The Architecture of the Screen

by Graham Cairns

  Figure 15: The architectural “fade”.

  Other examples of this type of analogy are architectural effects that allude to the cinematographic technique of the dissolve.14 In film, this transitional device is based on the gradual disappearance of one set of images and the simultaneous appearance of another; the two sets of images sharing the screen during a brief period of time. In this architectural proposal, a series of glass entrance doors are laid out one in front of the other so that, from the outside, one sees a series of reflections superimposed on the view of the interior (Fig. 16). It functions as a transitional device through the gradual and sequential opening of the doors that gradually peal away exterior reflections to leave only interior views. Upon moving through the deliberately small and low lobby of these doors, another “analogous” effect is created as the spectator now enters a space whose proportions are considerably bigger than the lobby. The aim here is to mimic the radical and immediate change of scale that characterises the cut from a long shot to a close-up.15

  Figure 16: The architectural “dissolve”.

  In this particular case the spatial trick employed is also intended to mimic an establishing shot with the initial general view from the lobby representing the spectator’s opportunity to position him or herself in the space they will later investigate in greater detail from close-up (Fig. 17). The entrance zone in this proposal thus becomes a complicated collection of visual effects that stem from a clear understanding of certain cinematographic techniques that, through analogy, have been reformulated in architectural terms. In order to manifest themselves as architectural effects, each one has been manipulated in one way or another and thus indicates that the “strategy of analogy” is one that involves a certain level of abstraction when considering the relationship between film and architecture or, more specifically, how to apply ideas that originate in the filmic arena to that of architecture.

  Figure 17: The architectural “cut” leads to an establishing shot.

  At an even more abstract level, there are examples in these design proposals of the third category of approaches mentioned earlier: the conceptual strategy of transference. Here, the cinematic effects translated into architectural design tend to be spatial ideas rather than visual effects. They consequently require an even greater level of adaptation or abstraction in order to be carried out effectively. Their effect of the architectural project is, however, potentially far more fundamental. Although at this stage of the workshop it is not necessary for participants to employ the spatial ideas exclusive to one filming style, in the example shown here there is a clear influence from the work of Jean Renoir and Alexander Sokurov. The spatial concept of these directors can be defined with the terms unity and fluidity16; unity in filming and compositional treatment and fluidity in the choreography of actor and camera movements.

  These characteristics manifest themselves in the design of the central entrance zone in which spectators find themselves upon passing through the doors previously described (Fig. 18). The linearity of this space is emphasised not only by the surface decoration of the walls but also by the lineal disposition of the access ramps placed along its side. These ramps add to the dynamism of the initial view, underline the lineal perspective of the space, whilst optically they unify its different depth planes. In spatial terms, they lead people from the main entrance doors, placed at either ends of the space, to upper-level access points positioned at the opposing ends. The cinematic references at play are various. Jean Renoir was a director who tended to film using long takes which often obliged him to use deep space compositions in which he could organise actions in different depth planes. This clearly happens here with a spectator at one end of the entrance zone seeing people enter in the distance and later mingle in the foreground where facilities such as refreshments and toilets are placed.

  However, Renoir also tended to control the movements of his actors in very specific ways, coordinating lineal movements from fore to background in great detail, for example. This characteristic was central to the design decision to position the ground floor entrance doors and the upper-level access points at opposite ends of the space. This spatial arrangement instigates a series of continuous and lineal movement vectors as spectators are obliged to journey along the entire length of the central zone in opposing but parallel directions. The clear influence of Renoir on the spatial design of this proposal is continued in the design of the stands themselves where we see an approach to spatial organisation that radically changes the standard practices of this type of project.

  Figure 18: Deep space compositional space.

  Figure 19: 360° space.

  Figure 20: 360° space.

  In cinematographic terms, one of the most notable and fundamental aspects of Renoir’s filming was his substitution of a 180-degree spatial concept with one that permits complete 360-degree spatial movement for the camera. Instead of limiting the camera to a position on one side of the action, the camera is free to move all around it.17 It is an approach that produces a much more fluid and holistic sense of space and action on screen that is transposed to this small-scale stadium design by inverting one of the standard characteristics of this building type, that is, its division of seating into sections that are separated by vertical access routes (Figs. 19–20).

  This project proposes separating the seating by horizontal access routes so that spectators are not restricted to one side of the action but can walk around the entire perimeter of the court without spatial interruption. The fixed point of view of the spectator is replaced by a radial movement akin to Renoir’s free-moving filming style. Although possibly impractical in a larger venue, in a stadium of this size it is perfectly feasible, and not only produces a fluid sense of movement but also elicits a more holistic understanding of the space. Clearly, this design proposal reveals an understanding of spatial sequence, duration of view and the movement of viewing position that goes beyond the use of film as sources of ideas for illumination or isolated optical tricks. What ideas such as these actually reveal is the employment of cinematographic spatial models as templates for architectural design itself; cinema is used as a source of spatial concepts.

  Postscript to the workshop: Additional spatial ideas of cinema

  As has already been indicated in the earlier description of “cinematographic space”, the variety of possible spatial and perceptual models that cinema can offer is extremely wide ranging. This is born out by the number of additional ideas developed in this workshop such as the application of “discontinuous” cinematographic theories to the spatial planning approach of the main public seating area (Fig. 21). Some sections of seating project forward, whilst others are sunken into the stands with the aim of “fragmenting” the normally uniform image of continuous rows of seating. Beyond producing a dynamic compositional effect however, this idea was intended to “energise” the visual perception of the spectators themselves. Spectators looking diagonally across the field of play would get a completely unobstructed view of the action but the visual field would contain “fragments” of the projecting seating around. As a result, the visual experience of the space would become “asymmetrical”.

  Figure 21: View of seating areas.

  By way of contrast, another proposal, this time founded on the spatial perception of static camera long takes, gave rise to a design whose principal feature was a long, wide entrance corridor. Picking up on the last scene in Carol Reed’s 1949 film, The Third Man, the intention was to create a space with a vanishing point that was always visible as the spectators gradually moved towards it18 (Fig. 22). Avoiding the use of any distracting decoration, and placing two concealed entrance doors at both sides of the centrally placed window, this design intended to focus the eye of the spectator throughout their journey along the corridor. Based on the idea of an extremely slow zoom or travelling shot, the design proposes the control of both spectator movement and view. Other ideas included a design based on the continuity system and its habitual shot–counter s
hot sequences. The visual effect proposed here stemmed from designing a one-metre wide wall with windows angled in contrasting directions towards the inside of the court (Fig. 23). Thus, as a spectator walks along the length of the wall, views of the left- and right-hand side of the court are alternatively revealed. The wall thus becomes a metaphor for the “line of action” and each alternate view an imitation of the “shot–counter shot sequence”.

  Figure 22: Deep space: long take composition.

  Figure 23: Shot–counter shot views.

  Although all such ideas put forward in the workshop would require a lot of additional work to resolve their inevitable contradictions and problems, they do represent initial ideas on how spatial cinematographic concepts may inform, and possibly enrich, architectural design. In some cases, this does not lead to any great transformation of normal architectural thinking, although the potential for far more radical reconsiderations of standard spatial approaches is clearly evident in others. Whether of major or minor impact, one thing that all these ideas have in common is that they stem from the use of cinema as a tool through which to reconsider spatial perception. Taken to an extreme, or perhaps just its inevitable conclusion, such practices could actually lead to a change in the mental frameworks we apply when conceiving or designing architectural space.

  It is precisely this shift from the realm of pure analogy between film and architecture, to an active sphere in which film actually becomes a tool in architectural research, analysis, design or practice that lies behind all the essays in this work. It certainly also underpins the work of the theorists and practitioners mentioned in this section, whether they operate in the realm of installation, performance and architecture as in the case of Diller and Scofidio, or in the realm of education theory and practice, as in the case of François Penz, Lorcan O’Herily, Aurora Herrera and, most notably perhaps, Pascal Schöning. Sharing an interest in the application of filmic theory, practice and sensibilities to the realm of architecture, all these practitioners, theorists and academics have searched for and developed practices in which architecture, spatial and urban design thinking become a hybrid phenomenon – partly physical, partly cinematic.

  Notes

  1The title of the workshop stems from ideas found in the constructivist learning theories initiated by the work of Jean Piaget. Based on the idea that “learning” occurs at points of contradiction between established mental schemata and the realities of the problem faced, this workshop encourages architecture students to work through issues of film (and vice versa) with the intention of deliberately setting up disjunctions between established approaches and schemata and the nature of the design problem encountered; the restructuring of expectations and schemata resulting in unpredictable lessons and advances. For a basic overview of Piaget, see: Wadsworth, Barry, J. Piaget’s Theory of Cognitive and Affective Development, Allyn and Bacon Classics Edition: Foundations of Constructivism, Pearson, London, 2003. For an introduction to constructivist learning theories, see: Pelech, Jim and Pieper, Gail. The Comprehensive Handbook of Constructivist Teaching: From Theory to Practice, Information Age Publishing, North Carolina, 2010. For the application of some of these ideas in the context of design, see: Schon, Donald. The Reflective Practitioner, How Professionals Think in Action, Ashgate Publishing Limited, London, 1991.

  2For information on this film, its background, filming and influence, see: Taylor, Richard. The Battleship Potemkin, I.B. Tauris, London, 2000; Eisenstein, Sergei. Battleship Potemkin, Faber and Faber, London, 1988; Marshall, Herbert (ed). The Battleship Potemkin: The Greatest Film Ever Made, Avon Books, New York, 1978.

  3Whilst for the film students engaged in these workshops such issues are well known, they are not for their architectural colleagues. The conversations that take place at this cross-disciplinary level challenge both groups of students by exposing them to alternative readings. In particular, architecture students tend to bring a more detailed understanding of the role of the physical location in facilitating the on-screen fragmentation created.

  4The normal use of editing tends to reduce the real filmed action to a series of its most important snippets, thus facilitating the effective narration of the scene in question. In this scene, however, the inverse is the case; on occasion we see the same action twice filmed from different angles. The consequence of this is that what appears on screen actually lasts longer than the original event itself. Due to the speed of the editing, and its fragmentary aesthetic character, this effect is almost imperceptible upon the first viewing. However, in the more detailed spatial analysis carried out in these introductory exercises, it becomes manifest and adds another layer to our understanding of the “constructive” task of the director.

  5The site chosen for the project on this occasion was the iconic Mercado de Cebada, La Latina, Madrid. Its current structure was built in 1958 and includes a basement floor and one raised platform underneath a series of concrete domes. Earmarked for demolition in 2009, it subsequently became the focus of a campaign by local architects and residents to safeguard it.

  6In the type of narrative cinema with which we are most familiar, the entire filming process revolves around certain important actions or events. Examples may include a fight between two actors or a simple conversation between two romantic protagonists. In such cases, there are clear parameters that help orientate the director when taking decisions about the method of filming to be used. Typical in this sense would be the use of multiple viewpoints and rapid fragmentary editing to add dynamism and conflict to the fight scene. Similarly, it may be that a more intimate scene, say a conversation between two lovers, is filmed with longer takes, or indeed in one continuous shot. The aim here would be to stress the self-absorbed tension of the moment. In contrast, the filming of a site or a building in order to facilitate its architectural or spatial analysis does not have any sort of narrative drive to help determine the cinematic techniques employed.

  7As a purely formal exercise, the filming carried out at this stage of the workshop is more akin to video art or abstract films in that there is no standard narrative structure or thread to follow. This is intended to contribute to the use of the camera in identifying characteristics that are not normally noticed but which, if filmed exclusively, often lead to the reinterpretation of the building’s spatial characteristics by virtue of their presentation in unfamiliar formats. In this regard, the workshop references the formalist tradition and, in particular, the notion of “defamiliarisation” which in film, was most forcefully promoted by Hugo Munsterburg, Rudolf Arnheim and Béla Balázs. See: Andrew, Dudley, J. The Major Film Theories: An Introduction, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1976. p. 11–101.

  8This approach to “static camera filming” is examined in more detail in Part 3 of this work in the context of Yasujiro Ozu. Again, for a general overview of Yasujiro Ozu and his filming style, see: Richie, Donald. Ozu, University of California Press, Berkeley, 1974.

  9The range of films studied in the workshop varies so as to offer examples of different filming styles/“cinematic spatial constructions”. They include: Zidane: A Twenty First Century Portrait (Douglas Gordon and Philippe Parreno, 2006); Russian Ark (Alexander Sokurov, 2002); Timecode (Mike Figgis, 2000); Run Lola Run (Tom Twyker, 1998); The Belly of an Architect (Peter Greenaway, 1987); Zabriskie Point (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1970); Playtime (Jacques Tati, 1967); Tokyo Story (Yasujiro Ozu, 1953); The Grand Illusion (Jean Renoir, 1937); The Battleship Potemkin (Sergei Eisenstein, 1925).

  10This particular sequence was produced by students working through the spatial and filming techniques of Jean Renoir. They thus emphasised continuous filming and identified characteristics of the space that would allow for unbroken camera movements and deep space compositions.

  11Here, there is an introduction of the issue of lighting in a significant way. Although not the focus of the workshop, there is an inevitable focus on these issues and it invariably forms part of the introductory exercises and analysis done of the film C
itizen Kane.

  12The incorporation of this type of “aesthetic effect” is a perfect example of what we call in the workshop the “standard relationship between film and architecture”; one based on set design and thus the focus on “what is filmed” rather than “how space is filmed”, which underlines the cinematographic bias of this approach.

  13As with many basic techniques, a standard explanatory definition of this technique is offered in: Bordwell, David and Thompson, Kristen. Film Art: An Introduction, McGraw Hill, New York, 2001. p. 249–251.

  14Bordwell, David and Thompson, Kristen. Ibid. p. 250–251

  15All of these techniques have been used by Jean Nouvel to describe certain cinematic effects in his architecture and are mentioned in Parts 1 and 3 of this work. See the reviews of: You Only Live Twice (Lewis Gilbert, 1967) and Koyaanisqatsi (Godfrey Reggio, 1983) in Part 1 and the essay on the Cartier Foundation, Paris, in Part 3.

  16In the case of Alexander Sokurov, this only applies to his 2002 film Russian Ark, which is used in the workshop as an example of a style of filming and editing producing “fluid and smooth spaces” and requiring deep space compositional arrangements.