Pictorial Beauty on the Screen

by Victor Oscar Freeburg

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.