Much in a film’s concept of its own reality lies in the content within the film itself. Films that feature fantastical imagery obviously exist in a fantastical reality. Likewise films that take place in the world as it is, or once was, suggest strong realism.
There are moments when fantasy and realism can be blurred by the film’s content. Films in the real world may feature plots of magic realism, and conversely even the most fantastical films may contain emotional moments and ideas that are decidedly human, even if they come from characters who are not.
However part of this manipulation of a film’s reality comes largely and subtly through the process of editing.
To demonstrate both ends of the spectrum, here is a comparison between two drastically different filmed versions of the tale of Faust, the Germanic folklore legend about an old scholar who sells his soul to the devil for the knowledge of the universe. There are different versions of this tale, with different events happening to Faust, but in each version the hell-demon Mephistopheles waits on him.
FAUST (1926)
F.W. Murnau’s silent version of Faust, is told in the grandest styles of fantastical filmmaking. But though it features characters and settings that do not exist in any time in our world, the tale is told with conventional narrative archetypes and melodrama, reminding the audience that we are in a world of fantasy as only a movie can portray.
Murnau uses the tools of editing to seduce his audience into his fantasy, and never at any moment tries to break that seduction.
In this scene, Mephisto sends Faust to impress and seduce the Princess of Parma. Murnau films the City of Parma with grand epic wide shots, including stunning vistas of dancing girls, exotic elephants and a grand city illuminated in the background.
As the seduction intensifies, Murnau cuts to close-up shots of Faust and the Princess, unable to resist Faust’s charms, and accompanies this with lighting effects. This is a typical edit of a romance scene; start with wide shots before going in close as the emotion develops.
Racing in the background is an impassioned soundtrack to underscore the emotions within the scene, and reflect the epic storytelling.
Rarely does the editing of Murnau’s Faust break from these conventions. It’s never his intention to make you question the reality of what you’re watching. It’s a movie; a make-believe that could never exist in our world. That is precisely the way it should be as Murnau’s editing decisions should reflect his interpretation of the story he’s telling, and not work against them. He envisions Faust as a grand opera about the fallacy of man’s zeal for absolute knowledge.
But what about the spectrum’s other end? What if we are presented with a version of Faust that assaults you with reality that it makes you believe it takes place in our current world? What if it wants to dissect these conventions so you become aware of them? What effect would that have on the audience?
FAUST (1994)
Czech surrealist filmmaker Jan Svankmejer’s film of Faust plays with realism and fantasy with disturbing results. To accomplish this Svankmejer uses the most opposite approach to Murnau’s film even when containing similar subject matter. There are fantastical images in Svankmejer’s version, but they are married with an impressive realism.
In Faust, Czech actor Peter Cepek plays a generic everyman who, after being bombarded with maps to a dilapidated theatre in Prague, winds up as an actor in an insane production of Faust that combines elements of Goethe’s tale, Marlowe’s play and Gounod’s opera.
With its crude stop-motion animation, life-size marionettes and nonsensical narrative, it is easy for the audience to become lost in Svankmejer’s fantasy. Yet he employs various editing techniques to keep reminding us that the film exists in modern Prague.
In this scene Faust has journeyed to sit before the King of Portugal and impress him with his talents. The scene consists mostly of large grotesque puppets performing in amidst a setting of ruins, palaces and lavish gardens, but as it carries on common visitors to the site fill the background. They serve no purpose to the narrative, nor do they interact with the film’s characters, but Svankmejer continuously cuts to them to remind the audience of their everyday realism.
More still he cuts to particular close ups of each of their actions- feet walking, carriage wheels, babies crying- and he raises the volume of their sound effects to reflect our suddenly close proximity to them. For a split moment the fantastical imagery cuts from our attention and we are ripped into the realism of the scene. We realize these life sized puppets carry on in a notable city landmark, causing us to question the reality of what we are watching.
Is it a play, or is it completely fiction? Are these merely actors posing as puppets, or are these really the demons from hell. If so, how are they interacting with real pedestrians, and who then, are the puppeteers?
It’s dizzying and uncomfortable; an editing style that reflects the film’s subject matter.
Svankmejer also eliminates music from this scene, and from most of the entire picture. (The track accompanying the opening credits plays again, but only after we witness someone press ‘Play’ on a stereo)
Music in our real world only ever comes from a musical source, so to hear it run through a scene without any characters’ awareness is unnatural and reminds the audience that they are watching a movie. This is the opposite of Svankmejer’s intentions.
To create the unsettling effect of surrealism, one must feel that the bizarre images and situations you are seeing take place in your real world.
Each film’s editing must reflect the reality of the film’s setting. Whether it is to complement classical narratives or to distort and comment on them. Murnau uses non-diegetic sound (the soundtrack) and conventional epic scale editing techniques to submerse the audience completely into his fantasy. He’s intentions is to never pull you out of the film’s fantastical reality.
Svankmejer, on the other hand, constantly reminds you of the abstraction and absurdity of film viewing. He uses only diegetic sound (sound originating within the images on the screen) and cuts repeatedly to images and ideas that betray the fantasy of the film your watching; cuts that remind you he’s filming in the public setting of a park, street, or even a theatre. He reminds you that your watching a film.
One submerges you in a reality by using techniques of complete and total fantasy. While the other reminds you at every moment that its fantasy isn’t real, by submerging you repeatedly with a sobering reality.
The two filmmakers, though completely different in style, even when working with the same subject matter, are both bound by editing techniques that reflect the reality of the worlds they are depicting, and by adhering to the needs of the edit, both styles reflect the heart of their film’s intentions.
Collective Friction 