CHAPTER IV

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.