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PICTORIAL BEAUTY ON THE SCREEN

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS
ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.
TORONTO

From The Covered Wagon. The rich variety of light and shadow in this scene, combined with the simple strength of the moving pattern, makes it one of the most charming sections in a remarkable photoplay. See [pages 9], [66] and [140].

PICTORIAL BEAUTY
ON THE SCREEN

BY
VICTOR OSCAR FREEBURG, Ph.D.
AUTHOR OF “THE ART OF PHOTOPLAY MAKING,” AND
“DISGUISE PLOTS IN ELIZABETHAN DRAMA.”

WITH A PREFATORY NOTE
By Rex Ingram

New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1923
All rights reserved

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

Copyright, 1923,
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1923.

To
JAMES CRUZE

Because the Various Types of Pictorial Beauty Described in this Book May Be Seen Richly Blended with Epic Narrative and Stirring Drama in “The Covered Wagon,” a Cinema Composition That Will Live

PREFATORY NOTE

By Rex Ingram, Director of the “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” “Scaramouche,” etc., etc.

In this volume Dr. Freeburg contends that in order to be classified among the Arts, the Cinema must become something more than a series of clear photographs of things in motion.

In other words, a motion picture must be composed of scenes that have certain pictorial qualifications, such as form, composition, and a proper distribution of light and shade.

It is chiefly according to the degree in which these qualities are present in a picture, that it can register the full effectiveness of its drama, characterizations and atmosphere.

Dr. Freeburg handles his subject clearly and comprehensively, and I know that the majority who read this book will gain a great deal more enjoyment than previously from productions of the calibre of “Broken Blossoms,” “Dr. Caligari,” “Blind Husbands,” “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” “Nanook of the North,” and films more numerous than I can mention by such picture makers as Messrs. Griffith, Seastrom, Tourneur, Von Stroheim and Lubitsch.

Rex Ingram.

August 5th, 1923.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

If I look upon a motion picture as a kind of substitute for some stage play or novel, it seems to me a poor thing, only a substitute for something better; but if I look upon it as something real in itself, a new form of pictorial art in which things have somehow been conjured into significant motion, then I get many a glimpse of touching beauty, and I always see a great range of possibilities for richer beauties in future examples of this new art. Then I see the motion picture as the equal of any of the elder arts.

In other words, I enjoy the movies as pictures, and I do not enjoy them as anything else but pictures. Yet it is on the pictorial side that the movies are now in greatest need of improvement. And this need will probably continue for at least another ten years. I feel that a book such as this may prove to be of considerable help in bringing about that improvement. So far as I know, this is the first book in which a systematic analysis of pictorial composition on the screen has been attempted, although there are certain earlier books in which the pictorial art of the screen has been appraised without analysis, the pioneer work in that class being Vachel Lindsay’s “Art of the Moving Picture.” The most original things in my present volume are to be found in the chapters on “Pictorial Motions”—or, at least, they ought to be there, else I am to blame, because that is the phase of cinematic art which has hitherto received the least attention from critics.

“Movie fans” in general are my audience, my hope being that they may find something new in this discussion, something, here and there, which they had not themselves thought of, but which will help them toward a conscious and keen enjoyment of beauty scarcely observed before, and to a more certain discrimination between genuine art on the screen and mere pretentious imitations of art.

In order not to confuse the issue, I have purposely omitted discussions of plot, dramatic situation, characterization, etc., except where these matters are so intimately connected with pictorial form that an omission would be impossible. In short, it is what the picture looks like, rather than what it tells, which here occupies our attention. This study is, therefore, supplementary to my book “The Art of Photoplay Making,” which is published by The Macmillan Company.

Mr. James O. Spearing, who was for five years the distinguished motion picture critic on the New York Times, and is now on the production staff of the Goldwyn Pictures Corporation, has been kind enough to criticize the manuscript of the present work, and I take pride in thanking him publicly for having thus served me with his extensive knowledge and cultivated taste.

V. O. F.

The National Arts Club,
New York City,
August 27th, 1923.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Pictorial Beauty On the Screen

CHAPTER I
PICTORIAL ART IN THE MOVIES

Vast armies of “movie fans” in massed formation move in and out of the theaters day after day and night after night. They may be trampled on, stumbled over, suffocated; they may have to wait wearily for seats and even for a glimpse of the screen, and yet they come, drawn by a lure which they never dream of denying. Yet the individuals in these crowds are not the helpless victims of mob impulses. Choose the average person among them, and you will find that he is able to criticize what he sees. He has developed no small degree of artistic taste during all the hundreds of nights which he has spent with eyes fixed upon the screen. He can, at least, tell the difference between a dull, common-place plot and one that is original and thrilling. He can distinguish between the reasonable and the ridiculous. He is perfectly aware that much of what he sees is plain “bunk,” that it is false, or silly, or of no consequence; and yet, after waiting patiently, he is quick to catch the honest message of significant truth when it comes. He is trained in the appreciation of screen acting, and does not confuse mere showy performance with sincere, sympathetic interpretation of a dramatic character. And now, at last, the “average movie fan” is beginning to demand that motion pictures have real pictorial beauty, that they be something more than clear photographs of things in motion.

Here we have struck the measure of the motion picture’s possibilities as a new art. The masses who pay for tickets have the situation entirely in their hands. Photoplays are improving year by year principally because the public wants better photoplays year by year. When the movies were new, people were satisfied with novelties, mechanical tricks, sensational “stunts,” pictures of sensational people, pictures of pretty places, etc., but, although they appreciated what was called good photography, they expressed no craving for genuine pictorial beauty. Later on came the craze for adaptations of popular novels and stage plays to the screen. This was really a great step forward. The motion picture was no longer a mere toy or trick, but was being looked upon as a real art medium. The public had developed a taste for the exciting, clearly told story, and this demand was satisfied by hundreds of excellent photoplays—excellent, at least, according to the standards of the day. Yet the “fans” might have asked for more. They got the story of a famous novel or play, with fairly well acted interpretations by screen folk in proper costumes, and with scenes and settings that usually answered to the descriptions in the literary work adapted; they even got, here and there, a “pretty” view or a chance grouping of striking beauty, but they did not regularly get, or ask for, the kind of beauty which we are accustomed to find in the masterpieces of painting. But taste has been developed by tasting, and at last the craving for pictorial art has come.

Along with this new public demand for better pictorial qualities in the motion pictures have come higher ideals to those who make and distribute motion pictures. The producers are awakening to their opportunities. They are no longer content with resurrecting defunct stage plays and picturizing them hurriedly, with only enough additions to the bare plot to make the photoplay last five reels. It is not now so much a question of fixing over something old, as of constructing something new. They are beginning to think in terms of pictorial motion. The directors, too—those who have not been forced out of the studios by their lack of ability—have learned their art of pictorial composition in much the same way as the public has developed its taste, that is, by experience. Once they seemed to think that it was enough to tell the heroine when to sob or raise her eyebrows; now they realize that the lines and pattern of the entire figure should be pictorially related to every other line and pattern which is to be recorded by the camera and shown upon the screen. And, finally, along with the director’s rise in power and importance is coming the better subordination of the “stars,” and yet they shine not the less brightly on the screen.

The early exhibitors were often accused of being “ballyhoo” men, hawking their wares of more or less questionable character. Most of them, indeed, never suspected that motion pictures might contain beauty. Now the worst of them can at least be classed with picture dealers who value their goods because others love them, while the best, including such men as Dr. Hugo Riesenfeld, have made exhibition itself a new art. They select pictures with conscientious taste, place them in a harmonious program, and show them in a theatrical setting that gives the right mood for æsthetic appreciation on the part of the audience.

Publicity men, too, have felt the temper of the public. Although they still like to exploit sensational features, the language of art is creeping into their “dope.” They are beginning to find phrases for the kind of beauty in a film which does not come from a ravishing “star” or the lavish expenditure of money. And the independent reviewers whose criticisms are published in the newspapers and magazines have become professional. There was a time when they contented themselves with listing the cast, revealing the plot in a paragraph, and adding that “the photography is excellent.” But now we find thoughtful, discriminating criticisms of photoplays in the film magazines and in the leading daily papers of the country. These critics have learned how to analyze the narrative as a dramatic construction, and how to evaluate the interpretation of character in the acting, but they have also learned something else, and this belongs to the new epoch in the development of the photoplay; they have begun to observe the pictorial art in motion pictures, the endless possibilities of beauty in the pictorial combination of figure, setting, and action; in the arrangement of lines and masses, of lights and shadows, and in the fascinating rhythms of movement on the screen.

This conscious desire for beauty on the screen, which is springing up all along the line, from the producer to the ultimate “fan,” has naturally led to public discussion. In school room and church, on “lot” and “location,” in office and studio, in club or casual group, men and women are trying to find words and phrases to express the cinematic beauty which they have sensed. And by that discussion they are sharpening their senses for the discovery of richer beauty in the films that are to come. My contribution to that discussion has taken the form of this book, and my aim has been, first, to collect the topics which are connected with the purely pictorial side of the movies, and, second, to formulate my conception of some of the principles which govern the creation of pictorial beauty on the screen. I have endeavored to see my subject from various angles, assuming at times the position of the sensitive spectator and at times standing, as it were, beside the average director, and presuming to suggest to him what he ought to do to please that spectator.

To begin with, let us take care to avoid some of the common pitfalls of photoplay criticism. It has been a common error to judge a photoplay as though it were a kind of visualized book. Many of us have slipped into the mistake of expecting motion photographs to give us the same kind of pleasure which we get from printed or spoken words. But let us understand from now on that the beauty of a design-and-motion art must of necessity be quite different from the beauty of a word-and-voice art.

This means that we shall have to get out of the habit of using expressions like “He is writing a photoplay.” A writer might indeed devise a story for a motion picture play, as he might originate and describe an idea for a painting, but it would not in either case be proper to say that he had written the picture. This book is not a study of words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs, etc. It does not deal with literary expression. It deals with fixed and moving designs, the things which the spectator actually sees, the only forms which actually hold and present the contents of a photoplay. At times we shall, of course, be obliged to say something about the familiar “sub-titles,” which interrupt the pictorial flow in a film. But word-forms are not characteristic photoplay forms. Fundamentally, a photoplay is a sequence of motion pictures, and a man can no more write those pictures than he can write a row of paintings on a wall. However, it would be unfair to say that a writer could not in some way lend a hand in the making of a motion picture; we merely insist that the finished picture should not be judged as writing.

We must also get rid of the notion that “photoplays are acted.” It would hardly be further from the truth to say that paintings are posed. A finished painting may, in fact, contain the image of some person who has posed for the artist; but the painting contains something else far more significant. We cannot thank Raphael’s model for the beauty of “The Sistine Madonna,” nor can we thank Charles I. of England for the beauty of Van Dyck’s portraits of him. Turning to movies, it must be admitted that actors are tremendously important, but it must not be said that they act motion pictures. They only act while motion pictures are being made. We cannot thank them for the poignant beauty of glowing lights and falling shadows, of flowing lines, and melting forms, and all that strange evanescence that makes up the lure of cinematic forms.

Also we must reject the theory that the artistic quality of a photoplay can be guaranteed by engaging so-called art directors who design backgrounds or select natural settings for the action of the film story. The picture which we see on the screen consists not of backgrounds alone; it is rather an ever-varying design of moving figures combined with a fixed or changing background. If an art director limits his work to the preparation of material environment of photoplay action, he is, by definition, responsible only for the place-element in the motion picture. Even if he were to design costumes and general equipment for the players he would still be responsible for only a part of the pictorial elements that appear upon the screen.

Plot, performers, places, equipment—these are only the materials which a picture-maker puts into cinematic forms. The art does not lie in the separate materials; it lies in the organization of those materials, a process which may be called cinema composition.[A] In a later chapter we shall discuss the proposition that the motion picture director is, or certainly should be, the master cinema composer. Here we simply want to make the point that criticism should concern itself with the finished composition as a whole and not with the parts alone. The critic who is interested only in the plot construction of photoplays may indeed be able to make penetrating comment upon such dramatic qualities as suspense, logic, etc., but he cannot thereby give us any information on those visual aspects which please or displease the eye while the picture is showing. Thus also the critic who looks only at the acting in the photoplay is likely to be misled and to mislead us. He may not observe, for example, that a film which has bad joining of scenes, or a bad combination of figure and setting, is a bad cinema composition, however superb the acting may be. And the critic who writes, “The photography is excellent,”—a rubber-stamp criticism—is of no help to art-lovers, because the photography as such may indeed be excellent while the composition of the scenes photographed is atrocious. Cinema criticism, to be of any real value to the “movie fan,” must be complete. And that means that he must be enlightened concerning the nature of pictorial design and pictorial progression, as well as concerning the plot, the acting, and the mechanics of photography.

[A] The terms “cinema composer” and “cinema composition” were devised by the author in 1916, at the time when he and his students founded the Cinema Composers Club at Columbia University.

All of us are beginners in this pioneer work of analyzing the motion picture as a design-and-motion art. But the prize is well worth the adventure. Certainly the danger of making mistakes need not alarm us unduly, for even a mistake may be interesting and helpful. At the start we need to sharpen our insight by learning as much about the grammar of pictorial art as we know about the grammar of language, by respecting the logic of line and tone as highly as the logic of fictitious events, by paying tribute to originality in the pattern of pictorial motions no less than to the novelty in fresh dramatic situations. Beyond that the prospect is alluring. Our new understanding will give us greater enjoyment of the pictorial beauty which even now comes to the screen, and the rumor of that enjoyment, sounding through the studios, will assure of us of still greater beauty in the future.

CHAPTER II
THE PRACTICAL VALUE OF PICTORIAL COMPOSITION

The production manager of a large motion picture studio in New York once declared to the author that he was “against artistry in the movies because it usually spoils the picture.” “Emotion’s what gets ’em, not art,” he added. “Besides, a director has to shoot thirty or forty scenes a day, and hasn’t got any time to fool away with art notions.”

Any one who has seen “The Covered Wagon” (directed by James Cruze for the Famous Players-Lasky Corporation) knows that such talk is nonsense. This remarkable photoplay charms the eye, appeals to the imagination, and stirs the emotions—all in the same “shot.” One can never forget the pictorial beauty in those magnificent expanses of barren prairie, traversed by the long train of covered wagons, a white line winding in slow rhythm, while a softly rising cloud of dust blends the tones of the curving canvas tops and of the wind-blown sage brush. Again and again the wagon train becomes a striking pictorial motif, and, whether it is seen creeping across the prairie, following the bank of a river, climbing toward a pass in the mountains, stretching out, a thin black chain of silhouettes on the horizon, curving itself along the palisade-like walls of an arroyo, or halted in snow against a background of Oregon pines, it always adds emphasis to the intense drama of the pioneers battling against the hardships of the trail in ’48 and ’49. Here is entrancing change and flow of pattern, but here is human striving and performance, too; and the emotions of the audience are touched more directly and more deeply because picture and drama have been fused into a single art.

Shortly after “The Covered Wagon” had opened in New York an executive of a certain film company was heard to remark, “Well, no wonder it’s a success. It cost $700,000 to make it! Any one could take that much money and make a great picture.” I consider that reflection highly unjust and the argument entirely fallacious. Good pictorial composition does not necessarily cost a cent more than bad composition. In fact, it will be shown in the following chapters that a scene of cinematic beauty often costs less than an ordinary arrangement of the same scene.

The pictorial beauty discussed in this book is really a kind of pictorial efficiency, and therefore must have practical, economic value. When a motion picture is well composed it pleases the eye, its meaning is easily understood, and the emotion it contains is quickly and forcefully conveyed. In short, it has the power of art.

Pictorial efficiency cannot be bought. It cannot be guaranteed by the possession of expensive cameras and other mechanical equipment. The camera has no sense, no soul, no capacity for selecting, emphasizing, and interpreting the pictorial subject for the benefit of the spectator. In fact, the camera is positively stupid, because it always shows more than is necessary; it often emphasizes the wrong thing, and it is notoriously blind to beautiful significance. You who carry kodaks for the purpose of getting souvenirs of your travels have perhaps often been surprised, when the films were developed, to discover some very conspicuous object, ugly and jarring, which you had not noticed at the time when the picture was taken. At that time your mind had forced your eye to ignore all that was not interesting and beautiful, but the camera had made no such choice.

From The Plough Girl. The pictorial composition at this moment of the action is bad because the spectator’s eye is not led instantly to the book, which is the most important dramatic interest in this scene. See [page 11].

It will not help matters to buy a better lens for your camera and to be more careful of the focus next time. Such things can only make the images more sharp; they cannot alter the emphasis. Unfortunately there are still movie makers, and movie “fans,” too, in the world who have the notion that sharpness of photography, or “clearness,” as they call it, is a wonderful quality. But such people do not appreciate art; they merely appreciate machinery. To make the separate parts of a picture more distinct does not help us to see the total meaning more clearly. It may, in fact, prevent us from seeing.

Let us look, for example, at the “still” reproduced on the opposite page. The picture is clear enough. We observe that it contains three figures and about a dozen objects. Our attention is caught by a conspicuous lamp, whose light falls upon a suspicious-looking jug, with its stopper not too tightly in. Yet these objects, emphasized as they are, have but slight importance indeed when compared with the book clutched in the man’s hand.

This mistake in emphasis is not the fault of the camera; it is the fault of the director, who in the haste, or ignorance, perhaps, of days gone by, composed the picture so badly that the spectators are forced to look first at the wrong things, thus wasting time and energy before they can find the right things. On the screen, to be sure, the book attracts some attention because it is in motion, yet that does not suffice to draw our attention immediately away from the striking objects in the foreground. The primary interests should, of course, have been placed in the strongest light and in the most prominent position.

Guiding the attention of the spectator properly helps him to understand what he is looking at, but it is still more important to help him feel what he is looking at. Movie producers used to have a great deal to say about the need of putting “punch” into a picture, of making it so strong that it would “hit the audience between the eyes.” Well, let those hot injunctions still be given. We maintain that good composition will make any motion picture “punch” harder, and that bad composition will weaken the “punch,” may, indeed, prevent its being felt at all. But before arguing that proposition, let us philosophize a bit over the manner in which a “punch” operates on our minds.

Anything that impresses the human mind through the eye requires a three-fold expenditure of human energy. There is, first, the physical exertion of looking, then the mental exertion of seeing, that is, understanding what one looks at, and, finally, the joy of feeling, the pouring out of emotional energy. This last is the “punch,” the result which every artist aims to produce; but it can only be achieved through the spectator’s enjoyment of looking and seeing.

Now, since the total human energy available at any one time for looking, seeing, and feeling is limited, it is clearly desirable to economize in the efforts of looking and seeing, in order to leave so much the more energy for emotional enjoyment. We shall discuss in the following chapter some of the things which waste our energies during the efforts of looking and seeing. Let us here consider how pictorial composition can control the expenditure of emotional energy, and how it may thus either help or hinder the spectator in his appreciation of beauty on the screen.

Let us imagine an example of a typical “punch” picture and describe it here in words—inadequate though they may be—to illustrate how a bad arrangement of events and scenes may use up the spectator’s emotional energy before the story arrives at the event intended to furnish the main thrill. The “punch” in this case is to be the transfer of a man from one airplane to another. But many other things will disturb us on the way, and certain striking scenes will rob the aerial transfer of its intended “punch.”

First we see the hero and his pilot just starting their flight in a hydro-airplane, the dark compact machine contrasting strongly with the magnificent spread of white sails of a large sloop yacht—perhaps thus tending to focus our attention on the yacht—which skims along toward the left of our view.

Then, in the next scene, near some country village, evidently miles away from the expanse of water in the first picture, we see a huge Caproni triplane, which must have made a forced landing in the muddy creek of a pasture. A herd of Holstein cows with strange black and white markings, two bare-footed country girls, a shepherd dog, and five helmeted mechanicians, stand helpless, all equally admiring and dumb, while an alert farmer hitches an amusing span of mules, one black and one gray, to the triplane and drags it out of the mud.

The third scene is strange indeed. It looks at first like a dazzling sea of foam—perhaps the ocean churned to fury by a storm—no, you may not believe it, but it is a sea of clouds. We are in an airplane of our own high in the sky, perhaps miles and miles, or maybe only three-quarters of a mile, above sea level. Just as we become fascinated by the nests of shadows among the cloud billows, a black object swings up from the whiteness, like a dolphin or a submarine from the sea. It is the hydro-airplane with our hero and his pilot; we recognize them because they are now sailing abreast of us only a few yards away. The hero stands up and is about to assume the pose of Washington crossing the Delaware, a difficult thing in such a strong wind when he is suddenly struck from behind by a villain who evidently had concealed himself in the body of the hydro-airplane before the flight was started. The villain is dressed like a soldier and seems to have a knapsack on his back.

Meanwhile, the sea of clouds flows by, dazzling white and without a rift through which one might look to see whether a city, an ocean, a forest, or a cornfield lies below.

Suddenly we look upward and discover the triplane, silhouetted sharply against the sky like the skeleton of some monster. It has five bodies and the five propellors, which three or four minutes ago were paralyzed in the cow pasture, now are revolving so rapidly that we cannot see them. It would be very interesting—but look! the villain and the hero are having a little wrestling match on one of the wings of their plane. Let us hope the hero throws the villain into the clouds! He does, too! But villains are deucedly clever. The knapsack turns into a parachute, which spreads out into a white circular form, more circular than any of the clouds. We wonder if there will be any one to meet him when he lands—but, don’t miss it! This is the “punch”! The triplane is flying just above the hydro-airplane. Somebody lets down a rope ladder, which bends back like the tail of a kite. The hero grabs it, grins at the camera, climbs up, and with perfect calmness asks for a cigarette, though he doesn’t light it, because that would be against the pilot’s rules.

Well, the transfer from one airplane to another wasn’t so much of a “punch,” after all.

Now let us count the thrills of such a picture as they might come to us from the screen. First, in order of time, would be our delight at the stately curves of the gleaming sails of the yacht, but this delight would be dulled somewhat by the physical difficulty experienced by the eyes in following the swaying, thrusting movement of the yacht as it heels from the breeze, and at the same time following the rising shape of the hydro-airplane; and it would be further dulled by the mental effort of trying to see the dramatic relation between yacht and plane. But, whether dulled or not, this thrill would be all in vain, for it surely does not put more force into the “punch” which we set out to produce, namely, the transfer of a man from one airplane to another.

The yacht, therefore, being unnecessary to our story, violates the principle of unity; it violates the principles of emphasis and balance, because it distracts our attention from the main interest; and it violates the principle of rhythm, because it does not take a part in the upward-curving succession of interests that should culminate with the main “punch.”

If the plane of our hero must rise from the water, and if there is to be a secondary interest in the picture, let it be something which, though really subordinate, can intensify our interest in the plane. Perhaps a clumsy old tug would serve the purpose, its smoke tracing a barrier, above which the plane soars as easily as a bird. Or perhaps a rowboat would be just as well, with a fisherman gazing spellbound at the machine that rises into the air. Either of these elements would emphasize the idea of height and danger.

The scene of the triplane in the pasture with the cows, mules, etc., might be mildly amusing. But our eyes would be taxed by its moving spots, and, since its tones would be dark or dark gray, the pupils of our eyes would become dilated, and would therefore be totally unprepared for the flash of white which follows in the next scene.

The white expanse of fleecy clouds would shock the eyes at first sight, since the approach to the subject had not been properly made; but in a moment we would be stirred by the feeling that we were really above the clouds. We would seem to have passed into a new world with floods of mist. The long stretches of white are soft as eiderdown, yet, because of our own motion, they seem like the currents of a broad river, and one can almost imagine that it were possible to steer a canoe over those rapids. All this would be the second thrill, beautiful in itself but not actually tending to emphasize the “punch” of a man transferring from one airplane to another.

The third thrill would surely come when the hydro-airplane swings up through these clouds, like a dolphin from the sea, and yet not like a dolphin, because it rises more slowly and in a few moments soars freely into the air, a marvellous happening which no words can describe. Yet this thrill, like the others, would exhaust our emotions rather than leave them fresh for the “punch” we started out to produce, the transfer of a man from one airplane to another.

Most thrilling of all would be the moments between the instant when the villain is pushed off the wing of the plane and the instant when his parachute snaps open. The white mass of the parachute, almost like a tiny cloud, spreads out at the instant when it reaches the layer of clouds, as if they pushed it open; then the parachute sinks into the clouds and dies out like a wave of the sea.

After all these thrills, the intended “punch” would come like a slap on the wrist. A man might now leap back and forth from one airplane to another until it was time to go home for supper, and we would only yawn at his exploits.

Now one of the morals of this story is that we did get a “punch,” even though it was not the one originally intended by our imagined producer. Treasures often lie in unsuspected places. Nearly every common-place film on the screen contains some beauty by accident, some unexpected charm, some unforseen “punch,” something the director never dreamed of, which outshines the very beauty which he aimed to produce. And whenever a thoughtful person is stirred by such accidental beauty he is delighted to think that such a thing is possible. In the exceptional films, he knows, such effects are produced by design instead of by chance. It is better business, and it is better art.

We said at the beginning of this chapter that it was clearly desirable to economize the spectator’s efforts of looking and seeing, in order that he may have the greatest possible amount of energy left for the experience of emotion. This is desirable even from a business man’s point of view. We shall now try to show that emotional thrills can actually be controlled by design, by what we shall call pictorial composition.

But how is pictorial composition controlled, and who controls it? How far is the scenario writer responsible for pictorial value? How much of the pictorial composition shall the director direct, and how much of it may safely be left to other hands? And, if a picture is well composed, does that guarantee beauty? The answers to these questions depend upon our definition of terms.

Composition in general means, of course, simply bringing things together into a mutual relation. A particular combination of parts in a picture may help the spectator, or may hinder him more than some other possible combination of the same parts. Composition is form, and as such should be revealing and expressive at the same time that it is appealing in itself. Good composition cannot easily be defined in a single sentence, but, for the sake of order in our discussion, I wish to offer the following as my working definition. The best cinema composition is that arrangement of elements in a scene or succession of scenes which enables us to see the most with the least difficulty and the deepest feeling.

A remarkable thing about composition is that it cannot be avoided. Every picture must have some kind of arrangement, whether that arrangement be good, bad, or indifferent. As soon as an actor enters a room he makes a composition, because every gesture, every movement, every line of his body bears some pictorial relation to everything else within range of our vision. Even to draw a single line or to prick a single point upon a sheet of paper is to start a composition, because such a mark must bear some relation to the four unavoidable lines which are described by the edges of the paper.

To place a flower in a vase is to make a composition. If the arrangement contains more meaning, more significance than the exhibition of the flower and the vase separately, and if this meaning can easily be perceived, the composition is good. A bad composition would doubtless result if we placed the flower and vase together in front of a framed photograph, because the three things would not fuse together into a unity which contained more meaning than the things had separately. In fact, even the separate values would be lost, because the vase would obscure the photograph, which in turn would distract our attention from the vase. In other words, the arrangement would not help us to see much with ease.

On the other hand, to place the flower and vase against some hanging or panel which harmonizes with them in color and emphasizes the beauty of the flower, is good composition, providing the rest of the environment is in harmony. The vase must, of course, stand on something, perhaps a table or a mantel-piece. This support must have shape, lines, color and texture, all visual elements which must be skillfully wrought into our design if the composition is to be successful. We see, therefore, that the artistic arrangement of simple things which do not move, which stay where you put them, is by no means a simple matter.

What we have just described may be called composition in a general sense, but it represents only the initial process in pictorial composition. The picture maker’s work only begins with the arranging of the subject. It does not end until he has recorded that subject in some permanent form, such as a painting, a drawing, or a celluloid negative. In the recording, or treatment, the painter tries to improve the composition of his subject. He changes the curves of the vase and the flower somewhat in order to obtain a more definite unity. He softens the emphasis in one place and heightens it in another. He balances shape against shape. He swings into the picture a rhythm of line and tone which he hopes may express to some beholder the harmony which he, the artist, feels. In other words, the painter begins by arranging things, he continues by altering the aspects of those things until they fit his conception of the perfect picture of the subject before him, and he finishes the composition only when he leaves a permanent record of what he has seen and felt.

The Shepherdess, a painting by LeRolle, illustrating several principles of design which can be effectively used in photoplays. See [page 55].

Now it is evident that the painter might begin, without an actual flower or vase or panel or table, by merely arranging his mental images of those things. But the process would, of course, still be composition. If, for example, he were to say to himself “To-morrow I shall paint a picture of a rose in a slate-blue vase standing on an antique oak table backed by a gray panel,” that very arrangement of images in his mind would be the first phase of his composition. Or if a customer were to come to him and say “To-morrow I want you to paint for me a picture of a rose,” etc., the process of bringing things together would still be composition; only in that case it begins with the customer and is completed by the painter.

If we apply this reasoning to the movies it is clear that as soon as a scenario writer writes a single line saying that a hydro-airplane takes off from the sea, he has already started a pictorial composition. Although he may not realize it, he has already brought together the long straight line of the horizon, the short curving lines of the waves, and the short straight and oblique lines of the plane. He has already made it necessary to combine certain tonal values of airplane and sky and sea, though he may not have stopped to consider what those tonal values might be.

But the writer does other things of greater consequence than the combining of shapes and tonal values. He prescribes motions and locomotions of things, and he orders the succession of scenes. Even if he writes only that “a plane rises from the sea,” he makes necessary the combination of a great number of movements. On the screen that plane will have at least four movements, namely, rising, tilting, going toward the right or the left, and the movement of diminishing size. And the sea will have at least three movements, namely, undulation, flowing, and the movement of the wake. Now if the scenario writer adds something else to the same scene, or prescribes the mutual relation of things and movements which are to appear in the next scene, he is, of course, merely continuing the process of cinema composition.

Insofar as the writer makes the combination of these things essential to the story he circumscribes the power, he may even tie the hands, of the director. For the latter, unless he ignores the composition thus begun, can do only one thing with it; he can only carry it on.

Now it is a sad thing to relate that many scenario writers do not suspect the truth of what we have just said. Some of them are evidently unaware of the significant fact that their description is really a prescription, that even by their written words they are really drawing the first lines of hundreds of pictures, that they are actually engaged in pictorial composition. They may be without knowledge of graphic art and without skill. They may not be able to take a pencil or a piece of charcoal and sketch out a horse or a hut or the general aspect of a single pictorial moment as it would appear on the screen. They may never have given any thought to the question of how best to arrange simultaneous or successive movements in order to give the strongest emotional appeal to the spectator. Yet they are drawing screen pictures, and drawing them on the typewriter!

Of course, even the most intelligent scenario writers, even those who have the most accurate knowledge of pictorial values on the screen and the keenest power of visualizing their story as it will appear after it has been screened, are always handicapped by working in the medium of language. Words are not motion-photographs, any more than they are paint or marble. This is the scenario writer’s handicap. But, though we may sympathize with him because of the handicap, we cannot relieve him of responsibility as the designer of beginnings in the cinema composition.

The director has a handicap, too. He also does not work in the medium of motion photographs. He cannot do so. Even if he were to look through the view-finder of the motion picture camera during the entire taking of every scene, he would not see exactly what we are destined to see in the theater. He would see things only in miniature, in a glass some two inches square, instead of larger than life. He would see things, not in black and white, but in their true colors. And he can never, under any circumstance, behold two or more scenes directly connected, with no more than the wink of an eye between them, until after the negatives have been developed, positives printed, and the strips spliced together in the cutting and joining room.

In other words, neither the scenario writer nor the motion picture director can ever know definitely in advance just what the finished work will look like to us in the theater. If we are aware of these handicaps, it may help us to understand why ugliness so often slips through to the screen, but it will not permit us to tolerate that ugliness. We, as spectators and critics, must forever insist that the photoplay makers master their art, no matter how difficult the mastery may be.

It was held some years ago that the only thing the matter with the movies was that the stories were badly composed and of little originality. Hence, a number of prominent novelists and playwrights were hired to adapt their own literary work or prepare new stories for the screen. But these literary men were among the first to discover that better writing does not in itself guarantee better pictures. It is the director who is more truly the picture maker than any one of his collaborators in the work. Ideally, he should prepare his own scenario, just as the painter makes his own preliminary sketches, and the fiction writer makes his own first draught of a story. Ideally, too, the plot should be devised by the director (who might then truly be called a cinema composer), devised especially for motion pictures, and with peculiar qualities and appeals that could never so well be expressed in other mediums.

But that is an ideal to be dreamed of. And, meanwhile, we “movie fans” can enjoy the best that is being produced by collaborative methods, and we can help toward the achievement of still better things by developing a thorough appreciation of what is pictorially pleasing, at the same time that we train ourselves to detect and talk out of existence the common faults of the movies.

CHAPTER III
EYE TESTS FOR BEAUTY

Do the movies hurt your eyes? Some say “yes” and some say “no.” Why is it that photoplay scenes sometimes flash and dazzle, but have neither radiance nor sparkle? Why is it that the motions sometimes shown on the screen get “on your nerves”? Why is it that you look at so much on the screen and remember so little? These questions can be answered by making certain eye tests for beauty, and, having answered them, we may proceed to a detailed discussion of pictorial composition in a great variety of cases.

In order to understand how the pleasure of pictorial beauty comes to a spectator, we must analyze the processes of looking and seeing. These processes consist partly of eye-work and partly of brain-work. That is, the physical eye must do certain work before the brain gets the visual image. Now if the physical eye has to work too hard, or bear a sudden strain, or undergo excessive wear, it will not function well; and, consequently, the brain will have to work harder in order to grasp the picture. All this causes displeasure, and displeasure is in conflict with beauty.

Let us state, once for all, that motion pictures need never hurt the eyes—quite the contrary. Yet we have often seen photoplays that did hurt the eyes. Some of the reasons for this will be given in the following paragraphs.

A familiar operation of the physical eye is the contraction and dilation of the pupil. We know from childhood that the pupil grows large when the light is weak, and small when the light is strong. We also know that the eye cannot make this adjustment instantly. If a strong light is suddenly flashed on us, for example, when we lie awake in a dark room it dazzles us, because our pupils are adjusted for darkness; it even hurts so much that we defend ourselves by closing the eyelids.

In exactly the same way our eyes are shocked by the movies when a dazzling white light is flashed on the screen where a somewhat darkened scene has just vanished. The pupil is caught unawares, is not instantly able to protect the eye, and, besides, must use up a certain amount of energy in adapting itself to the new condition. Such a shock once or twice during the evening might easily be forgiven and forgotten, might, in fact, be hardly felt at the time; but fifty such shocks in a five-reel photoplay would certainly weary the eye, and a play of that sort could hardly be called beautiful.

The fault which we have just named lies in the joining of scenes. But it is not, as a rule, necessary to connect scenes or sections of a film so that there is a jump from the darkest dark to the whitest white, or vice versa. This can be avoided, of course, by the device of “fading out” one scene and “fading in” the next, which gives the eye time to adapt itself, or by “fading down” or “up” just far enough to match the exact tone of the next picture. The shock can also be avoided by joining various sections of the film in a series of steps of increasing brightness or darkness.

The eye is hurt, we have said, by a sharp succession of black and white. It is also hurt by a sharp contrast of whites and blacks lying side by side on the screen. Such extremes are avoided in paintings. The next time you are in an art museum please compare the brightest white in any portrait with the white of your cuff, or your handkerchief, or a piece of paper. You may be surprised to discover that the high light in that painting is not severely white. It is rather grayish or yellowish, soft and easy to the eye. Observe also that the darkest hue in that painting is far from the deepest possible black. The extremes of tone are, in fact, never very far apart, and are therefore easily grasped by the eye without undue strain.

And while you are thinking of this practice of painters, you might compare it with the similar practice of composers of music. Your piano has many keys, the highest one in the treble being extremely far from the lowest one in the bass. Yet if you examine the score of any single piece of music you will discover that the highest note in that piece is not so very far from the lowest note in the same piece. It might have been possible to use the entire keyboard, but the composer has been wise enough not to try it. His extreme notes are so near together that the ear is able to catch them and all the subtle values of the music in between, without being strained by the effort.

It seems, therefore, that in artistic matters moderation is a good thing, is, in fact, necessary to produce real beauty. But moderation in the movies is not yet a widely accepted gospel. Too often we find that the dazzling flood of rays from a strong searchlight blazes over several square yards of the silver screen, while at the same moment, on adjoining parts of the same screen hang the deep shades of night. The contrasts are sharp as lightning, not only in the scenes, but also in the sub-titles which are cut in between. Our eyes gaze and twitch and hurt, until it is a real relief to step out and rest them upon something comparatively moderate, like the electric signs on Broadway.

If there were some mechanical difficulty which made this clashing effect of the motion pictures necessary, we could never hope for beauty on the screen; for no art can achieve beauty by producing pain. But we know from the work of such directors as James Cruze, D. W. Griffith, Allan Dwan, Rex Ingram, and John Robertson, that the moving picture camera is capable of recording light gray and dark gray, as well as steel white and ebony. They have shown us that it is possible to produce sub-titles with light gray lettering against a dark gray ground, and that such a combination of tones is pleasing to the eye. They have shown us that it is possible to screen a lady of the fairest face and dressed in the snowiest gown so as to bring out the softest tones of light and shade, yet show nothing as dazzling as snow and nothing as black as ebony.

From The Spell of the Yukon. An interesting example of chiaroscuro and the harmonizing of dramatic pantomime with pictorial pattern. The composition, however, is slightly marred by over-emphasis on the window. See [pages 55] and [63].

A study of the “still” shown above, illustrating a simple method of analyzing pictorial composition. See [page 63].

Some of the “stills” in this book give a hint of the sharp contrasts in the inferior films, but it is only a hint, because the white portions in those illustrations can be no whiter than the paper of the page, which is dull in comparison with the blaze on the screen. The movie theater is the best place to verify the theories which we are here trying to explain in words. Go to the movies. Whenever you find that you enjoy the films thoroughly, then by all means do not stop to analyze or criticise. If you enjoy any particular film so much that you are sure you would like to see it two or three times every year for the rest of your life, you may be happy, for you have discovered one of the classics of the screen. Do not analyze that film either, unless you are in the business of making pictures. But if a film makes you uncomfortable, or if it is so bad that you are quite disgusted with it, then, though you must become a martyr to do it, please stay and see it again. Compare the good parts of the film, if there are any, with the bad parts; study it in detail until you see where the trouble lies. And when you have discovered the real causes of ugliness in that film, wouldn’t it be a public service to express your opinion in such a way that the manager of your theater might hear it?

Thus far in this chapter we have discussed only a single operation of the eye, namely, the expanding and contracting of the pupils under the effect of darkness and brightness, but it is easy to understand now how such an apparently slight thing may seriously affect our enjoyment of the movies. Let the reader, when he is next displeased by a picture, test it for sharpness of contrast between white and black. He will probably not have to seek further for explanation of its ugliness.

Another operation which the eye-machine performs is the accommodation to color. It is somewhat similar to the accommodation to distance, which we shall describe, if the reader will help us by making an experiment. Close one eye and look steadily with the other at an object across the room. Now, without changing your gaze, hold up your finger in line with this object and about a foot away from your eye. The outline of the finger will be indistinct as long as you keep the eye focused on the remote object. Now, still keeping one eye shut, look at your finger until you can see the little ridges on it. The eye has changed its focus, and the remote object is now indistinct. What happens is that the lens within the eye changes its shape, bulging more for near objects and flattening again for distant objects. This work of the eye, called accommodation, is done by certain delicate muscles. A little of it may be stimulating, but too much will make the eyes tired.

Now it is a strange thing that certain colors affect the eyes in the same way as distances. Painters knew this fact for hundreds of years before the scientists were able to explain the reason. They knew that blue seemed farther away than red, and arranged the colors in their paintings accordingly. All artists have learned the trick, even some of our commercial artists, who make advertising posters for street cars. Blue makes the background fall back; red makes a figure stand forward. The reason for this illusion is that when the eye looks at red it adjusts itself exactly as if it were looking at a near object, and thus deceives the brain, so to speak; and when it looks at blue it adjusts itself as if it were looking at a distant object and again deceives the brain. Or, to state the fact more completely, a color from the red end of the color scale (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet) seems nearer to the eye than one from the violet end, even though the colors are all placed equally distant from the eye.

Now we shall see that, although these effects of color are useful in a painting, they may be harmful in a motion picture. When we behold a painting in which colors ranging from red to yellow are contrasted with colors ranging from violet to blue, we may, indeed, get a pleasant sensation of the eye because of the stimulating activity in the work of accommodation. There is to most people a distinct pleasure, for example, in shifting the gaze from orange-yellow to blue, because those colors are felt to be “complementary.” But it must be remembered that the circumstances of looking at a painting are entirely different from those of looking at a motion picture.

Two differences are especially notable. The first difference is that when we look at a painting we ourselves are practically the choosers of when and how long to look at any spot, line, shape, or color. In other words, we ourselves practically decide on how much and what kind of work our eyes shall do; but when we look at a motion picture we never know at any instant what we may be called upon to do the next instant. That makes us nervous. We need to be constantly braced for the shock and, if we are not so braced, we must suffer when the shock comes.

The second difference is that everything in a painting is always actually at rest, while nearly everything in a motion picture is always in motion. If a painting, which does not move in any of its parts, can suggest movement to our imagination, or can make our eyes perform actual movements of vision, such movements, actual and imaginary, are pleasantly stimulating. The eyes enjoy the natural activity of their work, and we feel that there is life in the painting. But the motion picture, by its very nature, has as much life as it needs. It naturally gives the eyes all the work they can stand. Hence, if they need any stimulating change at all, it is rather the change from movement to repose.

Now let us go to the movie theater. Very likely before the show is over we shall be treated to a rapid shifting from the blue of some exterior scene in the moonlight to the orange-yellowish glow of some interior scene in lamplight. Our eyes, therefore, must accommodate their lenses to one of these colors again and again, only to receive a sudden demand for accommodation to the other color. We have no choice in the matter except to get up and go out. Our eyes, already busy enough, do not need the stimulation of any more activity, and our minds, already active enough, would prefer the relief of something more reposeful.

If the director must have this shifting from blue to orange to blue, etc., he might, at least, give us some warning, some softening of the shock, so to speak. For example, if there is to be a sudden shift from a yellowish lamp-light scene to a bluish night scene, a hint might be given by attracting our attention to a window, through which the blue of night is shown. And similarly in a bluish night scene our attention might be attracted toward the warm glow from a door or window as a warning that the next scene is to be flooded with that color. Thus in either case we would have a chance to prepare our eyes for the shift, and we would sense a better continuity of movement.

The subject of color in the movies will be discussed again in following chapters. It may be remarked in passing that, since color movies are still highly experimental, it is only to be expected that mistakes of many kinds will be made. Doubtless the leading directors can be trusted to learn from experience. Yet it behooves us who sit in the theaters to be as disapproving of new faults as we are exultant over new beauties.

It is not discouraging to discover a fault, so long as we see that it is one which might have been avoided. We want to make it plain in this chapter that, although the movies sometimes hurt the eyes, it is never due to any necessity. It is a fact that pictures on the screen, when properly made, are always pleasing to the spectators’ eyes. And he who does not accept this as a fundamental proposition can hardly come by any large faith in the future of the photoplay as art.

But we must make a few more eye tests for beauty. If you face a wall about twenty feet away, you can, without changing the position of your head, look at the left side or the right, at the top or bottom, or you can look at the four corners of the wall in succession. These three different kinds of movements, vertical, horizontal, circular, are controlled by as many different sets of muscles.

When we look at pictures, especially large pictures, these muscles are constantly busy directing our line of regard from one point of interest to another; and, whether there are definite points of interest or not, our eyes will range over the lines and shapes as we try to discover what they are meant to represent.

Now a certain amount of eye-movement does not hurt the muscles; it is, on the contrary, rather pleasant, because their business is to attend to those matters. But the eye will become fatigued by a great amount of movement, especially when it is forced upon us at unexpected moments, just as any other part of the body will become fatigued when it is forced to perform a great number of sudden, unexpected tasks.

A simple experiment will illustrate this further. Suppose that we are sitting in our door-yard, gazing across a valley at a group of trees a mile or so away. It is more restful to look at those distant trees than at a single tree only fifty feet away; and the reason is simple. When we look at any object our eyes have a tendency to follow its outline. Now, of course, it requires more rolling of the eyes to follow the outline of a tree near by than one in the distance. This rolling movement involves muscular work. And, if we look first at the near, large object and then shift to the distant, small ones, we immediately experience the restfulness of reduced work. There are other reasons why distant objects are restful to the eyes, but they do not concern us here.

Have you ever noticed the pleasing effect in the motion pictures when the thing of interest, say, a train or a band of horsemen disappearing in the distance, narrows itself down to a small space? All images on the screen are, of course, equally distant from the spectator; yet there is a sense of restfulness, as we have just explained, because the rolling of the eyes decreases with the diminishing of the image and its area of movement on the screen.

But suddenly there comes a close-up of a face twenty feet in diameter, and our eyes have to get busy in the effort to cover the whole field at once. They rove quickly over several square yards of screen until that face is completely surveyed and every detail noted. Lots of looking! Yes, but that “star” gets fifty thousand dollars a month! Can’t fool the camera though—crow’s-feet on both sides—fourteen diamonds in the left ear-drop and——

Flash to a broad, quiet, soft gray landscape, with a lone rider on the horizon—oh, pshaw!—diamonds must ’a’ been glass though—anyway, this picture’s good for sore eyes—kind o’ easy feelin’—Indian scout maybe—or a——

Flash to a close-up of a Mexican bandit, etc., etc. And our eyes get busy again mapping out the whole subject from hat to hoof, from bridle to tail. Exciting! Oh, yes, indeed, and interesting too, but not as art; for those little muscles up there are jerked around too much, they are working overtime, and soon get weary.

“Oh, well, I reckon I can stand the strain,” says some heckler, who “don’t quite, you know, get this high-brow stuff.” Of course, he can stand it. We have stood the mad orchestra of the elevated trains, and the riveters, and the neighbor’s parrot for years, but we do not call it music.

The difference between noise and harmony is a physical difference. If this were not true, no one could ever tune your piano. Jarring, clashing, discordant sounds displease the ear. Just why noise displeases is not for us to say. But we have already explained three reasons why bad motion pictures hurt the eyes. Let us remember them. First, sudden shifts from dark to bright pictures shock the eye. Second, sudden shifts from a picture in a “cool” tint to another in a “warm” tint, and vice versa, over-work the eye. Third, a series of quick close-ups or other pictures in which the frame is filled with the subject demands too much eye-movement.

In the case of the close-up, or any large picture where the points of interest are scattered all over the field of vision, the eyes, as we have said, become strained by too much rolling, a muscular effort which is necessary even though the separate points of interest may themselves be fixed, as fixed as the four corners of the screen itself.

But when the points of interest are moving things, as they generally are in the movies, new causes of strain often arise. Sometimes the object we are trying to look at moves so fast that we can hardly follow it. Quick movement is generally desired by the directors because they think that briskness, or “pep,” makes the dramatic action more intense. Consequently people in the movies walk, march, dance, fight, and carry on with terrific speed until our eyes become tired in the attempt to observe all that is happening. The cure for such pictorial hysterics is simple moderation, the elimination of jerky movements wherever possible, and the choice of movements so easy to follow that the eye may perceive them with the least muscular effort.

We do not say that you who worship speed shall not have your express trains, your racing cars, your airplanes, your cow-ponies, and your Arabian steeds. You may have them all, because they can be so photographed that an actual run of two or three miles may be presented on the screen as a movement of only two or three feet.

We find, too, that there is something pleasing about the apparent slowness of actions that are moderated by distance. On the far horizon, therefore, the fleetest things seem retarded to a stately pace that claims our restful gaze. But when a quick movement takes place in the foreground of the picture, too near the camera, ugliness results, because the demands on the eye-muscles are too severe and unexpected. Thus a sudden gesture, or the waving branches of trees or bushes, or a motor car driving up in front of a house, or even such intended grace as the movement in dancing, may spoil a picture by being too near the camera.

Another thing which makes close-up movements ugly is the flicker, which cannot be entirely eliminated. Our readers are doubtless generally aware that what we see on the screen is simply the blending of a rapid succession of still pictures falling on different spots in an order and a direction which gives the appearance of motion. If you examine a film you will find that there are in fact sixteen little photographs, or “frames” to every foot of ribbon. The negative runs through the camera, and the positive film through the projecting machine, at a rate of about a foot per second. Now let us suppose that we have a screen sixteen feet long and that we throw upon it a picture of a car running at the rate of ten or eleven miles per hour. If the picture is a close view the image will move across our screen in just one second of time, for the speed we have assumed is at the rate of sixteen feet per second. But, since there are only sixteen frames in that foot, or second, of film, we know that only sixteen flashes of the car have been thrown on the screen during that second. Therefore, whatever particular part of the car we are looking at has fallen on sixteen different spots of the screen, and each spot is just one foot to the side of the previous one, because the screen is by assumption just sixteen feet wide. Now these separations are so wide that the eye cannot help noticing them even in the fraction of a second; there is not sufficient blending of images to form smooth motion; and the so-called flicker results.

However, if the car is photographed going obliquely away from us, the entire motion may occupy only a small area of the screen, no matter how far or fast the car goes; consequently the images fall much closer together and the flicker becomes so slight that we scarcely notice it. Also, since the field of movement is smaller in extent, the rolling of our eyes in ranging over the subject is less, and the fatigue of the muscles is so slight that we scarcely notice that either.

We have been arguing that large violent movements on the screen hurt the eyes, and we hope that our readers agree with us. But if any one is doubtful we invite him to make the following test. Go to any movie theater and sit down in the seventh or eighth row. Then after having seen about half of the picture, move back to the last row, or stand behind the last row. The picture will immediately seem more restful to the eyes, because the distance has made the screen seem smaller and the motions slower, two changes which, of course, make less work for the eyes. Now stay in the new position until the program is finished, and then see that part of the picture which was at first seen from the front seat. It will appear much more pleasing to the eye than it did the first time.

Daylight and Lamplight, a painting by William McGregor. The design illustrates artistic balance and rhythm. See [pages 41] and [77].

A study of lines to illustrate the value of repetition within a pattern. See [page 40].

But we cannot all sit in the back row of a theater, and besides, even when screen motions are reasonably slow and limited, they may still fail to produce the effect of beauty.

Now, before we go further into this discussion of beauty on the screen, let us recall, that, as we have already said, the process of vision is partly eye-work and partly brain-work. These two factors are so closely connected in fact, that scientists cannot definitely separate them.[B]

[B] If any of our readers are especially interested in the details of physiological and psychological experiments in vision which are made by experts, they should read Chapter III in Hugo Muensterberg’s “The Photoplay,” and should consult the current numbers and the volumes for the last five or six years of the “Psychological Review,” the “American Journal of Psychology,” the “Journal of Experimental Psychology,” and other similar periodicals, which are available in any large library.

From the results published in scientific periodicals it may be learned that visible ugliness does not always make the physical work of the eye more difficult. This is not to contradict what we have already said in this chapter, but merely to state that there may be certain kinds of ugliness on the screen which apparently do not hurt the eye at all. And yet ugliness does affect the mental phase of vision. It will be worth while giving a page or more to the testing of this statement; and the discussion may lead to a useful definition to keep in mind when criticizing the movies.

Curiously enough, the muscular movement of the eye when ranging over a single jagged, irregular line is practically the same as when ranging over a graceful line of similar length and direction. Scientific experiment shows that we move our eye-balls in a jerky, irregular manner, even when we view the most graceful line that can be drawn. Yet it is commonly said by all of us that one line delights the eye and the other does not. Evidently, therefore, the difference must lie in that function of seeing which the brain performs. But the brain, too, is a physical organ. It, too, can become fatigued, and it finds certain kinds of work less fatiguing than others.

Psychologists have suggested that a graceful line is pleasant to look at because the regularity and smoothness of its changes in direction make it easily perceived as a complete unity. Thus in the diagram facing [page 39], lines A and B are pleasanter to look at than lines C and D, because their character as lines can be grasped by the mind more quickly and more easily than the character of C or D. And, for the same reason, lines A and B taken together make a more pleasing combination than lines B and C or lines C and D.

Now, if you will shut the book and try to draw any one of these four lines, even in your imagination, you will discover that you remember A and B almost perfectly, while you can hardly remember a single part of either C or D. This proves that in your own case the business of seeing has been more successful with graceful lines than with ugly ones. And, of course, successful effort is always more pleasing than failure.

Our working definition of good pictorial composition, offered in the preceding chapter, may be adapted here. Let us put it this way: A beautiful line or combination of lines is one in which we can see and feel much with ease, while an ugly line or combination is one in which we cannot see or feel much except with great difficulty. The terms “ease” and “difficulty” apply both to eye-work and brain-work.

One reason why we see much with ease in a beautiful line is evidently that any one part of the whole is a kind of key to some adjoining or corresponding part. Thus in line A the lower curve is very similar to the upper curve and leads into it with the smoothest continuity. And this same lower curve of A is so similar to the lower curve of B that we can see instantly the balanced relation between them. In ugly lines, on the other hand, there are no such visual helps. Yet, if some kind of balance or repetition is adopted, it may be that lines which are ugly when considered singly take on a kind of beauty or interestingness when considered as a group. Thus lines E, F, and G, are not as pleasing when standing alone as they become when considered in relation to a similar line symmetrically placed. Therefore, the combinations EF or FG, or even EFG are more pleasing than any one of their parts.

Now let us apply these principles of continuity and repetition to the lines in a picture. If you turn to Paxton’s “Daylight and Lamplight,” facing [page 39], you will observe instantly the beautifully curving line of the woman’s back and also a balancing line down the side of the urn. That sweep of line gives at once the key to the arrangement of the picture.[C] In other words, you can see much of that picture with ease, even in a glance. Now if you examine this picture more in detail you will find much continuity of line and many parallelisms of line and shape, all of which tend to make the arrangement simple, without reducing any of the actual contents of the picture.

[C] Out of fairness to the painter it must be added that this canvas, as the title indicates, is also a study in the balancing of cool and warm colors.

The “much” which we can see in a beautiful line includes such things as its meaning or use in the picture, its fitness for that use, its power to suggest associations, its interestingness, etc. But we shall not take up those phases of beauty in this chapter; we are now merely arguing that pictorial beauty economizes the work of the eye and brain, while visible ugliness does not.

What we said, a moment ago, regarding the value of continuity and repetition in fixed lines may also be applied to moving lines and objects. The great appeal of the screen lies in the showing of vivid movement, the flow of forms, the subtle weaving, through soft play of light and shadow, of fanciful figures that melt like music while we gaze, and yet remain in our minds like curves of a strange melody. When such glimpses of beauty come, our eyes and brains surely do not feel any friction or strain in the process of looking. But when ugly motions are presented the eye must perform excessive movement, and the brain must exert excessive effort.

What is an ugly motion? To answer this we must observe one or two facts concerning the visual process of seeing motions. We must admit the fact that one can perceive the motion of an object without following it with the eyes. Any one can test this for himself by fixing his eyes steadily on some spot on the wall. Without shifting his glance he may have knowledge of motions going on at other places many feet away from that spot. But it is also a fact that he will immediately feel an inclination to shift his eyes in order to see any one of these motions more clearly. In making that shift he will, of course, have to move his eyeballs. Now, if that moving object changes its place, his eyeballs will continue to make the movements necessary to follow it. And, if the attention continues directed toward that object, his eyes will have to make great or small movements, according as the object makes a great or small change of place.

An interesting theory, which scientific tests support, is that, although the eye has to make a series of irregular, jerky movements when following any moving object, these movements become fewer and smaller as the smoothness and regularity of the observed motion increases.

What we have just said about eye movement explains, at least partly, why the aimless crawling of a house fly over a window pane is ugly, while the graceful flying of a sea gull is beautiful; why the clambering of a monkey is ugly, while the swimming of a fish is graceful, and why the zigzag falling of a sheet of paper thrown from a window is displeasing, while the smooth spiralling of an airplane is pleasing.

In some of the movements which we classify as beautiful, it is clear that the principle of repetition is at work, which, as we have said, makes seeing easy. Any task accomplished once and undertaken again becomes easier and easier with repetition. We have already shown how this makes the perception of rhythmical fixed lines or balanced composition of fixed lines easier for the mind, if not for the eye itself. A similar experience of ease comes from viewing rhythmical or balanced motions.

You would not enjoy watching a dancer whose every movement was entirely unlike every previous movement. The effect would be utter confusion. You could not grasp, could not remember, what you saw. And you would probably say that it was not dancing at all. On the contrary, the beauty of a dance is largely due to the frequent repetitions or similarities of movements. Again and again you see and enjoy the same flexing of knee and poising of foot, the same curving of back and tossing of head, the same sweeping of hand and floating of drapery; and again and again the dancer moves through the same path of circling lines. Yet in these repetitions there are slight variations, too, because no human being works with the precision of a machine. And as you watch the dance you get variety without multiplicity; you see much with ease.

“Now, look here,” cuts in some old-time producer, “you don’t mean to say that you want our actors to dance through a drama, do you—a murder scene, or a wedding, or a meeting of profiteers to raise the price of soap?” No, indeed, we do not. In fact, we are hardly thinking of them as actors at all—not in this chapter. We are merely thinking of them as moving shapes upon a screen. And we want those shapes to move about in such a way that the motions will not hurt our eyes.

If we study those films that please us most we shall discover easy continuity of movement, so that a path of motion described in any one scene is extended, as it were, into a similar path of motion in the following scene. In such motion pictures there may be shifts, but there are no breaks. Paths of motion on the screen can remain long in our memories, as though they were fixed lines in a picture. Clearly, therefore, it would not be pleasing to have these remembered lines of motion clashing with those which are being perceived.

From Audrey. Cover up the left half of this picture and the lower half of the remaining part, and the quarter which then remains will contain a more pleasing and dramatic composition than that of the view taken as a whole. See [pages 53] and [71].

So much for the optical effects of single motions coming in succession. Now we must advance to the consideration of several motions going on in various directions during the same moment, which is a more usual situation in the photoplay. Several motions at once may constitute a harmony or a jumble, according to the first demands which they make upon the eye-work and brain-work of vision.

The difference between visual harmony and disharmony seems to depend partly on the fact that a pair of human eyes work together as one, and not as two separate instruments. You cannot look up with one eye and down with the other; you cannot look to the left with one eye and to the right with the other; you cannot look at a distant object with one eye and at a near one with the other. Hence, if you try to look intently at two or more objects crossing each other in opposite directions, your eyes are baffled and the effect is not pleasurable. There is also a conflict in our mental work of seeing, when opposing motions try to claim equal attention at the same time, unless, as we have previously stated, these motions are in some kind of rhythmical balance with each other.

Because of this baffling of eye and brain, therefore, we are displeased by the sight of two automobiles passing each other in opposite directions, or by the crossing of an actor’s gestures with the spoke of a wheel or the twig of a tree. A particularly ugly crossing is that of false and real motion, which even some of the best directors still indulge in. False, or apparent, motion occurs when the camera itself has been moving about while the picture was being taken. Thus a road is made to shoot upwards over the screen while our hero is riding madly toward us, or a parlor slides drunkenly to one side while some fair lady marches toward a door, or a stairway becomes a waterfall which she swims upstairs. The real motion, of course, contains the dramatic interest, but the false motion forces itself upon us by its novelty or unexpectedness; it becomes difficult for us to see much with ease, and the result is ugliness.

A particularly annoying device of recent vogue is the sub-title insert which is decorated with symbolical motions. It forces the spectator to read words and look at motions at the same time and upon the same spot of the screen. The Metro interpretation of the “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” beautiful in its photographed scenes, was spoiled by much ugliness of that kind. In one sub-title we must look at the Beast snorting and chopping his long jaws, while several lines of type are spread over his horrible movements. In others we see water flowing from the bottom of the screen toward the top, or we see a pin-wheel of sparks, to represent telegraphic messages going around the world, or we see a squirrel in his wheel-cage, to represent something or other, and in each of these cases we must also read words in glaring type blazed on top of the moving symbols.

Oppositions and conflicts baffle and bewilder the eye and mind, but concurrent co-operating motions please them. It is easy, for example, to look at the shower of fire from a sky rocket, because the lines move in similar directions and remain comparatively near together, each one, as it were, helping the others, so that what we see in one part of the motion is a key to the rest of the motion. There is a similar unity and rhythmical balance in the motion of a flock of birds, a school of fish, or a group of dancers, the billows of the sea, or the feathery fall of snowflakes.

The production of harmonious motions in a photoplay might seem to us spectators to be merely a matter of spying with a camera and catching views of harmonious actions and settings. But the problem is not so simple. For the movements within any given scene may be perfectly orchestrated with respect to each other, and yet may clash with every one of the movements in the following scene. If in one picture our eyes and minds have adjusted themselves to the delicate threading of snow-flakes, falling like a softly changing tapestry, they can only be shocked by a sudden jump to the vigorous curling of a sea wave breaking on the beach. And in our natural desire to appreciate both subjects at once we are disappointed to find that each has spoiled the other. Delicacy looks at power and thinks it violence; power looks at delicacy and thinks it weakness. It is a visual effect such as one would get from a drawing where the hair lines of the finest pen and thinnest ink were crossed by the coarse marks of a blunt piece of charcoal.

So sharp a contrast might have a certain dramatic, stirring effect, like the use of swear words in a prayer; the very hurt might bring a certain thrill. An original and ingenious man, Mr. Griffith, for instance, may choose to show us a close-up of a little girl smiling in wistful innocence, her pretty curls quivering in the light breeze, contrasted suddenly with a reeking flood of soldiers pouring into a city street. Striking? Yes, exactly. The device is so striking that Mr. Griffith himself has learned to use it with restraint. Because once upon a time he composed a photoplay called “Intolerance,” which was so full of striking contrasts that it failed. There were only a few thousand people in the world who could stand the strain of looking at it.

Thus as we analyze the optical aspects of a motion picture we are amazed at the number of things that may conspire to hurt our eyes, and we sympathize more than ever with the sincere cinema composer. He, the new hope of the movies, feels the need of other equipment than a line of talk and a megaphone. He no longer applies for a position in a studio on the strength of his record as an actor, as a stage director, as a city editor, as a college cheer leader, or as a drill sergeant in the army. He has begun to think in pictorial composition and not in words. He is never without his sketching pad and piece of charcoal, because, forsooth, his business is picture making. He makes hundreds of sketches by day, of shapes, and lines, and tones, and he goes over them again and changes them by night. His scenario contains almost as many drawings as words. He knows before he says “Good morning” to his queens and cut-throats just what places and spaces their figures will occupy during the pictorial climaxes, as well as during the movements to, and away from, those climaxes. He sits among miles of films which he cuts, joins, runs through his projecting machine, and cuts and joins again. He knows that pictorial beauty does not come to the screen merely because the camera itself is a wonderful instrument. He knows, what so many critics are beginning to discover, that “the photography” may be excellent in a film, while its pictorial composition is atrocious. He knows first and last and always that, unless he makes his photoplay fundamentally pleasing to the eyes of the spectator, he can never give it the magic power of graphic art.

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.

This “still” illustrates misplaced emphasis and several other defects in pictorial composition which characterized the general run of movies a few years ago. See [page 54].

A specimen of bad composition, from an old film. The window is emphasized by its curious shape, by its central position, by its strong contrasts of black and white, and by the woman’s gesture; yet this window has no dramatic significance whatsoever in the scene. See [page 55].

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.

From The Spell of the Yukon. There are too many distracting shapes in the left end of this picture. Mask over the cabin, the sleigh, and the two dogs farthest to the left, and the remaining part of the picture becomes a pleasing composition of line, shape, and tone. See [page 56].

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.

A Triangle. The fundamental pattern in a picture should not be obtrusive, as in this too obviously triangular shape. Compare this “still” with the illustration facing [page 76]. See also [pages 59], [72] and [76].

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.

Derby Day, a drawing by Thomas Rowlandson, showing the kind of composition which could be effectively used in photoplays. See [page 64].

Analysis of the fundamental design in Derby Day (above). See [page 64].

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.

CHAPTER V.
RHYTHM AND REPOSE IN FIXED DESIGN

Directness, ease, emphasis, unity—these are the things which we have just demanded of cinema composition, the pictorial form which contains, and at the same time reveals, the story of a photoplay. But we demand something more. We do not get complete æsthetic pleasure from any composition which merely contains and reveals something else. The vessel, while serving to convey its treasure, should have a charm of its own. In poetry, for example, we are not satisfied with the language which merely expresses the poetic content in clear and forceful style. We crave poetic language, too, words and sentences that sound like music and that by their very form appeal to our fancy.

In fact most people who have a highly developed taste for pictorial art, consider that beauty of treatment is more important than beauty of subject. Their emotions are stirred by something in the arrangement of the lines, masses, tones, and colors, something that serves other purposes than those of clearness, coherence, and emphasis. What that something is, has always been a great question to students of æsthetics. Mr. Clive Bell, for example, suggests that the essential beauty of art lies in “significant form.” But you have to read through his very interesting book entitled “Art” to get some notion of what he means by that term. Miss Ethel D. Puffer, in her book “The Psychology of Beauty,” has developed the very illuminating theory that the effect of beauty on the human mind is both to stimulate and give repose. And we shall adopt her theory for a while as a basis for a brief discussion of rhythm and balance in cinematic forms.

The terms “stimulation and repose,” are, of course, contrary. The feelings which they describe are in conflict. Yet this inner conflict between stimulation and repose always takes place when a person is faced with great beauty of art or nature. Any one of us can testify to that from experience. When listening to music, when reading a poem, when watching a play, when gazing at a temple, at a statue, or a painting, we have felt something strangely stirring and at the same time soothing, something both kindling and cooling, an inspiration to do great deeds, and at the same time a desire to rest for the while in satisfied contemplation.

Applying this theory to pictorial composition on the screen, we may say that the quality of balance in line, pattern, and tone suggests repose, while pulsating rhythm stimulates us to activity. This application at least has the merit of giving us something definite to discuss.

Looking at the mechanical aspects of balance in a picture we shall see that it can easily be analyzed. There is the balance of quantity which may be seen by comparing the right half of the picture with the left half, or the upper half with the lower half. Balance of quantity is often connected with symmetry in the fundamental pattern, as in the figure of the triangle. Further, there is balance through depth, the foreground weighing against the background. Another kind of balance is that of echoing motifs, a sort of fulfillment of the eye’s expectations. There is also a balance of interests, which is quite different from the balance of quantity, because a small quantity of one thing may have greater weight of interest than a large quantity of something else. And there is the balance of contrasts, such as light against shadow, or straight lines against curved lines. How balance in all of these forms may be obtained in cinema composition will be discussed in the first half of this chapter.

One of the simplest tests for balance in a static picture is to draw a vertical line through the center of the picture, and then to estimate the weight, so to speak, of the two halves of the composition thus formed. If we try the experiment with the “still” from the photoplay “Maria Rosa,” facing [page 71], we see at once that the left half is too heavy. Besides containing by far the greater dramatic interest, it contains too many objects, shapes, and lines to attract the eye.

From Maria Rosa. An interesting composition, but thrown out of balance by too much weight in the left half. See [page 70].

Now if this “still” were a student’s painting which fell under the eye of the master, he might suggest various ways of “saving” it. For example, some of the bric-a-brac might be “painted out” from the dressing table, the lower lines of the mirror might be softened, and the door reflected in the mirror might be painted out, while some similar interest might be painted in at the right of the picture. Or if this “still” were an amateur print for your kodak album, you might improve the picture considerably by trimming off the right end as far as the woman’s skirt; that is, about one-fifth of the entire width. You can estimate the value of that improvement right now by shutting off that part of the “still” with a sheet of paper or any convenient thing that may be used as a mask. Another picture may be formed by shutting off the left third, just including the reflection of the woman in the mirror. What then remains is a composition in beautiful balance, which, incidentally, appeals more strongly to the imagination than the “still” taken as a whole.

But neither trimming nor repainting nor retouching can be employed to alter a bad grouping that has been recorded on a film. We sympathize, therefore, with the conscientious cinema composer who has made a mistake in composition, for he is forced either to “shoot” the scene again or to clip it out entirely from the film.

Another test for balance of quantity is to draw a horizontal line through the center of the composition and weigh the visual values in the upper and lower halves thus formed. In the case of horizontal divisions, however, we have accustomed ourselves to expect greater weight at the bottom, because that is the natural arrangement of material things about us. Keeping this fact in mind let us analyze the “still” from “Audrey,” facing [page 45]. A glance shows us that the composition is top-heavy, for almost everything of interest lies above the center line. But turn the picture upside down, and look upon it as though it were a pattern meant to be viewed in that position; you feel immediately that the distribution of weights is more pleasing. Now hold it as if the right end were the bottom, and the composition takes on a heavy balance, with a commonplace symmetry of four long, rising and spreading lines. This is so because the right half, which is really too heavy when the picture is viewed in the position intended by the director, seems to be a weight in place when considered as the bottom of a pattern.

Yet we may find beauty in this “still,” if we only have the patience to corner it. Cover up three-quarters of the composition, that is, all of the left half, and all of the lower half; then the remaining quarter will contain a pleasant composition, and a delightful appeal to the imagination. There is in that upper right-hand quarter, both balance and rhythm, both repose and stimulation. The heroine’s gestures carry our attention to the left, in the direction she is going; but her glances, and the attracting power of the converging trees, carry our attention to the right. And in the course of this easy playing to and fro our fancy swings out beyond the frame into realms of our own imagination.

But there is still another test for pictorial equilibrium. Besides the balance of one side against the other and of the top against the bottom, a picture should preserve a balance between the foreground and the background. This assumes that the picture really suggests the dimension of depth, which is usually the case. Interesting exceptions, however, may appear occasionally, as in the “still” facing [page 61], and the painting facing [page 76]. One may even find entire photoplays with scenes done in two dimensions only. For example, “Moon-Gold,” a Will Bradley production, released in 1921, presents a story of Pierrot, Columbine, and Harlequin in a series of scenes in a single plane. There is no background except blackness, and there is no foreground at all. The pictures are as flat as a poster. Such elimination of setting may have artistic merit, especially in stories of familiar or naïve themes, but in more involved stories it is desirable to include the whole setting of the action, not only because of the dramatic power of environment, but also because of the pictorial wealth which may thus be added.

To test this third balance of a picture you need only imagine a curtain of glass dropped so as to separate equally the interests near the spectator from those farther away. Such a plane is, in fact, usually imagined by a painter when he lays out his design. Though he does not cut his ground mechanically into two equal areas, he usually does distribute his subjects so that the spectator needs not feel that the foreground is only a long waste to be crossed, or that the background is but an empty region which lies beyond everything of interest.

The word “depth” in connection with the screen has doubtless made our readers think of the stereoscopic motion picture as produced by the Teleview and other companies. Such pictures are truly remarkable in their mechanical power of showing physical depth through a scene. They show you the images clearly separated, some near and some far away, so that you feel as if you could really walk in and out among them. To be able to produce such an illusion is something that any inventor may well be proud of; and yet it is doubtful that the stereoscopic picture will bring about any improvement in the artistic composition of the motion picture. Most of us can recall the “stereoscope and views” which we used to find on the center tables of our country aunts. How well we remember the mystifying illusion of depth which was created. How well we remember also that there was the same depth in the reeking stockyards of Kansas City as in the cathedral aisle of Rheims! That illustrates the shortcoming of purely mechanical things in the service of art. The stereoscopic machinery cannot in itself create beauty. It cannot automatically so select trees or distribute people over a landscape that balance and rhythm, unity and emphasis will appear in the finished picture. Unfortunately, for the uninspired artist, the mechanician cannot help him.

It may be asked whether stereoscopic pictures may not be utilized to get sculptural effects upon the screen. The answer is that if a piece of sculpture had to be viewed through a single peep-hole and under an unchanging light it would not really have a sculptural appeal. The characteristic appeal of sculpture is due largely to the fact that it is possible for the beholder to shift his gaze at will from one side of the statue to the other. He even walks around the statue, thus getting ever new aspects of the subject until he has completed the circle of inspection. And this shifting view is governed entirely by his own interest and choice. The sculptor has deliberately shaped his marble so that the many aspects will be interesting variations of the same theme. That many-sidedness of sculpture is one of its distinctive qualities as art. But when you look at a stereoscopic motion picture it is absolutely impossible for you to “see around” the objects any farther than the camera has done, no matter how much you shift your position. The other sides of all the objects and figures might as well be missing. Your point of view is fixed absolutely in the stereoscopic picture, just as it is in the ordinary “flat” picture. But perhaps there are other ways in which the Teleview and similar inventions can provide new opportunities for the cinema artist. That remains to be shown by experimentation, and, of course, such experimentation is welcome and should be encouraged.

However, for all purposes of pictorial art a sufficient illusion of depth can be produced in the “flat” picture. This can be done by the simplest instruments and means of picture making, even by the use of a lead pencil and a piece of paper. There are only two secrets of perspective. One is to render parallel lines, that is, lines which are actually parallel in the subject, so that they converge in the distance and, if continued, would meet at a “vanishing point.” The other is to render objects with increasing dimness as they occupy positions at increasing distances away from us.

One might suppose that in a photograph these problems of perspective would take care of themselves. But they do not, as may be seen by turning to the “still” of the conservatory scene, facing [page 100]. There we find a jumble of stuff apparently all in the same vertical plane. Why does the standing woman wear a palm leaf in her hair? Why does the man wear the top of a doorway upon his head? And why does the seated woman bury her head in the ferns? They do not actually, of course, carry on thus hilariously; but some one has carelessly coaxed the background into the foreground by making remote objects intensely distinct, instead of subduing them into the soft values of distance.

But we have dwelt so long on the subject of balance in design that we fear the reader may think we have over-emphasized the point. No one quality in pictorial composition should be out of balance with the others. Thus, too sharp an emphasis may violate balance, and too perfect a balance may violate rhythm. After all, the kind of balance we desire in pictorial design is that which is sufficient, but no more. We do not, as a rule, enjoy the mathematical figure of the equilateral triangle, standing heavily on its base, because it is balanced beyond the need of any living thing. It suggests the dead repose of the pyramids of Egypt, the tombs of her forgotten kings. Such a severe design is utterly unsuitable, therefore, in the portrait of a lithe young lady clad in silks and tulle, as illustrated in the “still” facing [page 61]. It is flat and hard, and the eye following forever its monotonous outlines misses the variety of rhythm. Yet a triangle, you say, serves the purpose of unity and emphasis. Alter it then by making it narrower, with a less obvious base, and by swinging a live rhythm into its sides, as in the painting of “Mme. Lebrun and Her Daughter,” facing this page.

But this brings us to a discussion of the mysterious quality of rhythm. Rhythm is entirely too evasive for a tight definition, but perhaps we can learn much by saying things about it.

Mme. LeBrun and Her Daughter, a painting by Mme. Vigée-Lebrun. A good figure composition on the basis of a triangle. Compare with the “still” shown facing [page 61]. See also pages [62] and [76].

Rhythm in music may be partially described as a peculiar alternating movement, with an alternation between sounds of different pitch, quality, and quantity; between different sound groups, and between sound and silence. The rhythm of visible motion is of a somewhat similar nature, as we shall see in Chapter VIII. But a sense of alternating movement may be produced by things which are not themselves in motion. We can, therefore, find rhythm in fixed lines, shapes, tones, colors, and textures. This we shall call rhythm of fixed design.

The peculiar thing about the element of alternation in rhythm which distinguishes it from mere repetition, is that it is not regular, like the swinging of a pendulum, but contains numerous variations from regularity. But, while the symmetry of rhythm is only partial, so also the variety is limited. It is the combined effect of these two factors which makes rhythm delightful. Repetition or symmetry in a line or a pattern is pleasurable because, as explained in Chapter III, it enables us to see much with ease. But, at the same time, subtle or even bold variations are appealing because they relieve us of monotony, stimulate our interest, and lead our eyes in search of further variations.

A familiar rhythm of line is that of the reverse curve, which Hogarth called “the line of beauty.” This line is beautifully used in the painting “Daylight and Lamplight,” facing [page 39]. Observe the effect of alternation with variety in the lines which bound the urn, the woman’s figure, and the various shadows and lights in the background. Your eye sweeps over those paths without effort, and you get a sense of movement, as though you yourself were drawing these lines with a brush or crayon. Analyze the composition and you will see how richly the lines are woven together. Compare all the small curves with each other, compare all the larger curves, all the short straight lines, all the longer straight lines, etc., and you will discover an amazing amount of alternation and repetition, with an equally amazing amount of deviation from regularity.

Imagine that the painting which we have just analyzed is an accented moment in a motion picture, and you must imagine another similar design a few seconds earlier in the action and still another one a few seconds later, as the woman walks gracefully through the room. In fact, there would be a whole series of similar designs during the brief time that the woman’s figure and the urn are in decorative contact. The instant of action which the painter has chosen to fix on canvas might well be the same instant which you would select as the pictorial climax in this motion picture. This climax, accented perhaps with a pause, accented also by the pictorial approach and departure, is something which you would long remember as a rhythmical moment in the photoplay.

In the picture which we have just described the rhythm is found chiefly in the continuity and richness of line and in a certain active balancing of similar with dissimilar lines. The design is simple, almost plain. It is a single pattern which does not recur again within the frame. Quite different in type is the composition of a group picture such as “The Banquet of the Officers of St. Andrew,” facing [page 79], where the rhythm is in the flow of patterns rather than in the flow of lines. Take a hat, for example, as the decorative theme and observe how definitely, yet how subtly, that theme is four times varied. Note further how the curves of the hats are echoed, always with variety, in the ruffs.

From Polly of the Circus. Compare this “still” with Banquet of the Officers of St. Andrew (below) and you get at once the distinct impression that the painting depicts a larger crowd than the “still.” As a matter of fact, the painter has used only twelve men to produce his effect, while the motion picture director has employed seventeen men, a woman, and a horse. This difference illustrates the practical utility of pictorial design. See [page 57].

Banquet of the Officers of St. Andrew, a painting by Frans Hals. See above and [page 78].

But so many curves would make the picture too rich in quality were it not for the skillful introduction of straight lines to make, as it were, a series of alternating notes. You observe immediately the long straight lines of the windows, of the two flags, and of the table. But you do not at first observe that there are several dozen shorter straight lines, and that, curiously enough, they are nearly all parallel to each other. Take as a key the sash of the first seated officer, counting from the left, and you will find a surprising number of similarities to this motif throughout the composition, all the way from the shadows on the window casing in the upper left hand corner to the edge of the table in the lower right hand corner. Yet, because these similar straight lines are so frequently alternated with varying curves, we get from the picture a stirring sense of a swinging movement.

Here, again, is an arrested moment of action which might conceivably have come out of a motion picture. What the arrangement of the twelve men might have been at other moments of the scene we do not know. Perhaps they were all sitting when the scene opened; perhaps they had all arisen before it closed; but for this one instant, at least, they have resolved themselves into an interesting design of simple patterns in a rhythmical series.

Another source of rhythm in a fixed picture may be the tonal gradations. In a painting there would be a play of colors from hue to hue and from tint to shade. In ordinary photography there may be a similar play from deep black to intense white through all the intervening values. It is all a question of lighting and choice of subjects for the light to fall upon. The painter has an advantage over the photographer because he does not have to record light and shadow exactly as they are on the subject. He can soften his shadows or paint them out completely. He can alter his tones and values at will, even after the painting is practically finished. As an offset to this the cinema composer has, of course, the power of presenting movement, fugues and passages of light and shadow. And, by the use of the newest apparatus for lighting, and by careful attention to the color values and textures of sets, costumes, etc., he can also produce many of the rhythmical effects of gradation in fixed tones which we are accustomed to look for in painting.

As time goes on we shall more and more often find pictorial moments on the screen which exhibit as fine a rhythm of fixed tones and masses as, for example, Van Dyck’s “Portrait of Charles I,” facing [page 163]. If you draw a straight line across this picture in almost any direction, it will mark a great variety of graded values, a lovely shifting of light and shadow, with no sharp contrasts except those which serve to attract the spectator’s attention to the head of the king. There is perfect harmony of composition here. The tones are in a rhythmical design, yet it is a rhythm which keeps the emphasis on the focal interest and preserves the balance throughout the painting.

Two or three men, a horse, and a bit of landscape is no uncommon subject in photoplays. We have reason, therefore, to expect that from long practice all directors will learn how to treat it pictorially, and with ever new variety of beauty.

The general field of composition in fixed design has now been surveyed. We have tried to show that a good pictorial composition, even from a commercial point of view, is one which provides instant emphasis on the focal interest; which unites this focal interest with the other parts of the picture by means of a certain arrangement, or pattern; which keeps all of its values in a reposeful balance, and which pulsates with a vital rhythm. These four qualities—emphasis, unity, balance, and rhythm—are necessary in what might be called the mechanics of beauty, the technique of design. We admit, cheerfully, that the beauty of a given masterpiece cannot be explained by pointing out an observance of certain fundamental laws of design, for an uninspired artist might obey all these laws without ever achieving beauty, just as a machinist might obey all the laws of mechanics without ever inventing a machine. But we insist that an observance of pictorial laws is a first condition that must be fulfilled by the artist before the mysterious quality of beauty will arise in his work.

The accented moment in a pictorial movement, which we have studied from so many angles, is, of course, not fixed on the screen for any great length of time, never for more than a few seconds, though it may remain fixed in memory for years. Nor is it a separate thing upon the screen. It rises from an earlier moment and flows into a later one. The rapid succession of momentarily fixed pictures on the screen is, in fact, what gives the illusion of motion. Yet it would not, therefore, be correct to say that the motion picture as a whole can be made beautiful by making each separate exposure in itself a beautiful composition. The successive pictures must play, one into the next, in a stream of composition which contains new delights for the eye, and which, alas, contains new dangers for the ignorant or careless maker of pictures. What these delights and dangers are we shall see in the following chapters.

CHAPTER VI
MOTIONS IN A PICTURE

Pictorial motion is thousands of years older than the motion picture. It is as old as the oldest art of all, the dance. Before man had learned how to weave his own fancies into plots, or how to make drawings of things that he saw, he had doubtless often feasted his eyes upon the rhythmic beauty created by dancers. Their art was the composition of motions. We can well imagine how they began by exhibiting bodily postures, gestures, and mimicry; how they proceeded to add other movements, such as the fluttering of garments, the brandishing of weapons, the waving of flaring torches, and how they, in time, made their composition more involved by swinging themselves into swaying groups, circling and threading fanciful patterns.

As a form of art the dance has been preserved through the ages in an apparently unbroken history. And it has had various off-shoots besides; for religious and secular processions, pantomime, and even drama, have had their beginnings in the dance. Pictorial motion was to be seen two thousand years ago in the Roman triumphs and processions, whose gaudiest features survive in the familiar circus parade of today. And the circus itself is in a sense the pictorial motion of animals and men.

In the presentation of drama, too, pictorial motion has always played a vital part. When we look back over the history of the theater we see that the managers were never satisfied with the mere physical exhibition of actors and dancers, but began very early to add other motions to their performance. A large variety of motions was added by bringing animals upon the scenes. Fire was put into the service of show. We know that its flame and flicker, borne in torches or beating upon the witches’ caldron, was not uncommon on Shakespeare’s stage. Water in the form of leaping cascades and playing fountains was used at least two hundred years ago to make the scene more pictorial. More recently, wind has been produced artificially in order to give motion to draperies, flags, or foliage.

All this amounts to something far more than an attempt to bring nature upon the stage. It is the creation of new beauty. The kind of beauty which professional entertainers have for thousands of years spun together from various motions into patterns simple or subtle, is the beauty of art, for it comes from human personality expressing itself in forms and combinations never found as such in nature.

Now, if these showmen are really artists, at least in intent, we may well ask how they have combined their motions so as to produce the pleasing effects which they desired. Have they worked hit-or-miss and achieved beauty only by accident, or have they intentionally or instinctively obeyed certain laws of the human eye and mind?

How does the director of a motion picture make sure that pleasing motion will appear upon the screen? Does he alter, or select, his subjects? Does he choose his point of view? Does he patiently wait for the right moment? Or must beauty come by accident, as music might come from a cat’s running over the keyboard of a piano?

There must be laws of pictorial motion, just as there are laws of color, design, modelling, architectural construction, all of which appeal to the eye without visible motion. And, since the motion picture can capture and combine and reproduce a greater variety of moving things than was ever before possible in the history of art, it seems particularly important that we make earnest efforts to find out under what laws these manifold motions may be organized into art.

In studying the movies one might easily come to the conclusion that some directors aim only to make motions life-like. Their whole creed seems to be that a heart-broken woman should move her shoulders and chest as though she really were heart-broken, that a goat should act exactly like a goat, and that a windmill should behave itself exactly like a windmill. Now, it may be very desirable, as far as it goes, that an emotion be “registered” fitly. But to aim at fitting expression alone is to aim at naturalness alone. And this is not enough, because there may be natural ugliness, and because even the beauty of nature is essentially different from the beauty of art.

Shakespeare’s plays are not admired simply because they reveal human character truthfully. Rembrandt’s paintings are not preserved in museums merely because they are truthful representations of Dutchmen. The Venus of Milo would not have a room to herself in the Louvre if the statue were nothing more than a life-like figure of a woman partly dressed. In drama, poetry, fiction, painting, sculpture, and music, it has never been considered that appropriateness, naturalness, or truthfulness was in itself sufficient to distinguish the work as art. And it surely cannot be so in the movies.

It certainly has not been so in the earlier arts of motion. The dance as a form of expression is beautiful, but it is so far from natural that if the average voter started out to express his joy or grief, or love or defiance, the way a dancer does on the stage, he would be given a free ride to the psychopathic ward. The stage pantomime is charming, but if you behaved in the presence of your true love the way Pierrot and Columbine behave, he or she, as the case may be, would probably decide that you were too much of a clown ever to become a responsible parent. The circus, too, though not properly to be classed as a form of art, combines and presents a vast number of interesting motions which you never expect to see outside the big tent. Dancers, pantomime actors, circus masters and performers, all clearly strive to collect our money by showing us the kind of motions which nature herself does not show.

But do not become alarmed. We do not propose to establish a school of unnatural acting in the movies. Let the women and men and greyhounds and weeping willows and brooks be as natural as they can be, like themselves and not like each other. Natural, yes, providing they be not natural in an ugly way. If a brook is running in one direction as naturally as it can, and a greyhound is running in the opposite direction as naturally as he can, the combination of their contrary movements may not be pleasing in a motion picture. Art is art, not because it reflects some actual bit of nature, but because it is endowed with some beauty made by man.