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.

The Power of Simple Ideas

I think that we all struggle with it when we first start working with a new medium. We pick up a paint brush having discovered Rembrandt, and we expect to replicate his mastery. We plunge our hand into a mass of clay, and expect to emulate Rodin. While for years, the expense and difficulty of working with film led few to believe they could be the next Orson Welles, in the age of digital technology, even a novice will attempt to channel Spielberg. What is left out of this equation is that even the masters started with the basics, and in many cases struggled with them for years before finding success. So setting one's sights a tad lower is not admitting defeat, it's accepting reality. Making art, and making films in particular, is hard work.

On the other hand, just because we don't necessarily have the talent and vision of Martin Scorcese (yet) or the resources that Hollywood provides, does not mean we can't make interesting and well crafted work. We just have to think it out and be a little more creative to accomplish it. There are a number of films that come to mind which had those very advantages, and yet their directors chose to eschew this approach in favor of a much more minimalist style.

I've always loved the work of Billy Wilder, a director that has been known for his ability to both captivate with heart pounding suspense or searing drama, and in a moment cut that tension with uncanny wit and comedic timing. He did it in Hollywood for decades as a director, and often writer as well, for some of the most revered films ever made. From the dark and sinister Sunset Boulevard and Ace in the Hole, to the hilarious Some Like it Hot, his mastery of the medium is unmatched in my mind. Though these films were made in an entirely different era, well before my time on this earth, I still love to watch them and learn from them, as there is always something new to see. Stalag 17 is one that falls into this category, and it's remarkable not for the spectacle that we usually associate with popular Hollywood films, but for just how spare it is.

It was made in 1952, when the somber notes of World War II's destructiveness could still be felt by Americans, and seen throughout the battlefields that had spanned the globe. The smoke had hardly cleared in the intervening years, but Wilder, who had been born in Poland and later fled Germany for the US when Hitler came to power, decided to delve into the delicate subject head on. The story is not a typical sprawling war epic, with explosions and effects galore. In fact, it's very much the opposite. The entire film, which spans a full two hours, takes place in just a few locations, all contained within a German POW camp during WWII. Each space, from the barracks where the prisoners live, to the yard outside the barracks, to the edge of the prison camp lined with barbed wire are quite nondescript. The barracks are not much more than large wooden shacks on stilts, filled with bunks and clothing hanging from ropes tied from wall to wall. The lighting is often dramatic, either coming from the sweeping suveillance spotlights, or the dim lighting of the barracks. At least this is the illusion that is created, and it's effective. The deep shadows are set off by the glints from character's faces, and lighting is critical to the storyline and to heightening the emotions of the characters. It should also be noted just how difficult it is to achieve the deep focus that exists in many scenes. We take it for granted these days working in video that as long as our lens is set to a wide angle, everything will generally be in focus. In fact, there is a trend today of going to great lengths (and expense) to get that shallow depth of field that naturally occurs with film. In order for Wilder and director of photography Ernest Lazlo to achieve the deep focus, there had to be a lot of light on the scene, and probably some special equipment and expertise, but it is certainly subtle, and therefore does not detract from the film overall.

The true focus though, is on the actors and the remarkable performances that Wilder gets out of this ensemble cast. From William Holden's Sefton to fellow film directing legend Otto Preminger's German commandant Von Scherbach, the cast is superb. Wilder knows it, and he frequently lets scenes play out with few cuts to break up a great performance. Instead he stays wide, allowing his actors to move freely within the range of the camera, sometimes following them rather than cutting to a new angle. He saves his closeups for important details of the plot, which he so deftly reveals with a clear visual style. These scenes require no exposition for the audience's benefit. Although the story doesn't ever take us outside the confines of this dismal prison camp, it still manages to captivate. We are drawn in by those characters and the small details as the plot unravels. And the payoff makes it all worthwhile.

This economy of style is not unique to Wilder in this film, in fact there are a number of classics that take a similar approach. An extreme example comes from another film I watched just recently. My Dinner with Andre is one of those bold experiments in film that began with a simple idea, two characters having a meal, and from there it found itself with a sort of cult status surrounding it. When we consider this idea of two people sitting down to a meal and having a drawn out philosophical discussion, we might think it is a fairly conventional way to stage a scene. People have dinner all the time in real life, and in movies, there are plenty of scenes where this is the setting. But I can't think of one other film where this is the only setting. There is one character that is a struggling playwright turned actor Wallace Shawn, and the other also a playwright played by Andre Gregory. Other than the first few minutes where the camera follows Shawn's character walking down a Manhattan street on the way to dinner, and at the end when he is riding home in a cab, the entire story (if you can call it that) takes place during dinner with these two men. They discuss all sort of issues about life and art and question the two, commiserate and disagree at times. And while it might not interest some people to sit through for nearly two hours, it has captured the interest of enough people that its reputation perpetuates its cultural appeal. It was for this reason that I watched it, and I must say I didn't leave the experience feeling like I wasted the time spent viewing it, as I so often do with today's cinema.

I'm reminded of one other example of a film that is now considered classic that stuck with a very simple approach, unconcerned with sets and locations and elaborate story devices. The gripping drama 12 Angry Men from 1957 fit this mode in quite a similar way to Wilder's war picture. In this case, it's a court drama, though we never see the inside of a courtroom. In fact, almost the entire story unfolds inside the jury deliberation room, with you guessed it, 12 men who get quite agitated while arguing the details of the case they are charged with. The cast is top-notch, led by Henry Fonda, the inimitable Lee J. Cobb and Jack Klugman adding compelling support. The direction of Sidney Lumet is visionary. Who could imagine such suspense and tension being created with a narrative that is incased within the confines of four walls? One might imagine that this sort of thing could be quite boring, and in real life, it probably usually is. But in Lumet's hands, with such wonderful actors, I found myself glued to the screen, hanging on every word.

So as we think about our own work, we should not despair over what we lack in terms of resources. We should consider how we can best use what we do have. Focus on good writing and getting good performances out of your actors. Think about lighting and an overall visual style that will make the few locations that you use more intersting to your audience. Think about sound, metaphor and creating work with social and cultural relavance. Consider who will be watching your film and how you can captivate them with the story that unfolds on the screen. If that story is well planned and executed, it does not matter if it is a piece of spectacle or minimalism. Whether it was made for $1 or $100 million, if a film has a good story, people will watch it.