Cicci where we left him on the stairs. The only sound is the organ. Cicci drops his cigarette and heads upstairs. In Shot 47 (Fig. C-57) he locks the revolving door in the hotel lobby and draws his gun. Another head of one of the Five Families is trapped. In Shot 48 (Fig. C-58) the victim turns

around to see what has gone wrong and catches sight of Ciccis gun , 7.THE SEQUENCE 281

as it is leveled on him. In both these shots we hear the sounds of the scene (the door lock in particular) as well as the organ. In ad-

, dition, we note that the baby’s crying has begun again.

In Shot 49 (Fig. C-59) Cicci finishes leveling his gun; now only the organ is heard. This is a subjective camera shot from the victim’s point of view. In the next shot (Fig. C-60) the victim yells, and Cicci shoots him twice. In Shot 51 (Fig. C-61) Cicci fires two more times, and the glass shatters with each impact until Cicci is

, nearly obscured, looking totally mad. In both these shots we hear | the live sounds and the organ. Shot 52 (Fig. C-62) returns to Michael, who answers, “I do re-

church. ,

, nounce them. The sound of the organ dies out rapidly, like a ricochet. By now it is clear that the organ is not playing in the

, Now it is time to kill Philip Tattaglia, who is in bed with his mistress. In Shot 53 (Fig. C-63) Rocco and his colleague burst through the door, knocking it off its hinges, and open fire. There is a reverse-angle cut to Shot 54 (Fig. C-64), showing Tattaglia and especially the woman as they are struck by the bullets. In Shot 53

, we hear the organ — now very loud — the crash of the door, the guns, and the womans “Oh God!” In Shot 54 we hear the organ, the guns, and a second “Oh God!” The religious content of her exclamation is obviously an authorial irony. In Shot 55 (Fig. C-65) the camera provides a closer view of the woman as she screams,

“Oh _”

At the end of the shot (the frame shown in Fig. C-65) she is in the same screen position as Michael will be in the next shot. This is not just a cut on eye movement, but a way of marking Michael

, as her assassin. She becomes a kind of moral afterimage when we

see his face in Shot 56 (Fig. C-66, which is the opening frame of that shot). “And all his pomps?” asks the priest. In a resigned,

. almost exhausted, reserved, and sincere tone he answers, “I do

renounce them.” The organ, at about medium volume, is heard behind him and continues over the climactic murder of Barzini. In Shot 57 (Fig. C-67) Al shoots Barzinis bodyguard once and the chauffeur twice. Shot 58 (Fig. C-68) shows him going into a crouching position and taking careful aim offscreen. Then there is a reverse-angle match cut. In Shot 59 (Fig. C-69) he shoots Barzini twice in the back, and we hear the shots. There is another match cut to a medium shot of Barzini (Fig. C-70) as he turns and begins

, to fall. The organ is now very loud. The intensity of the music and the cut to a close view of the principal villain emphasize Michael's triumph and let the audience know that this is the big event. Following another match cut, Shot 61 (Fig. C-71) shows Barzini as he falls down the steps. Al runs to the getaway car and escapes. The organ has become a bit softer, and we can clearly hear the sounds

of Al's feet, the car door, and the squealing tires. Shot 62 (Fig. C-72) is again of Michael, but this time the camera is closer, urging us to take a closer look at him now that his ene-

| mies are dead and the climax of the ritual is upon him. As the actual shootings, building to the major targets of Barzini and Tat-

282 PART I. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE |

taglia, are the climax of their half of the sequence, the actual moment of baptism is the climax of the service. In this shot the priest asks, “Michael Francis Rizzi’ — and Michael Corleone looks up — “wilt thou be baptized?” Softly Michael answers, “I will.” The organ becomes very soft now, again a part of the service. In Shot 63 (Fig. C-73) the priest pours water onto the baby’s head — the moment of baptism. He will do this three times, once at each mention of a member of the Holy Trinity. In this, the most perversely powerful moment in the sequence, the child is baptized in water as Michael is in blood, and the Trinity becomes a trinity of his victims. In Shot 63 we hear the low organ, the sound of the water, and the priest's voice: “In nomine Patris —’ (“In the name of the Father’). Shot 64 (Fig. C-74) shows the bloody body of Tattaglia in the bed. “Et Filii —” (“and the Son”), says the priest, and at this mention of the “Son” the organ becomes prominent, perhaps a reference to the way Michael is failing to become his own father’s ideal son. At the end of this shot we hear the second flow of water. That

sound is completed at the start of Shot 65 (Fig. C-75), which shows

the dead man in the revolving door, and in which the priest completes his line: “et Spiritus Sancti” (“and the Holy Spirit’). Over the start of Shot 66 (Fig. C-76), which shows the dead

Barzini, we hear the third pouring of the water. The low organ has |

continued through this morbid trinity, and the water has purified the infant even as it has come to sound, in context, like the pouring of blood. “Michael Rizzi —” says the priest, and in the final shot of the sequence (Fig. C-77) he completes his line, “go in peace, and may the Lord be with you. Amen.” As the sound of the organ

dies out, the camera tracks slowly forward on Michael's face. For |

the first time we see him with a candle, a spiritual light. As in the rest of this sequence, Michael expresses little or no emotion. Al Pacino’s acting here may have taken a hint from Kuleshovs Mozhukhin experiment, because it is the shots around him that suggest what he is thinking and feeling. In any case it is a brilliantly understated performance. As he looks at the light, he appears to be taking stock of all that has happened, all of the changes in his life — but he may well be contemplating the state of his soul. That

candle is in itself a summary of the spiritual content of the sequence, and his look is its foregone partner. Then there is a cut to the outside of the church, punctuated by the tolling of a churchbell. Role in the Film. In Puzo’s novel these climactic events are handled and arranged differently. Although Tattaglia and Barzini are killed much as they are in the movie (but with Tattaglia’s mistress being spared), Moe Greene has been killed — by Al — at least a month earlier. To include Moe in this crowd in the movie was a simple measure of narrative efficiency. More significantly, at this point in the novel Michael has Fabrizio killed in an upstate pizza parlor. It was Fabrizio who planted the bomb that killed Apollonia, Michael’s first wife. By leaving out this act of personal vengeance,

: 7.THE SEQUENCE 260

the filmmakers were able to emphasize the fact that Michael sees

all these killings as business. oo

| The service itself is different in the novel and comes at a differ-

ent time. Instead of a baptism, it is the confirmation of Connie and Carlo’s oldest child, and its description takes only a paragraph. It , , performs the same general function as it does in the story of the , film; that is, it shows Michael's insincerity — because he is about

| to murder Carlo — and gives his enemies the impression that he has his mind on family matters and is not preparing a major as-

, sault. But it does not have the same symbolic function that it has in the film because it is not a baptism. And because in the novel the killings follow the service rather than accompany it, the religious and business facets of Michael's character are not forced to collide and to generate all this irony.

: By studying these changes, we can see what the film was struc| tured to accomplish. At the end of the novel Puzo indicates that _ | Michael’s soul needs praying for, but he appears generally pleased

, | with the success of Michael and Vitos plan. At the end of the

, movie, according to Coppola in an interview, Michael is “a monster.” One reason that Part II is so much more tragically intense

, and rigorously formal is that Coppola felt the audience of The Godfather had embraced Michael too readily as a hero. ,

In fact, however, Coppola took great pains, even within The Godfather, to underscore Michael's moral failure, and we can appreciate this by examining the scenes that precede and follow the

baptism in the movie. So

Just before the baptism sequence comes the scene of Vitoss funeral. This is a moment for the family to come together and to

, reaffirm its values and emotional ties. But it is also the scene in , which Tessio, one of Michael's lieutenants, approaches him with the news that Barzini wants to set up a meeting. Vito had warned

| Michael that he would be assassinated at such a meeting and that | , the man who approached him would be a traitor. At the end of this

scene, Michael tells Tom that he has decided to be godfather to Connie’s baby — “and then I'll meet with don Barzini, and Tattag~ lia, all the heads of the Five Families.” It is clear that he has finally decided on his plan, and it is both appropriate and ironic that he

| should have thought of it at the funeral of his father, =” Just after the baptism Michael draws Carlo aside and says that he will need him to stay in town for a while (rather than moving with his family to Las Vegas) so that they can talk. Carlo had been responsible for setting up the murder of Sonny, and he had beaten and manipulated Connie simply in order to lure Sonny into a vulnerable position. Once Michael has forced Carlo to admit his guilt — and to identify Barzini as the man behind him — Michael has

Carlo garroted by Clemenza. _ 1 -

, The movie begins with the wedding of Connie and Carlo (attended, incidentally, by don Barzini). At that point the family and

, | its business are stable and respected. Business problems begin | when Vito refuses to support the heroin operation organized by Sollozzo, but the personal problems really begin when Carlo joins

284 PART Il. FROM SHOT TO SEQUENCE

the family. As we follow the attempt on Vito's life, the assaults on Connie, and the murder of Sonny, we are indirectly following the

progress of Carlos treachery. Clearly he needs to be dealt with, but the entire culture to which the Corleones belong would reject

the solution that Michael finds. Carlo could be banished, he could

be shunned, he could be kicked out of the business, but he could , ~ not be murdered. At the end of the film, Connie reproaches her

brother for violating family ties. Right after that, Kay asks Michael whether he did, in fact, kill Carlo and all those people, and he lies _ | about it, thus violating even the elective ties of marriage. The film begins, then, with Connie's marriage and ends just af- , ter she has been widowed. That provides its overall structure: the plot and her marriage share the same limits. At the start, Michael is a returning war hero in love with a Protestant woman and not expecting to join the family business. At the end, he is married to Kay but does not love her, and he has become the new don Cor-

leone. At the start, the family is intact; at the end, it has begun to | pull itself back together, but the cracks are showing. a These generalized transitions are focused in the baptism se-

quence. That sequence effects the transition from the family fu- ,

neral, a last moment of unity, to the murder of Carlo, which is a drastic sign of how Michael has lost touch with the Old World values. What happens in between, as we have seen, is that Michael has become the wrong kind of godfather, turning a sacred

ritual to profane purposes. In this respect the baptism sequence is , an emblem of the whole film, an image that sums up all of its |

unities, developments, and contradictions. As an insight into Michael’s character, it is damning. As an insight into the clash between European values and the ruthless world of corporate America, it is definitive.

- 7.THE SEQUENCE 2698

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S, Vj g1staircase i of her and ! e°

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ara Ivien Leig on the rand tai f h

fer be1 yV | wantence to argu y eg g hem e e in Gone W€ith etts Atlanta mansion thBot Wi this d ( 1still 1 and ind.

thedi difFig. 3-9 show single figures in characteristicings, settiand d the tween em 18 Dasically one of artirection. di ] You ma Cariett 1S ho vampire an that theount C ti1S no

° epoint wnat 5 we romantic heroine, butrealize the 1S thatsort li h

of char-

acters the are and are g id d in h h f .

largely because of their immediate Vi ] vi (especiall isual environments

3.. PRE-PRODUCTION oof

(1953). |

, if we are confined to looking only at these two stills). The production designer on Gone With the Wind was William Cameron Menzies; he later designed and directed Invaders from Mars

One of the interesting qualities of this staircase is that it is symmetrical. It is part of the order that Scarlett has established as well as a reflection of her husband's desire to give her the best of every-

thing. Yet as photographed from this three-quarter angle, as it often is in the movie (this is only a production still, not a frame enlargement), the staircase is a dynamic diagonal. This angular orientation adds to the physical weight, sweep, and presence of the staircase, but it also implies that Scarlett’s plans for her new life with Rhett (Clark Gable) have been thrown off center. Like this

phase of the story, the staircase is opulent, dynamic, imposing, and disturbing. All of these moods and hints are brought fully into play when the staircase becomes the site of Rhett’s ravishing of his

wife as well as the cause of her miscarriage. What most people remember about that moment when Rhett carries Scarlett up the stairs to the bedroom is that he carries her up those stairs. An art director can be just as important to the look of a picture shot on location as to one shot in a studio. Fig. 3-11 is a frame enlargement from the night battle sequence in Napoleon. This location was not simply waiting around to be photographed. This particular section of ground was selected because its mounds and flat areas could best show off the effect of the rainstorm. The hill in the background would later prove useful, as part of a triangular composition, in the scene where Napoleon finally goes to sleep and is covered with flags as “the victor of Toulon.” The trees were

, selected for their height and bareness, because one of them was UhrhhUhUh —6h«= lll

, h(a. ”DhCrrC~—ahsheEhMhr a lrrr— ll

:ou ae on De yboare directts erson, ws nthartshes

> s : ‘look e me g. .3-12 “ache eSig the | eta . pared Yr sce te io a sf rtist cr Sent di eates theeta ats irector hind Sohcin—} >theerchet oa

i=nstructio ©sen oF sh soSbe call sto . At t: s specificall oe ‘ortho nie illustrat onveal Ss, emedw ving

Yrthedrawin ‘wo in ritz Fri e of d af cenery, ted eze

Th angs Sie man's drawi re aye m Fig 3 etal artist tvpi gfried (1924). wings for th chanical :

etches a of a parti reer drawi :covored’, fe oe rticula or shot and otherw Yn rr oo unae ory . In Fi rehth sketch whe art ther sehe |a uey arti iminary skother h for theca

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3. PRE-PRODUCTIO 341

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Figure 3-38 Figure 3-39 354 PART Ill. THE FILM ARTIST AND THE MOVIE BUSINESS

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I,: Wai. 4 9=. — Figure 3-42 .=

Figure 3-41 3. PRE-PRODUCTION SOO

a 06ClU MCCSC~té‘izis™SCSEUreferenced — via information on a slate very much like that used

— er 8@=~—~— 6 in the set records of Casablanca — to the name of the actor, the

|| 7i. -. | available wardrobe stills,we indicates her sense of humor — mundane but read| hee! ing beyond her joke, can realize that even the most

Ef Pe picture.

ee ee eee oor grungy costume contributes to the excellence of a well-designed | : , CHANG er Two of the dresses Robert Mackie designed for Pennies from > -.)hCtl( . Cc rwLLDLUUUUOUOCOCOCOCCiCRS.CUD CO a en |

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