Pictorial Beauty on the Screen

by Victor Oscar Freeburg

Then let us suppose that the Indians build a fire, from which the smoke rises in a tall, thin column. That would constitute another line of motion. But would it emphasize or weaken the center of interest? It would, as a matter of fact, still hold our attention on the camp because of the curious law that, no matter in what directions lines may move, it is the point which they have in common that attracts our attention. Thus if we assume a landscape where there is only a single stream, with a camp at the upper end, and with smoke rising from a fire, we would still have emphasis on the camp, in spite of the fact that the two lines of motion are directed away from it.

The same curious power over our attention may be exercised by moving spots. If we see, for example, two ships sailing away on diverging courses, we immediately suppose that the ships are sailing out of the same port, and, even though we cannot see any sign of that port, our minds will search for it. So also in those electric advertisements where lines of fire, sprayed from a central source, rise and curve over into the various letters of a word, the emphasis is rather on the point where the lines originate than on any single letter or on the word as a whole. Electric signs, by the way, are surprisingly often examples of what not to do with motion if one desires to catch the eye and to strike deep into the mind and emotions of the observer. The most common mistake, perhaps, is the sign consisting of a word in steady light surrounded by a flashing border in which a stream of fire flows continuously from dusk till dawn. Our eyes chase madly around with this motion and have no chance to rest upon the word for which the advertiser is wasting his money.

But, to return to the question of how motions running away from each other can throw the spectator’s attention to the point where they originate, we can think of no more perfect example in nature than the effect which is produced by throwing a pebble into a pool. Ripples form themselves immediately into expanding rings which seem to pursue each other steadily away from a common center. Yet, despite the outward motion of these rings our eyes constantly seek the point from which they so mysteriously arise. That this is true every reader has experienced for himself. Here then we have discovered a fascinating paradox of motion, namely, that a thing may sometimes be caught by running away from it. This ought to be good news to many a movie director.

But let us see what other means there are of emphasizing a theme or some other feature of significant beauty in a photoplay. One method is repetition. But what is the effect of repetition? Is it monotony or emphasis? Does it dull our senses or sharpen them? There can be no doubt that the steady repetition of the sea waves breaking on the beach, or of rain drops dripping on our roofs, or of leaves rustling in the forest, or of flames leaping in our fire-places can send us into the forgetfulness of sleep. But, on the other hand, the periodic repetition of a movement in a dance, or of a motif in music, or of a refrain in poetry can drive that movement, that motif, or that refrain so deeply into our souls that we never forget it. We refer, of course, to the higher forms of dancing, music, and poetry; for in the lower forms, such as the dancing of savages, the grinding of hand organs, and the “sing-song” of uninspired recitations the too frequent repetition soon results in monotony.

In the movies of to-day there is, we are glad to observe, very little bad repetition except that of close-ups, and even they are now more and more eliminated by directors. But there is also very little good repetition in the cause of artistic emphasis. The tendency is rather a touch and run. Seventy settings are used where seventeen would give us a stronger sense of environment. We read more publicity “dope” about a woman who can do a hundred “stunts” in five reels than about one who can strike a single enthralling pose, and can return to it again and again until it becomes as unforgettable as a masterpiece of sculpture.

The photoplay needs repetition, especially because of the fact that any pictorial motion or moment must by its very nature vanish while we look. Hence, unless all other circumstances are especially favorable for emphasis, such a motion or moment may vanish from our minds as well as from the screen. To fix these fleeting values is a problem, but it can be solved without the danger of monotony if each repetition is provided with a variety of approach, or if each repetition is made under a variety of circumstances. This is the method in music. A particular series of notes is struck and serves for a theme; then the melody wanders off into a maze of harmony and returns to the theme, only to wander off again into a new harmony and to return from a new direction to the same theme. After a while this musical theme, thus repeated with a variety of approach, penetrates our souls and remains imbedded there long after the performance has ceased. The same method is often employed to give emphasis to a particular movement or pose in æsthetic dancing.

To show how repetition with variety of approach may operate on the screen let us remake in imagination some scenes from Griffith’s “Broken Blossoms,” a photoplay which was adapted from Thomas Burke’s short story “The Chink and the Child.” The wistful heroine, called simply The Girl, played charmingly by Lillian Gish, is shown in the wretched hovel of her father, “Battling” Burrows, a prize-fighter. We see her against a background of fading and broken walls, a bare table, a couple of chairs, a cot, and a stove. If she sits down, stands up, lies down, or walks across the room, she moves, of course, through a changing pattern of motion against fixed lines. And she ends each movement in a different fixed design. Now let us suppose that the most pictorial of all these arrested moments is the one which is struck when she pauses before an old mirror to gaze sadly at her own pathetic image, and that during this moment we see, not only the best arrangement of lines, patterns, and tones, and the best phase of all her bodily movements, but also the most emotional expression of her tragic situation as the slave of her brutal father. Wouldn’t it be a pity if this pictorial moment were to occur once only during the play? How much more impressive it would be if she paused often before this mirror, always striking the same dramatic note. Such a pause would be quite natural immediately after she enters the room or when she is about to go out, or during her weary shuffling between the stove and the table while serving supper, or after she has arisen from a spell of crying on the cot and tries to shape her tear-stained face into a smile. In all of these cases there would be variety and yet emphasis, always the same tonal harmony between her blond hair and the faded wall, always the same resemblance between the lines of her ragged dress and those of the old furniture, always the same binding of her frail figure into the hard pattern of her surroundings, as though she were but a thing to be kicked about and broken,—all this shown again and again until the full dramatic force and beauty of the pictorial moment is impressed upon the spectator.

This kind of repetition can be done much more effectively and with less danger of monotony in the photoplay than in the stage play, because much of the action which intervenes between the repetitions can be eliminated and other scenes can be cut in without breaking the continuity of visible motion, while on the stage no bridging of time or shifting of scene is feasible without dropping the curtain.

One device which is unique on the screen is the repetition of the same “shot” by simply cutting into the film numerous prints from a single negative. A well-remembered case was the “Out-of-the-cradle endlessly-rocking” theme of Griffith’s “Intolerance,” a picture of a young woman rocking a cradle, which was repeated at frequent intervals throughout the story. The picture remained the same, but the context was ever new; and, if the repetition was not impressive to the spectators, the fault was not in the device itself, but rather in the fact that there really was no very clear connection between the cradle-rocking and intolerance.

Whenever we speak of emphasis in art we are naturally concerned about emphasizing that which is vital in the theme or story. We do not, for example, emphasize a man’s suspenders in a portrait where the main theme is grief. Nor need we, for that matter, emphasize tears; for a man might show as much grief with his shoulders as with a wet handkerchief. In other words, if the theme is grief we should emphasize grief itself rather than any particular gesture of grief.