PICTORIAL MOTIONS AT PLAY
The average matter-of-fact man thinks that artists concern themselves
only with copying their subjects, and that their success as artists
consists in copying correctly. He is satisfied with a painted portrait
of his wife, provided it is a “speaking likeness,” and he craves no
other magic of design and color. Such a man praises a photoplay if
it presents a “rattling good story,” and expects no thrill from the
cinema composer’s conjuring with shifting patterns and evanescent
tones. At least he would say something to that effect if you argued the
matter with him. But he would be mistaken in his self-analysis, for
even a prosaic person really enjoys the decorative rhythmical quality
in a picture, though he may not be conscious of doing so. And every
spectator can get the richest beauty from the screen only when the
pictorial motions play as well as they work.
What is the difference between play and work? We know that when our
work most resembles play it is most enjoyable. And we know, too, that
play, even when it has not been professionalized, often comes very
near being work. The playing of children, as that of grown-ups, is
often very highly organized and pursued with a great deal of effort
and earnestness. Play, however, may be characterized by spontaneity
and variety. It is not forced, like work, which aims for some definite
practical result; and it does not have the rigidity and uniformity
which in work sometimes develops into dullness. If the emphasizing of
dramatic expression may be called the work of pictorial motions, then
the spontaneity and variety which accompanies this work may be called
the play of pictorial motions. And that play is essentially the same as
rhythm.
We think immediately of two of the elder arts in which rhythm is all
important--dancing and music. Music leads us to the thought of song,
and poetry, and oratory, arts which also are dependent on rhythm.
Dancing suggests sculpture, and sculpture suggests painting, arts
which would have little beauty without the quality of rhythm. Even
architecture must have it. From art we turn to nature, and we see the
poignant beauty of rhythm in cloud and wave, in tree and flower, in
brook and mountain, in bird and beast. The motion picture, which is the
mirror of nature, and at the same time the tablet upon which all of the
elder arts may write their laws, must bring to us the inheritance and
reflection of rhythm.
This quality has already been discussed in connection with the laws of
the eye, in Chapter III, and in connection with static composition,
in Chapter V. We come now to the pictorial problem of weaving the
individual and combined motions of a photoplay into a totality of
rhythm. First, let us consider the case of a single moving spot.
Suppose that we have before us a barren hillside of Mexico, an expanse
of light gray on the screen. Down that hillside a horseman is to come,
dark against the gray. If he rides in a single straight line, directly
toward the camera or obliquely down the hill, his movement will not be
pleasing to the eye, nor will it seem natural. But if he moves in a
waving line, a series of reverse curves freely made, the effect on the
eye of the spectator will be somewhat like that of the “line of beauty”
discussed in Chapter V.
An important difference, however, between a fixed line and one traced
by a moving object is that the latter disappears as soon as it is
drawn. It may linger in our memories, to be sure, yet our eyes can
trace that line only once, and only in the direction taken by the
moving object. That is, our physical eye cannot range back and forth
over the vanished path, as it can over a fixed line. And a still
greater difference is that the moving object has a rhythm of velocity
as well as a rhythm of direction. Velocity and direction of movement
arise and exist together, and consequently their relation to each other
may produce a new rhythm. The horse, varying his pace according to
the nature of the ground, may gallop along the level stretches, and
may pick his way cautiously down the steep declines. There is natural
harmony in rapid motion over a long smooth line, and slow motion over
a short jagged one. A simple case like this may help us to answer
the question, When is the relation between velocity and direction
harmonious? But we have still the fundamental questions, When is a
change of direction rhythmical? And, when is a change of velocity
rhythmical?
We cannot promise to give direct and definite answers to these
questions; but, recalling our discussion in Chapter V concerning rhythm
in fixed design, let us say that cinematic rhythm is a peculiar
alternation of phases or properties of pictorial motion which gives the
spectator a vivid sense of movement performed with ease and variety.
Now it may seem a vain task to analyze or try to define so delicate
a thing as rhythm, because all of us can be carried away by rhythm
without saddling it with a formula. Yet analysis will serve a useful
purpose if it can help the director to avoid motions which are not
rhythmical and if it can help the thoughtful spectator to fix the blame
for the jumble of unrhythmical motions which he now so often sees on
the screen.
Suppose we make a few tests upon the horseman coming down the hillside.
If he moves in a perfectly straight line at a perfectly steady pace,
the action will seem to be a forced, hard effort exerted without
variety. No rhythm will be there. But if he moves, even without change
of pace, along a path of flowing curves, we will sense a rhythm of
direction, providing the horse seems to follow the winding path freely
and without undue effort.
If, without change of direction, the horse frequently alters his gait
from a gallop to a walk and back to a gallop again in equal periods of
time, say half a minute each, it will be apparent that ease and variety
are utterly absent from the movement. And even if the horse follows
a winding path and changes gait at such regular intervals the rhythm
in direction will be neutralized by the lack of rhythm in velocity.
If, however, there is a progression of varying directions, varying
gaits, and varying durations of time which appear to be spontaneously
and easily performed, a progression, moreover, in which both the
similarities and the differences of the various phases can instantly be
perceived by the spectator, he will immediately experience the emotion
of rhythmical movement.
The above example illustrates how a single spot can move rhythmically
over the area of a picture. A moving line, say a column of soldiers
on the march, may have still more rhythm. We get a hint of this from
the “still,” facing page 133. It represents a scene from the Metro
production of Ibanez’s “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” which was
directed by Rex Ingram. We see there that the soldiers describe a path
of alternate curves, instead of the straight lines and square corners
which a less imaginative director would have ordered. Mr. Ingram has
further heightened the rhythm by placing gaps here and there in the
main column, and by introducing a secondary movement in the detachment
which turns off from the road just before reaching the village. These
movements are truly pictorial in composition; yet their meaning is none
the less military and dramatic.
In the scene just described the various motions are similar, and the
handling of them is therefore comparatively easy. But it is very
difficult to make a rhythmical combination of motions which differ
widely in character. In “The Dumb Girl of Portici,” for instance, we
are shown Pavlowa dancing on the beach, while the stately waves and
pounding surf of the ocean fill most of the area of the screen. But
there is no rhythm in the combined movements of that picture. The
dancer without the sea, or the sea without the dancer, might have been
perfectly rhythmical. But when we try to view them together in this
photoplay we get only the strong clash between their movements, and we
feel no pleasure when shifting our gaze from one to the other.
Perhaps the picture might have been a success if the dancer’s ground
had been a bank sufficiently high to mask the severe effect of the
surf, yet permitting a view of the incoming waves, and if the stately
variety in the movement of the sea had been taken as a key to a
sympathetic movement of the dancer. We might then get a harmonious,
alternating flow of the two movements, our eyes might play easily from
one to the other, and the total pictorial effect might arouse the
emotion of rhythm.
In a similar way any of the movements of nature, such as the effect of
wind on cloud, or tree, or field of grain; the fall or flow of water;
the flight of bird or characteristic movement of beast, movements
which, once admitted to the scene, cannot easily be controlled,
might be taken as keys in which to play those movements which can be
controlled.
Some practical-minded person may suggest that instead of worrying about
the composition of “unnecessary” motions, it would be better to omit
them. But such a person overlooks the natural human desire for richness
in art. We are so constituted that we crave lively emotional activity.
We love rich variety, and at the same time we enjoy our ease. When we
listen to the music of a pianist we are not satisfied if he plays with
only one finger, even though he might thus play the melody correctly,
because the melody alone is not rich enough. We want that melody
against all its background of music. We want those musical sounds so
beautifully related to each other that their harmony may arouse our
feelings without unduly straining our attention.
A splendid example of secondary motion may be seen in the light
draperies of a dancer. Even in the elementary movement of a few leaps
across the stage we see the delicate rhythm of a scarf which is at
first retarded by the air, then follows the dancer gracefully, and at
last gently overtakes her.
Between the movements of body and scarf there is a charming play. They
are pleasantly similar, yet they are pleasantly different. And there
is a distinct feeling of progression in the various phases of this
similarity and this difference. As spectators we catch this progression
without any effort of the intellect and are instantly swept into its
rhythm.
It would be easy for the director, of course, if the story which he is
about to film always called for action as graceful as that of a dance.
But unfortunately his scenario often demands the connecting of actions
which, pictorially considered, are totally unrelated to each other. Yet
if the director cares to seek the principles of beauty he will find
many ways of harmonizing elements that are seemingly in conflict.
One way is simply to impose on each of the discordant elements a
new value which they may assume in common without losing their own
distinctive characters. Suppose, for instance, that we must show a
society lady, with all her soft refinement, on a visit to a foundry,
with all its sweating roughness. One may fear that there must be
something repellent between her stately gentility and the bending
backs of workmen; between her kid-gloved gestures and the flow of
molten metal. Yet we can blend the whole scene into a single rhythm
by suffusing all its elements with the warm glow of the furnace and
by playing over them all the same movement of quivering light and
shadow. This vibrant, welding beauty which lady and laborer and machine
may have in common, while still retaining their individual dramatic
significance, will thus give the touch of art to a motion picture which
might otherwise be merely a crude photographic record of an incident in
a story.
Another way of bringing two conflicting motions into a rhythmical
relation is to place between them a third motion which, by being
somewhat like either of the other two, bridges the gap and thus
transforms a sense of fixed opposition into a sense of moving variety.
It would be somewhat of a shock, for instance, to shift our view
instantly from the rippling flow of a narrow stream to the wheels and
levers of a mill. But there would undoubtedly be a sense of continuity,
and perhaps of rhythm, in shifting from a general view of the stream to
a view of the water-wheel over which it flows, and thence to the wheels
of the machinery inside the mill.
This method of interposing a harmonizer might be useful also in
carrying over the rhythm of motion into the rhythm of fixed forms. Thus
if we were to throw upon the screen a picture of the gently rolling
sea, sharply followed by a view of the sweeping horizon of the hills,
it is most probable that the two kinds of rhythm would not unite to
draw a single emotional response from the spectator. He would feel only
the contrast. But if the view of the sea were followed by a view of a
field of grain, whose wind-driven billows resembled the waves of the
sea and whose rolling ground resembled the sweep of the hills, then
the rhythm of the quiet hills themselves might easily seem to be one
with the rhythm of the restless sea.
As we study the subject of visual rhythm we are led to compare it
again and again with auditive rhythm, which is best exemplified
in music. Thus it is easy to see how a given motion in a picture
might be considered the melody while all the other motions serve as
accompaniment, and how characteristic motions might be played against
each other like counterpoint in music. It is easy to see how a whole
succession of scenes might be considered a single rhythmical totality,
like a “movement” in a musical composition. And it is certain that
any director who thought of cinema composition in that sense would
never permit the slovenly joining which is so familiar in photoplays.
He would not then allow the shift from one scene to another to be
essentially a clash of unrelated motions. He would assure himself
rather that the characteristic types of motion in one scene, their
directions, velocities, and patterns, played into corresponding factors
of the next scene, until the entire succession became a symphony of
motion.[D]
[D] For a further comparison between music and pictorial
motions see Chapter IV of “The Art of Photoplay Making.”
It is an interesting fact that movement in a photoplay may come from
other things besides motions. One would get a sense of movement,
for example, even if every scene in a photoplay were itself a fixed
picture held for a few seconds on the screen. The various durations
of these pictures might be in a rhythmical series. The same might be
said of their dominant tones, and of their characteristic patterns and
textures. Would the time-lengths 3, 4, 2, 7, 5, be a good succession?
Or would 3, 7, 4, 5, 2 be better? Which would make a better succession
of figures? A circle, a triangle, and a cross? Or a cross, a square,
and a circle? Questions like these are not trivial; neither are they
over-refined. They and their answers should appear in the catechism of
every cinema composer.
Speaking of durations of scenes reminds us that in music it is often
the silences between the notes which vary in length while the notes
themselves are uniform. This would be true in the case of a simple
melody played on the piano. The intervals between notes can be observed
by tapping out the “time” of the piece on a single key of the piano, or
on a tin pan, for that matter; and the rhythm of time thus represented
would alone enable a listener to identify any popular piece of music.
At present there are no rests on the screen, no blank periods between
the scenes. There are, to be sure, moments of relaxation when scenes
are being “faded out,” and these “fades,” like the dying away of
musical sounds, have genuine rhythmical movement. But there is not on
the screen any alternation between stimulus and non-stimulus, as there
is in music, and as there is also in the performance of a stage play.
The motion picture, therefore, lacks that source of rhythm which exists
in musical rests or in the dramatic pauses of stage dialogue.
Whether intervals of non-stimulus could be successfully introduced
on the screen can be learned only by experiment. Any director who is
really in earnest about developing the motion picture as art should
make such an experiment. If he investigates the results of scientific
tests in psychological laboratories he will learn that under certain
conditions the normal spectator unconsciously creates rhythm in what
he sees. It has been shown, for example, that a person looking at a
small light which is flashed on and off at intervals has a tendency
to make rhythmic groupings of those flashes, by overestimating or
underestimating the lengths of the intervals. In other words, if you
give the beholder’s imagination a chance to function, it will indulge
in rhythmic play. We believe that if a cinema composer could thus
produce rhythm by illusion, as well as by actual presentation, his
achievement would be epoch-making in the movies.
Movement, movement through rich variety, movement accomplished with
the utmost ease--that is the essence of what we have chosen to call
the play of pictorial motions. That play, as we have seen in the
illustrations given, involves every kind of pictorial motion, whether
of spot, or line, or pattern, or texture, or tone; and every property
or phase, whether of direction, or rate, or duration; and every
circumstance, whether in relation to other motions near or remote,
simultaneous, or successive, or in relation to fixed elements of the
picture. Any two or three of these things may be treated as a separate
problem, but it is in the orchestration of all of them together that
the director may achieve the dominant, distinctive rhythm of his
photoplay. If he does not aspire to such achievement he is unworthy of
his profession. If he evades his problems because they are difficult he
is robbing his trust. If he declares that the world that loves movies
does not crave beauty on the screen, he is bearing false witness. If
he believes that the beauty of a photoplay lies wholly in the emotional
appeal of the performer and in the dramatic action of the plot, he is
stone blind to art.
So far as the motions in a picture present the actions and reactions
of the dramatic characters clearly and emphatically, they do faithful
work; but this work becomes play when it is relieved of its hardness
and dullness, and is animated with a spontaneity and variety that
catches up the spectator into a swinging movement of attention. And
those motions which are both work and play are basic in the beauty of
cinematic art.