Entertainment: That which affords interest and amusement.
To entertain: To engage, keep occupied the attention, thoughts, or time of a person.*
In other words, entertainment is not only Beverly Hills Cop or Star Wars, it is also Amadeus, Ghandi, Missing, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. A film may amuse, inform, explain, analyze, or deliver a message; as long as it holds the viewer’s attention, it is entertaining.
Why all the emphasis on entertainment, or interesting the viewer?
Tom Hulce as Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart in Amadeus. The actor’s performance is obviously a crucial part of a film, but for the film to be successful, the other parts, including the sound and narrative imagery, must also be excellent Photograph courtesy of Orion Pictures.
Why not, like some purists, consider only the artistic excellence of the film and the skill of the filmmaker? Because without the viewer no film lives—it is merely a long succession of photographs, carrying no meaning and no emotion. Its significance can be brought to life only through the empathetic reactions of a viewer’s involvement. And even the diehard purist must admit that film is a business as well as an art. Building a motion picture requires the services of a large, highly-paid professional crew, the contributions of an exorbitantly-priced group of “artists,” the utilization of tons of expensive equipment, and time.
“Highly-paid,” “exorbitantly-priced,” and “expensive” equals money—a great deal of money. Today, the cost of a very modest film would keep an American family in comfort for a lifetime. The financiers who supply such money, whether through the studios or though individual producers, would like to retrieve their investment along with as much profit as their money would earn while sitting in a bank. The dream, of course, is for a great deal more.
The source of the recouped investment is the viewer. If he does not find the film to his liking there is little recoupment and no profit at all. Such is the fate of many films—in fact, of most films—but for the producing studio, disaster is extremely rare. Ancillary revenues from sources such as video, television, toys, and music albums, all fatten the kitty, and unless it goes as far over the edge as United Artists’ Heaven’s Gate, a studio can “average out.” One hit will make up for a dozen flops, and the losers will at worst furnish a useful tax loss for the parent conglomerate. On the other hand, the independent who gambles it all on one film is challenging one of the world’s highest risk businesses. His chance for making a killing is small indeed. But, fortunately for the good filmmaker, there is never a shortage of gamblers, and the independents, as well as the studios, manage to struggle along, their hopes kept new-penny bright by the few who succeed.
Profit may be the main goal of the producing entity, but most filmmakers dream of creative freedom, and the quickest, perhaps the only way to get it is to make films which attract large audiences. With so much money riding on each production, the director with a record of box-office success is obviously in demand. The greater the success the greater the demand, and the greater the demand the greater the amount of freedom requested, and received, by the film-maker.
A successful motion picture always benefits from a well-known cast. For Broken Lance, this investment paid off—the film won an award for the best Western of 1954. On this lunch break near Nogales, Arizona, the author is surrounded (on his right) by Spencer Tracy and (on his left) by Robert Wagner and Earl Holliman. Across the table are Jean Peters, Richard Widmark, and, with his back to the camera, Hugh O’Brien.
It follows that the filmmaker with a poor success rating soon loses the opportunity to make demands—or films.
Such are the film facts of life. These simple and quite logical parameters pose a number of problems and offer a few opportunities. Many of the films which rack up huge grosses are, to put it politely, tripe. But if the tripe sells, those who produce it get greater freedom to turn out more tripe. The bright side of the picture is that each year a few films, made by thoughtful and talented filmmakers, also manage to attract large film audiences, audiences composed of adults who rarely visit movie houses, and the more responsive members of the youthful community. Together, these two groups can make up an impressive profit-turning array of spectators.
It must be obvious that the filmmaker who can produce a quality film of substance which can also attract and hold the attention of a mass audience must possess abilities far transcending the ordinary. His or her message must be delivered in a manner that is understandable to the average person, yet deep enough to please those who demand nourishment in their entertainment diet; the film must not be pompous, pretentious, pedantic, or overbearing—and it must entertain. It can be as raucous as a Marx Brothers comedy, which the discriminating will easily recognize as a sharp satire of our social and political structures; as brilliant as Doctor Zhivago, which deals with some of the greatest upheavals of revolutionary Russia while holding the viewer’s complete attention with a superior love story; or as stark and stomach-turning as One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, which lays bare the tragedy and the cruelty of a mental institution while supplying more laughs than most Chevy Chase comedies. Each of these furnishes amusing or emotional entertainment to its viewers while providing substance for those thirsty enough to require it and intelligent enough to demand it. And they all bring our attention back to the filmmaker—which is really a collective noun.
Notes
* It is unfortunate that film’s founding fathers little realized their plaything’s potential, and borrowed their descriptive vocabulary from its antecedents. Because of this we have no adequate word for “being” on the screen, and the word “performance” must of necessity be used in any discussion of the screen actor’s art. Reluctantly, it will be so used in this book.
* See Allan Bloom, The Closing of the American Mind (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1987).
* Oxford English Dictionary.
2
The Indispensable Viewer
Fans have always been the lifeblood of film. The photograph depicts Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, 1930, during the world premier of Morocco, starring Marlene Dietrich. Photograph courtesy of Bruce Torrence Historical Collection.
Excluding for the moment the cinematographer, the film editor, and a few other film artists, the chief contributors to the substance of any film are the writer, the director, the actors, and the viewers. Outside of their indispensable involvement in the business aspect of films, the viewers’ participation is indirect, but it is of extreme importance. Although they have no specific input into the production, they force the writer, the director, and the actors to make audience-oriented decisions at nearly every step of the way—decisions which are not financially inspired, but have to do with purpose and incentive.
For many filmmakers, of course, the incentive is money, but though it is true that a few artists get rich, I have never known a good artist who made wealth a prime goal in life. The fact that artists get paid well if they do well what they love doing is beside the point. What drives most filmmakers is that they are preachers of a sort, with enough ego and arrogance to assume, as Tolstoy pointed out, that what they create is worthy of the attention of others. Since they are, generally speaking, quite human, they also need acceptance, and only an audience can give them that. It takes sheer stupidity or, more probably, sour grapes to maintain that one need not be concerned with the viewers’ dreams and desires, that, willy-nilly, the viewers must accept what they are given. If the often-mentioned creative vision cannot spark a response in the viewers, it cannot sustain a life of its own. Would the Mona Lisa be the Mona Lisa if it did not stimulate a response in millions of minds? And if Beethoven’s Fifth did not excite millions of hearts would it still be a great symphony? In painting or music the response can start slowly and build; it can even, in time, overcome opening failure. But in films, the response must be strong and immediate. Rarely does an unpopular effort receive a second chance. The creative vision is capricious; it needs the energy of the viewers to give it body and lasting
life. Too many self-proclaimed “creators” have learned the bitter truth; unless something about your work intrigues him, the viewer will turn his back on it and you.
What are the film viewer’s dreams and desires? Why will he spend money that might better feed him, to buy his way into a motion picture theater? Many surveys have been conducted over the years; one of these, which suits my thesis best, was made by Wolfgang Wilhelm.
A housewife said, “The film is more life than the theater. In the theater I watch a work of art which appears to be elaborated. After a film performance I feel as if I had been in the middle of life.”
Another woman said it more poetically, “In the cinema I dissolve into all things and beings.”
A nurse responded, “A good film helps me to get in touch with people and with life.”
And a businessman said, “The less interesting the people I know the more frequently I go to the movies.”
A young writer finds it a substitute, “One would like to get something out of life, after all.”
And a student confessed, “Some days a sort of hunger for people drives me into the cinema.”
From these few comments alone one could derive a set of sound guidelines; rules that would help ensure a viewer-oriented film, yet in no way inhibit the filmmaker in the pursuit of his creative vision. The last comment is perhaps the most important; it states flatly what the others hint at. Today, more than ever, many people from all walks of life suffer from loneliness, from alienation.* A good film can give them the illusion of partaking of life in its fullness. The people on the screen are their friends who take them into physical and emotional worlds they may never otherwise experience. Yet one of our current problems is that far too many films fulfill the viewers’ imagined physical requirements to the point of satiation but fail completely to address themselves to their emotional needs.
Since the beginning, many filmmakers and film theorists have held that people look for an escape from their daily tribulations through films. But statistics on the sale of self-improvement books and the popularity of self-improvement preachers clearly point to the fact that, rather than looking for a way to escape life, most viewers want to learn how to live it. Philosophers and psychologists tell us ever more urgently that alienation is one of our more critical social problems—alienation from family, from friends, from church, from society. In many ways the world is more fragmented than at any time in history. There are no longer any monolithic religions, or homogeneous nationalities. People within nations have been polarized into political parties, factions, sects, splinter groups, and so many major and minor “isms” that only the extreme doctrinaire at either end of the political spectrum is sure he knows exactly what patriotism is.
As they drift away from moral and spiritual revelation (and the drift is inevitable in our scientifically oriented society), many find themselves viewing the old standards and principles through the wrong end of an out-of-focus spyglass, and they look for a new and brighter “vision” before vertigo and nausea set in. To the clear-headed and well organized filmmaker this is all grist for the mill, an unparalleled opportunity for making films of substance. Problems of alienation can be isolated and analyzed; a variety of solutions, each depending on the filmmaker’s point of view, can be advanced; some of them may help the viewer to a better understanding of himself and his place in a confusing world. It is not enough to point out the problems; news broadcasts do that with a frightening tenacity. Healing points of view are vital. The Marx Brothers could rip society apart, but someone must follow to sweep up the pieces and recombine them to a new and better purpose.
Learned explanations and clarifications customarily serve only to confuse the average citizen. On the other hand, film is without equal in its capacity to simplify without being simplistic. Ineptly used, that capacity is a weakness which many intellectuals attack with ferocity, and often with justification, but the intelligently made film is the ideal medium for bringing even the most complex human problems into the area of normal understanding.
To do so it makes use of its most distinctive attribute—the ability to “show.” It is axiomatic that no one ever says, “I believe everything I read,” or “I believe everything I hear.” But all languages are replete with phrases that testify to the worth of the image. For example, “One picture is worth a thousand words” or “Show me, I’m from Missouri.” The viewer is aware that the filmmaker can practice all sorts of legerdemain with trick shots and double exposures, for example, but if he is given no cause to assume that the filmmaker wishes to deceive him, he will usually accept what he sees—if it is well done and entertaining.
A short segment of The Reluctant Saint demonstrates simplicity of approach and simplicity of explanation. Based on a real character, the story takes place in the middle of the seventeenth century. Joseph (Maximilian Schell), a simple-minded young layman at his uncle’s monastery, is roasting chestnuts outside his domain, the monastery barnyard. It is late in the evening and a visiting dignitary, Bishop Sturzo (Akim Tamiroff), escaping from the over-attentive environment of the monks’ quarters, is attracted to Joseph’s fire. He sits down for a chestnut and a chat, and in a quiet moment he gazes up at the stars. (The excerpt is written in a master shot for easier reading.)
BISHOP STURZO
Beautiful night. Look at those stars!
JOSEPH
(looks up—after a beat)
Have you ever noticed—the longer you look, the more stars come out?
BISHOP STURZO
(likes the observation—but testing) I wonder why?
Joseph wrinkles his brow—shrugs. He has passed the test.
BISHOP STURZO (cont.)
I’m sure Brother Orlando would have an explanation.
JOSEPH
(sincerely)
Oh, yes! Brother Orlando knows everything.
BISHOP STURZO
(sourly)
I just heard him trying to explain the Trinity.x…
(a hopeless shrug)
Now it’s more of a mystery than ever. (he shakes his head)
You know, Joseph, it always puzzled me—the Trinity. Never could understand it—just took it on faith. What about you? Does it trouble you?
Joseph looks a little shocked. He considers the matter. Then he holds up three fingers.
JOSEPH
Three persons in one God—
(raises one finger at a time)
Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost.
BISHOP STURZO
(smiles)
Yes, but that’s for a child.
It’s small comfort for a bishop who’s
supposed to know theology.
(he leans in confidentially)
Look, Joseph, I’m a peasant—just like you. A practical man. I understand what I feel— what I see.
Joseph considers the idea, then stands up and takes down a blanket which hangs on a peg outside a stall. He smiles at the bishop, holds up the opened blanket.
JOSEPH
You see? One blanket….
Then, he folds the blanket in three pleats while holding it up off the ground much as a housewife might fold a sheet, and counts:
JOSEPH (cont.)
One… two… three. Three folds in one blanket. Three persons in one God.
The bishop is delighted with this simple but direct mind.
BISHOP STURZO
Brilliant, Joseph! Simply brilliant!
END OF SEGMENT:*
The explanation really explains nothing, but it does a better job of illustrating this abstract concept than any theological argument I have ever heard or read. It also demonstrates the superiority of “show” over “tell.”
Notes
* It is my firm belief that if the motion picture theater survives it will not be because of its superiority to television, but because of the loneliness factor.
* From The Reluctant Saint, Columbia Studios, 1962. Script by John Fante and Joseph Petracca.
3
Y
ou’d Better Believe It
Great comic sequences, as much as any dramatic scene, foster a sense of reality within the viewer. The situation depicted in this photograph, from Harold Lloyd’s Safety Last, is funny partly because it is believable. Photograph courtesy of Harold Lloyd Pictures.
Believability! Even a cursory analysis of scholars’ definitions and viewers’ dreams and desires clearly indicates that believability is the narrative film’s most essential ingredient, and its technical aspects, no matter how artistic or professional, are of value only if they serve to sustain it. When viewers buy their tickets, they are in a very real sense putting their trust on the line, and if directors wish to draw them into their “visions” and keep them there, they must respect and sustain that trust. If the film betrays belief, even for a brief moment, the viewer’s trust is weakened; an implicit compact has been violated.
The preceding statement will be acknowledged as admissible for serious drama, yet its validity is most graphically demonstrated in broad comedy. Buster Keaton, who understood his genre far better than most theorists, once said that a comic situation should never appear to be ridiculous. An examination of any outstanding comedy sequence will substantiate his point of view.
In a classic scene from Safety Last, Harold Lloyd hangs by his fingertips from the hands of a tower clock several stories above a city street. Although the viewers are deeply concerned with Lloyd’s predicament, they laugh at the comedian’s antics as he struggles to save himself. The believability of the situation increases the viewers’ concern and enhances their enjoyment. In The Gold Rush, Charlie Chaplin and Mack Swain are stranded in a one-room cabin by a raging blizzard which keeps them snowbound for many days. Eventually, extreme hunger drives Chaplin to boil and eat his shoes, while Swain reacts to his own hunger by hallucinating.
Cinema- Concept & Practice Page 4