CHAPTER VII

PICTORIAL MOTIONS AT WORK

All the movement which you see on the screen may be enjoyed, we have said, as something which appears beautiful to your eye, regardless of its meaning to your mind. But if that movement, beautiful in itself, also carries to your mind some significance, if it serves the dramatic plot in some positive way, then the picture will be so much the richer. Acting, of course, is visible movement that delineates character and advances plot. It is pictorial motion at work. And acting, curiously enough, is not limited to people and animals. In a sense there may be acting also by things, by wagons or trees or brooks or waves or water-falls or fountains or flames or smoke or clouds or wind-blown garments. The motions of these things also constitute a kind of work in the service of the photoplay.

One might say that the artistic efficiency of a motion picture may be partly tested in the same way as the practical value of a machine. In either case motions are no good unless they help to perform some work. “Lost motions” are a waste, and resisting motions are a hindrance. The best mechanical combination of motions, then, is that which results in the most work with the least expenditure of energy.

Doubtless every one will agree with us that if, while a picture is showing, any great work is necessary to “get the story across,” that work should be done by the picture and not by the spectators. They want the story to be clear, and they want it to be impressive. In other words, they want beautiful and significant material presented with the fullest emphasis. Emphasis results when the attention of the spectator is caught and held by the primary interest in the picture, instead of the secondary interest. In paintings, or in “still” pictures, or in those parts of moving pictures which are held or remembered as fixed moments, a great number of devices may be used separately or together to control the attention of the spectator so that the main interest gets its full emphasis. Pictorial motions on the screen may also be so well organized that they will catch and control the spectator’s attention, and will reveal the dynamic vitality of the pictorial content.

The simplest principle of accent by motion is so obvious that we are almost ashamed to name it. It is this, that if in the whole picture everything remains at rest except one thing which moves, that thing will attract our attention. Photoplays are full of mistakes which arise through the violation of this simple law. In many a scene our attention is drawn from the stalwart hero to a candle on the mantlepiece merely because its flame happens to flicker; or from the heroine’s sweet face to a common bush merely because its leaves happen to quiver in the breeze; or from the villain’s steady pistol to a dog’s tail merely because the dog happens to wag it.

It is no excuse to say that such motions are natural, or that they give local color. For, though a moving trifle may help to give the correct atmosphere, it may also at the same time rob the heroine of the attention which is rightly due her. For example, in “The Love Light,” which was conceived and directed by Frances Marion, there is the kitchen of the little Italian home where Angela (Mary Pickford) sits down to muse for a while. She occupies the right side of the picture while at the left is the fire-place with a brisk fire. The fanciful playing of the flames and smoke of that fire catch our attention immediately. We guess that this fire-place is not important in the story, and we turn our glances upon the heroine, but we cannot keep them there because the fire is too interesting.

When the spectator’s reason tries to make him do one thing and his natural inclination tempts him to do the opposite, there is confusion and waste of mental energy; and during that hesitation of mind the opportunity for being impressed by the main interest of the play passes by. That rule may sound like a commonplace, but it is not nearly so commonplace as the violation of it in the movies.

If the director must have a fire in the fire-place, and if Angela is more important than that fire, then, of course, her motions should be made more interesting than its motions. It should always be remembered that the strangest, least familiar of two motions will attract our attention away from the other. The fire is strange, while Angela is familiar. In the preceding scenes she has walked, run, romped, laughed, cried, talked, and made faces; she has, in short, performed so many different kinds of motions that there is almost nothing unexpected left for her to do in order to take our eyes away from the fire. She merely sits for a long time unnoticed. Presently, however, after the fire has lost its novelty for us, she arises, grasps a frying pan, and, using it as a mirror, begins to primp. Then at last we look at her.

A more striking case of misplaced emphasis may be found in the photoplay “Sherlock Holmes,” directed by Albert Parker. The part of the great detective was played by no less a person than John Barrymore, yet in the very scene where he makes his first appearance he is totally eclipsed by a calico cow. In this scene, represented by the “still” opposite this page, we see a beautifully patterned cow swinging into the idyllic setting of a side street in Cambridge, following a rhythmic path from the background with its dim towers of the university, past the honeysuckle-clad walls of “Ye Cheshire Cheese,” and out into the shadows of a picturesque tree. This cow holds our attention by her photographic contrasts of black and white, and because she and her attendant are the only moving things within the whole scope of the camera. This inscrutable cow gets the spotlight while the great Sherlock is neglected where he reclines drowsily in the shade. Here was really the most pictorial scene of the whole photoplay, and the annoying thing was that the cow never again showed hoof or horn. Why was she ever let in? No suspicion of murder, theft, or other deviltry was ever cast upon her. She neither shielded nor shamed any one. She did not help to solve any problem. There was no further allusion to cattle, dairies, or cheese. There was not even a glass of milk in the rest of the play.

Perhaps the innocent cow was an accident. Perhaps the director did not know, or had forgotten, that the whitest patch in a picture attracts the eye, that an irregular shape, such as the marking of a Holstein cow, attracts more attention than the familiar patterning of walls, windows, tree trunks, etc., that a moving object in a scene where everything else is still attracts and holds attention, and that a humble cow emphasized by all these cinematographic means makes more of a hit than the most highly paid actor dozing in the shade.

But the strangeness or novelty of a motion may emphasize it, even though other motions going on at the same time are larger and stronger. In support of this statement the author offers a personal experience which came in the nature of a surprise when first seeing Niagara Falls. One would think that if a person who had never seen this sight were placed suddenly before it, he would gaze spellbound at the awful rush of water, and that no other motion could possibly distract him. But the author’s attention was first attracted to something else which impressed him more deeply, something which moved silently, very slowly and very delicately. That strangely attractive thing was the cloud of spray that rose steadily from the bottom of the fall, floating gently upward past the brink and vanishing continually in the sky. Its peculiar appeal lay in its strangeness, not in its strength.

The reader can doubtless recall similar cases where strangeness exerted an overpowering appeal. At best that strangeness is much more than the satisfaction of curiosity. It is a type of beauty which comes as a relief from the common, familiar facts of every-day life. The combination of strangeness and beauty has a powerful charm, and he is an ideal director who can emphasize dramatic significance with that charm.

Violence, at least, is not a virtue in the movies, as so many directors seem to believe. Indeed, slowness and slightness may sometimes be more impressive than speed and volume. This is often demonstrated on the stage of the spoken drama, when, for example, the leading lady who speaks slowly and in low tones holds our interest better than her attendants who chatter in high pitch. The beauty of her speech is emphasized by its contrast with the ugliness of the others. So in the photoplay there may be more power in a single slight lowering of the eyes or in the firm clenching of a fist than in a storm of waving arms and heaving chests.

What has just been said refers to motions in a fixed setting, which operate either against or in spite of, each other; but two or more motions in a picture may work as a team, and may thus control our attention better than if they were operating singly.

First we observe that if a single object is moving along in a continuous direction it will pull our attention along in that direction, may, indeed, send our attention on ahead of the object. Thus if an actor swings his hand dramatically in the direction of a door he may carry our glance beyond his hand to the door itself. This law of vision works so surely that it can always be depended upon by a magician, a highly specialized kind of actor, when he wishes to divert the attention of his audience from some part of the stage or of his own person where a trick is being prepared. It is not true, as is popularly supposed, that we are deceived because “the hand is faster than the eye”; it is really because the eye is faster than the hand. In other words, our attention outstrips the moving object.

In the movies this law controls our attention to traveling persons, vehicles, and things. If horsemen are represented as riding away they should be photographed with their backs toward us and with the distance between us and them increasing. Then, since our eyes travel beyond the riders, we get a stronger impression that the men are really riding far away. On the other hand, if the horsemen are coming home, the direction of movement should naturally be toward us. This seems clear enough; yet directors frequently prevent us from feeling the dramatic intent and force of travel, by “shooting” the moving subject from various angles in succession. Even Mr. Griffith has been guilty of this sort of carelessness. In “The Idol Dancer,” for example, we have a scene (a) in which a party of South Sea island villagers are paddling away in a large canoe; correctly enough they are moving away from the camera. The next scene (b) shows some one raising an alarm in the village by beating a drum, which, as we have been informed, can be heard twenty miles away. It is a call to the canoe party to return. The scene which is then flashed on (c) is a close-up of the canoe coming toward the camera. The men are paddling vigorously. We think, of course, that they have already heard the alarm and are now returning. But no! Presently they stop paddling and listen. They hear the drum. The next picture (d), a “long shot,” shows the canoe being maneuvered around, and the succeeding pictures all show the men paddling toward the camera.

Now it is perfectly logical for us to infer that the canoe is already homeward bound, when we see it coming toward us in scene “c” immediately after the drum has sounded the alarm, and we can therefore only resent being caught in error and virtually told, two scenes later, “This time we won’t fool you, now the canoe, as you see, is really turning about.”

If one moving object can send our thoughts ahead to the goal of its travel, two or more objects moving toward the same point can send our thoughts there with greatly increased force. Thus a picture of two ships shown approaching each other on converging courses will surely make us think of that region of the sea where they are likely to come close aboard each other. If there is an enemy submarine at that point and if the two vessels are destroyers, the suspense and emphasis is complete.

A similar law of attention may be seen at work in cases where lines move along their length to a junction. Suppose we take as a setting a western landscape in which two swiftly flowing streams meet and form the figure of a “Y.” Suppose now that we desire to place an Indian camp in this setting so carefully that it will attract attention as soon as the picture is flashed on the screen. We must place it at the junction of the two streams, because the eyes of the spectators will naturally be drawn to that point. Now suppose that a long white road crosses the main stream just below the place where the tributaries meet. The position would be emphasized more than ever because the road would virtually form two fixed lines leading toward the bridge; and fixed lines, as we saw in Chapter IV, also have the power of directing our attention to the point where a crossing is made.

Then let us suppose that the Indians build a fire, from which the smoke rises in a tall, thin column. That would constitute another line of motion. But would it emphasize or weaken the center of interest? It would, as a matter of fact, still hold our attention on the camp because of the curious law that, no matter in what directions lines may move, it is the point which they have in common that attracts our attention. Thus if we assume a landscape where there is only a single stream, with a camp at the upper end, and with smoke rising from a fire, we would still have emphasis on the camp, in spite of the fact that the two lines of motion are directed away from it.

The same curious power over our attention may be exercised by moving spots. If we see, for example, two ships sailing away on diverging courses, we immediately suppose that the ships are sailing out of the same port, and, even though we cannot see any sign of that port, our minds will search for it. So also in those electric advertisements where lines of fire, sprayed from a central source, rise and curve over into the various letters of a word, the emphasis is rather on the point where the lines originate than on any single letter or on the word as a whole. Electric signs, by the way, are surprisingly often examples of what not to do with motion if one desires to catch the eye and to strike deep into the mind and emotions of the observer. The most common mistake, perhaps, is the sign consisting of a word in steady light surrounded by a flashing border in which a stream of fire flows continuously from dusk till dawn. Our eyes chase madly around with this motion and have no chance to rest upon the word for which the advertiser is wasting his money.

But, to return to the question of how motions running away from each other can throw the spectator’s attention to the point where they originate, we can think of no more perfect example in nature than the effect which is produced by throwing a pebble into a pool. Ripples form themselves immediately into expanding rings which seem to pursue each other steadily away from a common center. Yet, despite the outward motion of these rings our eyes constantly seek the point from which they so mysteriously arise. That this is true every reader has experienced for himself. Here then we have discovered a fascinating paradox of motion, namely, that a thing may sometimes be caught by running away from it. This ought to be good news to many a movie director.

But let us see what other means there are of emphasizing a theme or some other feature of significant beauty in a photoplay. One method is repetition. But what is the effect of repetition? Is it monotony or emphasis? Does it dull our senses or sharpen them? There can be no doubt that the steady repetition of the sea waves breaking on the beach, or of rain drops dripping on our roofs, or of leaves rustling in the forest, or of flames leaping in our fire-places can send us into the forgetfulness of sleep. But, on the other hand, the periodic repetition of a movement in a dance, or of a motif in music, or of a refrain in poetry can drive that movement, that motif, or that refrain so deeply into our souls that we never forget it. We refer, of course, to the higher forms of dancing, music, and poetry; for in the lower forms, such as the dancing of savages, the grinding of hand organs, and the “sing-song” of uninspired recitations the too frequent repetition soon results in monotony.

In the movies of to-day there is, we are glad to observe, very little bad repetition except that of close-ups, and even they are now more and more eliminated by directors. But there is also very little good repetition in the cause of artistic emphasis. The tendency is rather a touch and run. Seventy settings are used where seventeen would give us a stronger sense of environment. We read more publicity “dope” about a woman who can do a hundred “stunts” in five reels than about one who can strike a single enthralling pose, and can return to it again and again until it becomes as unforgettable as a masterpiece of sculpture.

The photoplay needs repetition, especially because of the fact that any pictorial motion or moment must by its very nature vanish while we look. Hence, unless all other circumstances are especially favorable for emphasis, such a motion or moment may vanish from our minds as well as from the screen. To fix these fleeting values is a problem, but it can be solved without the danger of monotony if each repetition is provided with a variety of approach, or if each repetition is made under a variety of circumstances. This is the method in music. A particular series of notes is struck and serves for a theme; then the melody wanders off into a maze of harmony and returns to the theme, only to wander off again into a new harmony and to return from a new direction to the same theme. After a while this musical theme, thus repeated with a variety of approach, penetrates our souls and remains imbedded there long after the performance has ceased. The same method is often employed to give emphasis to a particular movement or pose in æsthetic dancing.

To show how repetition with variety of approach may operate on the screen let us remake in imagination some scenes from Griffith’s “Broken Blossoms,” a photoplay which was adapted from Thomas Burke’s short story “The Chink and the Child.” The wistful heroine, called simply The Girl, played charmingly by Lillian Gish, is shown in the wretched hovel of her father, “Battling” Burrows, a prize-fighter. We see her against a background of fading and broken walls, a bare table, a couple of chairs, a cot, and a stove. If she sits down, stands up, lies down, or walks across the room, she moves, of course, through a changing pattern of motion against fixed lines. And she ends each movement in a different fixed design. Now let us suppose that the most pictorial of all these arrested moments is the one which is struck when she pauses before an old mirror to gaze sadly at her own pathetic image, and that during this moment we see, not only the best arrangement of lines, patterns, and tones, and the best phase of all her bodily movements, but also the most emotional expression of her tragic situation as the slave of her brutal father. Wouldn’t it be a pity if this pictorial moment were to occur once only during the play? How much more impressive it would be if she paused often before this mirror, always striking the same dramatic note. Such a pause would be quite natural immediately after she enters the room or when she is about to go out, or during her weary shuffling between the stove and the table while serving supper, or after she has arisen from a spell of crying on the cot and tries to shape her tear-stained face into a smile. In all of these cases there would be variety and yet emphasis, always the same tonal harmony between her blond hair and the faded wall, always the same resemblance between the lines of her ragged dress and those of the old furniture, always the same binding of her frail figure into the hard pattern of her surroundings, as though she were but a thing to be kicked about and broken,--all this shown again and again until the full dramatic force and beauty of the pictorial moment is impressed upon the spectator.

This kind of repetition can be done much more effectively and with less danger of monotony in the photoplay than in the stage play, because much of the action which intervenes between the repetitions can be eliminated and other scenes can be cut in without breaking the continuity of visible motion, while on the stage no bridging of time or shifting of scene is feasible without dropping the curtain.

One device which is unique on the screen is the repetition of the same “shot” by simply cutting into the film numerous prints from a single negative. A well-remembered case was the “Out-of-the-cradle endlessly-rocking” theme of Griffith’s “Intolerance,” a picture of a young woman rocking a cradle, which was repeated at frequent intervals throughout the story. The picture remained the same, but the context was ever new; and, if the repetition was not impressive to the spectators, the fault was not in the device itself, but rather in the fact that there really was no very clear connection between the cradle-rocking and intolerance.

Whenever we speak of emphasis in art we are naturally concerned about emphasizing that which is vital in the theme or story. We do not, for example, emphasize a man’s suspenders in a portrait where the main theme is grief. Nor need we, for that matter, emphasize tears; for a man might show as much grief with his shoulders as with a wet handkerchief. In other words, if the theme is grief we should emphasize grief itself rather than any particular gesture of grief.

Similarly if in a romantic story the main theme is dashing sword play, it is swordsmanship which should be stressed, and not the sword itself, unless, of course, that sword happens to have some magic property. Therefore it is bad art in “The Mark of Zorro,” a Douglas Fairbanks play, to repeat with every sub-title a conventional sketch of a sword. It is bad, not only because the hero’s sword needs no emphasis, but because a mere decorative drawing of a sword cannot reinforce the significance of the real sword which the hero so gallantly wields.

There is a recurring note, however, in this play which can be commended. It is the “Z” shaped mark or wound which Zorro makes with his sword. We see it first as an old scar on the cheek of a man whom Zorro has reprimanded. Then we see Zorro himself trace the mark on a bulletin board from which he tears down a notice. Then we see him cut the dreaded “Z” upon the neck of an antagonist. And, finally, we see him, some days later, fix his weird mark squarely on the brow of his old enemy. And in every case except the first we observe the quick zigzag motion of the avenging sword.

Here the emphasis lies in the repetition of a pictorial element with some variety of shape and movement and under a variety of circumstances. The “mark” of Zorro becomes a sharp symbol which inscribes ever anew upon our minds the character of the hero, his dashing pursuit and lightning retribution.

Emphasis by repetition in the photoplay may further be achieved in ways which we shall not take the time to discuss. Thus an especially significant setting may be repeated in various lights and in combination with various actions; or some particular action, such as a dramatic dance, may be repeated in a variety of settings.

A sure means of emphasis is contrast. We have already shown how this principle works in cases where a moving thing is contrasted with other things which are at rest. Yet the contrast in such cases works only in one direction. That is to say, the contrast throws the attention on the motion, but it does not at the same time draw any attention to the fixed objects. It will be interesting now to illustrate a sort of double-acting contrast which may produce great emphasis in pictures. In the well-known case where a tall man stands beside a short one on a stage the difference between them is emphasized by the contrast in their statures; and when we meet them off the stage we are surprised to discover that one is not so tall, and the other not so short, as we had been led to believe. In a photograph, for a similar reason, if a very black tone is placed sharply along a very white one, each tone will make the other seem more intense. And if a painter desires to emphasize a color, say red, in his painting he does not need to do so by spreading more paint over the first coat. Red may be accented by placing green beside it. In fact, each of these two colors can accent the other by contrast.

Similarly when two motions occur together the contrast between them may be double-acting. When you are setting your watch, for example, the minute-hand seems to run faster, and the hour-hand more slowly, than is actually true, because of the contrast in their rates of speed. This simple law might well be applied in the movies when emphasis of motion is required. We would thus get the effect of speed upon the mind without the annoyance of speed for the eye.

One does not have to be a critic to realize that there is entirely too much speed on the screen. Some of this dizzy swiftness is due to imperfect projection or to the worn-out condition of the film; witness the flicker and the “rain” of specks and lines. Much of it is due also to the fact that the projection is “speeded up” to a faster rate than that of the actual performance before the camera. But there is also a lamentable straining for effect by many directors who believe that an unnaturally fast tempo gives life and sparkle to the action. Perhaps some of these directors have not been able to forget a lesson learned during their stage experience. In the spoken drama it has long been a tradition that actors must speak more rapidly, and must pick up their cues more promptly, than people do in real life, in order that the play may not seem to drag. But we know that the motion picture is in danger of racing rather than dragging. And racing, as we have said, hurts the eyes.

The principle of contrast can relieve the eye of a part of its work without imposing any additional task upon the mind. Thus some crazy Don Quixote may _seem_ to cut and thrust with greater agility than the fighting which we actually _see_, provided his action is contrasted with the restful poking of his ham-fed servant, Sancho Panza. And thus a railroad train which really was running at a moderate speed, might _seem_ to dash by on the screen, if it were contrasted with the ambling gait of a farmer’s team driven in the same direction along the tracks.

A kind of emphasis which we may classify as contrast is that which occurs when movement is suddenly arrested. The unexpected stop not only makes the previous motion seem faster than it really was, but it also fixes attention more alertly on the thing which has just stopped moving. When you bump against a chair in the darkness you are always astonished to find that you were dashing along instead of merely walking slowly. But the shock has deceived you, for you really were walking slowly. If you are out hunting and your setter stops in his tracks, your eye is immediately upon him, and will remain so fixed until he or something else makes the next move. The same principle works on the screen. If an actor, or an animal, or a thing is in motion and then unexpectedly pauses, the effect of the pause is to attract immediate attention, as well as to make the previous motion seem to have been faster than it actually was. Sometimes this law may operate to distract our attention from the dramatic interest. If, for example, an outdoor scene has been “shot” on a squally day, and the wind has abruptly died down for a few moments during the climax of the scene, the effect on the screen will be to attract our attention instantly to the leaves which have stopped fluttering, or the garments which have stopped flapping. We will observe the sudden change in the weather and forget the state of the story.

With this argument we ourselves shall pause, in order to summarize the principal ways in which pictorial motions, working singly or together, can produce the greatest impression on the spectator with the least expenditure of his mental energy. Here is the list: A thing in motion is normally more emphatic than anything at rest in the same picture. Of two motions the one which is the more surprising or fanciful gets the chief attention. Slowness or slightness may sometimes by contrast be more emphatic than great speed or volume. A moving spot or a line flowing along its own length has a tendency to carry attention along with, or even ahead of, itself in the direction of movement. Two or more movements along well-marked lines, whether converging or diverging, focus attention on the point which these lines have in common. Lines moving in circles away from a common center hold attention on that center. Repetition can work for emphasis without monotony, provided it be a repetition with variety of circumstances. Contrast between two simultaneous motions or between a motion and an abrupt rest may be double-acting, that is, may emphasize in both directions.

Our discussion of motions at work in a picture has not been exhaustive. The list might easily be made three times as long as it is. But it is long enough to illustrate the evil which motions may do if they are turned wild on the screen, and the good which they may work if they are harnessed by a director who understands these fundamental principles of pictorial composition.

However, all work and no play would make any picture dull, but that is a subject for another chapter.