The Edge of the Art Form

***This post contains spoilers, but only of the first third of the film.***

Thank God for Movie Bloggers. If there's one thing you can count on with Movie Bloggers it's screengrabs. Lots of 'em! And I don't mean that flippantly, I'm being perfectly serious. Before we bloggers came along you got the same old pics from the same old movies all the time. There was Gone With The Wind. You know, the double profile pic of Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh. There was Casablanca. Again with the double profile pic. There was Citizen Kane, one of the most abundant sources for jaw dropping stills in the history of film and what would you get, again and again? Kane in front of his huge campaign poster at the political rally. Every time.

Then we bloggers came into the picture and changed all that. Do a search on a classic film now and you're likely to strike gold with different shots and vantage points and if you click on a pic, chances are it will be located at an address supported by Blogger, Wordpress, Blogsome or some other blogging server.

In fact, this blog wouldn't have the look it has without them. If I couldn't pop in a DVD to get just the right screengrab for a new banner design or find a great screengrab on the net then, well, I wouldn't be changing my banners every other day. And dammit, I like changing my banners every other day. I'm too much of a photoshop geek and a bad pun addict to ever stop. I've done so many of them that if I didn't change them every other day I'd never get them all up in ten years. I put up one the other day which can be seen at the top of this post. It's a screengrab from Amarcord, watercolored in Photoshop and subtitled "Some artists paint with film."

After I put it up I started thinking about that very idea, the fact that many great directors and cinematographers really do create beautiful art on film. My wife is an artist* and has even done a series of drawings based on John Huston's opening shots of the poor and downtrodden in Fat City. There they are, in a desolate urban environment, hunched over in doorways and cradled against chainlink fences. Most people see this as a series of establishing shots (although they probably wouldn't think about it that specifically) but cinephiles and artists see the beauty that a great director and cinematographer (Conrad Hall was DP on Fat City) bring to every frame of a well thought out film.

Many film bloggers have used screengrabs for shot by shot posts as well as for a variety of other purposes (like my banners for instance) and I'm no exception. One of the first posts I ever did here at Cinema Styles was a shot by shot look at Sol Nazerman's (Rod Steiger) first substantial Holocaust flashback in The Pawnbroker. Without screengrabs I wouldn't have been able to relate the feeling of that scene nearly as well.

I haven't done much with screengrabs since doing those posts months ago but I'd like to start it up again, and for me, there's no one better to start with than Michael Powell.

Of course, I could do all the big, colorful beautiful Powell's; The Red Shoes, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, Black Narcissus, Peeping Tom. But instead I'd like to highlight an earlier black and white Powell, The Edge of the World, made in 1937. His cinematographers were Monty Berman, Skeets Kelly and Ernest Palmer. Each had different jobs on the film operating cameras in different locations whether it be cliffside, ocean or interior. Powell himself set up the shots.

Unlike later Powell efforts, in which artificiality is part of the storytelling template, The Edge of the World employs realism in it's settings (almost everything is filmed outside and on location) but true to Powell the manipulation of those settings photographically foreshadows his later efforts in which the placement of the camera and the choice of lenses used give the story new meaning.

As an example of this I'd like to use three pivotal scenes early in the film that set the story for the final clash of families and island tragedy in motion.

On a tiny Shetland island the fishing community there is threatened by the trawlers and commercialized fishing of the mainland taking away their livlihood. Two men, Robbie Manson and Andrew Gray argue over evacuating the island or staying on. Their argument, before the village's fisherman, takes place outside on of the grand sloping cliffsides.

First, a long shot of the group gathered on slope.


Then Powell brings us in close to listen to the group. Throughout the scene the perspective shifts. Here we see an elder, Peter Manson, standing in the center, defiantly against any ideas of leaving the village. His son, Robbie, is seated on the rock to the right.

But dissent is sown by his own son. When this happens the camera goes into a closeup on Manson who eyes his son with contempt.

As his son speaks we see him alone, to the side, but then...

... his father confronts his views and comes directly into the shot standing over him.


Robbie does not back down and the perspective shifts. Robbie is now on the right. Notice the man with one leg on the rock and where he was in the first close shot to orient how the perspective has shifted.

As Robbie pleads his case, for leaving the island, the camera goes into him, giving him a solitary closeup.


As he speaks his father recedes into the background. Note the direction the men are looking as they listen to Robbie. He is once again on the right, the perspective having shifted again.

Finally, a decision is made to have a contest to settle the matter. Robbie and Andrew Gray, who is to marry Robbie's sister and supports staying, will race to the top of a cliff. The first one there will decide whether the village is abandoned. The father no longer has a say. The perspective now shifts with the camera on the seaside looking inland. Robbie's father stands alone on a ledge, looking into the distance.

The shifting perspectives mirror the shifting attitudes and arguments of the group. Like a classical actor using mannerism and inflection to help the audience understand the Elizabethan dialect, Powell uses his camera to make visual the debate at hand.

Once the race to the top of the cliff has begun Powell again shifts perspectives throughout. Two men race up opposite sides of a cliff. The outcome to determine an either/or situation. The perspectives shift from left to right to illustrate this.

The local priest watches from his window, to the left.

Townswomen observe the action as well, looking to the right.


Robbie's sister and Andrew's fiancee, looks upward.

And finally, when Robbie falls to his death, the grandmother stares straight ahead, then looks up to the right.

This scene is followed by one of the most beautiful and moving funeral scenes ever shot. Despite the crisp and natual outdoor photography of the rest of the film, the funeral scene is shot in the style of silent films. It employs irises and gels on the lens to create a surreal look and mood as Robbie Manson is laid to rest. In keeping with the silent movie device, no dialogue is heard, simply a plaintiff and beautiful hymn, heard over the action. Watch the clip of the funeral below to see how an artist truly can paint with film. Watch the whole movie to see a filmmaking genius early in his career showing the first signs of greatness that would later define him as an artist.

*****

*In case anyone's wondering, the oil painting on the sidebar, "Blue Lady on the Sea," is one of my favorites of her works.

Storyboarding Taxi Driver

From Scorsese on Scorsese by Martin Scorsese (edited by David Thompson and Ian Christie, London: Faber and Faber, 1989.).

"Travis really has the best of intentions; he believes he's doing right, just like St Paul. He wants to clean up life, clean up the mind, clean up the soul. He is very spiritual, but in a sense Charles Manson was spiritual, which doesn't mean that it's good. It's the power of the spirit on the wrong road. The key to the picture is the idea of being brave enough to admit having these feelings, and then act them out. I instinctively showed that the acting out was not the way to go, and this created even more ironic twists to what was going on. " p 62.

Below are the original storyboards for the shootout at the brothel as drawn by Martin Scorsese (pages 55-59). On the whole, the finished film follows them very closely with only minor changes as noted. I have highlighted one frame from each storyboard to compare with the corresponding shot in the completed film.

Upon hearing the gunfire Iris appears to be lifting only her head from the bed in the storyboard but in the film she sits up completely.

The shooter's gun is about two feet from Bickle's arm in the storyboard and his torso completely within the frame. In the film, he shoots from point blank range and only his arm is visible. When Travis fires back it appears in the storyboard that Scorsese planned to have his victim shot in the eye(?) but it's difficult to tell. He is shot in the forehead in the film.

Two reverses from the storyboard: In the first shot, Iris is on the left side of the room but in the storyboard she is on the right. In the second, Bickle puts his "gun" to his head with his left hand in the film, his right hand on the storyboard.

Scorsese does not elaborate in the book on the reason for any minor changes. Minor changes from storyboard to completed film occur regularly during the shooting process and many directors have been known to draw up a new storyboard during the shooting. Most of these changes probably occurred from necessity more than anything else. For instance, in the story board Scorsese has the shooter with glasses shot in the eye. Perhaps that is why he gave him glasses, to conceal the squib that would go off but it proved more difficult than thought so his forehead was used instead. When Bickle sits on the sofa in the film his right arm is bunched up against the corpse of one of his victims and so going with his left hand was probably just easier. And yet it created an iconic image: I cannot imagine Bickle's right hand at his head, it has to be the left.

Scorsese's storyboards confirm the importance of the director to the visual result of the film. True, a good cinematographer must still set up the shot, properly light it and make it work. But a good director has already shot the movie in his head and on paper before the camera ever rolls. Think of Orson Welles two masterpieces Citizen Kane and The Magnificent Ambersons. They each had a different cinematographer (Gregg Tolland on Kane and Stanley Cortez on Ambersons) and yet have remarkable visual similarities as well as visual flourishes not found in other Tolland or Cortez shot films. However, a director can have all the visual ideas in the world and without the right cinematographer those ideas may end up unrealized. Tolland and Cortez were brilliant cinematographers and had the talent to give Welles what he wanted. Just as Scorsese had Michael Chapman (Invasion of the Body Snatchers 78 and Raging Bull 80) help him create one of the most stunning climaxes to any film of the seventies. It was a final brutal entry into the world of Travis Bickle but without Scorsese's storyboards and Michael Chapman's camera work, it might have been just another shootout.

Shot for Shot: Was that really necessary?

During this month of October many sites and blogs, including this one, are discussing the many shocks and scares from the countless horror films through the decades. Horror films and shock thrillers deal with gore and violence as a matter of course. It's their bread and butter. Some choose to deal with suspense and suggestion instead (Cat People being a notable example) but most go for the jugular and give fans what they came for: blood, death and gore. But when is it gratuitous and when is it good for the story? Gratuitous is probably the wrong word to use because since the violence is often a part of the story it could be argued that nothing a horror film shows should be labeled gratuitous. With other films operating outside the classic definitions of the horror genre, it is not so clear cut. One classic example of filmmakers and censors deciding that a movie had gone too far was the original version of King Kong (1933).

After Kong rolls several of the expedition crew off the log bridge over the ravine to the depths below we are shown their lifeless bodies banging against rock and branches on the way down. End of scene. But in the uncut pre-release version three expedition members remain alive and battle all manner of giant insects and arachnids. Censors felt it was going too far. Of course, by today's standards that judgment is laughable but oddly censors sometimes make the right decision artistically without even knowing it. The problem is they are making it for the filmmaker who should be the one making the final decision, not the censor. In the case of King Kong it could go either way. Frankly there is so much going on in the first half of the movie concerning battles with Pterodactyls, Tyrannosaurus Rexes, and other manner of oversized beast and serpent that being spared this scene was probably a wise decision for pacing purposes alone. It's the one extended scene where none of the principal players are involved so doing without it probably made the film better.

With other films it's not so easily dismissed. There are many films in the horror genre that deal with brutal violence, torture and slayings from the Friday the 13th series through the current Saw and Hostel series. Here I will not deal with gore filled scenes but with one scene from a very different film that has great psychological impact on the viewer. It is the home intrusion scene from Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer.

In Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer there is a scene of a home intrusion that is videotaped by the perpetrators. Because the scene is shown to us through the viewfinder of the video camera it takes on a verisimilitude that makes the action seem all too real for the viewer unlike the cinematically self-aware cleverness of Funny Games, which done eleven years later seems like a feature length accounting of this single scene. It should be noted however that nothing in the entire course of Funny Games even approaches the stomach-churning power of this one brief scene in Henry.

The viewer is shown the father, tied up and beaten on the couch and the mother in a chair being fondled and abused by Otis, Henry's sidekick. It is disturbing enough at this point but the scene goes in an unexpected direction when the couple's son comes home and stands confused for a moment while the mother screams for him to run. Henry drops the camera and runs to catch the boy who is brought over in front of the mother. The viewer is now watching the scene at a tilted angle as the video camera has been dropped to the ground and is resting on its side. The father is killed before the mother's eyes and then the son has his neck broken, also in front of the mother. As his lifeless body lies on the floor of their living room Otis begins to stick his hands down the mother's shirt. Before the scene is over the camera will reveal that Otis is at home now watching the videotape of their intrusion for his continued amusement.

It is not an exaggeration to confess that the first time I saw this scene I felt a little sick afterwards. It's a scene that is horrifying to behold. And I have another confession to make. I watched the scene again because I couldn't believe what I was seeing. When it was over the second time I felt even worse. In fact, the scene is so disturbing that it casts an enormous shadow over the rest of the film. After it has occurred you can't think of anything else but it. And ten or twenty years down the road of reminiscence, it's all you remember.

Which brings us to the question posed by the title of this piece: Was it necessary?

Before that scene and after it we are provided ample evidence of Henry's moral emptiness as he and Otis kill randomly and employ different methods each time. We know from Henry's conversations with Becky, Otis' sister, that he is a violent and remorseless man, who killed his own mother. So what does this scene add to the equation? On the surface, one would have to say absolutely nothing. It doesn't show Henry to be more of a killer than anything else or even less remorseful. But it is the way it is shot (through the video camera's viewfinder) and the subject matter (a family, the murder of a child) that separates it from the rest of the film and perhaps provides a clue as to its inclusion.

It has been suggested that this scene was meant to play off of the audience's own voyeuristic tendencies, a disturbing way to have us "identify" with the killers or to catch us in our own hypocrisy as we are repulsed and yet watch anyway. I myself, as noted before, watched it twice. But there is nothing in the rest of the film that suggests that director John McNaughton had the artistic or intellectual flair for this kind of exercise in a film so devoid of stylistic touches. The whole style of the film would appear to be an absence of style. It is clear that the director intends to show a straightforward account of a remorseless and brutal human being and not let theatrics get in the way.

On the DVD commentary McNaughton says he views this scene as the centerpiece of the film but offers no further insightful elaboration. My final guess is that he thought it would appear more realistic if shown through the lens of the camera and thus stay in line with the ideal of the film - to show raw unidealized violence. He was correct. But the question remains, was it necessary? Does the film need this scene? It's at this point in any analysis of a scene or film that I will provide my answer, my thoughts on the subject at hand. But here, I have no answer. Or perhaps I have too many. There are times when I believe without this scene the full horror of Henry would not be communicated to the audience, while at other times I know this is not true and that Henry is clearly drawn before the audience as a monster without the inclusion of this scene. It is at those times that I feel the director was simply being greedy, having a diabolical idea to haunt the audience and unwilling to part with it. To paraphrase an old aphorism, used in countless conversations and even in movies*, he was so delighted by the fact that he could do it that he never stopped to think if he should do it.

So what is it? Necessary illumination of Henry's character or cheap exploitation of realistic violence? If there was a pat answer the scene wouldn't be controversial. Controversies do not arise from agreement. And make no mistake, there is a disagreement at work, even within the movie itself. The scene stands out. It is separate from the rest of the film. It is difficult to watch. And in the end it tells us nothing more about Henry that we haven't gathered by all that surrounds it. So why is it in the movie? Why was it done? Why am I even writing about it? Well I may not know why it's in the movie but I do know why I'm writing about it. For that I'll cede the floor to mountaineer George Mallory who was asked in March 1923 why he was attempting to reach the summit of Mount Everest. His famous answer: "Because it's there."

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*Well at least in Jurassic Park as I recall...

Shot for Shot: Barry Lyndon

By 1975 Stanley Kubrick had cemented his reputation as one of the masters of cinema. From Paths of Glory to Dr. Strangelove to 2001 his films were widely seen and widely discussed. His previous film, A Clockwork Orange, had been a huge hit with multiple Oscar nominations. Before that was 2001 which turned science fiction and the convential movie plot on its ear. So his next film was sure to be a smash. It wasn't. To be sure, it was quite successful critically, and to this day I consider it one of his best, if not on any give day, his absolute best.

The film is Barry Lyndon and it is a film of rare beauty, a film that is methodically paced but never boring. A film that places Ryan O'Neal of all people, in the role of Redmond Barry, an Irish adventurer, societal manipulator and, eventually, broken down gamester. Ryan O'Neal fills the role with a naiveté that eventually turns to self-serving calculation but through it all, Redmond Barry seems more human than anyone he encounters, save his friend and comrade in arms, Captain Grogan.

For this edition of Just a Moment we will focus on one of the most extraordinarily paced and photographed sequences in cinema history, the famous duel scene between Redmond Barry, now Barry Lyndon, and his stepson, Lord Bullingdon.

The scene, accompanied by a manipulated version of Handel's Sarabande, takes place in a barn, not a pasture or meadow as the first duel in the film. Pigeons fly across the rafters and send dust particles scattering into the light. In the previous scene Lord Bullingdon has demanded satisfaction from a tired, broken down Lyndon.

The scene begins with a shot of a pistol being loaded.

We are then shown the gentlemen who have gathered to officiate the duel and relay the rules to the dueling parties. Throughout the scene the mood is so restrained that the tension builds effortlessly as we await the outcome. That is to say, Kubrick provides no flashy photography, no quick edits, no overpowering musical cues. He lets the duel play itself out in real time allowing us, the viewers, to feel as if we are present at a real duel with people we have come to know well.

As the coin toss is called we can already notice one striking difference between Lord Bullingdon and everyone else: He is overwhelmingly nervous. His body quivers and shakes in stark contrast to the business-like composure of the surrounding gentlemen, including Lyndon.

Bullingdon wins the toss and gets first shot. He is escorted to his position as we get to see the interior of the barn in long shot for the first time.

Behind the sound of drums we here the cooing of pigeons and the fluttering of their wings throughout the scene. Again, a sense of a real time and place pervades the scene.

Lyndon then takes his mark and Lord Bullingdon is told to cock his pistol to ready himself for the first fire. But something unexpected happens. Because of his nervousness, he misfires into the ground while cocking.

It is explained to him in his horror that this counts as his first shot and that he must now stand his position while Lyndon takes his first shot. Bullingdon is now overwhelmed by fear and panic and runs to the corner of the barn to throw up. As he returns and re-takes his position Barry Lyndon once again shows his humanity. Throughout the film Lyndon has performed actions that go against his immediate best interests: When faced with an opportunity to let a berating and cruel commanding officer perish in fire, he saves him instead. When faced with a chance for advancement in the military by acting as a spy he reveals himself to his mark. In every situation his need for humanity and kindness has paid off. Here, for the first time, it will fail him.

As Lord Bullingdon stands ready to receive fire, Lyndon aims his gun down and, in an act of generosity unknown to someone like Lord Bullingdon, fires into the ground.

The officiating gentlemen are surprised and move to confer with each other. It is asked of Lord Bullingdon if he has now received his satisfaction. In a stunning act of selfishness and pettiness, he replies no, he has not received his satisfaction. Barry Lyndon is restrained but can barely believe what he is hearing. His acts of humanity and kindness have always gone his way but now they are mocked. Lyndon's face reveals a man stunned by and resigned to his circumstances at the same time.

Lord Bullingdon now readies himself for his seconds.

He trembles as he pulls the trigger and hits his mark, in the leg. His face shows relief and almost (?) joy as the duel is over and he has won.

The scene ends with Lyndon writhing about in pain and anguish as he is attended to by the officiating gentlemen.

It is a scene that last 8 minutes and 50 seconds. In that span, time seems to stand still. In this scene Kubrick does as good a job as anyone in the history of cinema at portraying a moment in real time that draws all of its power from not being rushed or artificially heightened by music that provides emotional cues or quick edits that direct our attention to an inevitable climax.

Everything we have learned about these two men is portrayed before our eyes unapologetically in this scene. We have had reason to question Barry's motives throughout the film. He has done things that were selfish and unethical at times but one feels they were done out of rashness and haste more than anything else. Conversely Lord Bullingdon has had cause for our sympathy as he has been displaced from the mother he loves and feels that Barry is using her for his own gain. But there is something about Barry that we admire and something about Bullingdon that we mistrust.

In this scene, their characters arrive at their final reckoning and we understand them finally and completely. Barry has done wrong. He has used and shamed Lord Bullingdon's mother. But by shooting into the ground when he has a chance to end the duel by shooting Lord Bullingdon instead he shows that he is capable of understanding his mistakes and atoning for them. He confirms what we have thought about him from the beginning: He is prone to mistakes and misguided actions but has the humanity to accept them and if possible, correct them.

Lord Bullingdon on the other hand shows us that he does not understand honor in any reasonable way outside of shallow displays such as duels to gain satisfaction. We may have had sympathy for him at times but his refusal to accept Barry's gesture of firing into the ground as a clear acknowledgement of his wrongs and, in some ways, an apology tells us that Lord Bullingdon is a small petty man.

As the film ends, Lord Bullingdon presides over his mother signing over money for Barry as a part of an agreement for Barry to leave. Barry himself is now an amputee having lost the leg Lord Bullingdon shot. Lord Bullingdon will live the rest of his life inside a body intact, but one wracked with self-doubt and cowardice. Barry Lyndon will travel to the states and live out his life as a travelling gamester. He may have lost his leg, but unlike Lord Bullingdon, he is clearly a man in full.

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