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diff --git a/old/66049-0.txt b/old/66049-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 52a6b6e..0000000 --- a/old/66049-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5927 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Pictorial Beauty on the Screen, by -Victor Oscar Freeburg - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Pictorial Beauty on the Screen - -Author: Victor Oscar Freeburg - -Contributor: Rex Ingram - -Release Date: August 12, 2021 [eBook #66049] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Charlie Howard, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PICTORIAL BEAUTY ON THE -SCREEN *** - - - - - -PICTORIAL BEAUTY ON THE SCREEN - - - - -[Illustration] - - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - - NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS - ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO - - MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED - - LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA - MELBOURNE - - THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. - TORONTO - -[Illustration: From _The Covered Wagon_. The rich variety of light and -shadow in this scene, combined with the simple strength of the moving -pattern, makes it one of the most charming sections in a remarkable -photoplay. See pages 9, 66 and 140.] - - - - - PICTORIAL BEAUTY - ON THE SCREEN - - - BY - - VICTOR OSCAR FREEBURG, PH.D. - - AUTHOR OF “THE ART OF PHOTOPLAY MAKING,” AND - “DISGUISE PLOTS IN ELIZABETHAN DRAMA.” - - - WITH A PREFATORY NOTE - BY REX INGRAM - - - New York - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - 1923 - _All rights reserved_ - - - - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. - - - COPYRIGHT, 1923, - BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. - - Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1923. - - - - - To - JAMES CRUZE - - -Because the Various Types of Pictorial Beauty Described in this Book -May Be Seen Richly Blended with Epic Narrative and Stirring Drama in -“The Covered Wagon,” a Cinema Composition That Will Live - - - - -PREFATORY NOTE - -_By_ REX INGRAM, _Director of the “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” -“Scaramouche,” etc., etc._ - - -In this volume Dr. Freeburg contends that in order to be classified -among the Arts, the Cinema must become something more than a series of -clear photographs of things in motion. - -In other words, a motion picture must be composed of scenes that have -certain pictorial qualifications, such as form, composition, and a -proper distribution of light and shade. - -It is chiefly according to the degree in which these qualities are -present in a picture, that it can register the full effectiveness of -its drama, characterizations and atmosphere. - -Dr. Freeburg handles his subject clearly and comprehensively, and I -know that the majority who read this book will gain a great deal more -enjoyment than previously from productions of the calibre of “Broken -Blossoms,” “Dr. Caligari,” “Blind Husbands,” “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” -“Nanook of the North,” and films more numerous than I can mention -by such picture makers as Messrs. Griffith, Seastrom, Tourneur, Von -Stroheim and Lubitsch. - - REX INGRAM. - -August 5th, 1923. - - - - -AUTHOR’S PREFACE - - -If I look upon a motion picture as a kind of substitute for some stage -play or novel, it seems to me a poor thing, only a substitute for -something better; but if I look upon it as something real in itself, a -new form of pictorial art in which things have somehow been conjured -into significant motion, then I get many a glimpse of touching beauty, -and I always see a great range of possibilities for richer beauties in -future examples of this new art. Then I see the motion picture as the -equal of any of the elder arts. - -In other words, I enjoy the movies as pictures, and I do not enjoy -them as anything else but pictures. Yet it is on the pictorial side -that the movies are now in greatest need of improvement. And this need -will probably continue for at least another ten years. I feel that a -book such as this may prove to be of considerable help in bringing -about that improvement. So far as I know, this is the first book in -which a systematic analysis of pictorial composition on the screen has -been attempted, although there are certain earlier books in which the -pictorial art of the screen has been appraised without analysis, the -pioneer work in that class being Vachel Lindsay’s “Art of the Moving -Picture.” The most original things in my present volume are to be found -in the chapters on “Pictorial Motions”--or, at least, they ought to be -there, else I am to blame, because that is the phase of cinematic art -which has hitherto received the least attention from critics. - -“Movie fans” in general are my audience, my hope being that they may -find something new in this discussion, something, here and there, which -they had not themselves thought of, but which will help them toward a -conscious and keen enjoyment of beauty scarcely observed before, and -to a more certain discrimination between genuine art on the screen and -mere pretentious imitations of art. - -In order not to confuse the issue, I have purposely omitted discussions -of plot, dramatic situation, characterization, etc., except where -these matters are so intimately connected with pictorial form that an -omission would be impossible. In short, it is what the picture looks -like, rather than what it tells, which here occupies our attention. -This study is, therefore, supplementary to my book “The Art of -Photoplay Making,” which is published by The Macmillan Company. - -Mr. James O. Spearing, who was for five years the distinguished motion -picture critic on the _New York Times_, and is now on the production -staff of the Goldwyn Pictures Corporation, has been kind enough to -criticize the manuscript of the present work, and I take pride in -thanking him publicly for having thus served me with his extensive -knowledge and cultivated taste. - - V. O. F. - -The National Arts Club, New York City, August 27th, 1923. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAP. PAGE - I. PICTORIAL ART IN THE MOVIES 1 - - II. THE PRACTICAL VALUE OF PICTORIAL COMPOSITION 9 - - III. EYE TESTS FOR BEAUTY 25 - - IV. PICTORIAL FORCE IN FIXED PATTERNS 50 - - V. RHYTHM AND REPOSE IN FIXED DESIGN 68 - - VI. MOTIONS IN A PICTURE 83 - - VII. PICTORIAL MOTIONS AT WORK 97 - - VIII. PICTORIAL MOTIONS AT PLAY 116 - - IX. PICTORIAL MOTIONS AT REST 128 - - X. MASTERY IN THE MOVIES 154 - - XI. THE MYSTERIOUS EMOTIONS OF ART 178 - - - - -LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS - - - “The Covered Wagon.” Prairie Scene _Frontispiece_ - - FACING - PAGE - - “The Plough Girl” 11 - - “The Shepherdess.” By LeRolle 21 - - “The Spell of the Yukon.” Cabin Scene 28 - - A Study of Composition in “The Spell of the Yukon” 28 - - “Daylight and Lamplight.” By Paxton 39 - - A Study of Lines 39 - - “Audrey” 45 - - A Still Illustrating Misplaced Emphasis 55 - - A Specimen of Bad Composition 55 - - “The Spell of the Yukon.” Exterior 57 - - A Triangle Pattern 61 - - “Derby Day.” By Rowlandson 64 - - A Study of Composition in “Derby Day” 64 - - “Maria Rosa” 71 - - “Mme. LeBrun and Her Daughter.” By Mme. LeBrun 76 - - “Polly of the Circus” 79 - - “Banquet of the Officers of St. Andrew.” By Hals 79 - - “The Covered Wagon.” Arroyo Scene 93 - - A Typical Bad Movie Composition 100 - - “Sherlock Holmes” 100 - - “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse” 133 - - “Portrait of Charles I.” By Van Dyck 163 - - “The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari” 179 - - - - -Pictorial Beauty On the Screen - - - - -CHAPTER I - -PICTORIAL ART IN THE MOVIES - - -Vast armies of “movie fans” in massed formation move in and out of the -theaters day after day and night after night. They may be trampled on, -stumbled over, suffocated; they may have to wait wearily for seats and -even for a glimpse of the screen, and yet they come, drawn by a lure -which they never dream of denying. Yet the individuals in these crowds -are not the helpless victims of mob impulses. Choose the average person -among them, and you will find that he is able to criticize what he -sees. He has developed no small degree of artistic taste during all the -hundreds of nights which he has spent with eyes fixed upon the screen. -He can, at least, tell the difference between a dull, common-place plot -and one that is original and thrilling. He can distinguish between -the reasonable and the ridiculous. He is perfectly aware that much of -what he sees is plain “bunk,” that it is false, or silly, or of no -consequence; and yet, after waiting patiently, he is quick to catch -the honest message of significant truth when it comes. He is trained -in the appreciation of screen acting, and does not confuse mere showy -performance with sincere, sympathetic interpretation of a dramatic -character. And now, at last, the “average movie fan” is beginning to -demand that motion pictures have real pictorial beauty, that they be -something more than clear photographs of things in motion. - -Here we have struck the measure of the motion picture’s possibilities -as a new art. The masses who pay for tickets have the situation -entirely in their hands. Photoplays are improving year by year -principally because the public wants better photoplays year by year. -When the movies were new, people were satisfied with novelties, -mechanical tricks, sensational “stunts,” pictures of sensational -people, pictures of pretty places, etc., but, although they appreciated -what was called good photography, they expressed no craving for genuine -pictorial beauty. Later on came the craze for adaptations of popular -novels and stage plays to the screen. This was really a great step -forward. The motion picture was no longer a mere toy or trick, but -was being looked upon as a real art medium. The public had developed -a taste for the exciting, clearly told story, and this demand was -satisfied by hundreds of excellent photoplays--excellent, at least, -according to the standards of the day. Yet the “fans” might have asked -for more. They got the story of a famous novel or play, with fairly -well acted interpretations by screen folk in proper costumes, and with -scenes and settings that usually answered to the descriptions in the -literary work adapted; they even got, here and there, a “pretty” view -or a chance grouping of striking beauty, but they did not regularly -get, or ask for, the kind of beauty which we are accustomed to find in -the masterpieces of painting. But taste has been developed by tasting, -and at last the craving for pictorial art has come. - -Along with this new public demand for better pictorial qualities in -the motion pictures have come higher ideals to those who make and -distribute motion pictures. The producers are awakening to their -opportunities. They are no longer content with resurrecting defunct -stage plays and picturizing them hurriedly, with only enough additions -to the bare plot to make the photoplay last five reels. It is not now -so much a question of fixing over something old, as of constructing -something new. They are beginning to think in terms of pictorial -motion. The directors, too--those who have not been forced out of the -studios by their lack of ability--have learned their art of pictorial -composition in much the same way as the public has developed its -taste, that is, by experience. Once they seemed to think that it was -enough to tell the heroine when to sob or raise her eyebrows; now -they realize that the lines and pattern of the entire figure should -be pictorially related to every other line and pattern which is to be -recorded by the camera and shown upon the screen. And, finally, along -with the director’s rise in power and importance is coming the better -subordination of the “stars,” and yet they shine not the less brightly -on the screen. - -The early exhibitors were often accused of being “ballyhoo” men, -hawking their wares of more or less questionable character. Most of -them, indeed, never suspected that motion pictures might contain -beauty. Now the worst of them can at least be classed with picture -dealers who value their goods because others love them, while the best, -including such men as Dr. Hugo Riesenfeld, have made exhibition itself -a new art. They select pictures with conscientious taste, place them in -a harmonious program, and show them in a theatrical setting that gives -the right mood for æsthetic appreciation on the part of the audience. - -Publicity men, too, have felt the temper of the public. Although they -still like to exploit sensational features, the language of art is -creeping into their “dope.” They are beginning to find phrases for the -kind of beauty in a film which does not come from a ravishing “star” -or the lavish expenditure of money. And the independent reviewers -whose criticisms are published in the newspapers and magazines have -become professional. There was a time when they contented themselves -with listing the cast, revealing the plot in a paragraph, and adding -that “the photography is excellent.” But now we find thoughtful, -discriminating criticisms of photoplays in the film magazines and in -the leading daily papers of the country. These critics have learned -how to analyze the narrative as a dramatic construction, and how to -evaluate the interpretation of character in the acting, but they -have also learned something else, and this belongs to the new epoch -in the development of the photoplay; they have begun to observe the -pictorial art in motion pictures, the endless possibilities of beauty -in the pictorial combination of figure, setting, and action; in the -arrangement of lines and masses, of lights and shadows, and in the -fascinating rhythms of movement on the screen. - -This conscious desire for beauty on the screen, which is springing -up all along the line, from the producer to the ultimate “fan,” has -naturally led to public discussion. In school room and church, on “lot” -and “location,” in office and studio, in club or casual group, men and -women are trying to find words and phrases to express the cinematic -beauty which they have sensed. And by that discussion they are -sharpening their senses for the discovery of richer beauty in the films -that are to come. My contribution to that discussion has taken the -form of this book, and my aim has been, first, to collect the topics -which are connected with the purely pictorial side of the movies, -and, second, to formulate my conception of some of the principles -which govern the creation of pictorial beauty on the screen. I have -endeavored to see my subject from various angles, assuming at times the -position of the sensitive spectator and at times standing, as it were, -beside the average director, and presuming to suggest to him what he -ought to do to please that spectator. - -To begin with, let us take care to avoid some of the common pitfalls of -photoplay criticism. It has been a common error to judge a photoplay -as though it were a kind of visualized book. Many of us have slipped -into the mistake of expecting motion photographs to give us the same -kind of pleasure which we get from printed or spoken words. But let us -understand from now on that the beauty of a design-and-motion art must -of necessity be quite different from the beauty of a word-and-voice art. - -This means that we shall have to get out of the habit of using -expressions like “He is _writing_ a photoplay.” A writer might indeed -devise a story for a motion picture play, as he might originate and -describe an idea for a painting, but it would not in either case be -proper to say that he had _written_ the picture. This book is not a -study of words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs, etc. It does not deal -with literary expression. It deals with fixed and moving designs, the -things which the spectator actually sees, the only forms which actually -hold and present the contents of a photoplay. At times we shall, of -course, be obliged to say something about the familiar “sub-titles,” -which interrupt the pictorial flow in a film. But word-forms are -not characteristic photoplay forms. Fundamentally, a photoplay is a -sequence of motion pictures, and a man can no more write those pictures -than he can write a row of paintings on a wall. However, it would be -unfair to say that a writer could not in some way lend a hand in the -making of a motion picture; we merely insist that the finished picture -should not be judged as writing. - -We must also get rid of the notion that “photoplays are _acted_.” It -would hardly be further from the truth to say that paintings are posed. -A finished painting may, in fact, contain the image of some person who -has posed for the artist; but the painting contains something else far -more significant. We cannot thank Raphael’s model for the beauty of -“The Sistine Madonna,” nor can we thank Charles I. of England for the -beauty of Van Dyck’s portraits of him. Turning to movies, it must be -admitted that actors are tremendously important, but it must not be -said that they act motion pictures. They only act while motion pictures -are being made. We cannot thank them for the poignant beauty of glowing -lights and falling shadows, of flowing lines, and melting forms, and -all that strange evanescence that makes up the lure of cinematic forms. - -Also we must reject the theory that the artistic quality of a -photoplay can be guaranteed by engaging so-called art directors who -design backgrounds or select natural settings for the action of the -film story. The picture which we see on the screen consists not of -backgrounds alone; it is rather an ever-varying design of moving -figures combined with a fixed or changing background. If an art -director limits his work to the preparation of material environment -of photoplay action, he is, by definition, responsible only for the -place-element in the motion picture. Even if he were to design costumes -and general equipment for the players he would still be responsible for -only a part of the pictorial elements that appear upon the screen. - -Plot, performers, places, equipment--these are only the materials which -a picture-maker puts into cinematic forms. The art does not lie in the -separate materials; it lies in the organization of those materials, a -process which may be called cinema composition.[A] In a later chapter -we shall discuss the proposition that the motion picture director is, -or certainly should be, the master cinema composer. Here we simply -want to make the point that criticism should concern itself with the -finished composition as a whole and not with the parts alone. The -critic who is interested only in the plot construction of photoplays -may indeed be able to make penetrating comment upon such dramatic -qualities as suspense, logic, etc., but he cannot thereby give us any -information on those visual aspects which please or displease the eye -while the picture is showing. Thus also the critic who looks only at -the acting in the photoplay is likely to be misled and to mislead us. -He may not observe, for example, that a film which has bad joining of -scenes, or a bad combination of figure and setting, is a bad cinema -composition, however superb the acting may be. And the critic who -writes, “The photography is excellent,”--a rubber-stamp criticism--is -of no help to art-lovers, because the photography as such may indeed -be excellent while the composition of the scenes photographed is -atrocious. Cinema criticism, to be of any real value to the “movie -fan,” must be complete. And that means that he must be enlightened -concerning the nature of pictorial design and pictorial progression, -as well as concerning the plot, the acting, and the mechanics of -photography. - - [A] The terms “cinema composer” and “cinema composition” were - devised by the author in 1916, at the time when he and his - students founded the Cinema Composers Club at Columbia - University. - -All of us are beginners in this pioneer work of analyzing the motion -picture as a design-and-motion art. But the prize is well worth the -adventure. Certainly the danger of making mistakes need not alarm us -unduly, for even a mistake may be interesting and helpful. At the start -we need to sharpen our insight by learning as much about the grammar of -pictorial art as we know about the grammar of language, by respecting -the logic of line and tone as highly as the logic of fictitious events, -by paying tribute to originality in the pattern of pictorial motions -no less than to the novelty in fresh dramatic situations. Beyond that -the prospect is alluring. Our new understanding will give us greater -enjoyment of the pictorial beauty which even now comes to the screen, -and the rumor of that enjoyment, sounding through the studios, will -assure of us of still greater beauty in the future. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE PRACTICAL VALUE OF PICTORIAL COMPOSITION - - -The production manager of a large motion picture studio in New York -once declared to the author that he was “against artistry in the movies -because it usually spoils the picture.” “Emotion’s what gets ’em, not -art,” he added. “Besides, a director has to shoot thirty or forty -scenes a day, and hasn’t got any time to fool away with art notions.” - -Any one who has seen “The Covered Wagon” (directed by James Cruze for -the Famous Players-Lasky Corporation) knows that such talk is nonsense. -This remarkable photoplay charms the eye, appeals to the imagination, -and stirs the emotions--all in the same “shot.” One can never forget -the pictorial beauty in those magnificent expanses of barren prairie, -traversed by the long train of covered wagons, a white line winding -in slow rhythm, while a softly rising cloud of dust blends the tones -of the curving canvas tops and of the wind-blown sage brush. Again -and again the wagon train becomes a striking pictorial motif, and, -whether it is seen creeping across the prairie, following the bank of -a river, climbing toward a pass in the mountains, stretching out, a -thin black chain of silhouettes on the horizon, curving itself along -the palisade-like walls of an arroyo, or halted in snow against a -background of Oregon pines, it always adds emphasis to the intense -drama of the pioneers battling against the hardships of the trail in -’48 and ’49. Here is entrancing change and flow of pattern, but here is -human striving and performance, too; and the emotions of the audience -are touched more directly and more deeply because picture and drama -have been fused into a single art. - -Shortly after “The Covered Wagon” had opened in New York an executive -of a certain film company was heard to remark, “Well, no wonder it’s -a success. It cost $700,000 to make it! Any one could take that much -money and make a great picture.” I consider that reflection highly -unjust and the argument entirely fallacious. Good pictorial composition -does not necessarily cost a cent more than bad composition. In fact, -it will be shown in the following chapters that a scene of cinematic -beauty often costs less than an ordinary arrangement of the same scene. - -The pictorial beauty discussed in this book is really a kind of -pictorial efficiency, and therefore must have practical, economic -value. When a motion picture is well composed it pleases the eye, its -meaning is easily understood, and the emotion it contains is quickly -and forcefully conveyed. In short, it has the power of art. - -Pictorial efficiency cannot be bought. It cannot be guaranteed by the -possession of expensive cameras and other mechanical equipment. The -camera has no sense, no soul, no capacity for selecting, emphasizing, -and interpreting the pictorial subject for the benefit of the -spectator. In fact, the camera is positively stupid, because it always -shows more than is necessary; it often emphasizes the wrong thing, -and it is notoriously blind to beautiful significance. You who -carry kodaks for the purpose of getting souvenirs of your travels -have perhaps often been surprised, when the films were developed, to -discover some very conspicuous object, ugly and jarring, which you had -not noticed at the time when the picture was taken. At that time your -mind had forced your eye to ignore all that was not interesting and -beautiful, but the camera had made no such choice. - -[Illustration: From _The Plough Girl_. The pictorial composition at -this moment of the action is bad because the spectator’s eye is not led -instantly to the book, which is the most important dramatic interest in -this scene. See page 11.] - -It will not help matters to buy a better lens for your camera and to -be more careful of the focus next time. Such things can only make the -images more sharp; they cannot alter the emphasis. Unfortunately there -are still movie makers, and movie “fans,” too, in the world who have -the notion that sharpness of photography, or “clearness,” as they call -it, is a wonderful quality. But such people do not appreciate art; they -merely appreciate machinery. To make the separate parts of a picture -more distinct does not help us to see the total meaning more clearly. -It may, in fact, prevent us from seeing. - -Let us look, for example, at the “still” reproduced on the opposite -page. The picture is clear enough. We observe that it contains three -figures and about a dozen objects. Our attention is caught by a -conspicuous lamp, whose light falls upon a suspicious-looking jug, with -its stopper not too tightly in. Yet these objects, emphasized as they -are, have but slight importance indeed when compared with the book -clutched in the man’s hand. - -This mistake in emphasis is not the fault of the camera; it is the -fault of the director, who in the haste, or ignorance, perhaps, of -days gone by, composed the picture so badly that the spectators are -forced to look first at the wrong things, thus wasting time and energy -before they can find the right things. On the screen, to be sure, the -book attracts some attention because it is in motion, yet that does -not suffice to draw our attention immediately away from the striking -objects in the foreground. The primary interests should, of course, -have been placed in the strongest light and in the most prominent -position. - -Guiding the attention of the spectator properly helps him to understand -what he is looking at, but it is still more important to help him feel -what he is looking at. Movie producers used to have a great deal to -say about the need of putting “punch” into a picture, of making it so -strong that it would “hit the audience between the eyes.” Well, let -those hot injunctions still be given. We maintain that good composition -will make any motion picture “punch” harder, and that bad composition -will weaken the “punch,” may, indeed, prevent its being felt at all. -But before arguing that proposition, let us philosophize a bit over the -manner in which a “punch” operates on our minds. - -Anything that impresses the human mind through the eye requires a -three-fold expenditure of human energy. There is, first, the physical -exertion of _looking_, then the mental exertion of _seeing_, that is, -understanding what one looks at, and, finally, the joy of _feeling_, -the pouring out of emotional energy. This last is the “punch,” the -result which every artist aims to produce; but it can only be achieved -through the spectator’s enjoyment of looking and seeing. - -Now, since the total human energy available at any one time for -looking, seeing, and feeling is limited, it is clearly desirable to -economize in the efforts of looking and seeing, in order to leave so -much the more energy for emotional enjoyment. We shall discuss in the -following chapter some of the things which waste our energies during -the efforts of looking and seeing. Let us here consider how pictorial -composition can control the expenditure of emotional energy, and how -it may thus either help or hinder the spectator in his appreciation of -beauty on the screen. - -Let us imagine an example of a typical “punch” picture and describe it -here in words--inadequate though they may be--to illustrate how a bad -arrangement of events and scenes may use up the spectator’s emotional -energy before the story arrives at the event intended to furnish the -main thrill. The “punch” in this case is to be the transfer of a man -from one airplane to another. But many other things will disturb us on -the way, and certain striking scenes will rob the aerial transfer of -its intended “punch.” - -First we see the hero and his pilot just starting their flight in a -hydro-airplane, the dark compact machine contrasting strongly with the -magnificent spread of white sails of a large sloop yacht--perhaps thus -tending to focus our attention on the yacht--which skims along toward -the left of our view. - -Then, in the next scene, near some country village, evidently miles -away from the expanse of water in the first picture, we see a huge -Caproni triplane, which must have made a forced landing in the muddy -creek of a pasture. A herd of Holstein cows with strange black and -white markings, two bare-footed country girls, a shepherd dog, and five -helmeted mechanicians, stand helpless, all equally admiring and dumb, -while an alert farmer hitches an amusing span of mules, one black and -one gray, to the triplane and drags it out of the mud. - -The third scene is strange indeed. It looks at first like a dazzling -sea of foam--perhaps the ocean churned to fury by a storm--no, you -may not believe it, but it is a sea of clouds. We are in an airplane -of our own high in the sky, perhaps miles and miles, or maybe only -three-quarters of a mile, above sea level. Just as we become fascinated -by the nests of shadows among the cloud billows, a black object swings -up from the whiteness, like a dolphin or a submarine from the sea. It -is the hydro-airplane with our hero and his pilot; we recognize them -because they are now sailing abreast of us only a few yards away. The -hero stands up and is about to assume the pose of Washington crossing -the Delaware, a difficult thing in such a strong wind when he is -suddenly struck from behind by a villain who evidently had concealed -himself in the body of the hydro-airplane before the flight was -started. The villain is dressed like a soldier and seems to have a -knapsack on his back. - -Meanwhile, the sea of clouds flows by, dazzling white and without a -rift through which one might look to see whether a city, an ocean, a -forest, or a cornfield lies below. - -Suddenly we look upward and discover the triplane, silhouetted sharply -against the sky like the skeleton of some monster. It has five bodies -and the five propellors, which three or four minutes ago were paralyzed -in the cow pasture, now are revolving so rapidly that we cannot see -them. It would be very interesting--but look! the villain and the hero -are having a little wrestling match on one of the wings of their -plane. Let us hope the hero throws the villain into the clouds! He -does, too! But villains are deucedly clever. The knapsack turns into a -parachute, which spreads out into a white circular form, more circular -than any of the clouds. We wonder if there will be any one to meet him -when he lands--but, don’t miss it! This is the “punch”! The triplane is -flying just above the hydro-airplane. Somebody lets down a rope ladder, -which bends back like the tail of a kite. The hero grabs it, grins at -the camera, climbs up, and with perfect calmness asks for a cigarette, -though he doesn’t light it, because that would be against the pilot’s -rules. - -Well, the transfer from one airplane to another wasn’t so much of a -“punch,” after all. - -Now let us count the thrills of such a picture as they might come to -us from the screen. First, in order of time, would be our delight at -the stately curves of the gleaming sails of the yacht, but this delight -would be dulled somewhat by the physical difficulty experienced by the -eyes in following the swaying, thrusting movement of the yacht as it -heels from the breeze, and at the same time following the rising shape -of the hydro-airplane; and it would be further dulled by the mental -effort of trying to see the dramatic relation between yacht and plane. -But, whether dulled or not, this thrill would be all in vain, for it -surely does not put more force into the “punch” which we set out to -produce, namely, the transfer of a man from one airplane to another. - -The yacht, therefore, being unnecessary to our story, violates the -principle of unity; it violates the principles of emphasis and -balance, because it distracts our attention from the main interest; and -it violates the principle of rhythm, because it does not take a part in -the upward-curving succession of interests that should culminate with -the main “punch.” - -If the plane of our hero must rise from the water, and if there is to -be a secondary interest in the picture, let it be something which, -though really subordinate, can intensify our interest in the plane. -Perhaps a clumsy old tug would serve the purpose, its smoke tracing a -barrier, above which the plane soars as easily as a bird. Or perhaps a -rowboat would be just as well, with a fisherman gazing spellbound at -the machine that rises into the air. Either of these elements would -emphasize the idea of height and danger. - -The scene of the triplane in the pasture with the cows, mules, etc., -might be mildly amusing. But our eyes would be taxed by its moving -spots, and, since its tones would be dark or dark gray, the pupils -of our eyes would become dilated, and would therefore be totally -unprepared for the flash of white which follows in the next scene. - -The white expanse of fleecy clouds would shock the eyes at first sight, -since the approach to the subject had not been properly made; but in a -moment we would be stirred by the feeling that we were really above the -clouds. We would seem to have passed into a new world with floods of -mist. The long stretches of white are soft as eiderdown, yet, because -of our own motion, they seem like the currents of a broad river, and -one can almost imagine that it were possible to steer a canoe over -those rapids. All this would be the second thrill, beautiful in itself -but not actually tending to emphasize the “punch” of a man transferring -from one airplane to another. - -The third thrill would surely come when the hydro-airplane swings up -through these clouds, like a dolphin from the sea, and yet not like a -dolphin, because it rises more slowly and in a few moments soars freely -into the air, a marvellous happening which no words can describe. -Yet this thrill, like the others, would exhaust our emotions rather -than leave them fresh for the “punch” we started out to produce, the -transfer of a man from one airplane to another. - -Most thrilling of all would be the moments between the instant when -the villain is pushed off the wing of the plane and the instant when -his parachute snaps open. The white mass of the parachute, almost like -a tiny cloud, spreads out at the instant when it reaches the layer of -clouds, as if they pushed it open; then the parachute sinks into the -clouds and dies out like a wave of the sea. - -After all these thrills, the intended “punch” would come like a slap -on the wrist. A man might now leap back and forth from one airplane to -another until it was time to go home for supper, and we would only yawn -at his exploits. - -Now one of the morals of this story is that we did get a “punch,” even -though it was not the one originally intended by our imagined producer. -Treasures often lie in unsuspected places. Nearly every common-place -film on the screen contains some beauty by accident, some unexpected -charm, some unforseen “punch,” something the director never dreamed -of, which outshines the very beauty which he aimed to produce. And -whenever a thoughtful person is stirred by such accidental beauty he is -delighted to think that such a thing is possible. In the exceptional -films, he knows, such effects are produced by design instead of by -chance. It is better business, and it is better art. - -We said at the beginning of this chapter that it was clearly desirable -to economize the spectator’s efforts of looking and seeing, in order -that he may have the greatest possible amount of energy left for the -experience of emotion. This is desirable even from a business man’s -point of view. We shall now try to show that emotional thrills can -actually be controlled by design, by what we shall call pictorial -composition. - -But how is pictorial composition controlled, and who controls it? How -far is the scenario writer responsible for pictorial value? How much of -the pictorial composition shall the director direct, and how much of it -may safely be left to other hands? And, if a picture is well composed, -does that guarantee beauty? The answers to these questions depend upon -our definition of terms. - -Composition in general means, of course, simply bringing things -together into a mutual relation. A particular combination of parts in -a picture may help the spectator, or may hinder him more than some -other possible combination of the same parts. Composition is form, -and as such should be revealing and expressive at the same time that -it is appealing in itself. Good composition cannot easily be defined -in a single sentence, but, for the sake of order in our discussion, I -wish to offer the following as my working definition. The best cinema -composition is that arrangement of elements in a scene or succession of -scenes which enables us to see the most with the least difficulty and -the deepest feeling. - -A remarkable thing about composition is that it cannot be avoided. -Every picture must have some kind of arrangement, whether that -arrangement be good, bad, or indifferent. As soon as an actor enters -a room he makes a composition, because every gesture, every movement, -every line of his body bears some pictorial relation to everything else -within range of our vision. Even to draw a single line or to prick a -single point upon a sheet of paper is to start a composition, because -such a mark must bear some relation to the four unavoidable lines which -are described by the edges of the paper. - -To place a flower in a vase is to make a composition. If the -arrangement contains more meaning, more significance than the -exhibition of the flower and the vase separately, and if this meaning -can easily be perceived, the composition is good. A bad composition -would doubtless result if we placed the flower and vase together in -front of a framed photograph, because the three things would not fuse -together into a unity which contained more meaning than the things had -separately. In fact, even the separate values would be lost, because -the vase would obscure the photograph, which in turn would distract our -attention from the vase. In other words, the arrangement would not help -us to see much with ease. - -On the other hand, to place the flower and vase against some hanging or -panel which harmonizes with them in color and emphasizes the beauty of -the flower, is good composition, providing the rest of the environment -is in harmony. The vase must, of course, stand on something, perhaps a -table or a mantel-piece. This support must have shape, lines, color and -texture, all visual elements which must be skillfully wrought into our -design if the composition is to be successful. We see, therefore, that -the artistic arrangement of simple things which do not move, which stay -where you put them, is by no means a simple matter. - -What we have just described may be called composition in a general -sense, but it represents only the initial process in pictorial -composition. The picture maker’s work only begins with the arranging of -the subject. It does not end until he has recorded that subject in some -permanent form, such as a painting, a drawing, or a celluloid negative. -In the recording, or treatment, the painter tries to improve the -composition of his subject. He changes the curves of the vase and the -flower somewhat in order to obtain a more definite unity. He softens -the emphasis in one place and heightens it in another. He balances -shape against shape. He swings into the picture a rhythm of line and -tone which he hopes may express to some beholder the harmony which he, -the artist, feels. In other words, the painter begins by arranging -things, he continues by altering the aspects of those things until they -fit his conception of the perfect picture of the subject before him, -and he finishes the composition only when he leaves a permanent record -of what he has seen and felt. - -[Illustration: _The Shepherdess_, a painting by LeRolle, illustrating -several principles of design which can be effectively used in -photoplays. See page 55.] - -Now it is evident that the painter might begin, without an actual -flower or vase or panel or table, by merely arranging his mental -images of those things. But the process would, of course, still be -composition. If, for example, he were to say to himself “To-morrow I -shall paint a picture of a rose in a slate-blue vase standing on an -antique oak table backed by a gray panel,” that very arrangement of -images in his mind would be the first phase of his composition. Or if -a customer were to come to him and say “To-morrow I want you to paint -for me a picture of a rose,” etc., the process of bringing things -together would still be composition; only in that case it begins with -the customer and is completed by the painter. - -If we apply this reasoning to the movies it is clear that as soon as -a scenario writer writes a single line saying that a hydro-airplane -takes off from the sea, he has already started a pictorial composition. -Although he may not realize it, he has already brought together the -long straight line of the horizon, the short curving lines of the -waves, and the short straight and oblique lines of the plane. He has -already made it necessary to combine certain tonal values of airplane -and sky and sea, though he may not have stopped to consider what those -tonal values might be. - -But the writer does other things of greater consequence than the -combining of shapes and tonal values. He prescribes motions and -locomotions of things, and he orders the succession of scenes. Even if -he writes only that “a plane rises from the sea,” he makes necessary -the combination of a great number of movements. On the screen that -plane will have at least four movements, namely, rising, tilting, going -toward the right or the left, and the movement of diminishing size. -And the sea will have at least three movements, namely, undulation, -flowing, and the movement of the wake. Now if the scenario writer adds -something else to the same scene, or prescribes the mutual relation of -things and movements which are to appear in the next scene, he is, of -course, merely continuing the process of cinema composition. - -Insofar as the writer makes the combination of these things essential -to the story he circumscribes the power, he may even tie the hands, of -the director. For the latter, unless he ignores the composition thus -begun, can do only one thing with it; he can only carry it on. - -Now it is a sad thing to relate that many scenario writers do not -suspect the truth of what we have just said. Some of them are evidently -unaware of the significant fact that their description is really a -prescription, that even by their written words they are really drawing -the first lines of hundreds of pictures, that they are actually engaged -in pictorial composition. They may be without knowledge of graphic art -and without skill. They may not be able to take a pencil or a piece -of charcoal and sketch out a horse or a hut or the general aspect of -a single pictorial moment as it would appear on the screen. They may -never have given any thought to the question of how best to arrange -simultaneous or successive movements in order to give the strongest -emotional appeal to the spectator. Yet they are drawing screen -pictures, and drawing them on the typewriter! - -Of course, even the most intelligent scenario writers, even those who -have the most accurate knowledge of pictorial values on the screen and -the keenest power of visualizing their story as it will appear after -it has been screened, are always handicapped by working in the medium -of language. Words are not motion-photographs, any more than they are -paint or marble. This is the scenario writer’s handicap. But, though -we may sympathize with him because of the handicap, we cannot relieve -him of responsibility as the designer of beginnings in the cinema -composition. - -The director has a handicap, too. He also does not work in the medium -of motion photographs. He cannot do so. Even if he were to look through -the view-finder of the motion picture camera during the entire taking -of every scene, he would not see exactly what we are destined to see in -the theater. He would see things only in miniature, in a glass some two -inches square, instead of larger than life. He would see things, not -in black and white, but in their true colors. And he can never, under -any circumstance, behold two or more scenes directly connected, with no -more than the wink of an eye between them, until after the negatives -have been developed, positives printed, and the strips spliced together -in the cutting and joining room. - -In other words, neither the scenario writer nor the motion picture -director can ever know definitely in advance just what the finished -work will look like to us in the theater. If we are aware of these -handicaps, it may help us to understand why ugliness so often slips -through to the screen, but it will not permit us to tolerate that -ugliness. We, as spectators and critics, must forever insist that the -photoplay makers master their art, no matter how difficult the mastery -may be. - -It was held some years ago that the only thing the matter with -the movies was that the stories were badly composed and of little -originality. Hence, a number of prominent novelists and playwrights -were hired to adapt their own literary work or prepare new stories for -the screen. But these literary men were among the first to discover -that better _writing_ does not in itself guarantee better _pictures_. -It is the director who is more truly the picture maker than any one -of his collaborators in the work. Ideally, he should prepare his own -scenario, just as the painter makes his own preliminary sketches, and -the fiction writer makes his own first draught of a story. Ideally, -too, the plot should be devised by the director (who might then truly -be called a cinema composer), devised especially for motion pictures, -and with peculiar qualities and appeals that could never so well be -expressed in other mediums. - -But that is an ideal to be dreamed of. And, meanwhile, we “movie fans” -can enjoy the best that is being produced by collaborative methods, and -we can help toward the achievement of still better things by developing -a thorough appreciation of what is pictorially pleasing, at the same -time that we train ourselves to detect and talk out of existence the -common faults of the movies. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -EYE TESTS FOR BEAUTY - - -Do the movies hurt your eyes? Some say “yes” and some say “no.” Why is -it that photoplay scenes sometimes flash and dazzle, but have neither -radiance nor sparkle? Why is it that the motions sometimes shown on -the screen get “on your nerves”? Why is it that you look at so much on -the screen and remember so little? These questions can be answered by -making certain eye tests for beauty, and, having answered them, we may -proceed to a detailed discussion of pictorial composition in a great -variety of cases. - -In order to understand how the pleasure of pictorial beauty comes to a -spectator, we must analyze the processes of looking and seeing. These -processes consist partly of eye-work and partly of brain-work. That is, -the physical eye must do certain work before the brain gets the visual -image. Now if the physical eye has to work too hard, or bear a sudden -strain, or undergo excessive wear, it will not function well; and, -consequently, the brain will have to work harder in order to grasp the -picture. All this causes displeasure, and displeasure is in conflict -with beauty. - -Let us state, once for all, that motion pictures need never hurt the -eyes--quite the contrary. Yet we have often seen photoplays that -did hurt the eyes. Some of the reasons for this will be given in the -following paragraphs. - -A familiar operation of the physical eye is the contraction and -dilation of the pupil. We know from childhood that the pupil grows -large when the light is weak, and small when the light is strong. We -also know that the eye cannot make this adjustment instantly. If a -strong light is suddenly flashed on us, for example, when we lie awake -in a dark room it dazzles us, because our pupils are adjusted for -darkness; it even hurts so much that we defend ourselves by closing the -eyelids. - -In exactly the same way our eyes are shocked by the movies when a -dazzling white light is flashed on the screen where a somewhat darkened -scene has just vanished. The pupil is caught unawares, is not instantly -able to protect the eye, and, besides, must use up a certain amount -of energy in adapting itself to the new condition. Such a shock once -or twice during the evening might easily be forgiven and forgotten, -might, in fact, be hardly felt at the time; but fifty such shocks in a -five-reel photoplay would certainly weary the eye, and a play of that -sort could hardly be called beautiful. - -The fault which we have just named lies in the joining of scenes. But -it is not, as a rule, necessary to connect scenes or sections of a film -so that there is a jump from the darkest dark to the whitest white, or -vice versa. This can be avoided, of course, by the device of “fading -out” one scene and “fading in” the next, which gives the eye time to -adapt itself, or by “fading down” or “up” just far enough to match -the exact tone of the next picture. The shock can also be avoided by -joining various sections of the film in a series of steps of increasing -brightness or darkness. - -The eye is hurt, we have said, by a sharp succession of black and -white. It is also hurt by a sharp contrast of whites and blacks lying -side by side on the screen. Such extremes are avoided in paintings. The -next time you are in an art museum please compare the brightest white -in any portrait with the white of your cuff, or your handkerchief, or a -piece of paper. You may be surprised to discover that the high light in -that painting is not severely white. It is rather grayish or yellowish, -soft and easy to the eye. Observe also that the darkest hue in that -painting is far from the deepest possible black. The extremes of tone -are, in fact, never very far apart, and are therefore easily grasped by -the eye without undue strain. - -And while you are thinking of this practice of painters, you might -compare it with the similar practice of composers of music. Your piano -has many keys, the highest one in the treble being extremely far from -the lowest one in the bass. Yet if you examine the score of any single -piece of music you will discover that the highest note in that piece is -not so very far from the lowest note in the same piece. It might have -been possible to use the entire keyboard, but the composer has been -wise enough not to try it. His extreme notes are so near together that -the ear is able to catch them and all the subtle values of the music in -between, without being strained by the effort. - -It seems, therefore, that in artistic matters moderation is a good -thing, is, in fact, necessary to produce real beauty. But moderation -in the movies is not yet a widely accepted gospel. Too often we find -that the dazzling flood of rays from a strong searchlight blazes over -several square yards of the silver screen, while at the same moment, -on adjoining parts of the same screen hang the deep shades of night. -The contrasts are sharp as lightning, not only in the scenes, but also -in the sub-titles which are cut in between. Our eyes gaze and twitch -and hurt, until it is a real relief to step out and rest them upon -something comparatively moderate, like the electric signs on Broadway. - -If there were some mechanical difficulty which made this clashing -effect of the motion pictures necessary, we could never hope for -beauty on the screen; for no art can achieve beauty by producing pain. -But we know from the work of such directors as James Cruze, D. W. -Griffith, Allan Dwan, Rex Ingram, and John Robertson, that the moving -picture camera is capable of recording light gray and dark gray, as -well as steel white and ebony. They have shown us that it is possible -to produce sub-titles with light gray lettering against a dark gray -ground, and that such a combination of tones is pleasing to the eye. -They have shown us that it is possible to screen a lady of the fairest -face and dressed in the snowiest gown so as to bring out the softest -tones of light and shade, yet show nothing as dazzling as snow and -nothing as black as ebony. - -[Illustration: From _The Spell of the Yukon_. An interesting example of -_chiaroscuro_ and the harmonizing of dramatic pantomime with pictorial -pattern. The composition, however, is slightly marred by over-emphasis -on the window. See pages 55 and 63.] - -[Illustration: A study of the “still” shown above, illustrating a -simple method of analyzing pictorial composition. See page 63.] - -Some of the “stills” in this book give a hint of the sharp contrasts in -the inferior films, but it is only a hint, because the white portions -in those illustrations can be no whiter than the paper of the page, -which is dull in comparison with the blaze on the screen. The -movie theater is the best place to verify the theories which we are -here trying to explain in words. Go to the movies. Whenever you find -that you enjoy the films thoroughly, then by all means do not stop to -analyze or criticise. If you enjoy any particular film so much that you -are sure you would like to see it two or three times every year for -the rest of your life, you may be happy, for you have discovered one -of the classics of the screen. Do not analyze that film either, unless -you are in the business of making pictures. But if a film makes you -uncomfortable, or if it is so bad that you are quite disgusted with it, -then, though you must become a martyr to do it, please stay and see it -again. Compare the good parts of the film, if there are any, with the -bad parts; study it in detail until you see where the trouble lies. -And when you have discovered the real causes of ugliness in that film, -wouldn’t it be a public service to express your opinion in such a way -that the manager of your theater might hear it? - -Thus far in this chapter we have discussed only a single operation of -the eye, namely, the expanding and contracting of the pupils under the -effect of darkness and brightness, but it is easy to understand now how -such an apparently slight thing may seriously affect our enjoyment of -the movies. Let the reader, when he is next displeased by a picture, -test it for sharpness of contrast between white and black. He will -probably not have to seek further for explanation of its ugliness. - -Another operation which the eye-machine performs is the accommodation -to color. It is somewhat similar to the accommodation to distance, -which we shall describe, if the reader will help us by making an -experiment. Close one eye and look steadily with the other at an -object across the room. Now, without changing your gaze, hold up your -finger in line with this object and about a foot away from your eye. -The outline of the finger will be indistinct as long as you keep the -eye focused on the remote object. Now, still keeping one eye shut, -look at your finger until you can see the little ridges on it. The eye -has changed its focus, and the remote object is now indistinct. What -happens is that the lens within the eye changes its shape, bulging more -for near objects and flattening again for distant objects. This work of -the eye, called accommodation, is done by certain delicate muscles. A -little of it may be stimulating, but too much will make the eyes tired. - -Now it is a strange thing that certain colors affect the eyes in the -same way as distances. Painters knew this fact for hundreds of years -before the scientists were able to explain the reason. They knew that -blue seemed farther away than red, and arranged the colors in their -paintings accordingly. All artists have learned the trick, even some of -our commercial artists, who make advertising posters for street cars. -Blue makes the background fall back; red makes a figure stand forward. -The reason for this illusion is that when the eye looks at red it -adjusts itself exactly as if it were looking at a near object, and thus -deceives the brain, so to speak; and when it looks at blue it adjusts -itself as if it were looking at a distant object and again deceives the -brain. Or, to state the fact more completely, a color from the red end -of the color scale (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet) -seems nearer to the eye than one from the violet end, even though the -colors are all placed equally distant from the eye. - -Now we shall see that, although these effects of color are useful in -a painting, they may be harmful in a motion picture. When we behold -a painting in which colors ranging from red to yellow are contrasted -with colors ranging from violet to blue, we may, indeed, get a pleasant -sensation of the eye because of the stimulating activity in the work -of accommodation. There is to most people a distinct pleasure, for -example, in shifting the gaze from orange-yellow to blue, because those -colors are felt to be “complementary.” But it must be remembered that -the circumstances of looking at a painting are entirely different from -those of looking at a motion picture. - -Two differences are especially notable. The first difference is that -when we look at a painting we ourselves are practically the choosers of -when and how long to look at any spot, line, shape, or color. In other -words, we ourselves practically decide on how much and what kind of -work our eyes shall do; but when we look at a motion picture we never -know at any instant what we may be called upon to do the next instant. -That makes us nervous. We need to be constantly braced for the shock -and, if we are not so braced, we must suffer when the shock comes. - -The second difference is that everything in a painting is always -actually at rest, while nearly everything in a motion picture is always -in motion. If a painting, which does not move in any of its parts, -can suggest movement to our imagination, or can make our eyes perform -actual movements of vision, such movements, actual and imaginary, are -pleasantly stimulating. The eyes enjoy the natural activity of their -work, and we feel that there is life in the painting. But the motion -picture, by its very nature, has as much life as it needs. It naturally -gives the eyes all the work they can stand. Hence, if they need any -stimulating change at all, it is rather the change from movement to -repose. - -Now let us go to the movie theater. Very likely before the show is over -we shall be treated to a rapid shifting from the blue of some exterior -scene in the moonlight to the orange-yellowish glow of some interior -scene in lamplight. Our eyes, therefore, must accommodate their lenses -to one of these colors again and again, only to receive a sudden demand -for accommodation to the other color. We have no choice in the matter -except to get up and go out. Our eyes, already busy enough, do not need -the stimulation of any more activity, and our minds, already active -enough, would prefer the relief of something more reposeful. - -If the director must have this shifting from blue to orange to blue, -etc., he might, at least, give us some warning, some softening of the -shock, so to speak. For example, if there is to be a sudden shift from -a yellowish lamp-light scene to a bluish night scene, a hint might be -given by attracting our attention to a window, through which the blue -of night is shown. And similarly in a bluish night scene our attention -might be attracted toward the warm glow from a door or window as a -warning that the next scene is to be flooded with that color. Thus in -either case we would have a chance to prepare our eyes for the shift, -and we would sense a better continuity of movement. - -The subject of color in the movies will be discussed again in following -chapters. It may be remarked in passing that, since color movies are -still highly experimental, it is only to be expected that mistakes of -many kinds will be made. Doubtless the leading directors can be trusted -to learn from experience. Yet it behooves us who sit in the theaters to -be as disapproving of new faults as we are exultant over new beauties. - -It is not discouraging to discover a fault, so long as we see that it -is one which might have been avoided. We want to make it plain in this -chapter that, although the movies sometimes hurt the eyes, it is never -due to any necessity. It is a fact that pictures on the screen, when -properly made, are always pleasing to the spectators’ eyes. And he who -does not accept this as a fundamental proposition can hardly come by -any large faith in the future of the photoplay as art. - -But we must make a few more eye tests for beauty. If you face a wall -about twenty feet away, you can, without changing the position of your -head, look at the left side or the right, at the top or bottom, or you -can look at the four corners of the wall in succession. These three -different kinds of movements, vertical, horizontal, circular, are -controlled by as many different sets of muscles. - -When we look at pictures, especially large pictures, these muscles are -constantly busy directing our line of regard from one point of interest -to another; and, whether there are definite points of interest or not, -our eyes will range over the lines and shapes as we try to discover -what they are meant to represent. - -Now a certain amount of eye-movement does not hurt the muscles; it is, -on the contrary, rather pleasant, because their business is to attend -to those matters. But the eye will become fatigued by a great amount of -movement, especially when it is forced upon us at unexpected moments, -just as any other part of the body will become fatigued when it is -forced to perform a great number of sudden, unexpected tasks. - -A simple experiment will illustrate this further. Suppose that we are -sitting in our door-yard, gazing across a valley at a group of trees -a mile or so away. It is more restful to look at those distant trees -than at a single tree only fifty feet away; and the reason is simple. -When we look at any object our eyes have a tendency to follow its -outline. Now, of course, it requires more rolling of the eyes to follow -the outline of a tree near by than one in the distance. This rolling -movement involves muscular work. And, if we look first at the near, -large object and then shift to the distant, small ones, we immediately -experience the restfulness of reduced work. There are other reasons why -distant objects are restful to the eyes, but they do not concern us -here. - -Have you ever noticed the pleasing effect in the motion pictures when -the thing of interest, say, a train or a band of horsemen disappearing -in the distance, narrows itself down to a small space? All images on -the screen are, of course, equally distant from the spectator; yet -there is a sense of restfulness, as we have just explained, because the -rolling of the eyes decreases with the diminishing of the image and its -area of movement on the screen. - -But suddenly there comes a close-up of a face twenty feet in diameter, -and our eyes have to get busy in the effort to cover the whole field at -once. They rove quickly over several square yards of screen until that -face is completely surveyed and every detail noted. Lots of looking! -Yes, but that “star” gets fifty thousand dollars a month! Can’t fool -the camera though--crow’s-feet on both sides--fourteen diamonds in the -left ear-drop and---- - -Flash to a broad, quiet, soft gray landscape, with a lone rider on -the horizon--oh, pshaw!--diamonds must ’a’ been glass though--anyway, -this picture’s good for sore eyes--kind o’ easy feelin’--Indian scout -maybe--or a---- - -Flash to a close-up of a Mexican bandit, etc., etc. And our eyes get -busy again mapping out the whole subject from hat to hoof, from bridle -to tail. Exciting! Oh, yes, indeed, and interesting too, but not as -art; for those little muscles up there are jerked around too much, they -are working overtime, and soon get weary. - -“Oh, well, I reckon I can stand the strain,” says some heckler, who -“don’t quite, you know, get this high-brow stuff.” Of course, he can -stand it. We have stood the mad orchestra of the elevated trains, and -the riveters, and the neighbor’s parrot for years, but we do not call -it music. - -The difference between noise and harmony is a physical difference. -If this were not true, no one could ever tune your piano. Jarring, -clashing, discordant sounds displease the ear. Just why noise -displeases is not for us to say. But we have already explained three -reasons why bad motion pictures hurt the eyes. Let us remember them. -First, sudden shifts from dark to bright pictures shock the eye. -Second, sudden shifts from a picture in a “cool” tint to another in -a “warm” tint, and vice versa, over-work the eye. Third, a series of -quick close-ups or other pictures in which the frame is filled with the -subject demands too much eye-movement. - -In the case of the close-up, or any large picture where the points of -interest are scattered all over the field of vision, the eyes, as we -have said, become strained by too much rolling, a muscular effort which -is necessary even though the separate points of interest may themselves -be fixed, as fixed as the four corners of the screen itself. - -But when the points of interest are moving things, as they generally -are in the movies, new causes of strain often arise. Sometimes the -object we are trying to look at moves so fast that we can hardly follow -it. Quick movement is generally desired by the directors because they -think that briskness, or “pep,” makes the dramatic action more intense. -Consequently people in the movies walk, march, dance, fight, and carry -on with terrific speed until our eyes become tired in the attempt to -observe all that is happening. The cure for such pictorial hysterics -is simple moderation, the elimination of jerky movements wherever -possible, and the choice of movements so easy to follow that the eye -may perceive them with the least muscular effort. - -We do not say that you who worship speed shall not have your express -trains, your racing cars, your airplanes, your cow-ponies, and -your Arabian steeds. You may have them all, because they can be so -photographed that an actual run of two or three miles may be presented -on the screen as a movement of only two or three feet. - -We find, too, that there is something pleasing about the apparent -slowness of actions that are moderated by distance. On the far horizon, -therefore, the fleetest things seem retarded to a stately pace that -claims our restful gaze. But when a quick movement takes place in the -foreground of the picture, too near the camera, ugliness results, -because the demands on the eye-muscles are too severe and unexpected. -Thus a sudden gesture, or the waving branches of trees or bushes, or a -motor car driving up in front of a house, or even such intended grace -as the movement in dancing, may spoil a picture by being too near the -camera. - -Another thing which makes close-up movements ugly is the flicker, which -cannot be entirely eliminated. Our readers are doubtless generally -aware that what we see on the screen is simply the blending of a -rapid succession of still pictures falling on different spots in an -order and a direction which gives the appearance of motion. If you -examine a film you will find that there are in fact sixteen little -photographs, or “frames” to every foot of ribbon. The negative runs -through the camera, and the positive film through the projecting -machine, at a rate of about a foot per second. Now let us suppose that -we have a screen sixteen feet long and that we throw upon it a picture -of a car running at the rate of ten or eleven miles per hour. If the -picture is a close view the image will move across our screen in just -one second of time, for the speed we have assumed is at the rate of -sixteen feet per second. But, since there are only sixteen frames in -that foot, or second, of film, we know that only sixteen flashes of -the car have been thrown on the screen during that second. Therefore, -whatever particular part of the car we are looking at has fallen on -sixteen different spots of the screen, and each spot is just one foot -to the side of the previous one, because the screen is by assumption -just sixteen feet wide. Now these separations are so wide that the -eye cannot help noticing them even in the fraction of a second; there -is not sufficient blending of images to form smooth motion; and the -so-called flicker results. - -However, if the car is photographed going obliquely away from us, the -entire motion may occupy only a small area of the screen, no matter -how far or fast the car goes; consequently the images fall much closer -together and the flicker becomes so slight that we scarcely notice it. -Also, since the field of movement is smaller in extent, the rolling of -our eyes in ranging over the subject is less, and the fatigue of the -muscles is so slight that we scarcely notice that either. - -We have been arguing that large violent movements on the screen hurt -the eyes, and we hope that our readers agree with us. But if any one -is doubtful we invite him to make the following test. Go to any movie -theater and sit down in the seventh or eighth row. Then after having -seen about half of the picture, move back to the last row, or stand -behind the last row. The picture will immediately seem more restful to -the eyes, because the distance has made the screen seem smaller and the -motions slower, two changes which, of course, make less work for the -eyes. Now stay in the new position until the program is finished, and -then see that part of the picture which was at first seen from the -front seat. It will appear much more pleasing to the eye than it did -the first time. - -[Illustration: _Daylight and Lamplight_, a painting by William -McGregor. The design illustrates artistic balance and rhythm. See pages -41 and 77.] - -[Illustration: A study of lines to illustrate the value of repetition -within a pattern. See page 40.] - -But we cannot all sit in the back row of a theater, and besides, even -when screen motions are reasonably slow and limited, they may still -fail to produce the effect of beauty. - -Now, before we go further into this discussion of beauty on the screen, -let us recall, that, as we have already said, the process of vision is -partly eye-work and partly brain-work. These two factors are so closely -connected in fact, that scientists cannot definitely separate them.[B] - - [B] If any of our readers are especially interested in the - details of physiological and psychological experiments - in vision which are made by experts, they should read - Chapter III in Hugo Muensterberg’s “The Photoplay,” and - should consult the current numbers and the volumes for - the last five or six years of the “Psychological Review,” - the “American Journal of Psychology,” the “Journal of - Experimental Psychology,” and other similar periodicals, - which are available in any large library. - -From the results published in scientific periodicals it may be learned -that visible ugliness does not always make the physical work of the eye -more difficult. This is not to contradict what we have already said in -this chapter, but merely to state that there may be certain kinds of -ugliness on the screen which apparently do not hurt the eye at all. -And yet ugliness does affect the mental phase of vision. It will be -worth while giving a page or more to the testing of this statement; and -the discussion may lead to a useful definition to keep in mind when -criticizing the movies. - -Curiously enough, the muscular movement of the eye when ranging over a -single jagged, irregular line is practically the same as when ranging -over a graceful line of similar length and direction. Scientific -experiment shows that we move our eye-balls in a jerky, irregular -manner, even when we view the most graceful line that can be drawn. Yet -it is commonly said by all of us that one line delights the eye and the -other does not. Evidently, therefore, the difference must lie in that -function of seeing which the brain performs. But the brain, too, is -a physical organ. It, too, can become fatigued, and it finds certain -kinds of work less fatiguing than others. - -Psychologists have suggested that a graceful line is pleasant to look -at because the regularity and smoothness of its changes in direction -make it easily perceived as a complete unity. Thus in the diagram -facing page 39, lines A and B are pleasanter to look at than lines C -and D, because their character as lines can be grasped by the mind more -quickly and more easily than the character of C or D. And, for the same -reason, lines A and B taken together make a more pleasing combination -than lines B and C or lines C and D. - -Now, if you will shut the book and try to draw any one of these four -lines, even in your imagination, you will discover that you remember A -and B almost perfectly, while you can hardly remember a single part of -either C or D. This proves that in your own case the business of seeing -has been more successful with graceful lines than with ugly ones. And, -of course, successful effort is always more pleasing than failure. - -Our working definition of good pictorial composition, offered in the -preceding chapter, may be adapted here. Let us put it this way: A -beautiful line or combination of lines is one in which we can see and -feel much with ease, while an ugly line or combination is one in which -we cannot see or feel much except with great difficulty. The terms -“ease” and “difficulty” apply both to eye-work and brain-work. - -One reason why we see _much with ease_ in a beautiful line is evidently -that any one part of the whole is a kind of key to some adjoining or -corresponding part. Thus in line A the lower curve is very similar to -the upper curve and leads into it with the smoothest continuity. And -this same lower curve of A is so similar to the lower curve of B that -we can see instantly the balanced relation between them. In ugly lines, -on the other hand, there are no such visual helps. Yet, if some kind of -balance or repetition is adopted, it may be that lines which are ugly -when considered singly take on a kind of beauty or interestingness when -considered as a group. Thus lines E, F, and G, are not as pleasing when -standing alone as they become when considered in relation to a similar -line symmetrically placed. Therefore, the combinations EF or FG, or -even EFG are more pleasing than any one of their parts. - -Now let us apply these principles of continuity and repetition to the -lines in a picture. If you turn to Paxton’s “Daylight and Lamplight,” -facing page 39, you will observe instantly the beautifully curving line -of the woman’s back and also a balancing line down the side of the -urn. That sweep of line gives at once the key to the arrangement of -the picture.[C] In other words, you can see much of that picture with -ease, even in a glance. Now if you examine this picture more in detail -you will find much continuity of line and many parallelisms of line -and shape, all of which tend to make the arrangement simple, without -reducing any of the actual contents of the picture. - - [C] Out of fairness to the painter it must be added that this - canvas, as the title indicates, is also a study in the - balancing of cool and warm colors. - -The “much” which we can see in a beautiful line includes such things -as its meaning or use in the picture, its fitness for that use, its -power to suggest associations, its interestingness, etc. But we shall -not take up those phases of beauty in this chapter; we are now merely -arguing that pictorial beauty economizes the work of the eye and brain, -while visible ugliness does not. - -What we said, a moment ago, regarding the value of continuity and -repetition in fixed lines may also be applied to moving lines and -objects. The great appeal of the screen lies in the showing of vivid -movement, the flow of forms, the subtle weaving, through soft play of -light and shadow, of fanciful figures that melt like music while we -gaze, and yet remain in our minds like curves of a strange melody. When -such glimpses of beauty come, our eyes and brains surely do not feel -any friction or strain in the process of looking. But when ugly motions -are presented the eye must perform excessive movement, and the brain -must exert excessive effort. - -What is an ugly motion? To answer this we must observe one or two facts -concerning the visual process of seeing motions. We must admit the -fact that one can perceive the motion of an object without following -it with the eyes. Any one can test this for himself by fixing his eyes -steadily on some spot on the wall. Without shifting his glance he may -have knowledge of motions going on at other places many feet away -from that spot. But it is also a fact that he will immediately feel an -inclination to shift his eyes in order to see any one of these motions -more clearly. In making that shift he will, of course, have to move his -eyeballs. Now, if that moving object changes its place, his eyeballs -will continue to make the movements necessary to follow it. And, if the -attention continues directed toward that object, his eyes will have to -make great or small movements, according as the object makes a great or -small change of place. - -An interesting theory, which scientific tests support, is that, -although the eye has to make a series of irregular, jerky movements -when following any moving object, these movements become fewer and -smaller as the smoothness and regularity of the observed motion -increases. - -What we have just said about eye movement explains, at least -partly, why the aimless crawling of a house fly over a window pane -is ugly, while the graceful flying of a sea gull is beautiful; why -the clambering of a monkey is ugly, while the swimming of a fish is -graceful, and why the zigzag falling of a sheet of paper thrown from a -window is displeasing, while the smooth spiralling of an airplane is -pleasing. - -In some of the movements which we classify as beautiful, it is clear -that the principle of repetition is at work, which, as we have said, -makes seeing easy. Any task accomplished once and undertaken again -becomes easier and easier with repetition. We have already shown -how this makes the perception of rhythmical fixed lines or balanced -composition of fixed lines easier for the mind, if not for the eye -itself. A similar experience of ease comes from viewing rhythmical or -balanced motions. - -You would not enjoy watching a dancer whose every movement was entirely -unlike every previous movement. The effect would be utter confusion. -You could not grasp, could not remember, what you saw. And you would -probably say that it was not dancing at all. On the contrary, the -beauty of a dance is largely due to the frequent repetitions or -similarities of movements. Again and again you see and enjoy the same -flexing of knee and poising of foot, the same curving of back and -tossing of head, the same sweeping of hand and floating of drapery; -and again and again the dancer moves through the same path of circling -lines. Yet in these repetitions there are slight variations, too, -because no human being works with the precision of a machine. And as -you watch the dance you get variety without multiplicity; you see much -with ease. - -“Now, look here,” cuts in some old-time producer, “you don’t mean to -say that you want our actors to dance through a drama, do you--a murder -scene, or a wedding, or a meeting of profiteers to raise the price of -soap?” No, indeed, we do not. In fact, we are hardly thinking of them -as actors at all--not in this chapter. We are merely thinking of them -as moving shapes upon a screen. And we want those shapes to move about -in such a way that the motions will not hurt our eyes. - -If we study those films that please us most we shall discover easy -continuity of movement, so that a path of motion described in any one -scene is extended, as it were, into a similar path of motion in the -following scene. In such motion pictures there may be shifts, but -there are no breaks. Paths of motion on the screen can remain long in -our memories, as though they were fixed lines in a picture. Clearly, -therefore, it would not be pleasing to have these remembered lines of -motion clashing with those which are being perceived. - -[Illustration: From _Audrey_. Cover up the left half of this picture -and the lower half of the remaining part, and the quarter which then -remains will contain a more pleasing and dramatic composition than that -of the view taken as a whole. See pages 53 and 71.] - -So much for the optical effects of single motions coming in succession. -Now we must advance to the consideration of several motions going on -in various directions during the same moment, which is a more usual -situation in the photoplay. Several motions at once may constitute a -harmony or a jumble, according to the first demands which they make -upon the eye-work and brain-work of vision. - -The difference between visual harmony and disharmony seems to depend -partly on the fact that a pair of human eyes work together as one, -and not as two separate instruments. You cannot look up with one eye -and down with the other; you cannot look to the left with one eye -and to the right with the other; you cannot look at a distant object -with one eye and at a near one with the other. Hence, if you try to -look intently at two or more objects crossing each other in opposite -directions, your eyes are baffled and the effect is not pleasurable. -There is also a conflict in our mental work of seeing, when opposing -motions try to claim equal attention at the same time, unless, as we -have previously stated, these motions are in some kind of rhythmical -balance with each other. - -Because of this baffling of eye and brain, therefore, we are displeased -by the sight of two automobiles passing each other in opposite -directions, or by the crossing of an actor’s gestures with the spoke -of a wheel or the twig of a tree. A particularly ugly crossing is that -of false and real motion, which even some of the best directors still -indulge in. False, or apparent, motion occurs when the camera itself -has been moving about while the picture was being taken. Thus a road is -made to shoot upwards over the screen while our hero is riding madly -toward us, or a parlor slides drunkenly to one side while some fair -lady marches toward a door, or a stairway becomes a waterfall which -she swims upstairs. The real motion, of course, contains the dramatic -interest, but the false motion forces itself upon us by its novelty or -unexpectedness; it becomes difficult for us to see much with ease, and -the result is ugliness. - -A particularly annoying device of recent vogue is the sub-title insert -which is decorated with symbolical motions. It forces the spectator -to read words and look at motions at the same time and upon the same -spot of the screen. The Metro interpretation of the “Four Horsemen of -the Apocalypse,” beautiful in its photographed scenes, was spoiled by -much ugliness of that kind. In one sub-title we must look at the Beast -snorting and chopping his long jaws, while several lines of type are -spread over his horrible movements. In others we see water flowing -from the bottom of the screen toward the top, or we see a pin-wheel of -sparks, to represent telegraphic messages going around the world, or we -see a squirrel in his wheel-cage, to represent something or other, and -in each of these cases we must also read words in glaring type blazed -on top of the moving symbols. - -Oppositions and conflicts baffle and bewilder the eye and mind, but -concurrent co-operating motions please them. It is easy, for example, -to look at the shower of fire from a sky rocket, because the lines move -in similar directions and remain comparatively near together, each one, -as it were, helping the others, so that what we see in one part of the -motion is a key to the rest of the motion. There is a similar unity and -rhythmical balance in the motion of a flock of birds, a school of fish, -or a group of dancers, the billows of the sea, or the feathery fall of -snowflakes. - -The production of harmonious motions in a photoplay might seem to us -spectators to be merely a matter of spying with a camera and catching -views of harmonious actions and settings. But the problem is not so -simple. For the movements within any given scene may be perfectly -orchestrated with respect to each other, and yet may clash with every -one of the movements in the following scene. If in one picture our -eyes and minds have adjusted themselves to the delicate threading of -snow-flakes, falling like a softly changing tapestry, they can only be -shocked by a sudden jump to the vigorous curling of a sea wave breaking -on the beach. And in our natural desire to appreciate both subjects -at once we are disappointed to find that each has spoiled the other. -Delicacy looks at power and thinks it violence; power looks at delicacy -and thinks it weakness. It is a visual effect such as one would get -from a drawing where the hair lines of the finest pen and thinnest ink -were crossed by the coarse marks of a blunt piece of charcoal. - -So sharp a contrast might have a certain dramatic, stirring effect, -like the use of swear words in a prayer; the very hurt might bring -a certain thrill. An original and ingenious man, Mr. Griffith, for -instance, may choose to show us a close-up of a little girl smiling -in wistful innocence, her pretty curls quivering in the light breeze, -contrasted suddenly with a reeking flood of soldiers pouring into a -city street. Striking? Yes, exactly. The device is so striking that Mr. -Griffith himself has learned to use it with restraint. Because once -upon a time he composed a photoplay called “Intolerance,” which was -so full of striking contrasts that it failed. There were only a few -thousand people in the world who could stand the strain of looking at -it. - -Thus as we analyze the optical aspects of a motion picture we are -amazed at the number of things that may conspire to hurt our eyes, and -we sympathize more than ever with the sincere cinema composer. He, -the new hope of the movies, feels the need of other equipment than a -line of talk and a megaphone. He no longer applies for a position in a -studio on the strength of his record as an actor, as a stage director, -as a city editor, as a college cheer leader, or as a drill sergeant in -the army. He has begun to think in pictorial composition and not in -words. He is never without his sketching pad and piece of charcoal, -because, forsooth, his business is picture making. He makes hundreds of -sketches by day, of shapes, and lines, and tones, and he goes over them -again and changes them by night. His scenario contains almost as many -drawings as words. He knows before he says “Good morning” to his queens -and cut-throats just what places and spaces their figures will occupy -during the pictorial climaxes, as well as during the movements to, and -away from, those climaxes. He sits among miles of films which he cuts, -joins, runs through his projecting machine, and cuts and joins again. -He knows that pictorial beauty does not come to the screen merely -because the camera itself is a wonderful instrument. He knows, what so -many critics are beginning to discover, that “the photography” may be -excellent in a film, while its pictorial composition is atrocious. He -knows first and last and always that, unless he makes his photoplay -fundamentally pleasing to the eyes of the spectator, he can never give -it the magic power of graphic art. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -PICTORIAL FORCE IN FIXED PATTERNS - - -Frequently while a director is rehearsing a photoplay scene he will -sing out the command, “Hold it!” indicating thereby that the player -has struck an attitude, or the players have woven themselves into a -pattern, which is so expressive and beautiful that it deserves to be -held for several seconds. What the camera then records will be shown on -the screen as a striking pictorial moment, and, while it lasts, will -appear as fixed as a painting. - -But it is a peculiar psychological fact that such pictorial moments -seem to occur in every movement, whether the actors have paused or not, -the spectator seeing and remembering these arrested moments as though -they were fixed pictures. This peculiar fact, that we remember fixed -moments among continuous movements, has been discussed at some length -in Chapter III of “The Art of Photoplay Making,” and will, therefore, -not be dwelt upon here. However, a single example may illustrate what -we mean. Suppose we watch a diver stepping out upon a high springboard -and diving into a pool. The whole feat is, of course, a movement -without pause from beginning to end; yet our eyes will somehow arrest -one moment as the most interesting, the most pictorial. It may be the -moment when the diver is about midway between the springboard and the -water, a moment when the body seems to float strangely upon the air. We -are not unaware of the other phases of the dive, yet this particular -moment impresses us; to it we apply our fine appraisal of form. - -Similarly in a motion picture theater we unconsciously select moments -from the action before us. These fleeting moments which fix themselves, -so to speak, demand practically the same work (or shall we call it -play?) from our eyes and minds as the momentarily fixed pictures which -the director sometimes demands. At such times the whole pattern on the -screen becomes as static as a painting, and its power or weakness, -its beauty or lack of beauty, may be appreciated much as one would -appreciate a design in a painting. - -A painting enchants the beholder, not only by its color, but also -by its lines and pattern. The peculiar power which resides in the -arrangement of lines and masses has been studied by art critics -for hundreds of years, and many of the principles which they have -discovered might well be recalled by us in judging those moments of -a motion picture which may be viewed as fixed designs. And what we -learn by making such applications will help us greatly toward a better -understanding of the beauty of pictorial motions on the screen. - -By what visual processes do we grasp the meaning of a picture? What -happens when we first look at the picture? And what happens as we -continue looking? The answers, as nearly as can be ascertained, are -as follows. When we face a picture our eyes first glance at some spot -or region which is more attractive than all others, and then proceed -to explore the whole picture, ranging over all of its parts, and -returning again to the center of attraction. In certain compositions -this whole tour of inspection may be accomplished in one trip, and may -be repeated at will, while in other compositions the inspection may -require various side trips away from the center of interest to the -outlying districts and back again. Of course, we are not aware that our -eyes are doing all these things when we are at the movies, but that is -what happens, just the same. - -These visual processes take place in an exceedingly short time, usually -only a fraction of a second, but they are real physical processes, -nevertheless, subject to the laws of physical comfort and fatigue, and -capable of being tested by the ordinary laws of physical efficiency. - -Perhaps the first test, in this hectic age of ours, is speed. The -quicker we can see and interpret a thing after we begin looking at -it, the more satisfied we are. Another test is ease, or freedom from -fatigue. The less energy we expend in looking, the more pleased we are. -Hence, if the several parts of a picture can be quickly and easily seen -and related to each other, the picture as a whole may be considered -beautiful, providing it satisfies certain other demands, which will be -analyzed later on. - -Now suppose that we are at the movies and that some pictorial moment -from the flowing action is arrested in our minds. If we are critical -and feel like analyzing the effect of that arrested moment we may well -ask such questions as the following: - -What portion of that picture did we look at first, and why? Was that -the spot which the cinema composer desired us to see first? If not, -how did he happen to mislead us and waste our time? - -Where did our glances wander as we continued looking at the picture? -Did they follow the lines which the cinema composer had mapped out? If -not, what is wrong with his plan? - -What part of the picture remains longest in memory? Does it coincide -with the dramatic emphasis intended by the composer? If not, what -caused the wrong accent? - -Was the picture as a whole really beautiful to the eyes? If not, what -made it displeasing? - -Beginning with the first question, we may say that the attracting -power of any portion of a picture depends upon many circumstances and -conditions. For example, a patch of white on an area of dark will -attract the eye, because it is natural for the eye to seek light in -preference to dark. Hence, in the “still” from “Audrey” on page 45 we -see the woman first; then we see the tree trunks, the reflections in -the water, and the person half hidden in the bushes to the left. It -is also natural for the eye to catch and follow the longest line in a -composition. Therefore the trunk of the fallen tree in this picture -helps to lead the eye to the woman. It is, furthermore, natural for the -eye to follow two or more lines to a point where they meet. Therefore -this picture would have given more emphasis to the woman if she had -been placed near the root of the tree trunk, where many lines converge. - -The spectator in the theater should be enabled to see the central -interest at the very first instant of projection. Hence when the -picture is being taken, all lines of indication, gesture, draperies, -etc., should be set, before the camera begins “shooting,” and these -lines should connect up with the paths of previously moving objects, so -that the spectator’s eyes may sweep at once to the central interest. - -The need of this may be illustrated by a horrible example. Let us turn -to the “still” on page 55. It is a safe bet that every one who looks at -this picture will first see a long diagonal pole, one of the supports -of the swing, because that is the longest, most striking line of the -picture. The poles leaning together and the converging chains, though -of no dramatic importance whatsoever, attract immediate attention to -themselves, and also carry the eye to the two standing girls; which is -clearly a mistake in composition, for the real interest evidently lies -in the facial expressions of the man and woman, who are conversing with -each other. - -Students of pictorial design have discovered that, of all converging -lines in a drawing, those which meet at right angles usually attract -the eyes most strongly. Now if we look again at the “still” under -discussion we will observe that there are many square corners in its -composition, but that none of these angles coincide with any interest -deserving of pictorial emphasis. Two of the strongest accents are at -the square corners where the long pole and the brick curbing meet. Yet -there is certainly no very exciting interest in that region. Hence our -eyes wander thither in vain. - -Let us speculate for a moment on what would happen to this composition -if we remove the diagonal poles, chains, etc., and turn the swing into -a seat. The figures, even as they stand, would then form a not -unpleasing rhythm, and the line of heads, with expressions helping to -give direction, would lead to the heroine. - -[Illustration: This “still” illustrates misplaced emphasis and several -other defects in pictorial composition which characterized the general -run of movies a few years ago. See page 54.] - -[Illustration: A specimen of bad composition, from an old film. The -window is emphasized by its curious shape, by its central position, by -its strong contrasts of black and white, and by the woman’s gesture; -yet this window has no dramatic significance whatsoever in the scene. -See page 55.] - -A glaring example of wrong emphasis caused by the attraction of a -right-angled shape is to be seen in a “still” from “Other Men’s -Wives,” on opposite page, where the window, toward which the woman -unconsciously points her wand, irresistibly attracts the attention of -the spectator. Is it not evident from even a cursory analysis of these -“stills” that, though the directors may have given some thought to the -poses and groupings of the performers, they have failed to realize -that every other visible thing within scope of the camera must also -be harmonized with the figures in order to keep the dramatic emphasis -where it belongs? - -Keeping in mind what we have just said about the visual accents of -right angles we turn to a “still” from the “Spell of the Yukon,” facing -page 28. The window catches our eyes before anything else in the -picture, both because of its square corners and because of its sharp -contrasts of black and white. Though this distraction may be only for a -brief moment, it is enough to keep our attention for that moment away -from the man and boy, set in fine atmosphere. - -It is only common sense to aim at making the visual interest of a -picture coincide with the dramatic interest. And this can be done by -controlling such means of attraction as we have just mentioned. When -we look at the painting entitled “The Shepherdess,” facing page 21, -our glance falls immediately upon the shepherdess, because the almost -vertical line of her body forms a cross with the horizontal line of -the sheep’s backs. Yet the design is so subtle that, unless we stop to -analyze, we do not notice how the painter achieves his emphasis. We do -not notice that the front of the woman’s body is really a continuation -of the left edge of a tree which extends to the top of the frame, that -her profile is the continuation of a line of foliage from another tree, -that her staff makes right angles with her throat and with the back of -her head, that the rhythmical contours of a sheep flow into her left -hand and arm, and that a shadow from the lower center of the picture -leads to her feet. - -If a painter establishes his emphasis so carefully in a picture which -the beholder may regard for hours at a time, it would seem all the -more urgent for a cinema composer to study out the correct emphasis -for a pictorial moment which the spectator must grasp in only a second -or two. It is extremely important, for the simple reason that, if the -director does not deliberately draw the attention of the spectator to -the dramatic interest in the picture, it is most likely that accident -will emphasize some other part, as we have seen in the examples already -discussed; and then, before the spectator has time to reason himself -away from the false emphasis to the true interest, the action will go -on to some other scene, and a part of the real message will be lost. - -[Illustration: From _The Spell of the Yukon_. There are too many -distracting shapes in the left end of this picture. Mask over the -cabin, the sleigh, and the two dogs farthest to the left, and the -remaining part of the picture becomes a pleasing composition of line, -shape, and tone. See page 56.] - -Let us illustrate this again by turning to another “still” from “The -Spell of the Yukon,” facing page 57. The thing which attracts first and -longest is the strange object in the upper left-hand corner. On the -screen our eyes would wander away to the dogs and the man, but they -would wander back again to that strange shape, because it is a law of -visual attention that the strangest and most unfamiliar shape attracts -most strongly. We would be curious about that shape, and by the time we -had decided that it was an Alaskan sled, the picture would fade out and -we would have missed the message, namely the affectionate companionship -of the man and his dogs. - -If the sled had been more completely shown, or viewed from a different -angle, or placed in a more natural position immediately behind a -team of dogs, it would not have seemed strange and distracting. This -composition could be greatly improved by simply eliminating the left -third of it. If you cover up the sled and the two dogs nearest it with -a sheet of paper you will see that what remains is a fairly pleasing -arrangement, with considerably more emphasis on the man and the -theme of his affection for the dogs, with a better pattern and more -rhythmical lines. - -If the director had simplified his composition as we have suggested he -might have eliminated the wrong emphasis and secured the right emphasis -in one stroke. The dark figure of the man framed roughly in white and -gray would have attracted attention by its tonal isolation. Emphasis -by isolation involves simplicity and economy, and for that very -reason, perhaps, this device is so often neglected by less experienced -directors. They breathe the poisonous air of extravagance and thrash -their arms in the heretical belief that multiplicity is power. Compare, -for instance, the “still” of “Polly of the Circus,” facing page 79, -with “The Banquet of the Officers of St. Andrew,” by Frans Hals, -facing page 79, and you get at once the distinct impression that Hals’s -picture depicts a larger crowd than the “still.” But you will be -astonished to find that the painting actually contains but twelve men, -while the “still” contains seventeen men, one woman, and one horse. - -In the painting every head is isolated by hat, ruff, costume, or panel, -and seems to have plenty of room to move freely without bumping. Our -eyes can study the contours and values of those heads without colliding -with other interests. And the fact that each head is treated almost as -though it were a separate portrait might be called a trick of design -which makes us overestimate the number in the group, thus getting -the impression of a throng. Surely this is good economy. Compare it -with the extravagant composition of the circus crowd. There you see -heads and bodies huddled together in a meaningless jumble. No interest -is significantly framed, no two interests are properly spaced. The -director may have swelled the wage roll, but he has shrivelled the -art product. Perhaps it is not necessary to go further in support of -our contention that certain visual values and devices of arrangement -can be used, separately or in combination, to control the glances of -spectators, and that, unless these means are properly used, pictorial -impressiveness cannot be obtained. We have discussed the uses of -a bright patch on a generally dark ground, long converging lines, -crosses, sharp contrasts of tone and color, unfamiliar shapes, and -isolation of subject. Scores of other principles of design, well known -to painters, might be used to emphasize a screen picture during that -moment of the action when all movement seems to have stopped. Of -course, when the movement is actually or apparently resumed, emphasis -will be controlled according to the laws by which motion appeals to the -eye. But that is a subject for another chapter. - -To continue our analysis of fixed design, let us examine the methods -whereby various pictorial elements may be fused into a unity. Every -writer knows that a sentence is really a train of words which, though -actually standing still on the paper, can carry the reader’s mind -swiftly across the page. By various literary devices the reader’s -interest is caught and carried from emphasis to emphasis, and by -various devices the reader’s thoughts may be organized into a complete -unity. So, too, the lines and shapes of a picture, however still they -may stand for the moment on the screen have the power to carry the -spectator’s eyes from interest to interest; and they may, if properly -designed, guide his attention through the picture in such a way as to -gather all of its parts into a complete unity. - -When the eyes are caught by something in a picture, they do not at -first rest there, but proceed, as we have said, on a tour of inspection -of the whole area within the frame of that picture, after which they -return again to the first visual interest. In making this tour the eyes -seek, or at least, follow a pattern. Let us test these statements by -turning to the “still” facing page 61. You cannot see every point of -the picture at once. Therefore your eyes range over it. Perhaps, now -that we call your attention to it, you can feel your eyes moving as -they follow the outlines of the white mass which is produced by the -girl’s figure and dress. To make sure that you feel these movements, -just look quickly from her head to her foot, to her right hand, to her -head again, etc. Now you realize that the white mass is contained in a -distinct triangle. That triangle is the pattern of the picture. Whether -you like it or not makes no difference; the triangular path must be -followed by your eyes. - -This little exercise shows that the eyes, unlike the lens of a camera, -cannot see every part of a picture at once, but must range over it -from point to point, repeating the tour again and again as long as the -picture is in view. But, if we cannot see head, hand, and foot at once, -it is evident that we must remember the head while we are observing the -hand, that we must remember both the head and the hand while we are -observing the foot, etc., else the whole picture could never be built -up in our minds. It is also evident that the smoother the path, the -more easily and quickly can the tour of inspection be made. - -The eye needs paths, finger-posts, and bridges to carry it from one -part of a picture to another, a need which painters discovered ages -ago, and responded to by uniting the lines of their drawings into -some sort of image or design. Thus the old masters often constructed -their paintings on the design of a circle, a rectangle, a triangle, a -diamond, a right-angled cross, an X shape, an S curve, or some other -equally simple pattern, finding by experience that this practice -always helped the beholder to grasp the picture as a unity. But they -were real magicians, those medieval masters, and as such knew how to -conceal their designs. Their technique, which the probing critic lays -bare, is neither seen nor suspected by the average beholder who stands -worshipful before their paintings. In fact, the technique of graphic -design can be effective only when it works subconsciously in the -spectator’s mind. Furthermore, those old masters knew how to achieve -many results through simple means. They knew how to produce unity, -emphasis, balance, and rhythm by the skillful manipulation of even a -single device. - -[Illustration: _A Triangle._ The fundamental pattern in a picture -should not be obtrusive, as in this too obviously triangular shape. -Compare this “still” with the illustration facing page 76. See also -pages 59, 72 and 76.] - -By contrast many motion picture directors of to-day are mere bunglers. -For example, in the “still” portrait which we have just studied there -is unity and a definite, though heavy, equilibrium, but there is no -rhythm, and the emphasis is sadly misplaced. The pose of the woman and -her relation to the rug and the background admittedly make a unity. Our -eyes ranging over the triangle, can easily grasp all that is important -in the picture and leave out the rest; but the triangular design is -severe and makes a wrong emphasis. In the first place, the design is -too obviously a triangle. We think of it as a mathematical figure, and -thus waste part of the attention which should be directed upon the -woman herself. And, in the second place, the accent is at the wrong -corner and on the wrong side of the triangle. The base of the triangle -is accented by containing the longest line in the composition, the line -being further emphasized by its straightness and by the sharp contrast -between black and white which it marks. This emphasis is, of course, -wrong, for we are certainly not interested in the pattern of this rug. -There is also no reason why our attention should be called to the -woman’s foot, or to the adjacent corner of the white panel in the rug, -yet our glance is attracted to that region by the strange zigzag line -described by the slipper and that white corner. These accents are wrong -at first glance, and they remain wrong as long as the picture lasts, -because every time we repeat the tour of inspection our eyes rest a -moment on these false interests. - -To show that these mistakes lie entirely in the treatment, and not -in the device of the triangle, we need only turn to the painting of -“Mme. Lebrun and Her Daughter,” facing page 76. Here is a composition -distinctly triangular in design, yet one may have admired this picture -hundreds of times without observing that fact. Here is unity, without -obviousness or severity. Our eyes leap to the apex of the triangle, -and there find the chief interest, the head of the mother. And, as -we continue gazing, our attention still favors the mother, because -the white areas of her shoulder, arm, and robe attract the eye more -strongly than the other portions of the picture. Here, too, is graceful -balance and a flowing rhythm in every line. - -If we consider merely the dramatic action of the subjects, as the -motion picture directors so often do, we observe that the poses in Mme. -Lebrun’s painting are natural and easy, that the gesture is graceful -and telling, and we realize how completely and impressively the -technique of design, the craft of composition, expresses the message of -the painter. - -A part of Mme. Lebrun’s technique consisted in eliminating the setting, -because in this particular case she found it easier to express her -meaning without describing environment. Setting may often well be -eliminated in the movies, too, as in “Moon-Gold,” discussed below; but -usually the physical environment of action, as has been stated rather -exhaustively in Chapter VIII of “The Art of Photoplay Making,” can be -dramatized more vividly in the movies than in any other narrative art. -And it is an interesting problem of design to weave places into a -definite unity with persons, things, and action. - -Let us see how this problem has been met in the cabin scene of -“The Spell of the Yukon,” facing page 28, which, in spite of the -too conspicuous window, already spoken of, has a rather successful -pictorial arrangement. For the sake of experiment, this “still” may be -analyzed by making a simple drawing, as in the sketch facing page 28. -We see that the design consists essentially of an oval shape surrounded -by rectangles. The rectangles may be seen in the lines of the window, -the bunk, the table, etc. The oval, which includes all of the dramatic -action, may be traced from the boy’s head, down the boy’s arm to the -man’s right knee and leg, up the man’s left hand, arm, and shoulder to -his head, and thence across to the boy’s head again. In the center of -this oval is the hand holding a pipe and making a telling gesture in -the story. - -This oval design, taken by itself, is an excellent composition. The -lines furnish easy paths for the eye, and bind the boy and man together -into a dramatic unity. There is, to be sure, only an imaginary line -between the faces of the man and the boy, but that imaginary line is -nevertheless as vivid as any visible thing in the picture. In fact, the -break in the visible part of the oval serves to arrest our attention -upon the faces for a moment every time our glance swings through the -oval pattern. Leading toward this oval are the straight lines of the -bunk and the table, thus serving to give unity and force. But the lines -of the window make an isolated pattern which, instead of leading one’s -eye toward the dramatic focus, does just the opposite. The design, -as a whole, therefore, is imperfect. And, though we see much in the -picture, we do not see it entirely with ease. - -If we turn to “Derby Day,” facing this page, a drawing by the English -artist, Thomas Rowlandson, we shall find a more interesting design -and a surer control of accents. Here the basic theme is a long line. -By “line” in this case we mean, not merely a single stroke of the -pencil, but any succession of lines, shapes, or even spots, so arranged -that they make a track for the eye to follow. In “Derby Day” the long -swinging line of the road is the basis of the design. Yet this line is -not quite identical with the wheel tracks. It begins, in fact, with the -feet of the donkey at the lower right-hand corner of the frame, and -follows through the dog, the baskets under the wagon, the hub of the -wheel, then over the heads of the group, through the hubs of the third -wagon, then with a slight downward drop it swings along the edge of the -field and the hedge, and finally leads through the horses and wagons, -out at the left end of the picture. - -[Illustration: _Derby Day_, a drawing by Thomas Rowlandson, showing the -kind of composition which could be effectively used in photoplays. See -page 64.] - -[Illustration: Analysis of the fundamental design in _Derby Day_ -(above). See page 64.] - -Upon this line the whole design is built, and rather cleverly, too, -for our attention is controlled by the subtle ordination of accents. -At the right end of the line is the most unusual and striking shape in -the picture, namely, the curved figure described by the wagon-cover -and the wheel. Such a strange shape, as we have pointed out earlier in -this chapter, has a strong attraction for the eye, and in this picture -marks emphasis Number One. Emphasis Number Two occurs near the middle -of the road at the turn, where four or more lines meet to form a cross. -These lines are produced by the basic line already described, by the -conspicuous tree, and by the hedge which runs up to it from the -left side of the bottom frame. Here again are illustrated visual laws -already discussed. The third emphasis in this picture is where the road -runs out on the left, our eyes being drawn in that direction by the -familiar device of converging lines. Observe that the mass of trees -in the background forms a distinct wedge with the point toward the -left, that the wagon train itself tapers sharply, that the three trees -along the road are successively smaller toward the left, and that the -field on that side of the road tapers somewhat in the same direction. -The combined effect of these converging lines and tapering shapes -carries our vision along the road so insistently that we follow it in -imagination beyond the frame. - -Thus by the magic of pictorial design our vision is caught and so -controlled that a single glance, sweeping the picture in the direction -ordained by the artist, gives us a definite feeling of movement. -No matter who looks, or how often, he will see the accents in the -order we have named--covered wagon, turn of the road, far end of the -road--and will thus get the main story of the picture in the shortest -time, the simplest terms, and with the right emphasis. If this picture -were to be thrown upon the screen for only a second we are confident -that every spectator would instantly get the primary meaning, (1) -wagon loads of merry-makers (2) are swinging (3) up the road. There -are minor interests, too, such as the comic figures and actions of -the characters, the prancing of dogs and horses, the rustic cottage, -the tops of trees, clouds, etc.; but these are kept subsidiary in the -design and yet, as they emerge one by one, they are found to be in -complete harmony with the main theme, the movement of merry-makers -along a country road. - -Of course, if a scene like this were filmed and thrown upon the screen, -the wagon train would actually be moving, and we would perceive the -motion, rather than infer it or feel it, as we do from the fixed -design of the drawing. Yet, if the cinema director were indifferent -as to where he placed his accents, and trusted to chance for his -pictorial pattern, we would surely not perceive that motion in its -full significance. Now, if lines, shapes and tonal values in a certain -arrangement can clarify and emphasize the message of a picture, it -is obvious that in some other arrangement they could obscure and -minimize that message. For example, if “Derby Day” were filmed, and -the composition were left to accident or to the bungling of some -director ignorant of the laws of design, it is quite probable that -he would “feature” the “picturesque” cottage, or perhaps a “cunning” -dog, a “scenic” tree, the “patriotic pull” of the flag, or the -“side-splitting” corpulency of a woman. No spectator would then see or -feel the dominant idea of this subject, which is the joy of going away -on the open road. - -Right here it is a pleasure to state for the benefit of any reader who -may not have seen “The Covered Wagon,” that James Cruze, the director -of that photoplay, did not bungle his composition. Always the historic -wagon train of the pioneers strikes the dominant note of the scene, -seeming to compose itself spontaneously into a pictorial pattern -which accents the dramatic meaning. This is true even when there is -no physical movement. In the arroyo scene, for example, facing page -93, the wagons, drawn up into formation for a camp, harmonize sternly -with the savage-looking cliffs, and their zigzag arrangement somehow -suggests the sharp action of the fight with the Indians which fate -holds in store for this very place. - -Enough has now been said to illustrate how design in a picture can -control our attention during the pauses and arrested moments on the -screen, and by so doing can relieve the eyes of unnecessary, wasteful -work and give unity and emphasis to the message of the picture. But -still other powers reside in design. While it hastens our grasp of -meanings, and even accentuates those meanings, it can affect the mind -in other ways that are still more important. And if we delve deeper -into these ways we shall come out with a clearer vision of the artistic -possibilities of the movies. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -RHYTHM AND REPOSE IN FIXED DESIGN - - -Directness, ease, emphasis, unity--these are the things which we have -just demanded of cinema composition, the pictorial form which contains, -and at the same time reveals, the story of a photoplay. But we demand -something more. We do not get complete æsthetic pleasure from any -composition which merely contains and reveals something else. The -vessel, while serving to convey its treasure, should have a charm of -its own. In poetry, for example, we are not satisfied with the language -which merely expresses the poetic content in clear and forceful style. -We crave poetic language, too, words and sentences that sound like -music and that by their very form appeal to our fancy. - -In fact most people who have a highly developed taste for pictorial -art, consider that beauty of treatment is more important than beauty -of subject. Their emotions are stirred by something in the arrangement -of the lines, masses, tones, and colors, something that serves other -purposes than those of clearness, coherence, and emphasis. What -that something is, has always been a great question to students of -æsthetics. Mr. Clive Bell, for example, suggests that the essential -beauty of art lies in “significant form.” But you have to read through -his very interesting book entitled “Art” to get some notion of what he -means by that term. Miss Ethel D. Puffer, in her book “The Psychology -of Beauty,” has developed the very illuminating theory that the effect -of beauty on the human mind is both to stimulate and give repose. And -we shall adopt her theory for a while as a basis for a brief discussion -of rhythm and balance in cinematic forms. - -The terms “stimulation and repose,” are, of course, contrary. The -feelings which they describe are in conflict. Yet this inner conflict -between stimulation and repose always takes place when a person is -faced with great beauty of art or nature. Any one of us can testify -to that from experience. When listening to music, when reading a -poem, when watching a play, when gazing at a temple, at a statue, or -a painting, we have felt something strangely stirring and at the same -time soothing, something both kindling and cooling, an inspiration to -do great deeds, and at the same time a desire to rest for the while in -satisfied contemplation. - -Applying this theory to pictorial composition on the screen, we may say -that the quality of balance in line, pattern, and tone suggests repose, -while pulsating rhythm stimulates us to activity. This application at -least has the merit of giving us something definite to discuss. - -Looking at the mechanical aspects of balance in a picture we shall -see that it can easily be analyzed. There is the balance of quantity -which may be seen by comparing the right half of the picture with -the left half, or the upper half with the lower half. Balance of -quantity is often connected with symmetry in the fundamental pattern, -as in the figure of the triangle. Further, there is balance through -depth, the foreground weighing against the background. Another kind of -balance is that of echoing motifs, a sort of fulfillment of the eye’s -expectations. There is also a balance of interests, which is quite -different from the balance of quantity, because a small quantity of -one thing may have greater weight of interest than a large quantity of -something else. And there is the balance of contrasts, such as light -against shadow, or straight lines against curved lines. How balance -in all of these forms may be obtained in cinema composition will be -discussed in the first half of this chapter. - -One of the simplest tests for balance in a static picture is to draw a -vertical line through the center of the picture, and then to estimate -the weight, so to speak, of the two halves of the composition thus -formed. If we try the experiment with the “still” from the photoplay -“Maria Rosa,” facing page 71, we see at once that the left half is too -heavy. Besides containing by far the greater dramatic interest, it -contains too many objects, shapes, and lines to attract the eye. - -[Illustration: From _Maria Rosa_. An interesting composition, but -thrown out of balance by too much weight in the left half. See page 70.] - -Now if this “still” were a student’s painting which fell under the -eye of the master, he might suggest various ways of “saving” it. For -example, some of the bric-a-brac might be “painted out” from the -dressing table, the lower lines of the mirror might be softened, and -the door reflected in the mirror might be painted out, while some -similar interest might be painted in at the right of the picture. Or -if this “still” were an amateur print for your kodak album, you might -improve the picture considerably by trimming off the right end as far -as the woman’s skirt; that is, about one-fifth of the entire width. You -can estimate the value of that improvement right now by shutting off -that part of the “still” with a sheet of paper or any convenient thing -that may be used as a mask. Another picture may be formed by shutting -off the left third, just including the reflection of the woman in the -mirror. What then remains is a composition in beautiful balance, which, -incidentally, appeals more strongly to the imagination than the “still” -taken as a whole. - -But neither trimming nor repainting nor retouching can be employed to -alter a bad grouping that has been recorded on a film. We sympathize, -therefore, with the conscientious cinema composer who has made a -mistake in composition, for he is forced either to “shoot” the scene -again or to clip it out entirely from the film. - -Another test for balance of quantity is to draw a horizontal line -through the center of the composition and weigh the visual values in -the upper and lower halves thus formed. In the case of horizontal -divisions, however, we have accustomed ourselves to expect greater -weight at the bottom, because that is the natural arrangement of -material things about us. Keeping this fact in mind let us analyze -the “still” from “Audrey,” facing page 45. A glance shows us that the -composition is top-heavy, for almost everything of interest lies above -the center line. But turn the picture upside down, and look upon it as -though it were a pattern meant to be viewed in that position; you feel -immediately that the distribution of weights is more pleasing. Now hold -it as if the right end were the bottom, and the composition takes on -a heavy balance, with a commonplace symmetry of four long, rising and -spreading lines. This is so because the right half, which is really -too heavy when the picture is viewed in the position intended by the -director, seems to be a weight in place when considered as the bottom -of a pattern. - -Yet we may find beauty in this “still,” if we only have the patience -to corner it. Cover up three-quarters of the composition, that is, -all of the left half, and all of the lower half; then the remaining -quarter will contain a pleasant composition, and a delightful appeal -to the imagination. There is in that upper right-hand quarter, both -balance and rhythm, both repose and stimulation. The heroine’s gestures -carry our attention to the left, in the direction she is going; but -her glances, and the attracting power of the converging trees, carry -our attention to the right. And in the course of this easy playing to -and fro our fancy swings out beyond the frame into realms of our own -imagination. - -But there is still another test for pictorial equilibrium. Besides -the balance of one side against the other and of the top against the -bottom, a picture should preserve a balance between the foreground -and the background. This assumes that the picture really suggests the -dimension of depth, which is usually the case. Interesting exceptions, -however, may appear occasionally, as in the “still” facing page 61, -and the painting facing page 76. One may even find entire photoplays -with scenes done in two dimensions only. For example, “Moon-Gold,” a -Will Bradley production, released in 1921, presents a story of Pierrot, -Columbine, and Harlequin in a series of scenes in a single plane. -There is no background except blackness, and there is no foreground at -all. The pictures are as flat as a poster. Such elimination of setting -may have artistic merit, especially in stories of familiar or naïve -themes, but in more involved stories it is desirable to include the -whole setting of the action, not only because of the dramatic power of -environment, but also because of the pictorial wealth which may thus be -added. - -To test this third balance of a picture you need only imagine a curtain -of glass dropped so as to separate equally the interests near the -spectator from those farther away. Such a plane is, in fact, usually -imagined by a painter when he lays out his design. Though he does not -cut his ground mechanically into two equal areas, he usually does -distribute his subjects so that the spectator needs not feel that the -foreground is only a long waste to be crossed, or that the background -is but an empty region which lies beyond everything of interest. - -The word “depth” in connection with the screen has doubtless made our -readers think of the stereoscopic motion picture as produced by the -Teleview and other companies. Such pictures are truly remarkable in -their mechanical power of showing physical depth through a scene. They -show you the images clearly separated, some near and some far away, -so that you feel as if you could really walk in and out among them. -To be able to produce such an illusion is something that any inventor -may well be proud of; and yet it is doubtful that the stereoscopic -picture will bring about any improvement in the artistic composition of -the motion picture. Most of us can recall the “stereoscope and views” -which we used to find on the center tables of our country aunts. How -well we remember the mystifying illusion of depth which was created. -How well we remember also that there was the same depth in the reeking -stockyards of Kansas City as in the cathedral aisle of Rheims! That -illustrates the shortcoming of purely mechanical things in the service -of art. The stereoscopic machinery cannot in itself create beauty. -It cannot automatically so select trees or distribute people over a -landscape that balance and rhythm, unity and emphasis will appear in -the finished picture. Unfortunately, for the uninspired artist, the -mechanician cannot help him. - -It may be asked whether stereoscopic pictures may not be utilized to -get sculptural effects upon the screen. The answer is that if a piece -of sculpture had to be viewed through a single peep-hole and under an -unchanging light it would not really have a sculptural appeal. The -characteristic appeal of sculpture is due largely to the fact that it -is possible for the beholder to shift his gaze at will from one side -of the statue to the other. He even walks around the statue, thus -getting ever new aspects of the subject until he has completed the -circle of inspection. And this shifting view is governed entirely by -his own interest and choice. The sculptor has deliberately shaped his -marble so that the many aspects will be interesting variations of the -same theme. That many-sidedness of sculpture is one of its distinctive -qualities as art. But when you look at a stereoscopic motion picture -it is absolutely impossible for you to “see around” the objects any -farther than the camera has done, no matter how much you shift your -position. The other sides of all the objects and figures might as well -be missing. Your point of view is fixed absolutely in the stereoscopic -picture, just as it is in the ordinary “flat” picture. But perhaps -there are other ways in which the Teleview and similar inventions -can provide new opportunities for the cinema artist. That remains to -be shown by experimentation, and, of course, such experimentation is -welcome and should be encouraged. - -However, for all purposes of pictorial art a sufficient illusion of -depth can be produced in the “flat” picture. This can be done by the -simplest instruments and means of picture making, even by the use of -a lead pencil and a piece of paper. There are only two secrets of -perspective. One is to render parallel lines, that is, lines which are -actually parallel in the subject, so that they converge in the distance -and, if continued, would meet at a “vanishing point.” The other is to -render objects with increasing dimness as they occupy positions at -increasing distances away from us. - -One might suppose that in a photograph these problems of perspective -would take care of themselves. But they do not, as may be seen by -turning to the “still” of the conservatory scene, facing page 100. -There we find a jumble of stuff apparently all in the same vertical -plane. Why does the standing woman wear a palm leaf in her hair? Why -does the man wear the top of a doorway upon his head? And why does -the seated woman bury her head in the ferns? They do not actually, of -course, carry on thus hilariously; but some one has carelessly coaxed -the background into the foreground by making remote objects intensely -distinct, instead of subduing them into the soft values of distance. - -But we have dwelt so long on the subject of balance in design that -we fear the reader may think we have over-emphasized the point. No -one quality in pictorial composition should be out of balance with -the others. Thus, too sharp an emphasis may violate balance, and too -perfect a balance may violate rhythm. After all, the kind of balance we -desire in pictorial design is that which is sufficient, but no more. -We do not, as a rule, enjoy the mathematical figure of the equilateral -triangle, standing heavily on its base, because it is balanced beyond -the need of any living thing. It suggests the dead repose of the -pyramids of Egypt, the tombs of her forgotten kings. Such a severe -design is utterly unsuitable, therefore, in the portrait of a lithe -young lady clad in silks and tulle, as illustrated in the “still” -facing page 61. It is flat and hard, and the eye following forever its -monotonous outlines misses the variety of rhythm. Yet a triangle, you -say, serves the purpose of unity and emphasis. Alter it then by making -it narrower, with a less obvious base, and by swinging a live rhythm -into its sides, as in the painting of “Mme. Lebrun and Her Daughter,” -facing this page. - -But this brings us to a discussion of the mysterious quality of rhythm. -Rhythm is entirely too evasive for a tight definition, but perhaps we -can learn much by saying things about it. - -[Illustration: _Mme. LeBrun and Her Daughter_, a painting by Mme. -Vigée-Lebrun. A good figure composition on the basis of a triangle. -Compare with the “still” shown facing page 61. See also pages 62 and -76.] - -Rhythm in music may be partially described as a peculiar alternating -movement, with an alternation between sounds of different pitch, -quality, and quantity; between different sound groups, and between -sound and silence. The rhythm of visible motion is of a somewhat -similar nature, as we shall see in Chapter VIII. But a sense of -alternating movement may be produced by things which are not themselves -in motion. We can, therefore, find rhythm in fixed lines, shapes, -tones, colors, and textures. This we shall call rhythm of fixed design. - -The peculiar thing about the element of alternation in rhythm which -distinguishes it from mere repetition, is that it is not regular, like -the swinging of a pendulum, but contains numerous variations from -regularity. But, while the symmetry of rhythm is only partial, so also -the variety is limited. It is the combined effect of these two factors -which makes rhythm delightful. Repetition or symmetry in a line or a -pattern is pleasurable because, as explained in Chapter III, it enables -us to see much with ease. But, at the same time, subtle or even bold -variations are appealing because they relieve us of monotony, stimulate -our interest, and lead our eyes in search of further variations. - -A familiar rhythm of line is that of the reverse curve, which Hogarth -called “the line of beauty.” This line is beautifully used in the -painting “Daylight and Lamplight,” facing page 39. Observe the effect -of alternation with variety in the lines which bound the urn, the -woman’s figure, and the various shadows and lights in the background. -Your eye sweeps over those paths without effort, and you get a sense of -movement, as though you yourself were drawing these lines with a brush -or crayon. Analyze the composition and you will see how richly the -lines are woven together. Compare all the small curves with each other, -compare all the larger curves, all the short straight lines, all the -longer straight lines, etc., and you will discover an amazing amount of -alternation and repetition, with an equally amazing amount of deviation -from regularity. - -Imagine that the painting which we have just analyzed is an accented -moment in a motion picture, and you must imagine another similar design -a few seconds earlier in the action and still another one a few seconds -later, as the woman walks gracefully through the room. In fact, there -would be a whole series of similar designs during the brief time that -the woman’s figure and the urn are in decorative contact. The instant -of action which the painter has chosen to fix on canvas might well be -the same instant which you would select as the pictorial climax in this -motion picture. This climax, accented perhaps with a pause, accented -also by the pictorial approach and departure, is something which you -would long remember as a rhythmical moment in the photoplay. - -In the picture which we have just described the rhythm is found -chiefly in the continuity and richness of line and in a certain active -balancing of similar with dissimilar lines. The design is simple, -almost plain. It is a single pattern which does not recur again within -the frame. Quite different in type is the composition of a group -picture such as “The Banquet of the Officers of St. Andrew,” facing -page 79, where the rhythm is in the flow of patterns rather than in -the flow of lines. Take a hat, for example, as the decorative theme -and observe how definitely, yet how subtly, that theme is four times -varied. Note further how the curves of the hats are echoed, always with -variety, in the ruffs. - -[Illustration: From _Polly of the Circus_. Compare this “still” with -_Banquet of the Officers of St. Andrew_ (below) and you get at once -the distinct impression that the painting depicts a larger crowd than -the “still.” As a matter of fact, the painter has used only twelve men -to produce his effect, while the motion picture director has employed -seventeen men, a woman, and a horse. This difference illustrates the -practical utility of pictorial design. See page 57.] - -[Illustration: _Banquet of the Officers of St. Andrew_, a painting by -Frans Hals. See above and page 78.] - -But so many curves would make the picture too rich in quality were -it not for the skillful introduction of straight lines to make, as -it were, a series of alternating notes. You observe immediately the -long straight lines of the windows, of the two flags, and of the -table. But you do not at first observe that there are several dozen -shorter straight lines, and that, curiously enough, they are nearly -all parallel to each other. Take as a key the sash of the first seated -officer, counting from the left, and you will find a surprising number -of similarities to this motif throughout the composition, all the way -from the shadows on the window casing in the upper left hand corner -to the edge of the table in the lower right hand corner. Yet, because -these similar straight lines are so frequently alternated with varying -curves, we get from the picture a stirring sense of a swinging movement. - -Here, again, is an arrested moment of action which might conceivably -have come out of a motion picture. What the arrangement of the twelve -men might have been at other moments of the scene we do not know. -Perhaps they were all sitting when the scene opened; perhaps they had -all arisen before it closed; but for this one instant, at least, they -have resolved themselves into an interesting design of simple patterns -in a rhythmical series. - -Another source of rhythm in a fixed picture may be the tonal -gradations. In a painting there would be a play of colors from hue -to hue and from tint to shade. In ordinary photography there may -be a similar play from deep black to intense white through all the -intervening values. It is all a question of lighting and choice of -subjects for the light to fall upon. The painter has an advantage over -the photographer because he does not have to record light and shadow -exactly as they are on the subject. He can soften his shadows or paint -them out completely. He can alter his tones and values at will, even -after the painting is practically finished. As an offset to this the -cinema composer has, of course, the power of presenting movement, -fugues and passages of light and shadow. And, by the use of the newest -apparatus for lighting, and by careful attention to the color values -and textures of sets, costumes, etc., he can also produce many of the -rhythmical effects of gradation in fixed tones which we are accustomed -to look for in painting. - -As time goes on we shall more and more often find pictorial moments on -the screen which exhibit as fine a rhythm of fixed tones and masses as, -for example, Van Dyck’s “Portrait of Charles I,” facing page 163. If -you draw a straight line across this picture in almost any direction, -it will mark a great variety of graded values, a lovely shifting of -light and shadow, with no sharp contrasts except those which serve to -attract the spectator’s attention to the head of the king. There is -perfect harmony of composition here. The tones are in a rhythmical -design, yet it is a rhythm which keeps the emphasis on the focal -interest and preserves the balance throughout the painting. - -Two or three men, a horse, and a bit of landscape is no uncommon -subject in photoplays. We have reason, therefore, to expect that from -long practice all directors will learn how to treat it pictorially, and -with ever new variety of beauty. - -The general field of composition in fixed design has now been surveyed. -We have tried to show that a good pictorial composition, even from a -commercial point of view, is one which provides instant emphasis on the -focal interest; which unites this focal interest with the other parts -of the picture by means of a certain arrangement, or pattern; which -keeps all of its values in a reposeful balance, and which pulsates with -a vital rhythm. These four qualities--emphasis, unity, balance, and -rhythm--are necessary in what might be called the mechanics of beauty, -the technique of design. We admit, cheerfully, that the beauty of a -given masterpiece cannot be explained by pointing out an observance of -certain fundamental laws of design, for an uninspired artist might obey -all these laws without ever achieving beauty, just as a machinist might -obey all the laws of mechanics without ever inventing a machine. But we -insist that an observance of pictorial laws is a first condition that -must be fulfilled by the artist before the mysterious quality of beauty -will arise in his work. - -The accented moment in a pictorial movement, which we have studied from -so many angles, is, of course, not fixed on the screen for any great -length of time, never for more than a few seconds, though it may remain -fixed in memory for years. Nor is it a separate thing upon the screen. -It rises from an earlier moment and flows into a later one. The rapid -succession of momentarily fixed pictures on the screen is, in fact, -what gives the illusion of motion. Yet it would not, therefore, be -correct to say that the motion picture as a whole can be made beautiful -by making each separate exposure in itself a beautiful composition. -The successive pictures must play, one into the next, in a stream of -composition which contains new delights for the eye, and which, alas, -contains new dangers for the ignorant or careless maker of pictures. -What these delights and dangers are we shall see in the following -chapters. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -MOTIONS IN A PICTURE - - -Pictorial motion is thousands of years older than the motion picture. -It is as old as the oldest art of all, the dance. Before man had -learned how to weave his own fancies into plots, or how to make -drawings of things that he saw, he had doubtless often feasted his -eyes upon the rhythmic beauty created by dancers. Their art was -the composition of motions. We can well imagine how they began by -exhibiting bodily postures, gestures, and mimicry; how they proceeded -to add other movements, such as the fluttering of garments, the -brandishing of weapons, the waving of flaring torches, and how they, in -time, made their composition more involved by swinging themselves into -swaying groups, circling and threading fanciful patterns. - -As a form of art the dance has been preserved through the ages in an -apparently unbroken history. And it has had various off-shoots besides; -for religious and secular processions, pantomime, and even drama, have -had their beginnings in the dance. Pictorial motion was to be seen -two thousand years ago in the Roman triumphs and processions, whose -gaudiest features survive in the familiar circus parade of today. And -the circus itself is in a sense the pictorial motion of animals and men. - -In the presentation of drama, too, pictorial motion has always played -a vital part. When we look back over the history of the theater we -see that the managers were never satisfied with the mere physical -exhibition of actors and dancers, but began very early to add other -motions to their performance. A large variety of motions was added by -bringing animals upon the scenes. Fire was put into the service of -show. We know that its flame and flicker, borne in torches or beating -upon the witches’ caldron, was not uncommon on Shakespeare’s stage. -Water in the form of leaping cascades and playing fountains was used -at least two hundred years ago to make the scene more pictorial. More -recently, wind has been produced artificially in order to give motion -to draperies, flags, or foliage. - -All this amounts to something far more than an attempt to bring nature -upon the stage. It is the creation of new beauty. The kind of beauty -which professional entertainers have for thousands of years spun -together from various motions into patterns simple or subtle, is the -beauty of art, for it comes from human personality expressing itself in -forms and combinations never found as such in nature. - -Now, if these showmen are really artists, at least in intent, we may -well ask how they have combined their motions so as to produce the -pleasing effects which they desired. Have they worked hit-or-miss -and achieved beauty only by accident, or have they intentionally or -instinctively obeyed certain laws of the human eye and mind? - -How does the director of a motion picture make sure that pleasing -motion will appear upon the screen? Does he alter, or select, his -subjects? Does he choose his point of view? Does he patiently wait for -the right moment? Or must beauty come by accident, as music might come -from a cat’s running over the keyboard of a piano? - -There must be laws of pictorial motion, just as there are laws of -color, design, modelling, architectural construction, all of which -appeal to the eye without visible motion. And, since the motion picture -can capture and combine and reproduce a greater variety of moving -things than was ever before possible in the history of art, it seems -particularly important that we make earnest efforts to find out under -what laws these manifold motions may be organized into art. - -In studying the movies one might easily come to the conclusion that -some directors aim only to make motions life-like. Their whole creed -seems to be that a heart-broken woman should move her shoulders and -chest as though she really were heart-broken, that a goat should act -exactly like a goat, and that a windmill should behave itself exactly -like a windmill. Now, it may be very desirable, as far as it goes, that -an emotion be “registered” fitly. But to aim at fitting expression -alone is to aim at naturalness alone. And this is not enough, because -there may be natural ugliness, and because even the beauty of nature is -essentially different from the beauty of art. - -Shakespeare’s plays are not admired simply because they reveal human -character truthfully. Rembrandt’s paintings are not preserved in -museums merely because they are truthful representations of Dutchmen. -The Venus of Milo would not have a room to herself in the Louvre if -the statue were nothing more than a life-like figure of a woman partly -dressed. In drama, poetry, fiction, painting, sculpture, and music, -it has never been considered that appropriateness, naturalness, or -truthfulness was in itself sufficient to distinguish the work as art. -And it surely cannot be so in the movies. - -It certainly has not been so in the earlier arts of motion. The dance -as a form of expression is beautiful, but it is so far from natural -that if the average voter started out to express his joy or grief, or -love or defiance, the way a dancer does on the stage, he would be given -a free ride to the psychopathic ward. The stage pantomime is charming, -but if you behaved in the presence of your true love the way Pierrot -and Columbine behave, he or she, as the case may be, would probably -decide that you were too much of a clown ever to become a responsible -parent. The circus, too, though not properly to be classed as a form -of art, combines and presents a vast number of interesting motions -which you never expect to see outside the big tent. Dancers, pantomime -actors, circus masters and performers, all clearly strive to collect -our money by showing us the kind of motions which nature herself does -not show. - -But do not become alarmed. We do not propose to establish a school of -unnatural acting in the movies. Let the women and men and greyhounds -and weeping willows and brooks be as natural as they can be, like -themselves and not like each other. Natural, yes, providing they be -not natural in an ugly way. If a brook is running in one direction -as naturally as it can, and a greyhound is running in the opposite -direction as naturally as he can, the combination of their contrary -movements may not be pleasing in a motion picture. Art is art, not -because it reflects some actual bit of nature, but because it is -endowed with some beauty made by man. - -What other properties pictorial motion should have, besides correct -representation of action has been partly told in Chapter III, where -the demands of ease and economy of vision were made a condition -concomitant with beauty. We may further apply the same tests which have -been applied to fixed design. But, in order to get a firm grasp of our -subject let us first reduce pictorial motions to their simplest forms. - -The simplest motion of all is the moving spot, especially when it is -entirely unrelated to a setting or background; that is, the kind of -moving spot which the spectator may see without at the same time seeing -any other thing, either fixed or moving. A familiar example in nature -is the dark dot of a bird flying high above us in a cloudless sky. An -example from the screen is the effect of a ball of fire shot from a -Roman candle through darkness, as in the battle scenes of Griffith’s -“Birth of a Nation.” But even so simple a moving thing as a spot has -two properties which are very important to the composer of motions. The -moving spot, like all other motions, has direction and velocity. The -buzzard soaring slowly in large circles affects us in one way, while -the hawk swooping downward sharply, or the crow flying in a straight -line, or the bat fluttering crazily in the air, affects us in quite a -different way. - -When direction and velocity are controlled, even a single moving spot -may describe beautiful motion. Witness an airplane maneuvering high in -the sky, or a torch waved gracefully in the darkness. Beauty springs -from control; ugliness follows lack of control. But control is no easy -thing in the movies, for it is rare indeed that a director has only a -single moving point to manage. Almost always, he has the problem of -relative direction and relative speed. Moving things must be related -to other moving things, and also to fixed things. Even if the picture -consists only of a torch waved against a black background, we have the -problem of relating that motion to the four fixed lines of the frame of -the screen. - -But can we expect a motion picture director to stop and think of so -small a matter as a ball thrown from one hand to another, to ask -himself whether such an action is beautifully related, in direction -and velocity, to everything else in the picture, fixed or moving? -Yes, we can expect him to do so until he becomes artist enough to -think of these matters without stopping. He should think about -pictorial composition until he can obey its laws without thought. Let -him remember that even a flock of geese can compose themselves so -appealingly in the sky and a herd of cows can wind so gracefully down a -hillside that a tender girl and a tough hobo will gaze alike upon them -in open-mouthed admiration. - -The geese in the sky and the cows on the hillside are only a lot of -moving spots, until they arrange, or compose, themselves. They may -then illustrate the second type of moving object, that of the moving -line. A line may, for example, move along its own length in a way -which pleases the eyes. Such motions we see in the slender waterfall, -in the narrow stream, in such inanimate things as the long belting in -a factory, or the glowing line of a shooting star, and in the files of -geese, or cattle, or marching men. - -A line may move in other directions besides that of its own length. It -may swing stiffly from one end, as in the case of a pendulum or the -rays from a searchlight. It may wave like a streamer in the breeze. -It may move sidewise, as in the long lines of surf that roll up on -the beach. It may move in countless other manners, as in the handling -of canes, swords, spears, golf clubs, polo mallets, whips, etc. Now, -of course, the director ordinarily thinks of a weapon as a weapon, -and not as a moving line. He studies the characteristic action of an -officer drawing his sword or of a Hottentot hurling his spear and tries -to reproduce them faithfully so that no small boy in the audience may -be able to pick out flaws. This is well, so far as it goes. A painter -would study these characteristic actions, too, and would suggest them -with equal faithfulness. But he would do something more. He would place -every object so carefully in his picture that its line harmonized with -the four lines of the frame and with all of the other lines, spots, and -pictorial values in his work. - -Now we are beginning to guess how pictorial motions must be composed; -but first let us see what other kinds of motion there are. If we -take another look at the geese in the sky we may find that they have -composed themselves into the form of a “V” or a “Y” floating strangely -beneath the clouds. This illustrates the third type of motion, the -moving pattern. - -We distinguish between a moving pattern and a moving spot or line, -because a pattern relates its separate elements to each other. This -relation may or may not change as the pattern moves. Thus the V-shaped -pattern formed by the flying geese may become sharper or flatter, or -one side may be stretched out longer than the other, as the flight -continues. All fixed pictures are patterns which do not change in form -while we look at them, and the pictorial principles therein involved -have been thoroughly discussed in the preceding chapters. But if the -director wants a pattern to move to the right or left, up or down, away -from him or toward him, or to change its character gradually, then a -new problem of composition arises, and the solution of this new problem -is both inviting and perplexing. - -It is inviting because there are so many patterns which gain beauty -from motion or change. A fixed circle is not so appealing to the eye, -for example, as a rolling hoop. A wheel standing still is not so -fascinating as one that rotates, like the wheel of a wind mill, or one -that rolls, like the wheel of a carriage. Thus also the pattern formed -by the rectangular shapes of a train standing still does not please -the eye so much as the harmonious change in that same pattern when the -train swings by us and winds away into the distance. - -The patterns which may be compared with mathematical figures, such as -circles, squares, triangles, diamond shapes, etc., are not the only -ones. We are simply mentioning them first to make our analysis clear. -Every group of two or more visible things, and nearly every visible -thing in itself, must of necessity be looked upon as a pattern, either -pleasing or displeasing to the eye. Therefore every motion picture that -has been, or can be, thrown upon the screen describes a pattern, fixed, -moving, or changing. If the direction and rate of these motions and -changes can be controlled, there is hope for beauty on the screen; if -they cannot be controlled, there is no help but accident. - -A peculiar type of visible motion is that which we have elsewhere -called “moving texture.” Examples in nature are the changing texture of -falling snow, the stately coiling of clouds, and the majestic weaving -of ice floes in a river. In the movies the effect of moving texture is -produced whenever the elements of the subject are so many and so small -that we view them rather as a surface than as a design or pattern. -It may be seen, not only in subjects from nature, but also in such -things as a mob of people or a closely packed herd of cattle viewed -from a high position. Mr. Griffith has a good eye and taste for the -composition of moving textures, and has furnished interesting examples -in nearly all of his larger productions. - -Now let us see how far we have gone. We have defined four different -types of pictorial motion, namely, the moving spot, the moving line, -the moving pattern, and the moving texture. They may appear singly or -grouped. For example, in a picture of the old-fashioned water wheel we -have a combination of the moving line of the stream with the moving -pattern of the wheel. And in a picture of a small motor boat, seen from -afar, speeding over a lake the composition contains a moving spot, the -changing pattern of the wake, and the changing texture of the water. -If we add to this picture a long train on the bank, trailing a ribbon -of smoke, an airplane in the sky, and a sailing yacht on the lake, we -have a subject which is difficult indeed to analyze, and infinitely -more difficult to compose into pictorial beauty. Yet those are the very -kinds of motion which a motion picture director must compose in every -scene that he “shoots.” - -But we have not yet completed our analysis of the nature of pictorial -motion. It has still another property, which we shall call “changing -tonal value.” Changing tonal value depends upon changes in the amount -and kind of light which falls upon the subject, and upon changes in -the surface of the subject itself. For example, the shadow of a cloud -passing over a landscape gives a slightly different hue to every grove -or meadow, to every rock or road. To watch these values come and go is -one of the delights of the nature lover. - -Nature’s supreme example of the beauty of changing values may be seen -in a sunset playing with delicate splendor on sea and sky. And if this -beauty defies the skill of painters it is because they have no means of -representing the subtle changes which run through any particular hue as -the moments pass by. - -The beauty of a sunset may long, perhaps forever, elude the -cinematograph, but this machine can produce tonal changes in black and -white at the will of the operator by the familiar trick of “fading in” -and “fading out.” This camera trick is of great service for dramatic -effects, such as the dissolving of one picture into another; but -it has a greater power, which has not always been appreciated and -taken advantage of by directors, the power of producing for the eye a -pictorial rhythm of tonal intensities. This effect is somewhat like the -“crescendo” and “diminuendo” in music. - -[Illustration: From _The Covered Wagon_. Distinctive rhythm of moving -lines, interesting changes in pictorial pattern, and harmonious play of -light and shade are skillfully used in this photoplay to intensify its -dramatic meaning. See pages 9, 66 and 140.] - -When we consider that changing tonal value may be combined with -changing direction, as well as with changing velocity, of moving spots, -moving lines, moving patterns, and moving textures, we realize more -keenly the problems of the cinema composer. His medium is at once -extremely complex, extremely flexible, and extremely delicate. - -But we have not yet revealed all of the strange qualities of the motion -picture. A unique power of the screen, which can never be utilized -by any other graphic art, is that which gives motion to things that -are themselves absolutely at rest and immovable. Even the pyramids of -Egypt can be invested with apparent motion, so that their sharp lines -flow constantly into new patterns. It can be done by simply moving the -camera itself while the film is being exposed. The appeal of apparent -motion in natural setting is familiar to any one who has ever gazed -dreamily from the window of a railroad car or from the deck of a yacht -sailing among islands. Apparent motion on the screen makes a similar -appeal, which can be enhanced by changing distance and point of view -and by artistic combination with real motions in the picture. - -Still other fresh means of pleasing the eye may be found in the -altering of natural motions, as by the retarding action of the -slow-motion camera, which can make a horse float in the air like a -real Pegasus; or by the cinematographic acceleration of motion which -can out-rival an Indian conjuror in making a tree rise, blossom, and -bear fruit while you are watching. - -Another peculiar type of pictorial motion, which has never before -existed, and does not come into being until it is projected upon the -screen, is the magic motion of the “animated cartoons.” The camera-man -sees no such marvelous motions. He faces only a stack of drawings. The -artist who makes the drawings does not see the motions except in his -own imagination. But the spectator in the theater is delighted to see -the strangely bewitched men and beasts, birds and trees, rocks and -streams, weapons and machines, all behaving in impossible ways that no -maker of fairy tales ever dreamed of. Here is a new field of pictorial -composition, with distant boundaries and fabulous wealth. Those who -exploit it will be able to teach many a valuable lesson to the director -who merely takes photographs of actors in motion. - -Nearly all of these motions might be found in a single “shot,” that is, -in a single section of film. But when these sections of film are joined -together to form the finished photoplay they produce still another -kind of motion, a constant shifting from scene to scene. Whether this -succession is to be a series of collisions or a harmonious flow, -depends upon those who cut and join the films. - -There is finally the total movement which is the product of all of -these motions working together. A scientist can show you in his -laboratory that when a cord vibrates in one way it gives forth a -particular note, and that when the same cord vibrates in another way it -gives forth a different note. He can also show you that a single cord -can vibrate in several different ways at the same time. The tones and -overtones thus produced constitute the peculiar _timbre_, or quality, -of a musical note. Thus, too, in a motion picture the _ensemble_ of -all the kinds, directions, and velocities of motion constitutes the -particular cinematic quality of that particular picture play. Whether -that resultant quality shall be like a symphony or like the cries of a -mad-house, depends on the knowledge, the skill, and the inspiration of -the cinema composer. - -Having named the principal motions in a picture we come now to the -question of how those motions should be composed. When a musical -composer sits down before his piano he knows that he may strike single -notes in succession, giving a simple melody, or several notes at the -same moment, producing a chord, or he may play a melody with one hand -and a different melody with the other, or he may play a melody with -one hand and a succession of chords with the other, or he may use both -hands in playing two successions of chords. Before he is through with -his composition he will probably have done all of those things. - -It is much the same with the cinema composer. Before he has finished -even a single scene he will probably have produced all of the different -types of motions in varying directions, with varying velocities, and -varying intensities. How may he know whether his work is good or bad? -What are the proofs of beauty in the composition of pictorial motion? - -A practical proof is dramatic utility. The motions of a photoplay -are in the service of the story. They should perform that work well, -without waste of time and energy. An æsthetic proof is their power to -stimulate our fancy and to sway our feeling. Pictorial motions should -play for us, until by the illusion of art we can play with them. -Another proof is reposefulness. For at the very moment when we are -stimulated by art we desire to rest in satisfied contemplation. How -pictorial motions may produce beauty on the screen by being at work, at -play, and at rest will be told in the following chapters. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -PICTORIAL MOTIONS AT WORK - - -All the movement which you see on the screen may be enjoyed, we have -said, as something which appears beautiful to your eye, regardless of -its meaning to your mind. But if that movement, beautiful in itself, -also carries to your mind some significance, if it serves the dramatic -plot in some positive way, then the picture will be so much the richer. -Acting, of course, is visible movement that delineates character and -advances plot. It is pictorial motion at work. And acting, curiously -enough, is not limited to people and animals. In a sense there may -be acting also by things, by wagons or trees or brooks or waves or -water-falls or fountains or flames or smoke or clouds or wind-blown -garments. The motions of these things also constitute a kind of work in -the service of the photoplay. - -One might say that the artistic efficiency of a motion picture may be -partly tested in the same way as the practical value of a machine. In -either case motions are no good unless they help to perform some work. -“Lost motions” are a waste, and resisting motions are a hindrance. The -best mechanical combination of motions, then, is that which results in -the most work with the least expenditure of energy. - -Doubtless every one will agree with us that if, while a picture is -showing, any great work is necessary to “get the story across,” that -work should be done by the picture and not by the spectators. They want -the story to be clear, and they want it to be impressive. In other -words, they want beautiful and significant material presented with the -fullest emphasis. Emphasis results when the attention of the spectator -is caught and held by the primary interest in the picture, instead of -the secondary interest. In paintings, or in “still” pictures, or in -those parts of moving pictures which are held or remembered as fixed -moments, a great number of devices may be used separately or together -to control the attention of the spectator so that the main interest -gets its full emphasis. Pictorial motions on the screen may also be -so well organized that they will catch and control the spectator’s -attention, and will reveal the dynamic vitality of the pictorial -content. - -The simplest principle of accent by motion is so obvious that we are -almost ashamed to name it. It is this, that if in the whole picture -everything remains at rest except one thing which moves, that thing -will attract our attention. Photoplays are full of mistakes which arise -through the violation of this simple law. In many a scene our attention -is drawn from the stalwart hero to a candle on the mantlepiece merely -because its flame happens to flicker; or from the heroine’s sweet face -to a common bush merely because its leaves happen to quiver in the -breeze; or from the villain’s steady pistol to a dog’s tail merely -because the dog happens to wag it. - -It is no excuse to say that such motions are natural, or that they -give local color. For, though a moving trifle may help to give the -correct atmosphere, it may also at the same time rob the heroine of the -attention which is rightly due her. For example, in “The Love Light,” -which was conceived and directed by Frances Marion, there is the -kitchen of the little Italian home where Angela (Mary Pickford) sits -down to muse for a while. She occupies the right side of the picture -while at the left is the fire-place with a brisk fire. The fanciful -playing of the flames and smoke of that fire catch our attention -immediately. We guess that this fire-place is not important in the -story, and we turn our glances upon the heroine, but we cannot keep -them there because the fire is too interesting. - -When the spectator’s reason tries to make him do one thing and his -natural inclination tempts him to do the opposite, there is confusion -and waste of mental energy; and during that hesitation of mind the -opportunity for being impressed by the main interest of the play passes -by. That rule may sound like a commonplace, but it is not nearly so -commonplace as the violation of it in the movies. - -If the director must have a fire in the fire-place, and if Angela is -more important than that fire, then, of course, her motions should be -made more interesting than its motions. It should always be remembered -that the strangest, least familiar of two motions will attract our -attention away from the other. The fire is strange, while Angela is -familiar. In the preceding scenes she has walked, run, romped, laughed, -cried, talked, and made faces; she has, in short, performed so many -different kinds of motions that there is almost nothing unexpected left -for her to do in order to take our eyes away from the fire. She merely -sits for a long time unnoticed. Presently, however, after the fire has -lost its novelty for us, she arises, grasps a frying pan, and, using it -as a mirror, begins to primp. Then at last we look at her. - -A more striking case of misplaced emphasis may be found in the -photoplay “Sherlock Holmes,” directed by Albert Parker. The part of the -great detective was played by no less a person than John Barrymore, yet -in the very scene where he makes his first appearance he is totally -eclipsed by a calico cow. In this scene, represented by the “still” -opposite this page, we see a beautifully patterned cow swinging into -the idyllic setting of a side street in Cambridge, following a rhythmic -path from the background with its dim towers of the university, past -the honeysuckle-clad walls of “Ye Cheshire Cheese,” and out into -the shadows of a picturesque tree. This cow holds our attention by -her photographic contrasts of black and white, and because she and -her attendant are the only moving things within the whole scope of -the camera. This inscrutable cow gets the spotlight while the great -Sherlock is neglected where he reclines drowsily in the shade. Here -was really the most pictorial scene of the whole photoplay, and the -annoying thing was that the cow never again showed hoof or horn. Why -was she ever let in? No suspicion of murder, theft, or other deviltry -was ever cast upon her. She neither shielded nor shamed any one. She -did not help to solve any problem. There was no further allusion to -cattle, dairies, or cheese. There was not even a glass of milk in the -rest of the play. - -[Illustration: A typical bad movie composition from an old film. But -the pictorial mistakes here illustrated may be seen in some of the most -recent productions. Intelligent criticism by spectators would soon make -such careless directing intolerable. See page 75.] - -[Illustration: From _Sherlock Holmes_. An example of wrong emphasis. -The cow attracts attention by her strong marking, the central position, -and because she is the only moving thing in the picture. But the cow -should not have been dragged in at all, much less accented. See page -100.] - -Perhaps the innocent cow was an accident. Perhaps the director did -not know, or had forgotten, that the whitest patch in a picture -attracts the eye, that an irregular shape, such as the marking of a -Holstein cow, attracts more attention than the familiar patterning of -walls, windows, tree trunks, etc., that a moving object in a scene -where everything else is still attracts and holds attention, and that a -humble cow emphasized by all these cinematographic means makes more of -a hit than the most highly paid actor dozing in the shade. - -But the strangeness or novelty of a motion may emphasize it, even -though other motions going on at the same time are larger and stronger. -In support of this statement the author offers a personal experience -which came in the nature of a surprise when first seeing Niagara Falls. -One would think that if a person who had never seen this sight were -placed suddenly before it, he would gaze spellbound at the awful rush -of water, and that no other motion could possibly distract him. But -the author’s attention was first attracted to something else which -impressed him more deeply, something which moved silently, very slowly -and very delicately. That strangely attractive thing was the cloud -of spray that rose steadily from the bottom of the fall, floating -gently upward past the brink and vanishing continually in the sky. Its -peculiar appeal lay in its strangeness, not in its strength. - -The reader can doubtless recall similar cases where strangeness exerted -an overpowering appeal. At best that strangeness is much more than -the satisfaction of curiosity. It is a type of beauty which comes -as a relief from the common, familiar facts of every-day life. The -combination of strangeness and beauty has a powerful charm, and he is -an ideal director who can emphasize dramatic significance with that -charm. - -Violence, at least, is not a virtue in the movies, as so many directors -seem to believe. Indeed, slowness and slightness may sometimes be -more impressive than speed and volume. This is often demonstrated on -the stage of the spoken drama, when, for example, the leading lady -who speaks slowly and in low tones holds our interest better than her -attendants who chatter in high pitch. The beauty of her speech is -emphasized by its contrast with the ugliness of the others. So in the -photoplay there may be more power in a single slight lowering of the -eyes or in the firm clenching of a fist than in a storm of waving arms -and heaving chests. - -What has just been said refers to motions in a fixed setting, which -operate either against or in spite of, each other; but two or more -motions in a picture may work as a team, and may thus control our -attention better than if they were operating singly. - -First we observe that if a single object is moving along in a -continuous direction it will pull our attention along in that -direction, may, indeed, send our attention on ahead of the object. -Thus if an actor swings his hand dramatically in the direction of a -door he may carry our glance beyond his hand to the door itself. This -law of vision works so surely that it can always be depended upon by a -magician, a highly specialized kind of actor, when he wishes to divert -the attention of his audience from some part of the stage or of his own -person where a trick is being prepared. It is not true, as is popularly -supposed, that we are deceived because “the hand is faster than the -eye”; it is really because the eye is faster than the hand. In other -words, our attention outstrips the moving object. - -In the movies this law controls our attention to traveling persons, -vehicles, and things. If horsemen are represented as riding away they -should be photographed with their backs toward us and with the distance -between us and them increasing. Then, since our eyes travel beyond the -riders, we get a stronger impression that the men are really riding far -away. On the other hand, if the horsemen are coming home, the direction -of movement should naturally be toward us. This seems clear enough; -yet directors frequently prevent us from feeling the dramatic intent -and force of travel, by “shooting” the moving subject from various -angles in succession. Even Mr. Griffith has been guilty of this sort of -carelessness. In “The Idol Dancer,” for example, we have a scene (a) -in which a party of South Sea island villagers are paddling away in a -large canoe; correctly enough they are moving away from the camera. -The next scene (b) shows some one raising an alarm in the village by -beating a drum, which, as we have been informed, can be heard twenty -miles away. It is a call to the canoe party to return. The scene which -is then flashed on (c) is a close-up of the canoe coming toward the -camera. The men are paddling vigorously. We think, of course, that they -have already heard the alarm and are now returning. But no! Presently -they stop paddling and listen. They hear the drum. The next picture -(d), a “long shot,” shows the canoe being maneuvered around, and the -succeeding pictures all show the men paddling toward the camera. - -Now it is perfectly logical for us to infer that the canoe is -already homeward bound, when we see it coming toward us in scene “c” -immediately after the drum has sounded the alarm, and we can therefore -only resent being caught in error and virtually told, two scenes later, -“This time we won’t fool you, now the canoe, as you see, is really -turning about.” - -If one moving object can send our thoughts ahead to the goal of its -travel, two or more objects moving toward the same point can send our -thoughts there with greatly increased force. Thus a picture of two -ships shown approaching each other on converging courses will surely -make us think of that region of the sea where they are likely to come -close aboard each other. If there is an enemy submarine at that point -and if the two vessels are destroyers, the suspense and emphasis is -complete. - -A similar law of attention may be seen at work in cases where lines -move along their length to a junction. Suppose we take as a setting a -western landscape in which two swiftly flowing streams meet and form -the figure of a “Y.” Suppose now that we desire to place an Indian camp -in this setting so carefully that it will attract attention as soon as -the picture is flashed on the screen. We must place it at the junction -of the two streams, because the eyes of the spectators will naturally -be drawn to that point. Now suppose that a long white road crosses -the main stream just below the place where the tributaries meet. The -position would be emphasized more than ever because the road would -virtually form two fixed lines leading toward the bridge; and fixed -lines, as we saw in Chapter IV, also have the power of directing our -attention to the point where a crossing is made. - -Then let us suppose that the Indians build a fire, from which the -smoke rises in a tall, thin column. That would constitute another line -of motion. But would it emphasize or weaken the center of interest? -It would, as a matter of fact, still hold our attention on the camp -because of the curious law that, no matter in what directions lines -may move, it is the point which they have in common that attracts our -attention. Thus if we assume a landscape where there is only a single -stream, with a camp at the upper end, and with smoke rising from a -fire, we would still have emphasis on the camp, in spite of the fact -that the two lines of motion are directed away from it. - -The same curious power over our attention may be exercised by moving -spots. If we see, for example, two ships sailing away on diverging -courses, we immediately suppose that the ships are sailing out of the -same port, and, even though we cannot see any sign of that port, our -minds will search for it. So also in those electric advertisements -where lines of fire, sprayed from a central source, rise and curve -over into the various letters of a word, the emphasis is rather on the -point where the lines originate than on any single letter or on the -word as a whole. Electric signs, by the way, are surprisingly often -examples of what not to do with motion if one desires to catch the eye -and to strike deep into the mind and emotions of the observer. The most -common mistake, perhaps, is the sign consisting of a word in steady -light surrounded by a flashing border in which a stream of fire flows -continuously from dusk till dawn. Our eyes chase madly around with -this motion and have no chance to rest upon the word for which the -advertiser is wasting his money. - -But, to return to the question of how motions running away from each -other can throw the spectator’s attention to the point where they -originate, we can think of no more perfect example in nature than the -effect which is produced by throwing a pebble into a pool. Ripples -form themselves immediately into expanding rings which seem to pursue -each other steadily away from a common center. Yet, despite the -outward motion of these rings our eyes constantly seek the point from -which they so mysteriously arise. That this is true every reader has -experienced for himself. Here then we have discovered a fascinating -paradox of motion, namely, that a thing may sometimes be caught by -running away from it. This ought to be good news to many a movie -director. - -But let us see what other means there are of emphasizing a theme or -some other feature of significant beauty in a photoplay. One method -is repetition. But what is the effect of repetition? Is it monotony -or emphasis? Does it dull our senses or sharpen them? There can be -no doubt that the steady repetition of the sea waves breaking on the -beach, or of rain drops dripping on our roofs, or of leaves rustling -in the forest, or of flames leaping in our fire-places can send us -into the forgetfulness of sleep. But, on the other hand, the periodic -repetition of a movement in a dance, or of a motif in music, or of a -refrain in poetry can drive that movement, that motif, or that refrain -so deeply into our souls that we never forget it. We refer, of course, -to the higher forms of dancing, music, and poetry; for in the lower -forms, such as the dancing of savages, the grinding of hand organs, and -the “sing-song” of uninspired recitations the too frequent repetition -soon results in monotony. - -In the movies of to-day there is, we are glad to observe, very little -bad repetition except that of close-ups, and even they are now more -and more eliminated by directors. But there is also very little good -repetition in the cause of artistic emphasis. The tendency is rather a -touch and run. Seventy settings are used where seventeen would give us -a stronger sense of environment. We read more publicity “dope” about a -woman who can do a hundred “stunts” in five reels than about one who -can strike a single enthralling pose, and can return to it again and -again until it becomes as unforgettable as a masterpiece of sculpture. - -The photoplay needs repetition, especially because of the fact that -any pictorial motion or moment must by its very nature vanish while we -look. Hence, unless all other circumstances are especially favorable -for emphasis, such a motion or moment may vanish from our minds as -well as from the screen. To fix these fleeting values is a problem, -but it can be solved without the danger of monotony if each repetition -is provided with a variety of approach, or if each repetition is made -under a variety of circumstances. This is the method in music. A -particular series of notes is struck and serves for a theme; then the -melody wanders off into a maze of harmony and returns to the theme, -only to wander off again into a new harmony and to return from a new -direction to the same theme. After a while this musical theme, thus -repeated with a variety of approach, penetrates our souls and remains -imbedded there long after the performance has ceased. The same method -is often employed to give emphasis to a particular movement or pose in -æsthetic dancing. - -To show how repetition with variety of approach may operate on the -screen let us remake in imagination some scenes from Griffith’s “Broken -Blossoms,” a photoplay which was adapted from Thomas Burke’s short -story “The Chink and the Child.” The wistful heroine, called simply -The Girl, played charmingly by Lillian Gish, is shown in the wretched -hovel of her father, “Battling” Burrows, a prize-fighter. We see her -against a background of fading and broken walls, a bare table, a couple -of chairs, a cot, and a stove. If she sits down, stands up, lies down, -or walks across the room, she moves, of course, through a changing -pattern of motion against fixed lines. And she ends each movement in -a different fixed design. Now let us suppose that the most pictorial -of all these arrested moments is the one which is struck when she -pauses before an old mirror to gaze sadly at her own pathetic image, -and that during this moment we see, not only the best arrangement -of lines, patterns, and tones, and the best phase of all her bodily -movements, but also the most emotional expression of her tragic -situation as the slave of her brutal father. Wouldn’t it be a pity if -this pictorial moment were to occur once only during the play? How much -more impressive it would be if she paused often before this mirror, -always striking the same dramatic note. Such a pause would be quite -natural immediately after she enters the room or when she is about to -go out, or during her weary shuffling between the stove and the table -while serving supper, or after she has arisen from a spell of crying -on the cot and tries to shape her tear-stained face into a smile. In -all of these cases there would be variety and yet emphasis, always the -same tonal harmony between her blond hair and the faded wall, always -the same resemblance between the lines of her ragged dress and those of -the old furniture, always the same binding of her frail figure into the -hard pattern of her surroundings, as though she were but a thing to be -kicked about and broken,--all this shown again and again until the full -dramatic force and beauty of the pictorial moment is impressed upon the -spectator. - -This kind of repetition can be done much more effectively and with -less danger of monotony in the photoplay than in the stage play, -because much of the action which intervenes between the repetitions -can be eliminated and other scenes can be cut in without breaking the -continuity of visible motion, while on the stage no bridging of time or -shifting of scene is feasible without dropping the curtain. - -One device which is unique on the screen is the repetition of the -same “shot” by simply cutting into the film numerous prints from a -single negative. A well-remembered case was the “Out-of-the-cradle -endlessly-rocking” theme of Griffith’s “Intolerance,” a picture -of a young woman rocking a cradle, which was repeated at frequent -intervals throughout the story. The picture remained the same, but the -context was ever new; and, if the repetition was not impressive to -the spectators, the fault was not in the device itself, but rather in -the fact that there really was no very clear connection between the -cradle-rocking and intolerance. - -Whenever we speak of emphasis in art we are naturally concerned about -emphasizing that which is vital in the theme or story. We do not, -for example, emphasize a man’s suspenders in a portrait where the -main theme is grief. Nor need we, for that matter, emphasize tears; -for a man might show as much grief with his shoulders as with a wet -handkerchief. In other words, if the theme is grief we should emphasize -grief itself rather than any particular gesture of grief. - -Similarly if in a romantic story the main theme is dashing sword play, -it is swordsmanship which should be stressed, and not the sword itself, -unless, of course, that sword happens to have some magic property. -Therefore it is bad art in “The Mark of Zorro,” a Douglas Fairbanks -play, to repeat with every sub-title a conventional sketch of a sword. -It is bad, not only because the hero’s sword needs no emphasis, but -because a mere decorative drawing of a sword cannot reinforce the -significance of the real sword which the hero so gallantly wields. - -There is a recurring note, however, in this play which can be -commended. It is the “Z” shaped mark or wound which Zorro makes with -his sword. We see it first as an old scar on the cheek of a man whom -Zorro has reprimanded. Then we see Zorro himself trace the mark on a -bulletin board from which he tears down a notice. Then we see him cut -the dreaded “Z” upon the neck of an antagonist. And, finally, we see -him, some days later, fix his weird mark squarely on the brow of his -old enemy. And in every case except the first we observe the quick -zigzag motion of the avenging sword. - -Here the emphasis lies in the repetition of a pictorial element -with some variety of shape and movement and under a variety of -circumstances. The “mark” of Zorro becomes a sharp symbol which -inscribes ever anew upon our minds the character of the hero, his -dashing pursuit and lightning retribution. - -Emphasis by repetition in the photoplay may further be achieved in -ways which we shall not take the time to discuss. Thus an especially -significant setting may be repeated in various lights and in -combination with various actions; or some particular action, such as a -dramatic dance, may be repeated in a variety of settings. - -A sure means of emphasis is contrast. We have already shown how this -principle works in cases where a moving thing is contrasted with other -things which are at rest. Yet the contrast in such cases works only -in one direction. That is to say, the contrast throws the attention -on the motion, but it does not at the same time draw any attention to -the fixed objects. It will be interesting now to illustrate a sort of -double-acting contrast which may produce great emphasis in pictures. -In the well-known case where a tall man stands beside a short one on -a stage the difference between them is emphasized by the contrast in -their statures; and when we meet them off the stage we are surprised -to discover that one is not so tall, and the other not so short, as -we had been led to believe. In a photograph, for a similar reason, if -a very black tone is placed sharply along a very white one, each tone -will make the other seem more intense. And if a painter desires to -emphasize a color, say red, in his painting he does not need to do so -by spreading more paint over the first coat. Red may be accented by -placing green beside it. In fact, each of these two colors can accent -the other by contrast. - -Similarly when two motions occur together the contrast between them -may be double-acting. When you are setting your watch, for example, -the minute-hand seems to run faster, and the hour-hand more slowly, -than is actually true, because of the contrast in their rates of speed. -This simple law might well be applied in the movies when emphasis of -motion is required. We would thus get the effect of speed upon the mind -without the annoyance of speed for the eye. - -One does not have to be a critic to realize that there is entirely -too much speed on the screen. Some of this dizzy swiftness is due to -imperfect projection or to the worn-out condition of the film; witness -the flicker and the “rain” of specks and lines. Much of it is due also -to the fact that the projection is “speeded up” to a faster rate than -that of the actual performance before the camera. But there is also a -lamentable straining for effect by many directors who believe that an -unnaturally fast tempo gives life and sparkle to the action. Perhaps -some of these directors have not been able to forget a lesson learned -during their stage experience. In the spoken drama it has long been a -tradition that actors must speak more rapidly, and must pick up their -cues more promptly, than people do in real life, in order that the play -may not seem to drag. But we know that the motion picture is in danger -of racing rather than dragging. And racing, as we have said, hurts the -eyes. - -The principle of contrast can relieve the eye of a part of its work -without imposing any additional task upon the mind. Thus some crazy -Don Quixote may _seem_ to cut and thrust with greater agility than the -fighting which we actually _see_, provided his action is contrasted -with the restful poking of his ham-fed servant, Sancho Panza. And thus -a railroad train which really was running at a moderate speed, might -_seem_ to dash by on the screen, if it were contrasted with the ambling -gait of a farmer’s team driven in the same direction along the tracks. - -A kind of emphasis which we may classify as contrast is that which -occurs when movement is suddenly arrested. The unexpected stop not -only makes the previous motion seem faster than it really was, but it -also fixes attention more alertly on the thing which has just stopped -moving. When you bump against a chair in the darkness you are always -astonished to find that you were dashing along instead of merely -walking slowly. But the shock has deceived you, for you really were -walking slowly. If you are out hunting and your setter stops in his -tracks, your eye is immediately upon him, and will remain so fixed -until he or something else makes the next move. The same principle -works on the screen. If an actor, or an animal, or a thing is in motion -and then unexpectedly pauses, the effect of the pause is to attract -immediate attention, as well as to make the previous motion seem to -have been faster than it actually was. Sometimes this law may operate -to distract our attention from the dramatic interest. If, for example, -an outdoor scene has been “shot” on a squally day, and the wind has -abruptly died down for a few moments during the climax of the scene, -the effect on the screen will be to attract our attention instantly to -the leaves which have stopped fluttering, or the garments which have -stopped flapping. We will observe the sudden change in the weather and -forget the state of the story. - -With this argument we ourselves shall pause, in order to summarize the -principal ways in which pictorial motions, working singly or together, -can produce the greatest impression on the spectator with the least -expenditure of his mental energy. Here is the list: A thing in motion -is normally more emphatic than anything at rest in the same picture. -Of two motions the one which is the more surprising or fanciful gets -the chief attention. Slowness or slightness may sometimes by contrast -be more emphatic than great speed or volume. A moving spot or a -line flowing along its own length has a tendency to carry attention -along with, or even ahead of, itself in the direction of movement. -Two or more movements along well-marked lines, whether converging -or diverging, focus attention on the point which these lines have -in common. Lines moving in circles away from a common center hold -attention on that center. Repetition can work for emphasis without -monotony, provided it be a repetition with variety of circumstances. -Contrast between two simultaneous motions or between a motion and -an abrupt rest may be double-acting, that is, may emphasize in both -directions. - -Our discussion of motions at work in a picture has not been exhaustive. -The list might easily be made three times as long as it is. But it is -long enough to illustrate the evil which motions may do if they are -turned wild on the screen, and the good which they may work if they are -harnessed by a director who understands these fundamental principles -of pictorial composition. - -However, all work and no play would make any picture dull, but that is -a subject for another chapter. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -PICTORIAL MOTIONS AT PLAY - - -The average matter-of-fact man thinks that artists concern themselves -only with copying their subjects, and that their success as artists -consists in copying correctly. He is satisfied with a painted portrait -of his wife, provided it is a “speaking likeness,” and he craves no -other magic of design and color. Such a man praises a photoplay if -it presents a “rattling good story,” and expects no thrill from the -cinema composer’s conjuring with shifting patterns and evanescent -tones. At least he would say something to that effect if you argued the -matter with him. But he would be mistaken in his self-analysis, for -even a prosaic person really enjoys the decorative rhythmical quality -in a picture, though he may not be conscious of doing so. And every -spectator can get the richest beauty from the screen only when the -pictorial motions play as well as they work. - -What is the difference between play and work? We know that when our -work most resembles play it is most enjoyable. And we know, too, that -play, even when it has not been professionalized, often comes very -near being work. The playing of children, as that of grown-ups, is -often very highly organized and pursued with a great deal of effort -and earnestness. Play, however, may be characterized by spontaneity -and variety. It is not forced, like work, which aims for some definite -practical result; and it does not have the rigidity and uniformity -which in work sometimes develops into dullness. If the emphasizing of -dramatic expression may be called the work of pictorial motions, then -the spontaneity and variety which accompanies this work may be called -the play of pictorial motions. And that play is essentially the same as -rhythm. - -We think immediately of two of the elder arts in which rhythm is all -important--dancing and music. Music leads us to the thought of song, -and poetry, and oratory, arts which also are dependent on rhythm. -Dancing suggests sculpture, and sculpture suggests painting, arts -which would have little beauty without the quality of rhythm. Even -architecture must have it. From art we turn to nature, and we see the -poignant beauty of rhythm in cloud and wave, in tree and flower, in -brook and mountain, in bird and beast. The motion picture, which is the -mirror of nature, and at the same time the tablet upon which all of the -elder arts may write their laws, must bring to us the inheritance and -reflection of rhythm. - -This quality has already been discussed in connection with the laws of -the eye, in Chapter III, and in connection with static composition, -in Chapter V. We come now to the pictorial problem of weaving the -individual and combined motions of a photoplay into a totality of -rhythm. First, let us consider the case of a single moving spot. -Suppose that we have before us a barren hillside of Mexico, an expanse -of light gray on the screen. Down that hillside a horseman is to come, -dark against the gray. If he rides in a single straight line, directly -toward the camera or obliquely down the hill, his movement will not be -pleasing to the eye, nor will it seem natural. But if he moves in a -waving line, a series of reverse curves freely made, the effect on the -eye of the spectator will be somewhat like that of the “line of beauty” -discussed in Chapter V. - -An important difference, however, between a fixed line and one traced -by a moving object is that the latter disappears as soon as it is -drawn. It may linger in our memories, to be sure, yet our eyes can -trace that line only once, and only in the direction taken by the -moving object. That is, our physical eye cannot range back and forth -over the vanished path, as it can over a fixed line. And a still -greater difference is that the moving object has a rhythm of velocity -as well as a rhythm of direction. Velocity and direction of movement -arise and exist together, and consequently their relation to each other -may produce a new rhythm. The horse, varying his pace according to -the nature of the ground, may gallop along the level stretches, and -may pick his way cautiously down the steep declines. There is natural -harmony in rapid motion over a long smooth line, and slow motion over -a short jagged one. A simple case like this may help us to answer -the question, When is the relation between velocity and direction -harmonious? But we have still the fundamental questions, When is a -change of direction rhythmical? And, when is a change of velocity -rhythmical? - -We cannot promise to give direct and definite answers to these -questions; but, recalling our discussion in Chapter V concerning rhythm -in fixed design, let us say that cinematic rhythm is a peculiar -alternation of phases or properties of pictorial motion which gives the -spectator a vivid sense of movement performed with ease and variety. - -Now it may seem a vain task to analyze or try to define so delicate -a thing as rhythm, because all of us can be carried away by rhythm -without saddling it with a formula. Yet analysis will serve a useful -purpose if it can help the director to avoid motions which are not -rhythmical and if it can help the thoughtful spectator to fix the blame -for the jumble of unrhythmical motions which he now so often sees on -the screen. - -Suppose we make a few tests upon the horseman coming down the hillside. -If he moves in a perfectly straight line at a perfectly steady pace, -the action will seem to be a forced, hard effort exerted without -variety. No rhythm will be there. But if he moves, even without change -of pace, along a path of flowing curves, we will sense a rhythm of -direction, providing the horse seems to follow the winding path freely -and without undue effort. - -If, without change of direction, the horse frequently alters his gait -from a gallop to a walk and back to a gallop again in equal periods of -time, say half a minute each, it will be apparent that ease and variety -are utterly absent from the movement. And even if the horse follows -a winding path and changes gait at such regular intervals the rhythm -in direction will be neutralized by the lack of rhythm in velocity. -If, however, there is a progression of varying directions, varying -gaits, and varying durations of time which appear to be spontaneously -and easily performed, a progression, moreover, in which both the -similarities and the differences of the various phases can instantly be -perceived by the spectator, he will immediately experience the emotion -of rhythmical movement. - -The above example illustrates how a single spot can move rhythmically -over the area of a picture. A moving line, say a column of soldiers -on the march, may have still more rhythm. We get a hint of this from -the “still,” facing page 133. It represents a scene from the Metro -production of Ibanez’s “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” which was -directed by Rex Ingram. We see there that the soldiers describe a path -of alternate curves, instead of the straight lines and square corners -which a less imaginative director would have ordered. Mr. Ingram has -further heightened the rhythm by placing gaps here and there in the -main column, and by introducing a secondary movement in the detachment -which turns off from the road just before reaching the village. These -movements are truly pictorial in composition; yet their meaning is none -the less military and dramatic. - -In the scene just described the various motions are similar, and the -handling of them is therefore comparatively easy. But it is very -difficult to make a rhythmical combination of motions which differ -widely in character. In “The Dumb Girl of Portici,” for instance, we -are shown Pavlowa dancing on the beach, while the stately waves and -pounding surf of the ocean fill most of the area of the screen. But -there is no rhythm in the combined movements of that picture. The -dancer without the sea, or the sea without the dancer, might have been -perfectly rhythmical. But when we try to view them together in this -photoplay we get only the strong clash between their movements, and we -feel no pleasure when shifting our gaze from one to the other. - -Perhaps the picture might have been a success if the dancer’s ground -had been a bank sufficiently high to mask the severe effect of the -surf, yet permitting a view of the incoming waves, and if the stately -variety in the movement of the sea had been taken as a key to a -sympathetic movement of the dancer. We might then get a harmonious, -alternating flow of the two movements, our eyes might play easily from -one to the other, and the total pictorial effect might arouse the -emotion of rhythm. - -In a similar way any of the movements of nature, such as the effect of -wind on cloud, or tree, or field of grain; the fall or flow of water; -the flight of bird or characteristic movement of beast, movements -which, once admitted to the scene, cannot easily be controlled, -might be taken as keys in which to play those movements which can be -controlled. - -Some practical-minded person may suggest that instead of worrying about -the composition of “unnecessary” motions, it would be better to omit -them. But such a person overlooks the natural human desire for richness -in art. We are so constituted that we crave lively emotional activity. -We love rich variety, and at the same time we enjoy our ease. When we -listen to the music of a pianist we are not satisfied if he plays with -only one finger, even though he might thus play the melody correctly, -because the melody alone is not rich enough. We want that melody -against all its background of music. We want those musical sounds so -beautifully related to each other that their harmony may arouse our -feelings without unduly straining our attention. - -A splendid example of secondary motion may be seen in the light -draperies of a dancer. Even in the elementary movement of a few leaps -across the stage we see the delicate rhythm of a scarf which is at -first retarded by the air, then follows the dancer gracefully, and at -last gently overtakes her. - -Between the movements of body and scarf there is a charming play. They -are pleasantly similar, yet they are pleasantly different. And there -is a distinct feeling of progression in the various phases of this -similarity and this difference. As spectators we catch this progression -without any effort of the intellect and are instantly swept into its -rhythm. - -It would be easy for the director, of course, if the story which he is -about to film always called for action as graceful as that of a dance. -But unfortunately his scenario often demands the connecting of actions -which, pictorially considered, are totally unrelated to each other. Yet -if the director cares to seek the principles of beauty he will find -many ways of harmonizing elements that are seemingly in conflict. - -One way is simply to impose on each of the discordant elements a -new value which they may assume in common without losing their own -distinctive characters. Suppose, for instance, that we must show a -society lady, with all her soft refinement, on a visit to a foundry, -with all its sweating roughness. One may fear that there must be -something repellent between her stately gentility and the bending -backs of workmen; between her kid-gloved gestures and the flow of -molten metal. Yet we can blend the whole scene into a single rhythm -by suffusing all its elements with the warm glow of the furnace and -by playing over them all the same movement of quivering light and -shadow. This vibrant, welding beauty which lady and laborer and machine -may have in common, while still retaining their individual dramatic -significance, will thus give the touch of art to a motion picture which -might otherwise be merely a crude photographic record of an incident in -a story. - -Another way of bringing two conflicting motions into a rhythmical -relation is to place between them a third motion which, by being -somewhat like either of the other two, bridges the gap and thus -transforms a sense of fixed opposition into a sense of moving variety. -It would be somewhat of a shock, for instance, to shift our view -instantly from the rippling flow of a narrow stream to the wheels and -levers of a mill. But there would undoubtedly be a sense of continuity, -and perhaps of rhythm, in shifting from a general view of the stream to -a view of the water-wheel over which it flows, and thence to the wheels -of the machinery inside the mill. - -This method of interposing a harmonizer might be useful also in -carrying over the rhythm of motion into the rhythm of fixed forms. Thus -if we were to throw upon the screen a picture of the gently rolling -sea, sharply followed by a view of the sweeping horizon of the hills, -it is most probable that the two kinds of rhythm would not unite to -draw a single emotional response from the spectator. He would feel only -the contrast. But if the view of the sea were followed by a view of a -field of grain, whose wind-driven billows resembled the waves of the -sea and whose rolling ground resembled the sweep of the hills, then -the rhythm of the quiet hills themselves might easily seem to be one -with the rhythm of the restless sea. - -As we study the subject of visual rhythm we are led to compare it -again and again with auditive rhythm, which is best exemplified -in music. Thus it is easy to see how a given motion in a picture -might be considered the melody while all the other motions serve as -accompaniment, and how characteristic motions might be played against -each other like counterpoint in music. It is easy to see how a whole -succession of scenes might be considered a single rhythmical totality, -like a “movement” in a musical composition. And it is certain that -any director who thought of cinema composition in that sense would -never permit the slovenly joining which is so familiar in photoplays. -He would not then allow the shift from one scene to another to be -essentially a clash of unrelated motions. He would assure himself -rather that the characteristic types of motion in one scene, their -directions, velocities, and patterns, played into corresponding factors -of the next scene, until the entire succession became a symphony of -motion.[D] - - [D] For a further comparison between music and pictorial - motions see Chapter IV of “The Art of Photoplay Making.” - -It is an interesting fact that movement in a photoplay may come from -other things besides motions. One would get a sense of movement, -for example, even if every scene in a photoplay were itself a fixed -picture held for a few seconds on the screen. The various durations -of these pictures might be in a rhythmical series. The same might be -said of their dominant tones, and of their characteristic patterns and -textures. Would the time-lengths 3, 4, 2, 7, 5, be a good succession? -Or would 3, 7, 4, 5, 2 be better? Which would make a better succession -of figures? A circle, a triangle, and a cross? Or a cross, a square, -and a circle? Questions like these are not trivial; neither are they -over-refined. They and their answers should appear in the catechism of -every cinema composer. - -Speaking of durations of scenes reminds us that in music it is often -the silences between the notes which vary in length while the notes -themselves are uniform. This would be true in the case of a simple -melody played on the piano. The intervals between notes can be observed -by tapping out the “time” of the piece on a single key of the piano, or -on a tin pan, for that matter; and the rhythm of time thus represented -would alone enable a listener to identify any popular piece of music. - -At present there are no rests on the screen, no blank periods between -the scenes. There are, to be sure, moments of relaxation when scenes -are being “faded out,” and these “fades,” like the dying away of -musical sounds, have genuine rhythmical movement. But there is not on -the screen any alternation between stimulus and non-stimulus, as there -is in music, and as there is also in the performance of a stage play. -The motion picture, therefore, lacks that source of rhythm which exists -in musical rests or in the dramatic pauses of stage dialogue. - -Whether intervals of non-stimulus could be successfully introduced -on the screen can be learned only by experiment. Any director who is -really in earnest about developing the motion picture as art should -make such an experiment. If he investigates the results of scientific -tests in psychological laboratories he will learn that under certain -conditions the normal spectator unconsciously creates rhythm in what -he sees. It has been shown, for example, that a person looking at a -small light which is flashed on and off at intervals has a tendency -to make rhythmic groupings of those flashes, by overestimating or -underestimating the lengths of the intervals. In other words, if you -give the beholder’s imagination a chance to function, it will indulge -in rhythmic play. We believe that if a cinema composer could thus -produce rhythm by illusion, as well as by actual presentation, his -achievement would be epoch-making in the movies. - -Movement, movement through rich variety, movement accomplished with -the utmost ease--that is the essence of what we have chosen to call -the play of pictorial motions. That play, as we have seen in the -illustrations given, involves every kind of pictorial motion, whether -of spot, or line, or pattern, or texture, or tone; and every property -or phase, whether of direction, or rate, or duration; and every -circumstance, whether in relation to other motions near or remote, -simultaneous, or successive, or in relation to fixed elements of the -picture. Any two or three of these things may be treated as a separate -problem, but it is in the orchestration of all of them together that -the director may achieve the dominant, distinctive rhythm of his -photoplay. If he does not aspire to such achievement he is unworthy of -his profession. If he evades his problems because they are difficult he -is robbing his trust. If he declares that the world that loves movies -does not crave beauty on the screen, he is bearing false witness. If -he believes that the beauty of a photoplay lies wholly in the emotional -appeal of the performer and in the dramatic action of the plot, he is -stone blind to art. - -So far as the motions in a picture present the actions and reactions -of the dramatic characters clearly and emphatically, they do faithful -work; but this work becomes play when it is relieved of its hardness -and dullness, and is animated with a spontaneity and variety that -catches up the spectator into a swinging movement of attention. And -those motions which are both work and play are basic in the beauty of -cinematic art. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -PICTORIAL MOTIONS AT REST - - -That a moving thing may sometimes seem to be at rest is well known by -any one who has ever spun a top. The top spins itself to sleep. We gaze -upon it in a peculiar spell of restfulness, which is broken only when -the top wakes up and begins to wabble. - -Now one trouble with the movies is that they often wabble when they -ought to spin. The motions in the picture too often lack a center of -balance, a point of rest. All of us have been annoyed by excessive -motions, jumbling, clashing, on the screen. But many of us have also, -in lucky moments, been delighted by sudden harmonies on the screen, -when the pictorial motions, without slowing up in the least, were -conjured into a strange vital repose. And afterward, when we recalled -the enthrallment of such moments, we became optimists about the future -of cinema art. - -Surely this is one of the characteristic appealing things about -a motion picture, that it can show us motions doing the work of -pictorial expression, indulging in rhythmic play, and yet suggesting -a dynamic repose. Thus the youngest art can give us in a new way that -“stimulation and repose” which, psychologists say, is the function of -all arts. The painter who can suggest movement by means of fixed lines, -masses, and colors is no more of a magician than the cinema composer -who can make moving things suggest rest. - -Let me propose the following as working theories to explain the effect -of reposefulness in organized pictorial motions: First, that the -separate motions are balanced against each other; Second, that the -significant motions are kept near to a center of rest within the frame -of the picture, are sometimes even limited to an exceedingly small area -of the screen; and, Third, that every significant motion is harmonized -in kind, direction, and tempo with everything else in the picture. - -The balancing of pictorial motions does not imply that they must be -paired off in exact equals. Certainly we do not insist that a dramatic -scene be so composed that when, for example, a person rises from a -chair in one part of a room, some other person sits down in a chair -in the opposite part of the room. Such an effect would be highly -mechanical, like the teetering of a see-saw; and it is not possible -for a spectator to get a thrill of beauty while his attention is being -held down to mechanics. We mean rather to apply the same reasoning to -pictorial motions which we have in Chapter V applied to fixed lines, -shapes, and tones. In short, we want to see the values of pictorial -motions so well distributed over the screen, and so related to each -other, that they give the impression of being in perfect equilibrium. - -Suppose we imagine a cinema scene which contains a waterfall in the -left half, and nothing in the right half except a dark, uninteresting -side of a cliff. That composition would be out of balance. And if a -band of Indians entered the scene from the left and did a war dance -directly in front of the waterfall, that would throw the composition -still more out of balance. Or if, at the opening of the scene, the -Indians appeared dancing in front of the bare cliff, and then gradually -moved over to a place in front of the waterfall, this cluttering of -motions would certainly unbalance the picture. - -Such cluttering is common on the screen because of the many movie -directors who either are afraid of simplicity, or lack the skill -which is necessary to make complexity appear simple. In the scene -just mentioned the safest course would be to leave out the waterfall, -however much of a natural wonder it may be, and to let the bare cliff -serve as the entire background for the Indian dance. But if this -cannot be done because of the peculiar demands of the plot, then the -picture might be balanced by introducing some additional motion in -the right half, say a column of smoke rising from a camp fire. Thus -even the careful addition of a new element would tend to bring unity -and restfulness into the arrangement of parts. Just visualize that -composition, the whitish water falling on one side, and the light gray -smoke rising on the other, and you will feel a peculiar restful balance -which could never be obtained by a mechanical pairing of two waterfalls -or two columns of smoke. - -As critics searching for beauty on the screen, we might even carry our -demand for pictorial balance still farther. In some other picture we -might demand that there be motions in the upper part of the composition -to balance those in the lower part. To be sure, we would hardly look -for such balance in a stage play, or in an ordinary cinema scene where -the camera “shoots” in a level line, because in ordinary every-day -life we see more motion near the bottom of our view than anywhere in -the upper levels. Besides it is natural that weights should be kept -low; any object is more likely to be in equilibrium when its center of -gravity is low. But when we are shown a motion picture which has been -made with the camera pointing downward, so that a level thing, like a -plain or the surface of the sea, appears standing on end, then we like -to see the points of interest so distributed that the various parts of -the screen seem to be proportionally filled. Thus in a motion picture -of a lake taken from a high cliff we are not pleased to see moving -objects, boats, swans, etc., only in that area of the picture which -comes near the lower edge of the frame. We realize instantly that the -objects are not actually above or below each other in the air. And we -forget, therefore, that the screen is really in a vertical plane and -think of it rather as we would of a map lying before us. In fact, if -there are swans in the near part of the lake view, then the distant -surface of the lake will not appear to sink back into its proper level -unless it bears some balancing weight and value, say, two or three -small boats under sail. - -However, even the best of balancing in a separate scene cannot insure -a balance between that scene and the next one. Directors are often -tempted to make shots from odd angles, straight up or straight down, -and to scatter them through a film, showing, for example, a skyscraper -lying down, or a city street standing on end. But the resulting series -of scenes does not make a composition pleasing to the eye. It gives the -effect of wabbling. Even if these oblique views show no moving things -whatsoever, their combined effect is the opposite of restfulness. - -Returning now to the subject of balance in separate scenes, we may -consider depth, the third dimension of a cinema subject. This dimension -is usually far greater than either the height or the breadth of that -space which the camera measures off for us. And it is interesting -to see what problems the cinema composer has in relating motions -in the third dimension to those in the other dimensions of the -picture. He often finds it hard, for instance, to compensate in the -background for the movements in the foreground, without destroying the -dramatic emphasis. The usual trouble in the movies is that, when the -dramatic interest is in the foreground, the motions in the background -nevertheless draw so much of our attention to that region that the -picture becomes too heavy in the rear; while, on the other hand, if the -dramatic interest is in the background, the motions in the foreground -nevertheless become so heavy that the front of the picture falls into -our faces. - -These are common faults; yet they may be avoided by foresight and -ingenuity. In the “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” Rex Ingram reveals -a sure sense of proportion in his control of the marching soldiers. -If you turn to the “still” of a village scene from this photoplay, -facing page 133, you will get a suggestion of the equilibrium which is -obtained for a time, at least, between the motions in various regions -of the picture. - -[Illustration: From _The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse_. The -arrangement in this scene has interesting balance between the right and -left halves of the picture, as well as between the foreground and the -background, and there is a vigorous rhythm in the moving columns of -soldiers. See pages 120 and 132.] - -Let us say that the foreground of that scene extends from the camera to -the cavalryman, that the middle ground is that area which is occupied -by the buildings, and that the background is all the region which -lies beyond the ruined tower. This picture has many distances, and yet -they fuse together into a single composition. Equilibrium is maintained -by the fact that the scattering figures near the fountain weigh against -the marching soldiers to the left in the foreground, while the two -sides find a center of balance in the quiet horseman and the three -persons to whom he is talking. In the middle ground the same care has -been shown, for the soldiers first swing to their left, past the tower, -and then execute a balancing movement to their right. In the background -there is a balance between those forces which are executing a “column -right” and those which are proceeding down into the village street. And -if we take the background of the picture as against the foreground, -we shall find a balancing point in the narrowest part of the street. -No undue attention is attracted to either side of this point, but the -whole sweep of interest from front to back, or from back to front, is -continuous and even. There is plenty of military movement here amid -evidences of terrific bombardment, and yet, because of the artistic -composition of the picture, we get from it all a momentary sense of -repose, as though war itself were at rest. - -Several details in this “still” are worth noting. For example, the -comparatively few figures in the right side of the foreground are given -additional weight by the whiteness of costume, as against the gray of -the soldiers. Another interesting thing is the balance between the line -described by the leading company of soldiers and the line of tree tops -on the wooded hill, which begins near the upper right hand corner and -extends to the castle. This relation can be clearly seen by holding the -“still” upside down. - -The reader must keep in mind, of course, that in a “still” the arrested -motion has not the same weight as the actual motion on the screen, and -consequently the fixed things get more than their share of weight. -Therefore in this “still” from “The Four Horsemen” the jagged holes in -the buildings attract more attention than they do on the screen, where -the movement of the soldiers and civilians brings the whole composition -into balance. - -When the whole picture is deep, as in the example just discussed, -it offends us if some of the moving objects come near the camera, -because this produces two pictures within a single frame, namely, a -close-up and a long shot. The effect is as bad as that of listening -to an orchestra so placed that some of the instruments are five feet -away from our ears while the others are seventy-five feet away. In -either case there comes a sense of violence instead of restfulness. The -close-up superposed on the long shot is a common fault in photoplays. -But we are often annoyed by the opposite fault also, that of jumbling -two sets of actions which are going on in adjoining areas, one just -beyond the other. In such a case the director should contrive to make -the vertical planes seem farther apart than they really are; and it can -easily be done without cleaving the picture in two. - -To prove this let us imagine a cabaret scene containing prominent -persons of the play sitting at tables near the camera, and a number -of couples dancing on a floor farther away. In such an arrangement -it is probable that the diners have more dramatic value than the -dancers; yet the dancing figures are likely to distract attention -from those seated at the tables, and thus throw the picture out of -balance. Mr. Ingram in “The Four Horsemen” had this very problem, and -he solved it in a very simple and convincing way. He allowed a thick -haze of cigarette smoke to envelop the dancers till they seemed dim -and distant. Or, rather, he used the smoke as a transparent curtain -which separates the diners from the action in the background. Thus -balance was restored and the spectator could follow the action in the -foreground without a sense of disturbance. - -A separation of planes somewhat similar to this was skilfully effected -by Allan Dwan in “Sahara.” One of the settings is a luxurious tent in -the desert. The front of this tent had a wide opening over which hung -a veil of mosquito netting. Viewed from within the tent, this veil -became a soft background against which the figures moved, while at the -same time it served as a thick atmosphere to give dimness and distance -to the figures which were just outside the tent. By this device, which -is as natural and unobtrusive as the smoke screen described above, -Mr. Dwan, besides providing a peculiar pictorial quality of gradated -tones, kept two sets of figures separate and yet combined them in rich -restfulness. - -When a director is composing a scene in which there is a single moving -element with a very short path of motion and no strong fixed interests -to counter-balance it, he should remember that an object tends to -shift the weight of interest somewhat in advance of its own movement. -Therefore, a picture will seem to be in better balance if a movement -begins near one edge and ends near the center, than if it begins at -the center of the picture and passes out at one side. - -This observation regarding the shifting of balance during pictorial -action raises the question whether it is a practical possibility to -keep the composition of a cinema scene steadily in equilibrium for -minute after minute. Since the fixed accents do not change their -positions and the moving accents do, one might suppose that the scene -must sooner or later fall out of balance. But this is not necessarily -so. It is true that if, for example, there is a group of fixed accents -in the left half of the picture, and a single figure starts from the -center and passes out of the scene at the right, it would tend, first, -to over-balance the right side of the picture, and then suddenly to -leave it without weight. But this tendency may be counter-acted by -swinging the camera slightly to the left without stopping the exposure. -Such an expedient would shift all of the fixed accents together, though -at the cost of introducing a momentary false motion. The ingenious -director may find other means by which to compensate for the changes -which must of necessity come about in a cinematic composition. However, -when it is not possible to have good proportion and balance at more -than one moment of a changing scene, that moment should be at the -pictorial climax, the crucial point of that scene, the instant when -the spectator is to receive the strongest impression, the greatest -stimulation and yet the most perfect repose. - -Equilibrium is reposeful because it is characteristic of a thing at -rest. To say that another characteristic of a thing at rest is that -it stays where it is, may sound like an Irish bull; but we say it, -nevertheless, in order to make another point in our argument that -pictorial motions may sometimes be in dynamic repose. It is quite -possible for a pictorial motion to give a sharp impression of power, -weight, and velocity, and yet stay practically where it first appears -on the screen. An express train, for example, may be shown in a -“long shot” starting several hundred yards away from the camera and -continuing for miles into the distance, and yet the actual moving -image on the screen might cover an area less than two feet square, and -might, from beginning to end of the scene, never come near the frame -of the picture. Thus the train, without losing any of its impressive -character, would provide a reposeful motion for the eye to gaze upon. -Surely such an effect would be better than to show the train as a -close-up on a track at right angles to our line of sight, with the -locomotive crashing in through the frame at the left of the picture and -crashing out through the frame at the right. - -The reposeful quality of restricted movement on the screen is due -partly to the fact that the flicker and the eye movement is thus -reduced, as we have said in Chapter III. In the case just described -it is due also to the contrast between the slight movement which we -actually _look at_ and the large movement which we really _perceive and -feel_. We look at inches and perceive miles. Thus we see very much with -extreme ease. - -We have remarked in preceding chapters that every picture has four -lines, those of the frame, which the composer must always consider. He -could, it is true, soften the sharp boundaries of the picture by using -some masking device with the camera, but this is not usually done. -The four corners of the frame are always strongly emphasized, because -of the crossing of lines at right angles. To lead another strong line -into one of the corners would surely result in undue emphasis and lack -of balance, because of the power of converging lines. It is almost as -bad to lead a strong line squarely into the frame between the corners, -because such a meeting creates two more right angles to attract -attention. Of course, there may be certain lines in a composition, -such as the line of the horizon, which cannot stop short of the frame. -In such a case it is well to have some other strong accent not far -from the center of the picture in order to keep the attention of the -beholder within the frame. - -What is true of the relation between fixed lines is also true of the -relation between paths of motion and fixed lines. It is rather annoying -to watch a continuous movement continually being cut off by the frame; -and it is especially annoying when one sees that such a composition -might have been avoided. In a waterfall, for example, the points of -greatest interest are the curving top and the foaming bottom, and we -like to see both at the same time and wholly within the frame. A motion -shown entirely surrounded by things at rest is reposeful on the screen -as well as in nature. Like a fixed object it stays where it is. - -There are certain pictorial motions, however, such as the falling of -snow, which must always either begin or continue outside of the frame. -But even when we view such a motion on the screen or in nature we get -a feeling of repose, because our eyes do not perform any following -movement; we do not, in watching a snow storm through a window, -pick out certain flakes and follow them from a height until they -strike the ground; but rather we keep our line of sight steady upon a -certain spot while the changing texture slips by. One can get the same -effect by looking down from a tall building into a crowded street. -The individuals are no longer thought of as separate moving objects, -because they weave themselves into a broad band of moving and changing -texture. Here we get the feeling of restfulness, of motion in repose, -in contrast to the feeling of restless motion when we ourselves become -part of that crowd. - -A delightful picture in “Barbary Sheep,” directed by Maurice Tourneur, -is the view of a flock of sheep moving slowly along from left to right. -The animals are so crowded together that the mass as a whole has a -textural quality. And yet it is not fixed texture, like that of cloth, -because some of the sheep move faster and then again more slowly than -the others, and thus, as in the case of the snow flakes, or the crowd -in the street, give us a vital stimulus of change within the texture -itself. - -A somewhat similar sense of rest comes from watching those motions -which arise and vanish within some given area of the screen. A cloud -of cigarette smoke which floats and coils for a few moments and then -fades into nothing, bubbles which rise in a pool and break into faint -ripples that finally die on the glassy surface, the blazing and dimming -of tones through the photographic device of the “fade-out” and the -“fade-in”--all changes of this type we sense vividly as movements, and -yet as movements in delightful repose. - -At the beginning of this chapter we mentioned the spinning top as -an example of motion that had the appearance of being at rest. To a -certain extent all circular movement presents that appearance and may -be very pleasing on the screen, providing it does not conflict with -our desire for fitness and is not allowed to become monotonous. A fly -wheel whirling may look like a disk at rest, but it is monotonous and -entirely without artistic stimulation. The action within the ring of -a circus presents a more stimulating show, and yet it is not quite -satisfying as an artistic composition of motion, because we cannot help -feeling that it is not natural, that it is unfit for a horse to turn -forever within a forty-foot ring. In the æsthetic dance, on the other -hand, a circling movement can always be of satisfying beauty, full of -graceful vitality and yet delightfully reposeful, too, because it never -flies away from its axis fixed within our area of vision. - -Now, we cannot recommend that the players of a film story should always -be shown running around in circles. And yet their separate actions, -gestures and bodily movements in general, may often be so composed that -they progress in a circular path, each movement tracing an arc of a -circle which nowhere touches the frame of the picture. Such circularity -of motions would give unity, balance, and repose. A good example of -circularity may be seen in “The Covered Wagon” when the wagon train, -just before coming to a halt, divides and swings into two large arcs -of a circle, which slowly contract as the wagons turn inward toward a -common center. - -Another interesting example of circular balance may be seen in “One -Arabian Night,” a German photoplay directed by Ernst Lubitsch. The -scene is a court yard, viewed from on high. Looking down we see eight -or ten servants running inward from all sides to a focal place, where -they pile up cushions for the hero and heroine. Then they turn and -run outwards to get more cushions. In a few moments they return, and -finally they seat themselves in a circle about the central figures. -Here is a charming combination of pictorial motion with a natural -dramatic by-play, delighting the eye and lingering long as a pleasant -motor image in memory. When we analyze this part of the picture we -discover that the principle of balancing motions has been applied -perfectly. To begin with, the design is kept in balance because the -men enter at the same time from opposite directions and approach the -center at equal speed. Thus, while they are separate figures moving -over symmetrically arranged courses, they also form a circle which -gradually contracts about a fixed center. This inward movement of the -men is itself balanced by the corresponding outward movement when they -go to get more cushions, which is in turn balanced when they come -back. Finally this pattern of a circle contracting, expanding, and -contracting again, harmonizes perfectly with the fixed circle which -is formed when the men seat themselves. There is a further pleasing -continuity in the composition when a woman enters the scene and dances -over a circular path just within the ring formed by the servants. - -To the so-called practical business man, whose artistic experience -consists chiefly in drawing dollar signs, it may sound like sheer folly -for us spectators to ask a director to spend valuable time in refining -the art of pictorial motions by some of the methods above suggested. -The money magnate may not realize that even a slight improvement, a -delicate touch, may be as important in a picture as in the motor of his -touring car. Yet he does know, of course, that in the world of industry -the superiority of one article over another may lie in a secret known -only to the maker, a secret perhaps never even suspected by the man who -sells the article. We should be sorry indeed to lose credit with the -man who can draw dollar signs, because we need his co-operation, and we -hope, therefore, that he will not long remain blind to the fact that in -art the superiority of one article over another may lie in a concealed -design so skilfully wrought that neither the spectator nor the man who -traffics in the spectator’s pleasure may suspect its presence. - -Balanced motions and motions that are limited in area are valuable on -the screen, we have said, because they can stimulate the spectator -while giving him the satisfaction of repose. We come now to a third -characteristic of motions that appear to be at rest, the fact that -they are in perfect adjustment with everything else around them. -Perfect adjustment means that all of the moving elements of a pictorial -composition are at peace with the fixed elements, as well as with each -other. It means harmony, the supreme quality of every art. - -No other art, not even music, contains so great a number of varied -parts as the motion picture. To fuse all of these parts into a single -harmonious whole requires knowledge and skill and happy inspiration, -yet fusion must take place in the cinema composition itself in order -that the spectator may be spared the annoyance of trying to unify in -his own mind the ill-adjusted factors on the screen. - -The pleasing effect of motions in harmony can be illustrated by -something with which we are all familiar from childhood, the display of -sky rockets. The spray of stars, flaming up, burning bright lines in -the sky, and fading out again into the darkness of night, exhibits a -perfect harmony of kinds, directions, and rates of motions, as well as -of changes in brightness. We have explained in Chapter III that things -moving in similar directions are more pleasing than those crossing in -opposite directions because they are easier for the eye to follow. And -it is, of course, true that whatever hurts the eyes will probably not -seem beautiful. But a picture must please our emotions as well as our -eyes. We must feel that it is good, that it is in order, that it obeys -some law of harmony. In the case of the sky rocket we do feel that -there is unity and not discord, rest and not warfare. Though we may -not stop to analyze the matter, we feel that at any one moment all of -the burning elements are in perfect agreement, obeying the same law of -motion. - -Now let us recall some familiar movie subjects, and test them for -harmony. A common picture is that of a horse and an automobile racing -side by side. Here there is similarity of direction, but there is no -similarity of motion. The car glides; the horse bounds. The changing -pattern which the horse describes with legs and neck and back and tail -finds no parallel in the moving panel of the car. Besides, we feel -that there is antagonism between the two. They hate each other. Their -histories and destinies are different. They are not in harmony. A much -better subject is a huntsman galloping over the countryside with a -dog at the horse’s heels. Every action of the one animal is somewhat -like every corresponding action of the other animal. One might even say -that the horse is a large kind of dog, while the dog is a small kind -of horse. And, as they cross the fields in loyalty to the same master, -their motions harmonize. - -There would be unity of a similar kind in a picture of an automobile -and a railroad train racing on parallel roads. Although they are two -separate machines, their motions fuse into one thing, which we call a -race. If the roads are not perfectly parallel but swing slowly away -from and toward each other again, we get a pleasing rhythm of motions, -yet, because the directions and speeds are similar, the unity still -remains. - -But if we imagine the train dashing by a farmstead where a Dutch -windmill sweeps its large arms slowly around, we would feel again a -lack of unity between the two kinds of motions. The impression upon our -minds would be confused; it would not be a single impression, because -the moving objects show two different kinds of patterns, with rates -of speed that are not sufficiently alike to be grasped as a unity. -A better picture would be that of an old Dutch mill on the bank of -a river whose sluggish waters flow wearily by. Perhaps even an old -steamboat with a large paddle wheel might be so introduced that the -revolutions and patterns of the two wheels would be similar, while the -forward thrusts of the boat and the current would also be similar, all -four movements blending together into a single harmony, like the music -of four different instruments in an orchestra. - -The orchestration of motions is, in fact, the proper work of the cinema -composer. If he cannot control the objects which move before him, he -is in as bad a way as the director of an orchestra who cannot make the -musicians do his bidding. We can sympathize with the movie director, -because some of the things he wants to bring into a picture are not -so easily controlled as musicians. One can talk to a fiddler, but one -cannot waste time talking to a brook or to a Dutch windmill. However, -if a windmill will not behave itself, it can be dismissed no less -promptly than a fiddler. - -The average photoplay seen in the theaters to-day could undoubtedly -be improved by retaking it with at least half of the material omitted -from every scene. The simplicity thus obtained would help to give -a more unified effect, would be less of a strain on the eyes, and -would require less effort of the mind. But simplicity is worshiped by -only a few of our best directors. The average director who is asked -to film a scene of a country girl in a barnyard, a scene in which -simplicity itself should predominate, will produce a conglomeration of -chickens fluttering, ducks waddling, calves frisking, a dog trotting -back and forth, wagging his tail and snapping his jaws, gooseberry -bushes shaking in the wind (always the wind), a brook rippling over -pebbles, and, somewhere in the center of the excitement, the girl -herself, scattering corn from her basket while her skirts flap fiercely -about her knees. From such a picture the spectator goes out into the -comparative quiet of crowded Broadway with a sigh of relief, thankful -that he does not have to live amid the nerve-wracking scenes of a farm. - -When we insist that the motions in a picture should be in harmony with -each other because of the pictorial restfulness which thus results, we -do not forget that motions should also be in harmony with the meaning, -the dramatic action, which the scene contains. Some red-blooded reader -of this book might possibly have the notion that artistic composition -of a picture will rob it of its strength. Please may we ask such a -person to read carefully Chapters II, IV, and VII of this book? We -have maintained there that good pictorial composition can make any -movie “punch” harder than ever. Let us illustrate that argument again. -Suppose we “shoot” two brawny men in a fist fight. The motions of -the men should have unity, even though their souls might lack it. It -sounds like a contradiction, but the methods of the men fighting should -harmonize in motion. If they do not, we cannot enjoy the fight. What -would you think of a fist fight in which one man had the motions of a -windmill, and the other had the motions of a chicken? - -Many movie directors have had stage experience, either as actors -or directors, and are instinctively able to harmonize the dramatic -pantomime of actors or actresses, whenever this pantomime takes place -in the midst of perfectly quiet surroundings, as is usual in the -setting of the theater stage. But as soon as these directors take their -troupe out “on location” they encounter difficulties, because the wind -nearly always blows costumes, bushes and trees into motion, because -there are nearly always animals or moving vehicles on the scene, and -because the “location” is more likely than not to include such things -as fountains, waterfalls, or sea beaches. They find therefore, that -the movement of the actors during any one moment of the picture is -likely to be discounted by the gamboling of a lamb or the breaking of a -sea wave during the next minute. - -The sea and surf possess a perfectly rhythmical motion which one may -watch for hours without becoming weary. And the effect of that motion -may well be heightened by composing it with other moving objects so -that the various motions taken together will harmonize in directions, -shapes, and velocities. Such composition was very well done in the -climactic scenes of “The Love Light,” the Mary Pickford play directed -by Frances Marion, who also wrote the story. Views of the sea breaking -on the shore are shown time and again throughout the play, but the most -impressive scenes are near the end where a sailing party lose control -of their sloop in a storm and are shipwrecked on the shoals. Here -the principal moving objects partake of the movements of the sea and -therefore harmonize with it in tempo. The vessel rises and falls with -the waves. The people above and below decks sway and lurch with the -same motion. The water which breaks through the hatches and trickles -down the companionway describes the same shapes and flows with the same -rate as the water which breaks over and trickles down the rocks. The -total effect is a single impression of motion in which the separate -parts parallel and reinforce each other. And this total impression is -sustained through many scenes, even though the position of the camera -is often shifted and the subject is viewed from many angles. This -cinematic climax is a good example for readers to keep in mind when -they set out through the movie theaters in search of cases where the -motion of nature has been successfully harmonized with those of other -motions demanded by the action of the story. - -One of the ugliest of pictorial conflicts occurs when false motion -and real motion are projected together upon the screen. Who has not -been annoyed by the typical “follow” picture in which a lady is shown -ascending a flight of stairs, while the stairs themselves (because -the camera has been swept upward during the exposure) flow swiftly -downward across the screen? The “follow” or “panoram” picture of moving -things is usually bad because it falsifies real motion and gives the -appearance of ugly motion to things which actually are at rest. An -atrocious picture of a horse race, exhibited not very long ago, had -been taken by carrying the camera on a motor car which had been kept -abreast though not steadily abreast, of the horses. The result was -that the grand stand, guard rails, and all fixed objects flew crazily -from left to right, and that, because of the irregular swinging of the -camera, the horses sometimes seemed to drop back together, even though -they had clearly not slackened their speed. - -We have been discussing in the above paragraphs the harmony of -pictorial motions which occur together at a given moment. They may have -a harmony like that of musical notes struck in a chord. But pictorial -motions come in a procession as well as abreast, and these successive -motions may have a harmony like that which runs through a melody in -music. - -In a stage play it is not difficult to organize simultaneous or -successive actions so that the total action will produce a single -effect, because all the movements of human performers are naturally -very much of the same style. The gestures and postures of a performer -in any given action are very likely to be followed by similar gestures -and postures at frequent intervals during the play. Stage directors -have developed their traditions of unity and harmony through centuries -of theatrical history. They have learned to preserve, not only the -“key” of the action, but the “tempo” as well. If they strike a certain -pace at the beginning of the act or play they will maintain that pace -with practically no variation to the end. - -It would be most desirable if unity of motion could be sustained -throughout the entire length of a photoplay, as in a stage play or in -a musical composition. There should be a real continuity of pictures, -as there is supposed to be “continuity” of actions described in a -scenario. But such continuity is hard to find on the screen. In “The -Love Light,” for instance, the film which we have just discussed, there -is little unity of motion except in the climactic scenes. The very -action from which the title “The Love Light” is derived, is botched -in composition. The light is that of a lighthouse and the heroine -manipulates it so as to throw a signal to her lover. This action -is shown in a series of cut-backs from a close-up of a girl in the -lighthouse to a general view of the sea below and to a close-up of the -hero. But the lantern with its apparatus of prisms makes a cylindrical -pattern which does not harmonize in shape with the long white pencil of -the searchlight sweeping the sea. Nor does it harmonize in motion, for -the simple reason that the sweeping ray moves clock-wise, in spite of -the fact that the girl rotates the lantern counter-clock-wise. - -Two other discrepancies in these scenes may be noted. One is that in -the close-ups the lantern does not appear to be lighted, and the other -is that lighthouses do not, as a rule, send out light in pencil-like -shape. - -The scene above cited lacks pictorial unity, in spite of the fact that -the neighboring scenes are in perfect unity of dramatic meaning. This -illustrates the dangerous difference between saying things in words -and saying them in pictures. If we write, for example, “she swings -the lantern around slowly, etc.,” no reader is likely to question -whether the lantern is lighted or not, or whether it is rotated in one -direction or the opposite. But the camera impolitely tells the whole -truth. And some truths are full of fight when they are brought face to -face with each other. - -The suddenness with which one scene leaps to the next on the screen -is a factor which many directors and most scenario writers fail to -reckon with. In Chapter III we have discussed at some length the effect -which these sudden jumps have upon our eyes. It remains now to see how -the “flash” from one scene to another affects our minds. In “Barbary -Sheep,” directed by Maurice Tourneur, there is bad joining which may -be illustrated by naming a succession of three scenes. They are: (1) A -picture of a mountain sheep some distance away on the edge of a cliff, -sharp against the sky, an excellent target for a hunter. (2) The hero -out hunting. He sees something, aims his gun obliquely upward. Our eyes -follow the line of the gun toward the upper left-hand corner of the -frame. (3) Some society ladies in a room. - -Perhaps the reader can guess, even from this incomplete description in -words, how sudden and complete was the shock of scene 3 coming after -the preparation of scene 2. There was a complete violation of unity of -meanings, as well as of motions. We cannot say who was to blame for -this bad art, whether it was the director, or some one in the “cutting -room.” Possibly some motion picture operator had mutilated the film -in the theater. The fact remains that this part of the picture as it -reached the audience was badly composed. The promise of one scene was -not only ignored but ridiculed in the next scene. - -An excellent illustration of how the promise made by a scene can be -beautifully fulfilled for the eye by a following scene may be found -in Griffith’s “The Idol Dancer.” Incidentally the joining shows how -false motion may be harmonized with real motion. Let the reader -imagine himself looking at a motion picture screen. The setting is a -New England country road in winter. Into the picture from the lower -right side of the frame comes a one-horse sleigh, which, as it glides -along the road, describes a curving motion over the screen, first to -the left and then upward to the right. It then begins curving to the -left again, when the scene is suddenly cut. The effect on our eyes at -this moment is such that we expect a continuation of motion toward -the left, a completion of the swing. And this is just what we get in -the next picture, which shows, not the sleigh at all, but the motion -of the landscape gliding by, from right to left, as the sleigh-riders -themselves might have seen it. We feel a pleasure of the eye somewhat -akin to the pleasure of our ears when a musician strikes a note which -the melody has led us to expect. Griffith’s touch of art in this -joining is especially delightful because it is so subtle that any -spectator, though he would surely feel it, would not observe it unless -he were especially occupied in the analysis of motion on the screen. - -Sometimes two scenes may be joined in perfect harmony of motions and -yet show a conflict of meanings. In “The Love Light,” above mentioned, -we have one scene where the hero is about to take refuge in the cellar -beneath the room occupied by the heroine. He raises a trap door, goes -down the steps, and, as he descends slowly, closes the door behind -him. This downward-swinging motion of the door is in our eyes when the -scene is cut, and the next instant we see the outer door of the house -swinging open suddenly as the heroine rushes out into the yard. The -motions of the two doors are in perfect unity and balance, but we are -shocked nevertheless, because, since our minds and eyes were on the -hero in the cellar, we had expected another view of him beneath the -trap door. - -But there are worse compositions than this in the movie theaters. -Sometimes whole plays are out of unity from beginning to end. A -notorious example was a photoplay called “The Birth of a Race,” which -began with Adam and Eve and ended up with visions of the future, -touching as it ran such things as little Moses and the Daughter -of Pharaoh, the slave drivers of Egypt, the exodus of Israel, the -crucifixion of Christ, the three ships of Columbus, the signing of the -Declaration of Independence, Lincoln and the Emancipation Proclamation, -the World War, German spies, steel works in the United States, a strike -of the workers, etc., etc. All of these scenes were badly joined, but -the greatest shock of all came when the action jumped in a flash from -Christ and the two thieves writhing in crucifixion to the three ships -of Columbus heeling gracefully in a light breeze. - -Merely to hint at the contents of such a play is, we hope, sufficient -criticism. Without harmony of subject matter there certainly can be -no harmony of treatment. And if the director of “The Birth of a Race” -offers as his defense that he did not write the story, we can only -retort that he should not have picturized it. Even when the subject -matter is in continuous unity it requires a skillful, painstaking, -sincere director to weave its various materials into a single harmony -of impressiveness. - -Perhaps we have continued long enough the discussion of the many-sided -nature and the artistic value of pictorial motions at rest. Let us -simply add that the kind of rest we have in mind is never the rest of -inaction, of sleep, or of death; it is rather a dynamic repose. Just -as the still portions of the motion picture may be active upon the -spectator’s mind, so the motions may be reposeful while they are both -at work and at play. Such harmony of pictorial motions on the screen -is not too high an ideal for the lovers of the cinema. The glimpses we -get of that ideal now are enough to assure us that as time goes on more -and more directors will be filled with inspiration and will achieve -triumphant expression through their chosen art. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -MASTERY IN THE MOVIES - - -Who is the legitimate master in movie making? It is, of course, the -director, and he should take complete command over the plot action -of the photoplay, over the players and their accessories, over the -settings and those who make the settings, over the camera men, over the -cutters, joiners, and title writers; in short, over all those who are -co-workers in photoplay making. If this mastery cannot be obtained; if -writers and players and scene painters will not agree to shed their -royal purple for the badge of service; if all those who co-operate in -making a photoplay cannot see that the product must be judged by its -total effect and not by mere details of performance, then, of course we -shall never have art upon the screen. - -But it is usually very difficult for the director to take and keep -complete command. Among the first rebels against his authority is -the writer of the story which is to be filmed. It would be best, of -course, if the director could originate his own plot, as a painter -conceives his idea for a painting, or if he could, at least, prepare -his own scenario as studiously as the painter makes his own preliminary -sketches for a painting. But, under the present system, these two tasks -of movie making can only in exceptional cases be performed in detail by -the same person. The next best thing, then, is for the writer to limit -himself to the bare subject matter of a picture, that is, the general -action in which the characters are involved, while the director takes -the responsibility for the pictorial treatment of this subject matter. - -Now comes an interesting question. Which has the more artistic weight -on the screen, the treatment of the subject, that is the presentation -of the story pictorially, or the subject as such regardless of its -presentation? The same question may be asked of any masterpiece of art; -is it distinctive because of the subject matter or because of what -the artist has done to that subject matter? In other words, would the -subject matter remain distinctive even if it were badly treated? - -There are sometimes happenings in real life that can hold one’s -unwavering attention, no matter how poorly presented in language or -picture. For example, if a panic-stricken idiot were to rush to you -and say, “It were quick, oh, explosion by Wall Street and lots of -fellers shut up dead and J. P. Morgan’s windows all over bloody men -every way,” you would be shocked--not amused--and you would not stop to -consider the ridiculous language of the report. And if by some strange -coincidence a camera man had secured a motion picture of that explosion -in Wall Street, you would be curious to see that picture, and would -undoubtedly be impressed by it, no matter how ineffective might be its -photography or pictorial composition. - -In fiction there may be certain chains of incidents, such as the action -of a detective story, which might carry a strong dramatic appeal, even -though the language of the narrator were crude, confused, obscure, -weak, and of no beauty appropriate to the thing expressed. “There -may be,” we say; but all self-respecting writers will agree with us -that language-proof stories are extremely rare. The story is usually -impressive because of the telling, and not in spite of it. - -In the motion picture, naturally, the telling is not in words, but in -arrangements of lines and shapes, of tones and textures, of lights and -shadows, these values being either fixed or changing, and exhibited -simultaneously or in succession. Whatever arrangement the director -makes comes directly to us in the theater. Barring accident we see it -unchanged on the screen, and, as far as we are concerned, it is the -only treatment which the story has. - -It is true, of course, that cinematographic treatment may be vaguely -suggested by written or spoken words; it may be more definitely -suggested by drawings; but it can never actually be given either by -words or drawings. Even the director himself cannot know definitely, -in advance of the actual rehearsing and taking of the picture, just -what the composition will be. He may plan in advance, but he does not -actually compose until the players are on the scene and the camera -“grinding.” During those moments are created the actual designs which -become fixed permanently in the film. - -Turning from pictures for a moment, let us consider the relation -between plot and treatment in literary art. It is interesting to study -Shakespeare’s attitude toward the material which he borrowed for his -plays. Glance through the introduction and notes of any school text, -and you will see that the plot which came to his hand ready-made -was not held sacred. He twisted it, tore out pieces from it, or spun -it together with other plots similarly altered. And even then the -altered plot, though an improvement over the raw material, was not a -masterpiece; it was only a better framework for masterly treatment. - -In the art of Shakespeare it is the telling, not the framework, of the -story that counts. Hence any play of his becomes a poor thing indeed if -you take away from it the tone-color of his words, the rhythm of his -lines, the imaginative appeal of his imagery, the stimulating truth in -his casual comment on character and deed. When a play of Shakespeare is -filmed, those literary values are lost; it cannot in the nature of the -motion picture be otherwise. - -On the other hand, the distinctive value and particular charm of a -photoplay lies in its pictorial treatment, in what the director does -pictorially with the subject in hand. And that distinctive value would -in turn be lost if some one else attempted to transfer the picture to a -literary medium. - -In view of all this it is surely fair to say that if a writer and a -picture-maker were to co-operate in producing a piece of literature, -the writer should be in command; but when they co-operate in producing -a picture the picture-maker should be in command. - -Now when the director is in command of the story, what does he do with -it? He may permit the incidents to stand in their original order, or he -may change or omit or add. But in any case he sweeps away the phrases, -sentences, and paragraphs which describe the places of the action, -and erects instead real settings, or selects suitable “locations” -from already existing settings. He marshals forth real human beings -to perform the parts which are described in words. He divides the -action into limited periods of time, and decides how to connect these -periods visually so that the pictorial movement on the screen may be -a flowing unity. The director, not the writer, does this; and, if he -were satisfied to do less, he would be only partly a director. His work -is not the “translation” of literature into motion pictures; it is a -complete substitution of motion pictures for literature. - -When we analyze pictorial composition on the screen we must proceed -as we have done throughout this book. We must look at it from the -point of view of the spectator in the theater. The spectator does -not see the setting with one eye and the actors with the other, he -does not separate the respective movements of human beings, animals, -trees, water, fire, etc., as they play before him, and he does not -disconnect any one scene from the scenes which precede or follow it. -To him everything on the screen is connected with everything else -there. The connection may be strong or weak, bad or beautiful, but it -is nevertheless a connection. This ought to be clear enough to any -one who gives the matter any thought; yet there are scene designers -who appear to believe that their setting is a complete work of art -quite independent of the actors, for whom and with whom it ought to be -composed, and there are certainly any number of players who look upon -themselves as stars that dwell apart. - -We do not underestimate the individual power of the player as an -interpreter of the deeds and emotions of dramatic characters. -Pantomimic acting is one of the most personal of arts, yet the acting -in a photoplay is a somewhat smaller factor in the total result than -acting in the stage pantomime; and neither kind of acting can compare -in importance with acting in the stage play, where the magic of the -actor’s voice works its spell upon the audience. - -In the photoplay the player, whether at rest or in action, is usually -the emphatic part of the picture; but he is only a part, and the -relation between that part and the other parts of the picture can best -be established by the director. If the player attempts to compose the -picture in which he appears, he is handicapped, not only because he -cannot see himself, but also because he cannot see any other portion of -the composition from the same point of view as the ultimate spectator -who is temporarily represented by the director. He is, in fact, in -danger of spoiling his own pantomime, of destroying his own power. - -The frequent abuse of the close-up, for example, is often due to the -mistaken idea that an actor’s facial expression is the sole means of -representing emotion. To think that dramatic pantomime consists of -making faces is just as foolish as to think that dancing is merely a -matter of shaking the feet and legs. It is really as important for a -screen actress to be able to show grief with her elbows or knees as for -a dancer to have rhythm in her neck. The “star” actress, therefore, -who insists on several facial close-ups per reel reveals a lack of -capability in her own art, as well as an over-developed appreciation of -her own looks. The further objection to the close-up is that it takes -the player out of the picture. For the moment all the setting, all the -other players are shut off from sight. It is as though a painter, -while entertaining a group of friends with a view of a newly finished -work, were suddenly to cover the whole painting except a single spot, -and then to say, “Now forget the rest of the picture, and just look at -this spot. Isn’t it wonderful?” - -The player should, of course, always be in perfect union with the rest -of the picture, yet carrying as much emphasis as the story demands. But -even when the player wisely desires to remain in the picture, he should -not be allowed to determine his own position, pose, or movement there. -He is, after all, only a glorified model with which the artist works. - -When an actress moves about in a room, for example, she cannot know -that to the eye of the camera her nose seems to collide with the corner -of the mantel-piece, that her neck is pressed out of shape by a bad -shadow, that her gesture points out some gim-crack of no dramatic -significance at the moment, that her movement is throwing her out -of balance with some other movement in the scene, that her walking, -sitting, or rising appears awkward, in spite of the fact that it feels -natural and rhythmical to her. These and a thousand other accidents of -composition can be avoided only by the player’s instant obedience to an -alert and masterful director who can stop or guide the moving factor in -the picture as surely as a painter can stop or guide his brush. - -When the action takes place out of doors, or in an interior setting -with considerable depth, the player is still more ignorant of what the -composition looks like to the eye of the camera. Whether the movement -of a particular person will harmonize with a swaying willow tree -and with the shadows playing over the ground, can be discovered only -by experiments viewed from the angle of the camera. And even then, -after the action has been carefully planned through a succession of -rehearsals, it may have to be varied during the actual “shooting.” -A sudden change of wind or light or an unexpected movement of a dog -or horse may bring in a new factor that must be instantly taken into -account. - -At the beginning and end of a scene the player should be especially -pliable under the hands of the director, because the latter alone -knows what the cinematic connection is to be with the preceding and -following scenes. The lack of control in this pictorial continuity -is often evident on the screen. Separate scenes become little dramas -in themselves, and the whole photoplay is then really a succession -of acts, with a structure always tending to fall apart, instead of -cohering firmly into a unity. The peculiar difficulty in the movies is -that the scenes are not taken in the same order as they are projected -in the theater. On the screen the scenes shift more quickly than the -actors could pass from one setting to the next, and yet the actual -taking of those actions may have been weeks or even months apart. This -is so because it is more economical to let the particular setting, and -not the continuity of action, determine the grouping of the “shots.” - -Thus, for example, the scenes numbered 9, 22, 25, 41, 98, and 133, -with a drawing-room as setting, may all be taken on a single day, -while numbers 8, 40, and 134, with a street as setting, may be taken -some other day. And still another group of disconnected scenes may be -taken a month later “on location” hundreds of miles away. This may be -a fine system of efficiency for the manufacturer, but it often plays -havoc with pictorial continuity. When an actress goes directly from -scene 98 to 133, for example, she may be able to remember whether the -latter scene is supposed to find her still single or already divorced, -but she cannot be allowed to determine her own positions, pauses, tempo -and general nature of movement, because that might spoil the transition -from scene 132, which is not to be “shot” until several days later! - -The farther we go into the study of the relation between the player and -the rest of the motion picture, the more we realize that this relation -can best be established and controlled by the director, and that the -player is, in a sense, only a pigment with which the director paints. - -“But what of the movie fans?” you ask. “Are they not more interested -in the performer as a performer than in the play as a play, or in -the picture as a picture?” Yes, the audience is undoubtedly “crazy -about the star,” but that is largely because they have not been given -anything else to be crazy about. It is true that we all admire the -distinction of individual performers in any kind of entertainment; yet -we would not approve of a football game, for example, in which the -“star” half-back made so many brilliant plays that the rest of the -eleven could not prevent the opposing team from piling up a winning -score, or of a baseball game which was lost because the batter with -a world’s record refused to make a “sacrifice hit.” And, besides, a -distinguished actor or actress may remain distinguished even after -having submitted to the directing of the master cinema composer, -just as a figure in a painting may still be fascinating even though the -painter has made it a thoroughly organic part of the whole composition. - -[Illustration: _Portrait of Charles I_, a painting by Van Dyck. The -composition is characterized by rhythm of tone and line, balance of -design, and skilful subordination of interests. Many of the principles -that underlie good painting may be successfully applied in a motion -picture. See page 80.] - -As the figure is really only a part of the motion picture so the -setting is also only a part, and neither the setting nor the figure -should be considered sufficient unto itself. One without the other -is really incomplete; together they can be organized into a unified -picture. This simple truth, always recognized by painters, has often -been ignored, both by stage directors and motion picture directors. -Perhaps the explanation is to be found in the materials with which the -three different composers work. In a painting both the figure and the -background are only paint, only representations side by side on a flat -surface, and therefore easily admit of a perfect fusion of material. -But in the case of stage drama the situation is different. The stage -composition does not give us a similar natural blending of actor and -background. The actor is a real human being, so near the spectators -that some of them could touch him with their hands, while the -background is merely an artificial representation of a room, a garden, -or a cliff. The two elements of the stage picture refuse to mix, and -the average spectator seems quite content to take them separately. In -fact, it is not unusual for the audience to “give the scenery a hand” -long before a single figure has entered to complete the composition. - -Now the screen picture is entirely different from the stage picture, -because on the screen everything we see is photographic representation, -mere gradations of light and shadow, just as everything on the canvas -of a painting is paint. In the motion picture without color the -boundary line of a window or a table is described in exactly the same -medium as the contour of an actor’s face; and the actor’s complexion -differs from the wall paper only in being lighter or darker. It should -be impossible, therefore, to consider that the photoplay setting is a -complete, independent picture, and that the actors are separate visible -things merely placed in front of the setting. And if the movie director -makes the mistake of not fusing actor and setting into a pictorial -composition, it is perhaps because he imagines the spectator with -himself in the studio, where the scene and action are like those of the -stage, instead of putting himself with the spectator before the screen. - -But there are signs of awakening in the theater of the stage play. More -and more the influence of such European masters as Max Reinhardt and -Gordon Craig is being felt. According to their method of production -the setting and the actors are interdependent and make a co-operative -appeal to the eye of the audience. The young designers in the United -States are beginning to think of the dramatic picture as a whole, -rather than of the setting as a self-sufficient exhibition of their -skill in painting. Mr. Lee Simonson, for example, not long ago, in -commenting on his designs for the Theater Guild’s production of “The -Faithful,” said that he purposely designed his sets so that they would -seem top-heavy until the actors entered and filled in the comparatively -empty zone near the bottom of the stage picture. Without the presence -of the actor, he declared, one could never say that the set was good -or bad; one could only say that it was incomplete. Such reasoning -would do a great deal of good in the movie studios, from which a vast -amount of silly publicity “dope” has come, announcing that this or -that photoplay was highly artistic because such-and-such a well-known -painter had been engaged to design the interior settings. One might -as well say that a certain art student’s mural decoration was good -because a famous master had begun the work by painting a background for -the figures, or that a piece of music was beautiful because a master -composer had written an accompaniment which somebody else had afterward -combined with a melody. - -In the cinema composition the director must, of course, have mastery -over the places, as well as over the persons of a film story. He can -then make the setting a live, active part of the picture instead of -merely a dead background; he may truly dramatize it.[E] A notable -example of the perfect blending of dramatic theme, actors, and setting -is the German photoplay “The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari,” which was first -shown to the American public in April, 1921. This film, produced by -the Decla Company, was directed by Mr. Robert Wien, and the scenic -designs were made by Herman Warm, Walter Reiman, and Walter Rork. When -the “movie fan” sees the beginning of this photoplay he is startled -by the strange shapes of places. Houses and rooms are not laid out -four-square, but look as though they had been built by a cyclone and -finished up by a thunderstorm. Windows are sick triangles, floors are -misbehaved surfaces and shadows are streaked with gleaming white. -Streets writhe as though in distress and the skies are of the inky -blackness that fills even strong men with foreboding. The people are -equally bizarre. They resemble cartoons rather than fellow humans, and -their minds are strangely warped. - - [E] The subject of dramatizing a setting is discussed at length - in Chapter VIII of “The Art of Photoplay Making.” - -In the presence of all this the spectator feels that the screen has -gone mad; yet he does not leave the theater, because his attention -is chained and his emotions are beginning to surge with a peculiarly -pleasing unrest. He stays and stares at the remarkable fitness of these -crazy people in crazy places; for the story is, in fact, a madman’s -fantasy of crimes committed by a sleep-walker under the hypnotic -control of a physician who is the head of an insane asylum. - -When we examine this photoplay critically we discover, not only that -the settings are perfectly sympathetic with the action, but that the -various factors are skillfully organized into an excellent pictorial -composition. Look, for example, at the “still,” facing page 179, and -you will observe the uncanny emphasis upon the dark sleep-walker who -slinks along the wall and a moment later turns upward into the hallway -on his evil errand to the bed-chamber of the heroine. Place that figure -in an ordinary village alley and it will lose half its horror; keep it -out of this weird setting and the place will cry out for some one to -come into it in pursuit of crime. - -Study the plan of the pictorial design and you will see that as soon as -the man has emerged from the shadows in the background he becomes the -strongest accent in an area of white. The end of the alley from which -he comes is accented by the jagged white shape above the shadows, and -the doorway through which he goes is similarly accented by irregular -shapes. These two accents keep the composition in balance, and when our -glance passes from one to the other the path of attention must cross -the area of central interest. There is rhythm in the composition, too, -though one would scarcely realize it at first glance. Note the swinging -curves in the white patch on the street and in the corresponding patch -on the wall, and note also how some of these curves harmonize with the -lines of the actor’s body and with his shadow upon the wall. - -The “still” which we have just analyzed is typical of the cinema scenes -throughout “The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.” Whether the subject is the -unscrupulous Doctor in his office within the gates of the insane -asylum, or the unnatural sleep-walker cramped in his cabinet, or the -innocent girl asleep in a sea of white coverlets, or the gawking -villagers at the fake shows of the fair, the two factors of person -and place complete each other in a masterly composition. But that -composition as a whole was not made either by the actors or by the -designers of settings; they were happily helpful, but the director was -the master composer. - -Any one who sees “The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari” is likely to remark that -the settings would not be of much value in any story except the one for -which they were designed. What a fine compliment to this photoplay as -art! Perhaps some one long ago in the gray dawn of musical composition -made a remark that the accompaniment in a certain piece of music -could hardly serve for another melody than the one for which it was -composed! At any rate let us hope that in the future the lover of the -films may not look in vain for weird stories in uncanny haunts, for -fairy tales in whimsical nooks, for epic dramas in spacious domains, -for comedies in funny places; and let us hope, too, that he will find -the compositions so perfect that not a single setting would have any -artistic value apart from its own story. - -“But what of nature?” says some one. “Must the movie director have -mastery over the works of the Creator, too?” Indeed he must! Because if -he is an artist he is a creator; and if nature becomes a medium in his -art, then he must have mastery over that medium insofar as it enters -the art. Hills have been levelled, streams have been dried up, and -valleys have been filled with water, all for the welfare or profit of -man. Mastery of this kind costs money; but are not the movie magnates -noted for their fearlessness in signing checks? - -Wealthy men have been known to build landscapes for their own pleasure; -there is no very valid reason why they should not build landscapes for -their own business, especially when that business is an art. The movie -director of to-day wears out automobiles searching the country for -“locations” that will do as natural backgrounds for screen stories; and -in this enthusiasm he is almost as amateurish as the kodak fiend who -scours the country for good things to snap. The movie director of some -to-morrow will not look for natural backgrounds; he will make them. - -When an artist paints a picture of a natural subject he does not try -to reproduce exactly the material things which he sees before him. He -rises far above the craft of the copyist into the divinity of creation. -His painting is always a personal variation of the natural theme. If -seven trees suit his composition better than the seventeen which he -views, he paints only seven, and if there are only five in the grove, -he creates two more on his canvas. If the waterfall is too high or too -violent he reshapes it into the ideal one of his vision. This he does, -not because nature is not beautiful in most of her aspects, but because -no single one of those aspects fits into the scheme of the new beauty -which he as an artist is trying to create. - -But the cinema composer does not work in so plastic a medium as paint. -The camera is only a recording machine, working without the power of -altering what it sees. The subject must be altered by the director -before the camera man begins “shooting.” On a small scale this is -perhaps already being done. Bushes, for example, may be cleared out -from among the trees, and possibly even a tree or two may be chopped -down in order to facilitate the carrying on of certain dramatic -actions. We should like to see the ax wielded also in the cause of such -things as simplicity, or balance, or rhythm in pictorial composition. -Already bridges are being built especially for certain scenes in -photoplays. We should like to see the cinema engineers called upon also -to put an extra bend in the creek, or to make the waterfall only half -as large, or to shape the bank into a more graceful slope whenever -any change of that sort might serve to organize the setting more -harmoniously with the general design of the picture. - -Already grass has been mown to suit a director. We should like to see -grass grown especially for the director. They already make sunshine -and wind and rain for motion pictures. We should like to see trees -planted and tended for a dozen or fifty years, if necessary, in order -to provide a more pictorial natural background for one or a dozen film -stories. - -In thus advocating a new art of cinema landscape gardening we do not -mean to imply that nature untouched is not full of beauty. We know well -enough that the rhythm of line in the horizon of a rolling country, or -in the lights and shadows of trees massed in the distance is often a -delight to the beholder. But natural beauty of that sort is admissible -to a cinema composition only when it is itself the dramatic theme of -the story, and can be emphasized by the introduction of human figures -or other elements, or when it can be subordinated to something else -which is the dramatic theme. If nature cannot be thus composed she may -still be photographed by the maker of scenics, travel pictures, etc., -but she is of no practical value to the director of photoplays. - -But there is perhaps a question brewing in some reader’s mind. “Would -it not be ridiculously extravagant,” he asks, “to construct a real -landscape especially for a photoplay, since you maintain that any -particular setting, if it is a proper part of a good composition, will -have little artistic value apart from the particular action for which -it has been designed?” - -Yes, it would certainly be extravagant to spend ten years producing -a natural setting which could be used only for two days of movie -“shooting.” But our theories really do not lead to any such conclusion. -First, any landscape which has been designed especially for cinema -composition, can be “shot” from fifty or a hundred different points -of view, and yet can have separate artistic value from every angle. -And, second, any such landscape would alter itself periodically and -gradually through seasons and years. And, third, the cinema landscape -engineer could make considerable alterations again and again without -destroying the landscape. Thus, even if only a single square mile of -land were used, it might well serve a film company for a number of -years; and meanwhile other landscapes would be in the making on other -square miles of land. However, it is not the critic’s business to enter -into the ways and means of financing the production of art. He only -undertakes to express the refined taste of the thoughtful public, the -public which in the long run it will pay the producers to please. - -We desire the director’s mastery in the movies to extend also to that -phase of pictorial composition which is known as the “cutting and -joining” of scenes. Bad work in this department of photoplay making is -something which cannot be counteracted by the most inspired pantomime, -by the most beautiful setting, or by the most perfect composition in -the separate scenes. Without careful cutting and joining the photoplay -can never achieve that dynamic movement, that rhythmical flow which is -a characteristic and distinguishing quality of the motion picture as -art. It should be as important for the cinema composer to decide upon -the progression and transformation of scenes as it is for the poet to -arrange the order and transitions of his own verses and stanzas, or for -the musical composer to arrange the movement through the music which he -writes. Some directors seem to forget that a piece of art can exert -its power only through that final form which comes in direct contact -with the appreciator. And many of the others who desire to preserve -their work intact must gnash their teeth at the thought that no matter -how carefully they may cut and join a film, it is likely to be marred -before it reaches the projecting machine. - -An example of the amazing lack of artistic co-operation in the movie -world is furnished by the following press notice, sent out from one -of the largest moving picture theaters on Broadway. “Audiences who -see a film projected on the screen at the ---- Theater, seldom take -the details connected with its showing into consideration. It is a -well-known fact that a photoplay is seldom presented at the ---- in -the form it is received from the manufacturer. Every foot of film is -carefully perused and cuts are made, either for complete elimination or -for replacement in a more appropriate part of the story.” - -Add to such deliberate desecration the havoc wrought by censors and by -the eliminations caused by fire or breakage and you have a prospect -of butchery which is bad enough to make any artist drop his work in -despair. There is no hope for him unless he can organize his photoplay -so perfectly and make its definite final form so compellingly beautiful -that even a dull mechanician in a projecting booth would recognize it -as a sacred thing which must be kept intact as it came from the hands -of the master. - -But a photoplay is often robbed of pictorial continuity long before it -reaches the exhibitor. The “title-writer,” who frequently combines his -office with that of “cutter,” is at best, a dangerous collaborator -on a photoplay. Words in the form of titles, sub-titles, dialogue, -comments, etc., are rarely in place on the screen. If they are admitted -for the purpose of telling or explaining a part of the story, they come -as a slur on the art of the motion picture, and often as an insult to -the intelligence of the spectator.[F] Nevertheless, the producer finds -words practically useful as stop-gaps, padding, and general support for -an ill-directed play that would otherwise have to be scrapped. And even -the most prominent directors are inclined to lean heavily on words. We -are doomed, therefore, to endure the hybrid art of reading matter mixed -with illustrations, at least for many years to come. But we insist that -this mixture shall be no worse than the director makes it. - - [F] Words which appear as an organic part of the action, such - as writing, print, sign-boards, etc., do not come under the - general category of “cut-in titles.” For a discussion of - the dramatic value of words on the screen see Chapter IX of - “The Art of Photoplay Making.” - -After a director has carefully composed a series of scenes so that -the motions and patterns and textures and tones dissolve, from one -moment to the next, in a rhythmical flow, regardless of how the story -may have shifted its setting, we do not want some film doctor to come -along and break that unity into pieces for the sake of a few jokes, or -near-jokes, or for a few words of schoolroom wisdom or of sentimental -gush. We object, not only to the content, the denotation of such -“titles,” but also to their pictorial appearance. - -That written words have pictorial appearance is a fact which most -of us forgot as soon as we learned to read. We realize that Chinese -characters or Egyptian hieroglyphics are pictorial, that they are -drawings; but we forget that the characters and arrangements of our own -writing and printing are also drawings. Judged as pictures the words -on the screen are usually too severely white for the background. They -fairly flash at you. Also the horizontal lines made by the tops and -bottoms of the letters constitute a sort of grill-work which hardly -ever blends pictorially with the pattern of the preceding or following -scene. - -As to the design of the letters themselves we find considerable variety -on the screen, often with no direct reference to the meaning of the -words or to the picture where they are inserted. Thus the tendency -to introduce y’s and g’s with magnificent sweeping tails, or capital -letters in fantastic curves, while revealing a commendable impulse to -make writing pictorial, often leads to overemphasis, or to a direct -conflict with other pictorial values in the film.[G] - - [G] A neat pictorial touch in the titles of the German play, - “The Golem,” is the suggestion of Hebrew script in the - shaping of the letters. - -Furthermore, the eye-movement over reading matter should be considered -with reference to the eye-movement over the adjoining pictures. For -example, after the title has been shown long enough to allow the normal -reader to get to the end of the text, his eye may be at a point near -the lower right corner or at the right side of the frame. Then if the -following picture does not attract attention at this portion of the -frame, a slight shock is caused by the necessary jump to a remote point -of attention. A similar difficulty may arise in connecting a preceding -picture with the beginning of the title. - -Many directors have endeavored to make the title sections of a -film more pictorial by introducing decorative drawings or paintings -around the words, and even by introducing miniature motion pictures. -Decorations in motion, however, are not to be recommended, because they -distract attention from the words of the title, as has been illustrated -in the discussion of “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” on page -46, and because they do not readily compose with those words to form -a single picture. It is, in fact, as inartistic to “vision in” motion -pictures on the background of a title as to “vision in” words on the -background of a motion picture. In either case you really get two -pictures within one frame. - -Fixed decorations around a title may fill a pictorial need in unifying -the portions of the film which have been cut apart by the insert. They -may bridge the gap with a continuity of tone or line or shape, and may -by their meaning preserve the dramatic mood of the photoplay. But here, -too, caution must be observed lest the decorations draw attention away -from the words or fail to compose well with the pictorial character of -those words. - -The problem of words on the screen does not seem very near a solution. -There will doubtless be a great deal of juggling with titles before -some magician comes who can “vanish” them completely from the fabric -of a photoplay. Already photoplays such as “The Old Swimmin’ Hole,” -directed by Joseph De Grasse and “The Journey’s End,” directed by Hugo -Ballin, have been successfully produced without sub-titles. Some day, -we hope, the wordless picture play will no longer be a novelty. - -Another factor, which has already become troublesome, is the -reproduction of color in the motion picture. If the director were -a genuine colorist, and if he could produce the exact tint or shade -of hue which the particular composition needs, and if this could be -projected so that the spectator would really see what the director -wanted him to see, then the conditions would be ideal for mastery in -color movies. Such conditions may some day come, but they are not here -now. - -It is possible that the machinery of color photography will become so -perfect that the spectator may be able to see on the screen the exact -color values which were found in the subject photographed. But that -will be only a triumph of science. It will be a scientific achievement -of the same kind as the correct reproduction of colors in a lithograph -or color-gravure of a painting. But art lies in the production and -arrangement, not in the reproduction, of colors. - -An elementary study of painting must convince any one that the colors -which the artist puts on the canvas are really only suggested by the -model or subject, and that his arrangement of them is inspired by an -ideal personal conception, rather than a desire to reproduce something -with absolute accuracy. Therein lies creation and mastery. Hence, -there is no artistic advantage to a cinema composer in having machines -which can make a green dress appear green, and a red rose, red, on the -screen, unless that particular green and that particular red in that -particular combination really add beauty to the picture. - -The “tinted” scenes, usually blue or orange, which are so familiar -in the movies, are not color photographs, since they are produced by -immersing an ordinary black and white film in a bath of dye. But from -an artistic point of view they are better than color photographs. -In the first place, the value of the tint can be controlled by the -director, or at least by the person who does the tinting. And in the -second place, although the lights of the film take the strongest tint, -the shadows are also affected by it; and the entire picture, therefore, -gets a tonal unity which is never present in color photography. -However, even “tinted” scenes should be used with caution, because, -when they are cut into a film which is elsewhere black and white, they -break the unity of tonal flow, and usually get far more emphasis than -their meaning in the story demands. The effect is almost as bad as that -of the old family photograph which baby sister has improved by touching -up a single figure with pretty water colors. - -Thus we have indicated the many departments and stages of development -in a photoplay composition, the many pictorial forces which should be -controlled by a single hand. That single hand holds the reins of many -powers. And, if those powers cannot be so guided that they pull in the -same direction, with similar speeds, and with balanced efforts, then -their combination is disastrous, however elegant and blue-ribboned any -individual power may be. In the photoplay neither the plot action, -nor the acting, nor the setting, nor the cutting and joining, nor the -titles, nor the coloring, nor any other element can be allowed to pull -in its own wild way. And in any single section of the motion picture -the fixed design and the movement, the accentuation and the harmony, -the work and the play, must be co-ordinated and all this technique must -itself be subordinate to spontaneous enduring inspiration. Without such -mastery no movie-maker can ever win to the far goal of art. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -THE MYSTERIOUS EMOTIONS OF ART - - -The end of all aspiring mastery in the movies is to provide for every -beholder the thrills of art. These thrills are not like the emotions -which are aroused by other experiences of life, by sports, for example, -or adventure, or amusements, or industry, or war. They are stirring -experiences quite different from those of him who makes a “home -run” or a “touch-down,” or “loops the loop” in the air, or sinks a -submarine, or has a play accepted, or discovers a new way of evading -some obnoxious law. It is true that the dramatic content of a photoplay -may sometimes seem so real that the beholder forgets where he is and -responds with such natural feelings as fear and triumph, love and hate, -pride, selfish desire and hope; but it is also true that the pictorial -form of a photoplay, that is, the mere arrangement of the substance, -considered apart from its meaning, can arouse strange, pleasurable -emotions which are peculiar to the enjoyment of art. - -When we recall the masterpieces of painting which have thrilled us we -must admit that much of their appeal came from other factors besides -the content of the picture. Think of a portrait of some Dutchman -painted by Rembrandt. The painting stirs you as the Dutchman himself -in real life never could have stirred you. You may be impressed by -the likeness of the portrait, by the engaging character of the person -portrayed, and by some significant truth expressed in that portrayal. -But that is not all. You are also stirred by the colors in the -painting, by the peculiar arrangement of lines and shapes. That emotion -which you get from the form and medium itself, rather than from the -subject, is a characteristic art-emotion. - -[Illustration: From _The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari_. A remarkable example -of “stylization” in the movies, showing how setting, figure, and action -may be harmonized to express the dominant mood of the photoplay. See -pages 165 and 180.] - -We are not now speaking of such qualities as unity, emphasis, balance, -and rhythm. They are indeed fundamental needs in pictorial composition, -and yet a photoplay may have all of those qualities without possessing -any strong appeal as art. A motion picture, like a painting, must -possess other, more subtle, qualities if it is to make any lasting -impression upon our souls. What these mysterious qualities really -are, we do not presume to know. At the same time we believe that a -discussion of them will be stimulating and helpful both to “movie -fans” and movie makers. Suppose we endeavor to isolate four of these -mysterious qualities in art and call them poignancy, appeal to the -imagination, exquisiteness, and reserve. - -Any one who goes frequently to the movies must have felt more than -once a certain poignancy, a strange fascination in some pictorial -arrangement, in some curiously appealing movement on the screen. -Perhaps such a feeling came when you saw a “dissolve” for the first -time. Perhaps the slow dying away of a scene, even while a new one was -dawning before you, gave a pang of pleasure never felt before, not even -in the magic blending of dreams. A “queer feeling” you may have called -it, and you may have been less aware of it as the novelty wore off in -later shows. Then it came again when you saw an accelerated motion -picture which showed a plant growing from seed to blossom within a few -minutes. And still again you felt it when in some slow-motion picture -you saw a horse floating through the air. But time went on and the -frequent repetition of these effects made their appeal less poignant. - -In each case the thing that stirred you was due to a novelty of -mechanics, a trick of cinematography. But you can get that emotion -without waiting for a new mechanical invention. It may come also -from the pictorial composition, from some peculiar patternings of -things, whether fixed or moving, within the picture itself. A striking -illustration of this may be found in the German photoplay, “The Cabinet -of Dr. Caligari,” which has been described in the preceding chapter. -It contains at least two scenes in which extremely simple arrangements -kindle strange flares of emotion. One of these moments comes in the -scene which is represented by the “still” shown opposite page 179. Here -we see Cesare, the hypnotized sleep-walker, slinking along an alley -of weird lights and shadows. We know from earlier scenes that he is -bent on committing some new crime. His face is ghastly and his lanky -frame is tightly clothed in black. He emerges into a bright glare and -stretches forth his arm in an unhuman gesture, as though he were going -to glide serpent-wise up the very side of the wall. This movement -makes a strange pattern and sends through us a flash of--shall we call -it a sweet shudder or a horrible delight?--something poignant and -unforgettable. - -A similar experience of emotion comes to us a few minutes later in the -same play when Cesare carries off the heroine from her bedchamber. This -scene reveals a broad sea of billowy linen, evidently a bed, yet large -enough for a whole bevy of heroines. Cesare appears outside a window, -which seems to crumble at his touch. He enters the chamber and, dagger -in hand, reaches out toward the head of the sleeping lady. We gasp at -her fate, because we forget that this is only a play. That gasp is an -expression of pity, a familiar emotion. But a mysterious emotion is -in store for us. Cesare is spellbound by the lady’s beauty. He drops -his dagger. Then suddenly he gathers her up, and, holding her against -the side of his body, starts for the window. As he does so a sudden -striking pattern is produced by the movement. In his haste Cesare has -caught up some of the bed linen along with his prey, and this white -expanse darts after him in a sudden inward-rushing movement from the -remote corners of the bed. Instantly a strange sensation shoots through -us. This sharp emotion, both painful and pleasing, is not pity, or -hate, or fear. It does not relate itself to the villain’s violence -against an innocent, defenseless girl. It is merely a “queer feeling” -caused by that striking motion-pattern of the snowy linen whisked -unexpectedly from the bed. - -To one who has been emotionally affected by such things as the -“dissolve” and retarded motion and the peculiar effects in “Dr. -Caligari” the above paragraphs may give some idea of what we mean by -poignancy in composition. It is a real quality tinged with an unreality -that allies it with the effects which we experience in dreams. Any -cinema composer who can strike this note of poignancy at least once in -every photoplay that he produces may justly demand that his work be -classed with the fine arts. - -Another elusive quality, found all too seldom in the movies, is the -appeal to imagination. Such an appeal may come from things in real -life or from that life which art reflects; it may come also from the -artist’s medium and composition. Thus, for example, some people can -imagine melodious sounds when they look at colors in a painting, and -nearly every one can imagine colors when listening to music. The -motion picture’s appeal to the imagination has been treated at some -length in Chapter VI of “The Art of Photoplay Making,” and we shall, -therefore, be brief about it here. An illustration may be furnished by -a sea-shell. We hold it to our ears and hear a low musical sound which -makes us imagine the surf of the sea, sweetly vague. A similar, yet -more subtle, delight may come from a picture of some person doing the -same thing. Such a picture is to be found in the Fox film version of -Longfellow’s “Evangeline.” Gabriel picks up a sea-shell and holds it to -his ear. Instantly we imagine the sound which he hears. We also imagine -the sea which that imagined sound suggests. And, if we are particularly -sensitive, we may even try to imagine what Gabriel imagines. All this -is delightful, a genuine emotional response to the art of the screen. -But we are immediately insulted by an ugly anti-climax. Quick as a -flash, our fancies are killed by a cut-in picture of a stretch of real -sea. Now we must look; we may no longer imagine. - -The above is a typical example of both imaginative and unimaginative -treatment in a motion picture. Any reader can go to the movies and -collect a hundred similar examples in a few evenings. Over and over -again a director will lead us to the threshold of beautiful fancy, only -to slam the door of hard realism against our faces. Why is this? Is it -because the director thinks that audiences are incapable of exercising -and enjoying their imaginations? Or is it only because he wants to get -more footage for the film? - -As though it were not bad enough to spoil the pictorial beauty of -cinema composition, many directors proceed to spoil the charm of other -arts, too. Poetry, for instance, may weave her spells elsewhere, -but not upon the screen. Even the simplest poetic statement must be -vulgarized by explanation. “Movie fans” are not considered intelligent -enough to be trusted with the enjoyment of even such harmless imagery as - - “There is a tide in the affairs of men - Which taken at the turn leads on to fortune.” - -During all the three hundred years since those lines were written, -probably no illustrator of Shakespeare’s plays ever felt called upon -to draw a picture of that tide, and probably no actor ever strove -to represent it on the stage by voice or gesture. But in De Mille’s -photoplay “Male and Female,” where the passage is quoted, the lines -on the screen must be accompanied by a photograph of surf, which was -evidently intended to represent the tide! - -Shakespeare’s poetic image was thus killed by a single shot. But it -sometimes takes more ingenuity to destroy a charm. Take, for instance, -this descriptive line from “Evangeline”: - - “When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.” - -Those words are surely full of emotional, imaginative appeal. Yes, but -not for the director of the Fox “Evangeline.” He inserts the line as -a title, then shows Evangeline strolling over a forest path, and then -“cuts in” a close-up of hands playing across the strings of a gigantic -harp! - -There is nothing mysterious about the emotions of any moderately -intelligent person who sees things like that on the screen. “Movie -stuff!” he groans, and wonders “how they have the nerve to get away -with it.” We have a quarrel with the director, not because he has -failed to picturize the imagined sweetness of that silence which comes -when exquisite music has ceased, but because he has considered it -necessary to picturize anything at all in support of the poet’s words. - -This brings us again to the question whether art should strive to -present any beauty other than that of the subject represented. Was -he a great artist who, according to an old fable, painted fruit so -realistically that the birds came to peck at it? And would Michelangelo -have been a better artist if he had given his marble statues the colors -of real flesh, or if he had made statues with flesh soft to the touch -and capable of perspiring on a hot day? We think not. - -Art may please through illusion, but never by deception. We get a -peculiar emotional experience from imagining that Michelangelo’s -“Moses” is alive with human grandeur, but we should not like to be -caught in a mob of idiots staring at some more realistically sculptural -Moses, in the expectation that he was about to make a speech or perform -a trick. Neither can we go into ecstasies over the fact that the fur -mantle in some portrait is so skillfully painted that all the women -want to stroke it. - -The depressing thing about many movies is that they are to the ideal -photoplay what the wax figure of a shop window is to sculpture. Instead -of dancing lightly through a rich atmosphere of suggestion they are -anchored heavily with bolts of dollar-marked material. And worse days -are to come if the “stunt” workers are fed with applause. They promise -us pictures in natural colors, more natural than any now produced. They -promise us pictures that have depth so real that the beholder may be -tempted to take a stroll into them. They promise us pictures that talk, -and whistle, and chirp, and bark. And perhaps somewhere they are even -promising pictures that will give off scents. - -All these wonders will create industrial activity. They will make good -advertising, and will doubtless bring crowds to the theaters. But they -will not bring happiness to those fortunate individuals who can enjoy -art because it is art, who can get a finer thrill from a painting that -felicitously suggests interesting trees, than from one which looks so -much like a real orchard that the birds and bees swarm in through the -gallery doors. - -Let the motion picture look like a motion picture of life, and not -like life itself. Let the mobilization of characters in a photoplay -start fancies and stir emotions finer and deeper than any which we -can experience by observing our neighbors or by reading sensational -newspapers. Let the lights and shadows on the screen, the lines and -shapes, the patterns and movements suggest to our imaginations richer -beauties than those which are actually shown to our eyes. Let the -motion picture become as romantic as music, and yet remain equally -consistent with reality and truth. - -Thus we have considered two mysterious art-emotions, namely, that -which is aroused by a peculiar artistic poignancy in the cinema design -itself, and that which is aroused when the suggestions and associations -of the design make our own imaginations creative. A third art-emotion -comes from the conscious or sub-conscious appreciation of something -exquisite in the finished product. - -Exquisite values and exquisite combinations are present in the -masterpieces of every art. The sweet blending of musical tones which -leads into a delicacy of overtones that no ear can distinguish; the -subtle shadings of color in a painting, soft touches of pictorial -harmony which can be felt more surely than they can be seen; tender -curves in the most vigorous statue, and marble surfaces surging so -slightly that their shadows scarcely linger; crisp edges of acanthus -leaves in a Greek capital and the almost imperceptible swelling of the -column beneath; the sparkle, the caper and the organ-music of a poem -you love--these are the exquisite things in art. And there are many -others less tangible. They thrill you again and again with feelings too -refined for description in words. - -Can the motion picture achieve a similar refinement? Or must it -always deserve the epithet “crude”? When half of the typical movie’s -brute strength and snorting speed can be exchanged for tenderness -and spirituality we shall have a new era in cinema history. That -era may dawn while the doubters are still slumbering. Even now we -occasionally see motion pictures which are sparkling without the -so-called “flashes” of scenes, pictures which flow firmly, one into the -next, with delicate mingling of tones and patterns, pictures in which -sometimes the moving elements are as airy as gossamer threads blown by -a fairy’s breath. - -This quality of exquisiteness is something which the director cannot -produce by taking thought or signing a contract. Other values he may -develop by study and experiment, but not this one. He may bring balance -and unity to his pictorial elements; he may accent the interests -properly; he may succeed in starting a vital rhythm and stimulating the -beholder’s fancy, all this through determined application of skill; but -he will need the help of inspiration before he can create the charm -of exquisiteness. The gods have granted that mysterious help to other -artists; they will grant it to the cinema composer, too, whenever he -proves worthy. - -There is at least another peculiar art-emotion which the cinema -composer should be able to arouse. It is the emotion which comes over -us at the overwhelming discovery that a given masterpiece of art has -a wealth of beauty that we can never hope to exhaust. That emotion -is stimulated by the reserve which lies back of all really masterful -performance in art. We feel it when we have read a poem for the -twentieth time and know that if we read it again we shall find new -beauties and deeper meaning. We feel it in a concert hall listening to -a symphony that has been played for us repeatedly since childhood and -yet reveals fresh beauties to our maturing powers of appreciation. We -feel it in the mystic dimness of some cathedral beneath whose arches -a score of generations have prayed and the most eloquent disbeliever -of today stands gaping in silence. Behind the human power which wrote -the poem, or composed the music, or built the cathedral lies a vast -reserve; and, though it was not drawn upon, we seem to glimpse that -reserve forever in the finished masterpiece. - -Has any reader of this book gone to see the same photoplay ten times? -And if so, why? Was it because of some irresistible, undying lure in -the content of that photoplay or in the pictorial form of that content? -Did you go of your own free will? Did you even make a sacrifice to see -it the tenth time? If so, then you have known the calm joy of a reserve -power in the newest of the arts. - -Unfortunately reserve is not characteristic of the movies. It is seldom -indeed that a photoplay contains anything of value that cannot be -caught during the first showing. In fact, it happens rather frequently -that a photoplay uses up every ounce of its own proper power and then -is forced to call in the help of something known as “padding” before it -measures up to the commercial fullness of five reels, or whatever the -contract stipulates. If you poke around through this padding, you will -find that it is usually made up of innocent kittens, ducklings, calves, -human babies, and other “ain’t-it-cunnin’” stuff, which may arouse -emotions, to be sure, but not the emotions which make up the enjoyment -of art as art. - -Another typical lack of reserve is illustrated in the building and -decoration of settings. Avalanches of furniture are apparently -necessary to show that a character is well-to-do. The heroine’s boudoir -must look like a gift shop, and her dressing table like a drug store -counter, in order to convince the audience that she spends a few sacred -moments of the day attending to her finger nails. Walls of rooms must -be paneled off by scores of framed pictures, mirrors, etc., so that, -no matter where the actor stands, his head will be strikingly set off -by some ornamental frame. Floors must look partly like an Oriental -bazaar and partly like a fur market. Chairs, tables, cabinets, beds, -and what-nots, must carry our minds to Versailles and the Bronx, -to Buckingham Palace, and Hollywood. Hangings of plush and silk, -tapestries of cloth of gold, curtains of lace or batiked silk, cords of -intricate plaiting, must flow from the heights, waving in the breeze to -prove that they are real. All this extravagance must be, we presume, in -order to show that the heroine lives on an income and not a salary, and -in order to give the brides in the audience new ideas for mortgaging -their husbands’ futures at the installment-plan stores. - -With such extravagance of materials in a picture there can be no -simplicity or reserve in the pictorial composition, if indeed there can -be any composition at all. Whatever design the director gives to the -miscellaneous lines and shapes will seem rather like a last despairing -effort than the easy, happy touch of a master’s hand. - -The hysterical extravagance of the movies is further illustrated in -the breathless speed which so often characterizes every moving thing -on the screen. We feel that, at the end of the road, horses must -expire from exhaustion and automobiles must catch fire from excessive -friction. Clouds are driven by hurricanes, rivers shoot, trees snap, -and the most dignified gentleman dog-trots. It is true that some of -this breathlessness carries with it a certain thrill for the spectator, -but that thrill is by no means to be classed as an æsthetic emotion. It -has nothing of that abiding joy which comes from the consciousness of -restrained energy in art. - -Much of this feverish activity, this “jazz” of the screen, is due to -rapidity of projection; and yet the director is responsible, for he -certainly knows the probable rate of projection and can control his -composition accordingly by retarding actions or by selecting slower -actions in place of those which cannot be retarded. Slowness of -movement, where it is not unnatural, is pleasant to the eye, as we -have said in preceding chapters, but it has a peculiar appeal for the -emotions, too. It fills us with a sense of the majesty that none can -shake, of the deep currents that none can turn aside. - -How to produce a picture that shall impress an audience with its -inexhaustible reserve is a secret that remains with him who has the -power. So, too, with the other pictorial qualities discussed in this -chapter. We know of no formulas by which the mysterious art-emotions -can be aroused. Yet if directors and spectators alike ponder over these -mysteries, it will surely help them to separate the gold from the dross. - -Let us vision an ideal photoplay. It is entrancing, yet restful, to -the eye. Its composition is both vigorous and graceful, as harmonious -as music. Our sympathies are stirred warmly by the experiences of -the persons in the story. We are held in keen suspense as to the -dramatic outcome. And we get also the more subtle art-emotions. -Our souls are shot through by the poignancy of fixed and flowing -designs. We are fascinated by these designs at the same time that our -fancies pass through and beyond them. The visible work of the artist -is only a mesh-work through which our imaginations are whirled away -into rapturous regions of experiences unlived and unexpressed. Such -transports may be brief, yet they are measureless in their flights. -Our attention swings back from these far flights into a quiet response -to the delicacy of arrangement of line and shape, of texture and tone, -of blending and weaving and vanishing values. We feel an exquisiteness -too fine for understanding, which tapers away at last until it is too -fine for the most sensitive feeling. And during all the while that we -are rapt by the poignancy, the imagination, the exquisiteness of the -master’s production, we feel that a rich reserve lies beyond our grasp -or touch. We cannot quite soar to the master’s heights, or plumb his -depths, or separate the airy fibers of his weaving. - -Yet, when such beauty comes to the screen, who shall say that it is a -miracle, that the manner of its coming is above every law and beyond -all conjecture? And who shall say that the hour of its coming has not -been hastened by the million spectators whose judgments have been -whetted and whose sympathies have been deepened by taking thought about -the nature of art? - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - - -Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a -predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they -were not changed. - -Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation -marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left -unbalanced. - -Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned between paragraphs -and outside quotations. 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