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- margin-bottom: 1em; - padding: .5em; - } - -} - - </style> - </head> - -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Pictorial Beauty on the Screen, by Victor Oscar Freeburg</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Pictorial Beauty on the Screen</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Victor Oscar Freeburg</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Contributor: Rex Ingram</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August 12, 2021 [eBook #66049]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>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.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PICTORIAL BEAUTY ON THE SCREEN ***</div> - -<div class="transnote"> -<p class="center larger">Transcriber's Note</p> - -<p>Larger versions of most illustrations may be seen by right-clicking them -and selecting an option to view them separately, or by double-tapping and/or -stretching them.</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_i">i</span></p> - -<h1>PICTORIAL BEAUTY ON THE SCREEN</h1> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"><div class="p4 center wspace smaller"> -<div id="if_i_001" class="figcenter b1" style="max-width: 12em;"> - <img src="images/i_001.png" width="582" height="204" alt="" /></div> - -<p> -THE MACMILLAN COMPANY<br /> - -<span class="smaller">NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS<br /> -ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO</span></p> - -<p>MACMILLAN & CO., <span class="smcap">Limited</span><br /> - -<span class="smaller">LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA<br /> -MELBOURNE</span></p> - -<p>THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, <span class="smcap">Ltd.</span><br /> -<span class="smaller">TORONTO</span> -</p> -</div></div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="i_frontis" class="newpage figcenter" style="max-width: 45em;"> - <img src="images/i_003.jpg" width="2859" height="1653" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">From <i>The Covered Wagon</i>. 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 <a href="#Page_9">pages 9</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a> and <a href="#Page_140">140</a>.</div></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"><div class="newpage p2 center wspace vspace"> -<p class="xxlarge bold"> -PICTORIAL BEAUTY<br /> -ON THE SCREEN</p> - -<p class="p4">BY<br /> - -<span class="large">VICTOR OSCAR FREEBURG, <span class="smcap">Ph.D.</span></span><br /> - -AUTHOR OF “THE ART OF PHOTOPLAY MAKING,” AND<br /> -“DISGUISE PLOTS IN ELIZABETHAN DRAMA.”</p> - -<p class="p4"><span class="large">WITH A PREFATORY NOTE</span><br /> -<span class="smcap larger">By Rex Ingram</span></p> - -<p class="p4"><span class="bold">New York</span><br /> -<span class="larger">THE MACMILLAN COMPANY<br /> -1923</span><br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>All rights reserved</i></span> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="newpage p2 small"> -PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.</p> - -<p class="p4 small"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1923,<br /> -By</span> THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.</p> - -<p class="small">Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1923.</p> -</div></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="newpage p4 center narrow vspace larger"> -<p>To<br /> -<span class="larger">JAMES CRUZE</span> -</p> - -<p>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</p> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PREFATORY_NOTE">PREFATORY NOTE</h2> -</div> - -<p class="p0 b2 center"><i>By</i> <span class="smcap">Rex Ingram</span>, <i>Director of the “Four Horsemen of -the Apocalypse,” “Scaramouche,” etc., etc.</i></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="smcap">Rex Ingram.</span> -</p> - -<p class="in0 smaller">August 5th, 1923.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_ix">ix</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="AUTHORS_PREFACE">AUTHOR’S PREFACE</h2> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_x">x</span> -I am to blame, because that is the phase of cinematic -art which has hitherto received the least attention -from critics.</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Mr. James O. Spearing, who was for five years the -distinguished motion picture critic on the <i>New York -Times</i>, 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.</p> - -<p class="sigright">V. O. F.</p> - -<p class="p0 in0 smaller">The National Arts Club,<br /> -New York City,<br /> -August 27th, 1923.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xi">xi</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<table id="toc" summary="Contents"> -<tr class="small"> - <td class="tdr top">CHAP.</td> - <td> </td> - <td class="tdr">PAGE</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">I.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Pictorial Art in the Movies</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_1">1</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">II.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Practical Value of Pictorial Composition</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_9">9</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">III.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Eye Tests for Beauty</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_25">25</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">IV.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Pictorial Force in Fixed Patterns</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_50">50</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">V.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Rhythm and Repose in Fixed Design</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_68">68</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">VI.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Motions in a Picture</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_83">83</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">VII.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Pictorial Motions at Work</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_97">97</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">VIII.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Pictorial Motions at Play</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_116">116</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">IX.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Pictorial Motions at Rest</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_128">128</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">X.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Mastery in the Movies</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_154">154</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XI.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Mysterious Emotions of Art</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_178">178</a></td> -</tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xvi">xvi</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS">LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> -</div> - -<table id="loi" summary="List of Illustrations"> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“The Covered Wagon.” Prairie Scene</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#i_frontis"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td> -</tr> -<tr class="small"> - <td></td> - <td class="tdr">FACING<br />PAGE</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“The Plough Girl”</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_011">11</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“The Shepherdess.” By LeRolle</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_021">21</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“The Spell of the Yukon.” Cabin Scene</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_028a">28</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">A Study of Composition in “The Spell of the Yukon”</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_028b">28</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“Daylight and Lamplight.” By Paxton</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_039a">39</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">A Study of Lines</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_039b">39</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“Audrey”</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_045">45</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">A Still Illustrating Misplaced Emphasis</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_055a">55</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">A Specimen of Bad Composition</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_055b">55</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“The Spell of the Yukon.” Exterior</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_057">57</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">A Triangle Pattern</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_061">61</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“Derby Day.” By Rowlandson</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_064a">64</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">A Study of Composition in “Derby Day”</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_064b">64</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“Maria Rosa”</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_071">71</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“Mme. LeBrun and Her Daughter.” By Mme. LeBrun</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_076">76</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“Polly of the Circus”</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_079a">79</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“Banquet of the Officers of St. Andrew.” By Hals</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_079b">79</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“The Covered Wagon.” Arroyo Scene</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_093">93</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">A Typical Bad Movie Composition</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_100a">100</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“Sherlock Holmes”</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_100b">100</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse”</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_133">133</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“Portrait of Charles I.” By Van Dyck</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_163">163</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl">“The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari”</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#if_i_179">179</a></td> -</tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_1" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">1</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Pictorial_Beauty_On_the_Screen"><span class="larger">Pictorial Beauty On the Screen</span></h2> - -<hr /> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I<br /> - -<span class="subhead">PICTORIAL ART IN THE MOVIES</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class="in0"><span class="firstword">Vast</span> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">2</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">3</span> -tasting, and at last the craving for pictorial art has -come.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">4</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">5</span> -“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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>This means that we shall have to get out of the -habit of using expressions like “He is <em>writing</em> 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 <em>written</em> the picture. This -book is not a study of words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">6</span> -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.</p> - -<p>We must also get rid of the notion that “photoplays -are <em>acted</em>.” 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.</p> - -<p>Also we must reject the theory that the artistic<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">7</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">A</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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">8</span> -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.</p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="fnanchor">A</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.</p> - -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_9" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">9</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II<br /> - -<span class="subhead">THE PRACTICAL VALUE OF PICTORIAL COMPOSITION</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class="in0"><span class="firstword">The</span> 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.”</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">10</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">11</span> -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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_011" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 33em;"> - <img src="images/i_011.jpg" width="2092" height="1670" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">From <i>The Plough Girl</i>. 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 <a href="#Page_11">page 11</a>.</div></div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">12</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Anything that impresses the human mind through -the eye requires a three-fold expenditure of human -energy. There is, first, the physical exertion of <em>looking</em>, -then the mental exertion of <em>seeing</em>, that is, understanding -what one looks at, and, finally, the joy of -<em>feeling</em>, 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.</p> - -<p>Now, since the total human energy available at any -one time for looking, seeing, and feeling is limited, it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">13</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">14</span> -an alert farmer hitches an amusing span of mules, one -black and one gray, to the triplane and drags it out -of the mud.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">15</span> -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.</p> - -<p>Well, the transfer from one airplane to another -wasn’t so much of a “punch,” after all.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>The yacht, therefore, being unnecessary to our -story, violates the principle of unity; it violates the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">16</span> -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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">17</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">18</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">19</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">20</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_021" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 41em;"> - <img src="images/i_021.jpg" width="2561" height="1629" alt="" /> - <div class="caption"><i>The Shepherdess</i>, a painting by LeRolle, illustrating several principles of design which can be effectively -used in photoplays. See <a href="#Page_55">page 55</a>.</div></div> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">21</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">22</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">23</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">24</span> -adapt their own literary work or prepare new stories -for the screen. But these literary men were among -the first to discover that better <em>writing</em> does not in itself -guarantee better <em>pictures</em>. 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_25" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">25</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III<br /> - -<span class="subhead">EYE TESTS FOR BEAUTY</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class="in0"><span class="firstword">Do the</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Let us state, once for all, that motion pictures need -never hurt the eyes—quite the contrary. Yet we have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">26</span> -often seen photoplays that did hurt the eyes. Some -of the reasons for this will be given in the following -paragraphs.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">27</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">28</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_028a" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 27em;"> - <img src="images/i_028a.jpg" width="1710" height="1335" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">From <i>The Spell of the Yukon</i>. An interesting example of <em>chiaroscuro</em> -and the harmonizing of dramatic pantomime with pictorial pattern. -The composition, however, is slightly marred by over-emphasis -on the window. See <a href="#Page_55">pages 55</a> and <a href="#Page_63">63</a>.</div></div> - -<div id="if_i_028b" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 28em;"> - <img src="images/i_028b.png" width="1779" height="1364" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">A study of the “still” shown above, illustrating a simple method -of analyzing pictorial composition. See <a href="#Page_63">page 63</a>.</div></div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">29</span> -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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">30</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">31</span> -nearer to the eye than one from the violet end, even -though the colors are all placed equally distant from -the eye.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">32</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">33</span> -and we would sense a better continuity of movement.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">34</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>But suddenly there comes a close-up of a face<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">35</span> -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 <span class="locked">and——</span></p> - -<p>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 <span class="locked">a——</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">36</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">37</span> -be presented on the screen as a movement of only -two or three feet.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">38</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">39</span> -was at first seen from the front seat. It will appear -much more pleasing to the eye than it did the first -time.</p> - -<div id="if_i_039a" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 21em;"> - <img src="images/i_039a.jpg" width="1323" height="1661" alt="" /> - <div class="caption"><i>Daylight and Lamplight</i>, a painting by William McGregor. -The design illustrates artistic balance and -rhythm. See <a href="#Page_41">pages 41</a> and <a href="#Page_77">77</a>.</div></div> - -<div id="if_i_039b" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 18em;"> - <img src="images/i_039b.png" width="1125" height="1381" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">A study of lines to illustrate the value of -repetition within a pattern. See <a href="#Page_40">page 40</a>.</div></div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">B</a></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="fnanchor">B</a> 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.</p> - -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">40</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <a href="#Page_39">page 39</a>, 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">41</span> -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.</p> - -<p>One reason why we see <em>much with ease</em> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <a href="#Page_39">page 39</a>, -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.<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">C</a> In other -words, you can see much of that picture with ease,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">42</span> -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.</p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="fnanchor">C</a> 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.</p> - -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">43</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">44</span> -A similar experience of ease comes from viewing -rhythmical or balanced motions.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">45</span> -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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_045" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 32em;"> - <img src="images/i_045.jpg" width="2008" height="1650" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">From <i>Audrey</i>. 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 <a href="#Page_53">pages 53</a> -and <a href="#Page_71">71</a>.</div></div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Because of this baffling of eye and brain, therefore, -we are displeased by the sight of two automobiles<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">46</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">47</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>So sharp a contrast might have a certain dramatic, -stirring effect, like the use of swear words in a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">48</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">49</span> -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.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_50" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">50</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV<br /> - -<span class="subhead">PICTORIAL FORCE IN FIXED PATTERNS</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class="in0"><span class="firstword">Frequently</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">51</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">52</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<p>What portion of that picture did we look at first, -and why? Was that the spot which the cinema composer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">53</span> -desired us to see first? If not, how did he -happen to mislead us and waste our time?</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>Was the picture as a whole really beautiful to the -eyes? If not, what made it displeasing?</p> - -<p>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 <a href="#Page_45">page 45</a> 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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">54</span> -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.</p> - -<p>The need of this may be illustrated by a horrible -example. Let us turn to the “still” on <a href="#Page_55">page 55</a>. 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">55</span> -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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_055a" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;"> - <img src="images/i_055a.jpg" width="1534" height="1254" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">This “still” illustrates misplaced emphasis and several other -defects in pictorial composition which characterized the general -run of movies a few years ago. See <a href="#Page_54">page 54</a>.</div></div> - -<div id="if_i_055b" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;"> - <img src="images/i_055b.jpg" width="1532" height="1338" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">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 <a href="#Page_55">page 55</a>.</div></div> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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 <a href="#Page_28">page 28</a>. 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.</p> - -<p>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 -<a href="#Page_21">page 21</a>, our glance falls immediately upon the shepherdess,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">56</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_057" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34em;"> - <img src="images/i_057.jpg" width="2146" height="1664" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">From <i>The Spell of the Yukon</i>. 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 <a href="#Page_56">page 56</a>.</div></div> - -<p>Let us illustrate this again by turning to another -“still” from “The Spell of the Yukon,” facing <a href="#Page_57">page -57</a>. The thing which attracts first and longest is -the strange object in the upper left-hand corner. On<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">57</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 -<a href="#Page_79">page 79</a>, with “The Banquet of the Officers of St.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">58</span> -Andrew,” by Frans Hals, facing <a href="#Page_79">page 79</a>, 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">59</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 -<a href="#Page_61">page 61</a>. 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">60</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">61</span> -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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_061" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34em;"> - <img src="images/i_061.jpg" width="2162" height="1666" alt="" /> - <div class="caption"><i>A Triangle.</i> The fundamental pattern in a picture should not be obtrusive, as in this -too obviously triangular shape. Compare this “still” with the illustration facing <a href="#Page_76">page -76</a>. See also <a href="#Page_59">pages 59</a>, <a href="#Page_72">72</a> and <a href="#Page_76">76</a>.</div></div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">62</span> -lasts, because every time we repeat the tour of inspection -our eyes rest a moment on these false interests.</p> - -<p>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 <a href="#Page_76">page 76</a>. 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">63</span> -of design to weave places into a definite unity with -persons, things, and action.</p> - -<p>Let us see how this problem has been met in the -cabin scene of “The Spell of the Yukon,” facing <a href="#Page_28">page -28</a>, 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 <a href="#Page_28">page 28</a>. 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">64</span> -design, as a whole, therefore, is imperfect. And, though -we see much in the picture, we do not see it entirely -with ease.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_064a" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 29em;"> - <img src="images/i_064a.jpg" width="1808" height="1151" alt="" /> - <div class="caption"><i>Derby Day</i>, a drawing by Thomas Rowlandson, showing the kind of -composition which could be effectively used in photoplays. See <a href="#Page_64">page 64</a>.</div></div> - -<div id="if_i_064b" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 29em;"> - <img src="images/i_064b.png" width="1808" height="1174" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">Analysis of the fundamental design in <i>Derby Day</i> (above). See -<a href="#Page_64">page 64</a>.</div></div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">65</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">66</span> -in complete harmony with the main theme, the movement -of merry-makers along a country road.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">67</span> -for example, facing <a href="#Page_93">page 93</a>, 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_68" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">68</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.<br /> - -<span class="subhead">RHYTHM AND REPOSE IN FIXED DESIGN</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class="in0"><span class="firstword">Directness,</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">69</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">70</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <a href="#Page_71">page 71</a>, -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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_071" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;"> - <img src="images/i_071.jpg" width="2186" height="1650" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">From <i>Maria Rosa</i>. An interesting composition, but thrown out of balance by too much -weight in the left half. See <a href="#Page_70">page 70</a>.</div></div> - -<p>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”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">71</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <a href="#Page_45">page 45</a>. 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;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">72</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <a href="#Page_61">page 61</a>, and the -painting facing <a href="#Page_76">page 76</a>. One may even find entire -photoplays with scenes done in two dimensions only.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">73</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">74</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">75</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <a href="#Page_100">page 100</a>. -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">76</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <a href="#Page_61">page 61</a>. 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_076" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 26em;"> - <img src="images/i_076.jpg" width="1664" height="2215" alt="" /> - <div class="caption"><i>Mme. LeBrun and Her Daughter</i>, a painting by Mme. Vigée-Lebrun. -A good figure composition on the basis of a triangle. Compare -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">77</span>with the “still” shown facing <a href="#Page_61">page 61</a>. See also pages <a href="#Page_62">62</a> and <a href="#Page_76">76</a>.</div></div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <a href="#Page_39">page 39</a>. 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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">78</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <a href="#Page_79">page 79</a>, where -the rhythm is in the flow of patterns rather than in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">79</span> -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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_079a" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 27em;"> - <img src="images/i_079a.jpg" width="1695" height="1339" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">From <i>Polly of the Circus</i>. Compare this “still” with <i>Banquet of the -Officers of St. Andrew</i> (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 <a href="#Page_57">page 57</a>.</div></div> - -<div id="if_i_079b" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 27em;"> - <img src="images/i_079b.jpg" width="1700" height="1119" alt="" /> - <div class="caption"><i>Banquet of the Officers of St. Andrew</i>, a painting by Frans Hals. -See above and <a href="#Page_78">page 78</a>.</div></div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Another source of rhythm in a fixed picture may -be the tonal gradations. In a painting there would be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">80</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <a href="#Page_163">page 163</a>. -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.</p> - -<p>Two or three men, a horse, and a bit of landscape -is no uncommon subject in photoplays. We have reason,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">81</span> -therefore, to expect that from long practice all -directors will learn how to treat it pictorially, and -with ever new variety of beauty.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">82</span> -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.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_83" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">83</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI<br /> - -<span class="subhead">MOTIONS IN A PICTURE</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class="in0"><span class="firstword">Pictorial</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">84</span> -And the circus itself is in a sense the pictorial motion -of animals and men.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">85</span></p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Shakespeare’s plays are not admired simply because -they reveal human character truthfully. Rembrandt’s -paintings are not preserved in museums merely because<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">86</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">87</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">88</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">89</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">90</span> -illustrates the third type of motion, the moving pattern.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">91</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">92</span> -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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">93</span> -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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_093" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34em;"> - <img src="images/i_093.jpg" width="2157" height="1663" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">From <i>The Covered Wagon</i>. 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 <a href="#Page_9">pages 9</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a> and <a href="#Page_140">140</a>.</div></div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">94</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">95</span> -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 <em>timbre</em>, or quality, -of a musical note. Thus, too, in a motion picture -the <em>ensemble</em> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">96</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_97" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">97</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII<br /> - -<span class="subhead">PICTORIAL MOTIONS AT WORK</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class="in0"><span class="firstword">All</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Doubtless every one will agree with us that if, while<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">98</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>It is no excuse to say that such motions are natural, -or that they give local color. For, though a moving<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">99</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">100</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_100a" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 27em;"> - <img src="images/i_100a.jpg" width="1718" height="1357" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">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 <a href="#Page_75">page 75</a>.</div></div> - -<div id="if_i_100b" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 28em;"> - <img src="images/i_100b.jpg" width="1757" height="1244" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">From <i>Sherlock Holmes</i>. 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 <a href="#Page_100">page 100</a>.</div></div> - -<p>Perhaps the innocent cow was an accident. Perhaps -the director did not know, or had forgotten,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">101</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">102</span> -a powerful charm, and he is an ideal director who -can emphasize dramatic significance with that charm.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">103</span> -faster than the eye”; it is really because the eye is -faster than the hand. In other words, our attention -outstrips the moving object.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">104</span></p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">105</span> -in Chapter IV, also have the power of directing our -attention to the point where a crossing is made.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">106</span> -eyes chase madly around with this motion and have -no chance to rest upon the word for which the advertiser -is wasting his money.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">107</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">108</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">109</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">110</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">111</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">112</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>The principle of contrast can relieve the eye of a -part of its work without imposing any additional task<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">113</span> -upon the mind. Thus some crazy Don Quixote may -<em>seem</em> to cut and thrust with greater agility than the -fighting which we actually <em>see</em>, 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 <em>seem</em> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">114</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">115</span> -understands these fundamental principles of pictorial -composition.</p> - -<p>However, all work and no play would make any -picture dull, but that is a subject for another chapter.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_116" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">116</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII<br /> - -<span class="subhead">PICTORIAL MOTIONS AT PLAY</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class="in0"><span class="firstword">The</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">117</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">118</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">119</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">120</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <a href="#Page_133">page 133</a>. 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">121</span> -we get only the strong clash between their movements, -and we feel no pleasure when shifting our -gaze from one to the other.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">122</span> -harmony may arouse our feelings without unduly -straining our attention.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">123</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">124</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">D</a></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="fnanchor">D</a> For a further comparison between music and pictorial -motions see Chapter IV of “The Art of Photoplay Making.”</p> - -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">125</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">126</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">127</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_128" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">128</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX<br /> - -<span class="subhead">PICTORIAL MOTIONS AT REST</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class="in0"><span class="firstword">That</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">129</span> -cinema composer who can make moving things suggest -rest.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">130</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">131</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">132</span> -moving things whatsoever, their combined effect is -the opposite of restfulness.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <a href="#Page_133">page 133</a>, 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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_133" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34em;"> - <img src="images/i_133.jpg" width="2151" height="1657" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">From <i>The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse</i>. 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 <a href="#Page_120">pages 120</a> and <a href="#Page_132">132</a>.</div></div> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">133</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">134</span> -extends to the castle. This relation can be clearly -seen by holding the “still” upside down.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">135</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">136</span> -edge and ends near the center, than if it begins at the -center of the picture and passes out at one side.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">137</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <em>look at</em> and the large movement which we -really <em>perceive and feel</em>. We look at inches and perceive -miles. Thus we see very much with extreme -ease.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">138</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">139</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>At the beginning of this chapter we mentioned the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">140</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Another interesting example of circular balance -may be seen in “One Arabian Night,” a German photoplay<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">141</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">142</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">143</span> -annoyance of trying to unify in his own mind the ill-adjusted -factors on the screen.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">144</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">145</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">146</span></p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">147</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">148</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">149</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">150</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Perhaps the reader can guess, even from this incomplete<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">151</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">152</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">153</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_154" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">154</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X<br /> - -<span class="subhead">MASTERY IN THE MOVIES</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class="in0"><span class="firstword">Who</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">155</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">156</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">157</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">158</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">159</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">160</span> -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?”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">161</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">162</span> -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!</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">163</span> -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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_163" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 26em;"> - <img src="images/i_163.jpg" width="1658" height="2166" alt="" /> - <div class="caption"><i>Portrait of Charles I</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 <a href="#Page_80">page 80</a>.</div></div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">164</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">165</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">E</a> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">166</span> -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.</p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="fnanchor">E</a> The subject of dramatizing a setting is discussed at length -in Chapter VIII of “The Art of Photoplay Making.”</p> - -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 -<a href="#Page_179">page 179</a>, 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">167</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">168</span> -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.</p> - -<p>“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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">169</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Already grass has been mown to suit a director. -We should like to see grass grown especially for the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">170</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?”</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">171</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">172</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">173</span> -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.<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">F</a> 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.</p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="fnanchor">F</a> 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.”</p> - -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">174</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">G</a></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="fnanchor">G</a> 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.</p> - -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Many directors have endeavored to make the title<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">175</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Another factor, which has already become troublesome, -is the reproduction of color in the motion picture.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">176</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">177</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_178" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">178</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI<br /> - -<span class="subhead">THE MYSTERIOUS EMOTIONS OF ART</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class="in0"><span class="firstword">The</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">179</span> -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.</p> - -<div id="if_i_179" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;"> - <img src="images/i_179.jpg" width="2182" height="1647" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">From <i>The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari</i>. 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 <a href="#Page_165">pages 165</a> and <a href="#Page_180">180</a>.</div></div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">180</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 -<a href="#Page_179">page 179</a>. 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.</p> - -<p>A similar experience of emotion comes to us a few<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">181</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">182</span> -that he produces may justly demand that his work be -classed with the fine arts.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">183</span> -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?</p> - -<p>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</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indentq">“There is a tide in the affairs of men</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Which taken at the turn leads on to fortune.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">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!</p> - -<p>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”:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite -music.”</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">184</span></p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">185</span> -some portrait is so skillfully painted that all the women -want to stroke it.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">186</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">187</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">188</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">189</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">190</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">191</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"><div class="transnote"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Notes">Transcriber’s Notes</h2> - -<p>Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made -consistent when a predominant preference was found -in the original book; otherwise they were not changed.</p> - -<p>Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced -quotation marks were remedied when the change was -obvious, and otherwise left unbalanced.</p> - -<p>Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned -between paragraphs and outside quotations. In versions -of this eBook that support hyperlinks, the page -references in the List of Illustrations lead to the -corresponding illustrations.</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_14">Page 14</a>: “propellors” was printed that way.</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_120">Page 120</a>: “Pavlowa” was printed that way.</p> -</div></div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PICTORIAL BEAUTY ON THE SCREEN ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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