The idea of evil, compositionally expressed through the image of crime—murder—as resolved in the cited scene, can be encountered elsewhere in Tolstoy’s art. For him, this if a beloved image.
This is his compositional-imagist structure, not only for “adultery,” but also for the “swinish connexion” within the bonds of marriage.
We again find this theme in The Kreutzer Sonata. Two fragments from Pozdnyshev’s narrative show it clearly. The second of these (regarding the children) expands the frame of reference, providing a renewed unexpectedness of outer compositional construction, issuing as a whole, however, from Tolstoy’s inner relation to the theme:
“I wondered what embittered us against one another, yet it was perfectly simple: that animosity was nothing but the protest of our human nature against the animal nature that overpowered it.
“I was surprised at our enmity to one another; yet it could not have been otherwise. That hatred was nothing but the mutual hatred of accomplices in a crime—both for the incitement to the crime and for the part taken in it. What was it but a crime, when she, poor thing, became pregnant in the first month, and our swinish connexion continued? You think I am straying from my subject? Not at all! I am telling you how I killed my wife. They asked me at the trial with what, and how, I killed her. Fools! They thought I killed her with a knife, on the 5th of October. It was not then I killed her, but much earlier. Just as they are all now killing, all, all. . . .”7
“So the presence of children not only failed to improve our life, but poisoned it. Besides, the children were a new cause of dissension. As soon as we had children they became the means and the object of our discord, and more often the older they grew. They were not only the object of discord, but the weapons of our strife. We used our children, as it were, to fight one another with. Each of us had a favorite weapon among them for our strife. I used to fight her chiefly through Vasya, the eldest boy, and she me through Lisa. . . . They, poor things, suffered terribly from this, but we, with our incessant warfare, had no time to think of that. . . .”8
As we can see, no matter what example we take, the method of composition remains the same. In all cases, its basic determinant remains primarily the relation of the author. In all cases, it is the deed of man and the structure of human deeds that prefigures the composition.
The decisive factors of the compositional structure are taken by the author from the basis of his relation to phenomena. This dictates structure and characteristics, through which the portrayal itself is unfolded. Losing none of its reality, the portrayal emerges from this, immeasurably enriched in both intellectual and emotional qualities.
Another example may be offered here. Its interest lies in the delineation of two characters by an imagery that is customary and even routine, perfectly natural in both structure and characteristics, but the structural means is consciously produced by . . . an exchange of structures!
These personages are a German officer and a French prostitute.
The imagist structure of a “noble officer” is employed for the prostitute. In the same way the most repellent elements in the imagist structure of a prostitute serve as skeletal outline for the German officer.
This ingenious “contra-dance” idea was Maupassant’s—used in “Mademoiselle Fifi.”
The image of the Frenchwoman is woven from all the traits of nobility, linked with a middle-class attitude towards army officers. Consistent with this method, the substance of the German officer is revealed in its prostitute nature. From this “nature” Maupassant seized only one trait—its destructiveness of the “moral principles” of bourgeois society. Further interest for us is lent to this aspect in that Maupassant took this over from a similar scheme that in a finished form was well-known and fresh in the public’s memory—perhaps so that his readers could not possibly miss his point! The portrait structure of his German officer is cut from a pattern designed by Zola.
The Baron Wilhelm von Eyrick, nicknamed “Mademoiselle Fifi,” is, of course, “Nana.”
Not the whole figure of Nana, but Nana in that part of the novel where Zola raises this image to immense destructive powers that are directed against well-ordered families, symbolically climaxed by Nana’s destructive caprice in smashing the family heirlooms brought to her by her admirers. The generalized presentation of the courtesan’s destructive powers for family and society is further “materialized” by the particular breaking of the bonbonnière of Dresden china and her “general massacre” of the heap of other valuable gifts that serve as a symbol of the “high society” which is mockingly broken by Nana’s caprices.
The structure of the officer’s behavior is absolutely identical with the structure of Nana’s behavior in this scene. Even within the surface similarity of the names of “Nana” and “Fifi” there is a further clue to this identity: the Baron’s nickname was given him for his habit of expressing his contempt for everyone and everything around him—“fi, fi, donc!”
And in the story as a whole we have a fine model of the compositional re-channeling of a customary naturalistic imagery into a structural framework suitable to the author’s requirements.
We have examined cases that are quite descriptive, palpable, and easily apparent. The very same principles, however, lie in the deepest elements of compositional structure, in those strata that can be uncovered only by the scalpel of the most pedantic and probing analysis.
And everywhere we see as basic the same humanity and human psychology, nourishing and shaping the most intricate compositional elements of form exactly as it feeds and defines the content of the work.
I wish to illustrate this with two complex and seemingly abstract examples, in regard to the composition of Potemkin. These will serve as examples of structure and composition in the broadest sense of the terms, corroborating what has been said above.
When Potemkin is discussed two of its features are commonly remarked: The organic construction of its composition as a whole. And the pathos* of the film. Sacrificing grace to precision, we can refer to these two qualities as:
ORGANIC-NESS and PATHOS
Taking these two most noticed features of Potemkin, let us attempt to uncover the means by which they were achieved, primarily in the field of composition. We shall observe the first feature in the composition as a whole. For the second, we shall take the episode of the Odessa steps, where the pathos of the film achieves its greatest dramatic tension.
We are here concerned with how the organic-ness and pathos of the theme are resolved by specifically compositional means. In the same way we could take apart these qualities to see how they are resolved by other factors; we could examine the contribution to organic-ness and pathos made by the actors’ performances, by the treatment of the story, by the light and color scale of the photography, by the mass-scenes, by the natural backgrounds, etc.
That is, we take up this matter from one narrow, particular question of structure, and by no means pretend to a thorough analysis of all the film’s aspects.
However, in an organic work of art, elements that nourish the work as a whole pervade all the features composing this work. A unified canon pierces not only the whole and each of its parts, but also each area that is called to participate in the work of composition. One and the same principle will feed any area, advancing in each its own qualitative signs of distinction. And only in such a case may one speak of the organicness of a work, for an organism is here understood as defined by Engels in Dialectics of Nature: “. . .the organism is certainly a higher unity. . .”
These considerations bring us at once to our first matter—to the question of the “organic” structure of Potemkin.
We shall attempt to approach this question, proceeding from the premise established at the opening of this essay. The organic-ness of a work, as well as the sensation of organic-ness that is received from the work, must rise in that case where the law of building the work answers the law of structure in natural organic phenomena.
It mu
st be quite evident that we are speaking here of the sensation of compositional organic-ness in the whole. This can break down the resistance even of that spectator whose class allegiance is in sharp opposition to the direction taken by the subject and the theme of the work, i.e., those spectators for whom neither theme nor subject is “organic.” This partially explains the reception given Potemkin outside the Soviet Union.
Let us be more precise: What do we mean by the organicness of building the work? I should say that we have two kinds of organic-ness.
The first is characteristic of any work that possesses wholeness and inner laws. In this case organic-ness can be defined by the fact that the work as a whole is governed by a certain law of structure and that all its parts are subordinated to this canon. The German estheticians would label this: organic-ness of a general order. It is apparent that in our instance of this principle we have a pattern of the principle on which natural phenomena are built and about which Lenin said:
The particular does not exist outside that relationship which leads to the general. The general exists only in the particular, through the particular. . . .9
But the law itself by which these natural phenomena are constructed, as yet in this first case by no means certainly coincides with that canon on which one or another work of art is constructed.
The second kind of organic-ness of a work is present together with not only the very principle of organic-ness, but also the canon itself, according to which natural phenomena are built. This may be termed organic-ness of a particular or exceptional kind. And it is this that is of especial interest for us.
We have before us a case where a work of art—an art-ificial work—is built on those same laws by which non-artistic phenomena—the “organic” phenomena of nature—are constructed.
There is in this case, not only a truthful realistic subject, but also, in its forms of compositional embodiment, a truthful and full reflection of a canon peculiar to actuality.
Evidently, whatever may be the kind of organic-ness in it, the work has a completely individual affect on its perceivers, not only because it is raised to the level of natural phenomena, but also because the laws of its construction are simultaneously the laws governing those who perceive the work, inasmuch as this audience is also part of organic nature. Each spectator feels himself organically related, fused, united with a work of such a type, just as he senses himself united and fused with organic nature around him.
To a greater or lesser degree each of us inevitably experiences this sensation, and the secret lies in the fact that in this case we and the work are governed by one and the same canon. We can observe nature operating within this canon in both the examples chosen, though they would appear to touch two different and independent questions. These do, however, meet each other finally.
The first example is devoted to an analysis of this canon in static conditions; the second analyzes the dynamic operation of this canon.
Our first example will raise questions of parts and proportions in the structure of the work. Our second—the movement of the structure of the work.
This means that the solution of the first question of the organic structure of Potemkin must begin with the deciphering of that which is subordinate to the first structural condition—organic-ness of a general kind.
Potemkin looks like a chronicle (or newsreel) of an event, but it functions as a drama.
The secret of this lies in the fact that the chronicle pace of the event is fitted to a severely tragic composition. And furthermore, to tragic composition in its most canonic form—the five-act tragedy. Events, regarded almost as naked facts, are broken into five tragic acts, the facts being selected and arranged in sequence so that they answer the demands set by classical tragedy: a third act quite distinct from the second, a fifth distinct from the first, and so on.
The utility in the choice of a five-act structure in particular for this tragedy was, of course, by no means accidental, but was the result of prolonged natural selection—but we need not go into this history here. Enough that for the basis of our drama we took a structure that had been particularly tested by the centuries. This was further emphasized by the individual titling of each “act.”* Here, in condensation, are the contents of the five acts:
Part I—“Men and Maggots.” Exposition of the action. Milieu of the battleship. Maggoty meat. Discontent ferments among the sailors.
Part II— “Drama on the Quarterdeck.” “All hands on deck!” Refusal of the wormy soup. Scene with the tarpaulin. “Brothers!” Refusal to fire. Mutiny. Revenge on the officers.
Part III— “Appeal from the Dead.” Mist. The body of Vakulinchuk is brought into Odessa port. Mourning over the body. Indignation. Demonstration. Raising the red flag.
Part IV—“The Odessa Steps.” Fraternization of shore and battleship. Yawls with provisions. Shooting on the Odessa steps. The battleship fires on the “generals’ staff.”
Part V—“Meeting the Squadron.” Night of expectation. Meeting the squadron. Engines. “Brothers!” The squadron refuses to fire. The battleship passes victoriously through the squadron.
In the action of its episodes each part of the drama is totally unlike the others, but piercing and, as it were, cementing them, there is a repeat.
In “Drama on the Quarterdeck,” a tiny group of rebelling sailors (a small particle of the battleship) cries “Brothers!” as they face the guns of the firing squad. And the guns are lowered. The whole organism of the battleship joins them.
In “Meeting the Squadron,” the whole rebellious battleship (a small particle of the fleet) throws the same cry of “Brothers!” towards the guns of the flagship, pointed towards the Potemkin. And the guns are lowered: the whole organism of the fleet has joined them.
From a tiny cellular organism of the battleship to the organism of the entire battleship; from a tiny cellular organism of the fleet to the organism of the whole fleet—thus flies through the theme the revolutionary feeling of brotherhood. And this is repeated in the structure of the work containing this theme—brotherhood and revolution.
Over the heads of the battleship’s commanders, over the heads of the admirals of the tzar’s fleet, and finally over the heads of the foreign censors, rushes the whole film with its fraternal “Hurrah!” just as within the film the feeling of brotherhood flies from the rebellious battleship over the sea to the shore. The organic-ness of the film, born in the cell within the film, not only moves and expands throughout the film as a whole, but appears far beyond its physical limits—in the public and historical fate of the same film.
Thematically and emotionally this would, perhaps, be sufficient in speaking of organic-ness, but let us be formally more severe.
Look intently into the structure of the work.
In its five acts, tied with the general thematic line of revolutionary brotherhood, there is otherwise little that is similar externally. But in one respect they are absolutely alike: each part is distinctly broken into two almost equal halves. This can be seen with particular clarity from the second act on:
II. Scene with the tarpaulin → mutiny
III. Mourning for Vakulinchuk → angry demonstration
IV. Lyrical fraternization → shooting
V. Anxiously awaiting the fleet → triumph
Moreover, at the “transition” point of each part, the halt has its own peculiar kind of caesura.
In one part (III), this is a few shots of clenched fists, through which the theme of mourning the dead leaps into the theme of fury.
In another part (IV), this is a sub-title—“SUDDENLY”—cutting off the scene of fraternization, and projecting it into the scene of the shooting.
The motionless muzzles of the rifles (in Part II). The gaping mouths of the guns (in Part V). And the cry of “Brothers,” upsetting the awful pause of waiting, in an explosion of brotherly feeling—in both moments.
And it should be further noted that the transition within each part is not merely a transiti
on to a merely different mood, to a merely different rhythm, to a merely different event, but each time the transition is to a sharply opposite quality. Not merely contrasting, but opposite, for each time it images exactly that theme from the opposite point of view, along with the theme that inevitably grows from it.
The explosion of mutiny after the breaking point of oppression has been reached, under the pointed rifles (Part II).
Or the explosion of wrath, organically breaking from the theme of mass mourning for the murdered (Part III).
The shooting on the steps as an organic “deduction” of the reaction to the fraternal embrace between the Potemkin’s rebels and the people of Odessa (Part IV), and so on.
The unity of such a canon, recurring in each act of the drama, is already self-evident.
But when we look at the work as a whole, we shall see that such is the whole structure of Potemkin.
Actually, near the middle, the film as a whole is cut by the dead halt of a caesura; the stormy action of the beginning is completely halted in order to take a fresh start for the second half of the film. This similar caesura, within the film as a whole, is made by the episode of the dead Vakulinchuk and the harbor mists.
For the entire film this episode is a halt before the same sort of transfer that occurs in those moments cited above within the separate parts. And with this moment the theme, breaking the ring forged by the sides of one rebellious battleship, bursts into the embrace of a whole city which is topographically opposed to the ship, but is in feeling fused into a unity with it; a unity that is, however, broken away from it by the soldiers’ boots descending the steps at that moment when the theme once more returns to the drama at sea.
Film Form Page 17