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  The first “talkies” exposed the “mechanisms” of a number of Broadway’s best-known actors; in close-ups even a child could see the inner wheels go ’round. Many, however, quickly grasped the elemental differences between theatrical and screen acting, and realized that believability was not an artifice, that it was not attained

  As this scene from Anzio illustrates, filling or “squeezing” the frame helps bring the viewer into the action of the film. Good filmmakers “keep it tight.” This particular shot features Peter Falk. A DiLaurentis Production released by Columbia Pictures.

  with a putty nose, by lowering the volume of one’s voice, or by simply discarding one’s “chest tones,” but by creating an aura of truth that completely infuses the artist and inspires “being” rather than impersonation.

  Notes

  * From Edward Dmytryk, On Filmmaking (Stoneham, MA: Focal Press, 1986), p. 233.

  * From Stefan Sharff, The Elements of Cinema (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982).

  4

  The Power of the Set-up

  The “set-up” is the visual foundation of the film. Here, the author and Dick Powell discuss a set-up for the movie Cornered. Photograph courtesy of R.K.O. Pictures, Inc.

  In Chapter 3, set-ups were referred to as the “words” of film. That was a simplification designed to permit elementary definitions and descriptions of the various shots used in filming. In practice such simplification is most uncommon; to continue the metaphor, setups are really the sentences, often the paragraphs, on rare occasions even the chapters, that make up the body of any and every film. Without them the modem film would not exist. And without the filmmaker’s ability to take advantage of the set-up’s responsiveness to personalized manipulation, no matter how crude or how sophisticated, there would be no cinematic style and, of course, no art.

  A set-up is a presentation, a camera point of view of all, or part, of a staged scene, recorded on film, or tape, as a single shot, or “take.”

  That’s a definition. There are no formulas, no rules, for the construction, selection, or composition of set-ups, except for a few which have to do with the accommodation of editing demands. A shot of a flaming spark, six frames long and lasting a quarter of a second, can be a set-up; so can a ten minute, reel-long “sequence shot” which encompasses what would amount to a full scene in a theatrical production. (The comparison is apt since, with few exceptions, such shots are dialogue scenes in which the emphasis is on talk rather than on imagery.)

  Although there are no rules for set-ups, there is at least one axiom: A set-up is valid as long as it is the best angle for showing that which the filmmaker wants the viewer to see. It has no other reason for being, aesthetic or otherwise. The instant another set-up is judged to be superior for the purposes of the scene, it becomes the cut of choice.*

  It is obvious, then, that as a scene is being staged and rehearsed, the director must analyze it for its critical points of interest and transition, then tailor his set-ups to show them to optimum advantage. Every scene, every frame of film, presents a message, intended or not, and a moment of carelessness can uncover one which may be undesirable.

  A chess master plans a number of moves ahead in his attempt to reach a favorable position; the filmmaker must also see far enough ahead to know, with some degree of certainty, where one set-up will be supplanted by another so that the actual cuts, which deliver a message of their own, can be made with a minimum of distraction or shock to the viewer. To facilitate this process many film theorists and a few filmmakers, Eisenstein among them, have recommended a structural approach to motion pictures. This methodology may be valuable in the analysis of a completed work, but it can be highly inhibitory if used when creating a sequence. A mechanical approach will usually achieve a mechanical result. In practice, each scene has its own dramatic imperatives, and when these are clearly recognized and properly developed it is surprising how often “laws of structure” can be deduced from the finished film.

  Eisenstein said, “The strength of the montage resides in this, that it includes in the creative process the emotions and mind of the spectator [who] is compelled to proceed along the selfsame creative road that the author traveled in creating the image.”

  It follows that the message must be carefully particularized and isolated from contradictory, deceptive, or simply indistinct impressions. Ambiguous sign posts serve only to confuse the traveller, and a befuddled viewer is an inattentive viewer. If the filmmaker does not create the image that suits his exact purpose, a less effective, even a contradictory message may reach the screen.

  The single most important aspect of the set-up is its point of view. Most shots—probably all shots—are the viewer’s point of view (see the analysis of the Casablanca sequence in Chapters 7 and 8). But it is not the point of view of a viewer sitting in a particular seat in a particular movie house. One of the screen’s most positive attributes is that there is no positional actor-viewer relationship. This fact liberates both the viewer and the actor. The actor does not play to the viewer; he relates and reacts only to his coinhabitants of the scene. On his part, the viewer is able to observe the characters and their milieu selectively from the most advantageous viewpoints the director can supply. He accompanies the scene’s character as he crawls under the bed in search of an intruder, or under the desk to look for concealed microphones; he floats in the air to spy down a chimney, a well, or into a woman’s pocketbook; he marvels at the symmetry of a mushroom cloud from many miles away, or stands nose-to-nose to look into a character’s eyes while that character is unaware of the viewer’s presence or the invasion of his innermost thoughts. The viewers watch a character’s eyes as they focus on something offscreen, then instantly slip inside them to see the object of the character’s attention. But viewers can do very few of these things in a “sequence shot” which, even with the advantage of camera movement, pins the viewers down in their seats by offering them only a limited point of view, while giving them too much to look at.

  “The world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.”* In a poem or a sightseeing trip, possibly; in a film, not exactly—certainly not if the “things” assault the viewer’s senses all at once. For, as Proust wrote, “In the most trivial spectacles of our daily life our eye… neglects… every image

  The viewer assumes the perspective of the camera through all its movements, guided by the selection of the director. Gregory Peck searches Diane Baker’s pocketbook in a scene from Mirage, a Universal film.

  that does not assist the action of the play and retains only those that make its purpose intelligible.”* How true, and how applicable, for the filmmaker must never forget his accountability to “essential” reality.

  Fortunately, the motion picture is, above all, capable of isolating, and the filmmaker has not only the privilege, but the obligation to particularize his “view,” to exclude non-essentials and those “things of the world” which are of no importance to his “vision.” However, the camera and the microphone are not, by themselves, selective; each avidly records everything within reach. And it is only through arbitrary selection and the blessing of editing that the viewer can be made to see those details which, in his real world, would be winnowed out for him by his eyes and mind.

  From a scenic environment replete with detail a director can isolate those objects or emotion-inducing images and sounds which best serve his purposes. From, let us say, a setting of a city street in the rain, melancholy can be evoked with shots of a thinly-clad, shivering, street person huddling in a desolate doorway, a feebly-flickering neon sign, a bedraggled bird hunkered under inadequate eaves; on the other hand, an emotion of quiet pleasure can be created by zeroing in on a child blithely splashing its way down a flowing gutter, a window box whose thirsty plants drink in the rain, and the warmly lit windows of a candy store. Selective editing of readily assimilatable set-ups can eloquently reveal a character’s thoughts or at-the-moment state of being, bec
ause “the spectator is compelled to proceed along the selfsame creative road that the author travelled,” and share the emotions of the author’s choice. This in no way prevents viewers from exercising their freedom of interpretation, but it does limit their choice of what they are to interpret, and directs their emotional reactions along arbitrary paths.

  Kracauer, in his Theory of Film, writes, “the spectator cannot hope to apprehend… the being of any object that draws him onto its orbit unless he meanders, dreamingly, through the maze of its multiple meanings and psychological correspondences.” Perhaps early films, in which the existence of a remarkable “messenger” was itself the message, could intrigue the dawdler with long, busy shots, and send him into contemplation of his own related dream world, but such casual reception of a film’s message is no longer possible, at least not in narrative films. It took little time for film pioneers to realize that viewers who withdrew into a dream world also withdrew from the film, and to recognize the need to direct the viewers’ attention, to cue their train of thought, to keep them locked into a desired mood or emotion, to lead them through the “maze of multiple meanings.” This recognition resulted, first, in the creation of “straight-on” close shots, then, in short order, in selective set-ups of many different kinds.

  Every set-up, general or specific, must relate to the film’s characters or the story. Seen for its own sake, an artistic shot may do more harm to a film than can be justified by its aesthetic appeal. Under certain circumstances, a beautiful composition in a close shot may direct the viewer’s attention to an attractive objet d’art in the shot’s background when what is wanted is an instant awareness of a delicate reaction in the actor’s eyes. And a vista, whether in New Mexico or in India, should promote the viewer’s understanding of the on-screen people who see it, whether they live in it or are just passing through. A long shot of a city or one of its streets serves no purpose unless it relates to the city’s dwellers and any action that takes place in it.

  An establishing shot, or almost any shot used merely to show the environment, has little meaning if the viewer cannot relate it to those who experience that environment. Relevance will be more immediately recognized and its presence in the sequence will be more meaningful if the viewer makes contact with the character first, then with the setting (see Chapter 3, pages 23–24). In other words, if it is clear who is involved in the full shot the viewer will more easily segregate and absorb those details which help to further the scene and develop the characters.

  Some theorists and a few filmmakers prefer the “sequence shot,” though the filmmakers can rarely afford to be purists. Without exception they find it necessary to take advantage of “intra-sequence cutting.”* But, ideally speaking, one of the chief arguments in support of the sequence shot is its inherent “temporal realism.” What a reactionary point of view! What the narrative filmmaker usually has in mind is the avoidance of temporal realism, as well as its corollary, “spatial realism” with its circumscribed frame of reference. “Art,” says Allan Bloom, “is not imitation of nature but liberation from nature.”* The freedom to manipulate space and time is one of the great advantages of the film medium.

  Experienced filmmakers learned more than a half century ago that a realistic temporal structure in most scenes is, with occasional exceptions, lifeless and boring. (Although it is a facet of staging rather than set-ups, it is relevant to mention here that even the pacing of speech and reaction to dialogue must often be speeded up beyond reality.) There may be an occasional viewer who prefers to decipher the mise-en-scène, to analyze the composition, to find his own center of attention, and to make his own dramatic selections, but such viewers are few indeed.

  Narrative films do not, as a rule, tolerate this technique for a number of reasons. Viewers vary greatly in quickness of response and in their ability to observe, even to recognize, detail. If a director provides sufficient scene time to indulge the more leisurely and more thorough viewers, the minds which grasp detail and ensemble quickly or carelessly will probably find themselves bored and annoyed.

  A series of shorter shots, each offering less, but more readily digestible material, equalizes the time required for absorbing and understanding the scene, while it sustains viewer interest at peak level as each new set-up discloses previously unseen frames and compositions. Collectively, it can deliver all, or more, of the details that a sequence shot might show, do it with superior arrangement, through editing, and do it in less time. A long, involved sequence shot inspires wonder and awe at the film crew’s logistical expertise rather than its dramatic effect. Huxley’s comment on theory has never been more apropos.

  The truth is that the sequence shot directors—Welles and Renoir, among others—frequently resorted to intra-sequence cutting, normal cutting, and even Eisensteinian montage when the occasion demanded. And why not? The best filmmakers will always take advantage of those technical variations which will produce the greatest viewer involvement. In the classic Sunrise, Mumau’s early scenes are laid in a rural setting, and are lit and shot to produce an ominous mood of potential tragedy. The concluding scenes, in the same setting, are similarly lit to realize a frantic mood of anger and despair. But separating these two dark sections is a long sequence of unsurpassed gaiety which takes place in an urban setting. The lighting, the rhythm and pacing, the set-ups, and the cutting are all decidedly different from the manipulation of the same elements in the other two sections.

  A good filmmaker will intuitively favor those set-ups which have molded his style, but he will never on that account alone neglect any set-up when an exceptional situation demands it. It is interesting to note, for instance, that a deliberate, relatively static dialogue scene will often require a montage treatment which is quite like that most effectively used in a sequence of physical action, simply to give it “life.”

  For obvious reasons action scenes customarily feature a succession of short shots, discrete bits of movement which can be combined to deliver a scene as a whole. For much the same reasons, so do involved conversations. By substituting the concept of mental movement for physical movement, one may find it as useful to explore in separate set-ups every change in thought, every new reaction of characters engaged in a verbal barrage, as it is to capture every change of position, every movement of attack or defense in a physical confrontation, though the paces of the two sequences might differ.

  Using a variety of set-ups to create a variety of moods seems aesthetically logical, but once a sequence style has been established sudden stylistic change within the sequence will succeed only in wrenching the viewer out of his involvement in the scene. A striking example of such a result is seen in Elia Kazan’s superior film, East of Eden. Raymond Massey and James Dean are engaged in a bitter father-son argument. Suddenly, for no apparent or understandable reason, the viewer is presented with a matching series of sideways-slanted close-ups. He probably assumes these skewed compositions are symbolic—but of what? It is difficult to relate them to the drama of the scene, to puzzle out the meaning of the arbitrary and apparently unmotivated tilts while simultaneously following the dialogue and action. To paraphrase Billy Wilder, “If you must use symbols, make them obvious.” In this instance it is only the artful experiment gone wrong that is obvious, and meanwhile a good deal of viewer attention has been squandered in search of hidden meanings.

  The choice of certain set-ups at either end of the spectrum—a brilliant, long-ranging move in ballet, for instance, or a close-up of a butterfly—is more or less obvious. Their effectiveness would depend on the proper choices of lens, lighting, and composition. But the choice of full or medium shots as opposed to close-ups, when either can be used, should be influenced by the requirements of the viewer. The situation may call for eye reaction only (close-up) or for the use of body language (medium or full shot). Eyes alone can reflect fear or express happiness, it is true, but only the body can “shrink back in terror,” or “tremble with delight.”

  Almost without excepti
on the best screen actors were and are masters of subtle body language. While analytically watching a Cary Grant performance (if that is possible) a viewer will soon appreciate a master at work. His body movements frequently say more than does his face; using too many close-ups in a Grant scene is like shooting a Baryshnikov ballet in chokers. And few old-timers are likely to forget John Wayne’s walk or the seductive slink of Marilyn Monroe. The current overuse of extreme close-ups in almost all situations, subtle or not, has to a great degree deprived modem filmmakers of skillfully executed body talk, one of the most cinematic elements at their disposal.

  The amount of information included in the scope of a set-up is a determining factor of its appropriate duration in time. With occasional exceptions, the impact of a close-up is immediate and direct; it needs little time to deliver its message. But as a shot increases in scope, so does the number of observable details which attract the viewer’s attention, if only subliminally. That means, of course, that the pace of the fuller shots must be slowed down to allow the viewer more time to assimilate the additional details and to accept the intent of the scene. For example, in Crossfire, a lonely soldier who has inadvertently bruised the feelings of a cafe B girl (Gloria Grahame), asks her to dance with him, extracurricularly, in an unused garden section of the cafe. Somewhat reluctantly, she consents, and the viewer watches them dance to a Jellyroll Morton blues tune. There is no dialogue to diffuse the scene. As Ginny’s dignity is slowly restored she relaxes her rather rigid stance. Soon she presses closer to her partner, and finally rests her cheek almost affectionately against his. By the time the music and the dance are done the viewer is not surprised to hear Ginny invite the soldier to share a spaghetti dinner at her apartment.