Cinema- Concept & Practice Page 7
The changes in Ginny’s mood and the accompanying attitudes are shown first in a medium two shot, then in a full shot. No close-up
Medium and full shots are powerful, often overlooked cinematic tools. Gloria Grahame and George Cooper in Crossfire, an R.K.O. Pictures film.
is necessary; body language says it all better. In truth, her eyes could not begin to express the slowly developing change in her emotions. But though her spontaneous physical moves are easily understood, they cannot be taken for granted, and a good deal of time is allowed to ensure the viewer’s acceptance, emotional appreciation, and empathy.
A single dolly shot can follow a scene’s characters as they move through a scene; the moving master shot is described in Chapter 6. But another kind of moving shot, one which isolates the character in his perambulations in a limited space, can be especially valuable. This is a talking shot, a monologue, in which the character, while ostensibly speaking to another character, really talks to the viewer.
Again, in Crossfire, a suspense film which deals with anti-Semitism, a police captain (Robert Young) tries to talk a frightened young soldier into helping him trap a murderer. When straight persuasion fails, the captain attempts to drive home the evils of racism by relating an incident of anti-Irish prejudice during the “know-nothing” era in American history. Starting in a medium two shot, the captain steps away from the soldier, and the camera moves into a loose single as he roams about the unoccupied area of his office, making his pitch. The set-up lasts for six or seven minutes, and varies in frame size from full shot through medium shot to, when necessary to drive home a vital point, a large close-up.
There is no cut-away, no inclusion of any one of the several characters who share the sequence. The director’s intent is to avoid any displacement of the viewer’s attention that might be caused by the sight of listening characters, and to induce him to forget for the moment that the speech is being made to influence the soldier by keeping that character off the screen. In fact, the speech is being made to influence the viewer, and for the greater part of the scene the message is being received by the the viewer in the soldier’s stead until, as the scene nears its close, the captain sits down on the edge of his desk while the camera moves in to include the soldier in an over-shoulder shot. The viewer is now subconsciously and gently returned to the role of participant in the scene rather than the recipient of the message. And if he has been swayed by the captain’s words, as most viewers are, he finds the young soldier’s agreement to cooperate completely believable.
Two of the more important things that differentiate film from the other narrative media are the use of metaphor, though that is almost a forgotten art, and the set-up. It must be obvious that the set-up is a most powerful instrumentality for isolating attitude and action, for arbitrarily focusing the viewer’s attention, and for heightening emotion beyond the pose or the dialogue. Because of its broad range of expression and impression and the nearly infinite opportunities for emphasis it offers the filmmaker who is knowledgeable and gifted enough to really use it, it remains unique in the world of dramatic art.
Notes
* When filming, the set-up, especially if it is a master or a long shot, is not cut off at this point, since it may reassert its primacy later on in the take. For various reasons shots usually begin before their usable starting points and continue after their probable cut-aways. For example, in the excerpt from Casablanca (Chapter 7, pages 63–64) there are eight cuts, but these are derived from just five set-ups. The three close-ups of Lisa, numbers 1, 5, and 8 are all segments of a single shot. Cuts 4 and 7 are also derived from one angle. These two set-ups probably run the full length of the scene, but only the appropriate sections were used as cuts. In many instances, one set-up may serve to supply a much greater number of cuts than in the example given. “Cutting in camera” that is, shooting only the section of a scene deemed usable in the final cut, is an extremely undesirable practice. (See Edward Dmytryk, On Filmmaking (Stoneham, MA: Focal Press, 1986), p. 425.)
* Robert Louis Stevenson, A Child’s Garden of Verses.
* Marcel Proust, The Gueimantes Way.
* A “sequence shot” is a long take which ideally develops a scene without benefit of cutting. “Intra-sequence” cuts are those made within a sequence shot.
* From Allan Bloom, The Closing of the American Mind (New York: Simon &. Schuster, 1987).
5
Invisibility
Art and ego have always been collaborators. Which does not mean that where there is ego there is always art—far from it. But, as Alan Jay Lemer once said, “Modesty is for those who deserve it.” It has never overwhelmed a skeptical world, and without ego a work of art would never see the light of day. Happily, in great art the ego rarely shows; the artist’s character, frequently; the ego, hardly ever. It may be that great art obscures the most flagrant of egos, or it may be that a real artist is never truly satisfied with his work. It isn’t so much, “I should have done better”; it’s, “What I really had in mind seemed more profound,” or more beautiful, or funnier, or more frightening—whatever. Somehow, great dreams are always diminished in the realization, if only for the dreamer.
The “glamorous” professions have always attracted egocentrics in large numbers and, with the possible exception of politics, the film business has always suffered the greatest share. So it seems remarkable that the unwritten rule in filmmaking is, “Keep it invisible.” The final implementation and best example of this precept is found in the cutting room, where the editor works hard and long to arrive at a “final cut” that plays as a seamless film in which cuts are not visible, staging is not obvious, camera manipulation is not noticed, and acting is not “performed.” But, since staging, acting, photography, and cutting constitute the greater part of filmmaking, it follows that the most successful “tricks” of the filmmaker’s craft are tricks of concealment. Just as one of a magician’s indispensable skills is his ability to distract the viewer’s attention from the “how” of his performance, so one of the director’s greatest skills should be the ability to plan and execute staging and set-ups to the end that, however different in size, pace, and camera point of view, the scenes will ultimately meld into a seamless film in which the individual parts are blended into what appears to be an indivisible whole.
The preceding paragraph makes two assumptions: (1) seamless films are common, and (2) all filmmakers accept the principle of invisibility. Neither assumption is true. Perfect invisibility is impossible of attainment even by those who believe in the principle, and there are directors who seek instant appreciation of their technical virtuosity, which means it has to be instantly obvious and therefore trite. A few film editors have also been known to court attention with cuts that announced themselves—intentionally.
To make the point specific, here are two examples of filmmakers’ tricks that break the rule. The first is an attention-getting line—a writer’s trick not uncommon in films. The second is an attention-getting set-up which succeeds completely in impressing the viewer— but to what end? Both are well remembered and much admired. Both serve to draw attention to the filmmaking process. Both are excerpted from one of Hollywood’s most respected films, Gone with the Wind.
1. As Rhett Butler walks out on Scarlett for the last time, he stops at the door, turns to face his tearful wife, and utters that famous line, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!” Today, the line would raise no eyebrow, but in 1939 the word damn was a cinematic taboo. However, its presence in the film was successfully fought through the censor board to the accompaniment of world-wide publicity. As a result, the audience reacted to the scene largely in that context, and the flow of an absorbing sequence was interrupted as viewers recalled the situation, considered the wickedness or innocence of the word itself, and commented on it to their seatmates. At that moment, the realization that this was, after all, only a film, was paramount in the viewer’s mind.
2. Then there is the battle for Atlanta, and we
follow Scarlett out of a shockingly overcrowded hospital into a huge railroad yard where the overflow of shattered humanity has been deposited on the bare ground—a wretched and pitiful sight. As she makes her careful way through the moaning and crying wounded, the camera, mounted on
A spectacular shot is not always the most desirable. A remarkable but questionably effective scene from Gone with the Wind, a David O. Selznick Production.
a special crane, moves slowly up and back, gradually disclosing a view of thousands of casualties. And long before the camera comes to a stop the viewers, without exception, are thinking, “My God! What a spectacular shot! How did they do that?!” There is even applause—great for the egos of all who created it. But the now forgotten message is, “Oh, God! What a tragic spectacle! What a dreadful waste of humanity!” Which of these reactions is ultimately better for furthering the story and its substance?
The paradox is that such a shot is considered one of the glories of film. Well, it is and it isn’t. It all depends on how and when it’s done. In the first example, Rhett’s parting shot is the climactic moment of the film, the moment the viewer has been awaiting, the moment when Scarlett, who has been treating Rhett quite shabbily throughout the entire tale, finally gets her comeuppance. That’s all it’s about, and it is enough. It is not about Selznick’s tug-of-war with the censor, and though it is true that the intrusion of this extraneous “subtext” leads to audience excitement, that excitement has little to do with the drama on the screen. Indeed, it serves to diminish it by intruding on the viewer’s concentration and diverting his attention.
In the second example, the spectacle of the wounded could be shown, Eisenstein-fashion, in a well-designed series of shots—shots as significant as any part of the pull-back shot, and more effective from the story point of view. Although pull-backs and move-ins are frequently used to dramatic advantage, every effort should be made to camouflage camera movement. But in the given example, as the shot continues, the act of pulling back becomes more impressive than the subject of the shot itself. The shot becomes the message; it catches the viewer’s attention and destroys the mood and the flow of the narrative. For a considerable length of time the viewer wonders, admires, and marvels at the “pulling of the strings,” while the substance of the scene takes second place.
Contrary to normal expectations, it is the continuous moving shot which often alerts the viewer to the presence of technical contrivance. And though it may seem logically inconsistent, arbitrary cutting from one stationary set-up to another in a consecutive series of cuts—cuts which may vary in size, subject matter, and setting— frequently produces smoother results than would an uncut master shot. In an edited sequence, each cut furthers the narrative and foreshadows the next appropriate thought or action as timed (and this is important) for the screen. The next cut may be what the viewer expects or wants to see in the unfolding plot; it may be a surprising turn, a contradiction, or an unanticipated development that the filmmaker is ready to share with the viewer; it may be a balancing of movement or attention that is a part of a sequence involving parallel or interweaving action, as in a chase or a “ride to the rescue.” But in all such instances, if each cut develops story or character at a desirable pace and the film editor takes advantage of the smooth cutting techniques at his command, a dramatic involvement can be achieved which blinds the viewer to the changes of cuts. And, of great importance, only cutting makes it possible to manipulate the viewer’s attention, to direct it exclusively to the precise parts or people that the filmmaker wants him to see at any particular instant. The viewer’s attention is given no time to stray.
But first, let us examine a simple camera move—a basic film expedient long used for an opening shot in a sequence. A dissolve or fade-in discloses a brightly burning campfire, we hear offscreen music, then the camera pans from the fire to a lone cowboy sitting nearby, noodling on his harmonica. Although the music helps to unify the scene, the movement of the camera is unmotivated; the viewer is at least momentarily aware he is watching a “setting.” This cliché technique simply introduces the scene and sets a mood.
However, if we can arrange to have a flaming ember—perhaps a scrap of burning paper—blown out of the fire by a sudden gust of wind (and we can) and a skillful camera operator keeps the eye-catching spark in the picture as it flies toward the cowboy, no self-consciousness is present. The flare-up and flight of the flaming spark gives the fire a reason for being—it is a player in the scene, not a prop—and the moving background is unnoticed by the viewer whose attention is fixed on the screen-centered spark which, in reality, does not move at all in relation to the screen. The effect is as if the image of the cowboy dissolved subtly out of the scene of the flying spark. And the viewer’s involvement may be increased as he suddenly finds himself concerned with the possible results of the meeting of the flying ember and the cowboy’s coat.
A set-up in which the camera moves of its own volition is not only self-conscious and, as such, a sign of technical inexpertise, it distorts the concept of narrative filmmaking as well. For example, picture a group of four characters in conversation. Character A makes a challenging statement; the camera pans to character B for her reaction, then to character C, and eventually to character D who, by this time, is hopping from one foot to the other. Such a shot cannot claim a single advantage over a series of reaction cuts, but it does exhibit a few faults.
1.B’s reaction must be delayed until her face occupies the screen and would, unless B has been established as a slow thinker, appear to be ill-timed. The timing discrepancy would grow progressively greater for C and D.
2.Since there is no acceptable way to synchronize the flick of an onlooker’s eyes from A to B to C to D with the much slower pan of the camera, the mechanics of its movement would force itself on the viewer’s attention.
3.The time involved in the pan (or pans) is extra baggage, not one second of which is useful to the film.
4.Fixing the timing in the pan shot eliminates the possibility of editorial refinement, which is akin to skipping the use of sandpaper in the finishing stages of a fine piece of cabinet work.
The question has been begged here by the use of the worst possible example of camera movement, an example, however, still too often seen on the screen. But camera movement, which was seen as a great boon when first developed by men such as Mumau and Lang, still presents numerous problems for the meticulous filmmaker, not only problems of timing, but problems involved in the aesthetic development of the art of filmmaking as well.
For movement, too, must be “invisible.” If viewers are conscious of camera moves they are obviously watching technique. Yet the mark of a true artist, whether tailor, architect, or filmmaker, is that “the seams don’t show.” If the difficulty involved in the unsurpassed digital dexterity of Art Tatum or the amazing physical virtuosity of Baryshnikov were obviously displayed in their performances neither name would live in the history of art. And if a film director allows his “seam” to show he is either careless, inexpert, or seeking admiration for his “brushwork” rather than for the worth of his statement as a whole.
6
Moving and Molding
Good films accentuate the cinematic by using images that convey meaning, as opposed to relying on dialogue. A scene from The Young Lions, a 20th Century-Fox film.
One of the unique advantages of film is its malleability—its capacity to respond to corrective measures, to create perfect fragments that can be welded into a perfect whole. How ideal—and how impossible. Because, of course, there are a number of limiting factors; the quality of the story, the personalities and talents of the actors, the temperament, skills, and intuition of the director, the competence of the crew, the ability of the film editor, whoever it might be, the time and money available to accomplish the work, and a host of lesser hurdles. One cannot arrive at an equation, construct a theory or even a concept of filmmaking without taking all these variables into account. The difficulty is that there are
so few constants to work with.
The cinematic idealist sets out to create a theoretically perfect set-up, and runs into literature. Almost without exception, the good screenwriters are exactly that—writers, or playwrights. Today, one rarely reads a script that would tempt Mumau or Lang or Von Stroheim or even Lubitsch, who was essentially a man of words. Many filmmakers who would like to accentuate the pictures in “talking pictures” rather than the talking are disconcerted by the literary character of their scripts. Eventually, they settle for motion, as in “motion pictures,” in the mistaken belief that movement will do the job.
But, although the two sometimes coincide, physical movement should never be confused with imagery. Movement alone means little; it will not, of itself, rescue a talky scene, and it may muddy a good one. A good dialogue scene is an interplay of ideas, of verbal conflict, of persuasion and reaction (never, if possible, of direct exposition). It has a movement of its own; the movement stimulated in the viewer’s mind. Physical movement is not necessarily cinematic per se, and an unsatisfactory dialogue scene will rarely be improved by its imposition. The only sure cure for a bad scene is a better one—if possible, one that says largely in images what the writer has ineptly said in words, and the effort to create such a scene should always be made. But that’s asking a lot, and most directors will fall back on a compromise; they will “touch up” the dialogue a bit and devise a staging which, they hope, will add vitality to the scene through choreography.