RHYTHM AND REPOSE IN FIXED DESIGN
Directness, ease, emphasis, unity--these are the things which we have
just demanded of cinema composition, the pictorial form which contains,
and at the same time reveals, the story of a photoplay. But we demand
something more. We do not get complete æsthetic pleasure from any
composition which merely contains and reveals something else. The
vessel, while serving to convey its treasure, should have a charm of
its own. In poetry, for example, we are not satisfied with the language
which merely expresses the poetic content in clear and forceful style.
We crave poetic language, too, words and sentences that sound like
music and that by their very form appeal to our fancy.
In fact most people who have a highly developed taste for pictorial
art, consider that beauty of treatment is more important than beauty
of subject. Their emotions are stirred by something in the arrangement
of the lines, masses, tones, and colors, something that serves other
purposes than those of clearness, coherence, and emphasis. What
that something is, has always been a great question to students of
æsthetics. Mr. Clive Bell, for example, suggests that the essential
beauty of art lies in “significant form.” But you have to read through
his very interesting book entitled “Art” to get some notion of what he
means by that term. Miss Ethel D. Puffer, in her book “The Psychology
of Beauty,” has developed the very illuminating theory that the effect
of beauty on the human mind is both to stimulate and give repose. And
we shall adopt her theory for a while as a basis for a brief discussion
of rhythm and balance in cinematic forms.
The terms “stimulation and repose,” are, of course, contrary. The
feelings which they describe are in conflict. Yet this inner conflict
between stimulation and repose always takes place when a person is
faced with great beauty of art or nature. Any one of us can testify
to that from experience. When listening to music, when reading a
poem, when watching a play, when gazing at a temple, at a statue, or
a painting, we have felt something strangely stirring and at the same
time soothing, something both kindling and cooling, an inspiration to
do great deeds, and at the same time a desire to rest for the while in
satisfied contemplation.
Applying this theory to pictorial composition on the screen, we may say
that the quality of balance in line, pattern, and tone suggests repose,
while pulsating rhythm stimulates us to activity. This application at
least has the merit of giving us something definite to discuss.
Looking at the mechanical aspects of balance in a picture we shall
see that it can easily be analyzed. There is the balance of quantity
which may be seen by comparing the right half of the picture with
the left half, or the upper half with the lower half. Balance of
quantity is often connected with symmetry in the fundamental pattern,
as in the figure of the triangle. Further, there is balance through
depth, the foreground weighing against the background. Another kind of
balance is that of echoing motifs, a sort of fulfillment of the eye’s
expectations. There is also a balance of interests, which is quite
different from the balance of quantity, because a small quantity of
one thing may have greater weight of interest than a large quantity of
something else. And there is the balance of contrasts, such as light
against shadow, or straight lines against curved lines. How balance
in all of these forms may be obtained in cinema composition will be
discussed in the first half of this chapter.
One of the simplest tests for balance in a static picture is to draw a
vertical line through the center of the picture, and then to estimate
the weight, so to speak, of the two halves of the composition thus
formed. If we try the experiment with the “still” from the photoplay
“Maria Rosa,” facing page 71, we see at once that the left half is too
heavy. Besides containing by far the greater dramatic interest, it
contains too many objects, shapes, and lines to attract the eye.
[Illustration: From _Maria Rosa_. An interesting composition, but
thrown out of balance by too much weight in the left half. See page 70.]
Now if this “still” were a student’s painting which fell under the
eye of the master, he might suggest various ways of “saving” it. For
example, some of the bric-a-brac might be “painted out” from the
dressing table, the lower lines of the mirror might be softened, and
the door reflected in the mirror might be painted out, while some
similar interest might be painted in at the right of the picture. Or
if this “still” were an amateur print for your kodak album, you might
improve the picture considerably by trimming off the right end as far
as the woman’s skirt; that is, about one-fifth of the entire width. You
can estimate the value of that improvement right now by shutting off
that part of the “still” with a sheet of paper or any convenient thing
that may be used as a mask. Another picture may be formed by shutting
off the left third, just including the reflection of the woman in the
mirror. What then remains is a composition in beautiful balance, which,
incidentally, appeals more strongly to the imagination than the “still”
taken as a whole.
But neither trimming nor repainting nor retouching can be employed to
alter a bad grouping that has been recorded on a film. We sympathize,
therefore, with the conscientious cinema composer who has made a
mistake in composition, for he is forced either to “shoot” the scene
again or to clip it out entirely from the film.
Another test for balance of quantity is to draw a horizontal line
through the center of the composition and weigh the visual values in
the upper and lower halves thus formed. In the case of horizontal
divisions, however, we have accustomed ourselves to expect greater
weight at the bottom, because that is the natural arrangement of
material things about us. Keeping this fact in mind let us analyze
the “still” from “Audrey,” facing page 45. A glance shows us that the
composition is top-heavy, for almost everything of interest lies above
the center line. But turn the picture upside down, and look upon it as
though it were a pattern meant to be viewed in that position; you feel
immediately that the distribution of weights is more pleasing. Now hold
it as if the right end were the bottom, and the composition takes on
a heavy balance, with a commonplace symmetry of four long, rising and
spreading lines. This is so because the right half, which is really
too heavy when the picture is viewed in the position intended by the
director, seems to be a weight in place when considered as the bottom
of a pattern.
Yet we may find beauty in this “still,” if we only have the patience
to corner it. Cover up three-quarters of the composition, that is,
all of the left half, and all of the lower half; then the remaining
quarter will contain a pleasant composition, and a delightful appeal
to the imagination. There is in that upper right-hand quarter, both
balance and rhythm, both repose and stimulation. The heroine’s gestures
carry our attention to the left, in the direction she is going; but
her glances, and the attracting power of the converging trees, carry
our attention to the right. And in the course of this easy playing to
and fro our fancy swings out beyond the frame into realms of our own
imagination.
But there is still another test for pictorial equilibrium. Besides
the balance of one side against the other and of the top against the
bottom, a picture should preserve a balance between the foreground
and the background. This assumes that the picture really suggests the
dimension of depth, which is usually the case. Interesting exceptions,
however, may appear occasionally, as in the “still” facing page 61,
and the painting facing page 76. One may even find entire photoplays
with scenes done in two dimensions only. For example, “Moon-Gold,” a
Will Bradley production, released in 1921, presents a story of Pierrot,
Columbine, and Harlequin in a series of scenes in a single plane.
There is no background except blackness, and there is no foreground at
all. The pictures are as flat as a poster. Such elimination of setting
may have artistic merit, especially in stories of familiar or naïve
themes, but in more involved stories it is desirable to include the
whole setting of the action, not only because of the dramatic power of
environment, but also because of the pictorial wealth which may thus be
added.
To test this third balance of a picture you need only imagine a curtain
of glass dropped so as to separate equally the interests near the
spectator from those farther away. Such a plane is, in fact, usually
imagined by a painter when he lays out his design. Though he does not
cut his ground mechanically into two equal areas, he usually does
distribute his subjects so that the spectator needs not feel that the
foreground is only a long waste to be crossed, or that the background
is but an empty region which lies beyond everything of interest.
The word “depth” in connection with the screen has doubtless made our
readers think of the stereoscopic motion picture as produced by the
Teleview and other companies. Such pictures are truly remarkable in
their mechanical power of showing physical depth through a scene. They
show you the images clearly separated, some near and some far away,
so that you feel as if you could really walk in and out among them.
To be able to produce such an illusion is something that any inventor
may well be proud of; and yet it is doubtful that the stereoscopic
picture will bring about any improvement in the artistic composition of
the motion picture. Most of us can recall the “stereoscope and views”
which we used to find on the center tables of our country aunts. How
well we remember the mystifying illusion of depth which was created.
How well we remember also that there was the same depth in the reeking
stockyards of Kansas City as in the cathedral aisle of Rheims! That
illustrates the shortcoming of purely mechanical things in the service
of art. The stereoscopic machinery cannot in itself create beauty.
It cannot automatically so select trees or distribute people over a
landscape that balance and rhythm, unity and emphasis will appear in
the finished picture. Unfortunately, for the uninspired artist, the
mechanician cannot help him.
It may be asked whether stereoscopic pictures may not be utilized to
get sculptural effects upon the screen. The answer is that if a piece
of sculpture had to be viewed through a single peep-hole and under an
unchanging light it would not really have a sculptural appeal. The
characteristic appeal of sculpture is due largely to the fact that it
is possible for the beholder to shift his gaze at will from one side
of the statue to the other. He even walks around the statue, thus
getting ever new aspects of the subject until he has completed the
circle of inspection. And this shifting view is governed entirely by
his own interest and choice. The sculptor has deliberately shaped his
marble so that the many aspects will be interesting variations of the
same theme. That many-sidedness of sculpture is one of its distinctive
qualities as art. But when you look at a stereoscopic motion picture
it is absolutely impossible for you to “see around” the objects any
farther than the camera has done, no matter how much you shift your
position. The other sides of all the objects and figures might as well
be missing. Your point of view is fixed absolutely in the stereoscopic
picture, just as it is in the ordinary “flat” picture. But perhaps
there are other ways in which the Teleview and similar inventions
can provide new opportunities for the cinema artist. That remains to
be shown by experimentation, and, of course, such experimentation is
welcome and should be encouraged.
However, for all purposes of pictorial art a sufficient illusion of
depth can be produced in the “flat” picture. This can be done by the
simplest instruments and means of picture making, even by the use of
a lead pencil and a piece of paper. There are only two secrets of
perspective. One is to render parallel lines, that is, lines which are
actually parallel in the subject, so that they converge in the distance
and, if continued, would meet at a “vanishing point.” The other is to
render objects with increasing dimness as they occupy positions at
increasing distances away from us.
One might suppose that in a photograph these problems of perspective
would take care of themselves. But they do not, as may be seen by
turning to the “still” of the conservatory scene, facing page 100.
There we find a jumble of stuff apparently all in the same vertical
plane. Why does the standing woman wear a palm leaf in her hair? Why
does the man wear the top of a doorway upon his head? And why does
the seated woman bury her head in the ferns? They do not actually, of
course, carry on thus hilariously; but some one has carelessly coaxed
the background into the foreground by making remote objects intensely
distinct, instead of subduing them into the soft values of distance.
But we have dwelt so long on the subject of balance in design that
we fear the reader may think we have over-emphasized the point. No
one quality in pictorial composition should be out of balance with
the others. Thus, too sharp an emphasis may violate balance, and too
perfect a balance may violate rhythm. After all, the kind of balance we
desire in pictorial design is that which is sufficient, but no more.
We do not, as a rule, enjoy the mathematical figure of the equilateral
triangle, standing heavily on its base, because it is balanced beyond
the need of any living thing. It suggests the dead repose of the
pyramids of Egypt, the tombs of her forgotten kings. Such a severe
design is utterly unsuitable, therefore, in the portrait of a lithe
young lady clad in silks and tulle, as illustrated in the “still”
facing page 61. It is flat and hard, and the eye following forever its
monotonous outlines misses the variety of rhythm. Yet a triangle, you
say, serves the purpose of unity and emphasis. Alter it then by making
it narrower, with a less obvious base, and by swinging a live rhythm
into its sides, as in the painting of “Mme. Lebrun and Her Daughter,”
facing this page.
But this brings us to a discussion of the mysterious quality of rhythm.
Rhythm is entirely too evasive for a tight definition, but perhaps we
can learn much by saying things about it.
[Illustration: _Mme. LeBrun and Her Daughter_, a painting by Mme.
Vigée-Lebrun. A good figure composition on the basis of a triangle.
Compare with the “still” shown facing page 61. See also pages 62 and
76.]
Rhythm in music may be partially described as a peculiar alternating
movement, with an alternation between sounds of different pitch,
quality, and quantity; between different sound groups, and between
sound and silence. The rhythm of visible motion is of a somewhat
similar nature, as we shall see in Chapter VIII. But a sense of
alternating movement may be produced by things which are not themselves
in motion. We can, therefore, find rhythm in fixed lines, shapes,
tones, colors, and textures. This we shall call rhythm of fixed design.
The peculiar thing about the element of alternation in rhythm which
distinguishes it from mere repetition, is that it is not regular, like
the swinging of a pendulum, but contains numerous variations from
regularity. But, while the symmetry of rhythm is only partial, so also
the variety is limited. It is the combined effect of these two factors
which makes rhythm delightful. Repetition or symmetry in a line or a
pattern is pleasurable because, as explained in Chapter III, it enables
us to see much with ease. But, at the same time, subtle or even bold
variations are appealing because they relieve us of monotony, stimulate
our interest, and lead our eyes in search of further variations.
A familiar rhythm of line is that of the reverse curve, which Hogarth
called “the line of beauty.” This line is beautifully used in the
painting “Daylight and Lamplight,” facing page 39. Observe the effect
of alternation with variety in the lines which bound the urn, the
woman’s figure, and the various shadows and lights in the background.
Your eye sweeps over those paths without effort, and you get a sense of
movement, as though you yourself were drawing these lines with a brush
or crayon. Analyze the composition and you will see how richly the
lines are woven together. Compare all the small curves with each other,
compare all the larger curves, all the short straight lines, all the
longer straight lines, etc., and you will discover an amazing amount of
alternation and repetition, with an equally amazing amount of deviation
from regularity.
Imagine that the painting which we have just analyzed is an accented
moment in a motion picture, and you must imagine another similar design
a few seconds earlier in the action and still another one a few seconds
later, as the woman walks gracefully through the room. In fact, there
would be a whole series of similar designs during the brief time that
the woman’s figure and the urn are in decorative contact. The instant
of action which the painter has chosen to fix on canvas might well be
the same instant which you would select as the pictorial climax in this
motion picture. This climax, accented perhaps with a pause, accented
also by the pictorial approach and departure, is something which you
would long remember as a rhythmical moment in the photoplay.
In the picture which we have just described the rhythm is found
chiefly in the continuity and richness of line and in a certain active
balancing of similar with dissimilar lines. The design is simple,
almost plain. It is a single pattern which does not recur again within
the frame. Quite different in type is the composition of a group
picture such as “The Banquet of the Officers of St. Andrew,” facing
page 79, where the rhythm is in the flow of patterns rather than in
the flow of lines. Take a hat, for example, as the decorative theme
and observe how definitely, yet how subtly, that theme is four times
varied. Note further how the curves of the hats are echoed, always with
variety, in the ruffs.
[Illustration: From _Polly of the Circus_. Compare this “still” with
_Banquet of the Officers of St. Andrew_ (below) and you get at once
the distinct impression that the painting depicts a larger crowd than
the “still.” As a matter of fact, the painter has used only twelve men
to produce his effect, while the motion picture director has employed
seventeen men, a woman, and a horse. This difference illustrates the
practical utility of pictorial design. See page 57.]
[Illustration: _Banquet of the Officers of St. Andrew_, a painting by
Frans Hals. See above and page 78.]
But so many curves would make the picture too rich in quality were
it not for the skillful introduction of straight lines to make, as
it were, a series of alternating notes. You observe immediately the
long straight lines of the windows, of the two flags, and of the
table. But you do not at first observe that there are several dozen
shorter straight lines, and that, curiously enough, they are nearly
all parallel to each other. Take as a key the sash of the first seated
officer, counting from the left, and you will find a surprising number
of similarities to this motif throughout the composition, all the way
from the shadows on the window casing in the upper left hand corner
to the edge of the table in the lower right hand corner. Yet, because
these similar straight lines are so frequently alternated with varying
curves, we get from the picture a stirring sense of a swinging movement.
Here, again, is an arrested moment of action which might conceivably
have come out of a motion picture. What the arrangement of the twelve
men might have been at other moments of the scene we do not know.
Perhaps they were all sitting when the scene opened; perhaps they had
all arisen before it closed; but for this one instant, at least, they
have resolved themselves into an interesting design of simple patterns
in a rhythmical series.
Another source of rhythm in a fixed picture may be the tonal
gradations. In a painting there would be a play of colors from hue
to hue and from tint to shade. In ordinary photography there may
be a similar play from deep black to intense white through all the
intervening values. It is all a question of lighting and choice of
subjects for the light to fall upon. The painter has an advantage over
the photographer because he does not have to record light and shadow
exactly as they are on the subject. He can soften his shadows or paint
them out completely. He can alter his tones and values at will, even
after the painting is practically finished. As an offset to this the
cinema composer has, of course, the power of presenting movement,
fugues and passages of light and shadow. And, by the use of the newest
apparatus for lighting, and by careful attention to the color values
and textures of sets, costumes, etc., he can also produce many of the
rhythmical effects of gradation in fixed tones which we are accustomed
to look for in painting.
As time goes on we shall more and more often find pictorial moments on
the screen which exhibit as fine a rhythm of fixed tones and masses as,
for example, Van Dyck’s “Portrait of Charles I,” facing page 163. If
you draw a straight line across this picture in almost any direction,
it will mark a great variety of graded values, a lovely shifting of
light and shadow, with no sharp contrasts except those which serve to
attract the spectator’s attention to the head of the king. There is
perfect harmony of composition here. The tones are in a rhythmical
design, yet it is a rhythm which keeps the emphasis on the focal
interest and preserves the balance throughout the painting.
Two or three men, a horse, and a bit of landscape is no uncommon
subject in photoplays. We have reason, therefore, to expect that from
long practice all directors will learn how to treat it pictorially, and
with ever new variety of beauty.
The general field of composition in fixed design has now been surveyed.
We have tried to show that a good pictorial composition, even from a
commercial point of view, is one which provides instant emphasis on the
focal interest; which unites this focal interest with the other parts
of the picture by means of a certain arrangement, or pattern; which
keeps all of its values in a reposeful balance, and which pulsates with
a vital rhythm. These four qualities--emphasis, unity, balance, and
rhythm--are necessary in what might be called the mechanics of beauty,
the technique of design. We admit, cheerfully, that the beauty of a
given masterpiece cannot be explained by pointing out an observance of
certain fundamental laws of design, for an uninspired artist might obey
all these laws without ever achieving beauty, just as a machinist might
obey all the laws of mechanics without ever inventing a machine. But we
insist that an observance of pictorial laws is a first condition that
must be fulfilled by the artist before the mysterious quality of beauty
will arise in his work.
The accented moment in a pictorial movement, which we have studied from
so many angles, is, of course, not fixed on the screen for any great
length of time, never for more than a few seconds, though it may remain
fixed in memory for years. Nor is it a separate thing upon the screen.
It rises from an earlier moment and flows into a later one. The rapid
succession of momentarily fixed pictures on the screen is, in fact,
what gives the illusion of motion. Yet it would not, therefore, be
correct to say that the motion picture as a whole can be made beautiful
by making each separate exposure in itself a beautiful composition.
The successive pictures must play, one into the next, in a stream of
composition which contains new delights for the eye, and which, alas,
contains new dangers for the ignorant or careless maker of pictures.
What these delights and dangers are we shall see in the following
chapters.