B0041VYHGW EBOK (91 page)

5.225 Their embrace is interrupted by the offscreen sound of an explosion, and they turn to look leftward.

5.226 The next shot zooms in to show the car in flames.

WHERE TO GO FROM HERE

The standard reference book on cinematography is Stephen H. Burum, ed.,
The American Cinematographer Manual,
9th ed. (Hollywood: American Society of Cinematographers, 2007). Other good sources are Kris Malkiewicz,
Cinematography,
3d ed. (New York: Fireside, 2005), and Paul Wheeler,
Practical Cinematography,
2d ed. (Boston: Focal Press, 2005). On digital cinematography, see Scott Billups,
Digital Moviemaking 3.0
(Los Angeles: Michael Wiese Productions, 2008), and Paul Wheeler,
High Definition Cinematography,
2d ed. (Boston: Focal Press, 2007). A monthly magazine,
American Cinematographer,
publishes detailed articles on current cinematography around the world.

Cinematographers can be articulate about their craft. See the conversations in Vincent LoBrutto,
Principal Photography: Interviews with Feature Film Cinematographers
(Westport, CT: Praeger, 1999); Pauline Rogers,
Contemporary Cinematographers on Their Art
(Boston: Focal Press, 1999); Benjamin Bergery,
Reflections: Twenty-One Cinematographers at Work
(Hollywood: ASC Press, 2002); and Peter Ettedgui,
Cinematography: Screencraft
(Hove, England: RotoVision, 1998).

In the Rogers collection, Dean Cundey recalls that the camera movements in
Who Framed Roger Rabbit?
posed problems for adding animation. “If Roger was to go from one part of the room to another, hopping onto a chair, we had to find a way for the camera operator to track that movement. We developed full-size rubber characters to stage the action. The operator could then see movement in real time. He would associate movement with dialogue.”

Alternative points of view on cinematography may be found in Stan Brakhage, “A Moving Picture Giving and Taking Book,” in
Brakhage Scrapbook: Collected Writings 1964–1980,
ed. Robert A. Haller (New Paltz, NY: Documentext, 1982),
pp. 53
–77, and Dziga Vertov,
Kino-Eye: The Writings of Dziga Vertov,
ed. Annette Michelson (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984).

Today most films are shot on color stock, and most viewers have come to expect that movies will be in color. At many points in film history, however, color and black-and-white film have been used to carry different meanings. In 1930s and 1940s American cinema, color tended to be reserved for fantasies (for example,
The Wizard of Oz
), historical films or films set in exotic locales (
Becky Sharp, Blood and Sand
), or lavish musicals (
Meet Me in St. Louis
). Black and white was then considered more realistic. But now that most films are in color, filmmakers can call on black and white to suggest a historical period (as witnessed by two such different films as Straub and Huillet’s
Chronicle of Anna Magdalena Bach
and Tim Burton’s
Ed Wood
). Such rules of thumb as “color for realism” have no universal validity; as always, it is a matter of context, the function of color or black-and-white tonalities within a specific film.

A basic history is R. T. Ryan,
A History of Motion Picture Color Technology
(New York: Focal Press, 1977). The most influential early process is considered in Fred E. Basten’s
Glorious Technicolor: The Movies’ Magic Rainbow
(Camarillo, CA: Technicolor, 2005). See also Scott Higgins,
Harnessing the Technicolor Rainbow: Color Design in the 1930s
(Austin: University of Texas Press, 2007). Len Lye explains the elaborate process behind the color design of
Rainbow Dance
in Wystan Curnow and Roger Horrocks, eds.,
Figures of Motion: Len Lye/Selected Writings
(Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1984),
pp. 47
–
49
.

Film theorists have debated whether color film is artistically less pure than black and white. One argument against color may be found in Rudolf Arnheim,
Film as Art
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1957). Arnheim’s argument is disputed by V. F. Perkins in
Film as Film
(Baltimore: Penguin, 1972).

Part of the reason that major film studios tout themselves as “magic factories” is that special-effects cinematography demands the complexity and expense that only a big firm can support. Special effects require the time, patience, and rehearsal afforded by control over mise-en-scene. It is, then, no surprise that Méliès, the first person to exploit fully the possibilities of studio filmmaking, excelled at special-effects cinematography. Nor is it surprising that when UFA, the gigantic German firm of the 1920s, became the best-equipped film studio in Europe, it invested heavily in new special-effects processes. Similarly, as Hollywood studios grew from the mid-1910s on, so did their special-effects departments. Engineers, painters, photographers, and set designers collaborated to contrive fantastic visual novelties. In these magic factories, most of the history of special effects has been made.

But such firms were not motivated by sheer curiosity. The costs of elaborate back projection and matte work were good investments. First, expensive as they were, such tricks often saved money in the long run. Instead of building a huge set, one could photograph the actors through a glass with the setting painted on it. Instead of taking players to the desert, one could film them against a back projection of the pyramids. Second, special effects made certain film genres possible. The historical epic—whether set in Rome, Babylon, or Jerusalem—was unthinkable unless special effects were devised to create huge vistas and crowds. The fantasy film, with its panoply of ghosts, flying horses, and invisible or incredibly shrinking people, demanded that superimposition and matte processes be improved. The science fiction film genre could scarcely exist without a barrage of special effects. For the major studios, the “factory” principle was responsible for the “magic.”

A good survey of the subject is Richard Rickitt’s sumptuously illustrated
Special Effects: The History and the Technique,
2d ed. (New York: Billboard, 2007). Pascal Pintau offers a historical overview interspersed with interviews with 37 effects artists in his
Special Effects: An Oral History—Interviews with 37 Masters Spanning 100 Years
(New York: Harry N. Abrams, 2005). Illuminating case studies can be found in Linwood G. Dunn and George E. Turner, eds.,
The ASC Treasury of Visual Effects
(Hollywood: American Society of Cinematographers, 1983). Patricia D. Netzley’s
Encyclopedia of Movie Special Effects
(New York: Checkmark Books, 2001) provides entries on techniques, practitioners, and individual films. Aimed at low-budget filmmakers, Mark Sawicki’s
Filming the Fantastic: A Guide to Visual Effects Cinematography
(Boston: Focal Press, 2007) introduces a wide range of physical and digital effects in language that readers of
Film Art
will largely be able to understand.

Studies of predigital effects include Mark Cotta Vaz and Craig Barron’s
The Invisible Art: The Legends of Movie Matte Painting
(San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 2002). This extensive and well-illustrated history includes a CD-ROM with examples of matte paintings. Stan Winston was a master of physical effects, in particular puppets and creature creation; see Jody Duncan’s
The Winston Effect: The Art & History of Stan Winston Studio
(London: Titan Books, 2006).

For histories of digital-effects firms, see Mark Cotta Vaz and Patricia Rose Duignan,
Industrial Light & Magic: Into the Digital Realm
(New York: Ballantine Books, 1996), and Piers Bizony,
Digital Domain: The Leading Edge of Visual Effects
(New York: Billboard Books, 2001). George Lucas has been a leading force in promoting digital technology, including special effects; Michael Rubin chronicles his career in
Droidmaker: George Lucas and the Digital Revolution
(Gainesville, FL: Triad Books, 2006).

Shilo T. McClean offers analyses of how digital special effects function in movies in her
Digital Storytelling: The Narrative Power of Visual Effects in Film
(Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2007).

Articles on particular films’ use of special effects appear regularly in
American Cinematographer
and
Cinefex.

The aspect ratio of the film image has been debated since the inception of cinema. The Edison-Lumière ratio (1.33:1) was not generally standardized until 1911, and even after that other ratios were explored. Many cinematographers believed that 1.33:1 was the perfect ratio (perhaps not aware that it harks back to the “golden section” of academic painting). With the large-scale innovation of widescreen cinema in the early 1950s, cries of distress were heard. Most camera operators hated it. Lenses often were not sharp, lighting became more complicated, and as Lee Garmes put it, “We’d look through the camera and be startled at what it was taking in.” Yet some directors—Nicholas Ray, Akira Kurosawa, Samuel Fuller, François Truffaut, and Jean-Luc Godard—created fascinating compositions in the widescreen ratio. The systems are exhaustively surveyed in Robert E. Carr and R. M. Hayes’s
Wide Screen Movies: A History and Filmography of Wide Gauge Filmmaking
(Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 1988).

The most detailed defense of the aesthetic virtues of the widescreen image remains Charles Barr’s “CinemaScope: Before and After,”
Film Quarterly
16, 4 (Summer 1963): 4–24.
The Velvet Light Trap
21 (1985) contains several articles on the history and aesthetics of widescreen cinema, including an article on Barr’s essay and second thoughts by Barr. On widescreen staging practices, see David Bordwell, “CinemaScope: The Modern Miracle You See Without Glasses,” in
Poetics of Cinema
(New York: Routledge, 2007),
pp. 281
–325.

During the 1980s, two variants on traditional film gauges were designed in response to widescreen demands. One innovation was Super 35mm, which expands the image area within the traditional 35mm format. It allows filmmakers to make a release print at either 2.40:1 (anamorphic) ratio or 1.85:1 matted. For small-budget projects, there was Super 16mm, which can be blown up to make 35mm release prints more easily than from normal 16mm. Super 16mm provides 40 percent more image area and creates a wider frame that can be matted to the 1.85:1 aspect ratio favored in 35mm exhibition.

The 2000 DVD release of Orson Welles’s
Touch of Evil
created a controversy among admirers of the film. The film had originally been shot in 1.37, but by 1957, the widescreen revolution had made that format rare. Most films were shown in a wider ratio, such as 1.66 or 1.85. The producers of the DVD version of the film settled on 1.85 as the appropriate one. They explained that Welles would have expected the full-frame images to be cropped in projection and that he would have seen and approved the work print in that standard format.

But many observers argued that Welles didn’t want his images cropped, having declared his distaste for widescreen formats. Many complained that the compositions looked too confining, and some older viewers recalled seeing the film in theaters in 1.37.

The controversy reached its peak when a new DVD box set was released in 2008. The debate can be followed online, at a website hosted by critic Dave Kehr (
http://www.davekehr.com/?p=127
) and at a site largely devoted to Criterion releases (
http://www.criterionforum.org/forum/viewtopic.php?f=4&t=4223&start=150
).

Welles’s published comments on widescreen have been reprinted at
http://www.wellesnet.com/?p=155
. His remarks about
Touch of Evil
in a 1958 letter are ambiguous:

Nowadays the eye is tamed, I think, by the new wide screens. These “systems” with their rigid technical limitations are in such monopoly that any vigorous use of the old black-and-white, normal aperture camera runs the risk of seeming tricky by comparison. The old camera permits use of a range of visual conventions as removed from “realism” as grand opera. This is a language not a bag of tricks. If it is now a dead language, as a candid partisan of the old eloquence, I must face the likelihood that I shall not again be able to put it to the service of any theme of my own choosing.

Welles registers his preference for the “normal” (
1.37
) aperture, but he indicates that it is now “dead.” He also says that he won’t be able to employ it “again.” But does “again” mean, “after having employed it in
Touch of Evil,
” or simply “since the widescreen revolution of the early 1950s”?

After consulting with Welles experts, we have decided to reproduce the
Touch of Evil
frames in this book in the wider-aspect ratio. But the matter is far from settled.

Sometimes the camera, through its positioning and movements, invites us to see events through the eyes of a character. Some directors (Howard Hawks, John Ford, Kenji Mizoguchi, Jacques Tati) seldom use the subjective shot, but others use it constantly. As
5.135
indicated, Samuel Fuller’s
Naked Kiss
starts with shocking subjective shots:

We open with a direct cut. In that scene, the actors utilized the camera. They held the camera; it was strapped on them. For the first shot, the pimp has the camera strapped on his chest. I say to [Constance] Towers, “Hit the camera!” She hits the camera, the lens. Then I reverse it. I put the camera on her, and she whacks the hell out of him. I thought it was effective. (Quoted in Eric Sherman and Martin Rubin,
The Director’s Event
[New York: Signet, 1969],
p. 189
)

Filmmakers began experimenting with the “firstperson camera” or the “camera as character” quite early.
Grandma’s Reading Glass
(1901) features subjective point-of-view shots. Keyholes, binoculars, and other apertures were often used to motivate optical point of view. In 1919, Abel Gance used many subjective shots in
J’accuse.
The 1920s saw many filmmakers taking an interest in subjectivity, seen in such films as E. A. Dupont’s
Variety
(1925), F. W. Murnau’s
The Last Laugh
(1924) with its famous drunken scene, and Abel Gance’s
Napoleon
(1927). Some believe that in the 1940s, the subjective shot—especially subjective camera movement—got completely out of hand in Robert Montgomery’s
Lady in the Lake
(1946). For almost the entire film, the camera represents the vision of the protagonist, Philip Marlowe; we see him only when he glances in mirrors. “Suspenseful! Unusual!” proclaimed the advertising. “YOU accept an invitation to a blonde’s apartment! YOU get socked in the jaw by a murder suspect!”