Movie Makers (Jan-Dec 1947)

30 JANUARY 1947 the past by my own carelessness, not through the diabolic plotting of the processing laboratories to ruin my finest scenes. I Resolve: to thread my camera as carefully on the umpteenth roll of film as I did on that first magic one so long ago. I plan especially to watch the size of my lower loop, since I realize that it is only this slack which protects each momentarily static frame, while the picture records upon it. I recognize now the faint upward blur of a "ghost" image, and I know that this irreparable accident is caused by too short a lower loop. I want it no more. I Resolve: to plan each scene and sequence carefully before ever I shoot another foot of precious film. Whereever possible, I shall work out this plan on paper; when this method seems impractical, I still shall think before I shoot — and I shall think in terms of the moving, not the still, picture. For I have learned to my sorrow, that the "odd" shot remains just that — odd; and I admit, in the face of far too many rolls of random footage, that there is no magic formula at the editing desk which will make a silk purse from a sow's ear. I Resolve: to keep forever in mind in my film planning the paramount importance of human interest. For I know now that, although a rose is pretty, a pretty girl is prettier; while I sense the beauty of an old tree against a winter sky, I believe that an old woman knitting before a winter's fire is still more beautiful — and infinitely more dramatic. I believe that people belong in places. Thus, the geysers of Yellowstone are of far greater interest if someone is looking at them in a close shot than they are in an empty long shot from which all humanity has been carefully emasculated. Too, I recognize that the element called human interest is to be found in subjects other than the human being. I find it appealingly in all animals, whether domestic or wild, and I find from experience that this appeal increases in an inverse ratio to the size of each creature. A chipmunk seems more attractive than a chimpanzee, a calf gets more "Ah's!" than a cow, while a litter of kittens can upstage their maternal consort with scandalous ease. I Resolve: to edit both critically and carefully each roll of film that I shall shoot in the future. I plan that this process shall be a creative one, not just a routine elimination of fogged leader and laboratory perforations. I shall keep in mind the heightened effects of cross cutting, of action and reaction, and I shall respect that wit which has the soul of brevity. I agree to trim, or even to cut out, a scene — no matter how technically perfect — if its inclusion in my picture affects adversely its pace and dramatic tempo. Having made a given point of fact, of beauty or of drama, I pledge myself not to drown it in witless repetition. I Resolve: to title, as well as edit, all my footage in the future. I foreswear the familiar alibis and warn you now that no film of mine will any longer be screened in public until so titled. I plan for lead and end titles on everything, and I look forward to subtitles with all footage that needs them. Further, I intend that my titling shall be as imaginative as the subject matter warrants, since I believe that the well phrased caption can contribute far more to its film than simply the cold and necessary facts. I Resolve : finally, that having striven ardently to produce the best motion picture of which I am currently capable, I shall not then degrade it with careless and inadequate screenings. I shall make all my preparations in advance. My screen will be straight and my projector clean, in focus and accurately centered. When I am using music with my pictures, I shall respect its integrity both in my selections and in my handling of them on the turntables. I shall never forget that the final testing ground of all motion picture qualities is found in a film's effective presentation. Starring the camera [Continued from page 17] Very broad use is made of the device in the beginning of the picture, when Marlowe and (or) the camera is looking across a desk at the chic editor of a crime magazine; as a lush blonde receptionist enters, the camera tilts up for a better look and follows her clear across the room to the door, "panning" quickly back to its original position at a sharp reprimand from the lady editor. Later in the picture, the usual Raymond Chandler fisticuffs are brought into play by crafty manipulation. When Marlowe calls at the home of a suspect, the camera "pans" to look at the mantel clock. As it stops on the clock, the mirror over the mantel reflects the crook's raised arm, preparing to strike. The camera swings quickly back just in time to catch a driving fist right into the lens. The screen blacks out, in short order, and fades in on a shot looking out through the bars of a jail cell. One of the longest and most difficult scenes to film occurs when Marlowe walks into the same house, encounters a garrulous young woman, climbs the stairway, turns down the hall, enters the bedroom, to cull a few clues from the bureau, goes on to the bath, to look for further evidence, and finally finds it behind the glass door of the shower. This continuous scene shows off the subjective camera at its best, for the cumulative suspense of following the detective's unbroken path through the house to his quarry is breath taking. In the course of this fascinating picture, the camera trades blows with a belligerent "cop," crashes behind the wheel of a sedan, when Marlowe is forced off the road, crawls across a bleary highway and into a telephone booth, closes its eyes, when kissed by sleek Audrey Totter, and does any number of things that its customarily restrained cousins have never tackled. Only in the few narrative interludes, or when Marlowe steps in front of a mirror, is his image visible on the screen; in order to keep the audience reminded of his presence during some of Miss Totter's longer speeches, a thin cloud of cigarette smoke drifts up before the lens. When the detective makes a telephone call, the mouthpiece is always visible in one corner of the frame. The object lesson implicit for the amateur filmer is the effectiveness of this personalized handling. Reticence and "standoffishness" are common failings of the amateur cameraman. He seems to have a general reluctance to burrow right into the significant details that will tell his story and tighten his composition, either because of the inconvenience involved in moving lights or the minor difficulties of using a dolly. In Lady in the Lake, Metro-GoldwynMayer technicians have, with their advanced equipment, gone about as far as they can go in maneuvering the subjective camera. But the fact remains that the basic principle is a simple one which can be employed to advantage in any amateur film. The subjective camera is most effective in movement, while overlong shots from a single position are inclined to seem static and dull. The cinematographer for Lady in the Lake has actually walked his specially braced camera, to follow the course of Marlowe ; but probably the closest approximation which the amateur should attempt is in filming this type of action from a tripod mounted on a small dolly. The moving camera can be used to great advantage where the element of surprise or suspense will give a scene that added "punch." It also tends to increase the length of a single scene and will eliminate a good deal of editing, provided your action has been well charted beforehand. In a silent film, the producer cannot rely on the voice of the actor, to support the illusion that the camera is actually a character involved in the story; hence, moving camera shots are almost imperative, if the subjective technique is to be transposed successfully to the amateur field. The simplest situations can be made more forceful and dramatic by such moving camera shots. Suppose, for instance, that you want to convey the emotional lift of welcoming home a loved one. The ordinary filmer would, in all likelihood, set