Pictorial Beauty on the Screen

by Victor Oscar Freeburg

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

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

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

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

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

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

A typical bad movie composition from an old film. But the pictorial mistakes here illustrated may be seen in some of the most recent productions. Intelligent criticism by spectators would soon make such careless directing intolerable. See [page 75].

From Sherlock Holmes. An example of wrong emphasis. The cow attracts attention by her strong marking, the central position, and because she is the only moving thing in the picture. But the cow should not have been dragged in at all, much less accented. See [page 100].