PICTORIAL FORCE IN FIXED PATTERNS
Frequently 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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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:
What portion of that picture did we look at first, and why? Was that
the spot which the cinema composer desired us to see first? If not,
how did he happen to mislead us and waste our time?
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?
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?
Was the picture as a whole really beautiful to the eyes? If not, what
made it displeasing?
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 page 45 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.
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, 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.
The need of this may be illustrated by a horrible example. Let us turn
to the “still” on page 55. 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.
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.
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. 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.
[Illustration: This “still” illustrates misplaced emphasis and several
other defects in pictorial composition which characterized the general
run of movies a few years ago. See page 54.]
[Illustration: 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 page 55.]
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?
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
page 28. 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.
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 page 21,
our glance falls immediately upon the shepherdess, 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.
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.
[Illustration: From _The Spell of the Yukon_. 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 page 56.]
Let us illustrate this again by turning to another “still” from “The
Spell of the Yukon,” facing page 57. The thing which attracts first and
longest is the strange object in the upper left-hand corner. On 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.
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.
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 page 79,
with “The Banquet of the Officers of St. Andrew,” by Frans Hals,
facing page 79, 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.
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 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.
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.
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 page 61. 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 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.
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.
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 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.
[Illustration: _A Triangle._ The fundamental pattern in a picture
should not be obtrusive, as in this too obviously triangular shape.
Compare this “still” with the illustration facing page 76. See also
pages 59, 72 and 76.]
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 lasts,
because every time we repeat the tour of inspection our eyes rest a
moment on these false interests.
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 page 76. 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.
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.
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 of design to weave places into a
definite unity with persons, things, and action.
Let us see how this problem has been met in the cabin scene of
“The Spell of the Yukon,” facing page 28, 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 page 28.
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.
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 design,
as a whole, therefore, is imperfect. And, though we see much in the
picture, we do not see it entirely with ease.
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.
[Illustration: _Derby Day_, a drawing by Thomas Rowlandson, showing the
kind of composition which could be effectively used in photoplays. See
page 64.]
[Illustration: Analysis of the fundamental design in _Derby Day_
(above). See page 64.]
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 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.
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 in
complete harmony with the main theme, the movement of merry-makers
along a country road.
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.
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, for example, facing page
93, 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.
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.