Pictorial Beauty on the Screen

by Victor Oscar Freeburg

First we see the hero and his pilot just starting their flight in a hydro-airplane, the dark compact machine contrasting strongly with the magnificent spread of white sails of a large sloop yacht—perhaps thus tending to focus our attention on the yacht—which skims along toward the left of our view.

Then, in the next scene, near some country village, evidently miles away from the expanse of water in the first picture, we see a huge Caproni triplane, which must have made a forced landing in the muddy creek of a pasture. A herd of Holstein cows with strange black and white markings, two bare-footed country girls, a shepherd dog, and five helmeted mechanicians, stand helpless, all equally admiring and dumb, while an alert farmer hitches an amusing span of mules, one black and one gray, to the triplane and drags it out of the mud.

The third scene is strange indeed. It looks at first like a dazzling sea of foam—perhaps the ocean churned to fury by a storm—no, you may not believe it, but it is a sea of clouds. We are in an airplane of our own high in the sky, perhaps miles and miles, or maybe only three-quarters of a mile, above sea level. Just as we become fascinated by the nests of shadows among the cloud billows, a black object swings up from the whiteness, like a dolphin or a submarine from the sea. It is the hydro-airplane with our hero and his pilot; we recognize them because they are now sailing abreast of us only a few yards away. The hero stands up and is about to assume the pose of Washington crossing the Delaware, a difficult thing in such a strong wind when he is suddenly struck from behind by a villain who evidently had concealed himself in the body of the hydro-airplane before the flight was started. The villain is dressed like a soldier and seems to have a knapsack on his back.

Meanwhile, the sea of clouds flows by, dazzling white and without a rift through which one might look to see whether a city, an ocean, a forest, or a cornfield lies below.

Suddenly we look upward and discover the triplane, silhouetted sharply against the sky like the skeleton of some monster. It has five bodies and the five propellors, which three or four minutes ago were paralyzed in the cow pasture, now are revolving so rapidly that we cannot see them. It would be very interesting—but look! the villain and the hero are having a little wrestling match on one of the wings of their plane. Let us hope the hero throws the villain into the clouds! He does, too! But villains are deucedly clever. The knapsack turns into a parachute, which spreads out into a white circular form, more circular than any of the clouds. We wonder if there will be any one to meet him when he lands—but, don’t miss it! This is the “punch”! The triplane is flying just above the hydro-airplane. Somebody lets down a rope ladder, which bends back like the tail of a kite. The hero grabs it, grins at the camera, climbs up, and with perfect calmness asks for a cigarette, though he doesn’t light it, because that would be against the pilot’s rules.

Well, the transfer from one airplane to another wasn’t so much of a “punch,” after all.

Now let us count the thrills of such a picture as they might come to us from the screen. First, in order of time, would be our delight at the stately curves of the gleaming sails of the yacht, but this delight would be dulled somewhat by the physical difficulty experienced by the eyes in following the swaying, thrusting movement of the yacht as it heels from the breeze, and at the same time following the rising shape of the hydro-airplane; and it would be further dulled by the mental effort of trying to see the dramatic relation between yacht and plane. But, whether dulled or not, this thrill would be all in vain, for it surely does not put more force into the “punch” which we set out to produce, namely, the transfer of a man from one airplane to another.

The yacht, therefore, being unnecessary to our story, violates the principle of unity; it violates the principles of emphasis and balance, because it distracts our attention from the main interest; and it violates the principle of rhythm, because it does not take a part in the upward-curving succession of interests that should culminate with the main “punch.”

If the plane of our hero must rise from the water, and if there is to be a secondary interest in the picture, let it be something which, though really subordinate, can intensify our interest in the plane. Perhaps a clumsy old tug would serve the purpose, its smoke tracing a barrier, above which the plane soars as easily as a bird. Or perhaps a rowboat would be just as well, with a fisherman gazing spellbound at the machine that rises into the air. Either of these elements would emphasize the idea of height and danger.

The scene of the triplane in the pasture with the cows, mules, etc., might be mildly amusing. But our eyes would be taxed by its moving spots, and, since its tones would be dark or dark gray, the pupils of our eyes would become dilated, and would therefore be totally unprepared for the flash of white which follows in the next scene.