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  When used in dialogue scenes, the function of “separation” is far more valuable for its capacity to display reactions than for any possible enhancement of the dialogue itself. A spoken line usually delivers a clear message regardless of the size of the shot, but a well played (which usually means underplayed) reaction to the words needs to be caught and interpreted by the viewer. Once that is accomplished, the viewer anticipates the response and swings his attention to the other actor’s reaction, and the process of participation is repeated. Given well-conceived and well-played dialogue, the filmmaker’s most important concern is the enhancement of the viewer’s involvement in the scene through his choice of set-ups and their optimum juxtaposition during the editing process. Because, at their best, films are still moving pictures, and in a very real sense their artistic importance rests in what the viewer sees. What he hears is underscoring, whether it consists of words or music, and a director who favors the dialogue over the reaction is manufacturing a play, not creating a film. He is also depriving his work of the one quality that makes his medium unique—the viewer’s emotional participation.

  The best examples of “separation” are those in which reaction spars with reaction, and dialogue is minimized. The following sequence from The Young Lions is one such example.

  Christian Diestl (Marlon Brando), a lieutenant in the German

  A seduction in silent close shots. Marlon Brando and May Britt in a scene from The Young Lions. Photograph courtesy of 20th Century- Fox.

  army, is in Berlin on furlough. His superior, Captain Hardenburg (Maximilian Schell) has asked him to deliver a present, a black lace mantilla, to his wife, Gretchen (Mai Britt). Christian arrives at Gretchen’s apartment just as she is about to leave for an evening out with a general. She obviously has an eye for an eligible young patriot and she invites him to await her return. Besides, in wartime Berlin available hotel rooms are impossible to find.

  When she returns, he is lying on the floor, asleep and a little tight. She asks for a glass of vodka, then opens her husband’s package. She moves to a mirror at the far end of the bar and, in a close-up, artfully drapes the lace scarf over her blond hair. The excerpt starts with this close-up.

  Shot Length in seconds Total

  1. C.U. Gretchen. 6½ 6½

  She faces the mirror, drapes the lace scarf over her hair, looks provocatively demure.

  2. C.U. Christian. 4 10½

  Still lying on the floor, he watches her, assessing the situation. After all, she is his captain’s wife.

  3. C.U. Gretchen. 9 19½

  She turns to face Christian, smiles slightly. Finally, she says, “Get me a cigarette, please.”

  4. C.U. Christian. 8 27½

  A slightly delayed reaction—

  “Huh?” She speaks, offscreen.

  “On the table.” He looks around, spots the cigarettes on a table away from Gretchen.

  He nods and starts to get up.

  5. FULL SHOT—Christian. Back to camera. 6 33½

  He rises, walks to the table, reaches down for the cigarettes.

  6. C.U. Gretchen. 4 37½

  She regards him steadily.

  7. Tight O.S. Close-up Christian. 6 43½

  He enters the shot, regards her with a tentative smile.

  8. Tight O.S. Close-up Gretchen. 15 58½

  Her look is less tentative than his. Slowly, she takes a cigarette, puts it in her mouth, reaches for the match box he holds up to her. Then, she scrapes a fingertip along his hand, as though she were striking a match.

  9. Tight O.S. Close-up Christian. 5 63½

  He looks at her appraisingly—snaps the match box shut.

  10. Tight O.S. Close-up Gretchen. 17 80½

  He raises his hand, gently removes the cigarette from her mouth, tosses it away. Then he reaches up with both hands and slowly removes the mantilla, dropping it onto her shoulders.

  11. Tight O.S. Close-up Christian. 5 85½

  Slowly, he starts to pull her toward him.

  12. Tight O.S. Close-up Gretchen. 5 90½

  She allows him to pull her to him; then, just as their lips are about to meet she quickly, teasingly, averts her face. Just as quickly, he straightens her out. They kiss, and the scene

  DISSOLVES TO:

  An unrelated sequence in New York.

  Throughout this sequence, which lasts 1 Vi minutes, there is little question about Gretchen’s intent, but there is some doubt about Christian’s ultimate decision. The looks are long, the reactions subtle and the moves are slow, with one exception—Gretchen’s closeup (6) considerably shortens the real time needed to get the cigarettes, the matches, and to cross the room to deliver them. Once Christian is on his way, in cut 5, the viewer is eager for the confrontation he has been anticipating.

  The clear, though never broadly played, looks and reactions are quickly understood, but the viewer is allowed a good deal of time to savor them. The seduction is so involving and so complete that no scene of lovemaking is necessary or desirable. The close-ups of Christian and Gretchen have said it all, teasing and engaging the viewer as much as they have teased and engaged each other.

  The “separation of characters” is probably the most common convention of present day filmmaking, and certainly one of the most valuable. It allows the editor to “play with time” (see Chapter 13), to accentuate reactions, to increase or shorten cuts to better accommodate the viewer. Incidentally, in skillful hands its idiosyncratic manipulation will inevitably work to establish the filmmaker’s (or the editor’s) style.

  Note

  * See Dmytryk, On Film Editing (Stoneham, MA: Focal Press, 1984).

  9

  Rules and Rule Breaking

  The masters of the screen have given the world a sizable stockpile of material containing beauty, entertainment, food for thought, and occasionally even a new slant on life, but they have not passed on any rules for duplicating their virtuosities. In a continuing effort to correct the oversight, film scholars have made it a practice to analyze selected sequences from classical films made by noted directors. Unfortunately, this leads only to “rules” for the sequences analyzed; rules laid down by the analysts, not by the films’ creators.

  By definition, creative workers in any field are not rule followers, but rule breakers. A dissection of, say, Eisenstein’s “Odessa Steps” sequence shows us only its final version in the finished film. It tells us nothing of the hundreds of ideas created and discarded in preproduction, of scenes shot and never used, of countless changes in order and timing during the editing process. Nor can it assure us that out of that welter of material no better sequence could have been created. It only says this: These are the cuts and this is the timing that makes this particular sequence what it is. An inferior director, shooting a similar scene, might try to copy it, but a good director in the same situation would work doubly hard to avoid “borrowing” from the original creation.

  The happy truth, at least for those who revere originality, is that there are few, if any, specific rules for creating a work of art. There are no esoteric formulas, no Phythagorean sets of sacred numbers. A unit of three may work wonders in one sequence while a unit of one, or eight, will best suit another. A sequence can be introduced with an establishing shot or with a giant close-up. Dialogue can, and should, be spoken at a faster pace than in real time, and a scene of violent and complex action often achieves its maximum effect when slowed down to a crawl.

  It is also comforting to know that no two creative directors will make identical pictures out of a common script, nor will two creative film editors arrive at the same result when cutting identical rushes.

  On the other hand….

  Suggestions can be made. Practices which have survived for more than half a century can claim the status of rules which should be understood and used, if only to build a solid takeoff platform for hoped-for creative flights.

  The study of these rules or, more accurately, usages, can be made easier if the narrative film is div
ided into two broad categories— categories which sometimes overlap.* The first includes mystery, detective, suspense, and action films, in which the dramatized problems almost always involve murder, mayhem, or criminal activity, none of which, we like to believe, is exactly normal. The second takes in those films informally called “serious,” or “adult” (in the nonpomographic sense); films which investigate and dramatize the more general problems of imperfect souls in an imperfect world, problems which are more damaging to psyches than to physiques.

  A second category film with a solid story can be shot in a technically simple, straightforward style and still be impressive. The only real criteria of its worth are its honesty, its relevancy, and the believability of its characters. If, as is certainly desirable, technical adroitness is present, it serves only to enrich the impression, not to make it.

  The second category is represented by films like Sunrise, The Grand Illusion, Dr. Zhivago, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Occasionally a director will cross the line, as Billy Wilder did with Double Idemnity, and occasionally a film noire like Crossfire will be equally at home in either category.

  The sophisticated comedies of Lubitsch, McCarey, Sturges, Stevens, and a few others, are a subclass of the second category. And, of course, a number of films resist such primitive classification; they occupy various gray areas between one and two.

  A first category film is almost always linear, with little or no subplot. Substance and character development usually play second and third fiddle to scenes of peril, startling confrontations, and related elements of mood and suspense. These aspects of the film are unquestionably enhanced by artful techniques, high-contrast lighting, and mind-boggling effects. When these elements abound, they become the message, and shortcomings of content and character development are cheerfully overlooked.

  Films like The Maltese Falcon, Gaslight, Murder My Sweet, and Jaws typify the first category, as does almost any Hitchcock film, especially Psycho and that classic fusion of mystery and suspense, The Thirty-Nine Steps.

  Because such films depend more on technique and formula than on substantive content, they are easier to write, easier to play, and easier to make. And because techniques are easier to dissect impartially than emotional stimulus and effect, they are usually accorded the greatest share of attention in any analysis of filmmaking.

  Before leaping into specifics, a further distinction should be made, a distinction crucial to any discussion of the methodology of film-making. Because sensitivity and finesse are, relatively speaking, more important in the second category than in the first, a distinct difference in staging and camera use is indicated. In category two, where elaboration of the content is of prime importance, scenes are rehearsed and staged for optimum positioning and movement of the actors, then set-ups are selected which will best transfer the scenes to the screen. This procedure may be called “bringing the camera to the actor.” In category one, however, most films depend on sequences of effect rather than of argument, which makes the visual presentation of the scene a major consideration and often imposes restraints on the actor’s freedom of movement and relative positioning. Although, as always, scenes are rehearsed before the set-up is locked in, the staging is more likely to be arbitrarily manipulated by the director in the interests of melodramatic composition (category one) rather than dramatic reality (category two). This procedure may be called, “bringing the actor to the camera.”

  Although rehearsal and staging precede set-ups and lighting, it will be advantageous to consider the last item first. Lighting styles have had their ups and downs over the years, but certain conventions have been with us nearly as long as the art itself. Let us begin with the simplest, broad comedy, which utilizes full shots much more than close-ups. Comedians move a lot and rarely hit their marks, subtle beauty is not often a major consideration, and the desired mood is almost always upbeat. Even “black” comedy needs light to make it palatable. The recipe? Full, flat lighting, which covers the entire area of action. Lovers of comedy care little for high cheek bones or mood-inducing shadows when looking for laughs. Pictorial subtlety is not an advantage; the main consideration is pictorial clarity.

  Clarity is also desirable in second category films but, at its best, it is clarity of depth, achieved with finesse. And it is expensive. In the extreme, every piece of furniture, every light fixture, every bit of bric-a-brac on the mantel is lit with loving care. The pipe on the piano receives its own key, side, and back lights. Everything is clear, but nothing is flat.

  Even when modified the drawback of this style is its drain on time. Punctilious lighting on a closely-budgeted film is achieved at the expense of rehearsals, staging, and acting; in other words, at the cost of performance. No filmmaker should allocate more time and money to lighting a set than to improving the film’s content and delineation. More than one film has been made in which the beauty of the sets and their occupants has overshadowed the impact of the message, but rarely has any of these charmed the viewer.

  At the opposite pole is the lighting used in “film noir, “and almost any first category picture. Indeed, in production circles the terms which describe such lighting, low key, and high contrast, are often used to define the category. Here, clarity is often an enemy. Shadows become “characters.” Every dark comer harbors a threat, every half-lit face conceals a mystery, a facet of the character left out of the script. The viewer looks for the obscure clue, anticipates the imminent surprise, the hovering menace. For him the classically-lit scene is of little interest; here the suggestive outshines the definitive and is far more “realistic” than the real.

  This style was pioneered by men like Mumau and Lang. It was buried with the advent of sound, then disinterred by Orson Welles. But it was its adaptability to the harsh demands of time that gave it its greatest impetus. In the early forties, ambitious B directors, working on extremely short schedules with inferior scripts and second rank casts adopted and expanded the technique to improve their

  Rule breaking sometimes results in the creation of new categories of film. In this scene from Crossfire, low-key lighting creates the unsettling mood characteristic of film noir. Robert Ryan and Robert Young are at right. Photograph courtesy of R.K.O. Radio Pictures, Inc.

  opportunities to advance to bigger films, fatter fees, and higher status. After all, one light and a cleverly placed cukullaris casting its unreadable shadows on a wall could sometimes seduce the imagination of even a very perceptive executive.

  But, the fact that film noir lighting does not submit to the rules of classic “naturalism” stimulated experimentation at all levels and resulted in aesthetic and dramatic enrichment of the film medium. One of its greatest advantages is its liberation from any obligation to a realistic on-screen light source, an obligation that can severely limit creative lighting. As Matisse said, “Exactitude is not the truth.”

  In the film Crossfire, a scantily furnished, high-ceilinged foyer in a seedy apartment house features a flight of stairs built along one of its walls. A room on the second floor landing, adjacent to the top of the stairs, is the setting for a murder and the eventual entrapment of the murderer. The stairway is used for several entrances and two or three short, suspenseful scenes, and it is essential that these ostensibly minor set-ups establish the mood for what follows inside the room.

  Every lobby shot includes the stairway, either as a setting for an entrance, a short confrontation, or simply as a background for a scene on the second floor landing. The set was lit with a single arc light placed on the lobby floor some distance from the stairs. The resulting larger-than-life shadows of the stairway’s railings were thrown across the steps and onto the wall, each slanting to a slightly increasing degree on either side of the shot’s center. The strong contrast of light and shade, the clear symbolism of the vertical railings and their oversized shadows through which the scene’s characters moved, provided an arresting setting—eerie, but completely believable—as long as the viewer was not allowed to study it too
closely.

  Over a period of years those scenes have been shown to hundreds of film students. Not one has ever challenged the reality of the offscreen light source, or realized that it was placed in an unrealistic, even impossible, location. The success of such deception depends on controlled distraction, on “managing” the viewer’s attention. This is accomplished by making sure that every frame of every scene is relevant to the plot, that the viewer’s involvement in the film’s characters is sustained, that the set functions only as a setting, an aura, an ambience which enhances the intent of the scene without attracting attention to itself. The unreal, or outré, aspects of lighting in any scene must be used to accentuate the “essential reality” of

  A fine example of creative lighting. Arthur Franz and Arthur Kennedy in a scene from Anzio, a DiLaurentis film.

  the subject, never as a spectacle in itself. That way leads to bad taste, bad films, and bad art.