The Heart is in the Edit: The Film’s Reality- Two versions of ‘Faust’

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.

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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.

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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.

The Heart is in the Edit: Sound ‘The Social Network’

In film the picture on the screen becomes our perceived world.  As we watch a movie our sense of reality shifts from the theatre we are in, and becomes the reality of the images on screen.  Our eye is replaced with the movie camera.

Therefore, when we see these images, we have a conception of their physical nature and how they would logically act and react.  We know what a kiss is like on our lips, how we feel in a fire, and if it hurts to fall down a flight of stairs.  Everything seen in the image can relate only to other images sharing the screen, nothing externally can be added, it’s impossible.

The same is not true for sound.  When we hear sound in cinema it belongs to one of two classifications:

Diegetic Sound – any sound that exists within the realities of the image.  We know who’s speaking because we can see them speak.  We hear the sound effect that is the result of the action in the image.  We can see the origins of the music playing.

Non-Diegetic Sound – any sound that exists outside the reality of the image.  When a voice-over adds details and descriptions.  When music is created for the film to play during the scene, but is oblivious to the characters within it.

Non-Diegetic Sound is the only thing within film that exists outside of the screen’s reality and outside the physical logic of the images we are seen.  There are no limits to what the audience is allowed to hear and because it has this property, it is unique.

In film theorist and composer Michel Chion’s essay “The Three Listening Modes,” he suggests that: “On one hand, sound works on us directly, physiologically (breathing noises in a film can directly affect our own respiration). On the other, sound has an influence on perception: through the phenomenon of added value, it interprets the meaning of the image, and makes us see in the image what we would not otherwise see, or would see differently. And so we see that sound is not at all invested and localized in the same way as the image.”

By being unburdened with the limitations presented in the images, sound can delve into the more ambiguous territory of emotions and symbolism; sometimes unconsciously adding layers of significance by including audio to compliment or contrast with the image.

However, despite the exclusive privileges given to Non-Diegetic Sound, it too must serve the needs of the edit.  Not knowing which sounds to include where, or worse, not caring, will only be detrimental to the film.

THE SOCIAL NETWORK

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For David Fincher’s The Social Network, film composers Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross created a music track called “Hand Covers Bruise.”  In it, an arrangement of three piano keys are struck over a layer of dense, electrified ambient sounds.  After the piano keys repeat several times, they trail off, and leave a heavy base note to resonate through the ambience.  This base note is repeated three times.

“Hand Covers Bruise” is repeated during the film, at the beginning, middle and at the end.

In this, the middle scene, the track plays as Mark Zuckerberg sits in a deposition for the lawsuit that the Winkelvoss twins have filed against him.  Their lawyer, Gage, is attempting to get Mark to focus on a particular email in evidence, but due to boredom Mark’s attention drifts to the window and he comments:

“It’s raining.”

Gage, a man much older than Mark, asks “Do I have your attention?”  When he receives no for an answer, he asks, “Do I deserve your attention?”

Again the answer is now.  Gage almost mockingly says. “Okay, no.  I don’t deserve your attention.”

The response from Mark: “I think if your clients want to sit on my shoulders and call themselves tall, they have the right to give it a try – but there’s no requirement that I enjoy sitting here listening to people lie.”

There is a quick break in the dialogue before the next line, and in that break two things happen.  We cut to a close up of one of the twins -one of the peoples Mark is accusing of lying, and then…

BOOM.

On the soundtrack we hear the first heavy base note from “Hand Covers Bruise.”

Mark continues: “You have part of my attention – you have the minimum amount. The rest of my attention is back at the offices of Facebook, where my colleagues and I are doing things that no one in this room, including and especially your clients, are intellectually or creatively capable of doing.”

Though the shot stays on Mark, here is another break before the next line and again…

BOOM.

The third base note strikes. (The second one played during his last bit of dialogue)

Mark finishes: “Did I adequately answer your condescending question?”

These two base notes come from a non-diegetic source: the soundtrack, and hold no accountability towards the reality of the scene. (i.e: the boardroom and the people and objects in it)

But they strongly suggest Mark’s total win of the argument and are strategically edited to emphasize this.  They are placed within the natural pauses of his counter-argument, and happen twice to take down his two opponents; first the lying Winkelvoss twins who have initiated the lawsuit, and second the condescending tone of their lawyer.

Traditionally, low base notes have been synonymous with a dark and terminal jestures, and have been a staple of horror soundtracks and compositions since the beginning of the medium.  Without drawing any visual attention to it, Fincher uses these base notes to dictate the finality of Mark’s argument.  He has won whether we like Mark or not.

To demonstrate its effect, try muting the sound during the pauses in dialogue and silencing the base notes.  Or alternately, try shifting the base notes earlier in the scene, or later.  The skill of Aaron Sorkin’s writing and the arrangement of edits still suggest Mark’s triumph, but what is lacking is that definitive feeling he has won totally and completely.

It is the soundtrack, its base notes and their perfect edits that alone convey that.

Sound and especially those that come from non-diegetic sources are an indispensable tool for filmmakers, and can expand a scene in infinite directions.  But they too must be placed at the precise moments when they will best serve the scene; they too are a slave to the needs of the edit.

The Heart is in the Edit: Camera Technique ‘Black Sunday’

The device of editing can create a powerful and completely cinematic effect and in the example shown in the previous post, Amadeus, it’s done from straight cuts alone.  There are no extraordinary camera techniques, just cuts of close ups, music and pieces of paper arranged in a very effective order.

Complicated camera techniques and orchestrated shots, combined with dramatic compositions can create a cinematic effect like no other.  But still, like everything else in film, they must serve the necessities of the edit.  Beautiful shots alone, do not a movie make.

BLACK SUNDAY

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Let’s look at an example of this happy unity.  In Mario Bava’s horror classic Black Sunday, two traveling doctors have clumsily awaken the spirit of an angry medieval witch.  While leaving the witch’s crypt they come across her descendant, Princess Asa Vajda, walking her dogs.  They do not tell her what happened inside.

We fade into a seemingly ordinary night in the Vajda’s castle, where most of the film will take place.  Bava introduces us to the family in this long, graceful tracking shot.

It begins with a profile shot of Asa playing a soothing melody on the piano, before gently arcing right and facing behind her.  We can now see down the parlour.

This shot will continue its slow, leisurely movements down the room’s length.

We first meet her brother, Constantine, cleaning his gun.

We then track towards the giant fireplace and the most important character in the scene, her father, Prince Vajda.  We know this because he is the last to be shown and his face is not visible to us; it will have to be revealed.

Up until now Bava has imbued this scene with a relaxed atmosphere; a typical evening in the Vajda castle.  This has been accomplished by union of camera technique to editing:

First, the camera technique: a slow pan through the room relaxes the audience.  We are not jarred by quick cuts within the parlour, but rather gliding smoothly through it.

Second, the editing: the lack of cutting allows the audience to further absorb the reality of the scene.  The longer a shot is sustained the more the audience believes that the camera is the equivalent of their own eye.  It’s only the unnatural act of cutting that pulls them out of this illusion.  Note the choice in music.  It’s not a fast tempo number she’s playing, but rather something relaxing, suggesting that the day is winding down, and the family will soon retire.

As Bava pans around the chair to reveal the face of the Prince, he first betrays this calmness.

The Prince’s face is not relaxed, but in a deep dark thought.  The camera arcs around him and looks back at the family.

The Prince’s importance is finally emphasized.  He is now the largest figure in the frame and he is on the left, the most important side.

Here, this magnificent tracking shot, and its musical accompaniment will cut, and the gentle atmosphere shattered.

The next shot:

A high angle shot of Asa at the piano.  Instead of playing it, she will just strike one single key.

This discomfort hits the audience two-fold, and it again is a marriage of camera technique and editing.

First, the camera technique:  This composition is uncomfortably high.  It’s not at eye level with the characters, and seems to be the point of view from someone observing them from above.  A re-awakened ghost perhaps?

Second, the edit:  After a long and relaxing track that started from the piano and ended on the Prince in his chair, we abruptly cut all the way back across the room to where we started.  What happened to our leisurely pace through the parlour?

Finally to properly finish the Vajda family introduction Bava lets loose, setting up the horror to come. From this high overhead shot he quickly pedestals the camera down, lowering the eye level to equal Asa’s.

Accompanying this is an audio cue: The moaning of the reawakened ghost.

“Listen, the voice trails off,” Asa says.

Bava almost immediately repeats this shot, only now with the Prince, the patriarch of the family.  The presence of the specter is finally felt by him, and after a quick cutaway to the dumfounded brother Constantine, we quickly pedestal down again from the Prince’s overhead shot until we’re at eye level.

“I can hear it, what could it be?” the Prince becomes aware.

The calm of the scene has been broken, and all know that something is wrong.

Bava’s flare for camera technique and startling compositions is famous, and Black Sunday is full of arresting visuals.  But each visual he presents must serve in tandem with the needs of the edit.  The graceful opening tracking shot through the parlour room would not have as much power if it wasn’t contrasted so quickly by a startling high angle, and a fast pedestal down.

The vice-versa is also true.  Bava could have constantly cut back to the high angle of Asa from the scene’s beginning, but its effect in suggesting the terror to come would be significantly diluted.

Careful and strategic camera technique can be a useful tool in communicating ideas cinematically, but it, like all the artistic disciplines that accompany film, serves the edit.  A pretty shot is always welcome, but if it’s served alone or poorly managed, it does little to communicate an idea to the audience in a purely cinematic way.

 

The Heart is in the Edit: Intro ‘Amadeus’- Director’s Cut

I feel a troubling trend, particularly with low budget filmmakers, and particularly in this country that the beating heart of cinema lies in the script, and I would like to remind everyone that such thinking is wrong.

The heart is in the edit.  The only art form unique to film, the one it uses to define itself.

Too many films start with (presumably) a great script with clever twists and turns and strong dialogue.  They cast (presumably) good actors to convey all the complicated emotions, but somehow many films then put the rest of the  production on autopilot, as if the script and acting function on their own separate island, as if it were a play.

Film is a medium that borrows much from other art forms.  The literary arts write the script; the visual arts shape composition and movement, the physics of photography are needed, as well as the long tradition of theatrical performances.  The director must juggle all these art forms together, but each one is subservient to the principle art form, the edit. Each piece must be put together in order for the film to take any shape.

The director knows this, or at least he/she should.  So how come editors are being shafted? It’s not acceptable to stick your characters in a two-shot and chew through melodramatic dialogue because you think cutting would “break the acting.” The masters of the long takes used them for a reason, mostly to heighten suspense.  You’re just being lazy and worse, BORING.

I’m starting this new blog series “The Heart is in the Edit”, to present sequences in films of all kinds that use spectacular editing to convey a particular idea or message to the audience.

AMADEUS- The Director’s Cut

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In the director’s cut of Milos Forman’s Amadeus, Mozart’s wife Constanze arrives at the apartments of Mozart’s rival Salieri, to plead that the court composer should give Mozart a job.  She brings with her a notebook filled with Mozart’s handwritten sheet music.  All originals: “My husband doesn’t make copies.”

Forman’s goal in this scene is to convey to us that the startling brilliance of Mozart’s music (as Salieri puts it “The Voice of God.”) was immediately recognizable from crude sketches on paper; the very beginning of the long and complicated process that is composing an opera.

Most of us can’t read sheet music and instantly hear an orchestra, but we trust that a court composer like Salieri could.  Here, Forman uses editing to put us in his head-space.

The scene begins when Salieri opens the notebook and rests his hand on the paper.  The hand twitches as the first piece of music starts; subconsciously connecting him with it.  The music floods the soundtrack as Salieri snatches the book off the table and reads.

We’re in his mind now; with the master composer as he instantly translates written notes into a complete orchestra.

Amadeus is a flashback film narrated from the elderly Salieri’s point of view and here Forman cuts back to that narration.  The juxtaposition in editing not only adds to the great span of time that passed since Salieri discovered Mozart’s brilliance, but it adds specific details from a musical expert to compliment the images we are shown. “There are no corrections,” he adds as we gaze on the handwritten notes. “Displace one note and there would be diminishment.”

Returning to the past, Salieri flips to the next page, and the soundtrack abruptly cuts to another famous piece.  As if jumping into the middle of tracks on a CD, Foreman again trusts in his audiences’ belief in Salieri’s skills in translating notes.

The pages flip again and again, and the tracks change and build with increasing tempo.  Foreman instructs the actor F. Murray Abraham to create an intense expression on his face; a man being confronted with “absolute beauty.”

The moment builds as a powerful aria (the human voice being the most personal and immediate of instruments) blasts the loud soundtrack.  It’s all that’s heard.  We, like Salieri, build to a powerful apex.  The music abruptly cuts at its highest moment when Salieri drifts into ecstasy and drops the notebook and its papers to the floor.

Through the specific edit of music and images, and the juxtaposition from one time line to another, we the audience have achieved a cinematic climax to the beauty of Mozart’s music from its simple beginnings (pen and paper), through the vessel of Salieri’s expertise.

The importance of the notebook continues into the next scene.  Salieri demands that Constanze return tonight to have sex with him.  She does, and brings Mozart’s notebook with her.  She holds it out to him stating: “We don’t really need this, do we?” before violently throwing it to the floor.

The book opens and a loud and intense opera, seemingly midway through, floods the soundtrack.  Constanze begins to undress.  Salieri looks horrified, but is it the adultery he’s forced this woman to commit that scares him (Salieri is a very religious man) or is it the music that seems to burst from the pages on the floor?

The opera abruptly cuts again, distracted from another instrument.  Salieri’s ringing of the servant bell.

These comments Forman’s making about Mozart’s work are brought to life through the edit.  It could not have been achieved by dialogue, music, cinematography, design or acting alone, but instead it is the arrangement of all these elements together, serving the needs of ONLY the edit, not their individual whims.

This is the tool that cinema has alone, and great films only work when the needs of the edit are CONSTANTLY being serviced.