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.