It must be clearly understood that the realization of the lighting under discussion, in any category, is the responsibility of the cinematographer, not the director. The director must have a concept of the mood he wishes the film to project, and he must be able to communicate that concept to his cameraman; then he must go about his own business while the lighting man creates. Given talent, and the freedom to exercise it, his creations will probably exceed the director’s fondest hopes.
Note
* The division into categories or subclasses is arbitrary. It is used only to simplify the problems of technical analysis and has no bearing on quality or capacity for entertainment.
10
The Modification of Reality
A well-known Hollywood folk tale would have us believe that film-makers once jotted down their concepts on the backs of menus while dining at the Brown Derby. If, as sometimes happened, a director’s ideas flowed too freely, his scrawls could cost him the price of a table cloth. The tale is probably true. It was easier then to create motion pictures; “silent” ideas could be doodled in fragmentary fashion and later fleshed out in action on the set.
Then came sound, and words, and literary practices and limitations. Now many filmmakers are not even aware of the unique possibilities of their medium as they struggle to manufacture screen drama with verbal rather than visual signs, with shots that record rather than reveal.
A semantic axiom states that words are signs for things, but only in a generic sense. To make things more specific words must be modified by other words, and it often requires a paragraph of modifiers to pin a word down to a sign of a particular thing. Shots, on the other hand, are by their nature already signs for particular things— a shot of an airliner, for instance, will identify it specifically as, say, an American Airlines 747 rather than just an “airplane”—and are therefore much more real than words, semantically speaking. Using the bare shot descriptions of Chapter 3, shots do picture reality; the camera is at average eye level, the lens shows a normal vanishing point, and the lighting is impartial. Utter reality!
But, as Henry Moore said, “Merely to copy nature is no better than copying anything else,” and nothing in art is quite as dull as honest-to-goodness reality. The truth is that no good film shows reality as we ordinarily know it; it shows only a particular film-maker’s perception of reality—truth as distilled by an opinionated storyteller with a gift for modifying the “spitting image.”
So, while words are modified to make possible a more accurate description of a specific thing, shots are modified to facilitate the realization of a more indeterminate, a more universal, reality. Although the modifications seem to work in opposite directions, they serve the same purpose: to more deeply engage the viewer’s (reader’s) interest and involvement. And, coincidentally, it is largely through creative use of shot modifiers that a filmmaker exhibits a personal technical style.
Such modifications which, ideally, should result in cinematic scenes that would be difficult, if not impossible, to achieve with words alone, are implemented through lighting, lenses, and camera positioning.
It is no secret that in no more time than it takes to set a few lights, a good photographer can change an ugly duckling into a swan— a magical feat accomplished nearly every day. In John Ford’s The Infoimei, clever lighting and a shawl transformed a saint into a prostitute. And many an unscrupulous news photographer has given a frightened and possibly innocent suspect the appearance of a maniacal killer by cunning manipulation of his photoflash. Similar modification can be achieved in an inanimate object—any object. Converting the appearance of a warm, comfortable Victorian residence into Poe’s House of Usher is only a trick of the trade.
An actual third dimension is the only ingredient of reality usually missing in a film. “Left” and “right” are omnipresent; “up” and “down” only a little less so. But “to” and “fro” is an optical illusion which, in spite of the fact that a sense of depth can lend more “life” to a scene than any other technical factor, is completely absent in most films. Part of the problem is color.
Properly used, color has been a decided asset on the screen, but it is not an unmixed blessing. Color film is more forgiving and less demanding than black and white, and just as the automobile has contributed to the softening of many a leg muscle, color has eased the demands on the creative intensity of many a photographer. For example, in black and white certain shades of red and blue register the same shade of gray, and they must be “separated” by lighting and by staging. Color inherently separates any and all hues and, for the not-so-great photographer, flat lighting has become the easy way out. But flat lighting is also featureless lighting. An impression of the third dimension can only be achieved by the creation of a series of planes in depth through the proper juxtaposition of light and shadow. This is true not only of the fuller shots but of close-ups as well.
A character lit “in depth,” showing strong shadows and differentiated facial planes, will certainly look more interesting and attractive—yes, even “deep”—than he or she would in a flatly lit magazine style shot.
The filmmaker will ask for the lighting moods and effects he wants, but it is the cinematographer who must deliver them. Since there are probably more cameramen equal to the task than there are directors who know what to ask for, this rarely presents a problem. However, the choice of lens and camera position is a different kettle of fish; it always belongs to the director. In both of these areas the film maker must first know exactly what effects, impressions, or impacts he wishes to achieve, and second, what lens and set-up will best accomplish his desires. These two factors further modify the lighting effects referred to above, and the reality of the scene.
The 50mm lens is usually the workhorse of the film; it is the camera’s normal eye. It shows the shot’s subject at about the same distance and the same size as when seen with the human eye. The compositional perspective and the relative distances of other objects or people in the shot, whether in front of or behind the central subject, also appear to be normal. But, the 50mm aside, all other lenses distort the image to some degree and offer innumerable opportunities to cheat reality.
The narrow angle, or telescopic, lens brings objects closer than normal; the extent of the magnification is a function of its focal length. A 75mm, for instance, decreases the apparent distance from object to viewer by approximately 50 percent, while the 500 is truly telescopic. Outside of their obvious but seldom used advantage of facilitating close shots of distant objects, the narrow angle lenses are used chiefly to enhance appearance. Since there is less depth of focus and a flattening of features, the 75 or 100mm lens obtains
The director must construct his or her vision of the film’s narrative by determining each set-up. The author checks a set-up with cinematographer foe MacDonald. Photograph courtesy of Columbia Pictures Corporation.
more flattering close-ups of women. The focus can be concentrated on the eyes, leaving everything else, before and behind, slightly, though never obviously, indistinct. And even though the background is proportionately closer to the subject, the shallow focus renders it somewhat obscure and allows the subject to stand out from the surroundings.
The foreshortening property of the narrow angle lens serves to create a type of movement which is all the more effective because of its infrequent use. For example, shot with a 500mm lens a sprinter, running full tilt at the camera, seems to be taking steps so short as to be nearly running in place. So much effort expended in making so little progress creates a heart-pounding effect quite like that in the nightmare in which the dreamer strains every muscle yet finds himself unable to escape an ambling pursuer. For this and similar purposes this technique is far superior to the floating slow motion shots so frequently used, though the two modes can sometimes be combined to advantage (see page 122).
The wide angle is a much handier lens; it also requires more knowledgeable lighting, since it deals with the indepth problems previously mentioned. An
d it is the only lens that can convey a sense of the third dimension. In short, the wide angle lens appears to push the subject away from the viewer. A 25mm lens, for instance, places an actor at what appears to be double his real distance from the camera, while the distances of background objects or people increase in the same ratio. A very important aspect of this property is that a person walking away from or toward the camera appears to be covering twice the normal distance with each normal step, or would if the viewer’s points of reference for judging distance and speed of movement were not equally illusory.* But they are, and the distorted images are accepted as normal. The strong subliminal effect, however, offers opportunities for distinct aesthetic enhancement of many scenes in the area of movement through the application of dynamic composition, whose rules diverge widely from those applied to static groupings, and arbitrarily disproportionate physical relationships can be filmed to advantage.
One obvious example is a common movement in a ballet. A dancer glides rapidly from the distant edge of the stage. A few graceful steps and he executes a flying leap. In this common maneuver one dancer excels another only because he can run a touch faster, leap a few inches higher, and possibly do both with more finesse. But these slight advantages rarely add up to an awe-inspiring difference.
On the screen, however, even a routine dancer can be presented as a truly superhuman performer. Shot with a low camera (perhaps a foot off the ground) equipped with a 25mm lens, his few running steps traverse a remarkably wide stage (double the actual width) with apparent ease. (Since the length and speed of his steps will also be exaggerated by the 25mm lens, he can afford to take shorter strides and keep them under better control than they might be for a “live” performance.) He moves, of course, toward the camera (unlike a theatrical viewer, the camera will be on the stage) so his figure increases dynamically in size until he leaves the floor in a prodigious leap and soars over the camera (the viewer) in truly breathtaking fashion.
All the separate aspects of this maneuver—the run, the leap, the direction of his movement, and his spatial relationship to the film viewer—have been aesthetically far more exciting and engaging because, although the camera has photographed the action, it has not been used to “promote the redemption of physical reality.” On the contrary, it has intentionally distorted speed, height, distance, and dynamic growth to promote a deception which the viewer will enthusiastically accept as reality, and which he will long remember, but which, in the real world, he will never be able to find.
Close, motionless compositions can also profit from the use of a 35 or 25mm lens. The features are subtly distorted; the nose is longer, the eyes set deeper, bone structure and skin imperfections are more sharply defined. These factors can be used to bring a strong, down-to-earth character to the screen or, when pushed to excess, one who is physically or morally somewhat less than attractive. And the fact that they are undefinably offbeat helps to make the screen characters more interesting to the viewer. Though rarely mentioned by critics or analysts, wide angle lenses are essential to any production with film noir pretensions, and to “horror” and “who-done-it” films as well. (In my own work, the 40mm lens, because of the slight subliminal distortion which I preferred, was my “normal” lens in any genre.)
With the exception of the 50mm, every lens distorts reality to some degree, but the distortions should rarely be noticeable. When the degree of distortion is properly coordinated with the character(s) being photographed, the effect should be subliminal, and it will be accepted by the viewer as an integral physical singularity of the person he sees on the screen. The discriminating use of the lens system can take some of the burden of characterization off the actor’s back and allow him to “get into” his screen persona in the most honest way possible. When properly understood and used, this is one of the great advantages of the film medium. (This area will be more fully discussed in Chapter 12.)
The third shot modifier, camera positioning, is dictated partly by the set-ups, but more positively by the taste and inclinations of the filmmaker. Ordinarily, the eye level shot adds nothing to the screen— it is neutral and bland—and since few viewers look for neutrality in a film, it should be avoided. Of course, certain camera positions are mandated by the scene’s personnel. For instance, in a dialogue scene involving James Gamer and Sally Field, over-shoulder shots and close-ups would angle up at Gamer and down at Ms. Field, and if a man on the ground chats with the fiddler on the roof, the same camera positioning would be called for, though angled to a more extreme degree. But the greater part of any film is on the level, cinematically speaking.
Arbitrarily setting the camera off eye level has many advantages. Perhaps the chief one is similar to that engendered by lens distortion—it puts the scene or the players slightly out of kilter. It is a consciously imperceptible nudge to the viewer’s sense of perception, and it helps to keep him mentally on his toes. In most set-ups the preferred position is below eye level, where it serves a practical as well as an aesthetic purpose. People look down on the ground they walk on more often than they look up at the stars they wish on. A person may look skyward when daydreaming, but daydreaming is rarely the subject of a scene. As Rodin understood so well, thinking lowers the head, and a person usually looks down when speaking on the telephone or kicking a clod, for example. From a normal or slightly above normal point of view, the camera looks at eyelids
Sometimes the close-up says it all. Fred MacMurray in The Caine Mutiny, a Columbia Pictures film.
that screen off the eyes and conceal the actor’s thoughts, but a shot which looks up at a film’s character serves not only to jog the viewer’s awareness but gives him a clear view of the player’s eye reactions in the bargain.
In long shots, and especially in crowd shots, the preferred camera position is above eye level. At eye level, increasing distance shows more and more “head room”; that is, space above the action. With some exceptions that space usually says nothing and makes a very bad composition.
As for the degree of tilt, the up tilt may vary from 3 to 6 inches in a close-up to a foot or more in longer shots, but in all circumstances, caution should be observed. The upward tilt has become a common practice which, too often, is merely common. However, the technique is too useful to abandon; it should just be approached with special care. A shot tilted sideways is rarely of any value in straight narration and should be avoided, but the down tilt is often useful and, in its variations, offers a great deal of latitude; in extreme long shots the camera is often positioned many yards above eye level. The exact distance varies with the situation and, once more, with the filmmaker’s instincts and taste. And as in every aspect of the art, there are frequent exceptions to the rule.
Just as authors enhance their writing by their individualized use of word modifiers, so a filmmaker “stamps” a film through the personalized choice of shot modifiers. The subtle use of this facet of filmmaking is of extreme importance both to the filmmaker and to the aesthetic singularity of his work.
Note
* The use of space-distorting lenses is most graphically illustrated in TV commercials. When a car manufacturer wishes to demonstrate the maneuverability of his product, a narrow lens is used to shoot down a long line of red cones. As seen on the screen, the cones seem much closer together than they are in actuality, and the car manages to dodge them quite nimbly as it zigzags down the line. On the other hand, when the selling pitch is rapid acceleration, they shoot down a road with a wide angle lens. The car then seems to devour a quarter mile of road in the time it takes an ordinary car to travel two hundred yards—because that is the distance the filmed car really covers. In both cases, what you see is not what you get. In a film, however, it may be what you’re looking for.
11
Symbols, Metaphors, and Messages
The Chinese character ic means woman. Now that you know that you will recognize it anywhere, without regard to what other languages or dialects may name it. You do not have to know its Chine
se word, or how the sound of that word transliterates into any other language. means femme to a Frenchman, mujer to a Spaniard, and so on through all the world’s tongues. That is the beauty and the advantage of a symbol as opposed to a word. That is also the beauty and the advantage of a film—at its cinematic best.
Like any animal, humans communicate with sounds (words) and gestures (images). But, at least for humans, symbols do not eliminate words, they merely transfer the responsibility for their interpretation. We automatically translate gestures into more words. A “wave-off,” for instance, can be confusing until the observer translates it verbally as, “Go away!” For, just as an idea has no meaning unless it can be described in words, so an image makes no sense unless it serves as the bearer of a verbally describable emotion or bit of information. To cinematic purists this is one of film’s most troublesome contradictions. But when we speak of cinematic imagery what are we really talking about? We’re talking about the central element of a three-step operation.
It always starts with words—words searching for a viable theme, words identifying the growing elements of a story, and finally the words that bring the crystallized concept to life. Unfortunately, this is also where it most often stops. In a novel, a poem, or a play, the words are all, or nearly all, of the realized creation, but the filmmaker knows that this is only the first step of a structural sequence. That is why, except for purposes of promotion, the original treatment or script has no need for beauty of expression, only clarity—clarity of concept and of purpose.
The second step is the transposition of the original concept into images, a step usually made most effectively by the filmmaker. The images which communicate and dramatize the concept should be a carefully selected as are the words of any master writer, be it Poe or Proust, because in the third step they must deliver the original message, but usually not in the original words.
Cinema- Concept & Practice Page 11