spiderwort
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Post by spiderwort on Jan 29, 2019 18:21:40 GMT
Although so much direction that amazes me is often related to performances, I'll constrain myself for the moment to the parameters of camerawork and editing here and suggest three films, two of which don't often get mentioned: Storm Over Asia (1928), directed by V.I. Pudovkin - a silent film with such majesty, energy, and style that it plays like the most sophisticated Spielberg adventure film. Also, A Sunday in the Country (1984), directed by Bertrand Tavernier - a beautiful, elegiac film in which the camera, literally, NEVER stops moving. It's an endless parade of perfectly organic and integrated ballets that support the narrative without ever intruding on its fragility. And, for editing, Bonnie and Clyde (1967), directed by Arthur Penn and edited by Dede Allen - a seminal work on violence in America, which Allen's editing helped define.
(I'd also recommend Max Ophuls' Letter to an Unknown Woman (1948), for reasons similar to A Sunday in the Country (1984). And Dreyer's La Passion de Jeanne D'Arc (1928) for opposite reasons: a spare, stark, style that transcends the medium in its beatific realism.)
P.S. In every case, the performances in all of the above are also great!
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Post by koskiewicz on Jan 29, 2019 21:53:00 GMT
"The Third Man"
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Post by kijii on Jan 29, 2019 23:22:50 GMT
Spider---
Recently, I have been wondering how the director communicates to the cameramen as to exactly how he wants an image to be.
Since the cameraman and the director are two different people--are they always?--how does the cameraman capture what the director wants? I have seen so many beautiful movies lately that I have started to wonder if the images were due to the camerawork or the director.
Film editing is yet another aspect, but before one can edit anything, the editor has to have the material from which to work from.
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spiderwort
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Post by spiderwort on Jan 29, 2019 23:51:15 GMT
Spider--- Recently, I have been wondering how the director communicates to the cameramen as to exactly how he wants an image to be.
In my experience this is generally true: The director and the cinematographer are collaborators, but the director is the starting point for that collaboration. In pre-production they have many discussions about the look, style, lighting, and composition of scenes and sequences, which reflect the director's vision. They also discuss which equipment will be used (cranes, dollys, steadicams, etc). In pre-production, the director creates a shot list for every scene. During production that is then communicated, shot by shot, on the set to the cinematographer. The DP (Director of Photography, aka cinematographer) then tells the camera crew how to set up the shot, and tells the lighting crew how to light it and supervises everything they do.
Depending upon how knowledgeable the director is about the camera (usually a lot), the director will select lenses, look through the camera to make sure it's the shot he or she wants, from his/her chosen position (set-up) . The more experience a director has with editing, the easier it is to construct the design of a scene from the "master" shot to all the "coverage" shots.
One of the most critical roles the cinematographer has is to light the shots - something the director cannot do. Most directors know what they want in terms of lighting, but they couldn't do it. They will know it when they see it after the DP does it, however. When it looks right to the director, they proceed with rehearsals and shooting (oh, and the director blocks the shot with the actors - that's always a director's job).
With directors who know little or nothing about how to design shots (not many in my experience), the DP will often make significant recommendations and, in some cases, even set the shot.
But the best collaboration is when a cinematographer executes the director's plan, making a suggestion now and again when it's helpful.
Of course, it's an entirely different situation if the director is also the DP, which is sometimes the case. Then the DP will do everything. But that is the exception to the rule, for sure. Very few directors are also DPs, though there some prominent ones.
Oh, and just to answer your question about who actually makes the beautiful images - well, it starts with the director's vision first, which is then executed by the DP. And there we have it: beauty wrought through a perfect artistic collaboration. But it does (or should) start with the director. (Hope this answers your questions. Books can be written about this subject.)
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Post by kijii on Jan 30, 2019 0:10:41 GMT
Spider--- Recently, I have been wondering how the director communicates to the cameramen as to exactly how he wants an image to be.
In my experience this is generally true: The director and the cinematographer are collaborators, but the director is the starting point for that collaboration. In pre-production they have many discussions about the look, style, lighting, and composition of scenes and sequences, which reflect the director's vision. They also discuss which equipment will be used (cranes, dollys, steadicams, etc). In pre-production, the director creates a shot list for every scene. During production that is then communicated, shot by shot, on the set to the cinematographer. The DP (Director of Photography, aka cinematographer) then tells the camera crew how to set up the shot, and tells the lighting crew how to light it and supervises everything they do.
Depending upon how knowledgeable the director is about the camera (usually a lot), the director will select lenses, look through the camera to make sure it's the shot he or she wants, from his/her chosen position (set-up) . The more experience a director has with editing, the easier it is to construct the design of a scene from the "master" shot to all the "coverage" shots.
One of the most critical roles the cinematographer has is to light the shots - something the director cannot do. Most directors know what they want in terms of lighting, but they couldn't do. They will know it when they see it after the DP does it, however - and they don't move forward until the director is happy with the look.
The exception is with directors who know little or nothing about how to design shots (not many in my experience). Then the DP will often make significant recommendations and, in some cases, even set the shot.
But the best collaboration is when a cinematographer executes the director's plan, making a suggestion now and again when it's helpful.
Of course, it's an entirely different situation if the director is also the DP, which is sometimes the case. Then the DP will do everything. But that is the exception to the rule, for sure. Very few directors are also DPs, though there some prominent ones.
Oh, and just to answer your question about who actually makes the beautiful images - well, it starts with the director's vision first, which is then executed by the DP. And there we have it: beauty wrought through a perfect artistic collaboration. But it does (or should) start with the director. (Hope this answers your questions. Books can be written about this subject.)
It certainly DOES answer my question--and VERY completely too. At least, as far (much further than) I know.  Thank you very much for that detailed answer... |
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spiderwort
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Post by spiderwort on Jan 30, 2019 0:34:57 GMT
You're welcome, kijii . I just wanted to add something I modified/added after you copied my post, regarding the lighting: "When it looks right to the director, they proceed with rehearsals and shooting (oh, and the director blocks the shot with the actors - that's always a director's job)." That's about actors, of course, but it's also very much related to the design of the shot (and is actually what the director designs in the shot lists that are made for shooting - we actually draw diagrams for character and camera movement, and # and label the coverage shots). Sometimes you get on the set and something has gone wrong in terms of the weather or the set or the time, and you literally have to abandon your original plan and wing it. But those original shot lists make that an easier thing to do, odd as that may seem. One time I planned a scene with 8 shots, but because we were running out of time I had to do it in two shots (with 7 characters). Incredibly, I liked what I did with two shots much better than I would have liked what I had planned with 8 shots. But I couldn't have made the 2 work if I hadn't planned the 8 (probably a hard concept to grasp, but it actually works that way).  |
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Post by TheGoodMan19 on Jan 30, 2019 1:07:07 GMT
I'll throw out F.W. Murnau. It's amazing that he could tell riveting stories in the silent era with few or no intertitles. I think there is only one in The Last Laugh. And over such a wide variety of genres, from pure horror of Nosferatu to the proto-fantasy of Faust to a documentary/love story in Tabu.
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spiderwort
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Post by spiderwort on Jan 30, 2019 1:26:03 GMT
I'll throw out F.W. Murnau. One of my favorite directors, GoodMan. I love THE LAST LAUGH and especially SUNRISE. I think NOSFERATU's great, too, though that's not really my genre. He was a brilliant director. I've always been sad that we lost him too soon. Who knows what might have been? |
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Post by kijii on Jan 30, 2019 5:33:47 GMT
The movie that comes most readily to my mind is Picnic (1956) / Joshua Logan based on a play by William Inge.
I know, Spider, that you are from Kansas, and we probably have talked about this movie before. But, almost everything about it seems beautiful in its naturalness of time and place. I have seen the movie several times, and I think of it as "middle America" in the middle of America, in the middle of the 20th Century. It may be like a Normal Rockwell painting that represents an America that never was, but I like to think that, in rural areas, there were (and still are) Labor Day picnics that represent a community of people coming together, at the turning point between between Summer and Fall.
I love:
The vastness of space that it shows with trains, wheat fields (as far as the eye can see), and grain elevators....
Those huge grain elevators that seem to pop out of the ground like giants coming up from the middle earth in the midst of nowhere. How important the grain elevator is in this movie. Hal Carter was impressed when he visited them, and Alan Benson was happy to show one to Hal. (I seem to remember wheat coming down a grain shoot.) Also, there are some shots taken from the top of a grain elevator, looking down on the wheat fields, with the freight rains passing by in the distance, below. (well directed and shot)
The picnic scenes seem so natural too. They must have been shot during an actual picnic (with real people) since it shows the fun, variety of events, and childlike mayhem that one likes to imagine taking place at a community picnic in the final throws of Summer, before school is about to start again. Note how the adults organize games and events, yet people often go off to seek their own pleasures near the picnic ground. It's organized yet it's playful too, especially when children are involved. (well directed and shot)
The desperation of Rosalind Russell's character is felt too, so much so that she would rather make of fool of herself rather than become an old maid school teacher, in a boardinghouse of other non-attached people, forever. In fact, I see a lot of desperation in this movie, from Hal, to Mrs. Potts, to Madge, her mother, Flo, played by Betty Field. Even with Susan Strasberg's character we feel a young girl wanting, yearning, to grow up too quickly.
I love the music theme at the end of the movie too, not Moonglow, but that final theme we hear as Kim Novak, runs off to chase Hal's train after he is driven out of from town. Remember, how Hal begs Madge to come too, more desperation, like a siren call over and over:
Hal Carter : Look. I, I've been thinking all night. I've never said this before, because it... It'd make me seem like such a freak, but...
Madge Owens : What?
Hal Carter : I love you, Madge. Do you hear?
.............Flo Owens : Millie, I want you in the house this minute.
Hal Carter : Do you love me? Do you?
............Flo Owens : I'm gonna call the police and have you put where you belong.
Hal Carter : [Train horn sounds] If you please, ma'am. I'm catching that freight. Meet me baby. We'll get married. They'll give me a room in the hotel. It'll be ok until we find something better.
............Flo Owens : Oh, Madge, don't listen.
Hal Carter : Look, baby. I got a chance with you. It won't be big time, but that isn't important, is it? :
[Train horn sounds twice]
Hal Carter : Come on.
Madge Owens : oh, Hal, I can't.
Hal Carter : Why?
Madge Owens : Don't you see why? Don't you?
[Train horn sounds several blasts]
Hal Carter : Listen, baby, you're the only real thing I ever wanted, ever. You're mine. I gotta claim what's mine, or I'll be nothing as long as I live. You love me. You know it. You love me.
[as train passes, Hal runs to jump a freighter, shouting]
Hal Carter : You love me.
[Hal turns as he runs for passing freight train]
Hal Carter : You love me.
.............Flo Owens : oh, Madge...
[Madge runs up to her room and Flo walks to Mrs. Potts]
Flo Owens : You liked him, didn't you Helen?
Helen Potts : Yes, I did. I got so used to things as they were: Everything so prim, the geranium in the window, the smell of mama's medicines. And then he walked in, and it was different! He clomped through the place like he was still outdoors. There was a man in the place and it seemed good!
Then this (paraphrased):
Flo: Oh, there is SO much I wanted to tell her..
Helen Potts: Let her learn for herself Flo.
The whole movie is so perfectly pitched to show human emotions (and deep unrealized yearnings..of the past.. of the present.. of the future) in a given time and place. .... Hear the music swell (at the end of the movie) and you can't help but feel a lump in your throat..
(beautifully timed and well directed)
P.S. I think that timing and pacing is just as important in a well-directed movie as the effects of proper lighting. After all, all scenes need a series of build ups (or mini-climaxes). Just as the mini-climaxes are pieced together to tell the overall story. Note: in the final scenes that I have described above, the shots to back and forth between the Mage and Hal, with Hal coaxing Mage to do one thing and Flo coaxing her to do the opposite...Mage is facing a real-time dilemma, at least she is being pulled in two directions--and she needs to made a decision...........
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spiderwort
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Post by spiderwort on Jan 30, 2019 20:38:19 GMT
kijii Thanks for the great post about my beloved PICNIC. Extremely well-written analysis. I love this film so much that I once took a trip touring all six of the different towns in central Kansas where it was shot (and I'm not from Kansas, btw, but I've spent a lot of time there for various reasons, the Inge Festival among them, and I know it well). Don't know if you know that Shirley Knight, later to play the daughter in THE DARK AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, is from Kansas, and as a child had a bit part, or was maybe just an extra in PICNIC, as they shot very near where she was born. Anyway, great post. Thanks again.
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Post by hi224 on Jan 30, 2019 21:12:38 GMT
Wilder and his framing choices within Witness To the Prosecution.
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Post by Doghouse6 on Jan 31, 2019 1:26:03 GMT
Three isolated examples from directors whose output was spotty, minimal or both: The Thief (1952) - TheGoodMan19's citation of F.W. Murnau's ability to tell stories visually brought to mind this bold experiment by Russell Rouse, who directed only ten films over a decades-long career (and is probably best remembered for the D.O.A. story and screenplay). An atmosphere of paranoia and desperation is at the forefront in this examination of a nuclear physicist (Ray Milland) who's sold secrets to the Soviets and realizes the feds are closing in on him. Its nearly 90-minute running time is sustained entirely without dialogue; unlike Charles Chaplin's 1930s silent-cinema persistence, this is simply a sound film in which no one speaks. Even going into it with advance awareness, the gimmick never becomes intrusive, self-conscious or studious, and is soon enough easy to forget as the absence of verbal communication effectively imparts both the protagonist's sense of isolation and the peril represented by the opposing forces of law and co-conspirators. The Night Of the Hunter (1955) - Charles Laughton's one and only directorial outing is at once stately, starkly stylized and wildly exuberant in appearance, performance and theme. Lore has it that the notoriously sensitive and prickly Laughton, stung by the film's cool reception at the time, simply gave up on the idea of further behind-the-camera efforts, leaving decades to come of tantalizing and wistful speculation about what might have been. Those succeeding decades have also accorded well-earned appreciation for a singular accomplishment that's quite unlike any other cinematic experience. The Stunt Man (1980) - The still-living Richard Rush has directed only a dozen films over just shy of sixty years, none but this one of any particular note. Along with myself, the two friends with whom I first saw it upon release represent a fair cross section of opinion toward it: loved it; hated it; mystified by it (that's me in first position). It works for me on myriad levels. From the very first, with its Rube-Goldberg-esque opening title sequence, it signals a good-natured rumination on the chain-of-events effect of random chance, folds in exercises on the natures of truth and illusion, and wraps it all into a roller-coaster ride through the landscape of willing suspension of disbelief that allows motion picture viewers to accept either one at will. Like a magician who explains how each trick is done before he performs it, Rush and his onscreen avatar Eli Cross (Peter O'Toole) clue the audience - and their surrogate, the protagonist Cameron - in on the way they and their perceptions are manipulated, then proceed to fool them anyway. |
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spiderwort
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Post by spiderwort on Jan 31, 2019 2:24:16 GMT
Doghouse6 Love your thoughtful and insightful comments. I haven't seen THE THIEF, but it sounds riveting, and I will certainly be sure to watch it if it shows up on TCM. But I love and admire THE NIGHT OF THE HUNTER, which is remarkable in so many of the ways you mention - performance, cinematography, and narrative at the very least, though the fact that it has lingered in the minds and imaginations of viewers for decades indicates to me that there's a larger artistic element at work in it, something that makes it greater than the sum of its parts. It's unfortunate that the initial poor reception for this now revered film drove Laughton to abandon his directing career. With a talent like his, who knows what might have been? As for THE STUNT MAN, I saw it and remember enjoying it, but can't speak to it much beyond that. Your provocative, insightful comments are making me re-think it, however, wondering what I missed in my early and only viewing. If it ever shows up on TCM, I'll certainly make a point to watch it. Thanks for your post.
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Post by Doghouse6 on Jan 31, 2019 15:57:00 GMT
Thanks as always, spiderwort, for your kindness, and for wading through my verbiage. Another word about Night Of the Hunter: with many years of post- Hunter performances allowing Mitchum to stretch and expand, it's difficult for me to imagine how revelatory his performance must have been to 1955 audiences. One would expect Laughton to have been an "actor's director," and I'd like to think his guidance and encouragement had much to do with Mitchum's image-shattering work, but who could have anticipated such arresting imagery? Although D.P. Stanley Cortez and art director Hilyard Brown deserve their share of credit for committing it to film, it must certainly have been Laughton's prevailing vision that's reflected and realized. |
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Post by hi224 on Feb 2, 2019 2:33:19 GMT
Although so much direction that amazes me is often related to performances, I'll constrain myself for the moment to the parameters of camerawork and editing here and suggest three films, two of which don't often get mentioned: Storm Over Asia (1928), directed by V.I. Pudovkin - a silent film with such majesty, energy, and style that it plays like the most sophisticated Spielberg adventure film. Also, A Sunday in the Country (1984), directed by Bertrand Tavernier - a beautiful, elegiac film in which the camera, literally, NEVER stops moving. It's an endless parade of perfectly organic and integrated ballets that support the narrative without ever intruding on its fragility. And, for editing, Bonnie and Clyde (1967), directed by Arthur Penn and edited by Dede Allen - a seminal work on violence in America, which Allen's editing helped define. (I'd also recommend Max Ophuls' Letter to an Unknown Woman (1948), for reasons similar to A Sunday in the Country (1984). And Dreyer's La Passion de Jeanne D'Arc (1928) for opposite reasons: a spare, stark, style that transcends the medium in its beatific realism.) P.S. In every case, the performances in all of the above are also great! Any shot within Stalker by the master as well. |
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spiderwort
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Post by spiderwort on Feb 2, 2019 13:39:34 GMT
Any shot within Stalker by the master as well.
Haven't seen Stalker, but I love Tarkovsky's Andrei Rublev. He was a master, indeed. And I loved his book about directing, "Sculpting in Time." What a work of art that is, too.
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Post by teleadm on Feb 2, 2019 15:58:09 GMT
I'm a bit unsure how to adress this subject, so I give it a go, without naming any specific movies.
Ingmar Bergman found his ideal cinematographer in Sven Nykvist, with him they had a mutual understanding. Offcourse there were rehearsals, sometimes very angry and intense, but once the camera went rolling, nearly everytime the first shot was right, but some actors still thought a scene should be done differently. So Ingmar invited that actor or actress to view to watch the outtakes, and nearly all times when they had watched the versions of that specific scene, the actor or actress usually gave in, admitting that Bergman/Nykvist version was the best and should be the one that ends up in the movie.
John Huston when asked why he doesn't direct more activly when making movies, answered, when the casting is done and the right actors are cast, not much active direction is needed, since the casted actor knows what to do.
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Post by BATouttaheck on Feb 2, 2019 16:25:51 GMT
nice thread spiderwort I need to share a "funny" … everytime I see the thread title .. I think N S E W compass type direction even tho' I know you mean DIRECTOR type Direction  |
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spiderwort
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Post by spiderwort on Feb 3, 2019 3:23:52 GMT
I'm a bit unsure how to adress this subject, so I give it a go, without naming any specific movies. Ingmar Bergman found his ideal cinematographer in Sven Nykvist, with him they had a mutual understanding. Offcourse there were rehearsals, sometimes very angry and intense, but once the camera went rolling, nearly everytime the first shot was right, but some actors still thought a scene should be done differently. So Ingmar invited that actor or actress to view to watch the outtakes, and nearly all times when they had watched the versions of that specific scene, the actor or actress usually gave in, admitting that Bergman/Nykvist version was the best and should be the one that ends up in the movie. John Huston when asked why he doesn't direct more activly when making movies, answered, when the casting is done and the right actors are cast, not much active direction is needed, since the casted actor knows what to do.
Thanks for this interesting post, teleadm. Really appreciate the info about Bergman/Nykvist. And as for the John Huston philosophy, I think that it's true that casting is 2/3rds of the work. Kazan always said that, too. And he often didn't cast through auditions; rather got to know the person and in that way knew if they were right for the role. For example, as Deborah Kerr told Theatre Arts Magazine in the 1950s, when Kazan was considering her for the role in TEA AND SYMPATHY on Broadway, he didn't audition her; rather simply said to her, "Take a walk with me." And she did, and they walked and talked, and he knew she was the one.
That said, he still always gave what you call "active" direction, though he did it quietly, usually whispering in the ears of his actors. And I'll wager that Huston did more than he admitted, though I also believe he probably left a lot to the actors. He was not the kind of actor's director that Kazan was. No question that he got some really fine performances from his actors, but Kazan got several really great ones.
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Post by Primemovermithrax Pejorative on Feb 3, 2019 3:52:12 GMT
 The director is the most overrated artist in the world. He is the only artist who, with no talent whatsoever, can be a success for 50 years without his lack of talent ever being discovered. Orson Welles |
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