Pictorial Beauty on the Screen

by Victor Oscar Freeburg

Similarly if in a romantic story the main theme is dashing sword play, it is swordsmanship which should be stressed, and not the sword itself, unless, of course, that sword happens to have some magic property. Therefore it is bad art in “The Mark of Zorro,” a Douglas Fairbanks play, to repeat with every sub-title a conventional sketch of a sword. It is bad, not only because the hero’s sword needs no emphasis, but because a mere decorative drawing of a sword cannot reinforce the significance of the real sword which the hero so gallantly wields.

There is a recurring note, however, in this play which can be commended. It is the “Z” shaped mark or wound which Zorro makes with his sword. We see it first as an old scar on the cheek of a man whom Zorro has reprimanded. Then we see Zorro himself trace the mark on a bulletin board from which he tears down a notice. Then we see him cut the dreaded “Z” upon the neck of an antagonist. And, finally, we see him, some days later, fix his weird mark squarely on the brow of his old enemy. And in every case except the first we observe the quick zigzag motion of the avenging sword.

Here the emphasis lies in the repetition of a pictorial element with some variety of shape and movement and under a variety of circumstances. The “mark” of Zorro becomes a sharp symbol which inscribes ever anew upon our minds the character of the hero, his dashing pursuit and lightning retribution.

Emphasis by repetition in the photoplay may further be achieved in ways which we shall not take the time to discuss. Thus an especially significant setting may be repeated in various lights and in combination with various actions; or some particular action, such as a dramatic dance, may be repeated in a variety of settings.

A sure means of emphasis is contrast. We have already shown how this principle works in cases where a moving thing is contrasted with other things which are at rest. Yet the contrast in such cases works only in one direction. That is to say, the contrast throws the attention on the motion, but it does not at the same time draw any attention to the fixed objects. It will be interesting now to illustrate a sort of double-acting contrast which may produce great emphasis in pictures. In the well-known case where a tall man stands beside a short one on a stage the difference between them is emphasized by the contrast in their statures; and when we meet them off the stage we are surprised to discover that one is not so tall, and the other not so short, as we had been led to believe. In a photograph, for a similar reason, if a very black tone is placed sharply along a very white one, each tone will make the other seem more intense. And if a painter desires to emphasize a color, say red, in his painting he does not need to do so by spreading more paint over the first coat. Red may be accented by placing green beside it. In fact, each of these two colors can accent the other by contrast.

Similarly when two motions occur together the contrast between them may be double-acting. When you are setting your watch, for example, the minute-hand seems to run faster, and the hour-hand more slowly, than is actually true, because of the contrast in their rates of speed. This simple law might well be applied in the movies when emphasis of motion is required. We would thus get the effect of speed upon the mind without the annoyance of speed for the eye.

One does not have to be a critic to realize that there is entirely too much speed on the screen. Some of this dizzy swiftness is due to imperfect projection or to the worn-out condition of the film; witness the flicker and the “rain” of specks and lines. Much of it is due also to the fact that the projection is “speeded up” to a faster rate than that of the actual performance before the camera. But there is also a lamentable straining for effect by many directors who believe that an unnaturally fast tempo gives life and sparkle to the action. Perhaps some of these directors have not been able to forget a lesson learned during their stage experience. In the spoken drama it has long been a tradition that actors must speak more rapidly, and must pick up their cues more promptly, than people do in real life, in order that the play may not seem to drag. But we know that the motion picture is in danger of racing rather than dragging. And racing, as we have said, hurts the eyes.

The principle of contrast can relieve the eye of a part of its work without imposing any additional task upon the mind. Thus some crazy Don Quixote may seem to cut and thrust with greater agility than the fighting which we actually see, provided his action is contrasted with the restful poking of his ham-fed servant, Sancho Panza. And thus a railroad train which really was running at a moderate speed, might seem to dash by on the screen, if it were contrasted with the ambling gait of a farmer’s team driven in the same direction along the tracks.

A kind of emphasis which we may classify as contrast is that which occurs when movement is suddenly arrested. The unexpected stop not only makes the previous motion seem faster than it really was, but it also fixes attention more alertly on the thing which has just stopped moving. When you bump against a chair in the darkness you are always astonished to find that you were dashing along instead of merely walking slowly. But the shock has deceived you, for you really were walking slowly. If you are out hunting and your setter stops in his tracks, your eye is immediately upon him, and will remain so fixed until he or something else makes the next move. The same principle works on the screen. If an actor, or an animal, or a thing is in motion and then unexpectedly pauses, the effect of the pause is to attract immediate attention, as well as to make the previous motion seem to have been faster than it actually was. Sometimes this law may operate to distract our attention from the dramatic interest. If, for example, an outdoor scene has been “shot” on a squally day, and the wind has abruptly died down for a few moments during the climax of the scene, the effect on the screen will be to attract our attention instantly to the leaves which have stopped fluttering, or the garments which have stopped flapping. We will observe the sudden change in the weather and forget the state of the story.

With this argument we ourselves shall pause, in order to summarize the principal ways in which pictorial motions, working singly or together, can produce the greatest impression on the spectator with the least expenditure of his mental energy. Here is the list: A thing in motion is normally more emphatic than anything at rest in the same picture. Of two motions the one which is the more surprising or fanciful gets the chief attention. Slowness or slightness may sometimes by contrast be more emphatic than great speed or volume. A moving spot or a line flowing along its own length has a tendency to carry attention along with, or even ahead of, itself in the direction of movement. Two or more movements along well-marked lines, whether converging or diverging, focus attention on the point which these lines have in common. Lines moving in circles away from a common center hold attention on that center. Repetition can work for emphasis without monotony, provided it be a repetition with variety of circumstances. Contrast between two simultaneous motions or between a motion and an abrupt rest may be double-acting, that is, may emphasize in both directions.