In accordance with this new language and its laws of representation, viewers were to be placed at the centre of what they observe. The world perceived would revolve around a single human point of view.5 From that privileged viewpoint, the mathematical space of perspective could be extruded and extended infinitely. Seen in the paintings of, amongst numerous others, Piero della Francesca and Antonello da Messina, and in the single-point perspective designs of Brunelleschi at the churches of Santo Spiritu and Santa Croce (Florence), it gave rise to a period of painting and architecture dominated by a number of specific visual characteristics, such as deep space compositions, the use of architectural elements to unify or demark depth planes, believable optical foreshortening and a predominantly symmetrical arrangement of elements around a central viewing position.
However, the legacy of perspective was not simply a question of technological, pictorial or optical advances. Nor was it purely a story of the effect of such advances on questions of spatial composition, pictorial arrangement and architectural planning. Treating space as a homogenous, unified and infinite phenomenon, the mathematical underpinnings of perspective took our understanding of space into the realm of Euclidean geometry. Once the world could be conceived and represented as a vast interconnected geometrical web expandable in all directions, our very understanding of space and our position in it was changed. Panofsky would call it a transformation of space from something “psychological” to something “mathematical”.6 Space was now something measurable, explainable and controllable. It had been mastered by “man” through the application of his mental reason and would go on to dominate Western art and architecture until the early twentieth century.
In the realm of art, the first major challenge to this dominance came in the twentieth century in the form of Cubism. In architecture, the spatial art par excellence, it was Sigfreid Gideon’s Space, Time and Architecture that would document this challenge and attempt to transpose the spatial characteristics of Cubism to architecture.7 Repeated in the works of other architectural theorists, notably Bruno Zevi, the twentieth-century notion of architectural space was conceived in four dimensions.8 No longer a purely optical phenomenon which could be captured through the mathematically based, and seemingly optical true techniques of perspective; space became an active, temporal and experiential phenomenon. For both Zevi and Gideon, architectural space, indeed the notion of space in general, was no longer a homogenously unified phenomenon in which a single point of view has to be privileged in artistic representation. On the contrary, it became something less codifiable and representable in standard media, a phenomenon that was in constant flux and always intangible. Through the introduction of time into the spatial equation, the architects of the Modern Movement reconfigured the standard understanding of space that had come to dominate their field since Brunelleschi’s first important church designs.
This reconfiguration of the traditional Western view of architectural space occurred at the very moment in which the influence of Japanese architecture, and its own specific conceptions of space, was beginning to be felt in Western architecture. The mid-nineteenth century saw the reopening of Japan to the West after two centuries of isolation during the Edo period. In its attempts to maintain control of the nation in the face of the aggressive and expansive trade and influence from Western Europeans, the Tokugawa shogunate had shut its borders with The Closed Country Edict of 1635.9 During this period, the nation’s capital was moved to Edo (later Tokyo) and the stylistic characteristics of civil architecture were imposed across all manifestations of architecture. Consequently, the restrained style of Edo period civic architecture became clearly reflected in the domestic arena and we see the establishment of the sukiya style of residential design.
This was particularly relevant given that the move to Edo meant a significant increase in the construction of domestic architecture on restricted plots of land.10 In turn, this led to the establishment of an urban domestic architecture that would characterise late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century Japanese housing and which, for the purposes of this essay, we will define as the “traditional Japanese style”. Given that Japanese architecture is incredibly multifarious, due to centuries of influence from China and the multiple philosophical and religious influences of Shinto and various strands of Buddhism, the use of such a defining term is inherently problematic. Nevertheless, it serves as a necessary framework through which to define a number of important architectural and spatial principles that we dwell on with respect to the work of Yasujiro Ozu, a director whose films tend to revolve around the humble domestic architecture of the Japan’s early- and mid-twentieth-century urban centres.
This “traditional” architecture is dominated by a series of features, such as a roof structure with the large overhanging eaves that creates the characteristically dim interior demarcated by a luminous perimeter wall of sliding panels or shoji; a fragmentary and flexible spatial plan organised around a principal undefined space known as the moya; internal fusuma or sliding doors; a predominant use of timber in an unfinished state and the dominance of a whole series of aesthetic principles revolving around the notion of wabi-sabi.
The use of these features and characteristics are underpinned by the spatial notion of ma; an understanding of space that conceives it as inseparable from the notion of time, and thus something that cannot be captured visually in all its nuances. A concept that is indescribable with a single Western term, ma combines an understanding of spaces, pauses and gaps; an intuitive grasp of events, emotions and phenomena that have been, and are yet to come. It becomes intrinsically linked with the void, with absence and with the multiple intangible phenomena that exist in an indefinable space “between” architectural elements rather than in a limited, measurable space enclosed by them.
The conceptual notion of space that one finds in traditional Japanese architecture is completely different to what one encounters in the “traditional” perspective-based concepts that dominated the West until the early twentieth century. Space, in the Japanese tradition, is not something codifiable or understandable through the application of a rational set of representational rules. On the contrary, it is something only graspable in an intuitive way, something that almost requires a sensibility for the ephemeral, one may even say for the “spiritual”. It is the exact counterpoint to the rational, mathematical space that perspective drawing represents.
The Western tradition of realism and spatial unity: La Grande Illusion – Jean Renoir
Set during the First World War, La Grande Illusion is ostensibly a war film. However, it is far more concerned with issues of class divisions and social privileges at the beginning of the twentieth century than with the horrors of one of history’s most bloody and futile conflicts. In this regard at least, it shares some of the understated narrative and thematic characteristics that we will see subsequently in the approach of Yasuijro Ozu. Set in a German prisoner of war camp, La Grande Illusion is an astute, funny, and at times emotive portrait of class, nationality and religion set against “a vague ambiance of the conflict”.11 Played out by a cast including Jean Gabin, Dito Parlo and Erich von Stroheim, it is a key film in understanding the political leanings, artistic tendencies and approach to the construction of what we may call “cinematographic space” of Jean Renoir.
The story revolves around the relationships between three French compatriots: Lieutenant Maréchal, a Jewish Private, Rosenthal, and the aristocratic Captain De Boeldieu whose friendship with his German counterpart, Capitain von Rauffenstein, forms another of the film’s principal themes. Through these figures, Renoir investigates the social and political questions of the time; a historical moment in which the previous certainties of class, nation and politics, with which Renoir was closely associated, were all coming under sustained and critical scrutiny across Europe.12 It also makes reference to a series of other historically relevant questions such as anti-Semitism, battles between artistic styles and, in certain moments, changing attitudes tow
ards feminism. Mostly dealt with “side on”, Renoir operates through delicate subtexts, a subtle selection of props and, most interesting in this context, a sophisticated approach to spatial composition.
The combination of these factors is evident in the film’s first notable scene in which three of the main protagonists meet each other for the first time. Having just shot down a French reconnaissance plane in which De Boeldieu and the Lieutenant Maréchal where flying, Captain von Rauffenstein enters the dining room of German officers and heads straight for the bar. Quaffing a brandy presented to him by an elegant waiter, who subsequently relieves him of his jacket, he orders an inferior to check whether the French prisoners are of the “officer class”. If so, they are to be invited to dine with their German counterparts.
The scene is as funny as it is absurd with the officers being served by waiters as if they were in a gentleman’s club in high-society Berlin. Throughout the scene, the atmosphere is of upper-class decorum and respect, in stark contrast to the horrors and madness of the First World War captured in the poetry of Wilfred Owen and Siegfreid Sassoon, for example.13 Over dinner, De Boeldieu and Von Rauffenstein, who completely ignores the Lieutenant Maréchal, talk about the illustrious histories of their respective families. They reminisce about shared events and memories, and swap stories of horse races and aristocratic parties. At the same time, Maréchal strikes up a conversation with a German of his own rank and their conversation revolves around the factories they worked in before the war. The divisions and contradictions that the film will develop later are introduced and laid bare from the very start (Fig. 1).
However, in addition to introducing the principal narrative themes of the film, this scene also introduces the type of filming and spatial treatment that will characterise all that follows. Using a series of long takes, the camera documents the room and the actions within it. The protagonists of the scene number around eight and each introduces himself and prepares to sit down for dinner. They change positions in and around the room by following a strict choreography of movements. This tightly controlled, but apparently natural movement, enables them to enter and leave the shot without disrupting our view of the principal characters and, more importantly, without the director having to resort to a cut at any time.
Figure 1: Maréchal converses in the foreground. De Boeldieu and Von Rauffenstein in the background.
By the end of these introductory movements, the actors have taken up their final positions at the table around which the conversations mentioned earlier take place. At this point, all the actors remain static and the camera begins its principal long take. Moving slowly in a circular motion around the table, it passes from one conversation to another in such a way that each set of protagonists is given enough time to deliver their lines. Thus, the scene can pass from one set of actions to another completely unrelated set of actions without the need to rupture the spatial and temporal unity of the shot through cutting.
This avoidance of unnecessary cutting became a central preoccupation for Renoir on the basis of his view of the medium. Seen as a tool for achieving greater “realism”, the camera was seen to offer an opportunity to capture the nature of the external world with greater fidelity than any other form of visual representation then available, it would enable the breaking down of differences between “screen perception” and “actual perception”.14 For Renoir, this translated into an attempt to reproduce “optical reality” on screen and thus became a reflection of what Bazin would call the “art of the real”.15 On this basis, the analogy between the camera and the eye became central and the need to maintain spatial and temporal unity became key. It was precisely this unity that the most important proponent of “cinematic realism” would praise some years later.16
Although André Bazin does not highlight La Grande Illusion as one of Renoir’s greatest films, he did identify that it contains all the major aesthetic tenants that make his work “realist”; something seen in the acting, wardrobe, narrative theme and dialogue but also, and more importantly in this context, in this continuous “optically realistic” filming.17 One of the most important consequences of continuous filming is the approach to composition and movement it necessitates. In order to follow and show multiple actions and narratives, as in the scene just mentioned, both the movements of the camera and those of the actors must be intricately controlled, if not choreographed. What this ensures is an on-screen composition in which the multiple actions dealt with do not distract attention from the main protagonists. In scenes in which the camera and the protagonists remain more static, the consequences of this type of filming become more exclusively compositional and refer us directly back to the Western realist technique of, perspective painting.
A typical example is seen in another dining room scene; this time a dining room assigned to the French prisoners of war in their internment camp. Beginning with a typical sequence of camera movements that reveal the space, and all the characters in it, the camera stops in a frontal position in relation to the protagonists (who in this case are preparing costumes for a theatrical show they will later stage). In order to present three sets of actions or dialogues simultaneously, and without rupturing the “realistic” space-time unity of the shot, Renoir sets up a clear one-point perspective image. (Fig. 2). The camera position sets up a strong centrally balanced composition in which the space extends backwards. Renoir then positions secondary characters in the foreground, thus leaving the principal actor of the scene, Rosenthal, centrally positioned in the middle ground. Rosenthal occupies the focal point of the shot and is, in addition, framed by a window behind. Through this window we hear and see the secondary backgrounded and architecturally framed actions of other prisoners and German soldiers in the prison yard. In short, he creates a three-plane perspective image that takes its compositional pointers from Renaissance perspective painting.18
The results of this are not just compositional, however. In such scenes, unified space and continuous filming become entwined with multiple narratives in sometimes complex ways. Whilst Rosenthal speaks, there is a deliberate lack of conversation around the table and relatively little movement in the background. Consequently, the viewer’s attention is focused on the framed protagonist. However, when one of the actors in the foreground speaks, or we see a background action through the window, the attention of the viewer changes to fore or background, respectively. As a result, we not only see a strict control of spatial organisation but also a strict control of dialogue and movement as well.
Although not particularly common in film, the relationship between unified space and multiple narratives is one with a long and well-documented history in perspective painting. It is discussed by Michael Kubovy, amongst many others, who has identified that the spatial unity of Renaissance perspective painting was used narratively in very similar ways; each depth plane being used to portray a different action and protagonist.19 In some instances the events were intended to be read as temporally simultaneous but spatially separated, whilst in others they were to be read as sequential, with the initial and final actions occupying the background and the foreground, respectively.
Figure 2: Centrally balanced perspective composition.
Similarities between the compositional and narrative techniques of Renaissance paintings and the cinematic work of Renoir may be emphasised in images such as Pietro della Francesca’s The Flagellation of Christ, circa 1455 (Fig. 3). In this painting we are presented with the principal action of the scene in the background – the flagellation of Christ – whilst in the foreground three as yet undefined figures are positioned to the right. Thus, what we have are two distinct actions placed in two distinct depth planes, a device that allows the eye of the viewer to pass between the two.20 Being positioned out-of-line with each other, this movement is unhindered and further facilitated by the compositional treatment of the architectural setting; the beam and column structure and the quadrangular floor patterning operating as spatial devices demarcating different spaces and d
irecting the movement of the eye.21
Figure 3: The Flagellation of Christ, circa 1455. Pietro della Francesca.
In Renoir’s cinematic spatial construction, architectural elements are repeatedly used to demarcate depth planes in this way. He also locates characters in specific positions so that the viewer’s sight line is unhindered, thus facilitating the transference of attention without spatial interruption. The main difference is that Renoir operates with the additional temporal dimension permitted by his medium. As a result, he can control not only how, but when, our attention jumps between the different actions and depth planes of his images.
Although the major similarities between Renaissance painting and Renoir’s approach to filming are most obviously compositional, there are scenes in La Grande Illusion that suggest multi-layered symbolic references as well. For example, Renoir offers us a scene in which we get an image of Rosenthal, a working class Jewish prisoner, reading a text of the classical Greek poet Pindar22 (Fig. 4). He sits under an arch, the only important architectural element of the scene, whilst secondary actions are played out in the background. Here the references to Renaissance compositional and narrative tendencies appear self-evident. Indeed, it is even possible to discern similarities with specific images: Antonello da Messina’s 1479 portrait of Saint Jerome in his study coming to mind.23 Saint Jerome, translator of Greek and Hebrew, is positioned under an arch whilst the extended space in front and behind is filled with secondary symbolic elements and features (Fig. 5).
Given a lack of explicit comment from Renoir himself, whether such specific intertextual references are intentional is open to debate. However, they would certainly fall into a general model of cross-referencing that Renoir deliberately plays with throughout La Grande Illusion. The most obvious example in this scene is found in the attitude of von Rauffestein towards Rosenthal. Upon seeing Rosenthal with a collection of Pindar poems, Von Rauffestein is apparently intrigued. He looks Rosenthal up and down before eventually lamenting “poor Pindar”. Finding it difficult to understand how high classical culture has arrived in the hands of a working class Jew, he shows a disdain that, given the horrific characteristics of the Second World War (on the point of breaking out at the time La Grande Illusion was released), turns this apparently insignificant scene into a reference that is both prophetic and disturbing.
The Architecture of the Screen Page 28
