Film Culture (Winter 1955)

ment is called a schedule). The actor has the most extraordinary difficulty in remembermig what sort of necktie he wore three months ayo, without adding to his concern exactly what he thought or felt. Notes and drawings on the pattern and color of his necktie help a little. It he is a genius and gifted with great memory, even then he is at the mercy of the instructions given him by whoever happens to be the most convincing person around. The most convincing person is usually the property-man, the script-girl, his servant, or the boy who measures the distance of his nose from the camera. I have been asked often why it is necessary to be disconnected in the making of a film. Why cannot a film be taken in continuity so that the distressed actor will know precisely what he is doing? Aside from the fact that there is rarely room enough to put up all the sets at once, or to construct, let us say, a replica of a street to connect with the house which the actor must enter, a film takes from four weeks to an occasional six months to complete. It usually takes an hour and a half to show the finished work. Somewhere in this loss of time you will find the reason for not making a film in continuity. It takes time to build sets, to place the camera and the lights, and to instruct the actors, though this last function is considered wasteful by all but a few directors. No longer a new medium, the film has absorbed countless men who have attempted to find better ways to good results, and uninterrupted continuity of action has been found too difficult. The actor in motion pictures, as on the stage, is told what to do, but there is no dress rehearsal before an audience, nor a collective tableau to give him any indication that he has been told the right thing. Only the finished product reveals that—and_ then clearly. But the finished product is not finished with the actor, but with a pair of scissors. These are flourished afterwards by someone who has little idea (usually none) of what was originally intended and he can remove the most precious word from the mouth of the actor or eliminate his most effective expression. This posthumous operator, known as a cutter, literally cuts the actor’s words and face. He can make a stutterer speak rapidly and a person of slow thought think quickly. He can also reverse that process and does not hesitate to do this often. He can change the tempo and the rhythm of the actor's walk and his purpose. He can retain pieces of the performance which the actor fails to consider essential because at that moment he was no longer acting, but thinking of lunch; and with an easy snip of the shears, he can destroy the one expression the actor valued most—or the phrase he thought would make him immortal. He can retain pieces which make hands and legs look like slabs of blubber, (physical distortions are less ridiculous than mental ones) and he can cause the most thoughtless womeu in the world to think by retaining parts of her anatomy that she planned to conceal. Not only does the cutter cut, but everyone who can possibly contact the film, even including the exhibitor who is to show it, has plans and often the power to alter the film. Actually were each one permitted to exercise his genius for improving a film, nothing would be left but the title, and that is usually debated, too, until the night before the film is shown. Far from being responsible for his own performance, the actor cannot even be quite certain that the final result will not disclose the use of a double or even a voice which is not his. In any form of physical danger, usually featured in the motion picture, the actor is replaced by someone who is supposed to look like him, and though the actor often is willing to take the physical risks himself (rather than the mental ones), the producer is not so willing since a bodily injury means delay. As for the voice, he may for some reason be unable to sing, or what is more common, be unable to talk. (Continued on page 27) FRANK STAUFFACHER Hans Richter One of the gentlest men I ever met died this year. It is this gentleness that comes first to my mind when I think of him. I do not think that anybody who ever came in contact with him could easily miss it. His halting speech left the listener time between words to watch him and in doing so to be attracted by the seriousness of his expressive grey eyes on his handsome face. The half-sadness of his manner gave special importance to whatever he said. It convinced me as soon as I met him. I felt this man meant what he said. Amazing, that such a gentle person was so active! As a painter, as a film maker, as a writer and + as an organizer. He was not just elaborating on what others had done (a process on which so many rely); he was creative ... and he achieved much. Achieved much in spite of being gentle in a world where you better be fast and ruthless . . . to become a success. His film Sausalito, “‘a documentary”, and The Port of St. Francis (for which he received Robert J. Flaherty-City College Film Award), show more than the routine skill of the professional film maker and less of the nauseating exhibitionism of too many of our new experimental film makers (and critics). He did not work to have his inhibi ss