We are ‘feeling’ context!
There is a moment in Dog Day Afternoon when the use of dramatic irony would be especially enticing: Unknown to Sonny and Sal the audience might see that the police are wise to the robbers, and are moving in. But! Dramatic irony is not used, with great result.
After several interruptions — which include several incoming phone calls — Sonny and Sal try to ‘wrap up’ their bank robbing work. The telephone rings again. The bank manager answers: He extends the receiver to Sonny, [Figure 13.2] “It’s for you.” The tongue-tied moment — an unhinged hush — is stunning. Sonny takes the phone…
Figure 13.2
…”Hello”?
On the other end of the line is a Detective Sergeant who announces that the robbers are trapped, surrounded by the police. Sirens and pandemonium let loose!
Did the dailies include footage of police officers ‘sneakily’ surrounding the bank to be used prior to the telephone call to Sonny — for the audience to see? I don’t know, maybe not. It would still have been possible to use the existing material to allow the audience earlier knowledge of the police presence. In this instance, it was a terrifically smart decision not to use valuable, and (nearly) always effective, dramatic irony.
A long-established practice in editing supports the following principle — but only in theory:
1. We see someone see something.
2. We see what ‘the someone’ saw.
3. We see ‘the someone’ react to what they saw.
This holds clear communication, and all the essentials of visual logic: In The Verdict we see that the ‘Admitting Nurse’ sees something. We see the Boston to New York airline ticket in Attorney Galvin’s overcoat pocket. We see the ‘Nurse’ react.
You cannot see a film that does not take advantage of this simple, and (nearly always) effective device.
But, what of Context?
In The School Bus Accident scene from The Sweet Hereafter we see the father driving his pick-up truck behind the school bus. His children wave to him through the rear window of the emergency door. He waves back. [Figure 13.3] But, instead of the expected 1, 2, and 3 we ‘get’ a 1, 3, and 2! We see that the father sees something. We see the father react, and only then do we see what the father sees.
Figure 13.3
Considering the context, a superior choice
HINT: Context connects to choices in the distribution of information.
One of the most common questions asked by students reflects an early editing challenge: “How long do I hold after someone leaves the frame, or before someone enters?”
Ed Dmytryk gives an answer, and justification: There is no reason to hold any frames after a character departs the frame. A simple and effective cut can (usually) be made before the last eye of the character is no longer visible.
HINT: Eye as Focal Point.
Dmytryk explains that a ‘familiar’ place — the Outgoing scene — is of no more interest to the eye after a character has exited, but the Incoming setting — it’s new — holds interest, and can therefore be held for a (brief beats) time before a character enters. This is very reliable advice. Until you consider the context:
Joseph Steals Cocaine from a Telephone Booth scene from Atlantic City. After stealing the drugs, Joseph exits the phone booth — and the film frame. The shot holds on the empty phone booth for many beats. [Figure 13.4] The next cut immediately reveals a car pulling up to the curb. A drug dealer exits the car, and enters the phone booth to ‘pick up’ the cocaine.
Figure 13.4
Beats of Context
Ninety-nine percent of cuts might work exactly as Dmytryk advises. But, here the editor smartly granted greater preference to context than to reducing — what otherwise would be — unnecessarily prolonged beats. There was no wish to have the audience ‘feel’ that Joseph barely got away with the drugs. The ‘hold’ on the ‘empty frame’ represents an Emotional Time of some minutes.
The topic of our last chapter, the 180 Degree Rule: Harry Morant at the Preliminary Hearing scene in Breaker Morant. Profiles of Morant — in Close-Up — facing screen Right, and screen Left, are joined together. [Figure 13.5]
The context? A military hearing portrayed — by way of cuts — with rigid military pomp and posture.
Figure 13.5
A 180 Degree break? Absolutely!
I once overheard someone compare film editing to “solving a jigsaw puzzle.” The fitting together of assorted pieces could permit a similarity; but pieces of fixed shape — requiring a one and only fit — are provided with a jigsaw puzzle. Film’s contexts make the analogy unconvincing: A creative film editor can, and must, ‘shape and reshape’ the pieces to achieve an ideal fit.
FOURTEEN
conflicts
in interest
“(There) are little things you do. The
picture’s been shot, you can’t go back, but
there are ways….”
— Harold Krees
Students seeking my help often declare that they are “too close to the material.” I have come to believe that the opposite may be the case. The student is only close enough to think, but is not decisively close so as to feel. He cannot determine the essentials of Context — the integrity of the material.
It is one thing — and only one thing — to be ‘feelingly’ alert to the context of each and every cut; it is still surprisingly easy to lose the ‘feel’ of the story’s particulars. More demanding is the context of a scene; still more the context of the sequence; and above all, the context of the entire film.
Good storytelling does not contradict information and impressions communicated to the audience. Editing requires an intimate, intense, and ongoing ‘emotional reconsideration’ of the audience’s understandings, and attitudes, which are derived — in large part — by the editor’s distribution (and re-ordering) of information.
TIP & HINT: Questions must be asked, and re-asked: What emotional impressions have prior scenes generated? Are associations to ‘real world’ experiences ‘truthful?’ Are established connections to story context(s) plausible? What understandings and feelings are being conveyed from scene(s) to sequence(s); and to the totality of the film’s structure? Are these consistent where and when they have to be?
Editors need to be watchful of sudden appearances of conflicts in the interest of the story. Good editors pay (devoted) attention, and appreciate that — to paraphrase an adage about writers — there are no great editors… only great re-editors.
If you’ll indulge me some conjecture, and ‘educated’ guessing, I’ll ‘show’ you what I mean: Mother and Samuel in the Philadelphia Train Station scene, from Witness.
The Baltimore-bound train that mother and son were to ‘catch’ is delayed. As they walk to a station waiting area the boy spots a drinking fountain. He attempts to pull free of his mother’s grip. She releases him, and as he explores the workings of the fountain, she takes a seat on a waiting area bench. The mother looks, and (almost) smiles at her son as he curiously plays with the newly ‘discovered’ machine. Samuel begins to walk from the fountain, and away from his mother. [Figure 14.1] We hear the mother’s voice:
Figure 14.1
“Don’t go far Samuel.”
The boy turns and nods in agreement… [Figure 14.2]
Figure 14.2
…then continues his walk into the crowded station
During the boy’s exploration of the wondrously immense space of the big city train station, he thinks he’s spotted an Amish elder. [Figure 14.3] The boy happily approaches:
Figure 14.3
The man is an Hasidic Jew
Samuel moves off, soon coming upon a giant bronze statue high above the mezzanine of the station. [Figure 14.4]
Figure 14.4
The boy is enthralled
In a High Angle shot we see the mother ‘find’ him, [Figure 14.5] take his hand, and lead him…
Figure 14.5
…back to the waiting area
This sequence magnificently pulls off an exquisite ruse; a sleight of hand, more truly a ‘sleight of eye,’ in the interest of sustaining earlier — and fundamental — story (include character) impressions.
The mother and Samuel have left Lancaster County, Pennsylvania aboard an Amtrak train. This is Samuel’s first trip, and perhaps the mom’s as well. When we first see them in the crowded Philadelphia train station, we believe — and why wouldn’t we — that the mother is on alert, very protective of Samuel. Yet she allows him to stroll away from her, into an unfamiliar place, crowded with dozens of strangers?
Let me speculate. At some point in the postproduction process, the director and/or the editor, heard a ‘feelingly alert’ warning ‘clang!’ Did they intend to show a careless, or negligent, mother? That is what they were ‘suddenly’ portraying. What are the consequences of this switch in manner? How will the audience now perceive the mother? Can anything be done to minimize the unwanted — and harshly disapproving — new impressions?
The editor could have cut from the boy at the drinking fountain to the later, and quiet, moment when mother and Samuel sit side by side on the waiting area bench, [Figure 14.6] deleting the scene of Samuel’s wanderings, and its ‘sorry’ reflection on an Amish mother; and the (very likely) ire of the audience.
Figure 14.6
Samuel ‘plays.’ Cut to: Mother and Son on bench
It was decided (more of my guessing) that the scenes of the boy’s exploration of the train station were worth keeping, perhaps even necessary for its structural beats prior to the Restroom Murder scene: the boy’s sincere innocence before experiencing a brutal murder.
How did the editing avoid the audience’s wrath at a ‘negligent mother’? Why do I even suspect that a problem emerged?
I believe that the script called for Samuel to wander off, and the mother — busy with papers, and train tickets — to fail to notice. It seemed to me that the actions do run the risk of contradicting impressions, and ‘real-life’ associations presented earlier. The mother’s ‘sudden’ lack of protective concerns in a hectic and unfamiliar setting made me wonder why so few people — there’s me — ‘feel’ that the mother is carelessly inattentive to the safety of her son. With several screenings — and a little speculation — it is apparent that steps were taken in re-editing to avoid such a response by the audience, while keeping the naively adventurous Samuel off of the editing room floor.
When Samuel spots the drinking fountain, and attempts to pull free of his mother’s hand he says, “Momma, look, look….” His mother responds — she clearly speaks to him — but her words have been deleted. Did the mother permit Samuel to ‘have a look’ at the fountain, but instruct him to stay within her sight?
Watch the seated mother: She examines travel instructions, telephone numbers, railway tickets from her purse; she looks at Samuel; [Figure 14.7] she is satisfied with his water fountain diversion.
Figure 14.7
Were these ‘moments’ originally reversed?
The next cut, back to Samuel, shows him ending his ‘play’ with the water; he begins to move away from the fountain, and away from his — she’s still looking at him — mother. Samuel takes several steps, looking about as he moves off. Nearly six seconds elapse before we hear his mother’s voice, “Don’t go far Samuel.” The boy turns, looks back, and nods — agreeing to the request. But, why does the mother allow Samuel to go so far before she cautions him? Indeed, why doesn’t she call him back? Why don’t we see the mother say, “Don’t go far Samuel?”
What I think: The mother was never filmed saying, “Don’t go far Samuel,” because this was not scripted, nor the ‘problem’ realized in the screenplay. The line was recorded later, and used just before Samuel turns to the camera (the mother), and nods. Why is the mother’s call to Samuel’s walking away so late in coming? Because for the moment to work, the audience must see Samuel leave the drinking fountain, and see Samuel turn to acknowledge his mother’s request. The Voice Over (Mother Off-Camera) has to be ‘late’ to ‘be in sync’ with Samuel’s looking back, and nodding. If the original plan — and the shooting for it — had the mother distracted by the ‘important’ papers in her purse while Samuel wandered off, seen only by the audience — as I suspect — there would not be a shot of Samuel looking back in response to her request. Where did the editor get this shot?
Guessing a little more: The shot of Samuel (looking back) came from an outtake! Look at the boy’s expression. His expression seems less likely to be a response to his mother, than to instructions from the director. The boy is being told, “Don’t look around; just keep walking.” Samuel is supposed to ‘get away’ while his mother is distracted.
That is why the boy’s look-back is over his left shoulder. A planned look-back to the mother would call for the boy to turn to his right!
Another observation, which leads to my speculations: In the High Angle shot, in which the mother arrives to ‘get’ Samuel, and bring him back to the waiting area, we see Samuel turn to his mother before she gets to him. I’d guess that a line of dialogue was deleted here as well; a line that let Samuel know that his mother was approaching, but also made clear that the boy had slipped from the ‘negligent’ mother’s sight!
I have squirreled away suppositions by the dozen; they ‘play out’ in my mind in various rhythms, and structures. I try to ‘see’ other possibilities, and enhancements.
In the spring of 1996 I worked on a portion of a feature film, The Domain of the Senses, produced by Europea de Cinema de Barcelona. The five parts, which made up the full film, were ‘joined’ in theme by the five senses. Sight, Hearing, Taste, and Smell were produced in Spain; Touch was shot and edited in New York City. The five short films were written and directed by five Spanish women. They avoided disputes over their ‘assigned’ senses: Evidently there was a director eager to take on Smell.
One of the directors was Nûria Olivé-Bellés, a dancer, choreographer, and former thesis student at the School of Visual Arts. While that is how I got the editing job, it is not the usual connection to find work. Most former students would prefer to stay clear of their ex-teachers: much better to begin a professional career fresh and free of all who knew you ‘then.’ In film production, that literally means ‘with a clean slate.’ Given the protocol, and hierarchy of a film’s production it can be disagreeable to direct a former ‘superior.’ I accepted the editing offer because Nûria was an extraordinary filmmaker, always eager for genuine collaboration, and because Touch was to be cut on film. This appealed to me, because I suspected that with the ever-increasing influence of digital editing it might be my last chance to edit directly on film, and on the machine that I ‘grew up with’: the Moviola.
Touch was not to exceed 20 minutes. Nûria and I had planned to work from a first cut of approximately 45 minutes. We knew that there was a hurried schedule, but a cut of more than double the running time would allow us to uncover the story’s needs. As it turned out, the producers wanted the work concluded with all due — and impossible — haste. From screening dailies, synchronizing picture and sound, getting the material coded and logged, pulling selected takes, and editing, we were given ten days to finish. We were scheduling backwards from the prearranged time the composer needed to complete the score. We did have a little room to maneuver: In an American film we would have had 90 feet per minute (35mm), but in Spain — and this was our measure — we were given 93.75 feet per minute, or 93 feet and 12 frames. While there are always 16 frames per foot in 35mm film, the difference in footage is derived from the 24 frames per second United States’ film speed, and Spain’s 25 frames per second.
I kept close ‘watch’ of the running time from my first cut. I kept footage counts as I edited each scene. The first assembly was 21 minutes and 23 seconds. I was close, and it would be easy to get down to 20 minutes, but what had we missed?
Nûria and I feared we might overlook all kinds of things. There seemed too little time to go beyond
the ‘think of it.’ There was not enough time to be a good re-editor! We consoled each other by agreeing that we would accept whatever we ‘missed’ without burden of blame. I hoped that whatever I might ‘miss’ would not prove too dreadful. Would there be moments poorly constructed, or contexts disappointingly overlooked — unnoticed conflicts in interest?
Touch portrayed the relationship of a blind woman sculptor and her model. The sculptor used her hands to ‘see’ the model; later working in clay she would shape the ‘memory’ of her touch. On the last day — before a screening for the crew, and composer — I encountered a growing uneasiness. Confident in my ‘feelings,’ I screened, and re-screened, the finished work print. I could not find what it was that troubled me.
While walking to Penn Station, and during the train ride home, I ‘played’ scene after scene in my head…
Examples used in this chapter influenced my ‘search’: Witness, with its Train Station scene — you know my train ride reflections can be productive — and a masterfully resolved ‘double-puzzle,’ from Rosemary’s Baby.
Rosemary and the Anagram scene: Rosemary’s good friend Hutch has died. He has left her a book, All Of Them Witches, and a riddle: “The name is an anagram.” Rosemary examines the book, and endeavors to find a solution with sixteen tiles from her Scrabble set. On her living room floor she spells out the book’s title, and proceeds to arrange the tiles in new ‘phrases.’ [Figure 14.8] Rosemary attempts three arrangements, and ‘calls it quits.’
Figure 14.8
More than an Anagram
The three arrangements result in:
The Eye is Quicker Page 10
