Wrapping It Up

Well, the sun has set on another semester. As you all head home and forget about classes, exams and assignments for a few weeks, I hope you won't forget all that you're learned. There's no question that you've worked hard, been deprived of sleep and had your mental and physical capacities stretched. So you've earned a break, but remember that as with anything in life, the challenges you face now, and the opportunities that are at your fingertips will not last forever.

Someday, you'll leave school behind (hopefully with a degree in hand), and you'll move on to the next phase of life. That too will present certain obstacles and open other doors to you. And it may not be until that day comes that you realize what this experience has been about and why it was valuable to go through some of the things that you've endured. But trust me, you're better people for it.

I know that I've asked a lot of you. Sometimes you may have questioned the workload or the assignments or just what the heck I was talking about half the time. Well, despite what you may have thought about me as a teacher, it's quite clear that each and every one of you learned something. We entered the semester with many of you having hardly even picked up a video camera, let alone use this medium to tell a story and edit it in a cohesive manner. And by the time it was all said and done, you had each made work that you should be quite proud of.

While I had my own struggles engaging you in the material and getting you to participate in discussions, in the end, you all showed me that you did in fact get something out of the class. The best part for me as a teacher is not to stand in front of you and pontificate about my own ideas of how to work in this medium or to weigh you down with assignments and busy work. I simply look to lay the foundation and then give you opportunity to use your own creativity to explore it. To see what you come up with when challenged, that is the best part for me. The work speaks for itself. It's through seeing this creativity on display in your projects that I know I have done my job.

Whatever you may have gotten out of the class, you can be proud of the effort that you put in, whether you end up continuing in the direction of making this kind of work or not. I certainly appreciate the end result and all that went into it. It was a pleasure to have each of you in the class this semester and I wish you a blessed Christmas season, a prosperous New Year, and all the best in your future endeavors.

Mainstream

One of my favorite things to do is to take a particular director, actor or writer and seek out a number of their films in order to draw out some themes in their work and contrast what they are doing from film to film. Usually, I look for classic films or independents that have a strong artistic bent. But I recently became interested in a more mainstream choice after watching Almost Famous, directed by Cameron Crowe. I've never paid much attention to Crowe's work, since to me he has always been associated with the more popular crowd pleasing segment of the movie world. But I found Almost Famous so genuine and engaging that I began to rethink this viewpoint.

So a few weeks ago, I went back in time to the 1980's with one of the quintessential movies of that period, Say Anything with John Cusack and Ione Skye. It's been a number of years since I'd seen it and although I remembered the iconic scenes with Cusack at the dinner table with the girlfriend's dad and holding the boombox over his head blasting Peter Gabriel's In Your Eyes, I couldn't recall much else. I cringe a bit when movies like this are dubbed classics. The word classic should be reserved for films like Citizen Kane or Sunset Boulevard. Nonetheless, these films do have their place in the film lexicon, and with a couple decades of hindsight, anything that's still worth returning to must have some merit, classic or not.

What struck me watching it all these years later is that it's not necessarily those iconic scenes that have the most meat to them. If you were to only watch those two scenes mentioned above, you'd likely have a very different view of the film than if you watched the whole thing. That's why movies that have great trailers often disappoint, because all of the best stuff is in that 2 minutes. Say Anything on the other hand holds up pretty well. One of the things that I love about watching a film like this is seeing a young writer/director and young actors figuring out how to make a movie, and often taking risks that other more seasoned filmmakers wouldn't dare. The film is offbeat, quirky and most definitely unique for it's time. And I daresay it influenced a generation of up and coming filmmakers who would seek to duplicate its success.

From the music to the dialogue, to the pure simplicity with which the film is shot, there is something nice and innocent about it, which seems to match the storyline quite well. It's utterly unpretentious, interested not in being high art, but true life. And while it's a Hollywood representation of love and relationships, it's still quite honest in many ways.

Sticking with the Cameron Crowe theme, I decided to then check out one of his more successful films that I never bothered to see, Jerry Maguire. Much like Say Anything, this flick seems to have a few iconic scenes, even more so than the former. Even if you haven't seen it, you probably recall Tom Cruise shouting "Show me the money!" into the phone with Cuba Gooding Jr. on the other end dancing around his kitchen. Or you might have used the line "you had me at hello", or perhaps had it used on you (if you're lucky). Unlike Say Anything, I found that Jerry Maguire lacked the depth and sincerity that Crowe had achieved in other films.

While it was entertaining, it was also rather predictable, and in many ways, cliche. Worst of all, the characters and the situations were totally unbelievable. There are times when we have to suspend our disbelief, but then there are times when movies ask too much of us in that department. I believe it was Martin Scorcese who said sometimes you have to make one for them so that you can make one for yourself. In other words, get paid to do the stuff that fills the theaters, and then you can afford to make a labor of love. Perhaps that was the case with this film, but it still felt rather strange to see something that so thoroughly lacked the qualities of Crowe's other work. Ultimately, I realized that with all the movies that come out these days, you can't possibly see everything, and sometimes, you're not missing much. Guess I better go back to the classics and indies.

Film Form

It's a question we often ask when we see a film or piece of art that utterly confounds us: "what in the world is this about?" As in life, we seek meaning out of the art that we consume. Film is a particularly tricky medium to tackle when it comes to deciphering meaning, as well as imbuing it in our own work. There are so many elements to consider. There is the content of the film from the characters and settings to the subject matter. We must also consider the narrative elements, not to mention the stylistic approach of the filmmaker and the emotional tone. It's a complex and daunting task to say the least. One of the beautiful things about a great film is that it's worth watching over and over again. I often find that each time I see new things in it and find additional meaning that I might not have gotten in previous viewings.

There are few writers today who have so thoroughly investigated the topic of meaning in film as David Bordwell. Our latest reading on the subject gave us a lot of ammunition in the war for understanding the things we are watching. While it's not necessarily important that we use every bit of criteria in the reading to determine what films are about, it's a good blueprint to begin with. From referential meaning, to the explicit and implicit meaning and the larger context of symptomatic meaning, there are many ways to frame the topic. How does a film move us? Does it fill you with sadness, anger, fear, joy or some combination of emotions? How is it crafted? Is it filled with effects, or very simply put together? These are the kinds of questions we have to ask ourselves as we consider what a film is about. As makers, we also have to consider these issues as we do our own work and what kind of reaction we want from the audience that watches our films.

After reading this, I found myself going back to films like The Wizard of Oz to look more closely at how these techniques are used. It's an interesting film when you look beyond the surface, and a useful one for considering how symbols and motifs play a part in storytelling. The filmmakers draw from such a rich palette, from the characters, locations, music, use of color and effects. While the message of the film is fairly clear, the methods for communicating those themes offer us a great deal to sink our teeth into as an audience. It's been imitated and alluded to again and again, but rarely matched in its mystique. There is a power to the film, even decades later, that speaks to new audiences and old ones. We can only hope that our work will endure as this piece has.

Bring Out Yer Dead!

After having my fill of traditional horror movies and the apocalypse, I decided that the next natural step is to move on to zombies. In a way, the zombie flick is the perfect complement as they combine the gore and suspense of horror movies with the doom and destruction of post-apocalyptic films. And I wasn't fully depressed about the state of the world yet, so why not add to my pessimism about our fate as human beings?

I actually kind of love movies about the undead. I can't say why, but ever since I saw Night of the Living Dead, I became a fan of the genre in a way that I could never embrace mainstream horror or slasher movies. Mainly, it's that zombie films seem to be a little smarter, a little better crafted and usually have a larger message about humanity or some other theme that transcends pure blood and guts (though there's always plenty of that to satisfy fans of gore). It's a bit ironic I suppose that movies about post-mortem human beings that have been reanimated by infected brains could be smarter than the average Hollywood film, but let's just say the bar isn't always set too high.

George Romero put zombies (or ghouls as he called them) on the map back in the 1960s with Night of the Living Dead. He's since added to the mystique of these grotesque and frightening creatures with subsequent updates including Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead, and Land of the Dead, among others. These trailblazing films created a whole new genre and paved the way for future zombie filmmakers. I've recently become enamored with the new series on AMC that premiered on Halloween called The Walking Dead. It's a TV series unlike most of what's on television currently. First of all, it's among the grossest, bloodiest zombie related thing I've ever laid eyes on. The zombies are not only horribly disfigured, but in some cases, rotting to the bone or missing vital parts, like say legs, torsos or pieces of their head. But more than the gross out factor, it's very much focused on the still living characters and their plight to survive the epidemic of "walkers" as they're called in the show. The characters have more dimension than we're used to seeing in this genre, and as a viewer, I find myself so drawn in to what they're going through, I sometimes forget about the zombie part of it until the walkers rear their ugly heads every now and again, and boy are they ugly.

The show centers around a likely hero, a sheriff's deputy in a small Georgia town who is shot in the line of duty, before the undead begin to take over the territory. He spends several days, possibly weeks in a coma (it's unclear just how long), only to wake up and discover a deserted hospital, trashed beyond recognition by some sort of cataclysmic event. In a daze, he wanders out to discover the rest of this brave new world that has emerged while he slumbered. And that's only the first fifteen minutes or so of the first episode. From there it just gets better, and creepier. Although the hero may be a likely choice, most everything else, is quite unlikely, and unexpected. As many times as the genre has been replayed in new incarnations, this show is as fresh as anything out there. The only question I really had after episode one ended was, how are they going to sustain this plot over a season, let alone multiple seasons. Well, as the first season winds down, I have to say, they've not only sustained it, they've added some swagger that other installments have lacked.

My other foray into the recent developments in the zombie arena was the Danny Boyle film from 2002 called 28 Days Later. I've always been a fan of Boyle, from his early days with Shallow Grave and Trainspotting, made overseas before he made the move to Hollywood. His more recent films made stateside, or at least with major studio backing, have an entirely different feel. In some ways they are flashier and more polished, but they also lack some of the raw energy and imagination of the earlier work. Sure, Slumdog Millionaire may have earned him an Oscar, but in my mind it doesn't compare to the gritty bravado of Trainspotting. Nonetheless, Boyle is still a filmmaker that I admire, and I always find just about anything he does worth watching. 28 Days Later is no exception to this rule.

The film starts quite similarly to The Walking Dead. There is a brief scene that shows a lab full of caged monkeys pounding on the glass that encases them, some that are dead, one that is infected with some sort of disease that has transformed it into a frenzied, bloodthirsty monster. This is the origin of the disease that will envelope all of London, and possibly the world quite soon. Cut to a hospital, where our main character wakes to find a desolate building, with destruction all around, and outside in the streets a similar scene. I can't help but think that the producers of The Walking Dead watched this film during the process of working on their series and used it as a jumping off point.

One of the main differences in this film from other zombie movies is the zombies themselves. These are not slow, plodding figures stooped over feebly pursuing their victims from a distance. They move with the speed of an olympic sprinter and the rage of 10 disgruntled postal workers. It's surprising and terrifying to witness at first since I'm so conditioned to seeing the more typical, slow-footed zombie. It's the one saving grace when you're trying to outrun the undead. They may outnumber you and possess a strong determination to snack on your flesh, but at least you can count on being quicker and more agile. This virus is also much more virulent, taking only contact with contaminated blood to be infected, with the gruesome transformation happening in mere seconds rather than days or hours.

Like most other stories in the genre, this one follows a fairly conventional plot line otherwise. A motley group of individuals are thrown together and must stick together to survive. Along the way there are some casualties, and a rather unlikely love story. The real twist comes toward the end, when the group seems to have found a safe haven, but as it turns out, they've encountered a danger of a different kind. In the end, it isn't the zombies or infection that is the most threatening foe, it is humanity itself, or the lack of it in the people that are left behind.

I suppose this is part of the draw of movies and shows like these, as with the post-apocalyptic films. We all want to know how it's going to end, and of course, though we have our beliefs to guide us, none of us will really know exactly how or when it will happen until the end actually comes. But in the process of looking into the dark corners of this world, we can perhaps learn something about ourselves and make life a bit better in the process.

The Art of Film

We've been talking a lot about different techniques used in film, and I'm sure at times it's left you scratching your heads wondering, "how the heck does this apply to what we're doing in our projects?" Well, I know at times it seems like it's unrelated to what you're doing, but there is a point to all this. I hope that at least some of what you've read and looked at this semester has caused a lightbulb to go off in your head and that you've found some way to incorporate it into your work.

Our last reading from David Bordwell's book On Film Style is one of those that may have left you scratching your head a bit, and that's okay. Who is this Bazin character we keep hearing about and why is he important? What is la nouvelle critique and by the way, what's with all the French terminology? Well, it's not necessarily important that you have all the answers to these questions to know that there is something useful in there.

By now, we've talked enough about montage that hopefully you've made some connections with how it's used in film today, perhaps even in your own work, and how it has evolved over time. Decoupage is a little more foreign, but it's essentially the convention of cutting a scene into a sequence of wide, medium and close-up shots. This is something that undoubtedly you've had to figure out in your projects. And finally, there is the approach referred to in the text of profondeur de champ. It sounds fancy, and at the same time, the idea is deceptively simple, but in practice is decidedly complex. What this phrase refers to is the staging of elements in different areas of the scene, from foreground, to middleground, to background, all in one shot rather than cutting it into a sequence of several shots. We saw this quite a bit with Citizen Kane, and it started a trend in filmmaking that persists to this day, though it's not widely practiced.

As we get into the process of making films, we discover that each technique has its uses in different circumstances, and each presents its own inherent challenges. In many cases, it may actually be easier to break up an action into a sequence of several shots rather than trying to stage it creatively in a single shot. That doesn't mean one approach is wrong or right. There are so many choices to make in any film or video project, and it's up to you to decide which one is right for each instance. That's just one reason why looking at the work of other artists is so important. In selecting what to look at, we must not simply look at what's being done by mainstream and contemporary filmmakers, but also delve into the more obscure and historical examples to find the roots and influences of better known works. It is there that we may find some unexpected gems that reward our vigilance and inspire us in ways that we could not have otherwise imagined.

How's It Gonna End?

Gray. Bleak. Devastated. That's the landscape of the post-apocalyptic world, at least as interpreted in the cinematic versions that seem to be popping up more and more these days. I suppose it's been a point of curiosity just about since the dawn of humankind. How's it gonna end? These days it seems that the topic comes up more and more often, whether from the extremes of the religious communities, the paranoid ex-hippies, or the more pessimistic elements of our society. If you listen to these folks, the signs are all around us. The prophecies have all been fulfilled and it's just a matter of time. While it's true that they could be right, I guess I'd rather spend my time believing that God has a better grip on these things than I do, and so it's best not to worry about it.

In the meantime, I've kept up with the possible scenarios by watching some of what Hollywood has had to say on the subject. I know you might be thinking that those folks probably aren't the authority when it comes to these matters, but then again, if you listen to certain politicians, it may just be that the entertainment industry is the very thing that is accelerating armaggedon. So perhaps they do know a thing or two about the end of the world.

At any rate, it isn't my favorite topic, but I must say, I'm intrigued by the fact that there seems to be so much interest in this area. So I recently checked out two of the more recent entries in the genre, The Book of Eli and The Road. I must first offer the caveat that if you're at all prone to depression, especially around this time of year when we in the northeast have said bye-bye to the sun for the next six months and it looks rather like the post-apocalyptic worlds of these films, you might want to pass on watching this stuff. The one thing that puzzles me about these films is that if you believe anything you see on the History Channel, the show "Life After People" suggests that a post-apocalptic world, with or without humans would look quite different. If cities suddenly crumbled after a cataclysmic event, it's more likely that vegetation would take over and things would be much more green than gray (ever let your garden go unweeded for a season?). But I guess it just doesn't fit the motif quite as well.

The Book of Eli is the more commercial of the two, and in some ways more palatable for general consumption. It's also lacks the depth and plausibility of The Road. Denzel Washington plays a sort of messenger, named Eli, who is on a journey through a desert wasteland. We aren't privy to all the details of just where he is headed or why he is traveling there from the get go. All we know is that he's traveling west, and that he has something of value that he's carrying.

There are a few things that bothered me about this film from the outset. First of all, how is it that people manage to go through these harrowing situations and dire conditions looking relatively well groomed and fed? Shouldn't their hair and beard be a bit scruffier looking? Shouldn't they look at least a little dirty not having showered in God knows how long? And how is it that they are traveling through a desert (in what appear to be several layers of clothing) barely breaking a sweat or losing stride, surviving on just a canteen of water every few days, or longer? These are just a few of the bits of logic that I got hung up on, and believe me there are others.

Eli is a lone ranger, not interested in companionship or help in his quest. He's also a fierce warrior, taking on gangs of thugs with an impossibly sharp sword, a handgun with endless bullets and range, or at other times, a bow and arrow that appears out of thin air. He's nearly invincible with these few tools, almost impossible to shoot or even harm, unless shots are fired at point blank range, and yet his aim seems to be dead on with every single shot. His timing is also impeccable. In one scene, he rescues a girl he had left behind hours earlier on his journey from some brutish attackers, by suddenly showing up with that magic bow and arrow and vanquishing them with deadly aim. I found myself wondering where he had come from, considering he had left the girl behind, making it clear that he didn't want her to follow him. Did he follow her, or just lurk around the corner waiting for trouble to find her?

Getting past these flaws in logic and storyline, I did find the payoff worthwhile. Although some of the twists were less believable and more predictable, the final twist is well hidden, and makes the journey seem more fulfilling in the end. Gary Oldman's familiar role as villain almost seems recycled from other films I've seen him in, though I think he always brings something to the role. And Denzel is a characteristically a strong, if ill-defined figure, lacking some of the depth that he has achieved in other roles. I think there are missed opportunities in stories like these. I found myself more intrigued by some of the logistics that were glossed over, such as the value of commodities we take for granted like water and toiletries. The vague references to a war, which no one but the middle aged folks like Eli and Oldman's villain seem to remember leave me unsatisfied in terms of the explanation for the state of the world they live in.

In a decidedly darker and more intense foray into the aftermath of disaster, The Road treads its way into this territory in a much more interesting way. Unlike The Book of Eli, there's no effort to explain what has happened to the world. It really isn't referenced, and so I found that I focused less on the explanation, and more on the plight of the characters. The story centers around a father and son played brilliantly by Viggo Mortensen and young Australian actor Kodi Smit-McPhee. Like Eli, this pair is on a journey, this time headed south. Their destination and purpose is less defined. In essence, they are simply trying to survive, but the story is about much more than survival. It's about a father and son and how the strength of that bond alone makes life worth living, even when the world is literally collapsing all around.

There are some similarities between the two films. Both display a similar landscape of burned out buildings, ominously dark skies and the few humans that are encountered seem to be gangs of thieves up to no good. Rather than a desert however, The Road takes place somewhere in the northeast, and the terrain is much grassier and filled with trees, though it seems that for some unknown reason, all this vegetation has died and looks just as gray as the skies above. There are also apparently no animals left, which makes food quite scarce, but it left me wondering what event could have killed all animal and plant life, but left some humans behind? But for the most part, the logic in this film is more intact. The characters look far from clean and groomed, and in some scenes we actually see Mortensen's ribs, apparently a result of him dropping significant weight for the role. As the film goes on, they look more and more haggard, as do the people they encounter along the way. There are no slick action scenes in which the man and boy suddenly transform from mere mortals into action heroes. They are simply surviving.

Besides the story of the man and his son on their journey, we get occasional flashbacks to scenes between Viggo and his now deceased wife, played grippingly by Charlize Theron. We see only a handful of scenes between them throughout the film, but each time Theron is on screen, it's captivating. She's a model turned actress, but it has nothing at all to do with her looks. It has everything to do with her genuine performance of a troubled woman who seems to know the certain disaster that awaits her. Her husband knows of the impending doom as well, but only one of them is willing to endure.

In many ways, The Road is even more bleak than The Book of Eli. Neither has a particularly happy ending in the conventional sense, though Eli seems to end with at least a note of hope. The Road doesn't offer much of that, and yet in many ways it rings truer purely because it does not attempt to iron out all of the plot details that it has unfurled. It's not a story about hope, but about a relationship. I'm sure many of us may feel that we'd like to be closer to our father, or if we have children, we want to be close to them. None of us look forward to living in a world like this one, but if we did, the one thing we'd likely want to hang onto is our family. In that sense, I think it's a story we can all relate to, and the fact that things don't always turn out the way we'd like, relates more to what life is about as well.

I can't say that either of these films offered me any sort of hope about the future of this world. I certainly hope not to experience anything like it in my lifetime. And yet somehow, it does put things in perspective. When we consider all of the things that we surround ourselves with in life, all the conveniences that money can buy, what is truly important? It becomes harder to see, but if we imagine all of those things being wiped away, and the only thing left on our to do list is to survive, what will you hang on to?

The Kane Legacy

Since lists of the greatest movies ever made have been compiled, Citizen Kane has consistently been at the top spot, and really without disagreement. It's hard to imagine that a film nearly three quarters of a century old could hold up that well, and that any film could win and maintain such unanimous praise. So what is it that makes Kane so great? To answer that question, one really has to view it for themselves, and with that first viewing, the tip of the iceberg has only begun to be revealed.

I recall my first viewing of this enigmatic masterpiece. I think I was probably 16 or 17 years old. I had just begun to take a serious interest in film and I had started to stray from the typical mainstream Hollywood fare to investigate the boundaries of this daunting art form. I had long heard about the lore of Citizen Kane, and so I wanted to experience it for myself. So I rented a VHS copy (a poor substitute for the original theatrical experience) and watched it to find out just what all the fuss was about. I didn't have the benefit of a film class or even a book about it at the time, so it was hard to really grasp just what made this film so revered. To be quite honest, I didn't much care for it upon that first viewing. It was dark, both in the look and the plot, it wasn't particularly engaging. To me, movies had always been about escape and enjoyment, and in this case, it seemed there was little effort to transport me anywhere I would want to go, let alone entertain me. It seemed boring, and more than a bit esoteric. I chalked it up to critics who have nothing better to do than proclaim what is great, purely in spite of the tastes of the masses.

A couple years went by and as my interest in movies grew, so did my appetite for seeking out films that challenged me and expanded my knowledge. I printed out a copy of the newly released list of the top 100 movies according to the American Film Institute and became determined to see each and every film on it. And of course, the film that topped that list was none other than Citizen Kane. I decided to give it another try. Perhaps with a little bit of perspective and time, my second viewing would be different. How true that was.

In the years that have passed, I've seen Kane a few more times, and with each viewing, it seems I spot something new in it that I hadn't noticed before. I might just pop it in to take a look at a scene or two, but it never disappoints. Through a bit of research and the magic of DVDs, I've managed to discover a lot of the mystique behind the film that grew out of the legends surrounding its making. There was the brash young prodigy Orson Welles, all of 24 years old when he began work on the project, coupled with the brilliant and daring cinematographer Gregg Toland and a host of talented young stage actors from Welles' Mercury Theatre company. Between them, they would push the boundaries of all conventional wisdom about the filmmaking process and what was accepted practice. They would test the limits of technology and narrative structure. They would experiment in ways that jeopardized the entire production, and in the end, they would leave a lasting impression that would cross generations of film audiences.

It's hard to appreciate just how great an achievement Citizen Kane really is until you understand just what a technical feat it was to accomplish much of what we see on the screen. Beyond the staggering accuracy with which Toland performed in-camera effects and the artistry and creativity of angles and camera movements, there are the performances which these techniques highlight that make the story come alive. It's a beautiful film to behold, even if the narrative does not grip you, at least not at first. I suppose it's appropriate that I didn't see all of the magnificence of that artistry the first couple viewings. It's often said that the most effective tools of filmmaking are those that are invisible to the audience. That is to say that if a film is really successful, we shouldn't notice how it's shot or edited. For me at least, this was largely true in my early viewings of Kane. Now that I've studied it a bit more, it's hard not to notice. But as someone who has worked on films and knows just how difficult the process is even with all the technology we have at our fingertips today, I'm that much more enthralled when I can go back and view a film that is this masterfully done without all those advantages.

Now, I can't tell you what you should think or what you should see in Citizen Kane if you take the time to view it. But I can tell you that your time will not have been wasted. Your initial reaction may be similar to mine. But don't be so quick to write it off. It may take some time, and a second or third screening, but I can almost bet that you too will find something of value in this gem. And then you can truly say you know first hand just what all the fuss is about.

What is Art?

It's a question that has been posed time and again. Particularly in this age of post-modernism, where it seems that the things that show up in museums and galleries have more to do with thumbing one's nose at the audience than engaging them, it is more pertinent than ever. It's been asked about Pollock's splatters of paint, Warhol's Brillo boxes, Cy Twombly's scribbles, and today the discussion is even more complicated. Is something art just because someone says it's art? Normally the debate is centered on the cultural and intellectual value. It's often a high minded sparring match between critics, artists, collectors and the like, often leaving the general public feeling alienated by the very thing that is designed to communicate with us and touch our souls. So what happens when all of this vaunted rhetoric of the art world gets turned on its head by someone who has no interest or comprehension of what the argument is even about? What if that person is not able to have a voice in this discussion, not because they are too small in terms of fame and clout, but rather too small in terms of age and attention span. Enter 4 year old Marla Olmstead, world famous painter from Binghamton, NY.

You may have heard of her. She's made the national talk show circuit and been featured on countless news programs from the nightly news to 60 Minutes. Her paintings have sold for $20,000 and up, and she's had a feature length documentary made about her. That documentary, aptly titled My Kid Could Paint That, started like most of the hoopla surrounding this apparent prodigy, out of fascination and curiosity. And like much of that attention, at some point it turned to skepticism and suspicion.

The paintings at the center of what turned from celebration to controversy are far from what one might expect out of a preschooler. They're fairly large canvases filled with abstract imagery, broad palates of striking color and a certain sophistication that belies the age of the maker. As one critic pointed out, they could easily be slipped into a collection at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and not seem out of place. I wouldn't disagree. They're beautiful and elegant on a number of levels. They're at times playful, but not in the same way that a typical toddlers finger paintings might be. And that is where the controversy comes alive. Could a 4 or 5 year old really be capable of doing this work on her own, or did she have help? Is she a genius, or a cleverly built fraud? These are some of the questions the film attempts to answer.

The director Amir Bar-Lev actually didn't set out to tackle these questions, not originally anyway. Rather he began with a genuine interest in the story, like so many. But as the doubts of the painting's authenticity mounted in their volume and intensity, Bar-Lev himself began to doubt as he never had before. And so he was faced with a dilemma. Continue to make the film that he had set out to make, which he no longer really believed in, or at least was not as sure of, or bring the questions to the surface and risk losing the trust of the people who had welcomed him so graciously into their lives. It's a challenge for anyone making a documentary, to gain our subject's trust, but to not become too involved and risk losing some of our objectivity.

In the end, it's an open question as to whether or not Marla's paintings are authentic. The parents go to great pains to convince the world that they aren't phonies. They videotape her making paintings from start to finish, but even then there are those who say the new paintings lack the quality of earlier ones. Caught in the middle of all this is young Marla, who at least appears to be oblivious. She seems like a normal kid. We see her painting in the film and at times she seems to be making a mess, and at other times she displays certain technique and intensity that suggests a greater than average ability and knowledge. While its hard to imagine there wasn't some input from her parents, it's hard to say whether it was in the form of telling her specific things to paint or simply coming up with the titles or a statement for the work, or perhaps just coaching her as any supportive parent does whether it's their child at baseball practice or dance class.

And then there's the whole issue of meaning and intention behind the work. If a child can make this work and has no particular agenda or grand notion in mind, does it dilute the work of more serious artists who go to great pains to develop their work and stress the conceptual nature and meaning behind the work? I don't think it does. I believe that art is not about who made the work or even what they necessarily wanted their audience to get out of it. It has more to do with what we as viewers acutally get out of the work. We bring our own experiences to it and if it is thought provoking or brings certain emotions to the surface, that is in my mind what art is about. If someone is intentionally deceiving their audience to make a profit, that certainly would be troubling, and it's hard to say definitively if that is in fact going on. I'd certainly like to think that's not the case and what exists truly is a child with an incredible talent, and perhaps some parents who had good intentions, but allowed her to get too much exposure. Like any story, it's ultimately up to us to make up our own minds.

The Horror! Part 2

So it's Halloween night, and as I promised, before the month is out I'd watch at least one or two of the usual horror classics to suit the season. As I said in the last post, I've never been a huge fan of the genre. The writing is usually pretty heavy handed, the acting is lackluster and the effects and suspense often don't stand the test of time. And don't get me started on whole issue of a sequel for sequel's sake. Unless it's well thought out and designed as a series, sequels usually don't work, especially if the original was a stinker to begin with.

I happened to catch a few minutes of one of the Friday the 13th movies a few weeks back, and though it didn't rank in the class of bottom feeders like Leprechaun or Child's Play, it was bad enough that I didn't want to go down that road. So I thought I'd stick with the theme, but start with another one of the iconic films that had perhaps a bit more artistic approach. My wife has always loved the Halloween series, and John Carpenter has been associated with some notable films, Halloween just one of those among them. And considering the time of year, I figured why not return to the original?

There's something about the central character in a horror film that makes or breaks it. Freddy Krueger, Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers. They each have an inexplicable draw, while they simultaneously repel. In some ways, Jason and Michael are similar. They both wear a white mask, they breathe heavy and wordlessly, methodically creep up on their unsuspecting victims and brutally attack with a knife or some such weapon. While I couldn't bring myself to delve into the world of Jason, Michael Myers held a certain intrigue. One the things that I appreciated most, was the way that John Carpenter established his main character with a backstory at the outset of the original Halloween. We see him, not just as a monster, but as a boy, who otherwise would be as normal as any other kid, except that we witness him within the first minutes of the story butchering his sister with a kitchen knife. It's a typical enough plot line to begin a horror film with, but Carpenter's approach is by shooting it almost entirely in one shot, from the point of view of the killer. We don't see just who the killer is until the deed is done. It's typical of the way the rest of the film works. There are plenty of POV shots, lurking around corners, hiding behind walls and doors. While handheld camera work is not always the best method for shooting a professional looking project, in this case it is quite appropriate and effective.

Michael Myers, with his blue mechanic's jump suit and stark white mask, is one of the most recognizable figures in horror history, and yet we only get quick glimpses of him here and there. It creates even more mystique around this character. He's often emerging from shadows, passing in and out of focus, flashing onscreen for quick cuts as he attacks his victims. He catches us by surprise, just as he did the unsuspecting teens he preys upon. The moments are punctuated by screeching sound effects and musical crescendos. Blood splatters, glass breaks, girls and guys alike scream with terror. They've become the hallmarks of horror, and many of them were done here for the first time, or at least refined from earlier trials in lesser known films.

I didn't stop with the first Halloween. I pressed on to the original A Nightmare on Elm Street, where the world was introduced to another infamous villain. In my mind, Freddy Krueger was always one of the most brilliantly conceived and terrifying of all the movie murderers. Not only was he hideous in his scalded appearance, from the knives on his fingers, to the striped sweater and beat up fedora, his look became as iconic as his abrasive and cruel personality. The most frightening part of this character is the idea that he can enter your dreams and not only torment you, but actually bring about your demise.

Like Michael Myers, Freddy has a back story, though we don't get it all at the beginning, rather it's skillfully revealed piecemeal throughout the first installment of the series. Like Halloween, and many other horror flicks, acting, and likewise the writing, is not of the highest order. It's worth noting that both films introduce us to new actors that went on to have successful careers in other films. Johnny Depp in A Nightmare on Elm Street, and Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween. Despite the fact that neither of these films garnered any Oscar attention for these traits, that's not the reason most of us would watch them. We watch to have the wits scared out of us. While I can't say I jumped out of my seat at all, I was at least entertained, and sometimes that's all you can ask for. I did take notice of the special effects, which for 1984, were done without the aid of today's high end computer generated imagery. They were a major leap forward for the horror genre, which often tend to be low budget, and for movie making in general.

Finally, tonight as I passed out candy to the trick or treaters that made their way to my door, I decided to pass the time by wrapping up the month with a sequel, since the sequel has become synonymous with horror itself. So I decided to return to where I started with Halloween II. As I said at the beginning of this post, I typically feel that if a number follows the title, it generally does not bode well for the quality of film. While there are certain exceptions, it usually strikes me as more of a marketing ploy than anything. This may be one of the few cases where I would say that the sequel might actually be better than the original. Rather than begin the movie some years or even days after the point where the previous movie left off, this one actually begins with the final scene from the first film. By doing so, it feels less like a completely separate entity, but rather a direct continuation of where we last left off. From there, it just gets better. The plot is not so focused on that less than stellar acting or writing, though both seem better, but more on the suspense and mystique of one Michael Myers. We see more of Mike in this installment, and he's not any less imposing of a figure. He still has that same creepy white mask and his Jiffy Lube jumpsuit. And his relentless blood thirst has not nearly been quenched.

I'm quite certain that with the success of the first film and the rising popularity of horror films in general, this installment got an infusion of cash. This is probably part of the reason it looks better overall. From the lighting, to the locations and sets, to the effects, it's just a more polished looking piece. And now that we've watched the central heroine Laurie, played by Jamie Lee Curtis, narrowly survive the first film, it's hard not to be invested in her survival for this one.

While I can't say I'm a convert, it was a worthwhile endeavor to take a look at some of the movies that make this time of year entertaining. I sometimes get caught up in the trap of feeling like everything that I view has to be some highbrow art film. But I think there's value in paying attention to things that have captured the imagination of the masses. If for no other reason, we all need to take a break from intellectual pursuit and just enjoy a good bit of fluff. And to be honest, I'm not sure I would say any of these choices completely lacked substance. None were earth shattering. But then again, being on a first name basis with Mike and Freddy can't be a bad thing.

What the Camera Sees

Last week, we spent some time talking about screenplay form, which at first probably seemed a bit like trying to read an instruction manual for a dishwasher, translated from Japanese to English, by a Dutchman. So it's not the most accessible thing in the world. I started with William Goldman's take because he's a little more entertaining in his approach than your average screenwriter. Syd Field brings us up to speed with the more technical side to screenwriting in his book Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting, and though he may not be as entertaining to read as Goldman, I think he hits the mark pretty well.

According to Field, screenplay form is simple. Okay, so you may be thinking, who is this guy kidding? All these rules for spacing, margins, screen directions, dialogue and something called slug lines. Simple? Yeah right. But then again, didn't we all fall off our bike the first time the training wheels were removed? Screenwriting seems like a daunting task just like riding a bike once did, but when we get into it, it really is quite simple. When you get past the format and all of the rules attached to it, it's really about telling a story. It's different than writing a novel or a short story. It's more about the visual aspects of what happens in the story than anything else. Unlike a stage play, it's less about dialogue than about the actions of characters. And yet, even though it's a tool for laying out how a film is made, the word "camera" should not appear more than a handful of times in a feature length screenplay. Instead, as Field suggests, we should determine who or what our subject is, and focus our writing on them, rather than on the camera. It's what the camera sees that we should concern ourselves with.

So if we should be concerned with what the camera sees, why shouldn't the writer deal with camera angles? According to Field, and any screenwriter worth his salt, deciding on how to shoot a scene is up to the director and cinematographer. The screenwriter's job is to tell the director what to shoot, not how to shoot it. The director then transforms those words on the paper into images on film, in conjunction with the director of photography, whose job it is to light the scene and determine where to place the camera to cinematically capture the story. Still, this all may seem complicated until we actually spend some time reading screenplays and trying to write them ourselves. So that's just what we're going to do over the next week or two. Hopefully, it will be for you like learning to ride a bike (minus perhaps the scrapes and bruises) and once you get the hang of it, it will become second nature.

Pure Gold(man)

When it comes to putting the complicated art of screenwriting into perspective, there is no one quite like William Goldman to do it. Sure he's a bit crass at times (which in some ways is part of his charm), but he has insights not only on the creative side, but the cruel realities of the way business is done in Hollywood. He's a cynic for sure, but sometimes that's just what you need to cut through the facade of glamor to the true bitter truth, which is not always pretty.

His book Adventures in the Screen Trade is probably one of the most entertaining and provocative texts ever written on the subject. He doesn't get overly caught up in the technical details of putting a screenplay together, though he gives plenty of tips on that along the way, but he lays out the process in a way that is much more engaging for the reader who is considering entering this field. If after reading his book, you still think you want to write for the screen, you might read his follow up Which Lie Did I Tell?, as aptly titled a book as exists on the subject of Hollywood business deals. If that doesn't squelch any remaining ambition, you might just have what it takes.

Goldman doesn't pull any punches when he talks about just how crushing a place Tinseltown can be. If you're not working on spec (for free), and you're lucky enough to have an agent who gets you a screenwriting job, you can just as quickly be replaced by some other hired gun, leaving your blood, sweat and tears in the trash. Of course, to get an agent, you usually will need some experience, but no one will look at your screenplay without an agent to put it in their hands. See the catch 22?

As for movie making itself, as Goldman puts it, the first day on a movie set is one of the most exciting days of a writer's life, and the most deflating are all the days that follow. Once you see what's hidden up the magician's sleeve or what lies behind that ominous curtain is far from ominous, you'll only be disappointed in the lack of magic. Goldman should know. He's not just someone who has written a handful of screenplays and looked on at the business from afar. He's written some incredibly successful films, including Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Marathon Man and All the President's Men. What I love is just how honest he is. In a town that is all about fairytales, he doesn't sugarcoat the gory details of what goes on there.

As an artist, I can appreciate his discussion of writer's block and drawing inspiration from all kinds of sources, as well his interviews with other writers. To Goldman it really is all about telling stories. Good, solid, riveting, heart wrenching, suspenseful, captivating stories. When you cut through all of the nonsense that goes on in the movie industry, you may just find that at the end of the day, it still is possible to get a good film made.

The Horror!

Being that time of year when we're all in the scary movie frame of mind, there are all sorts of outlets for finding those frightful flicks. I must admit, I've never been a huge fan of horror movies. I flipped on AMC the other night and they were showing Friday the 13th Part II. A classic right? I found it cringe worthy more for how poor the acting and effects were than anything that was meant to be fear inducing.

Don't get me wrong. I love a well made thriller or even gory movie. Night of the Living Dead, or it's subsequent sequels are in a class of their own. Same with The Evil Dead series. And there are a handful of others that I've sought out and truly admire for their craft as well as the fear factor. I guess I've always been more of an Amittyville Horror (the original please) or Exorcist kind of guy than a Jason or Michael Myers fan. I can't say I get why there needs to be endless sequels of those particular movies. But this year, I've thought perhaps I'll give some of them another try. Maybe there's something I've missed.

I guess it's sort of like watching It's a Wonderful Life at Christmas time. What's Halloween without, well Halloween? I'm sure many of you are incredulous. How can you not be a fan of Freddy Kruger? Well, I suppose that's as good a place to start as any. If for nothing else, I think having an awareness of the pop-culture value of these things makes at least one viewing a worthwhile endeavor. So I promise, before the end of the month I'll watch A Nightmare on Elm Street at the very least. And perhaps I'll give ol' Michael Myers and his chef's knife a chance. And I'll provide a full report as soon as I do. Who knows, maybe I'll even see just what it is I've been missing all these years.

Movies I Almost Missed

It's rare that I get the chance to go out to the movie theater and actually see a movie on the big screen, the way it was meant to be viewed. If I do, I often opt to take in a classic at the Dryden Theater, or an indy flick at the Little. Movie tickets are so rediculously expensive these days that I've become awfully picky, so there usually isn't much I really want to see even if I do have the time to get there. So most of my movie watching happens sprawled out on the couch in my living room, straight from Netflix or some other on demand dervice. In some ways I prefer it that way. No cell phones ringing or chatty teenagers to distract from the experience. And I can always pause it for a bathroom break, or to grab another snack. Perhaps the best part is that I can go back and catch up on some of the films I missed from the past few years while I was busy watching films from the '40s, '50's and '60s.

There seem to be so few films being made these days that are worth seeing, but every now and then, I stumble upon a good one that is truly memorable. It's funny, because I can usually remember when these movies came out and I thought that they looked mildly interesting, but for one reason or another, I just never made it out to see it. Case in point for my most recent Netflix offering, a little film called "Almost Famous". Like so many along the way that I just never saw, I remember when it was in theaters and I probably thought "let's see, another coming of age story, ah, think I'll skip it." But for whatever reason, it found its way into my queue. I often love to go back a decade or two just to remind myself of what was going on in my life at the time when a particular movie came out. I also find that it provides a useful reference point to the state of film today (sometimes a depressing reminder).

I can't say I was expecting much from this particular movie that had made its way to my DVD player. Sometimes that's best, because at least then it's less likely that I'll be disappointed. As the film began with a very unorthodox title sequence, each title appearing as a hand scribbled it in pencil onto a sheet of ruled notebook paper, amidst shots of concert tickets and other music memorabilia, I found myself settling in. I could appreciate the way the characters were each developed with care and attention. As the story unfolded, I became drawn in not just by the soundtrack of classic songs from the early '70s, but how the story was presented. The narrative is based around director Cameron Crowe's experiences growing up traveling with bands like the Allman Brothers and Led Zeppelin and writing cover stories for Rolling Stone magazine at the age of 16. It's a compelling enough story, but rather than try to simply present it exactly as it happened, and getting actors to portray iconic rock stars like Jimmy Page or Ozzy Osborne, he brought us on the tour bus with a fictional band called Stillwater, which he created for the movie. The thing is, it doesn't feel like something made up, but actually quite authentic. In fact, I found myself Googling the band, believing for a moment that they were in fact real. I think that it was a crucial decision to go this route, and a good one. Trying to imitate someone real would have come off as more fake, and distracted from what's really important: the story itself.


Instead of focusing on how accurate an actor could imitate someone well known, instead I felt freed to just delve into the dreams and struggles of the characters. There's Crowe's alter ego William Miller, played wonderfully by newcomer Patrick Fugit, whose precocity belies his youthful appearance. He befriends one of the band groupies (a term the character eschews in favor of "band-aid") who goes by the moniker of Penny Lane, radiantly portrayed by Kate Hudson. Then there's the band Stillwater, made up of actors Jason Lee and Billy Cruddup, who are as convincing as musicians as real-life musicians Mark Kozalek and John Fedevich are as actors in the band. The cast is filled out with veterans of the screen like Frances McDormand who plays William's mother, and Phillip Seymour Hoffman, who is music critic Lester Bangs, a mentor for William, as he was for Crowe in his formative years.

The film is much more than your typical coming of age story. It is well written, not just in terms of dialogue, but the structure of the story that draws you in and dares you not to care about these characters. It's smart and often funny. It's entertaining as it is moving. It's not high brow like some art films these days strive to be, but it's also not pandering and implausible. It's one that I was quite pleased found it's way to my TV screen. I suppose that's the magic of movies. Even when you've thought you've seen everything and there's nothing left that's worth watching, there are still surprises left to draw you in and remind you why a good story still matters.

A Montage of Ideas

Sergei Eisenstein may not be a well known name to today's film audiences, but a century ago, he was at the forefront of the new groundbreaking technology called cinema. Filmmakers were just beginning to understand the properties of this new technology in the early part of the 20th century when Eisenstein was beginning his career as a director. The language of film that we take for granted today, composed of different angles and types of shots, was only being discovered then.

Montage comes from a French term, meaning "to build", which in its simplest terms can be applied to film editing of any sort. Typically when we think of montage today, we think of its use in Hollywood films. There are countless examples of sequences set to music showing a series of events, typically used to compress time. There was the classic method of calendar pages flipping superimposed over images of some task being worked on, or a series of newspaper headlines combined with images of the film's hero in action. And we've all seen the sequences in sports themed movies showing a character learning some new skill and seeing all the trials and tribulations of training shown in quick clips, so we can more quickly skip ahead in time to the pinnacle of success.

Eisenstein's view of montage was very different. As he discusses in his essay Montage in 1938, montage gets at the juxtaposition of two or more images and the meaning that results from this juxtaposition. The meaning changes not only for the sequence as a whole, but also for each image through this relationship. he uses the example of a woman weeping beside a grave. If we take each if these images individually, a woman weeping, a grave, the two could have very different connotations. Why is the woman weeping? Whose grave is this? Now place them together in the same shot, or even place the two separate shots next to one another. As Eisenstein suggests, we might readily assume that this woman is a widow and the grave belongs to her husband who has just passed away. We have not added any information, just the context. And by placing the images in a context, we now have a story with a theme and each image is given new meaning.

As we consider themes, we can begin to think about what images come to mind that evoke that theme. This is a sort of reverse process that the audience will go through as they watch the film. If you give them the images in the right order, they will naturally arrive at the same thematic concerns and meaning that you started with. Consider filming a war scene. What elements will go into making that scene read to the audience as a war scene? Soldiers, explosions, guns, tanks, planes, the wounded laying dead, etc. Now as you begin to find an angle and develop characters within that framework, a story emerges.

The earliest examples of montage as viewed by Soviet filmmakers like Eisenstein as well as his contemporaries Lev Kuleshov and Vsevolod Pudovkin was more radical than this. In their view, it was through the process of bringing together disparate elements that some greater meaning could be derived. Their interest was mainly in the capability of film to create a powerful visual metaphor. As filmmaking evolved, so did ideas about how to effectively communicate narrative, and it came to be seen primarily as a tool for telling a story. Whether it is intercutting closeups of a particular detail that the audience should see, such as a character's partially concealed gun, or perhaps intercutting between two different scenes to connect or contrast what is happening thematically, theories of montage are still very relevant in modern cinema.

Beyond the theoretical discussion of what montage is or is not, Eisenstein spells it out more simply. In terms of acting technique, the actor must access something within themselves based upon some experience they had in their life in order to accurately represent the role onscreen. In turn, montage accesses within the audience of a film that same sort of emotional response in reverse. People relate to what they see in a film based upon their own life experience. It's our job as filmmakers to strike the right chords in order to achieve the desired response.

America's Game

Like many American children, I first experienced the game of baseball in the backyard, playing catch with my brothers, and later honed my skills in neighborhood games where we used various objects as bases, and had no particular parameters to delineate the field otherwise. Within a short time, I graduated to the dusty little league fields, which at that time seemed like fields of dreams. The base paths were lined with a white chalk, and the bases themselves were actual bases, and not a soda can, or a spare mitt. The outfield seemed to stretch on forever to young eyes, with a distant chain-link fence providing a seemingly insurmountable barrier to achieving that coveted home run. I relished the game and the nuances that I learned from my coaches and from watching the major leaguers who played on an unfathomably grander scale than our tiny sandlots. I'm sure at one time or another as I trotted out to center field, or took the mound, or squared up beside the plate with bat in hand, I dreamed of reaching that type of stage, like most kids do. But those dreams soon faded, along with my interest in watching the games being played by professionals each night.

The years went by, and my interest was once again piqued, after the sting of the '94 strike had worn off and baseball had begun its resurgence. I think I was in college, and I came across the 9 volume set of Ken Burns' epic documentary Baseball. I had always loved film, and documentary in particular had been something that I looked at with a sense that this is something that I might want to do. Ken Burns was a name that was familiar to me at the time, having watched some of his other shorter works, I decided to give this more daunting series a try. From the first moments, as I was introduced to a history I hadn't heard before, from early players and how the game came about, to how it symbolized our nation, more than just as a sport, I found myself hooked. I think it took me all of a week to get through all 18 or so hours. I was entranced by the old photos, illustrations and films. The music and the interviews and the narration were all so richly woven together, just like a good book, I couldn't wait to get to the next episode.

It had rekindled my interest in the game of my childhood, and I have not forsaken it since. I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to tell Ken Burns just that when I saw him speak at Ithaca College several years ago. Afterwards, I shook his hand and thanked him for the work that he's done to bring history alive. I suppose I've been a fan ever since. So when I heard that he was working on a new installment to the series, updating the glorious and tumultuous times of the last decade and a half, I could hardly wait to see just how he would handle the strike, steroids and the end of the Red Sox 86 year curse. It almost seems that as much has happened in the last 15 years as happened in the first 150 year history of the game.

Ken Burns is of course just one name in a long history of documentary films. But his name and his style have become synonymous with a particular aesthetic. Even people who have never seen his films know the name from the motion effect they've used in photo slide shows. He has developed a language that we now use to understand much of what we think of as historical documentary. It's more than just interviews and voiceover narration. It's carefully chosen photographs and archival film, treated with the appropriate care, mixed with new footage shot in a way that hearkens back to another era. It's a well crafted narrative, told through the words of the people who lived through these events, as well as those who have looked back to gain a greater understanding of that time. And it's also a reflection of our present in some way. It's a piece of our history that suggests something about who we are today, by looking at the roots laid down in generations past.

It's odd to think of something that happened just 5 or 10 years ago as being a part of the fabric of history. But when I think of how felt the as I watched on TV with the rest of world the night Mark McGwire broke Roger Maris' single season home run record, and how differently I feel now with the perspective of more recent revelations of steroid use, I realize that this is the value of looking back. Sometimes it's hard to appreciate a good thing until it's gone. And sometimes, it takes recognizing the past in order to embrace the present. I think that's why Ken Burns' films are so powerful to me. As he has said many times, he's really making the same film over and over again. It's not about baseball or the civil war or jazz. It's about who we are as Americans and where we've come from. You don't have to be a baseball fan to appreciate that. If you're still trying to figure out just what it means to be American, and you've got 20 or so hours to kill, Baseball isn't a bad place to start.

Understanding McLuhan

In order for us to make art, it may not be absolutely essential for us to entirely grasp the medium's history and technical minutiae. Certainly there are those who are completely untrained in the finer points of technique that excel, partly because their thought process is unclouded by the distraction of other people's ideas about the craft. That being said, I would not discount the value of research and gaining some grasp of these points. I think it is the rare exception that a person can work in a vacuum without some input or influence and produce original work of a high quality on a consistent basis.

When it comes to media, print, radio, television, film etc., Marshall McLuhan is a good place to start. McLuhan is one of the giants of this realm, writing a plethora of influential books and articles on the subject. We take many of his ideas for granted today, because they have reached the mainstream and are so ingrained in our understanding of media, it just seems to be a part of the ether that always existed. In the piece Movies: the Reel World, which is and excerpt from the larger volume Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man, McLuhan begins by establishing this idea that movies, like literature, are a fantasy world based on real life, transporting the audience from their own personal sphere to another place that might well be unfamiliar to them. Film and literature share this modus operandi of transporting its audience in a very specific way. Both are concerned with details, though their means of description are quite different. Film is a visual medium where things are described by what we see, and also by what we hear, whereas literature must describe things so that they can be visualized in our mind's eye. We imagine Shakespeare's Hamlet not just by the descriptions of his character in print, but by a certain amount of conjecture on our part, our own experiences that we bring to that visualization. Film must be concerned with detail in the same way, but because in is more concretely placed before us on the screen, it has to be presented in a believable way.

McLuhan suggests as an example that costumes in a period piece would have to be created in the same way they were made during the period they depict, in order to maintain the look of authenticity that a camera is capable of recording. While I think at times this is taken too far, some filmmakers would agree. Stanley Kubrick for one was known for the lengths he would go to in order to create a particular look in his films. It's widely noted that in the period piece Barry Lyndon, which Kubrick directed in 1975, special optics had to be made for the cameras in order to capture enough light from the scenes because Kubrick insisted they be lit only by candlelight, the only lighting source available during the 18th century time period depicted in the film.

Keeping in mind that this article was written in the 1960's, there are certain points which are dated by the period in which they were written. It's hard to imagine an audience today who is unfamiliar with film or television technology, which seems pervasive even in poorer parts of the world. We need only to hear the statistics of people watching World Cup soccer around the globe to realize that in this modern age, nearly everyone's life is touched in some way by the technology of the moving image. Of course there are still undoubtedly some pockets of primitive culture left scattered in certain corners, isolated from these modern things, either by choice, or by the fact of their remoteness in relation to "civilized" society. McLuhan lumps together African culture, presumably the tribes that still live in isolated rural settings where electricity and modern technology is either eschewed or unheard of. His example is not specific to that continent, but in general describes a phenomenon of visual illiteracy in an age where for most of us, things like film and television are a staple of growth from our earliest stages of development. The same lack of familiarity with visual culture might well exist among the Amish in our own country, or any other culture that lack this exposure.

It's an interesting idea, that we must be trained to understand that there is a difference between a car driving toward us in real life and one that we see in a film or on TV. We think of it as innate and universally understood that when a character is off screen, they have not disappeared, but the camera has simply cut away from them, or they have walked out of frame. We suspend our disbelief and accept certain illusions as true for the sake of story, but we understand that they are fabricated, though we may not be completely aware of how the effect is accomplished. If we see a character hurtling through space, propelled by an enormous fiery explosion, we can surmise that in reality this not only is not possible, it also wasn't accomplished as a film stunt in the way it is seen. It's done by computer graphics or some other form of trickery, but ultimately we are not concerned with how something is done, but how it fits with the storyline. The untrained eye according to McLuhan, would be traumatized and perplexed by this, just as if he or she witnessed it in real life. This can most readily be understood by considering our own reactions to things in movies and on TV from when we were children versus now. As children, certain movies were frightening beyond belief, giving us nightmares, but going back to view them now, they would seem quite tame.

It's amusing to read McLuhan's view of the advancing of technology at the time he wrote this piece considering the mobile, digital age we now live in. "Soon everyone will be able to have a small, inexpensive film projector that plays an 8mm sound cartridge as if on a TV screen" he writes. His reaction to this is that it represents an implosion of technology, a sort of regression rather than advance spurred by convenience and cost. Movies to him, are nothing more than an advertising tool, an arm of big business designed to direct our consumption. I can only imagine how he'd react to today's world of the internet and the ubiquity of mobile smartphones and other pocket-sized media devices. I can't imagine he'd be pleased with the development, but I'm sure he'd offer some reasoned reflection on how it has affected the culture in a larger way, and our ability to read and comprehend the images and sound we are constantly bombarded with. I think he'd have quite a bit to say about the current state of media. Perhaps he'd actually embrace some of it as positive in terms of opening up doors to new forms of communication, though he might question the quality of the content. I suppose in that respect, I tend to agree.