Doji Grovesai

The Reality of Total Cinema

So, I have a Philosophy of Film class. I thought it would be looking at philosophical aspects of film. Like analyzing "The Matrix" for philosophical relevence or something.

Boy was I wrong. Not that this is a bad thing. What we are doing, in fact, is looking at film and analyzing film philosophically. What are we looking at? Is it art or something else? What should its purpose be? And we look at how film affects our worldview, as well as how are worldview affects film. Anyway, this is my first paper due for the class. This is the unedited, lengthy draft. Enjoy!

The Reality of Total Cinema

When it comes to cinema, like food and drink, everybody has a preference. Some prefer action movies, some comedy. Even within the action genre, you will find subgroups: those who prefer martial arts films, compared to those that prefer John Wu-inspired explosions. Dig further and there are even more differences: those who prefer martial arts films are drawn along lines of 1970’s Shaw Brothers films, compared to more contemporary films (in terms of plot, choreography, and special effects) such as The Matrix or Jet Li’s The One. This last division resembles that of a different, but not unrelated dispute: what is necessary for a good film in general? Some theorists side with Eisenstein, in that montage-styles (quick cuts between different, and possibly unrelated, scenes) are the superior film form. Bazín, on the other hand, believes that long takes with a specific focus in each take (sometimes called mise-en-scene) is the best way to make a film. Contrary to both Eisenstein and Bazín, good cinema does not lie entirely with montage or mise-en-scene, but uses both styles as filmmaking tools, utilizing the power of sound and music, and creating a total experience that will draw the audience into the world that the filmmaker creates. We should note a caveat: by “good” we mean utilizing all the essential characteristics of film, not an evaluation of the film’s content.

Unlike painting, but just like photographs, film’s capacity for post-shot editing allows for expanded utility. The wide shot recording of a theater performance is not required to tell a story. You can combine different scenes, not to mention record the same scene several times and use the best take. Eisenstein feels that this capacity for editing makes film what it is, and failure to use it is failure to make good film. In his attempt to define how common (Eisenstein might even say “necessary”) montage is, he uses the idea of pictograms, stating that these disjoint words come together to form something contextually different. Relating this to montage, Eisenstein states that montage creates intellectually contextual information in the most laconic (or most brief) fashion. I would agree that montage is certainly capable of this, but the problem comes when more information about a certain shot is needed. Montage is not necessarily equipped for this.

Long take, also called "deep focus" or mise-en-scene, concentrates on one scene for extended durations. Bazín favors this style because it “brings the spectator into a relation with the image closer to that which he enjoys with reality.” Certainly this is true. Deep focus uses editing as only a secondary advantage of film, the first being the ability to capture reality in time, as opposed to the static image of the photograph. In addition to bringing the viewer closer to reality, it restores what Bazín refers to as the “ambiguity” of reality. This ambiguity, Bazín maintains, engages the audience more than the montage style. In deep focus, the audience is left to come to their own conclusions about the film’s purpose.

What both theorists seem to neglect, however, is what the other style does well. Bazín seems to address montage, but he never shows what it is successful at. Take for example, two films: Strike and The Godfather. In Strike, a group of soldiers shoot striking workers in one shot and then the film switches quickly to a shot of a bull being slaughtered. Here we have symbolism where a bull represents the power and capacity to work and be productive. When the striking workers are killed, Russia loses its power and capacity to be productive. If we had taken Bazín’s favored deep focus technique and panned slowly from the slaughter of workers to the slaughter of the bull, the bull becomes little more than a background element at worst. At best, panning the shot like this implies that the wholesale killing of striking workers is routine, as the slaughter of a bull is routine. Neither of these explanations have the same power that the symbolism via montage implies. The montage style gives a more active symbolism, whereas any symbolism from the long-take style is passive (and, thus, not as powerful).

Regarding The Godfather, we find the same discrepancy between the symbolisms in each style, and also the advantage montage has in showing parallel events. Take, for example, the scene of the baptism of Michael’s son. In this scene, we have Michael’s son being baptized, and Michael accepting the communion. Using montage, the film cuts to a scene of murders ordered by Michael and his organization, then back to the communion. Then back to the murders. Then back to the communion. Using montage, we not only get a sense of time (that these events occur simultaneously), but heightens the sense of hypocrisy about Michael. Taking communion requires absolution, and ordering assassinations hardly absolves one’s soul. With montage, we get both parallel action and the clear image that Michael is not just a bad man, but unredeemable (recalling that receiving the Eucharist without absolution is a “mortal sin,” unforgivable after death). If we were to show the entire Mass and then pan or cut to the planned assassinations, we lose our sense of time and Michael might come across as more redeemable than he really is.

Just as Strike and The Godfather demonstrate the utility of montage, films like Citizen Kane define proper use of mise-en-scene (not to mention filmmaking in general). In Citizen Kane, nearly every scene is deep focus. Orson Welles went so far as to dig holes in the ground to place the camera in a position that the ceiling would be in the shot. In the famous “room wrecking” scene, a hole was put into the wall in the corner so the whole room would be part of the scene. Longer scenes give for more exposition. Bazín remarks that the film could not be shot in any other form. I think that’s a little presumptive of Welles’s motivations. The vast majority of the film relies on the dialogue, which does not lend itself to a montage style. Nevertheless, mise-en-scene allows the audience to process the dialogue, as well as character actions. Everything down to body language can be processed by the audience. Returning to the “room wrecking” scene in Citizen Kane, the long-take style allows the audience to fully process what is happening. Were Kane really angry (and nothing more), he might throw over a table or break a few small objects and be done with it, storming off to brood somewhere else as if merely spending time in the room makes him angry. Instead, the length of the scene allows Kane’s rage to sink into despair. As of that moment, he has lost everything, and he cannot replace it. In breaking everything, we seem to think that he is looking for something irreplaceable. Perhaps this is why he sought “Rosebud.” This was the one last thing he had that was irreplaceable. It should be noted, though, that this is only my interpretation. Indeed, Bazín would say that I can only have this interpretation because the deep focus style allows for such an ambiguity to exist which lets me interpret the film as I see fit.

Clearly if movies exist which rely heavily (I do not think we can honestly use the word ‘solely’) on a particular style to get a point across, we cannot say that “true film” exists in only one form of shot-taking. Bazín appears to allow the most flexibility for this, but still maintains that “good” film (remember we are talking about technique and not content) must use mise-en-scene. As an example, I submit the film American History X. This film makes use of both montage and deep focus styles to create a strong impression on the audience. Indeed the use of montage to cut away from something shocking actually increases the shock value. An excellent example in this film is the beginning, where Edward Norton’s character “deals with” the thugs trying to steal his truck (hearing the line “put your teeth on the curb” still makes me shudder). Additionally, the movie cuts from the present timeline to flashbacks regularly and creates an even more jarring experience since the flashbacks are all black and white, while the present timeline is in color. Within these scenes (both present and flashback), however, lies textbook use of long-take film styles which bring out mannerisms of the characters as well as dialogue and important background elements that would not be seen in a montage style. Tony Kaye (the director of American History X) uses both montage and deep focus styles as tools to create specific moods and highlight different aspects of the characters and settings within the film.

In speaking of moods, we cannot leave out the power of sound. By sound, I am referring to both sound effects and film score. After The Jazz Singer, filmmakers first didn’t seem to know what to do with sound. Charlie Chaplin even resisted making a “talkie” all through the 1930s, long after sound films had become more popular than silent films. Interestingly enough, Eisenstein says little about sound in films, other than the relationship between audio and visual stimuli create an “audio-visual counterpoint” (the whole paper refers to good art as conflict), which creates a conflict that draws in the audience. Bazín, equally silent, only comments that sound provides another facet of revealing reality through film. Both theorists woefully neglect the power of sound.

Filmmakers, on the other hand, began to see how important sound could be to a film; especially with many radio personalities making the jump to film. Orson Welles, for example, oversaw virtually every detail of the composition of the film score to Citizen Kane. From his experience in radio, Welles knew how sound could augment the tone of a film. Others began to see this effect and followed suit. Is it possible to imagine Nightmare on Elm Street without the sound of Freddy’s clawed hand scraping against the concrete walls? Can we conceive watching Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho without the piercing violins in the background during the infamous shower scene? Both cases demonstrate how sound adds to the tension in these films. Not only can sound and music augment the mood of a film, but it can also change the mood. Compare, for example, the chase scenes in Terminator 3 and Blues Brothers: in Terminator 3, no music plays. The chase takes on a grim severity as cars crash and lives are at stake. Contrast this with Blues Brothers, where nearly the entire city of Chicago’s police cars have crashed into one another. This would certainly be a grave scene if not for the upbeat, light-hearted music playing in the score. The song changes the mood from grave to humorous.

In the realm of sound-effects, we could compare 2001: A Space Odyssey with Star Wars. Sound cannot travel through outer space, because there is nothing to propagate the vibration. In 2001: A Space Odyssey, Stanley Kubrick sees fit to make sure that all scenes out in space (outside of the ships, of course) have no sound or music. Partly because of this, 2001 is considered one of the pinnacle films of “hard-science fiction” as it stays true to the reality of space. Looking at Star Wars shows something completely different. Space battles ensue, full of the sounds of laser blasts, whizzing photon torpedoes, and gigantic explosions, not the least of which is the destruction of the Death Star. Battle anthems play in the background, drawing the audience into the epic scope of this war between the evil Empire and the heroic Rebel Alliance. We should ask, would 2001 be as intriguing if we heard unnecessary sounds in space? Or would Star Wars truly convey a sense of urgency in the battles if we heard absolutely nothing throughout the conflict? Not only would we not have the same feelings towards these films, but we would lose an essential part of the storytelling capacity of film.

This dependence upon multiple filming styles, sound-effects, and music leave us asking the question “what, then, should we expect from film?” If we are to believe Bazín, it would be to convey an aspect of reality – “a recreation of the world in its own image,” which he refers to as “unburdened by the freedom of interpretation of the artist.” If the film experience, however, is so dependent upon background music – something that is decidedly not reflective of reality – what do we make of Bazín’s comments? We cannot be so quick to merely discard Bazín’s statement as untrue. When thinking about good films, in terms of both style and content, we mention films that connect with us on a very real level. The films we admire touch reality, but not necessarily in the literalist way that Bazín would have us adopt. We still maintain the “ambiguity” of reality that Bazín approves of, only in a different form. The filmmaker, through cinematography and sound, can create a “world” immersive enough for us to experience the “reality” of the film on our own terms and use our own minds to interpret that reality.

One example of this ability to interpret film is the movie Fatal Attraction. As far as the creation of the film is concerned, production staff was only interested in making a feature-length presentation of the British short film “Distraction.” The end result was a very successful, immersive film. The film also generated controversy due to the interpretations people gave to the film. One group of people saw the film as a chastisement of the feminist movement (which, at the time, was under criticism) and came under fire for undermining the progress of women. Others saw the film as a metaphor for HIV/AIDS, encouraging people to participate in trying to stop the spread of HIV as well as other sexually transmitted disease. Lastly, another group of viewers saw the film merely as a warning to the adulterous male, and nothing more. Certainly such a wide range of opinions meets Bazín’s requirement for the “ambiguity of reality.” Yet the film does not rely merely on deep-focus camera work and minimal sound.

So what is a good film? A good film is a film that uses every tool available to draw the audience into the reality of the artist’s world. Through this immersion, the audience touches some identifiable aspect of reality, whether through literal depiction like a documentary or an expertly crafted metaphor in the form of an animated feature. To wit, we do not recreate the world in its own image, but like a painter or novelist, we recreate the world in our own image. Each and every opinion, emotion, and shred of knowledge the filmmaker has works its way into the film. When the audience watches, they see the world through the filmmaker’s eyes. Total cinema is effectively immersion into the world of the artist, and it is just as real as the reel of film illuminated on the screen.