Quote of the Day: sounds like a plan

‘Even more than in THE WILD CHILD, THE GREEN ROOM was conceived as a succession of plans-séquence. The term “master shot” is used in English for what in French is “plans-séquence”, but the two expressions mean different things, because a “master shot” implies that there will be supplementary shots of the same scene (often close-ups), and that these will be inserted later on, during the editing. The fact that there is no American expression for “plans-séquence”  is evidence of a basic difference in concept. In Truffaut’s plans-séquence nothing can be inserted because it is sufficient unto itself. The character moves about from one character to another, lingers, makes a leap into the void to take in the whole scene, retreats, advances, all at a stretch, without cuts. The scenes between Davenne and Cecilia in the auction room are the best examples of this technique.

‘From the practical point of view, this sort of filming has advantages and disadvantages. One of the problems is focus. Since the camera is always moving on wheels, it is difficult for the assistant to correct the focus, since the actors are constantly at different distances from the lens. It also presents a challenge for the camera operator. In a short space of time innumerable compositions are being produced with every slight change of place. Preparing shots of this type takes hours, because the actors’ movements must be adjusted in relation to the movements of the camera. Sometimes a whole day is needed to get a single shot.

‘But when a scene is split into different shots, to be edited together later, it creates the false impression that shooting is done quickly, whereas in fact the opposite is true: one must be sure that there is continuity of illumination from one shot to the next, that the actors are looking in the appropriate directions, that entrances and exits from the frame fit into the preceding scenes. With the plans-séquence these preoccupations are no longer relevant. In any case, the main interest of this technique is not that it offers advantages from the point of view of production but that it allows the director to define his style. For it is in the style that we recognise the artist’s signature. All of this is quite close to certain concepts that Truffaut inherited from his mentor, André Bazin.’

~ A Man with a Camera, by Nestor Almendros.

The term “sequence shot” is now often used to describe a shot that covers an entire scene without alternate angles being edited in, although the term is maybe more commonly used in criticism than “on the floor”. My suspicion is that we don’t have a widely-used term for this approach in Britain and America because (a) the technique isn’t widely used and (b) when we directors do it, we don’t tell anyone what we’re doing.

As my cinematographer friend Scott Ward says, there is a school of thought in television that says the director’s reason for being is to obtain sufficient coverage to make the show. Since shows are made for specific time slots, there needs to be a way to manipulate the duration of the footage, which becomes much harder if every scene has been covered with only one shot.

On my most extensive TV gig, I shot some scenes in sequence shots, purely because the schedule was so tight. I was aware that if anybody asked for additional angles in the edit, I would probably be in trouble (I was constantly in trouble on that shoot, or so it seemed at the time). So they had better work. More than half of the scenes had more than one angle, though after falling behind schedule on day one, and further on day two, I took to devising schemes that allowed even the most busy scene to be taken in no more than two shots, if at all possible. We finished on schedule and the episodes were manipulated into the right time slot with relative ease.

But consider the case of Leonard Kastle’s THE HONEYMOON KILLERS. The first five or so minutes of the film are a series of elaborate long takes, stretching the abilities of the camera crew beyond breaking point, but still fascinating and effective. The director of these scenes was the young Martin Scorsese, who was swiftly fired for only shooting masters. “If you only shoot masters, the film could end up four hours long,” he ruefully reflected, understanding his employer’s ruthless response.

It may be also that some producers will object to long takes for the very reason Almendros recommends them: as an expression of directorial style. Producer Pandro S Berman is supposed to have approached director Albert Lewin and asked, “Why do you do these long tracking shots?”

“It’s my style,” explained Lewin (naïve fool!).

“Style. I always wondered about that. What does that mean, style?”

Lewin is taken aback, bt endeavours to explain: “Well, style, that’s like when Picasso paints a certain way and you can tell it’s a Picasso. Or with Rembrandt, he has a style, and you can see how it’s different to Picasso.”

“Is that so? Is that what style is? Well, I don’t want any of it in MY PICTURES!”

Now this may well be one of those libellous stories directors like to tell about producers (writers tell them about directors too), but there is a certain mindset that probably sees the producer’s job as being to quash any excessive outbursts of directorial style. Hiring the right director and then trusting her might be an easier option, but such a person, or such an emotion, is not always available on demand.

As Howard Hawks said to Peter Bogdanovich when asked if he ever had final cut; “No. Suppose I went crazy?”

Screen Direction

My favourite bit of Hitchcock’s I CONFESS — these signposts, right at the start. (Hitchcock was at pains to assure Truffaut that they are a genuine feature of the Quebec streets…but WHY?)

I have to watch this again. I remember liking Monty Clift, but I nearly always do. The rest is a bit of a blur. Typically there are pleasures in a minor Hitchcock which one forgets and then discovers afresh upon reacquaintance. This makes most of his lesser films shine out on repeat viewing.

Quote of the day: “What do YOU think, Linda?”

Films from Ray Bradbury’s books have generally failed, but the good bits in them are sometimes so good, they justify continued efforts.

In Truffaut’s FAHRENHEIT 451, there’s the Hitchcockian opening, with Bernard Herrmann’s malevolent toytown score, the eerie shots of narcissists in a monorail, and the heartbreaking end. The Book People wander the countryside committing their texts to memory, a community of mad idealists on a doomed quest to preserve human culture, and a soft snow starts to descend.

Rhe snow was a happy accident. It totally makes the scene.

“The little boy is repeating the words of the book, and he’s already making mistakes, and you realise it’s all going to be lost,” recalls cinematographer Nicholas Roeg.

Another happy accident: Mel Gibson’s planned remake so far shows no signs of going ahead! I don’t care too much what Mel does, as long as he leaves that one alone.

In the scene pictured above, Julie Christie, as Linda Montag, watches an interactive TV show. At key moments, the rather queer actors pause in their dialogue, turn to camera and ask, “What do YOU think, Linda?” in a strangely severe way. and she’s supposed to supply some improv dialogue of her own.

“Disturbing television programme!” remarked my friend Kiyo.

And maybe the most prophetic thing in the film…

Euphoria #23

 

Danny Carr, Shadowplay informant, offered a plethora of marvellous suggestions for our regular Euphoria section, all of them gold-plated cinematic pulse-pounders. He climaxes, metaphorically speaking, with this un-toppable offering:

“Or actually the infectiously brakes-off and anything goes first few minutes of Jules et Jim. has a movie ever been more fun?”

There’s quite a lot to be said about this sequence, but let’s start with Scorsese’s “I had never seen anything so exhilerating” and take it from there.

(No subtitles on this clip: go learn French)

 

Truffaut’s big innovation is to throw together what looks at times like a random selection of out-takes. Organising principles are provided by Georges Delerue’s ebullient bombast on the soundtrack, which the images cut to, and by an ilustrative approach, some of the time: we see the actors as their credits come up, some of the images seem to relate to some of the technical credits. What has been gloriously abandoned is narrative sense: that can come later. I don’t think anybody else had started doing this at the time, although maybe it was happening in T.V. The device certainly became a mainstay of television credits a little later:

Scorsese’s adulation is worth returning to because, though maybe it’s just my imagination, I’m posi-sure (as Dan Dare would say) that the J&J opening had some kind of effect on Scorsese’s approach to GOODFELLAS. Jeanne Moreau’s voice-over on black screen (stolen by me for my short CLARIMONDE), followed by that boisterous theme, seems to be distantly echoed in the Scorsese flick by Ray Liotta’s first V.O., “As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster,” mopving into a freeze frame, with “From Rags to Riches” blasting in on the soundtrack a couple frames later.

 

Scorsese’s use of an unusually FAST V.O. also ties his work to Truffaut’s. Since Scorsese’s major influence on GOODFELLAS was the abrupt cutting seen in movie trailers, it’s natural that he’d have thought of Truffaut, since that’s kind of what this title sequence is: a trailer for the movie we’re about to see.

Another filmmaker who sometimes starts his films with a trailer is Richard Lester, much on my mind at present as I’m teaching a class about him on Friday (plus, he was nice enough to contribute some funds towards the aforementioned CLARIMONDE). Lester, A Truffaut fan, begins A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE FORUM with a piece-to-camera by Zero Mostel which climaxes in a fast-cut musical montage of scenes from the upcoming movie. And Harold Pinter’s unproduced screenplay for Lester’s proposed film of Joseph Conrad’s VICTORY, begins like so:

A boat becalmed, far out to sea. The mast slowly sways. Heat haze. Red sun. 

Gulls encircle the boat, screeching. 

Screeching violins. A ladies’ orchestra. Bare arms. White dresses. Crimson sashes. 

A wall of foliage. Bamboo spears pierce the foliage, quiver, stay pointed. 

Camera pans up to see, through leaves, impassive native faces. 

An island. Moonlight. Silence. 

Figures of men seen at a distance at the door of a low, thatched house. The door is kicked open. The sound reverberates in the night. Explosion of shrieking birds. 

Driving rain. Leashed, barking dogs leading men with rifles through jungle. 

One of the men suddenly turns in panic, raises gun to shoot. 

Champagne corks popping. Two men standing on a jetty. Champagne is poured into glasses. In background a freighter leaving. Natives waving, cheering. The freighter whistles. 

A cylinder gramophone playing in a room. Rosalia Chalier singing. 

Moonlight. 

A girl’s figure in a sarong passes, carrying a bowl of water. 

In background a mosquito net canopy over bed. A man’s body on the bed. 

The girl parts the netting, places the bowl on the bed, kneels on the bed, looks down at the man. 

The gramophone hissing. 

A creek. Night. Crackle of fire. Two figures seated in foreground. 

Fire burning. 

Beyond the fire two Venezuelan Indians poking long knives into fish. They eat. 

The two foreground figures remain still. 

One of these raises a hand and wipes it on a silken handkerchief. 

High up on a hillside two figures in the grass. Bright sunlight. 

A girl’s stifled scream.

*

I love how Pinter writes the opening montage, breaking every rule of screenwriting and format. The fragmented, snappy sentences are also quite close stylistically to Carl Mayer’s work for Murnau…

More on screenwriting soon!

Euphoria #6

Craig Keller nominated this way back and it’s taken me and age to watch the film and then get the scene up on VousTube. Nice film, nice scene, Craig!

[Oh, the subtitles didn't load, so you can (a) learn French before watching it, which will probably be useful in later life, or (b) watch it without understanding all the dialogue, which will, I promise, STILL be a sweet and blissful experience.]

Truffaut’s Antoine Doinel project is one of cinema’s most intriguing undertakings — a study of a fictional character from childhood on through life, like THE TRUMAN SHOW brought half a step closer to reality. One can’t help wonder what additional Doinel stories Truffaut would be telling now had he lived. Of course it’s inconceivable for anybody else to pick up the baton and continue the character’s adventures: that’s why France is not America and Antoine Doinel is not Inspector Clouseau.

As the series progresses, one can’t help but notice a certain loss of cohesion: Doinel began, in childhood, as a Truffaut-substitute, “the author in disguise” to use Alan Bennett’s charming phrase, but as fictional and real life went on, they diverged: once it became clear that Doinel was not going to become a celebrated film director, large areas of Truffaut’s life were excluded from the films. In a way, LA NUIT AMERICAIN / DAY FOR NIGHT is more of a direct sequel to the first Doinel film, LES 400 COUPS than any of the later Doinel films: here, the character has split in two, one half growing up to be the film director played by Truffaut himself (seen in flashback as a kid committing a very Doinellian petty crime), the other has become leading man Jean-Pierre Leaud, the actor who personifies Doinel in all the films.

Anyhow, one consequence of the divergence between auteur and creation is that the films immediately get lighter. The Doinel episode of LOVE AT TWENTY (and is there any chance of somebody releasing the rest of this fascinating-sounding compendium film?) lacks the tragic undertones of LES 400 COUPS, and BAISERS VOLES, the first feature length sequel, is basically an amiably disjointed comedy. As such, it’s delightful, and I could nominate a few other scenes for Cinema Euphoria status — the mini-documentary about the pneumatic tubes beneath Paris (Wow!) and Delphine Seyrig’s moving proposition to Doinel, for instance. Michel Lonsdale’s first scene doesn’t quite qualify, perhaps, but it’s uproariously funny in its cockeyed peculiarity. Lonsdale for president!

Thanks to Craig for recommending this one, I had fun re-seeing the movie, having forgotten many of its quirks and twists. It’s encouraged me to have another look at some of the later films in the A.D. cycle too.

The Divine Max.

Something of a mystery: I’ve been using Edinburgh College of Art library for literally DECADES, and never come across the little B.F.I. book on Max Ophuls I picked up today — yet the book is damn old: the price label says 95p.

It’s a real treasure trove, especially for the erudite and unbelievably poignant interview conducted by Truffaut and Rivette shortly after LOLA MONTES had opened to weak box office. Ophuls is full of plans for the future, discussing the films he’d like to make and the ones he feared he might have to make as a compromise, to prove himself bankable – ’At this point also, I’m telling producers: “I advise you to make my next film, but not the one after that!” Of course, Ophuls would soon be dead, LOLA MONTES his last work.

Apart from the poignancy of films he would never live to make (and tantalisingly, Ophuls speaks of Balzac’s La Duchesse de Langeais,now filmed by Rivette: “I loved the way he had the people subjected to the pressure of political events,”) there is the poignancy of this description of a film he began but never finished, L’ECOLE DES FEMMES, with actor and theatre manager Louis Jouvet –

‘It was an experiment for me: I had to follow Jouvet and his actors with my camera during a performance, with an audience present and without trying to make a cinematic adaptation of the play. I wanted to show the actor when he leaves the stage and follow him into the wings while the dialogue is still audible. I wanted to profit from the play of light in front of and behind the footlights, but without trying to show the techniques of theatre. I never moved away from the characters, even when they stopped acting, because that didn’t mean they had stopped living. I had scarcely filmed anything except the opening shot: a camera traverses the theatre, over the spectators’ heads, and Jouvet, seated on this camera-platform, puts on makeup, transforms himself, unnoticed by the public in the auditorium, as the lights gradually dim. And as the camera crosses the curtain, it vanishes, and Arnolphe (Jouvet’s character) remains on stage, alone. This first shot was also the last. Three or four days later, I left for America.’

Jouvet had smuggled Ophuls into neutral Switzerland after France fell to the Nazis: Ophuls had been putting out anti-Nazi radio propaganda, full of satire and invective, and would have been arrested if he’d stayed in France. That contribution to art – saving Ophuls’ life — is more than enough to justify Jouvet having a street and a theatre named after him in Paris:

In fact, Jouvet also contributed massively to cinema through his elegant performances for Carnè (HOTEL DU NORD), Clouzot (QUAI DES ORFEVRES), Duvivier (LA FIN DU JOUR), Christian-Jacques (UN REVENANT), Maurice Tourneur, Pabst, Feyder, Allegret, Renoir…

Monsieur Jouvet, I raise a glass in your honour.

Vive La France!

(Not many jokes in this piece, I love these guys too much!)