VISION PRESS LIMITED

Callard House

74a Regent Street

London Wi

Made and Printed by the Replika Process in Great Britain

by Lund Humphries & Co Ltd

London and Bradford

MCMLIV

CONTENTS

PAGE

Contents—Film Technique

(A separate table of contents for FILMACTING appears at the beginning of thatvolume.)Introduction by Lewis Jacobs iii

Introduction to the German Edition xiii

I. The Film Scenario and Its Theory

foreword 1

part i. the scenario 3

The meaning of the "shooting-script"—Theconstruction of the scenario—The theme—Theaction-treatment of the theme—Conclusion.

PART II. THE PLASTIC MATERIAL 26

The simplest specific methods of shooting-Method of treatment of the material: struc-tural editing—Editing of the scene—Editingof the sequence—Editing of the Scenario-Editing as an instrument of impression: rela-tional editing.

II. Film Director and Film Material

part i. the peculiarities of film

material 51

The film and the theatre—The methods of thefilm—Film and reality—Filmic space and time—The material of films—Analysis—Editing:the logic of filmic analysis—The necessity tointerfere with movement—Organisation of thematerial to be shot—Arranging setups—Theorganisation of chance material—Filmic form—The technique of directorial work.

PART H. THE DIRECTOR AND THE SCENARIO 93

The director and the scenarist—The environ-ment of the film—The characters in the envir-

PAGE

onment—The establishment of the rhythm ofthe film.

PART III. THE DIRECTOR AND THE ACTOR 105Two kinds of production—The film actor andthe film type—Planning the acting of the filmtype—The ensemble—Expressive movement-Expressive objects—The director as creatorof the ensemble.

PART IV. THE ACTOR IN THE FRAME 118

The actor and the filmic image—The actorand light.

PART V. THE DIRECTOR AND THE CAMERA-MAN 120The cameraman and the camera—The cameraand its viewpoint—The shooting of movement—The camera compels the spectator to see asthe director wishes—The shaping of the com-position—The laboratory—Collectivism: thebasis of film-work.

III. Types Instead of Actors 137

IV. Close-ups in Time 146v. asynchronism as a principle of sound

Film 155

VI. Rhythmic Problems in My First Sound

Film 166

VII. Notes and Appendices

A. GLOSSARIAL NOTES 175

B.—SPECIAL NOTES 180

C. ICONOGRAPHY OF PUDOVKIN's WORKS 192

D.—INDEX OF NAMES 196The numerals in the text refer to Appendix B.

There are few experiences more important inthe education of a newcomer to motion pic-tures than the discovery of V. I. Pudovkin'sFilm Technique and Film Acting. No more valuablemanuals of the practice and theory of film making havebeen written than these two handbooks by the notableSoviet director. So sound are their points of view, sovalid their tenets, so revelatory their analyses, that theyremain today, twenty years after their initial appear-ance, the foremost books of their kind.

First published abroad in 1929 and 1933 respectively,Film Technique and Film Acting brought to the art offilm making a code of principles and a rationale thatmarked the medium's analytic "coming of age." Untiltheir publication, the motion picture maker had to ekeout on his own any intellectual or artistic considera-tions of film craft. No explicit body of principles existedupon which the film maker could draw with confidence.Film technique was a more or less hit or miss affairthat existed in a kind of fragmentary state which, inthe main, leaned heavily upon theatrical methods.

These pioneering books made clear at once thatmovie making need no longer flounder for a methodol-ogy or for its own standards. They elucidated what

iii

were the fundamentals of film art and defined thesingular process of expression that distinguished itfrom all other media. Now film theory and practicecould be attacked with greater assurance and efficiency.The film maker now had at his disposal a consolidatedand concrete source of information and knowledge thatcould shorten his own creative development. It is notsurprising therefore that these books soon became the"bibles" for film artists.

Film Technique, in particular, had an acute and im-mediate effect. It came out at a climactic period in filmhistory—just when the American cinema was catchingits breath over the exciting innovations and new con-tributions that had been introduced first by the Ger-man film importations, then the French and finally theRussian. The originality of these foreign pictures hadstirred up a wealth of film theory and criticism whichwas valuble and passionate but without a generally ac-cepted reference point. A criteria on which to con-struct, judge and evaluate a motion picture was sorelyneeded. Film Technique fulfilled this need and wasgreeted with hearty applause. Film theory and filmmaking was lifted out of the gossip and "personalopinion" category and into a more conscious and de-fined art form. The concepts contained in this slimbook stimulated and sharpened awareness of what wasbasic and true to the film medium. All films and writ-ings that followed—whether they agreed with its edictsor not—have had to take cognizance of its principlesand contributions. Film makers and critics to the pres-

ent continue to borrow from its rich deposit of ideas,implications and conclusions.

Film Acting, which appeared shortly after the intro-duction of sound, never had the same deep influenceor stirred up the same amount of excitement. This isprobably because the problem of film acting was basic-ally another aspect, an extension of the problem of act-ing in general—an art which already had a great bodyof tradition and analysis in print, while film techniquealthough utilizing many of the other, older crafts, wasnevertheless a new and distinct medium of expressionabout which very little was known and which had ac-quired only the beginnings of a tradition.

No more authoritative and knowing person couldhave been chosen to write these books than V. I. Pu-dovkin, acknowledged internationally as one of thegreatest of film directors. His early pictures—Mother,The End of St. Petersburg, Storm Over Asia—alongwith those of other Soviet directors, burst upon theAmerican scene between the years of 1927-1930, pro-voking tremendous excitement, controversy and ad-miration. Intellectuals, artists and film makers arguedhotly about the merits of what they were forced bythese films to concede to be an art. Cries of "propa-ganda" were mingled with cheers for the pictures' dy-namic forcefulness, high imagination and profoundcinematic skill. When all the excitement had simmereddown, it was agreed that the films of Pudovkin and hiscountrymen had ushered in a new era in screen artistry.

The End of St Petersburg (1927) and Storm Over

A*

Asia (1928), were the two pictures which made Pu-dovkin's reputation in the United States. Mother wasnot shown in this country until years later, and thenonly to limited audiences. The End of St. Petersburgwas so popular that it had the distinction of being thefirst Soviet film to appear in Broadway's largest movietheatre, the Roxy. It played there for a number ofweeks after an initial two-a-day run at Hammerstein'slegitimate theatre—an uncommon event for that day.

The End of St. Petersburg dramatized through theeyes of a peasant the social upheaval in St. Petersburg,with a sweep and richness of detail comparable to thebest efforts of Griffith and Eisenstein. Its warm humanfeeling for character, its atmosphere of the Russiancountryside, its innumerable satirical touches and itsportrait of a bewildered peasant who finally emergesfrom perplexity to an understanding of his country'supset, were rendered in a quick, staccato style thatemphasized the intensity of the period and carried thespectator away by the sheer force and dynamic qualityof its filmic construction.

Some of the film's sequences were considered soextraordinary cinematically that they have since be-come celebrated in film history. In the stock exchangesequence for instance, Pudovkin portrayed in extremeclose shots the hysteria of the Czarist war profiteers,then cross cut these images to another kind of hysteria—soldiers in battle being mowed down by burstingshells, freezing in dug-outs, killing and being killed.He forced the spectator to draw his own conclusions

from the cross cutting of the pictures. Such a use ofediting was typical of the film throughout. The theorythat was the basis for this method can be found in hismanual.

Storm Over Asia had many things in common withthis film. Its protagonist, as the hero in The End of St.Petersburg, was also a bewildered peasant, who in thesocial upheaval becomes awakened and leads his fel-low men against their oppressors. Structurally simplerthan its predecessor, it also revealed a cinematic styleof dexterity and originality. The film was permeatedwith the same deep regard for the precise image, theexact pace, the significant psychological angle, and dis-played an equally profound use of editing.

The closing sequence of the picture illustrates force-fully what Pudovkin called, "implanting an abstractconcept into the consciousness of the spectator,"through cinematic symbolism. The Mongol hero (mis-taken heir of Genghis Khan) who has fiercely foughthis way out of his enemy's headquarters, is pursued bythem as he rides across the desert. A windstorm begins.The Mongol raises his ancient sword and cries out,"O My People!" Suddenly as if in answer to his cry,the desert begins to fill with hundreds, then thousandsof mounted Mongols. Again he calls: "Rise in yourancient strength!" The screen fills with tens of thou-sands of his tribesmen, riding furiously as though tobattle behind their leader. Once more the Mongol callsout: "—And free yourselves!" Now the mounted war-riors blend with the fury of the storm and sweep every-

thing before them—their enemy, their enemy's tradingposts, trees—in a tempestuous hurricane symbolical oftheir united strength and the imminent storm over Asia.

These important and masterful motion pictures hadbeen made by Pudovkin while in his early thirties. Yethe had never thought of making motion pictures hiscareer until he was twenty-seven. Up to that time hisvocational interest had been chemistry. He was aboutto graduate from the Moscow University with a degreein physics and chemistry when the first world warbroke out. Enlisting in the artillery, he was woundedand taken prisoner. The years 1915-1918 were spent ina Pomeranian prison camp; 1919 saw him back in Mos-cow installed once more in a chemist's laboratory.

But the post-war restlessness seized him. He becameso interested in the theatre that he decided to forsakehis previous profession and passed the examinationwhich admitted him to work in one of Moscow'stheatre workshop groups. Then he saw D. W. Griffith'sfilm Intolerance. This work made such a deep impres-sion upon him that there was no longer any doubt forhim as to where his path lay. "After seeing it (Intoler-ance), I was convinced that cinematography was reallyan art and an art of great potentialities. It fascinatedme and I was eager to go into this new field."

He applied at once to the State Film School and wasaccepted. Here during the next two years he served anapprenticeship acting, designing sets, improvisingscenes and learning the business aspects of movie mak-ing. After this he went on to the film workshop of

Kuleshov, who had the reputation of being the moststimulating and inspiring teacher in his country—areputation not unlike that of Professor Baker in thiscountry who made his theatre workshop at Harvard sofamous. Under Kuleshov, Pudovkin discovered themedium's true nature and its creative resources. Pudov-kin learned that in every art there is a material and amode of organizing that material in terms of the me-dium. Through experiment and practice he discoveredwhat Melies, Porter and Griffith had instinctively fallenupon many years earlier: that the basic means of ex-pression which is unique to motion pictures lies in theorganization of the film strips—the shots—which inthemselves contain the elements of the larger forms—the scenes and sequences—and which in relationshipmotivate the film's structural unity and effectiveness.

Toward the end of 1925, he directed his first feature-length picture: Mechanics of the Brain. During a lullin its production he collaborated with Nikolai Shipkov-sky in the direction of a comedy based on the Interna-tional Chess Tournament then being held in Moscow:Chess Fever. This picture brought him critical atten-tion and the admiration of other film makers. It alsowon for him the opportunity to direct a much moreambitious undertaking, Mother, based on the novel byMaxim Gorky, which was destined to bring him inter-national acclaim and place him in the front row ofdirectorial talents. The film itself was hailed as a "mas-terpiece" and ranks as one of the classics in film history.It is considered by many to be his greatest work.

It was during the production of Mother that Pudov-kin wrote the first of these two books as part of a seriesof manuals on film making for use in the State CinemaInstitute. The first manual, originally containing 64pages, was called The Film Scenario; the second, 92pages long, was called The Film Director and FilmMaterial. So large was their circulation in Russia thatthey were translated and published abroad in a singlehandbook entitled Film Technique.

Pudovkin later amplified many of the ideas in thismanual in a lecture at the Cinema Institute. At thesuggestion of the State Academy of Art Research, heexpanded this lecture into a third book which subse-quently was called Film Acting. Both books, FilmTechnique and Film Acting, became standard inter-national reading almost immediately, accepted andproselytized far beyond their author's expectations.

Early in his career, Pudovkin discovered that thehuman eye does not see things in a mechanical way.That is, the eye seldom focuses on anything from thepoint of view squarely in front of it except by themerest chance. Instead it is more natural for the eyeto perceive things at some angle—either from below,above or from the side. Also, the eye does not focus onan object for a long period of time, but constantly shiftsaround in a succession of swift impressions. With theaid of the brain these impressions are instantly regis-tered as texture, light and shade, size, weight, etc.

This knowledge aided Pudovkin's formation of filmtheory. His writing is larded with pertinent observa-

INTRODUCTION xi

tions of the behavior of the eye and mind. He pointsout that the principles of film technique have much incommon with the principles of the eye and the brain.That is, the eye does not simply act as a mechanicalrecorder, but is an instrument (not unlike the lens ofthe camera) whose impressions are linked to and quali-fied by the brain. For what the eye sees the brainappraises, computes and arranges in an organized sum-mation or concept. This activity of selection and re-arrangement for the purpose of implanting an idea oremotion or concept is the secret of film construction.Many vivid examples from Pudovkin's own and otherfilms make the application of his method and the work-ing cause and effect enlightening, practical and stim-ulating.

At all times it is the practitioner talking, not the criticor theorist. Pudovkin grapples with the specifics ofcraft problems that confront every film maker and theprinciples he formulates flow from much study andpractice in the laboratory and studio. At first glance,Pudovkin's approach may seem to some, unfeeling,doctrinaire or even mechanical. Yet his films prove thatwhen construction and action are understood in termsof the screen medium, the results are as human and asfull of feeling as the director can make them.

Film Technique and Film Acting can in no way beconsidered in the category of manuals which teachmovie making in twelve easy lessons. Nor are they in-tended for the amateur film hobbyist—although aknowledge of the contents of Pudovkin's books can

xii FILM TECHNIQUE AND FILM ACTING

greatly improve his work. They can provide suchhobbyists with an insight into the medium such as theynever dreamed of and thus enable them to enhancetheir own pleasure by raising them from dabblers tocreative craftsmen.

There is so much that is touched upon in these booksthat is of grave significance, that they merit continuousreading and study. Other writing on film art may gointo the subject at greater length, examine more thor-oughly more aspects, include wider discussions of moretechnical problems more recently arisen, but no bookspeaks with greater authority, nor has captured withgreater simplicity and comprehensiveness the basic is-sues of film structure. Because of its laconic treatmentand compactness, important details are sometimesmissed or oversimplified. It is important to note forexample that Pudovkin says, the foundation of film artis editing. He does not say, as many of his readers havesaid later, that the art of film is editing. Together, FilmTechnique and Film Acting constitute an anatomy offilm art. Their reappearance in an American editionafter many years of being out of print is an augurythat holds much promise for the future.

Lewis Jacobs

INTRODUCTION TO THEGERMAN EDITION

THE foundation of film art is editing. Armedwith this watchword, the young cinema ofSoviet Russia commenced its progress, and itis a maxim that, to this day, has lost nothing of itssignificance and force.

It must be borne in mind that the expression" editing" is not always completely interpretedor understood in its essence. By some the term isnaively assumed to imply only a joining together ofthe strips of film in their proper time-succession.Others, again, know only two sorts of editing, a fastand a slow. But they forget—or they have neverlearnt—that rhythm (i.e., the effects controlled bythe alternation in cutting of longer or shorter stripsof film) by no means exhausts all the possibilities ofediting.

To make clear my point and to bring homeunmistakably to my readers the meaning of editingand its full potentialities, I shall use the analogyof another art-form—literature. To the poet orwriter separate words are as raw material. Theyhave the widest and most variable meanings whichonly begin to become precise through their positionin the sentence. To that extent to which the wordis an integral part of the composed phrase, to thatextent is its effect and meaning variable until

it is fixed in position, in the arranged artisticform.

To the film director each shot of the finished filmsubserves the same purpose as the word to the poet.Hesitating, selecting, rejecting, and taking up again,he stands before the separate takes, and only byconscious artistic composition at this stage are gradu-ally pieced together the " phrases of editing," theincidents and sequences, from which emerges, stepby step, the finished creation, the film.

The expression that the film is " shot " is entirelyfalse, and should disappear from the language. Thefilm is not shot, but built, built up from the separatestrips of celluloid that are its raw material. If a writerrequires a word—for example, beech—the single wordis only the raw skeleton of a meaning, so to speak,a concept without essence or precision. Only inconjunction with other words, set in the frame of acomplex form, does art endow it with life and reality.I open at hazard a book that lies before me and read" the tender green of a young beech "—not veryremarkable prose, certainly, but an example thatshows fully and clearly the difference between asingle word and a word structure, in which the beechis not merely a bare suggestion, but has become partof a definite, literary form. The dead word has beenwaked to life through art.

I claim that every object, taken from a given view-point and shown on the screen to spectators, is adead object, even though it has moved before thecamera. The proper movement of an object before

the camera is yet no movement on the screen, it is nomore than raw material for the future building-up,by editing, of the movement that is conveyed by theassemblage of the various strips of film. Only if theobject be placed together among a number ofseparate objects, only if it be presented as part of asynthesis of different separate visual images, is itendowed with filmic life. Transformed like theword " beech " in our analogy, it changes itself inthis process from a skeletal photographic copy ofnature into a part of the filmic form.

Every object must, by editing, be brought uponthe screen so that it shall have not photographic, butcinematographic essence.

One thus perceives that the meaning of editingand the problems it presents to the director are byno means exhausted by the logical time-successioninherent in the shots, or by the arrangement of arhythm. Editing is the basic creative force, by powerof which the soulless photographs (the separate shots)are engineered into living, cinematographic form.And it is typical that, in the construction of this form,material may be used that is in reality of an entirelydifferent character from that in the guise of which iteventually appears. I shall take an example frommy last film, The End of St. Petersburg.

At the beginning of that part of the action thatrepresents war, I wished to show a terrific explosion,In order to render the effect of this explosion withabsolute faithfulness, I caused a great mass of dyna-mite to be buried in the earth, had it blasted, and

shot it. The explosion was veritably colossal—butfilmically it was nothing. On the screen it was merelya slow, lifeless movement. Later, after much trialand experiment, I managed to " edit " the explosionwith all the effect I required—moreover, withoutusing a single piece of the scene I had just taken.I took a flammenwerfer that belched forth clouds ofsmoke. In order to give the effect of the crash I cutin short flashes of a magnesium flare, in rhythmicalternation of light and dark. Into the middle of thisI cut a shot of a river taken some time before, thatseemed to me to be appropriate owing to its specialtones of light and shade. Thus gradually arosebefore me the visual effect I required. The bombexplosion was at last upon the screen, but, in reality,its elements comprised everything imaginable excepta real explosion.

Once more, reinforced by this example, I repeatthat editing is the creative force of filmic reality, andthat nature provides only the raw material withwhich it works. That, precisely, is the relationshipbetween reality and the film.

These observations apply also in detail to theactors. The man photographed is only raw materialfor the future composition of his image in the film,arranged in editing.

When faced with the task of presenting a captainof industry in the film The End of St. Petersburg, Isought to solve the problem by cutting in his figurewith the equestrian statue of Peter the Great. Iclaim that the resultant composition is effective with

ON FILM TECHNIQUE xvii

a reality quite other than that produced by theposing of an actor, which nearly always smacksof Theatre.

In my earlier film, Mother, I tried to affect thespectators, not by the psychological performances ofan actor, but by plastic synthesis through editing.The son sits in prison. Suddenly, passed in to himsurreptitiously, he receives a note that next day he isto be set free. The problem was the expression,filmically, of his joy. The photographing of a facelighting up with joy would have been flat and voidof effect. I show, therefore, the nervous play of hishands and a big close-up of the lower half of his face,the corners of the smile. These shots I cut in withother and varied material—shots of a brook, swollenwith the rapid flow of spring, of the play of sunlightbroken on the water, birds splashing in the villagepond, and finally a laughing child. By the junctionof these components our expression of " prisoner'sjoy " takes shape. I do not know how the spectatorsreacted to my experiment—I myself have alwaysbeen deeply convinced of its force.

Cinematography advances with rapid stride. Itspossibilities are inexhaustible. But it must not beforgotten that its path to a real art will be found onlywhen it has been freed from the dictates of an art-form foreign to it—that is, the Theatre. Cinemato-graphy stands now upon the threshold of its ownmethods.

The effort to affect from the screen the feelingsand ideas of the public by means of editing is of

xviii PUDOVKIN

crucial importance, for it is an effort that renouncestheatrical method. I am firmly convinced that it isalong this path that the great international art ofcinematography will make its further progress.

(Published in Filmregie und Filmmanuskript, translated by Georgand Nadia Friedland, Lichtbildbuehne, Berlin, 1928, and re-translated from German by I. M., in The Film Weekly, London,October 29, 1928.)

I

THE FILM SCENARIO AND ITS THEORY

FOREWORD

THE scenarios usually submitted to productionfirms are marked by a specific character.Almost all represent the primitive narrationof some given content, their authors having appar-ently concerned themselves only with the relationof incident, employing for the most part literarymethods, and entirely disregarding the extent towhich the material they propose will be interestingas subject for cinematographic treatment. Thequestion of special cinematographic treatment ofmaterial is highly important. Every art possesses itsown peculiar method of effectively presenting itsmatter. This remains true, of course, for the film. Towork at a scenario without knowing the methods ofdirectorial work, the methods of shooting and cuttinga film, is as foolish as to give a Frenchman a Russianpoem in literal translation. In order to communi-cate to the Frenchman the correct impression, onemust rewrite the poem anew, with knowledge of thepeculiarities of French verse-form. In order to writea scenario suitable for filming, one must know themethods by which the spectator can be influencedfrom the screen.

The opinion is often met with that the scenarist has

only to give a general, primitive outline of the action.The whole work of detailed " filmic " adaptation isan affair of the director. This is entirely false. Itshould be remembered that in no art can constructionbe divided into stages independent of one another.Already that very general approach involved in thefact of a work being thought out as a substantialfuture presupposes attention to possible particulari-ties and details. When one thinks of a theme, theninevitably one thinks simultaneously, be it hazily andunclearly, of the treatment of its action, and so forth.From this it follows that, even though the scenaristabstain from laying down detailed instructions onwhat to shoot and how to shoot it, what to edit andhow to edit it, none the less a knowledge and con-sideration of the possibilities and peculiarities ofdirectorial work will enable him to propose materialthat can be used by the director, and will make pos-sible to him the creation of a, Jilmically expressive film.Usually the result is exactly the opposite—usually thefirst approach of the scenarist to his work implies inthe best cases uninteresting, in the worst insur-mountable, obstacles to filmic adaptation.

The purpose of this study is to communicate whatis, it is true, a very elementary knowledge of thebasic principles of scenario work in their relation tothe basic principles of directorial work. Apart fromthose considerations specifically filmic, the scenarist,especially in the field of general construction, is con-fronted with the laws governing creation in otherallied arts. A scenario may be constructed in the

style of a playwright, and will then be subject to thelaws that determine the construction of a play. Inother cases it may approach the novel, and its con-struction will consequently be conditioned by otherlaws. But these questions can be treated only super-ficially in the present sketch, and readers especiallyinterested in them must turn to specialised works.

Part ITHE SCENARIO

THE MEANING OF THE " SHOOTING-SCRIPT "

It is generally known that the finished film con-sists of a whole series of more or less short piecesfollowing one another in definite sequence. Inobserving the development of the action the spectatoris transferred first to one place, then to another ; yetmore, he is shown an incident, even sometimes anactor, not as a whole, but consecutively by aimingthe camera at various parts of the scene or of thehuman body. This kind of construction of a picture,the resolving of the material into its elements andsubsequent building from them of a filmic whole, iscalled " constructive editing," and it will be discussedin detail in the second part of this sketch. As apreliminary it is necessary only for us to note thefact of this basic method of film-work.

In shooting a film, the director is not in a positionto do so consecutively—that is, begin with the first

scene and thence, following the scenario, proceed inorder right up to the last. The reason is simple.Suppose, for argument's sake, you build a requiredset—it nearly always happens that the scenes takingplace in it are spread throughout the whole scenario—and suppose the director take it into his head,after shooting a scene on that set, to proceed immedi-ately with the scene next following in the order of theaction of the developing scenario, then it will benecessary to build a new set without demolishingthe first, then another, and so forth, accumulating awhole series of structures without being able todestroy the preceding ones. To work in this way isimpracticable for simple technical reasons. Thusboth director and actor are deprived of the possi-bility of continuity in the actual process of shooting ;but, at the same time, continuity is essential. Withthe loss of continuity, we lose the unity of the work—its style and, with that, its effect. From this derivesthe inevitable necessity of a detailed preliminaryoverhauling of the scenario. Only then can adirector work with confidence, only then can heattain significant results, when he treats each piececarefully according to a filmic plan, when, clearlyvisualising to himself a series of screen images, hetraces and fixes the whole course of development,both of the scenario action and of the work of theseparate characters. In this preliminary paper-workmust be created that style, that unity, which con-ditions the value of any work of art. All the variouspositions of the camera—such as long-shot, close-up,

shot from above, and so forth ; all the technicalmeans—such as " fade," " mask," and " pan "—that affect the relation of a shot to the piece of cellu-loid preceding and following it; everything thatcomprises or strengthens the inner content of a scene,must be exactly considered ; otherwise in the shoot-ing of some scene, taken at random from the middleof the scenario, irreparable errors may arise. Thusthis overhauled " working "—that is, ready for shoot-ing—form of scenario provides in itself the detaileddescription of each, eveta the smallest, piece, citingevery technical method required for its execution.

Certainly, to require the scenarist to write his workin such a form would be to require him to become adirector ; but all this scenario work must be done,and, if he cannot deliver a " cast-iron " scenario,ready for shooting, nevertheless, in that degree inwhich he provides a material more or less approach-ing the ideal form, the scenarist will provide thedirector not with a series of obstacles to be overcome,but with a series of impulses that can be used. Themore technically complete his working-out of thescenario, the more chance the scenarist has to seeupon the screen the images shaped as he hasvisualised them.

THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE SCENARIO

If we try to divide the work of the scenarist into,as it were, a succession of stages, passing from thegeneral to the particular, we get the following roughscheme :

i. The theme.

2. The action (the treatment).*

3. The cinematographic working-out of the action

(filmic representation).

Certainly, such a scheme is the result of the dis-section of an already completed scenario. As alreadyremarked, the creative process can take place inother sequence. Separate scenes can be imaginedand simultaneously find their position in the processof growth. But, none the less, some final overhaul ofthe work on the scenario must take into accountall these three stages in their sequence. One mustalways remember that the film, by the very nature ofits construction (the rapid alternation of successivepieces of celluloid), requires of the spectator anexceptional concentration of attention. The director,and consequently the scenarist also, leads despoti-cally along with him the attention of the spectator.The latter sees only that which the director showshim ; for reflection, for doubt, for criticism, there isneither room nor time, and consequently the smallesterror in clearness or vividness of construction will beapprehended as an unpleasant confusion or as asimple, ineffective blank. Remember, therefore,that the scenarist must always take care to secure thegreatest simplicity and clarity in the resolution ofeach separate problem, at whatever moment in hiswork it may confront him. For convenience in

* I combine these two as one for the purposes of a short sketch,but this is not technically exact. (Author's note.)

elucidation we will discuss separately in order eachof the separate points of the scheme outlined, thatwe may establish the specific requirements set bythe film in the selection and application of dif-ferent materials and the different methods of theirtreatment.

THE THEME

The theme is a supra-artistic concept. In fine,every human concept can be employed as a theme,and the film, no more than any other art, can placebounds to its selection. The only question that canbe asked is whether it be valuable or useless to thespectator. And this question is a purely sociologicalone, the solution of which does not enter the scope ofthis sketch. But mention must be made of certainformal requirements, conditioning the selection ofthe theme, if only because of the present-day positionof film-art. The film is yet young, and the wealth ofits methods is not yet extensive ; for this reason it ispossible to indicate temporary limitations withoutnecessarily attributing to them the permanence andinflexibility of laws. First of all must be mentionedthe scale of theme. Formerly there ruled a tendency,and in part it exists to-day, to select such themes asembrace material spreading extraordinarily widelyover time and space. As example may be quoted theAmerican film Intolerance, the theme of which may berepresented as follows : " Throughout all ages andamong all peoples, from the earliest times to thepresent day, stalks intolerance, dragging in its wake

murder and blood." This is a theme of monstrousextent ; the very fact that it spreads " throughoutall ages and among all peoples " already conditionsan extraordinary breadth of material. The resultis extremely characteristic. In the first place,scarcely compressed into twelve reels, the filmbecame so ponderous that the tiredness it createdlargely effaced its effect. In the second place, theabundance of matter forced the director to work thetheme out quite generally, without touching upondetails, and consequently there was a strong dis-crepancy between the depth of the motif and thesuperficiality of its form. Only the part played inthe present day, in which the action was more con-centrated, produced the necessary, effective impres-sion. It is especially necessary to pay attention tothis forced superficiality. At the present momentfilm-art, still in its infancy, does not possess meansenabling it to embrace so wide a material.

Note that most good films are characterised by verysimple themes and relatively uncomplicated action.Bela Balazs, in his book " Der Sichtbare Mensch,"quite correctly remarks that the failure of themajority of film adaptations of literary works is tobe ascribed mainly to the fact that the scenaristsconcerned strove to compress a superabundance ofmaterial into the narrow confines of the picture.

Cinematography is, before anything else, limitedby the definite length of a film. A film more than7,000 feet long already creates an unnecessaryexhaustion. There is, it is true, a method of issuing

a long film in several so-called serial parts. But thismethod is possible only to films of a special kind.Adventure-films, their content consisting chiefly ofa series of extraordinary happenings in the careerof the hero, little connected with one another afterall, and always having each an independent inter-est (stunts—either acrobatic or directorial), cannaturally be shown to the spectator in severalepisodes of a single/ cycle. The spectator, losingnothing in impression, can see the second partwithout acquaintance with the first, the content ofwhich he gathers from an opening title. Therelationship between the episodes is attained bycrude play upon the curiosity of the spectator ; forexample, at the end of the first part the hero landsinto some inextricable situation, solved only at thebeginning of the second, and so forth. But the filmof deeper content, the value of which lies always inthe impression it creates as a whole, can certainly notbe thus divided into parts for the spectator to seeseparately, one each week.1 The influence of thislimitation of film length is yet increased by the factthat the film technician, for the effective represen-tation of a concept, requires considerably morematerial than, let us say, the novelist or playwright.In a single word often a whole complex of images iscontained. Visual images having an inferentialsignificance of this nature are, however, very rare,and the film technician is therefore forced to carryout a detailed representation if he desire to achievean effective impression. I repeat that the necessity

to limit the scale of the theme is perhaps only a tem-porary one, but, having regard to our actual store ofmeans of filmic representation, it is unavoidable.

Meanwhile, the other requirement, conditioned bythe basic character itself of filmic spectacle, willprobably exist for ever—the necessity for clarity. Ihave already mentioned above the necessity forabsolute clarity in the resolution of every problemmet with in the process of working on the film ; thisholds true, of course, for the work on the theme. Ifthe basic idea that is to serve as backbone to thescenario be vague and indefinite, the scenario is con-demned to miscarry.2 True that in the examinationof the written representation, it is possible, by carefulstudy, to disentangle one's way among the hints andunclarities, but, transposed upon the screen, such ascenario becomes irritatingly confusing.

I give an example ; a scenario-writer sent us analready completed scenario on the life of a factoryworkman in the days before the Russian revolution.The scenario was written round a given hero, a work-man. In the course of the action he came into contactwith a series of persons—hostile and friendly : theenemies harmed him, the friends helped him. At thebeginning of the scenario the hero was depicted as arough, ungoverned man ; at the end he became anhonest, class-conscious workman. The scenario waswritten in well-drawn, naturalistic environmentalcolours, it undoubtedly contained interesting, livematerial witnessing to the powers of observation andthe knowledge of its author, yet none the less it was

turned down. A series of slices of life, a series ofchance meetings and encounters bound together byno more than their sequence in time, is, after all, nomore than a group of episodes. The theme as basicidea, uniting in itself the meaning of all the eventsdepicted—that is what was lacking. Consequentlythe separate characters were without significance,the actions of the he/ro and the people round himas chaotic and adventitious as the movementsof pedestrians on a street, passing by before awindow.

But the same author went through his scenario,altering it in accordance with the remarks made tohim. He carefully reconstructed the line of the hero,guided by a clearly formulated theme. As basis heset the following idea : " It is not sufficient to berevolutionarily inclined ; to be of service to the causeone must possess a properly organised consciousnessof reality." The merely blustering workman of theopening was changed to a reckless anarchist,3 hisenemies thus stood in a clear and definite front, hiscontacts with them and with his future friendsassumed clear purpose and clear meaning, a wholeseries of superfluous complications fell away, and themodified scenario was transformed to a rounded andconvincing whole. The idea defined above can betermed that theme the clear formulation of whichinevitably organises the entire work and results in aclearly effective creation. Note as rule : formulatethe theme clearly and exactly—otherwise the workwill not acquire that essential meaning and unity

that conditions every work of art. All further limi-tations influencing the choice of theme are connectedwith the action-treatment. As I have already said,the creative process never takes place in schematicsequence : thinking of the theme involves, nearlysimultaneously, thinking of the action and itstreatment.

THE ACTION-TREATMENT OF THE THEME

The scenarist, in the very first stages of his work,already possesses a given material later to be dis-posed in the framework of his future creation. Thismaterial is provided for him by knowledge, experi-ence, and, finally, imagination. Having establishedthe theme, as basic idea conditioning the selectionof this material, the scenarist must begin its grouping.Here the persons of the action are introduced, theirrelations to one another established, their varioussignificance in the development of the plot deter-mined, and, finally, here are indicated, givenproportions for the distribution of the entire materialthroughout the scenario.

In entering the province of the action-treatment ofthe theme, the scenarist first comes into contact withthe requirements of creative work. Just as the themeis, by definition, a supra-artistic element, so, con-trastingly, the work on the action is conditionedby a whole series of requirements peculiar to thegiven art.

Let us first approach the most general aspect—letus determine the character of the work on the action.

A writer, when he plans out a future work, establishesalways a series of, as it were, key-stones, significantto the elucidation of the theme and spread over thewhole of the work in preparation. These key-stones,as it were, mark the general outline ; to them belongthe elements characteristic of the various persons, thenature of the events that bring these persons together,often the details conditioning the significance andstrength of the elements of crescendo and diminu-endo, often even just separate incidents selected fortheir power and expressiveness.

Exactly the same process occurs certainly in thework of the scenarist. To consider the action ab-stractly is impossible. It is impossible to plan merelythat at the beginning the hero is an anarchist andthen, after meeting with a series of mishaps in hisefforts at revolutionary work, becomes a consciouscommunist. A scheme of this kind is no advance onthe theme and brings us no nearer the essentialtreatment. Not only what happens must be per-ceived, but also how it happens ; in the work on theaction the form must already be sensible. Imagininga reform in the cosmic philosophy of the hero is stillvery far from creating a climax in the scenario.Before the discovery of a definite concrete form that,in the scenarist's opinion, will affect the spectatorfrom the screen, the abstract idea of a reform has nocreative value and cannot serve as a key-stone in theconstitution of the action ; but these key-stones arenecessary ; they establish the hard skeleton andremove the danger of those blank gaps that may

always occur if some important stage in the develop-ment of the scenario be treated carelessly andabstractly. Neglect of this element in the work offinal filmic polishing may occasion inexpressivematerial, unsuitable for plastic treatment, and thusmay destroy the whole construction.

The novelist expresses his key-stones in writtendescriptions, the dramatist by rough dialogue, butthe scenarist must think in plastic (externally expres-sive) images. He must train his imagination, he mustdevelop the habit of representing to himself whatevercomes into his head in the form of a sequence ofimages upon the screen. Yet more, he must learnto command these images and to select from those hevisualises the clearest and most vivid ; he must knowhow to command them as the writer commands hiswords and the playwright his spoken phrases.4

The clarity and vividness of the action-treatmentdirectly depends on the clear formulation of thetheme. Let us take as an example an American film,naive, certainly, and not especially valuable, issuedunder the name Saturday Night. Though its contentis slight, it affords an excellent model of a themeclearly outlined and action simply and vividlytreated. The theme is as follows : " Persons ofdifferent social class will never be happy when inter-married." The construction of the action runs so.A chauffeur spurns the favours of a laundress, for hefalls in love with a capitalist's daughter whom hedrives every day in his car. The son of anothercapitalist, chancing to see the young laundress in his

house, falls in love with her. Two marriages arecelebrated. The narrow garret of the chauffeurseems an absurd dog-kennel to the daughter of themansion. The natural desire of the chauffeur to finda meal at home ready for him after a hard day's workencounters an invincible obstacle in the fact that hiswife has no idea how to make a fire or manage thecooking utensils ; the fire is too hot, the crockerydirties her hands, and the half-cooked food flies allover the floor. When friends of the chauffeur visithim to spend a jolly evening, they behave themselvesso crudely, by the standards of the spoilt lady, thatshe stalks demonstratively out of the room andbursts into an unexpected fit of hysterics.

Meanwhile, no better fares the ex-laundress in themansion of the rich. Surrounded by scornfulservants, she plumps from one embarrassment intoanother. She marvels at the lady's-maids who helpher to dress and undress, she looks clumsy and absurdin her long-trained gown, at a dinner-party shebecomes an object of ridicule, to the distress of herhusband and his relatives. By chance the chauffeurand the former laundress meet. It is obvious that,influenced by disappointment, their former mutualinclination re-awakens. The two unhappy couplespart, to reunite themselves in new and happier com-binations. The laundress is brilliant in the kitchen,and the capitalist's new wife wears her dressesfaultlessly and is marvellous at the fox-trot.

The action is as primitive as the theme, but nonethe less the film can be regarded as highly successful

in its clear, well-thought out construction. Everydetail is in place and directly related to the pervadingidea. Even in this superficial sketch of its contentone senses the presence of vivid, externally expressedimages : the kitchen, the chauffeur's friends, theelegant clothes, the guests at dinner, and, again, thekitchen and the clothes in another form. Everyessential element in the development of the scenariois characterised by clear, plastic material.

As counter-model I shall reproduce an extractfrom one of the many scenarios that pour in everyday : " The Nikonov family is reduced to direstpoverty, neither the father nor Natasha can find work—refusals everywhere. Often Andrei visits them, andseeks with fervent words to encourage the despairingNatasha. At last, in despair, the father goes to thecontractor and offers to make peace with him, andthe contractor agrees on condition that he shallreceive the daughter in marriage, and so forth/55 Thisis a typical example of filmic colourlessness andhelplessness in representation. There is nothing butmeetings and talkings. Such expressions as " OftenAndrei visits them," " with fervent words he seeksto encourageM " refusals everywhere" and so forth,show a complete lack of any connection between thework on the action and that filmic form the scenariois later to assume. Such incidents may serve, atbest, as material for titles, but never for shots. Forthe word " often " means, in any case, several times,and to show Andrei making his visit four or five timeswould seem absurd even to the author of this

scenario ; the same applies to the expression" refusals everywhere."

What is said here is not being pedantic about aword. It is important to realise that even in the pre-paratory general treatment of the scenario must beindicated nothing that is impossible to represent,or that is inessential, but only that which can beestablished as clear and plastically expressive key-stones. To express externally the character of ascene showing direst poverty, to find acts (not words)characterising the relationship of Andrei to Natasha—this is what will provide such key-stones. It maybe argued that work on plastic form belongs alreadyto the next stage and can be left to the director, butto this I emphasise once again that it is always im-portant to have the possible plastic form before one'seyes even in the general approach to the work, inorder to escape the possibility of blank gaps in thesubsequent treatment. Remember, for example, theword " often," already mentioned as one entirelyunnecessary and incapable of plastic expression.

Thus we have established the necessity for thescenarist always to orientate himself according to theplastic material that, in the end, must serve as formfor his representation. We now turn to the generalquestions of concentration of the action as a whole.There is a whole series of standards that regulate theconstruction of a narrative, of a novel, of a play*They stand all, undoubtedly, in close relation toscenario work, but their transcription cannot becompressed into the narrow limits of this sketch,5

Of the questions of general construction of thescenario, mention must be made here only of one.During work on the treatment the scenarist mustalways consider the varying degree of tension in theaction. This tension must, after all, be reflected inthe spectator, forcing him to follow the given part ofthe picture with more or less excitement. Thisexcitement does not depend from the dramaticsituation alone, it can be created or strengthened bypurely extraneous methods.6 The gradual winding-up of the dynamic elements of the action, the intro-duction of scenes built from rapid, energetic work ofthe characters, the introduction of crowd scenes, allthese govern increases of excitement in the spectator,and one must learn so to construct the scenario thatthe spectator is gradually engrossed by the developingaction, receiving the most effective impulse only atthe end. The vast majority of scenarios suffer fromclumsy building up of tension. As example onemay quote the Russian film The Adventures of Mr.West. The first three reels are watched with ever-growing interest. A cowboy, arrived in Moscowwith the American visitor West, lands into andescapes from a series of exceedingly complicatedsituations, the interest steadily increasing with hisdexterity. The dynamically saturated earlier reelsare easy to look at and grip the spectator with ever-increasing excitement. But after the end of the thirdreel, where the cowboy's adventures came to anunexpected end, the spectator experiences a naturalreaction, and the continuation, in spite of the

excellent directorial treatment, is watched with muchdiminished interest. And the last reel, containingthe weakest material of the whole (a journey throughthe streets of Moscow and various empty factories),completely effaces the good impression of the filmand lets the spectator go out unsatisfied.

As an interesting example of opposite and correctregulation of increasing elements of tension in theaction may be instanced the films of the well-knownAmerican director, Griffith. He has created a typeof film-ending, even distinguished by his name, thatis used by the multitude of his successors up to thepresent day. Let us take the present-day part of thefilm Intolerance, already instanced. A young work-man, discharged owing to participation in a strike,comes to New York, and falls in straightway with aband of petty thieves ; but, after meeting the girl heloves, he decides to seek honest employment. Yet the" villains " do not leave him in peace. Finally theyinvolve him in a trial for murder and he gets intoprison. The proofs seem so incontestable to the judgeand jury that he is condemned to death. At the endof the picture his sweetheart, meanwhile become hiswife, unexpectedly discovers the real murderer.Her husband is already being prepared for execu-tion ; only the governor has power to intervene, andhe has just left the town on an express train.

There ensues a terrific chase to save the hero. Thewoman rushes after the train on a racing-car whoseowner has realised that a man's life depends upon hisspeed. In the cell the man receives unction. The car

has almost reached the express. The preparations forthe execution are nearing their end. At the very lastmoment, when the noose is being laid round the neckof the hero, comes the pardon, attained by the wifeat the price of her last energy and effort. The quickchanges of scene, the contrasting alternation of thetearing machines with the methodical preparationsfor the execution of an innocent man, the ever-increasing concern of the spectator—" will they be intime, will they be in time ? "—all these compel anintensification of excitement that, being placed atthe end, successfully concludes the picture. In themethod of Griffith are combined the inner dramaticcontent of the action and a masterly employment ofexternal effort (dynamic tension).

His films can be used as models of correctly con-trasted intensification. A working out of the/actionof the scenario in which all the lines of behaviour ofthe various characters are clearly expressed, in whichall the major events in which the characters take partare consecutively described, and in which, last butnot least, the tension of the action is correctly con-sidered and constructed in such a way that itsgradual intensification rises to a climactic end—this,in fine, is a treatment already of considerable valueand useful to the director in representation. Writtenthough it may be in purely literary phraseology, sucha treatment will provide the libretto, as it were, of thescenario ; and, in the hands of the specialist director,it will be transformable into a working script themore easily the more that orientation on plastic

material, of which I spoke above, has been taken intoconsideration in working out the action.

Already the next stage in the work of the scenaristis the specific cinematographic overhaul of the action.The scenario must be divided into sequences, theseinto scenes, and the scenes into the separate shots(script-scenes)7 that correspond to the separate piecesof celluloid from which the film is ultimately joinedtogether. A reel must not exceed a certain length—its average length works out at from 900 to 1,200 feet.The film consists usually of from six to eight reels, andthe scenario-writer desirous of endowing his workwith specific filmic treatment must learn to feel itslength. In order correctly to feel it he should takeinto consideration the following facts. The projectorat normal speed runs through about one foot persecond. Consequently a reel runs through in underfifteen minutes, and the whole film in about an hourand a half. If one try to visualise each separate sceneas a component of a reel, as it appears upon thescreen, and consider the time each will take up, onecan reckon the quantity required as content of thewhole scenario.8

A scenario worked out to the elementary andpreliminary extent of division into a series of reels,sequences, and separate scenes looks as follows 9 :

REEL ONE

Scene 1.—A peasant waggon, sinking in the mud,slowly trails along a country road. Sadly andreluctantly the hooded driver urges on his tired

horse. A figure cowers into the corner of thewaggon, trying to wrap itself in an old soldier'scloak for protection against the penetrating wind.A passer-by, coming towards the waggon, pauses,standing inquisitively. The driver turns to him.

Title :

" Is it far to Nakhabin ? "

The pedestrian answers, pointing with hishand. The waggon sets onward, while the passer-by stares after it and then continues on his way.

Scene 2.—A peasant hut. In the corner on abench, lies an old man covered with rags ; hebreathes with difficulty. An old woman is busy-ing herself about the hearth and irritably clatteringamong the pots. The sick man turns himselfround painfully and speaks to her.

Title :

" // sounds as if some one were knocking''

The old woman goes to the window and looksout.

Title :" Imagination, Mironitch; the door rattles in the wind"

A scenario written in this way, already divided intoseparate scenes and with titles, forms the first phaseof filmic overhaul. But it is still far from the working-script, referred to above, already fully prepared for

immediate shooting. Note that there is a whole seriesof details characteristic for the given scene and em-phasised by their literary form, such as, for example," sinking in the mud," " sadly the driver,5' " apassenger, wrapped in a soldier's cloak," " the pierc-ing wind "—none of these details will reach thespectator if they are introduced merely as incidentalsin shooting the scene as a whole, just as it is written.The film possesses essentially specific and highlyeffective methods by means of which the spectatorcan be made to notice each separate detail (mud,wind, behaviour of driver, behaviour of fare), show-ing them one by one, just as we should describe themin separate sequence in literary work, and not justsimply to note " bad weather," " two men on a wag-gon." This method is called constructive editing.10Something of the kind is used by certain scenario-writers in interpolating into their description of a scenea so-called "close-up"—thus, "a village street on achurch holiday. An animated group of peasants.In the centre speaks a Comsomolka ll (close-up).New groups come up. The elders of the village.Indignant cries are heard from them."

Such " interpolated close-ups" had better beomitted—they have nothing to do with constructiveediting. Terms such as " interpolation " and " cut-in " are absurd expressions, the remnants of an oldmisunderstanding of the technical methods of thefilm. The details organically belonging to scenes ofthe kind instanced must not be interpolated into thescene, but the latter must be built out of them. We

will turn to editing, as the basic method of influencingthe spectator effectively from the screen, when wehave given the necessary explanations of the basicsorts and selection of plastic material.

CONCLUSION

If the scenarist wish to communicate to thespectator from the screen the entirety of his concepts,he must approximate his work as closely as possibleto its final shooting form, that is to say, he mustconsider, use, and perhaps even partly discover,all those specific methods that the director can lateremploy. He must watch films attentively, and, afterseeing them, must try to express various sequences,endeavouring to represent their editing construction.By such attentive observation of the work of otherscan the necessary experience be gained, I will givean example of an already prepared scenario sequence,its editing constructed and ready for shooting.

REEL ONE

Title :

The rising of the workers is crushed.

i. Slow fade-in.—The ground strewn with emptycartridge-cases. Rifles lying about.

2. Slow panorama.—A long barricade passes thelens, on it lie strewn the corpses of workmen.

3. Part of the barricade. The corpses of work-men. A woman with her head hanging over back-wards lies among them. From a broken flagstaffhangs a torn flag. Mix.

4. Closer,—The woman with her head hangingback, her eyes staring at the lens. Mix.

5. The torn flag flutters in the wind. Slowfade-out.

This is an example of a slow, solemn, introductorysequence. The mixes^re used to emphasise the slow-ness. The " pan " gives the same effect, and thefades separate the sequence into a separate indepen-dent motif.

Now an example of a dynamic sequence inheightened editing tempo.

1. From the corner rushes a crowd of workmen.They run towards the lens ; the figures flee rapidlypast it.

2. A workman leaps over a great crowbar andruns on. He suddenly stops, and calls :

Title :

" Save the first shop ! "

3. A second workman clambers on to a crane.

4. Steam streams upwards. A frenzied sirenshrieks.

5. The workman on the crane bends over andlooks downwards.

6. The running crowd of workpeople {takenfrom above).

7. The workman on the crane calls with all hisstrength :

Title (in large letters) :

" SAVE THE FIRST SHOP ! "

8. Shot from above.—The running crowd stops,stands for a moment, and then rushes on anew.

9. A section of the running crowd knocks overa woman.

10. Close-up.—The woman who fell raises her-self, and clasps her head, swaying.

11. The running mass.

Here is shown the editing of quickly alternatingpieces, creating the desired excitement by theirrhythm. The increase in size of the title emphasisesthe increasing panic.

Of course, this form of scenario requires thorough,special training, but I repeat once again that onlydetermined effort on the part of the scenarist toreach as near as possible to this technically correctform will turn him into a writer able to give in ageneral treatment material even usable in film work.

A scenario will only be good if its writer shall havemastered a knowledge of specific methods, if heknow how to use them as weapons for the winningof effect ; otherwise the scenario will be but rawmaterial that must, to an extent of ninety per cent,be subordinated to the treatment of a specialist.

Part II

THE PLASTIC MATERIAL

The scenario-writer must bear always in mindthe fact that every sentence that he writes will

have to appear plastically upon the screen insome visible form. Consequently, it is not the wordshe writes that are important, but the externallyexpressed plastic images that he describes in thesewords. As a matter of fact, it is not so easy to findsuch plastic images. They must, before anythingelse, be clear and expressive. Anyone familiar withliterary work can well represent to himself what is anexpressive word, or an expressive style ; he knowsthat there are such things as telling, expressive words,as vividly expressive word-constructions—sentences.Similarly, he knows that the involved, obscure styleof an inexperienced writer, with a multitude of super-fluous words, is the consequence of his inability toselect and control them. What is here said of literarywork is entirely applicable to the work of thescenarist, only the word is replaced by the plasticimage. The scenarist must know how to find andto use plastic (visually expressive) material : thatis to say, he must know how to discover and how toselect, from the limitless mass of material providedby life and its observation, those forms and move-ments that shall most clearly and vividly express inimages the whole content of his idea.12

Let us quote certain illustrative examples.

In the film ToVable David there is a sequence inwhich a new character—an escaped convict, a tramp—comes into the action. The type of a thoroughscoundrel. The task of the scenarist was to give hischaracteristics. Let us analyse how it was done, bydescribing the series of following shots.

i. The tramp—a degenerate brute, his face over-grown with unshaven bristles—is about to enter ahouse, but stops, his attention caught by something.

2. Close-up of the face of the watching tramp.

3. Showing what he sees—a tiny, fluffy kittenasleep in the sun.

4. The tramp again. He raises a heavy stone withthe transparent intention of using it to obliteratethe sleeping little beast, and only the casual pushof a fellow, just then carrying objects into the house,hinders him from carrying out his cruel intention.

In this little incident there is not one singleexplanatory title, and yet it is effective,! clearly andvividly. Why? Because the plastic material hasbeen correctly and suitably chosen. The sleepingkitten is a perfect expression of complete innocenceand freedom from care, and thus the heavy stone inthe hands of the huge man immediately becomes thesymbol of absurd and senseless cruelty to the mindof the spectator who sees this scene. Thus the end isattained. The characterisation is achieved, and atthe same time its abstract content wholly expressed,with the help of happily chosen plastic material.

Another example from the same film. The con-text of the incident is as follows : misfortune is comeupon a family of peasants—the eldest son has beencrippled by a blow with a stone ; the father has diedof a heart-attack ; the youngest son (the hero of thefilm), still half a boy, knows who is responsible forall their ills—the tramp, who had treacherouslyattacked his brother. Again and again in the course

of the picture the youngster seeks to be revengedupon the blackguard. The weapon of revenge—anold flint-lock. When the disabled brother is broughtinto the house, and the family, dazed with despair,is gathered round his bed, the boy, half crying, halfgritting his teeth, secretly loads the flint-lock. Thesudden death of the father and the supplications ofthe mother, clinging in despair to the feet of her son,restrain his outbreak. The boy remains the solehope of the family. When, later, he again reachessecretly for the flint-lock and takes it from the wall,the voice of his mother, calling him to go and buysoap, compels him to hang the gun up again andrun out to the store. Note with what mastery theold, clumsy-looking flint-lock is here employed. Itis as if it incarnated the thirst for revenge thattortures the boy. Every time the hand reaches forthe flint-lock the spectator knows what is passing inthe mind of the hero. No titles, no explanations arenecessary. Recall the scene of soap fetched for themother just described. Hanging up the flint-lock andrunning to the store implies forgetfulness of self for thesake of another. This is a perfect characterisation,rendering on the one hand the naive directness ofthe man still half a child, on the other his awakeningsense of duty.

Another example, from the film The LeatherPushers. The incident is as follows. A man sittingat a table is waiting for his friend. He is smoking acigarette, and in front of him on the table stand anash-tray and a glass half empty of liquid, both filled

with an enormous number of cigarette ends. Thespectator immediately visualises the great space oftime the man has been waiting and, no less, thedegree of excitement that has made him smokenearly a hundred cigarettes.

From the examples quoted above it will be clearwhat is to be understood by the term : expressiveplastic material. We have found here a kitten, atramp, a stone, a flint-lock, some cigarette ends, andnot one of these objects or persons yas introducedby chance ; each constitutes a visual image, requir-ing no explanation and yet carrying a clear anddefinite meaning.

Hence an important rule for the scenarist : inworking out each incident he must carefully considerand select each visual image ; he must rememberthat for each concept, each idea, there may be tensand hundreds of possible means of plastic expression,and that it is his task to select from amongst themthe clearest and most vivid. Special attention, how-ever, must be paid to the special part played inpictures by objects. Relationships between humanbeings are, for the most part, illuminated by con-versations, by words ; no one carries on conversa-tion with objects, and that is why work with them,being expressed by visual action, is of special interestto the film technician, as we have just seen in theseexamples. Try to imagine to yourself anger, joy,confusion, sorrow, and so forth expressed not inwords and the gestures accompanying them, but inaction connected with objects, and you will see how

images saturated with plastic expression come intoyour mind. Work on plastic material is of thehighest importance for the scenarist. In the processof it he learns to imagine to himself what he haswritten as it will appear upon the screen, and theknowledge thus acquired is essential for correct andfruitful work.

One must try to express one's concepts in clearand vivid visual images. Suppose it be a matter ofthe characterisation of some person of the action—this person must be placed in such conditions as willmake him appear, by means of some action or move-ment, in the desired light (remember the trampand the kitten). Suppose it be a matter of therepresentation of some event—those scenes must beassembled that most vividly emphasise visually theessence of the event represented.

In relation to what we have said, we must turnto the question of sub-titles. The usual view of titlesas an invading, adventitious element, to be avoidedwherever possible, is fundamentally erroneous. Thetitle is an organic part of the film and, consequently,of the scenario. Naturally a title can be super-fluous, but only in the sense in which a whole scenecan be superfluous. According to their contenttitles can be divided into two groups :

CONTINUITY TITLES

Titles of this kind give the spectator a necessaryexplanation in short and clear form, and thus

sometimes replace a whole episode of the action in thedevelopment of the scenario. Let us take anexample from ToVable David. Three tramps, neededby the scenarist to create an opposing evil influenceto the hero of the scenario, are introduced. Beforetheir appearance on the screen comes a title : " Threeconvicts escaped from the nearest prison." Naturallythe escape itself could be shown ihstead of the title,but, as it is not the escape, but thp tramps that areimportant to the scenarist, he replaces the wholeincident of the escape, as having no basic impor-tance in the development of the action, by a title.The essential action—the appearance of the tramps—is shown on the screen preceded by a continuitytitle. This is correct construction. It is an entirelydifferent matter for a title to replace an essentialelement of the scenario, where the subsequent actionis, so to say, its result. For example : after the title" Olga, unable to endure the character of her hard-hearted husband, resolved to leave him," Olga isshown walking out of the front door. This is nogood at all. The action is weaker than the title, andshows inability to resolve the plastic problemconcerned.

To the group " continuity tides " must also bereferred such titles as indicate an hour or place ofthe action—for example : " in the evening," " atIvan's," replacing by words those parts of thescenario the visual representation of which woulduselessly spin out and burden the development ofthe action. To summarise what has been said about

continuity titles we must emphasise once again thefollowing : the continuity title is only good if itremoves the superfluous from the scenario, if itshortly explains essentials to the spectator andprepares him for clearer apprehension of the sub-sequent action (as in the example with the tramps).A continuity title must never be stronger than thesubsequent image of the action (as in the exampleof Olga leaving her husband).i3

SPOKEN TITLES

This kind of title introduces living, spoken speechinto the picture. Of their significance not muchneed be said. The main consideration affectingthem is : good literary treatment and, certainly,as much compression as possible.14 One mustconsider that, on the average, every line of title(two to three words) requires three feet of film.15Consequently a title twelve words long stays on thescreen from twelve to eighteen seconds, and can,by a temporal interruption of this kind, destroy therhythm, and with it the sequence and impression,of the current shots.

Clarity is as important for the spoken as for thecontinuity title. Superfluous words that may en-hance the literary beauty of the sentence but willcomplicate its rapid comprehension are not per-missible. The film spectator has no time to savourwords. The title must " get" to the spectatorquickly—in the course of the process of being read.

To what has been said must be added that inconstruction of the scenario one must be careful ofthe distribution of the titles. A continual, eveninterruption of the action by titles is not desirable.It is better to try to distribute them (this is especiallyimportant with continuity titles) so that by con-centrating them in one part I of the scenario theremainder is left free for development of the action.Thus work the Americans, giving all the necessaryexplanations in the early reels, strengthening themiddle by use of more spoken titles, and at the end,in quicker tempo, carrying through the bare actionto the finish without titles.

It is interesting to note that, apart from its literalcontent, the title may have also a plastic content.For example, often large, distinct lettering is used,the importance of the word being associated withthe size of the letters with which it is formed. Anexample—in the propaganda film Famine there wasan end title as follows : first appeared in normalsize the first word " Comrades " ; it disappearedand was replaced by a larger " Brothers " ; andfinally appeared the third—filling the whole screen—" Help ! " Such a title was undoubtedly moreeffective than an ordinary one. Consideration ofthe plastic size of the title is undoubtedly veryinteresting, and this the scenarist should remember.16Yet more important than the plastic aspect of a titleis its rhythmic significance. We have already saidthat too long tides must not be used. This is not all ;it must be borne in mind that with the length of a

title must be considered the speed of the action inwhich it appears. Rapid action demands short,abrupt titles 17 ; long-drawn-out action can belinked only with slow ones.

THE SIMPLEST SPECIFIC METHODS OFSHOOTING

Having learned the nature of plastic material, wemust gain a knowledge of some of the purely formalmethods used by the director and cameraman inshooting the picture. The simplest of these are asfollows :

Fade-in 18: The screen is entirely dark ; as itbecomes lighter the picture is disclosed.

Fade-out: The reverse process—the darkening ofthe picture until it has disappeared.

The fade has mainly a rhythmic significance.The slow withdrawal of the picture from the view-field of the spectator corresponds, in contradistinc-tion to its usual sudden breaking-off, to the slowwithdrawal of the spectator from the scene. Oneusually ends a sequence with a fade-out, especiallywhen the scene itself has been carried out in retardedtempo. For example : a man exhaustedly ap-proaches an armchair, lowers himself into it, dropshis head in his hands—pause—slowly the shuttercloses.

The fade-in is, on the contrary, equivalent to thepurposeful introduction of the spectator to a newenvironment and new action. It is used to begin afilm, or a separate sequence. In determining the

general rhythm of the action one should indicatethe speed of the fade : quick, slow. Often shots arebounded by a fade-in and fade-out—that is to say,the scene begins with the opening and ends withthe closing of the shutter. By the use of this methodis achieved the emphasis 6f an incident divorcedfrom the general line of thk scenario—very often,for example, this method is used for a refrain (leit-motif) or a flash-back. The fade can take variousforms. A common form, now old-fashioned, is theround iris. At an iris-in there appears upon thedark screen a spot of light, disclosing the picture asit broadens.19 Other forms of shutter are, forexample, an iris like a widening or narrowing slit,a falling or rising horizontal shutter, vertical sideshutters, and so forth. It should be mentioned,however, that the frequent use of various irises andshutters 20 is unnecessarily trying to the spectator.

Shots in iris or in mask.—The screen is darkenedexcept for a light opening in the centre, round orotherwise in shape. The action takes place in thisopening. This is a so-called " mask." Its employ-ment has various meanings. The most common isits use to let the spectator see from the viewpoint ofthe hero—for example, the hero looks through akeyhole ; there appears what he sees, shown in amask shaped like a keyhole. A field-glass-shapedmask can also be used, and so forth.

It is interesting to note the special use of a small,round mask (a stationary iris), often used inAmerican films. For example : (a) The hero

stands on a hill and gazes into the distance, (b) Aroad taken from far off is shown in a little roundmask ; along the road gallops a horse. A dualobject is attained with this kind of shot : in thefirst place, by the narrowing of the field of view theattention of the spectator becomes concentratedon that which the hero is looking at; in the secondplace, the small scale by which the impression ofdistance is maintained is not lost.

The Mix.—The transition from one section of thefilm to another is effected not by the usual cut, butgradually—that is to say, one image disappearsslowly and another appears in its place. Thismethod has also a mainly rhythmic significance.Mixes involve a slow rhythm. Often they are usedin the representation of a flash-back, as if imitatingthe birth of one idea from another.

It is necessary to warn the scenarist against over-use of mixes. Technically, in making a mix, thecameraman, after having taken the one shot, mustimmediately begin to take the other, which is notalways possible. If, for example, in a scenario theaction is indicated as follows : the Spasskaia Tower(Moscow) mix to the Isaakievski Cathedral (Lenin-grad), it means that after taking the tower thecameraman must proceed immediately to Lenin-grad.21

The Panorama (Pan).—In shooting, the camera isgiven an even movement sideways, upwards, ordownwards.22 The lens of the camera turns tofollow the object shot as it moves before it, or glides

along the object showing various parts of it one afterthe other. This is a purely technical method, andits significance is obvious.

Forward or Backward Movement (Tracking or Trolley-ing).—The camera approaches or becomes distantfrom the object during the shot. This method isnowadays scarcely ever used.23 It gives a gradualtransition from long-shot to close-up, and thereverse.

Shots Out of Focus.—In the latest American filmsone often notices sections (especially faces in close-up) taken so that the outlines appear slightly indis-tinct.24 This method undoubtedly gives a specialcolour of softness and " tenderness," especially inscenes of lyric character, but it must be consideredas a specific aesthetic method devoid of generalapplication.

Everything said here regarding simple methodsof taking shots has certainly only information value.What particular method of shooting is to be used,only his own taste and his own finer feelings can tellthe scenarist. Here are no rules ; the field for newinvention and combination is wide.

METHODS OF TREATMENT OF THE MATERIAL

(Structural Editing)

A cinematograph film, and consequently also ascenario, is always divided into a great number ofseparate pieces (more correctly, it is built out ofthese pieces). The sum of the shooting-script is

divided into sequences, each sequence into scenes,25and, finally, the scenes themselves are constructedfrom a whole series of pieces (script-scenes) shotfrom various angles. An actual scenario, ready foruse in shooting, must take into account this basicproperty of the film. The scenarist must be able towrite his material on paper exactly as it will appearupon the screen, thus giving exactly the content ofeach shot as well as its position in sequence. Theconstruction of a scene from pieces, a sequence fromscenes, and reel from sequences, and so forth, iscalled editing. Editing is one of the most significantinstruments of effect possessed by the film technicianand, therefore, by the scenarist also. Let us nowbecome acquainted with its methods one by one.

EDITING OF THE SCENE

Everyone familiar with a film is familiar withthe expression " close-up." The alternating repre-sentation of the faces of the characters during adialogue ; the representation of hands, or feet,filling the whole screen—all this is familiar to every-one. But in order to know how properly to use theclose-up, one must understand its significance,which is as follows : the close-up directs the atten-tion of the spectator to that detail which is, at themoment, important to the course of the action. Forinstance, three persons are taking part in a scene.Suppose the significance of this scene consist in thegeneral course of the action (if, for example, all threeare lifting some heavy object), then they are taken

simultaneously in a general view, the so-called long-shot. But suppose any one of them change to anindependent action having significance in thescenario (for example, separating himself from theothers, he draws a revolver cautiously from hispocket), then the camera is directed on him alone.His action is recorded separately.

What is said above applies not only to persons,but also to separate parts of a person, and objects.Let us suppose a man is to be taken apparentlylistening calmly to the conversation of someone else,but actually restraining his anger with difficulty.The man crushes the cigarette he holds in his hand,a gesture unnoticed by the other. This hand willalways be shown on the screen separately, in close-up, otherwise the spectator will not notice it and acharacteristic detail will be missed. The viewformerly obtained (and is still held by some) thatthe close-up is an " interruption " of the long-shot.This idea is entirely false. It is no sort of interrup-tion . It represents a proper form of construction.

In order to make clear to oneself the nature of theprocess of editing a scene, one may draw the follow-ing analogy. Imagine yourself observing a sceneunfolded in front of you, thus : a man stands nearthe wall of a house and turns his head to the left ;there appears another man slinking cautiouslythrough the gate. The two are fairly widely distantfrom one another—they stop. The first takes someobject and shows it to the other, mocking him. Thelatter clenches his fists in a rage and throws himself

at the former. At this moment a woman looks outof a window on the third floor and calls, " Police ! "The antagonists run off in opposite directions.Now, how would this have been observed ?

1. The observer looks at the first man. He turnshis head.

2. What is he looking at ? The observer turnshis glance in the same direction and sees the manentering the gate. The latter stops.

3. How does the first react to the appearance onthe scene of the second ? A new turn by theobserver ; the first takes out an object and mocksthe second.

4. How does the second react ? Another turn ; heclenches his fists and throws himself on his opponent.

5. The observer draws aside to watch how bothopponents roll about fighting.

6. A shout from above. The observer raises hishead and sees the woman shouting at the window.

7. The observer lowers his head and sees theresult of the warning—the antagonists running offin opposite directions.

The observer happened to be standing near andsaw every detail, saw it clearly, but to do so he hadto turn his head, first left, then right, then upwards,whithersoever his attention was attracted by theinterest of observation and the sequence of thedeveloping scene. Suppose he had been standingfarther away from the action, taking in the twopersons and the window on the third floor simul-taneously, he would have received only a general

impression, without being able to look separatelyat the first, the secpnd, or the woman. Here wehave approached closely the basic significance ofediting. Its object ii the showing of the develop-ment of the scene in relief, as it were, by guiding theattention of the spectator now to one, now to theother separate element. The lens of the camerareplaces the eye of the observer, and the changes ofangle of the camera—directed now on one person,now on another, now on one detail, now on another—must be subject to the same conditions as those ofthe eyes of the observer. The film technician, inorder to secure the greatest clarity, emphasis, andvividness, shoots the scene in separate pieces and,joining them and showing them, directs the atten-tion of the spectator to the separate elements, com-pelling him to see as the attentive observer saw.From the above is clear the manner in which editingcan even work upon the emotions. Imagine to your-self the excited observer of some rapidly developingscene. His agitated glance is thrown rapidly fromone spot to another. If we imitate this glance withthe camera we get a series of pictures, rapidlyalternating pieces, creating a stirring scenario editing-construction. The reverse would be long pieces chang-ing by mixes, conditioning a calm and slow editing-construction (as one may shoot, for example, a herdof cattle wandering along a road, taken from theviewpoint of a pedestrian on the same road).

We have established, by these instances, the basicsignificance of the constructive editing of scenes.

It builds the scenes from separate pieces, of whicheach concentrates the attention of the spectatoronly on that element important to the action. Thesequence of these pieces must not be uncontrolled,but must correspond to the natural transference ofattention of an imaginary observer (who, in the end,is represented by the spectator). In this sequencemust be expressed a special logic that will beapparent only if each shot contain an impulsetowards transference of the attention to the next.For example (1) A man turns his head and looks ;(2) What he looks at is shown.

EDITING OF THE SEQUENCE

The guidance of the attention of the spectator todifferent elements of the developing action insuccession is, in general, characteristic of the film.It is its basic method. We have seen that theseparate scene, and often even the movement of oneman, is built up upon the screen from separatepieces. Now, the film is not simply a collection ofdifferent scenes. Just as the pieces are built upinto scenes endowed, as it were, with a connectedaction, so the separate scenes are assembled intogroups forming whole sequences. The sequence isconstructed (edited) from scenes. Let us supposeourselves faced with the task of constructing thefollowing sequence : two spies are creeping forwardto blow up a powder magazine ; on the way oneof them loses a letter with instructions. Someoneelse finds the letter and warns the guard, who appear

in time to arrest the spies and save the magazine.Here the scenarist has to deal with simultaneity ofvarious actions ih several different places. Whilethe spies are crawling towards the magazine, some-one else finds the letter and hastens to warn theguard. The spies have nearly reached their objec-tive ; the guards are warned and rushing towardsthe magazine. The spies have completed theirpreparations ; the guard arrives in time. If wepursue the previous analogy betwen the cameraand an observer, we now not only have to turn itfrom side to side, but also to move it from place toplace. The observer (the camera) is now on theroad shadowing the spies, now in the guardroomrecording the confusion, now back at the magazineshowing the spies at work, and so forth. But, incombination of the separate scenes (editing), theformer law of sequence succession remains in force.A consecutive sequence will appear upon the screenonly if the attention of the spectator be transferredcorrectly from scene to scene. And this correctnessis conditioned as follows : the spectator sees thecreeping spies, the loss of the letter, and finally theperson who finds the letter. The person with theletter rushes for help. The spectator is seized withinevitable excitement—Will the man who foundthe letter be able to forestall the explosion ? Thescenarist immediately answers by showing the spiesnearing the magazine—his answer has the effect ofa warning " Time is short." The excitement of thespectator—Will they be in time ?—continues ; the

scenarist shows the guard turning out. Time is veryshort—the spies are shown beginning their work.Thus, transferring attention now to the rescuers,now to the spies, the scenarist answers with actualimpulses to increase of the spectator's interest, andthe construction (editing) of the sequence is correctlyachieved.

There is a law in psychology that lays it downthat if an emotion give birth to a certain movement,by imitation of this movement the correspondingemotion can be called forth. If the scenarist caneffect in even rhythm the transference of interest ofthe intent spectator, if he can so construct theelements of increasing interest that the question," What is happening at the other place ? " arisesand at the same moment the spectator is transferredwhither he wishes to go, then the editing thuscreated can really excite the spectator. One mustlearn to understand that editing is in actual fact acompulsory and deliberate guidance of the thoughtsand associations of the spectator. If the editing bemerely an uncontrolled combination of the variouspieces, the spectator will understand (apprehend)nothing from it; but if it be co-ordinated accordingto a definitely selected course of events or conceptualline, either agitated or calm, it will either excite orsoothe the spectator.

EDITING OF THE SCENARIO 26

The film is divided into reels. The reels areusually equal in length, on an average from 900 to

1,200 feet long. The combination of the reels formsthe picture. The usual length of a picture shouldnot be more than from 6,500 to 7,500 feet. Thislength, as yet, involves no unnecessary exhaustionof the spectator. The film is usually divided intofrom six to eight reels. It should be noted here, as apractical hint, that the average length of a piece(remember the editing of scenes) is from 6 to 10 feet,and consequently from 100 to 150 pieces go to areel. By orientating himself on these figures, thescenarist can visualise how much material can befitted into the scenario. The scenario is composedof a series of sequences. In discussing the con-struction (editing) of the scenario from sequences,we introduce a new element into the scenarist'swork—the element of so-called dramatic con-tinuity of action that was discussed at the beginningof this sketch. The continuity of the separatesequences when joined together depends not merelyupon the simple transference of attention from oneplace to another, but is conditioned by the develop-ment of the action forming the foundation of thescenario. It is important, however, to remind thescenarist of the following point : a scenario hasalways in its development a moment of greatesttension, found nearly always at the end of the film.To prepare the spectator, or, more correctly,preserve him, for this final tension, it is especiallyimportant to see that he is not affected by unneces-sary exhaustion during the course of the film. Amethod, already discussed, that the scenarist can

employ to this end is the careful distribution of thetitles (which always distract the spectator), securingcompression of the greater quantity of them into thefirst reels, and leaving the last one for uninterruptedaction.

Thus, first is worked out the action of the scenario,the action is then worked out into sequences, thesequences into scenes, and these constructed byediting from the pieces, each corresponding to acamera angle.

EDITING AS AN INSTRUMENT OF IMPRESSION

(Relational Editing)

We have already mentioned, in the section onediting of sequences, that editing is not merely amethod of the junction of separate scenes or pieces,but is a method that controls the " psychologicalguidance" of the spectator. We should nowacquaint ourselves with the main special editingmethods having as their aim the impression of thespectator.

Contrast.—Suppose it be our task to tell of themiserable situation of a starving man ; the story willimpress the more vividly if associated with mentionof the senseless gluttony of a well-to-do man.

On just such a simple contrast relation is basedthe corresponding editing method. On the screenthe impression of this contrast is yet increased, for itis possible not only to relate the starving sequenceto the gluttony sequence, but also to relate separate

scenes and even separate shots of the scenes to oneanother, thus, as it were, forcing the spectator tocompare the two actions all the time, one strengthen-ing the other. The editing of contrast is one of themost effective, but also one of the commonest andmost standardised, of methods, and so care shouldbe taken not to overdo it.

Parallelism.—This method resembles contrast, butis considerably wider. Its substance can be ex-plained more clearly by an example. In a scenarioas yet unproduced a section occurs as follows:a working man, one of the leaders of a strike, iscondemned to death ; the execution is fixed for5 a.m. The sequence is edited thus : a factory-owner, employer of the condemned man, is leavinga restaurant drunk, he looks at his wrist-watch :4 o'clock. The accused is shown—he is beingmade ready to be led out. Again the manufac-turer, he rings a door-bell to ask the time : 4.30.The prison waggon drives along the street underheavy guard. The maid who opens the door—thewife of the condemned—is subjected to a suddensenseless assault. The drunken factory-owner snoreson a bed, his leg with trouser-end upturned, hishand hanging down with wrist-watch visible, thehands of the watch crawl slowly to 5 o'clock. Theworkman is being hanged. In this instance twothematically unconnected incidents develop inparallel by means of the watch that tells of theapproaching execution. The watch on the wrist ofthe callous brute, as it were connects him with the

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 49

chief protagonist of the approaching tragic denoue-ment, thus ever present in the consciousness of thespectator. This is undoubtedly an interestingmethod, capable of considerable development.

Symbolism.—In the final scenes of the film Strikethe shooting down of workmen is punctuated byshots of the slaughter of a bull in a stockyard. Thescenarist, as it were, desires to say : just as a butcherfells a bull with the swing of a pole-axe, so, cruellyand in cold blood, were shot down the workers.This method is especially interesting because, bymeans of editing, it introduces an abstract conceptinto the consciousness of the spectator without useof a title.

Simultaneity.—In American films the final sectionis constructed from the simultaneous rapid develop-ment of two actions, in which the outcome of onedepends on the outcome of the other. The end ofthe present-day section of Intolerance, already quoted,is thus constructed.27 The whole aim of this methodis to create in the spectator a maximum tension ofexcitement by the constant forcing of a question,such as, in this case : Will they be in time ?^—willthey be in time ?

The method is a purely emotional one, and now-adays overdone almost to the point of boredom, butit cannot be denied that of all the methods of con-structing the end hitherto devised it is the mosteffective.

Leit-motif {reiteration of theme).—Often it is interest-ing for the scenarist especially to emphasise the

basic theme of the scenario. For this purpose existsthe method of reiteration. Its nature can easily bedemonstrated by an example. In an anti-religiousscenario that aimed at exposing the cruelty andhypocrisy of the Church in employ of the Tsaristregime the same shot was several times repeated :a church-bell slowly ringing and, superimposed onit, the title : " The sound of bells sends into theworld a message of patience and love." Thispiece appeared whenever the scenarist desired toemphasise the stupidity of patience, or the hypocrisyof the love thus preached.

The little that has been said above of relationalediting naturally by no means exhausts the wholeabundance of its methods. It has merely beenimportant to show that constructional editing, amethod specifically and peculiarly filmic, is, in thehands of the scenarist, an important instrument ofimpression. Careful study of its use in pictures,combined with talent, will undoubtedly lead to thediscovery of new possibilities and, in conjunctionwith them, to the creation of new forms.

(First published as Number Three of a series of popular scientificfilm handbooks by Kinopetchat, Moscow and Leningrad, 1926.)

/

II

FILM DIRECTOR AND FILM MATERIAL

Part ITHE PECULIARITIES OF FILM MATERIAL

THE FILM AND THE THEATRE

IN the earliest years of its existence the filmwas no more than an interesting inventionthat made it possible to record movements,a faculty denied to simple photography. On thefilm, the appearances of all possible movements couldbe seized and fixed. The first films consisted ofprimitive attempts to fix upon the celluloid, as anovelty, the movements of a train, crowds passing byupon the street, a landscape seen from a railway-carriage window, and so forth. Thus, in the begin-ning, the film was, from its nature, only " livingphotography." The first attempts to relate cinema-tography to the world of art were naturally boundup with the Theatre. Similarly only as a novelty,like the shots of the railway-engine and the movingsea, primitive scenes of comic or dramatic character,played by actors, began to be recorded. The filmpublic appeared. There grew up a whole series ofrelatively small, specialised theatres in which theseprimitive films were shown.

The film now began to assume all the charac-teristics of an industry (and indeed a very profitable

c* 51

one). The great significance was realised of thefact that from a single negative can be printedmany positives, and that by this means a reel of filmcan be multiplied like a book, and spread broadcastin many copies.28 Great possibilities began to openthemselves out. No longer was the film regardedas a mere novelty. The first experiments in record-ing serious and significant material appeared. Therelationship with the Theatre could not, however,yet be dissolved, and it is easy to understand how,once again, the first steps of the film producerconsisted in attempts to carry plays over on tocelluloid. It seemed at that time to be especiallyinteresting to endow the theatrical performance—the work of the actor, whose art had hitherto beenbut transitory, and real only in the moment ofperception by the spectator—with the quality ofduration.

The film remained, as before, but living photo-graphy. Art did not enter into the work of him whomade it. He only photographed the " art of theactor." Of a peculiar method for the film actor, ofpeculiar and special properties of the film or of tech-nique in shooting the picture for the director, therecould as yet be no suspicion. How, then, did thefilm director of that time work ? At his disposal wasa scenario, exactly resembling the play written forthe Theatre by the playwright ; only the words ofthe characters were missing, and these, as far aspossible, were replaced by dumb show, and some-times by long-winded titles. The director played the

scene through in its exact theatrical sequence ; herecorded the walkings to and fro, the entrances andexits of the actors. He took the scene thus played-through as a whole, while the cameraman, alwaysturning, fixed it as a whole upon the celluloid. Theprocess of shooting could not be conceived of other-wise, for as director's material served these same realpersons—actors—with whom one worked also inthe Theatre ; the camera served only for the simplefixation of scenes already completely arranged anddefinitely planned. The pieces of film shot werestuck together in simple temporal sequence of thedeveloping action, just as the act of a play is formedfrom scenes, and then were presented to the public asa picture. To sum up in short, the work of the filmdirector differed in no wise from that of the theatricalproducer.

A play, exactly recorded upon celluloid and pro-jected upon a screen, with the actors deprived oftheir words—that was the film of those early days.

THE METHODS OF THE FILM

The Americans were the first to discover in the film-play the presence of peculiar possibilities of its own.It was perceived that the film can not only make asimple record of the events passing before the lens,but that it is in a position to reproduce them uponthe screen by special methods, proper only to itself.

Let us take as example a demonstration that filesby upon the street. Let us picture to ourselves anobserver of that demonstration. In order to receive

a clear and definite impression of the demonstration,the observer must perform certain actions. First hemust climb upon the roof of a house, to get a viewfrom above of the procession as a whole and measureits dimensions ; next he must come down and lookout through the first-floor window at the inscriptionson the banners carried by the demonstrators ; finally,he must mingle with the crowd, to gain an idea ofthe outward appearance of the participants.

Three times the observer has altered his view-point, gazing now from nearer, now from fartheraway, with the purpose of acquiring as completeand exhaustive as possible a picture of the pheno-menon under review. The Americans were the firstto seek to replace an active observer of this kind bymeans of the camera. They showed in their work thatit was not only possible to record the scene shot, butthat by manoeuvring with the camera itself—in sucha way that its position in relation to the object shotvaried several times—it was made possible to repro-duce the same scene in far clearer and more expres-sive form than with the lens playing the part of atheatre spectator sitting fast in his stall. The camera,until now a motionless spectator, at last received, asit were, a charge of life. It acquired the faculty ofmovement on its own, and transformed itself from aspectator to an active observer. Henceforward thecamera, controlled by the director, could not merelyenable the spectator to see the object shot, but couldinduce him to apprehend it.

It was at this moment that the concepts close-up,

mid-shot, and long-shot first appeared in cinemato-graphy, concepts that later played an enormous partin the creative craft of editing, the basis of the workof film direction. Now, for the first time, becameapparent the difference between the theatrical pro-ducer and his colleague of the film. In the beginningthe material with which both theatrical producerand film director worked was identical. The sameactors playing through in their same sequence thesame scenes, which were but shorter, and, at themost, unaccompanied by words. The technique ofacting for the films differed in no respect from thatof stage-acting. The only problem was the replace-ment, as comprehensibly as possible, of words bygestures. That was the time when the film wasrightly named " a substitute for the stage."

FILM AND REALITY

But, with the grasping of the concept editing, theposition became basically altered. The real materialof film-art proved to be not those actual scenes onwhich the lens of the camera is directed. Thetheatrical producer has always to do only with realprocesses—they are his material. His finally com-posed and created work—the scene produced andplayed upon the stage—is equally a real and actualprocess, that takes place in obedience to the laws ofreal space and real time. When a stage-actor findshimself at one end of the stage, he cannot cross tothe other without taking a certain necessary numberof paces. And crossings and intervals of this kind are

a thing indispensable, conditioned by the laws of realspace and real time, with which the theatrical pro-ducer has always to reckon, and which he is neverin a position to overstep. In fact, in work withreal processes, a whole series of intervals linking theseparate significant points of action are unavoidable.

If, on the other hand, we consider the work ofthe film director, then it appears that the active rawmaterial is no other than those pieces of celluloid onwhich, from various viewpoints, the separate move-ments of the action have been shot. From nothingbut these pieces is created those appearances uponthe screen that form the filmic representation ofthe action shot. And thus the material of the filmdirector consists not of real processes happening inreal space and real time, but of those pieces of cellu-loid on which these processes have been recorded.This celluloid is entirely subject to the will of thedirector who edits it. He can, in the composition ofthe filmic form of any given appearance, eliminateall points of interval, and thus concentrate the actionin time to the highest degree he may require.

This method of temporal concentration, the concen-tration of action by the elimination of unnecessarypoints of interval, occurs also, in a more simplifiedform, in the Theatre. It finds its expression in theconstruction of a play from acts. The element ofplay-construction by which several years are madeto pass between the first and second act is, properly,an analogous temporal concentration of the action.In the film this method is not only pursued to a

maximum, it forms the actual basis of filmic repre-sentation. Though it is possible for the theatricalproducer temporally to approach two neighbouringacts, he is, none the less, unable to do the same withseparate incidents in a single scene.29

The film director, on the contrary, can concen-trate in time not only separate incidents, but eventhe movements of a single person. This process, thathas often been termed a " film trick/' is, in fact,nothing other than the characteristic method offilmic representation.

In order to show on the screen the fall of a manfrom a window five stories high, the shots can betaken in the following way :

First the man is shot falling from the window intoa net, in such a way that the net is not visible onthe screen 30 ; then the same man is shot falling froma slight height to the ground. Joined together, thetwo shots give in projection the desired impression.The catastrophic fall never occurs in reality, it occursonly on the screen, and is the resultant of two piecesof celluloid joined together. From the event of areal, actual fall of a person from an appalling height,two points only are selected : the beginning of thefall and its end. The intervening passage throughthe air is eliminated. It is not correct to call theprocess a trick ; it is a method of filmic representa-tion exactly corresponding to the elimination of thefive years that divide a first act from a second uponthe stage.

From the example of the observer watching the

demonstration pass by on the street, we learned thatthe process of film-shooting may be not only a simplefixation of the event taking place before the lens, butalso a peculiar form of representation of this event.Between the natural event and its appearance uponthe screen there is a marked difference. It is exactlythis difference that makes the film an art. Guided by thedirector, the camera assumes the task of removingevery superfluity and directing the attention of thespectator in such a way that he shall see only thatwhich is significant and characteristic. When thedemonstration was shot, the camera, after havingviewed the crowd from above in the long-shot, forcedits way into the press and picked out the mostcharacteristic details. These details were not theresult of chance, they were selected, and, moreover,selected in such a way that from their sum, as froma sum of separate elements, the image of the wholeaction could be assembled. Let us suppose, forinstance, that the demonstration to be recorded ischaracterised by its component detail : first Redsoldiers, then workmen, and finally Pioneers.31Suppose the film technician try to show the spectatorthe detail composition of this demonstration bysimply setting the camera at a fixed point and lettingthe crowd go by unbroken before the lens, then hewill force the spectator to spend exactly as muchtime in watching the representation as he wouldhave needed to let the crowd itself go by. By takingthe procession in this way he would force the spec-tator to apprehend the mass of detail as it streamed

past. But, by the use of that method peculiar tofilms, three short pieces can be taken separately :the Red soldiers, the workmen, and the Pioneers.The combination of these separate pieces with thegeneral view of the crowd provides an image of thedemonstration from which no element is lacking.The spectator is enabled to appreciate both itscomposition and its dimension, only the time inwhich he effects that appreciation is altered.

FILMIC SPACE AND TIME

Created by the camera, obedient to the will ofthe director—after the cutting and joining of theseparate pieces of celluloid—there arises a newfilmic time ; not that real time embraced by thephenomenon as it takes place before the camera,but a new filmic time, conditioned only by the speedof perception and controlled by the number andduration of the separate elements selected for filmicrepresentation of the action.

Every action takes place not only in time, but alsoin space. Filmic time is distinguished from actualin that it is dependent only on the lengths of theseparate pieces of celluloid joined together by thedirector. Like time, so also is filmic space boundup with the chief process of film-making, editing.By the junction of the separate pieces the directorbuilds a filmic space entirely his own. He unitesand compresses separate elements, that have perhapsbeen recorded by him at differing points of real,actual space, into one filmic space. By virtue of the

possibility of eliminating points of passage andinterval, which we have already analysed and whichobtains in all film-work, filmic space appears as asynthesis of real elements picked out by the camera.

Remember the example of the man falling fromthe fifth floor. That which is in reality but a ten-foot fall into a net and a six-foot further leap froma bench appears upon the screen as a fall from ahundred feet high.

L. V. Kuleshov assembled in the year 1920 thefollowing scenes as an experiment :

1. A young man walks from left to right.

2. A woman walks from right to left.

3. They meet and shake hands. The young manpoints.

4. A large white building is shown, with a broadflight of steps.

5. The two ascend the steps.

The pieces, separately shot, were assembled inthe order given and projected upon the screen. Thespectator was presented with the pieces thus joinedas one clear, uninterrupted action : a meeting oftwo young people, an invitation to a nearby house,and an entry into it. Every single piece, however,had been shot in a different place ; for example, theyoung man near the G.U.M. building, the womannear Gogol's monument, the handshake near theBolshoi Teatr, the white house came out of anAmerican picture (it was, in fact, the White House),and the ascent of the steps was made at St. Saviour's

Cathedral. What happened as a result? Thoughthe shooting had been done in varied locations, thespectator perceived the scene as a whole. The partsof real space picked out by the camera appearedconcentrated, as it were, upon the screen. Thereresulted what Kuleshov termed " creative geo-graphy." By the process of junction of pieces ofcelluloid appeared a new, filmic space withoutexistence in reality. Buildings separated by a dis-tance of thousands of miles were concentrated to aspace that could be covered by a few paces of theactors.

THE MATERIAL OF FILMS

We have now established the chief points in thedifference between the work of the film director andthat of the theatrical producer. This difference liesin the distinction of material. The theatrical pro-ducer works with real actuality, which, though hemay always remould, yet forces him to remain boundby the laws of real space and real time. The filmdirector, on the other hand, has as his materialthe finished, recorded celluloid. This material fromwhich his final work is composed consists not ofliving men or real landscapes, not of real, actualstage-sets, but only of their images, recorded onseparate strips that can be shortened, altered, andasembled according to his will. The elements ofreality are fixed on these pieces ; by combining themin his selected sequence, shortening and lengtheningthem according to his desire, the director builds uphis own " filmic " time and " filmic " space. He

does not adapt reality, but uses it for the creationof a new reality, and the most characteristic andimportant aspect of this process is that, in it, laws ofspace and time invariable and inescapable in workwith actuality become tractable and obedient. Thefilm assembles the elements of reality to build fromthem a new reality proper only to itself; and thelaws of space and time, that, in work with livingmen, with sets and the footage of the stage, are fixedand fast, are, in the film, entirely altered. Filmicspace and filmic time, the creation of the technician,are entirely subject to the director. The basicmethod of filmic representation, this construction ofthe unity of a film from separate pieces or elements,the superfluous among which can be eliminated andonly the characteristic and significant retained, offersexceptional possibilities.

Everyone knows that the nearer we approach aregarded object, the less material appears simul-taneously in our view-field ; the more clearly ourinvestigating glance examines an object, the moredetails we perceive and the more limited and sec-tional becomes our view. We no longer perceivethe object as a whole, but pick out the details withour glance in order, thus receiving by associationan impression of the whole that is far more vivid,deeper, and sharper than if we had gazed at theobject from a distance and perceived the whole ina general view, inevitably missing detail in so doing.When we wish to apprehend anything, we alwaysbegin with the general outlines, and then, by

intensifying our examination to the highest degree,enrich the apprehension by an ever-increasingnumber of details. The particular, the detail, willalways be a synonym of intensification. It is uponthis that the strength of the film depends, that itscharacteristic speciality is the possibility of giving aclear, especially vivid representation of detail. Thepower of filmic representation lies in the fact that,by means of the camera, it continually strives topenetrate as deeply as possible, to the mid-point ofevery image. The camera, as it were, forces itself,ever striving, into the profoundest deeps of life ; itstrives thither to penetrate, whither the averagespectator never reaches as he glances casually aroundhim. The camera goes deeper ; anything it can seeit approaches, and thereafter eternalises upon thecelluloid. When we approach a given, real image,we must spend a definite effort and time upon it, inadvancing from the general to the particular, inintensifying our attention to that point at which webegin to remark and apprehend details. By theprocess of editing the film removes, eliminates, thiseffort. The film spectator is an ideal, perspicuousobserver. And it is the director who makes him so.In the discovered, deeply embedded detail there liesan element of perception, the creative element thatcharacterises as art the work of man, the sole elementthat gives the event shown its final worth.

To show something as everyone sees it is to haveaccomplished nothing. Not that material that isembraced in a first, casual, merely general and

superficial glance is required, but that which dis-closes itself to an intent and searching glance, thatcan and will see deeper. This is the reason why thegreatest artists, those technicians who feel the filmmost acutely, deepen their work with details. Todo this they discard the general aspect of the image,and the points of interval that are the inevitableconcomitant of every natural event. The theatricalproducer, in working with his material, is not in aposition to remove from the view of the spectatorthat background, that mass of general and inevitableoutline, that surrounds the characteristic and parti-cular details. He can only underline the mostessential, leaving the spectator himself to concentrateupon what he underlines. The film technician,equipped with his camera, is infinitely more powerful.The attention of the spectator is entirely in his hands.The lens of the camera is the eye of the spectator.He sees and remarks only that which the direc-tor desires to show him, or, more correctly put,that which the director himself sees in the actionconcerned.

ANALYSIS

In the disappearance of the general, obvious out-line and the appearance on the screen of some deeplyhidden detail, filmic representation attains thehighest point of its power of external expression.The film, by showing him the detail without its back-ground, releases the spectator from the unnecessarytask of eliminating superfluities from his view-field.

By eliminating distraction it spares the spectator'senergy, and reaches thereby the clearest and mostmarked effect. As example we shall take someinstances from well-known films in which notabledirectors have attained great strength of expression.As example, the trial scene in Griffith's Intolerance.Here there is a scene in which a woman hears thedeath sentence passed on her husband, who isinnocent of the crime. The director shows the faceof the woman : an anxious, trembling smile throughtears. Suddenly the spectator sees for an instanther hands, only her hands, the fingers convulsivelygripping the skin. This is one of the most powerfulmoments in the film. Not for a minute did we seethe whole figure, but only the face, and the hands.And it is perhaps by virtue of this fact that thedirector understood how to choose and to show, fromthe mass of real material available, only these twocharacteristic details, that he attained the wonderfulpower of impression notable in this scene. Hereonce more we encounter the process, mentionedabove, of clear selection, the possibility of theelimination of those insignificances that fulfil onlya transition function and are always inseparable fromreality, and of the retention only of climacticand dramatic points. Exactly upon this possibilitydepends the essence of the significance of editing,the basic process of filmic creation. Confusion bylinkage and wastage by intervals are inevitableattributes of reality. When a spectator is dealingwith actuality he can overcome them only by a given

effort of attention. He rests his glance on a face,then lets it glide down the body until finally it restsattentively on the hands—this is what a spectatorhas to do when looking at a real woman in realsurroundings.

The film spares this work of stopping and down-ward-gliding. Thus the spectator spends no super-fluous energy. By elimination of the points ofinterval the director endows the spectator with theenergy preserved, he charges him, and thus theappearance assembled from a series of significantdetails is stronger in force of expression from thescreen than is the appearance in actuality.

We now perceive that the work of the film directorhas a double character. For the construction offilmic form he requires proper material ; if he wishesto work filmically, he cannot and must not recordreality as it presents itself to the actual, averageonlooker. To create a filmic form, he must selectthose elements from which this form will later beassembled. To assemble these elements, he must firstfind them. And now we hit on the necessity for aspecial process of analysis of every real event thatthe director wishes to use in a shot. For every eventa process has to be carried out comparable to theprocess in mathematics termed " differentiation "—that is to say, dissection into parts or elements. Herethe technique of observation links up with thecreative process of the selection of the characteristicelements necessary for the future finished work. Inorder to represent the woman in the court scene,

Griffith probably imagined, he may even haveactually seen, dozens of despairing women, andperceived not only their heads and hands, but heselected from the whole images only the smilethrough tears and the convulsive hands, creatingfrom them an unforgettable filmic picture.

Another example. In that filmically outstandingwork, The Battleship " Potemkin" 32 Eisenstein shotthe massacre of the mob on the great flight of stepsin Odessa.33 The running of the mob down the stepsis rendered rather sparingly and is not especiallyexpressive, but the perambulator with the baby,which, loosed from the grip of the shot mother, rollsdown the steps, is poignant in its tragic intensity andstrikes with the force of a blow. This perambulatoris a detail, just like the boy with the broken skull inthe same film. Analytically dissected, the mass ofpeople offered a wide field for the creative work ofthe director, and the details correctly discoveredin editing resulted in episodes remarkable in theirexpressive power.

Another example, simpler, but quite characteristicfor film-work : how should one show a motor-caraccident ?—a man being run over.

The real material is thoroughly abundant andcomplex. There is the street, the motor-car, theman crossing the street, the car running him down,the startled chauffeur, the brakes, the man underthe wheels, the car carried forward by its impetus,and, finally, the corpse. In actuality everythingoccurs in unbroken sequence. How was this material

worked out by an American director in the filmDaddy ? The separate pieces were assembled on thescreen in the following sequence :

1. The street with cars in movement : a pedes-trian crosses the street with his back to the camera ;a passing motor-car hides him from view.

2. Very short flash : the face of the startledchauffeur as he steps on the brake.

3. Equally short flash : the face of the victim,his mouth open in a scream.

4. Taken from above, from the chauffeur's seat:legs, glimpsed near the revolving wheels.

5. The sliding, braked wheels of the car.

6. The corpse by the stationary car.

The separate pieces are cut together in short, verysharp rhythm. In order to represent the accidenton the screen, the director dissected analyticallythe whole abundant scene, unbroken in actualdevelopment, into component parts, into elements,and selected from them—sparingly—only the sixessential. And these not only prove sufficient, butrender exhaustively the whole poignancy of the eventrepresented.

In the work of the mathematician there followsafter dissection into elements, after " differentiation,"a combination of the discovered separate elementsto a whole—the so-called " integration."

In the work of the film director the process ofanalysis, the dissection into elements, forms equallyonly a point of departure, which has to be followed by

the assemblage of the whole from the discoveredparts. The finding of the elements, the details of theaction, implies only the completion of a preparatorytask. It must be remembered that from these partsthe complete work is finally to emerge, for, as saidabove, the real motor-car accident might be dis-sected by the onlooker into dozens, perhaps indeedhundreds, of separate incidents. The director, how-ever, chooses only six of them. He makes a selection,and this selection is naturally conditioned in advanceby that filmic image of the accident—happening notin reality but on the screen—which, of course, existsin the head of the director long before its actualappearance on the screen.

EDITING : THE LOGIC OF FILMIC ANALYSIS

The work of the director is characterised bythinking in filmic pictures ; by imagining eventsin that form in which, composed of pieces joinedtogether in a certain sequence, they will appear uponthe screen ; by considering real incidents only asmaterial from which to select separate characteristicelements ; and by building a new filmic reality outof them. Even when he has to do with real objects inreal surroundings he thinks only of their appearancesupon the screen. He never considers a real object inthe sense of its actual, proper nature, but considersin it only those properties that can be carried over onto celluloid. The film director looks only conditionallyupon his material, and this conditionally is extra-ordinarily specific ; it arises from a whole series of

properties peculiar only to the film. Even whilebeing shot, a film must be thought of already as aneditable sequence of separate pieces of celluloid. Thefilmic form is never identical with the real appear-ance, but only similar to it. When the directorestablishes the content and sequence of the separateelements that he is to combine later to filmic form, hemust calculate exactly not only the content, but thelength of each piece, or, in other words, he mustregard it as an element of filmic space and filmictime. Let us suppose that before us lie, haphazardon the table, those separate pieces of material thatwere shot to represent that scene of the motor-caraccident described above. The essential thing is tounite these pieces and to join them into one longstrip of film. Naturally we can join them in anydesired order. Let us imagine an intentionallyabsurd order—for example, the following :

Beginning with the shot of the motor-car, we cutinto the middle of it the legs of the man run over,then the man crossing the street, and finally the faceof the chauffeur. The result is a senseless medley ofpieces that produces in the spectator an impressionof chaos. And rational order will only be broughtinto the alternation of pieces when they are at leastconditioned by that sequence with which a chanceobserver would have been able to let his glance andattention wander from object to object ; only thenwill relation appear between the pieces, and theircombination, having received organic unity, beeffective on the screen. But it is not sufficient that

the pieces be united in definite order. Every eventtakes place not only in space, but in time, and, justas filmic space is created, as we saw, by the junctionin sequence of selected pieces, so must also becreated, moulded from the elements of real time, anew filmic time. Let us suppose that, at the junctionof the pieces shot to represent the accident, nothought has been given to their proportionatelengths ; in result the editing is as follows :

1. Someone crosses the street.

2. Long : the face of the chauffeur at his brake.

3. Equally long : the screaming, wide-openmouth of the victim.

4. The braked wheel and all the other piecesshown similarly in very long strips.

A reel of film cut in this way would, even in correctspacial sequence, appear absurd to the spectator.The car would appear to travel slowly. Theinherently short process of running-over would bedisproportionately and incomprehensibly drawn out.The event would disappear from the screen, leavingonly the projection of some chance material. Onlywhen the right length has been found for everypiece, building a rapid, almost convulsive rhythm ofpicture alternation, analogous to the panic glance,thrown this way and that, of an observer masteredby horror, only then will the screen breathe a life ofits own imparted to it by the director. And thisis because the appearance created by the director isenclosed, not only in filmic space, but also in filmic

time, integrated from elements of real time pickedfrom actuality by the camera. Editing is the lan-guage of the film director. Just as in living speech,so, one may say, in editing : there is a word—thepiece of exposed film, the image ; a phrase—thecombination of these pieces. Only by his editingmethods can one judge a director's individuality.Just as each writer has his own individual style, soeach film director has his own individual method ofrepresentation. The editing junction of the piecesin creatively discovered sequence is already a finaland completing process whose result is the attainmentof a final creation, the finished film. And it is withthis process in mind that the director must attendalso to the formation of these most elementary ofpieces (corresponding to the words in speech), fromwhich later the edited phrases—the incidents andsequences—will be formed.

THE NECESSITY TO INTERFERE WITH MOVEMENT

The organising work of the director is not limitedto editing. Quite a number of film techniciansmaintain that editing should be the only organisingmedium of the film. They hold that the pieces canbe shot anyhow and anywhere, the images must onlybe interesting ; afterwards, by simply joining themaccording to their form and kind, a way will befound to assemble them to a film.34 If any unifyingidea be taken as basis of the editing, the materialwill no doubt be organised to a certain degree. Awhole series of shots taken at hazard in Moscow can

be joined to a whole, and all the separate shots willbe united by their place of taking—the town ofMoscow. The spacial grasp of the camera can benarrowed to any desired degree ; a series of figuresand happenings can be taken on the market-placeand then finally in a room where a meeting is beingheld, and in all these shots there will undoubtedlybe an organising embryo, but the question is howdeeply it will be developed. Such a collection ofshots can be compared to a newspaper, in which theenormous abundance of news is divided into sectionsand columns. The collection of news of all thehappenings in the world, given in the newspaper, isorganised and systematised. But this same news,used in an article or a book, is organised in an evenhigher degree. In the process of creating a film, thework of organisation can and must extend morewidely and deeply than the mere establishment of ahard and fast editing scheme of representation. Theseparate pieces must be brought into organic relationwith each other, and for this purpose their contentmust be considered in the shooting as a deepening,as an advancement, of the whole editing constructioninto the inner depth of each separate element of thisconstruction.

In considering certain of our examples, we havehad to deal with events and appearances that takeplace before the camera independent of the will ofthe director. The shooting of the demonstration was,after all, only a selection of scenes of real actuality,not created by the director, but picked out by him

from the hurly-burly flow of life. But, in order toproduce an edited representation of a given action,in order to take some piece of reality not speciallyarranged by him in editable form, the director mustnone the less, in one way or another, subordinatethis action to his will. Even in the shooting of thisdemonstration we had, if we wished to render as vividas possible a scenic representation of it, to insinuateourselves with the camera into the crowd itself andto get specially selected, typical persons to walk pastthe lens just for the purpose of being taken, thusarbitrarily interfering with the natural course ofevents in order to make them serve for subsequentfilmic representation.35

If we use a more complex example we shall seeeven more clearly that in order to shoot and filmicallyrepresent any given action we must subject it to ourcontrol—that is, it must be possible for us to bringit to a standstill, to repeat it several times, each timeshooting a new detail, and so forth. Suppose wewish editably to shoot the take-off of an aeroplane.For its filmic representation we select the followingelements :

i. The pilot seats himself at the controls.

2. The hand of the pilot makes contact.

3. The mechanic swings the propeller.

4. The aeroplane rolls towards the camera.

5. The take-off itself shot from another positionso that the aeroplane travels away from thecamera as it leaves the ground.

In order to shoot in editable form so simple anaction as a take-off, we must either stop after thefirst movement of the aeroplane, and, having quicklychanged the position of the camera, placing it atthe tail-end of the machine, take the continuationof the movement, or we must unavoidably repeatthe movement of the aeroplane twice ; once let ittravel towards the camera, and, the second time,changing the set-up, away from the camera.

In both cases we must, in order to obtain the filmicrepresentation desired, interrupt the natural courseof the action, either by stopping or by repetition.Almost invariably, in shooting a dynamically con-tinuous action, we must, if we wish to obtain fromit the necessary details, either stop it by interruptionor repeat it several times. In such a way we mustalways make our action dependent on the will ofthe director, even in the shooting of the simplestevents that have nothing to do with " artistic "direction. If we chose not to interfere with thenatural unfolding of the real event, then we should beknowingly making the film impossible. We shouldhave left nothing but a slavish fixation of the event,excluding all possibility of using such advantagesof filmic representation as the particularisation ofdetails and the elimination of superfluous transitorypoints.

ORGANISATION OF THE MATERIAL TO BE SHOT

We now turn to a new side of directorial work—namely, the methods of organisation of the material

to be shot. Suppose the director to be concernedonly in making an industrial film (the work of afactory, large workshop, or institution), a subjectwhich would appear to consist only in the fixation ofa number of processes not requiring his interferenceas director, even so his work consists of somethingmore than the simple setting up of the camera andshooting the machines and people at work fromvarious angles. In order to finish up with a reallyfilmically clear, editable representation, the directoris, with each separate process he shoots, inevitablycompelled to interrupt and interfere, guided by aclear perception of that editing sequence in whichhe will later project the pieces on the screen. Thedirector must introduce into his work the elementof direction, the element of a special organisation ofevery action shot, the goal of which organisation isthe clearest and most exact possible recording ofcharacteristic details.

But when we go on to the shooting of so-called" dramatic " subjects, then naturally the element ofdirection, the element of organisation of the materialto be shot, becomes yet more important and indis-pensable. In order to shoot all the essentials of thefilmic representation of the motor-car accident, thedirector had many times to alter the position of hiscamera ; he had to make the motor-car, the chauf-feur, and the victim carry out their separate andessential movements many times. In the directionof a dramatic film very often an event shown on thescreen never had existence as a whole in reality. It

has been present only in the head, in the imaginationof the director, as he sought the necessary elementsfor the later filmic form.

Here we come to the consideration of that whichmust be shot in the limits of one uninterrupted pieceof celluloid, in the limits of one " shot," as thetechnical term has it. Work in the limits of one shotis naturally dependent on real space and real time ;it is work with single elements of filmic space andfilmic time ; and is naturally directly conditioned bythe cutting later to be carried out. In order toarouse in the spectator the necessary excited impres-sion, the director, in editing the motor-car accident,built up a disturbed rhythm, effected by the excep-tionally short lengths of each single piece. Butremember, the desired material cannot be got bymerely cutting or abruptly shortening the pieces ofcelluloid ; the necessary length into which the con-tent of each piece had to fit must have been borne inmind when it was shot. Let us suppose that it is ourtask to shoot and edit a disturbed, excited scene,that accordingly makes necessary quick change ofthe short pieces. In shooting, however, the scenesand parts of scenes are acted before the lens veryslowly and lethargically. Then, in selecting thepieces and trying to edit them, we shall be facedby an insuperable obstacle. Short pieces must beused, but the action that takes place in the limitsof each separate piece proves to be so slow that,to reach the necessary shortness of each piece, wemust cut, remove part of the action ; while, if

we preserve the shots entire, the pieces provetoo long.

ARRANGING SET-UPS

Let us imagine that the camera, embracing in itsview-field a wide area, for example two personstalking to one another, suddenly approaches one ofthe characters and shows some detail importantto the development of the action and, at thegiven moment, particularly characteristic. Then thecamera withdraws once more and the spectator seesthe further development of the scene in long-shotas previously, both persons of the action being foundagain in the field of view. It must be emphasisedthat the spectator only derives an impression ofunbroken development of the action when the tran-sition from long-shot to close-up (and reverse) isassociated with a movement common to the twopieces. For example, if as detail concerned isselected a hand drawing a revolver from a pocketduring the conversation, the scene must infalliblybe shot as follows : the first long-shot ends with amovement of the hand of the actor reaching forhis pocket ; in the following close-up, showing thehand alone, the movement begun is completed andthe hand gets out the revolver; then back to thelong-shot, in which the hand with the revolver,continuing the movement from the pocket begunat the end of the close-up, aims the weapon at itsadversary. Such linkage by movement is the essen-tial desideratum in that form of editing construction

in which the object taken is not removed from theview-field at a change of set-up. Now, all threepieces are shot separately (technically, more cor-rectly, the whole of the long-shot is taken uninter-ruptedly, from the hand-movement to the threat tothe adversary ; the close-up is taken separately).It is naturally obvious that the close-up of the handof the actor, cut into the long-shot of the hand-movement, will only be in the right place and onlyblend to a unity if the movements of the actor'shand at both moments of actual recording are inexact external correspondence.36

The example given of the hand is extremelyelementary. The hand-movement is not compli-cated and exact repetition not hard to achieve. Butthe use of several set-ups in representing an actor'swork occurs very frequently in films. The move-ments of the actors may be very complicated. Andin order to repeat in the close-up the movementsmade in long-shot, to conform to the requirementsof great spacial and temporal exactness, both directorand actor must be technically highly practised. Yetanother property of films conditions exactness ofspacial directorial construction. In the preparationof the material to be shot, in the construction of thework before the camera, in the choice and fixationof one or other movement form—or, in other words,in the organisation of these tasks—not only arebounds set to the director by the considerations ofhis editing plan, but he is limited also by the specificview-field of the camera itself, which forces all the

material shot into the well-known rectangular con-tour of the cinematograph screen. During his workthe film director does not see what takes place infront of him with the eye of a normal spectator—helooks at it with the eye of the lens.37 The normalhuman gaze, widely embracing the area in front ofhim, does not exist for the director. He sees andconstructs only in that conditioned section of spacethat the camera can take in ; and yet more—thisspace is, as it were, delimited by fast, fixed boun-daries, and the very definite expression of theseboundaries themselves inevitably conditions aninflexibility of composition in the spacial construc-tion. It is obvious that an actor taken with a fairlyclose approximation of the camera will, in makinga movement too wide in relation to the space heoccupies, simply disappear from the view-field of thecamera. If, for example, the actor sit with bendedhead, and must raise his head, at a given approxi-mation of the camera, an error on his part of onlyan inch or two may leave only his chin visible to thespectator, the rest of him being outside the limits ofthe screen, or, technically, " cut off." This elemen-tary example broadly emphasises once again thenecessity of an exact spacial calculation of everymovement the director shoots. Naturally this neces-sity applies not only to close-ups. It may be a grossmistake to take instead of the whole of somebody,only two-thirds of him. To distribute the materialshot and its movements in the rectangle of the picturein such a way that everything is clearly and sharply

apprehensible, to construct every composition in sucha way that the right-angled boundaries of the screendo not disturb the composition found, but perfectlycontain it—that is the achievement towards whichfilm directors strive.

THE ORGANISATION OF CHANGE MATERIAL

Anyone who knows anything of painting knowshow the shape of the canvas on which the pictureis painted conditions the composition of the design.The forms presented upon the canvas must beorganically enclosed in the boundaries of its space.The same is true of the work of the film director.No movement, no construction is thinkable for himoutside that piece of space, limited by a rectangularcontour and technically termed the " picture."38 Itis true that not always does a film director happen todeal with subordination as direct as that of actorsreceiving orders easily obeyed. He often encountershappenings and processes that cannot be directlysubordinated to his will. For the director strivesever to seize and use everything that the world aroundcan offer him. And far from everything in this worldobeys the shouting of a director. For instance, theshooting of a sea, a waterfall, a storm, an avalanche :all this is often brought into a film, and, forming afirmly integral part of the subject, must consequentlybe organised exactly as any other material preparedfor editing. Here the director is completely sub-merged in a mass of chance happenings. Nothingis directly obedient to his will. The movements

before the camera develop in accordance with theirown laws. But the material required by the director—that is, out of which the film can be made—mustnone the less be organised. If the director findshimself confronted with a phenomenon that is chancein this sense, he cannot and must not give in to it,for otherwise his work will change itself to a simple,unregulated record. He must employ the adven-titious phenomenon, and he does so by constantlyinventing a series of special methods. Here comesto his help that possibility of disregarding the naturaldevelopment of the action in real time, of which Ihave already spoken above. The director, alertlywatching with his camera, finds it possible to pickout the material required and to unite the separateshots on the screen, even though they may in realitybe separated from one another by wide temporalintervals. Suppose he require for a film a smallstream, the bursting of a dam, and the flood conse-quent on the catastrophe, he can shoot the streamand the dam in autumn, the river when in spate inspring, and secure the required impression bycombination of the two sections. Suppose the actiontake place on the shores of a sea with a continuousand tempestuous breaking of the surf, the directorcan only take his shots when the waves are highafter a storm. But the shots, though spread out overseveral months, will represent on the screen perhapsonly a day or an hour. Thus the director utilisesthe (natural) repetition of a chance happening forthe required filmic representation.

The recording of the animals that so often appearin films affords a further instance of the use of specialmethods in organising the adventitious. It is saidthat an American director spent sixty working hoursand the corresponding amount of celluloid in orderto get on the screen the exact spring that he neededof a kitten on a mouse. In another film a sea-lionhad to be recorded.39 The timorous animal swamrapidly and irregularly around its pond. Of course,the simple method would have been to take in thewhole pond, setting up the camera the requireddistance away, and enabling the spectator to followthe movements of the sea-lion just as a given observerstanding on the bank would have followed them.The camera could not, and had not, to watch thus ;it had before it a number of separate problems. Thecamera had to observe how the beast glided swiftlyand dexterously over the surface of the water, andit had to observe it from the best viewpoint. Thesea-lion had also to be seen from closer, makingclose-ups necessary. The editing-plan, that precededthe taking of the shots, was as follows :

1. The sea-lion swims in the pond towards thebank—taken slightly from above, the better tofollow the movements of the beast in the water.

2. The sea-lion springs out on to the bank, andthen plunges back into the water.

3. It swims back to its den.

Three times had the viewpoint of the camera to bealtered. Once the photographing had to be from

above, then the camera had to be placed so that thebeast, springing on to the bank, would happen tobe very near it, and the third time the sea-lion hadto be taken swimming away from the camera, so asto show the speed of its movement. At the sametime, the whole material had to be shown inconnected form, so that, on the screen, in theapprehension of the spectator, the three separateshots of sea-lion should blend to the impression ofone continuous movement of the animal, despite thefact that they were taken from different points.One cannot command a beast to swim in a desireddirection or to approach a camera ; but at the sametime its movement was exactly prescribed in theediting-plan, with which the construction of thewhole picture was bound up. When the sea-lionwas being taken from above, it swam—tempted bythe throwing of a fish—several times across the ponduntil it came by chance into the view-field of thecamera in the way the director required. For theclose-up, the bait was thrown again and again untilthe sea-lion leaped on to the right place on the bankand made the necessary turn. Out of thirty takesmade, three were chosen, and these gave on thescreen the desired image of continuous movement.This movement was not organised by direct pres-cription of the work required, but attained byapproximate control of adventitious elements andsubsequent strict selection of the material gathered.The chance is synonymous of real, unfalsified, unactedlife. In fifty per cent of his work the director

encounters it. Organisation and exact arrangement—this is the basic slogan of film work, and it is chieflyaccomplished by the editing. The editing-plan canexist before the moment of shooting, and then thewill of the director transforms and subdues realityin order to assemble the work out of it. The editing-plan can appear during the process of shooting, ifthe director, come upon unforeseen material, use itsimultaneously orientating his work according tothat feasible future form that will compose, from thepieces shot, a united filmic image.

So, for example, in The Battleship " Potemkin " thebrilliant shots taken in the mist by the cameramanTisse are cut beautifully into the film with strikingeffect and organically weld themselves to its whole,though nobody had foreseen the mist. Indeed, itwas the more impossible to foresee the mist becausemists had hitherto been regarded as a hindrance infilm-work.

But, in either case, the shooting must be relatedorganically to the editing-plan, and consequentlythe paramount requirement of an exact spacial andtemporal calculation of the content of each pieceremains in force.

FILMIC FORM

When, instead of making a simple fixation of someaction that takes place in reality, we wish to renderit in its filmic form—that is to say, exchange itsactual, uninterrupted flow for an integration ofcreatively selected elements—then we must bear

invariably in mind those laws that relate the spec-tator to the director who edits the shots. Whenwe discussed a haphazard, chaotic ordination ofshots, we laid it down that this would appear as ameaningless disorder to the spectator. To impressthe spectator is correctly to discover the order andrhythm of the combination.

How does one hit upon such an ordination ?Certainly, generally speaking, this, like any othercreative artistic process, must be left ultimately tothe artist's intuition. None the less, at least the pathsthat approximately determine the direction of thiswork should be indicated. We have already madecomparison above between the lens and the eye ofan observer. This comparison can be carried veryfar. The director, as he determines the position ofthe camera in shooting and prescribes the length ofeach separate shot, can, in fact, be compared to anobserver who turns his glance from one element ofthe action to another, so long as this observer is notapathetic in respect to his emotional state. The moredeeply he is excited by the scene before him, themore rapidly and suddenly (staccato) his attentionsprings from one point to another. (The example ofthe motor-car accident.) The more disinterestedlyand phlegmatically he observes the action, thecalmer and slower will be the changes of his pointsof attention, and consequently the changes of set-upof the camera. The emotion can unquestionably becommunicated by the specific rhythm of the editing.Griffith, the American, richly uses this method in

the greater part of his films. Here belongs also thatcharacteristic directorial method of forcing the spec-tator to insinuate himself into the skin of the actor,and letting him see with the latter's eyes. Veryoften after the face of the hero looking at something,the object looked at is shown from his viewpoint.The greater part of the methods of editing a filmyet known to us can be linked to this regardingof the camera as observer. The considerationsthat determine changes of glance coincide almostexactly with those that govern correct editingconstruction.

But it cannot be claimed that this comparison isexhaustive. The construction of filmic form inediting can be carried out in several ways. For,finally, it is the editing itself that contains the culmi-nation of the creative work of the film director.Indeed, it is in the direct discovery of methods foruse in the editing of the material filmed that the filmwill gain for itself a worthy place among the othergreat arts. Film-art is yet inks period of birth. Suchmethods as approximation, comparison, pattern, andso forth, that have already been long an organicpreparatory part of the existing arts, are only nowbeing tested fumblingly in the film. I cannot hererefrain from the opportunity of instancing a brilliantexample of an unquestionably new editing methodthat Eisenstein used in The Battleship " Potemkin"

The fourth reel ends with the firing of a gun, onboard the rebel battleship, at the Odessa Theatre.This seemingly simple incident is handled in an

extraordinarily interesting way by Eisenstein. Theediting is as follows :

i. Title:" And the rebel battleship answered the brutality of thetyrant with a shell upon the town.'9

2. A slowly and deliberately turning gun-turretis shown.

3. Title :

" Objective—the Odessa Theatre99

4. Marble group at the top of the theatrebuilding.

5. Title :

" On the General9s Headquarters99

6. Shot from the gun.

7. In two very short shots the marble figure ofCupid is shown above the gates of a building.

8. A mighty explosion ; the gates totter.

9. Three short shots, a stone lion sleeping, astone lion with open eyes, and a rampant stonelion.

10. A new explosion, shattering the gates.

This is an editing construction that is reproducedin words only with difficulty, but that is almostshatteringly effective on the screen. The director hashere employed a daring form of editing. In his filma stone lion rises to its feet and roars. This imagehas hitherto been thinkable only in literature, andits appearance on the screen is an undoubted and

thoroughly promising innovation. It is interestingto observe that in this short length of film all thecharacteristic elements peculiar and specific to filmicrepresentation are united. The battleship was takenin Odessa, the various stone lions in the Crimea,40and the gates, I believe, in Moscow. The elementsare picked out and welded into one united filmicspace. From different, immovable stone lions hasarisen in the film the non-existent movement of afilmic lion springing to its feet. Simultaneously withthis movement has appeared a time non-existent inreality, inseparably bound up with each movement.The rebel battleship is concentrated to a single gun-muzzle, and the General's headquarters stare at thespectator in the shape of a single marble group onthe summit of their roof. The struggle between theenemies not only loses nothing thereby, but gains inclearness and sharpness. Naturally this example ofthe lions instanced here cannot be brought intorelation with the use of the camera as observer. Itis an exceptional example, offering undoubted possi-bilities in the future for the creative work of the filmdirector. Here the film passes from naturalism, whichin a certain degree was proper to it, to free, symbolicrepresentation, independent of the requirements ofelementary probability.

THE TECHNIQUE OF DIRECTORIAL WORK

We have already laid down, as the characteristicproperty of filmic representation, the striving of thecamera to penetrate as deeply as possible into the

details of the event being represented, to approachas nearly as possible to the object under observation,and to pick out only that which can be seen witha glance, intensified to eliminate the general andsuperficial. Equally characteristic is its externallyexhaustive embrace of the events it handles. Onemight say that the film, as it were, strives to force thespectator to transcend the limits of normal humanapprehension. On the one hand, it allows this appre-hension to be sharpened by incredible attentivenessof observation, in concentrating entirely on • thesmallest details. At the same time, it allows eventsin Moscow and nearly related events in America tobe embraced in a nearly simultaneous comprehension.Concentration on details and wide embrace of thewhole include an extraordinary mass of material.Thus the director is faced with the task of organisingand carefully working out a great number of separatetasks, according to a definite plan previously devisedby him. As instance : in every, even in an average,film the number of persons in the action is seldomless than several dozen, and each of these persons—even those shown only shortly—is organicallyrelated to the film as a whole : the performance ofeach of these persons must be carefully ordered andthought out, exactly as carefully as any shot fromthe part of a principal. A film is only really signifi-cant when every one of its elements is firmly weldedto a whole. And this will only be the case whenevery element of the task is carefully mastered. Whenone calculates that in a film of about 4,000 feet there

are about five hundred pieces, then one perceivesthat there are five hundred separate but interlockedgroups of problems to be solved, carefully and atten-tively, by the director. When one considers yetagain that work on a film is always and inevitablylimited by a given maximal time duration, then onesees that the director is so overloaded with work thatsuccessful carrying through of the film with directionfrom one man alone is almost impossible. It istherefore quite easily comprehensible that all notabledirectors seek to have their work carried out in adepartmentalised manner. The whole work ofproducing a film disintegrates into a series of separateand, at the same time, firmly interrelated sections.Even if one only enumerates the basic stages super-ficially, one gets, none the less, a very impressivelist. As follows :

1. The scenario, and its contained treatment.

2. The preparation of the shooting-script,determination of the editing construction.

3. The selection of actors.

4. The building of sets and the selection ofexteriors.

5. The direction and taking of the separateelements into which incidents are divided forediting, the shooting-script script-scenes.

6. Laboratory work on the material shot.

7. The editing (the cutting).

The director, as the single organising control thatguides the assembling of the film from beginning to

end, must naturally make his influence felt in eachof these separate sections. If a hiatus, a mishap,creep into the work of but one of the stages listed,the whole film—the result of the director's collectivecreation—will inevitably suffer, equally whether itbe a matter of a badly chosen actor, of an unevenpiece of continuity in the treatment, or of a badlydeveloped piece of negative. Thus it is obvious thatthe director must be the central organiser of a groupof colleagues whose efforts are directed upon the goalmapped out by him.

Collective work on a film is not just a concessionto current practice, but a necessity that follows fromthe characteristic basic peculiarities of films. TheAmerican director is surrounded during his direc-torial work by a whole staff of colleagues, each ofwhom fulfils a sharply defined and delimited func-tion. A series of assistants, each provided by thedirector with a task in which the latter's idea is clearlydefined, works simultaneously on the many incidentsand parts of incidents. After having been checkedand confirmed by the director, these incidents areshot and added to the mass of material being pre-pared for the assembling of the film. The resolutionof certain problems—such, for instance, as theorganised shooting of crowd-scenes including some-times as many as a thousand persons—shows quiteclearly that the director's work cannot attain aproper result unless he has a sufficiently extensivestaff of colleagues at his disposal. In fine, a directorworking with a thousand extras exactly resembles a

commander-in-chief. He gives battle to the indif-ference of the spectator ; it is his task to conquerit by means of an expressive construction of themovement of the masses he guides ; and, like acommander-in-chief, he must have a sufficientnumber of officers at his disposal to be able to swaythe crowd according to his will. We have saidalready that, in order to attain a unified creation,a complete film, the director must lead constantthrough all the numerous stages of the work aunifying, organising line created by him. We shallnow examine these stages one by one, in order tobe able to represent to ourselves yet more clearly thenature of the work of film direction.

Part IITHE DIRECTOR AND THE SCENARIO

THE DIRECTOR AND THE SCENARIST

In production, affairs usually take the followingcourse : a scenario is received, handed over tothe director, and he submits it to a so-calleddirectorial treatment—that is to say, he works overthe entire material submitted him by the scenaristaccording to his own individuality ; he expressesthe thoughts offered him in his own filmic speech—in the language of separate images, separateelements, shots, that follow one another in a certainsequence he establishes.

In short, if a film be compared with the scenariolying basic to it, it is possible to distinguish thetheme, the subject treatment of the theme, and,finally, that imaginary filmic formation of the treat-ment that is worked out by the director in theprocess of production. Needless to say, these threestages of work must be directly and organicallyinterdependent. None the less, it is evident that thework of the scenarist extends only up to a certainpoint, after which the share of the director begins.There is no art-form in which a sharp divisionbetween two stages of work is thinkable. One cannotcontinue a work from some point in its course, andnot have been linked with it from its beginning.Therefore, as a result of the necessity for unificationof two stages, the preliminary work of the scenaristand the subsequent directorial work, the followingis inevitable : either the director must be directlyassociated with the work of the scenarist from thebeginning, or, if this be impossible for some reasonor other, he must inevitably go through the scenario,removing anything foreign to him, maybe alteringseparate parts and sequences, maybe the entiresubject-construction. The director is ever faced withthe task of creating the film from a series of plasticallyexpressive images. In the ability to find such plasticimages, in the faculty of creating from separate shots,by editing, clear, expressive " phrases," and con-necting these phrases into vividly impressive periods,and from these periods constructing a film—in thisconsists the art of the director. Not always can the

scenarist, especially when he has not a clearly filmi-cally thinking brain and is thus in some degreehimself a director, provide in ready form the plasticmaterial required by the director. Usually it isotherwise, the scenarist gives the director the idea,as such—the detached content of the image, and notits concrete form. But in a collaboration of this kindthe welding together of the two colleagues, thescenarist and the director, is certainly of tremendousimportance. It is easy to put forward ideas that willwake no echo in the director and must remain apure abstraction without concrete form. Even thetheme itself of the scenario—in other words, its basis—must inevitably be selected and established incontact with the director. The theme conditions theaction, colours it, and thus, of course, inevitablycolours that plastic content the expression of whichis the chief substance of the director's task. Onlyif the theme be organically comprehended by thedirector will he be able to subdue it to the unifyingoutline of the form he is creating.

Pursuing further, we come to the action. Theaction outlines a number of situations for thecharacters, their relations to one another, and, notleast, their encounters. It prescribes in its develop-ment a whole number of events that already have,in some sort, feelable form. The action cannot bethought of without already some plastically expres-sive form. In most cases it is difficult for a scenarist,having graduated from the literary field, to steerhis course by the conditions of externally expressive

form. Already in planning the action the basicincidents that are to determine its shape mustinfallibly be mapped out. Here comes yet moreclearly to light the inevitable dependence on thelater directorial work. Even such a thing as thecharacteristics of a person of the action will bemeaningless if not shown in a series of plasticallyeffective movements or situations.

THE ENVIRONMENT OF THE FILM

To continue. All the action of any scenario isimmersed in some environment that provides, as itwere, the general colour of the film. This environ-ment may, for example, be a special mode of life.By more detailed examination, one may even regardas the environment some separate peculiarity, somespecial essential trait of the given mode of lifeselected. This environment, this colour, cannot, andmust not, be rendered by one explanatory scene ora title ; it must constantly pervade the whole film,or its appropriate part, from beginning to end. AsI have said, the action must be immersed in thisbackground. A whole series of the best films ofrecent times has shown that this emphasis by meansof an environment in which the action is immersedis quite easily effected in cinematography. Thefilm Tot'able David shows us this vividly. It is alsointeresting that the effecting of the unity of thiscolour of a film is based upon the scarcely communi-cable ability to saturate the film with numerous fineand correctly observed details. Naturally it is not

possible to require of the scenarist that he shalldiscover all these details and fix them in writing.The best that he can do is to find their necessaryabstract formulation, and it is the affair of thedirector to absorb this formulation and give it thenecessary plastic shape. Remarks by the scenaristsuch as, perhaps, " There was an insufferable smellin the room " or " Many factory-sirens vibrated andsang through the heavy, oil-permeated atmosphere "are not in any sense forbidden. They indicate cor-rectly the relation between the ideas of the scenaristand the future plastic shaping by the director. Itmay already now be said with a fair degree ofcertainty that the most immediate task next awaitingthe director is that very solution by filmic methodsof the descriptive problems mentioned. The firstexperiments were carried out by the Americans inshowing a landscape of symbolic character at thebeginning of a film. ToVable David began with thepicture of a village taken through a cherry-tree inflower. The foaming, tempestuous sea symbolisedthe leit-motif of the film The Remnants of a Wreck.

A wonderful example, affording unquestionablyan achievement of this kind, are the pictures of themisty dawn rising over the corpse of the murderedsailor in The Battleship " Potemkin" The solution ofthese problems—the depiction of the environment—is an undoubted and important part of the work onthe scenario. And this work naturally cannot becarried out without direct participation by thedirector. Even a simple landscape—a piece of nature

98 PUDOVKIN

so often encountered in films—must, by some innerguiding line, be bound up with the developingaction.

I repeat that the film is exceptionally economicaland precise in its work. There is, and must be, init no superfluous element. There is no such thingas a neutral background, and every factor must becollected and directed upon the single aim of solvingthe given problems. For every action, in so far asit takes place in the real world, is always involvedin general conditions—that is, the nature of theenvironment.

The action of the scenes may take place by day orby night. Film directors have long been familiarwith this point, and the effort to render night effectsis to this day an interesting problem for film directors.One can go further. The American, Griffith, suc-ceeded in the film America in obtaining, withmarvellous tenderness and justness, graduations oftwilight and morning. The director has a mass ofmaterial at his disposal for this kind of work. Thefilm is interesting, as said before, not only in thatit is able to concentrate on details, but also in itsability to weld to a unity numerous materials,deriving from widely embraced sources.

As example, this same morning light : To gainthis effect, the director can use not only the growinglight of sunrise, but also numerous correctly selected,characteristic processes that infallibly relate them-selves with approaching dawn in the apprehensionof the spectator. The light of lamp-posts growing

paler against the lightening sky, the silhouettes ofscarcely visible buildings, the tops of trees tenderlytouched with the light of the not yet ascended sun,awakening birds, crowing cocks, the early morningmist, the dew—all this can be employed by thedirector, shot, and in editing built to a harmoniouswhole.

In one film an interesting method was used ofrepresenting the filmic image of a dawn. In orderto embrace in the editing construction the feeling ofgrowing and ever wider expanding light, the separateshots follow one another in such wise that at thebeginning, when it is still dark, only details can beseen upon the screen. The camera took only close-ups, as if, like the eye of man in the surroundingdark, it saw only what was near to it. With theincrease of the light the camera became ever moreand more distant from the object shot. Simul-taneously with the broadening of the light, broaderand broader became the view-field embraced by thelens. From the close-ups in darkness the directorchanged to ever more distant long-shots, as if hesought directly to render the increasing light, per-vading everything widely and more widely. It isnotable that here is employed a pure technical pos-sibility, peculiar only to the film, of communicatinga very subtle feeling.

It is clear that work on the solution of problems ofthis kind is bound up so closely with the knowledgeof film technique, so organically with the puredirectorial work of analysis, selection of the material,

ioo PUDOVKIN

and its unification in creative editing, that suchproblems cannot, independently of the director, beresolved for him by the scenarist alone. At the sametime, it is, as already mentioned, absolutely essentialto give the expression of this environment in whichthe action of every film is immersed, and accordingly,in the creation of the scenario, it is indispensable forthe director to collaborate in the work.

THE CHARACTERS IN THE ENVIRONMENT

I should like to note that in the work of one ofthe strongest directors of the present day, DavidGriffith, in almost every one of his films, and indeedespecially in* those in which he has reached themaximum expression and power, it is almostinvariably the case that the action of the scenariodevelops among characters blended directly withthat which takes place in the surrounding world.

The stormy finale of the Griffith film is so con-structed as to strengthen for the spectator the conflictand the struggle of the heroes to an unimagineddegree, thanks to the fact that the director introducesinto the action, gale, storm, breaking ice, rivers inspate, a gigantic roaring waterfall. When LilianGish, in Way Down East, runs broken from the house,her happiness in ruins, and the faithful Barthelmessrushes after her to bring her back to life, the wholepursuit of love behind despair, developing in thefurious tempo of the action, takes place in a fearfulsnowstorm ; and at the final climax, Griffith forcesthe spectator himself to feel despair, when a rotating

block of ice, on it cowering the figure of a woman,approaches the precipice of a gigantic waterfall,itself conveying the impression of inescapable andhopeless ruin.

First the snowstorm, then the foaming, swirlingriver in thaw, packed with ice-blocks that rage yetwilder than the storm, and finally the mighty water-fall, conveying the impression of death itself. In thissequence of events is repeated, on large scale as itwere, the same line of that increasing despair—despair striving to make an end, for death, that hasirresistibly gripped the chief character. This har-mony—the storm in the human heart and the stormin the frenzy of nature—is one of the most powerfulachievements of the American genius.41 This exampleshows particularly clearly how far-reaching and deepmust be that connection, between the content of thescenario and the director's general treatment, thatadds strength and unity to his work. The directornot only transfers the separate scenes suggested bythe scenarist each into movement and form, he hasalso to absorb the scenario in its entirety, from thetheme to the final form of the action, and perceiveand feel each scene as an irremovable, componentpart of the unified structure. And this can only bethe case if he be organically involved in the workon the scenario from beginning to end.

When the work on the general construction hasbeen finished, the theme moulded to a subject, theseparate scenes in which the action is realised laiddown, then only do we come to the period of the

102 PUDOVKIN

hardest work on the treatment of the scenario, thatstage of work when, already concrete and percep-tible, that filmic form of the picture that will resultcan be foreseen ; do we come to the period of theplanning out of the editing scheme for the shots, ofthe discovery of those component parts from whichthe separate images will later be assembled.

To bring a waterfall into the action does notnecessarily mean to create it on the screen. Let usremember what we said regarding the creation of afilmic image that becomes vivid and effective onlywhen the necessary details are correctly found. Wecome to the stage of utilising the pieces of real spaceand real time for the future creation of filmic spaceand filmic time. If it may be said at the beginningof the process that the scenarist guides the work—and that the director has only to pay attention soas properly to apprehend it organically, and so as,not only to keep contact with it at every givenmoment, but to be constantly welded to it—nowcomes a change. The guide of the work is now thedirector, equipped with that knowledge of techniqueand that specific talent that enables him to find thecorrect and vivid images expressing the quintessentialelement of each given idea. The director organiseseach separate incident, analysing it, disintegratingit into elements, and simultaneously thinking of theconnection of these elements in editing. It is hereof special interest to note that the scenarist at thislater stage, just as the director in the early stages,must not be divorced from the work. His task it is

to supervise the resolution to editable shape of everyseparate problem, thinking at every instant of thebasic theme—sometimes completely abstract, yetcurrent in every separate problem.

Only by means of a close collaboration can acorrect and valuable result be attained. Naturallyone might postulate as the ideal arrangement theincarnation of scenarist and director in one person.But I have already spoken of the unusual scope andcomplexity of film creation, that prevents any possi-bility of its mastery by one person. Collectivism isindispensable in the film, but the collaborators mustbe blended with one another to an exceptionallyclose degree.

THE ESTABLISHMENT OF THE RHYTHM OF THE FILM

The editing treatment of the scenario consists notonly in the determination of the separate incidents,scenes, objects that are to be shot, but also in thearrangement of the sequence in which they are tobe shown. I have already said that in the deter-mination of this sequence one must not only havein mind the plastic content, but also the length ofeach separate piece of celluloid—that is to say, therhythm with which the pieces are to be joined mustbe considered. This rhythm is the means of emo-tionally influencing the spectator. By this rhythmthe director is equally in the position to excite or tocalm the spectator. An error of rhythm can reducethe impression of the whole scene shown to zero, butequally can rhythm, fortunately found, raise the

io4 PUDOVKIN

impression of a scene to an infinite degree, though itmay contain in its separate, imagined, visual materialnothing especial.42 The rhythmic treatment of thefilm-scenario is not limited to the treatment of theseparate incidents, to the finding of the necessaryimages comprising them. One must remember thatthe film is divided into separate shots, that these arejoined together to form incidents, the incidents tosequences, these last to reels, and the reels togetherform the whole film. Wherever there is division,wherever there is an element of succession of pieces,be they separate pieces of celluloid or separate partsof the action—there everywhere the rhythmic ele-ment must be considered, not indeed because" rhythm" is a modern catchword, but becauserhythm, guided by the will of the director, can andmust be a powerful and secure instrument of effect.Remember, for instance, how exhausting, and howextinguishing in its effect, was the badly created,constantly confused rhythm of that big film, The Ray ,of Death ; and, on the other hand, how clever wasthe distribution of material in Tollable David, inwhich the alternation of quiet and tense sections keptthe spectator fresh and enabled him to appreciatethe violent finale. The editable preparation of thescenario—in which not only the exact plastic contentof each separate little piece is taken into considera-tion, but also the position in rhythmic sequence ofits length when the pieces are joined to incidents, theincidents to sequences and so forth—the establish-ment of this position, which is already completely

decisive for the final form that the film projected onthe screen will take, is the last stage of the workof the director on the scenario. Now is the momentcome at which new members of the collective teamenter the work of creating the film—in fact, thosewho are concerned with real men and objects, withthe movements and backgrounds in which they arelocked. The director now has to prepare the materialin order to record it on the film.

Part IIITHE DIRECTOR AND THE ACTOR

TWO KINDS OF PRODUCTION

In accordance with their acting, films can roughlybe divided into two kinds. In the first group areincluded such productions as are based on oneparticular actor—the " star," as he is called inAmerica. The scenario is written especially for theactor. The entire work of the director resolves itselfto the presentation to the spectator, once again innew surroundings and with a new supporting cast,of some well-known and favourite figure. Thus areproduced the films of Chaplin, Fairbanks, Pickford,and Lloyd. To the second group belong those filmsthat are underlain by some definite idea or thought.These scenarios are not written for an actor, butactors must be found for their realisation whenwritten. Thus works David Griffith. It is not,

therefore, remarkable that in several of his picturesGriffith rejects such brilliant names as Pickford,Mae Marsh, and others, a whole series of heroes andheroines whom, having used them for one or twofilms, he gives up to other hands. To that extent towhich a film is basically inspired by some thought,by some definite idea—and not merely by the displayof clever technique or a pretty face—the relationshipbetween the actor and the material of the filmreceives a special and specific character, proper onlyto the film.

THE FILM ACTOR AND THE FILM TYPE

In order to create a required appearance, thestage actor tries to find and create the necessarymake-up, altering his face. If he has to take thepart of a strong man in the play, he binds musclesof wadding on his arms. Suppose, for example, itwere proposed to him to play Samson, he would notbe ashamed of erecting pasteboard pillars on the set,to overthrow them later with one push of his shoulder.Such deceit in properties, equally with make-updrawn upon the face, is unthinkable in films. Amade-up, property human being in a real environ-ment, among real trees, near real stones and realwater, under a real sky, is as incongruous andinacceptable as a living horse on a stage filled withpasteboard.43 The conditionality of the film is not aproperty conditionality : it changes not matter, butonly time and space. For this reason one cannotbuild up a required type artificially for the screen ;

one must discover him. That is why even in thoseproductions the pivot of which is the inevitable andnecessary " star," none the less the supporting actorsfor the second and third parts are always sought bythe director from among many. The work of findingthe necessary actors, the selection of persons withvividly expressive externalities conforming to therequirements made by the scenario is one of thehardest tasks of the director. It must be rememberedthat, as I have already said, one cannot " play apart " on the film ; one must possess a sum of realqualities, externally clearly expressed, in order toattain a given effect on the spectator. It is thereforeeasy to understand why, in film production, a man,passing by chance on the street, who has never hadany idea of being an actor, is often brought in,only because he happens to be a vividly externallyexpressive type, and, moreover, the one desired bythe director. In order to make concretely clear thisinevitable necessity to use, as acting material, personspossessing in reality the properties of the imagerequired, I shall instance at random the followingexample.

Let us suppose that we require for a productionan old man. In the Theatre the problem would beperfectly simple. A comparatively young actorcould paint wrinkles on his face, and so make on thespectator, from the stage, the external impression ofan old man. In the film this is unthinkable. Why ?Just because a real, living wrinkle is a deepening, agroove in the face. And when an old man with a

108 PUDOVKIN

real wrinkle turns his head, light plays on thiswrinkle. A real wrinkle is not only a dark stripe,it is a shadow from the groove, and a differentposition of the face in relation to light will alwaysgive a different pattern of light and shade. Theliving wrinkle lives by means of movement in light.But if we paint a black stripe on a smooth skin, thenon the screen the face in movement will never showthe living groove played on by the light, but only astripe painted in black paint. It will be especiallyincongruous in cases of close approximation of thelens—that is, in close-ups.

In the Theatre, make-up of this kind is possiblebecause the light on the stage is conditionallyconstant and throws no shadows.

By this example it may in some wise be judged towhat degree the actor we seek must resemble hisprescribed appearance in the scenario. It may besaid, in fine, that in most cases the film actor playshimself, and the work of the director consists not incompelling him to create something that is not in him,but in showing, as expressively and vividly as possible,what is in him, by using his real characteristics.

PLANNING THE ACTING OF THE FILM-TYPE

Where the acting material is assembled in this way,the possibility of using a stock company, as in theTheatre, is naturally almost excluded.44 In almostevery film the director is compelled to work withever new human material, often entirely untrained.But at the same time the work of the person being

photographed must be strictly subjected to a wholeseries of conditions dictated by the film. I havealready said that each piece shot must be exactlyorganised in space and time. The work of the actorbeing shot, as much as everything being shot, mustbe exactly considered. Remember that we havediscussed the process of taking editable shots,whereby the same movements have to be repeatedseveral times with great exactitude, in order tomake it possible for the director to form into a singlewhole the incidents later composed by the junctionof separate pieces. In order to work exactly onemust know how, one must learn how, or at least beable to remember by heart. For the work of thefilm actor, or, if you prefer it, his acting, is deprivedof that unbroken quality proper to the work of hiscolleague on the stage. The film image of the actoris composed from dozens and hundreds of separate,disintegrated pieces in such a way that sometimeshe works at the beginning on something that willlater form a part of the end. The film actor isdeprived of a consciousness of the uninterrupteddevelopment of the action, in his work. Theorganic connection between the consecutive partsof his work, as result of which the distinct wholeimage is created, is not for him. The whole imageof the actor is only to be conceived as a futureappearance on the screen, subsequent to the editingof the director ; that which the actor performs infront of the lens in each given piece is only rawmaterial, and it is necessary to be endowed with

no PUDOVKIN

special, specific, filmic powers in order to imagineto oneself the whole edited image, meticulouslycomposed of separate pieces picked sometimes fromthe beginning, sometimes from the middle. It istherefore understandable why it was first in filmsthat there appeared exact directorial constructionof the actor's work.45 In most cases only thedirector knows the shooting-script so thoroughlyand so well as to be able clearly to imagine it tohimself in that shape in which it will later betransposed upon the screen, and therefore only hecan imagine to himself each given part, each givenimage in its editing construction. If an actor, evena very talented one, allow himself to be inspired bya given separate scene, he will never be able, ofhimself, so to limit his work as to be able to give apart of his acting of exactly that length and thatcontent later required by the editing. This willonly be possible when the actor has entered asdeeply and organically into the work of buildingthe film creation as the director producing it.There are schools that maintain that the play of theactor must be ordered by the director down to itsleast details ; down to the finest movements of thefingers, of the eyebrows, of the eyelashes, everythingmust be exactly calculated by the director, in-structed by him, and recorded on the film. Thisschool represents an undoubted exaggeration thatresults in unnecessary mechanicalisation ; it is,none the less, not to be gainsaid that the free per-formance of the actor must be enclosed in a

frame-work of the severest directorial control. It isinteresting that even such a director as Griffith—who is distinguished by a special " psychologicality "that should, strictly speaking, preclude the possi-bility of hard and fast construction—none the lessdoes undoubtedly plastically " create " his actor.Griffith has a peculiar feminine type of his own,pathetically helpless and heroic at the same time.It is interesting to follow how, in various of his films,various women express the same emotional states bythe same external means. Remember how MaeMarsh weeps in the trial in Intolerance, how theheroine in America sobs over her dying brother, andhow Lilian Gish sobs in the Orphans of the Storm asshe tells of her sister. There is the same heart-rending face, the same streaming tears, and thehelpless, trembling attempt to show a smile behindtears. The similarity of method of many Americanactors who have worked under control of one andthe same director shows markedly how far-reachingis the directorial construction of the actor's work.

THE " ENSEMBLE "

In the Theatre there exists a concept "ensemble "the concept implying that general composition whichembraces the work of all the actors collaborating inthe play. The ensemble undoubtedly exists also inthe film, and the same may be said about it as hasbeen said about the edited image of the actor. Thefact is that the film actor is deprived of the possibilityof himself directly appreciating this ensemble. Very

often an actor, from beginning to end of his partin front of the camera, does not once see the per-formance of the actor opposite him in the film, andis shot separately. None the less, however, whenthe film is subsequently joined, the scenes of thisactor will appear directly connected with those ofthe other, whom he has never seen. The conscious-ness of the ensemble, the relationship between thework of the separate characters, consequentlybecomes once again a task of the director. Onlyhe, imagining to himself the film in its edited form,already projected upon the screen, already joinedfrom its separately shot pieces—only he can appre-ciate this ensemble, and direct and construct theactor's work in conformity with its requirements.The question of the bounds of the influence thedirector should exert on the work of the actors isa question that is still open. Exact mechanicalobedience to a plan provided by the director hasundoubtedly no future. But also a wavering freeimprovisation by the actor according to generalsuggestions from the director—a method hithertoa characteristic of most Soviet directors—is definitelyinadmissible. Only one thing is still undoubted,that the whole image of the actor will only resultwhen the separately shot pictures are united oneto the other in editing, and the work of the actorin each separate shot has been firmly and organi-cally linked to the clear understanding of thefuture whole. If such an understanding is presentto the actor he can work freely, but, if not, then only

the exact instructions of the director, the future creatorof the editing, can correctly construct the acting work.Special difficulties are encountered by the directorwith casually collected human material, but thiscasual material is, as we have said, nearly inevitablein every film ; and, on the other hand, this materialis of exceptional interest. An average film lasts anhour and a half. In this hour and a half there passbefore the spectator sometimes dozens of faces thathe may remember, surrounding the heroes of thefilm, and these faces must be especially carefullyselected and shown. Often the entire expressionand value of an incident, though it may centre roundthe hero, depends from these characters of secondrank who surround him. These characters may beshown to the spectator for no more than six or sevenseconds. Therefore they must impress him clearlyand vividly. Remember the example of the gangof blackguards in ToVable David, or of the two oldmen in The Isle of Lost Ships. Each face impressesas firmly and vividly as would a separate, clevercharacterisation by a talented writer. To find aperson such that the spectator, after seeing him forsix seconds, shall say of him, " That man is a rogue,or good-natured, or a fool "—this is the task thatpresents itself to the director in the selection of hishuman material.

EXPRESSIVE MOVEMENT

When the persons are selected, when the directorbegins to shoot their work, they provide him with a

ii4 PUDOVKIN

new problem : the actor must move in front of thecamera, and his movements must be expressive.The concept " an expressive movement " is not sosimple as it appears at first sight. First of all, it isnot identical with that everyday movement, thatcustomary behaviour proper to an average man inhis real surroundings. A man not only has gestures,but words also are at his disposal. Sometimes theword accompanies the gesture and sometimes,reversed, the gesture aids the word. In the Theatreboth are feasible. That is why an actor with deeplyingrained theatrical training conforms with difficultyto the standards of the screen. In The Postmaster yMoskvin—an actor of undoubted exceptionally bigfilmic possibilities—none the less tires oneunpleasantly with his ever-moving mouth andwith petty movements beating time to the rhythmof the unspoken words. Gesture-movement accom-panying speech is unthinkable on the film. Losingits correspondence with the sounds that the spectatordoes not hear, it degenerates to a senseless plasticmuttering. The director in work with an actormust so construct the performance of the latter thatthe significant point shall lie always in the move-ment, and the word accompany it only whenrequired. In a pathetic scene, when he learns fromthe godmother that the hussar officer has elopedwith Dunia, Moskvin speaks a great deal andobviously, while at the same time, automaticallyand quite naturally, like a man accustomed tospoken business, he accompanies every word with

one and the same repeated movement of the hand.During the shooting, when the words were audible,the scene was effective, and even very effective ;but on the screen it resulted as a painful and oftenridiculous shuffling about on one spot. The ideathat the film actor should express in gesture thatwhich the ordinary man says in words is basicallyfalse. In creating the picture the director and actoruse only those moments when the word is superfluous,when the substance of the action develops in silence,when the word may accompany the gesture, but doesnot give birth to it.46

EXPRESSIVE OBJECTS

That is why the inanimate object has suchenormous importance on the films. An object isalready an expressive thing in itself, in so far as thespectator always associates with it a number ofimages. A revolver is a silent threat, a flyingracing-car is a pledge of rescue or of help arrivingin time. The performance of an actor linked withan object and built upon it will always be one ofthe most powerful methods of filmic construction.It is, as it were, a filmic monologue without words.An object, linked to an actor, can bring shades ofhis state of emotion to external expression so subtlyand deeply as no gesture or mimicry could everexpress them conditionally. In The Battleship"Potemkin" the battleship itself is an image sopowerfully and clearly shown that the men on boardare resolved into it, organically blended with it.

The shooting down of the crowd is answered notby the sailors standing to the guns, but by the steelbattleship itself, breathing from a hundred mouths.When, at the finale, the battleship rushes underfull steam to meet the fleet, then, in some sort, thesteadfastly labouring, steel driving-rods of theengine incarnate in themselves the hearts of itscrew, furiously beating in tenseness of expectation.

THE DIRECTOR AS CREATOR OFTHE " ENSEMBLE "

For the film director the concept of ensembleis extraordinarily wide. Material objects enterorganically into it as well as characters, and it isnecessary once more to recall that, in the finalediting of the picture, the performance of the actorwill stand next to, will have to be welded to, a wholeseries of other pieces, which he cannot see, and ofwhich he can know only indirectly. Only the direc-tor knows and gauges them completely. Thereforethe actor is considered by the director, before any-thing else, as material requiring his " treatment."Let us, in fine, also remember that even each actorseparately who is, in real conditions, apprehended assomething whole, as the figure of a human beingwhose movements are perceived as the simultaneousconnected work of all the members of his body—sucha man often does not exist on the screen. In editing,the director builds sometimes not only scenes, butalso a separate human being. Let us remember howoften in films we see and remember a character

despite the fact that we saw only his head and,separately, his hand.

In his experimental films Lev Kuleshov tried torecord a woman in movement by photographingthe hands, feet, eyes, and head of different women.As consequence of editing resulted the impressionof the movements of one single person. Naturallythis example does not suggest a special means ofpractical creation of a man not available in reality,but it emphasises especially vividly the statementthat, even in the limits of his short individual workunconnected with other actors, the image of theactor derives not from a separate stage of work, theshooting of a separate piece, but only from thatediting construction that welds such pieces to afilmic whole. Take this as one more confirmationof the absolute necessity for exactness in working,and one more confirmation of the axiomaticsupremacy of its imagined edited image over eachseparate element of the actual work in front of thelens. Also, quite obviously of course, the axiomaticsupremacy of the director, bearer of the image ofthe general construction of the film, over the actorwho provides material for this construction.

n8 PUDOVKIN

Part IVTHE ACTOR IN THE FRAME

THE ACTOR AND THE FILMIC IMAGE

I have already spoken above of the necessityconstantly to bear in mind the rectangularspace of the screen that always encloses everymovement shot. The movement of the actor inreal three-dimensional space once again serves thedirector only as material for the selection of theelements required for construction of the futureappearance, flat and inserted exactly into the spaceof the frame. The director never sees the actor asa real human being ; he imagines and sees thefuture filmic appearance, and carefully selects thematerial for it by making the actor move in variousways and altering the position of the camera relativeto him. The same disintegration as with every-thing in film. Not for one moment is the directorpresented with live men. Before him he has alwaysonly a series of component parts of the future filmicconstruction. This does not necessitate a sort ofkilling and mechanicalisation of the actor. He canbe as spontaneous as he likes, and need not in anyway disturb the natural continuity of his movements,but the director, controlling the camera, will, owingto the nature of cinematographic representation,himself pick out from the entire work of the livingman the pieces he requires. When Griffith shot

the hands of Mae Marsh in the trial scene, theactress was probably crying when she pinched theskin of her hands ; she lived a full and realexperience and was completely in the grip of thenecessary emotion as a whole, but the director, forthe film, picked out only her hands.

THE ACTOR AND LIGHT

There is one more element characteristic for thework of the director with the actor—that is light,that light without which neither object nor humanbeing nor anything else has existence on the film.The director, determining the lighting in the studio,literally creates the future form upon the screen.For light is the only element that has effect on thesensitive strips of celluloid, only of light of varyingstrengths is woven the image we behold upon thescreen. And this light serves not only to developthe forms—to make them visible. An actor unlitis—nothing. An actor lit only so as to be visible isa simple, undifferentiated, indefinite object. Thissame light can be altered and constructed in such away as to make it enter as an organic componentinto the actor's work. The composition of the lightcan eliminate much, emphasise much, and bring outwith such strength the expressive work of the actor,that it becomes apparent that light is not simply acondition for the fixation of expressive work by theactor, but in itself represents a part of this expressivework. Remember the face of the priest in TheBattleship "Potemkin " lit from underneath.47

Thus the work of the film actor in creation of hisfilmic image is bounded by a technically complexframe of conditions specifically proper to the film.The exact awareness of these conditions lies onlywith the director, and the actor can only entercreatively, sufficiently widely and deeply, into thework of creating the film when he is a sufficientlytightly and organically welded member of the team—that is, if his work be sufficiently deeply embracedin the sphere of the preparatory work of the directorand scenarist. Thus we have arrived, at the end ofthis chapter, once more at a conclusion of thenecessity for an organic team.

Part VTHE DIRECTOR AND THE CAMERAMAN

THE CAMERAMAN AND THE CAMERA

When the actors have been chosen, and thescenes exactly and editably prepared—then beginsthe shooting. Into the work enters a newmember of the team—a man armed with acamera, who does the actual shooting—the camera-man. And now the director has a new problem toovercome : between the collected and preparedmaterial and the future finished work stands thecamera, and the man working it. Everything thathas been said about the composition of movementin the space of the picture, about light bringing out

the picture, about expressive light, must in actualitybe brought into conformity with the technicalpossibilities of shooting. The camera, which appearsfor the first time in shooting, introduces a realconditionality into film-work. First and foremost :the angle of its vision. Normal human vision canembrace a little less than 180 degrees of surroundingspace—that is to say, man can perceive almost thehalf of his horizon. The field of the lens is con-siderably less. Its view-angle is equal roughly to45 degrees and, here already the director begins toleave behind the normal apprehension of realspace. Already, owing to this peculiarity, theguided lens of the camera does not embrace theentirety of optical space, but picks out from it onlya part, an element, the so-called picture. Withthe help of a number of camera accessories a yetgreater narrowing of this view-field can be attained ;the frame itself surrounding the image can bealtered, by means of a so-called " mask."

Not only does the small view-angle set bounds tothe space in which the action develops both inheight and in width, but by a technical property ofthe lens the depth of the space picked out is alsolimited. An actor shot from very close has not onlyto fit his movements into the narrow frame of thepicture in order not to overstep its bounds, he mustremember also that he must not recede in depth orapproach, for he would then go out of focus and hisimage would be unclear. At the same time, thecamera, over and above those limitations that

condition the movements of the material shot, hasalso a number of accessories which, far from limiting,on the contrary broaden, the work of the director.Remember, for example, in the pictures of Griffith,those lyrically tender moments that appear as iftaken through a slight haze. Here we have amethod that unquestionably strengthens the impres-sions of the scene shot, and it is carried out solelyby the cameraman taking his shot through a light,transparent gauze or with a specially constructedlens.48

Remember the extraordinarily impressive shotin The Battleship "Potemkin" when the stone stepsappear suddenly to rush up to meet the fallingwounded. This effect could not have been attainedwithout a special apparatus that enabled the camerato be tilted quickly from up downwards during theshot.

In the hands of the cameraman are those actualtechnical possibilities with the help of which hecan transform the abstract ideas of the director toconcrete. And these possibilities are innumerable.

THE CAMERA AND ITS VIEWPOINT

When the camera stands ready in position, thedirector does not now only orientate himself on thefuture screen image, as he did when working on thescenario or selecting and preparing the actor. Hedoes not now only imagine or visualize it. Look-ing through the view-finder (a special applianceattached to the camera), the director sees on smaller

scale the future picture that will later be projectedon the screen. The scenario has been written, itsspecial tasks exactly formulated. The prescriptionof the shooting of each scene, determining its plasticand rhythmic content, is ready, the cast is selectedand ready for work, all preparation completed,and now the material thus prepared has to be fixedupon the celluloid. The camera when prepared forshooting embodies the viewpoint from which thefuture spectator will apprehend the appearance onthe screen. This viewpoint may be various. Eachobject can be seen, and therefore shot, from athousand different points, and the selection of anygiven point cannot, and must not, be by chance.This selection is always related to the entire contentof the task that the director keeps in mind in aiming,in one way or another, to affect the spectator.

Let us begin, for argument's sake, with the simpleshowing of a shape. Suppose we wish to shoot acigarette lying on the edge of a table. One can soset up the camera that the opening of the cardboardcartouche of the cigarette exactly faces the lens ;and as a result of the shot no cigarette will appearupon the screen—the spectator will see only thestripe of the edge of the table, and on it a smallround black circle, the opening of the cartouchecircled by its round white frame of cardboard. Itfollows that in order to enable the spectator to seethe cigarette, it is necessary for the lens of the cameraalso to be able to " see " it. It is necessary, inshooting, to find such a position for the lens in

relation to the object as will enable the whole shapeof the latter to be seen with maximum clarity andsharpness.

If a torn cigarette is to be shot, the cameramanmust so position the camera that the lens, and with itthe eye of the future spectator, shall clearly see thetear of the paper, and the tobacco sticking through it.

The example with the cigarette is very elementary—it but roughly proves the substantial importanceof the selection of a definite set-up of the camerain relation to the object shot. The problems solvedby this selection, in actual practice, are many sidedand provide one of the most important aspects ofthe joint work of director and cameraman.

Let us turn to the more complex. The task of thedirector may involve not only a simple representa-tion of the shape of the given object, but of itsrelative position in this or that part of space. Letus suppose we have not only to shoot a wall-clock,but also to show that it hangs very high. Here thetask of selecting the picture is complicated by a newrequirement, and the cameraman, in choosing theset-up for the camera, either goes to a good distance,trying to get a part of the floor in the picture andthus show the height, or he shoots the clock fromnear but from below, bringing out its position bya sharp fore-shortening in perspective. If we takeinto consideration the fact that the materialemployed by the film director may be exceptionallycomplex in its form, it becomes clear how enormousa part is played by the selection of the camera-set-up.

To shoot a railway-engine well implies to be able toselect that viewpoint from which its complicatedform will be most exhaustively and vividly apparent.A correctly discovered set-up determines the expres-siveness of the future image.

Everything said so far has related especially tothe shooting of motionless objects that do notchange their position in relation to the camera.

THE SHOOTING OF MOVEMENT

The work becomes yet more complicated whenmovement is introduced. An object not only hasshape, this shape in the image alters itself func-tionally with its movement, and, moreover, itsmovement itself has a shape and serves as object ofshooting.

The previous desideratum remains in force. Thecamera must be so directed that every happeningin front of it shall be visible in its clearest andmost distinct form. Why does a shot of an armyparade taken from above produce so vivid animpression ? Because it is just from above that,with the fullest sharpness and clearness, the energetic,rhythmic movement of troops can best be observed.Why is the impression of a rushing train or a racingcar so effective when the object is shot so that,having appeared in the distance, it charges straightat the camera, and dashes past near it? Becauseit is in the perspective increase of the approachingmachine that the speed of the movement is mostdistinctly represented. If we are to shoot a car and

a chauffeur sleeping in it, the cameraman willplace the camera on the ground near the car. Butif we are to shoot the same car winding through thetraffic of the street, the cameraman will shoot thescene from the third floor in order the better to pickout the movement in its form and essence. Theselection of the camera set-up can intensify theexpression of the image shot in many directions.The shooting of a railway-engine charging straightat the lens communicates to an exceptional degreethe power of the gigantic machine.

In The Battleship " Potemkin " the muzzles of theguns, looking straight at the spectator, are excep-tionally threatening. In The Virgin of Stamboul thegalloping horses are shot by the cameraman froma road-ditch looking up, so that the hoofs dash bysoaring, as it were, over the heads of the spectator,and the impression of a mad gallop is increased to amaximum. Here the work of the cameraman ceasesto be a simple fixation of an incident independentlyof the director working on it. The quality of thefuture film depends not only on what is to be shot,but also on how it is to be shot. This how must beplanned by the director and carried out by thecameraman.

THE CAMERA COMPELS THE SPECTATOR TO SEEAS THE DIRECTOR WISHES

By selection of the camera set-up, director andcameraman lead the spectator after them. Theviewpoint of the camera is scarcely ever the exact

viewpoint of an ordinary spectator. The power ofthe film director lies in the fact that he can forcethe spectator to see an object not as it is easiest to seeit. The camera, changing its position, as it were," behaves " in a given mode and manner. It is, asit were, charged with a conditioned relation to theobject shot : now, urged by heightened interest, itdelves into details ; now it contemplates the generalwhole of the picture. Often it places itself in theposition of the hero and records what he sees ;sometimes it even " feels " with the hero. Thus, inThe Leather Pushers, the camera sees with the eyes ofa beaten boxer rendered dizzy by a blow, and showsthe revolving, swimming picture of the amphitheatre.

The camera can " feel " also with the spectator.Here we encounter a very interesting method offilm-work. It can be said with completest safetythat man apprehends the world around him invarying ways, depending on his emotional con-dition. A number of attempts on the part of thefilm director has been directed towards the creation,by means of special methods of shooting, of a givenemotional condition in the spectator, and thus thestrengthening of the impression of the scene.Griffith was the first to shoot tragic situations as ifthrough a light mist, explaining it by his desire toforce the spectator to see, as it were, through tears.

In the film Strike there is an interesting sequence :workers out for a walk outside the town. In front ofthe strollers is an accordion-player. After the close-up in which the accordion is seen opening and

128 PUDOVKIN

shutting follows a series of pieces in which the menstrolling are shot from various, often very distant,viewpoints. But the playing accordion remainsheld through all the shots, become barely visible,transparent. The landscapes and the groups walk-ing afar off are visible through it. Here has beensolved a peculiar problem. The director wished,in representing the picture of the stroll, laying it inthe wide background of the landscape, to preservesimultaneously the characteristic rhythm of musicheard sounding from far away. In this he suc-ceeded. He succeeded thanks to the fact that thecameraman was able to find a concrete method forthe realisation of the director's idea. To take thisscene the accordion had to be swathed in blackvelvet, and it was necessary to calculate exactly therelative exposures of the shot with the landscapeand of the separate shot of the accordion. Anumber of calculations had to be made, requiring aspecial knowledge of the craft of the cameramanand a technical inventive faculty. Here a completeblending of the work of director and cameramanwas indispensable, and it conditioned the success ofthe achievement. The ideas of the director, inhis work in making expressive the film image, onlyreceive concrete embodiment when technical know-ledge and the creative inventive faculty of thecameraman go hand in hand, or, in other words,when the cameraman is an organic member of theteam and takes part in the creation of the film frombeginning to end.

THE SHAPING OF THE COMPOSITION

The selection of the camera set-up is but a specialcase of the work of selecting location. In working onlocation (and, on the average, fifty per cent of everyproduction is made on location)49 the first task of thecameraman and director is to select that part ofspace in which the scene is to develop. Suchselection—like everything in film work—must notbe by chance. Nature in the picture must neverserve as background to the scene being taken, butmust enter organically into its whole and become apart of its content. Every background qua back-ground runs counter to the basic laws of films.If the director require in a scene only the actor andhis performance, then every background, with theexception of a flat surface inconspicuous to theattention, will steal a part of the spectator's atten-tion, and thus substantially nullify the basic methodof film effect.60 If something be brought intothe picture besides the actor, this something must belinked to the general purpose of the scene. When,in Way down East, Griffith shows the lad Barthelmessknee-deep in thick grass, surrounded by tremblingwhite daisies, bowing in the wind, in this picturenature does not serve as a chance background ;it is true that it is done in a rather sentimental way,but it vividly supplements and strengthens theimage shown. The work on the formation of the" essence" of the picture, the necessity for anorganic dependence between the developing action

and the surrounding, is so indispensable and im-portant, that the finding and determination of thelocations desired for exterior shots is one of the mostcomplex stages in the preparatory work of thecameraman and director.

One of the first requirements set in the productionwork of the film director is exactitude. If, havingthought out the filmic image of a scene, in taking ithe desire to get that material out of which he cancreate what he has planned, he must inevitablythink of each piece he is taking as an element of thefuture editing construction ; and the more exact ishis work on the components of each element beingtaken, the more perfectly and clearly he will reachthe possibility of realising his thought. From thisderives the peculiar relation of the film director tothe actor, to the objects, to all the real matter withwhich he works in the course of his production.Each separate piece of celluloid used by the directorin taking a required shot must be used in such away that its length shall exactly conform to therequirements of that general task which forms thebasis of the filmic treatment of any given scene.In every given piece a movement begins andproceeds to an exact required point, and the timerequired for this movement must be exactly deter-mined by the director. If the movement beaccelerated or slowed down, the piece obtained willeither over- or under-step the necessary length.Such an element of an incident, in departing fromthe length prescribed for it, will, in the process of

editing, destroy the harmony of the filmic imageplanned. Everything chance, unorganised, every-thing unsubdued to the editing constructionplanned by the director in representing to himselfthe filmic image of each given incident—all thiswill lead inevitably to lack of clarity, to confusionin the final editing formation of the incident. Anincident will awaken an impression from the screenonly if it be well edited. Good editing will beachieved when for it is found the correct rhythm,and this rhythm is dependent on the relativelengths of the pieces, while the lengths of the piecesare in organic dependence on the content of eachseparate one. Therefore the director must encloseevery shot he takes into a harsh, severely limited,temporal frame.

Let us, for example, suppose that we are editablytaking an incident with an actor. The incident is asfollows : The actor sits in an armchair tenselyawaiting his possible arrest. He hears that some onehas approached the door ; he watches intensely,sees the handle of the door beginning to move. Theactor slowly takes out his revolver that he had hiddenbetween the back and the seat of the chair ; thedoor begins to open. He quickly aims the revolver,but, there enters unexpectedly, instead of the police-men, a boy carrying some puppies (from the filmBeyond the Law).

The editing is written as follows :

1. The actor sitting in the armchair alters his

position, as if he had heard a knock.

2. His tense, watching face.

3« Taken by itself: the moving door-handle.

4. Close-up—the hand of the actor, slowly andfumblingly drawing the revolver.

5. The slightly opening door.

6. The actor aims the revolver.

7. Through the door steps the boy with thepuppies.

The elements of the incident, by means of whichthe attention of the spectator is turned now to theman, now to the door, now concentrates upon themoving handle, now upon the hand of the actor orthe revolver, must, finally, blend upon the screento the single image of an unbrokenly developingincident. Undoubtedly the director must, for thecreation of a sharp break between the slowlyincreasing tension and the unexpectedly rapiddenouement, establish a definite, creatively discoveredrhythm of editing. Every element of the incidenthas to be taken separately. And everything thatthe actor performs in the shooting of each piecemust be exactly temporally limited. But it is notsufficient to set temporal boundaries ; within theseboundaries the actor must carry out the given seriesof movements, must saturate every piece with thegiven clear and expressive plastic content. If roomfor chance were left in the actor's work, then notonly a pause, a slowing down, but a superfluousmovement on the part of the actor would alreadyshatter those temporal limits that must infallibly be

set by the director. This shattering, as we havealready said, would alter the length of the piece,and thereby destroy the effect of the whole con-struction of the incident. We thus perceive thatnot only must temporal boundaries be exactlyestablished, but also the movement form theyenclose ; the plastic content of the acting work ineach separate scene must be performed exactly, ifthe director wish to attain a definite result in thecreation of that filmic image of the scene that is toeffect an impression on the spectator from the screen,not now in its real, but in its filmic form. Theexactitude of work in space and in time is anindispensable condition, by fulfilment of which thefilm technician can attain a clearly and vividlyimpressive filmic representation.

The same striving for exactitude must govern thedirector and cameraman not only in scene-con-struction, but also in selection of the parts of locationfrom which the space on the screen is to be con-structed. It may appear to suffice that if a river ora wood be required for a shot, a " pretty " river orwood be found and then the shooting begun. Inreality, however, the director never seeks a river ora wood, he seeks the required " pictures." Theserequired pictures, corresponding exactly to theproblems of each scene, may be strewn over dozensof different rivers ; they will, however, be blendedto a whole in the film. The director does not shootnature ; he uses it for his future composition inediting. The problem set by this composition may

be strict to such a degree that director and camera-man often forcibly alter and reconstruct a part ofnature in trying to obtain the form required. Thebreaking away of interfering boughs, the felling ofa superfluous tree, its transplantation whithersoevermay be necessary, the damming of a river, the fillingof it with blocks of ice—all this is characteristic forthe film technician, always and by all means makinguse of natural material for the construction of thefilmic image required. The employment of natureas material reaches its extremest expression in theconstruction of natural scenes in the studio, whenfrom real earth, real stones, sand, live trees, andwater, are exactly created in the studio just thoseforms required by the director.

The selection of the shooting location and thedetermination of the camera set-up, as a wholetechnically termed " selection of the picture/' arealways complicated by yet another condition. Thiscondition is light. We have already spoken of thepowerful influence of light. Light it is that finallycreates that form which is transferred to the screen.Only when the object is lit in the required mannerand to the required intensity is it ready for shooting.The appearance on the celluloid projected uponthe screen is only a combination of light and darkspecks. On the screen there is nothing but light,and it is quite obvious, therefore, that in controllingthe light at the taking we are actually performingthe work of making the future image. Feeling forthe quality and intensity of light is inseparably

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 135

bound up with the knowledge of that relationbetween the object and its later appearance uponthe celluloid which belongs exclusively to thetechnique of the cameraman.

THE LABORATORY

Everything that has been said already about thenecessity for the close relation of all those collabora-ting in the production of the film relates also in fullto the cameraman. Through the director, the workof whom on the various processes and happenings ofreality he transforms to filmic material, the camera-man is bound to the other members of the team, theactor and the scenarist. He, in his turn, serves asthe connecting link between the director and thetechnicians of the laboratory, the work of which isthe next stage of working out the film material,directly following the shooting.

Only after the development of the negative andthe printing of the positive does the director at lastreceive in pure form the film material from whichhe can assemble his work. Just as every other stageof film production, the work of the laboratory alsoinvolves more than the simple execution to patternof standardised processes (chemical treatments ofthe exposed film). Its tasks are very often the con-tinuation of the ideas originated by the scenaristand pursued by the director and cameraman. TheGriffithian twilight in America could not have beenobtained without a developer of the necessary syn-thetic properties and power. Only now, when before

us appear all the pieces necessary for the creationof the film, at last in the shape of images printed onpositive stock, only now ends the organic liaisonbetween all the workers on the film production, thatliaison which is an indispensable condition of thecreation of a " real," significant, finished work.

The director now begins to join his detachedpieces to a whole. We now leave him engaged onthat basic creative process of which we spoke atthe beginning of this essay.51

COLLECTIVISM : THE BASIS OF FILM-WORK

This essay on the film director has covered all thecollaborators in the production of a film. It couldnot have been otherwise. The work of film-making has all the properties of an industrialundertaking. The technical manager can achievenothing without foremen and workmen, and theircollective effort will lead to no good result if everycollaborator limit himself only to a mechanicalperformance of his narrow function. Team-workis that which makes every, even the most insig-nificant, task a part of the living work and organicallyconnects it to the general task. It is a property offilm-work that the smaller the number of personsdirecdy taking part in it, the more disjointed istheir activity and the worse is the finished productof their work—that is, the film.

(First published as Number Five of a series of popular scientificfilm handbooks by Kinopetchat, Moscow and Leningrad, 1926.)

Ill

TYPES INSTEAD OF ACTORS52

(address delivered to the film society)

FIRST of all allow me, in the name of Russianfilm-workers, to greet in your person thatorganisation [the Film Society] which wasthe first to undertake the task of acquainting theEnglish public with our films.

I ask you to forgive my bad English. Unfor-tunately my knowledge of it is so limited that Icannot speak, but must read my notes, and eventhen not very well. I shall endeavour to acquaintyou in this short speech with some of the principleswhich form the basis of our work. When I say" our " I mean, in fact, the directors of the so-calledleft wing.*

I began my work in the films quite accidentally.Up to 1920 I was a chemical engineer, and, to tellyou the truth, looked at films with contempt, thoughI was very fond of art in other forms. I, like manyothers, could not agree that films were an art. Ilooked upon them as an inferior substitute for thestage, that is all.

Such an attitude is not to be wondered at,

* See note to section : Translator's Preface.*37

considering how rubbishy the films shown at thetime were. There are many such films even now ;in Germany nowadays they are called Kitsch. Primi-tive subjects calculated to appeal to the average badtaste—a cheap showman's booth entertainment thatat first gives a good return to the owner, but in thelong run demoralises the public.

The methods applied to the preparation of suchfilms have nothing in common with art. The pro-ducers of such films have only one thing in mind,and that is to photograph as many lovely girls' facesfrom as many angles as possible, and to provide thehero with as many victories in fights as possible, andto wind up with an effective kiss as finale. Therewas nothing extraordinary in the fact that such filmscould not attract any serious attention.

But a chance meeting with a young painter andtheoretician of the film—Kuleshov—gave an oppor-tunity to learn his ideas, making me change myviews completely. It was from him that I firstlearned of the meaning of the word " montage" aword which played such an important part in thedevelopment of our film-art.

From our contemporary point of view, Kuleshov'sideas were extremely simple. All he said was this :" In every art there must be firstly a material, andsecondly a method of composing this materialspecially adapted to this art." The musician hassounds as material and composes them in time.

The painter's materials are colour, and he combinesthem in space on the surface of the canvas. Whatthen, is the material which the film director possesses,and what are the methods of composition of hismaterial ?

Kuleshov maintained that the material in film-work consists of pieces of film, and that the com-position method is their joining together in aparticular, creatively discovered order. He main-tained that film-art does not begin when the artistsact and the various scenes are shot—this is only thepreparation of the material. Film-art begins fromthe moment when the director begins to combineand join together the various pieces of film. Byjoining them in various combinations, in differentorders, he obtains differing results.

Suppose, for example, we have three such pieces :on one is somebody's smiling face, on another is afrightened face, and on the third is a revolverpointing at somebody.

Let us combine these pieces in two differentorders. Let us suppose that in the first instance weshow, first the smiling face, then the revolver, thenthe frightened face ; and that the second time weshow the frightened face first, then the revolver,then the smiling face. In the first instance theimpression we get is that the owner of the face is acoward ; in the second that he is brave. This iscertainly a crude example, but from contemporary

films we can see more subtly that it is only by anable and inspired combination of pieces of the shotfilm that the strongest impression can be effected inthe audience.

Kuleshov and I made an interesting experiment.We took from some film or other several close-upsof the well-known Russian actor Mosjukhin. Wechose close-ups which were static and which did notexpress any feeling at all—quiet close-ups. Wejoined these close-ups, which were all similar, withother bits of film in three different combinations.In the first combination the close-up of Mosjukhinwas immediately followed by a shot of a plate ofsoup standing on a table. It was obvious andcertain that Mosjukhin was looking at this soup.In the second combination the face of Mosjukhinwas joined to shots showing a coffin in which lay adead woman. In the third the close-up wasfollowed by a shot of a little girl playing with afunny toy bear. When we showed the threecombinations to an audience which had not beenlet into the secret the result was terrific. Thepublic raved about the acting of the artist. Theypointed out the heavy pensiveness of his moodover the forgotten soup, were touched and moved bythe deep sorrow with which he looked on the deadwoman, and admired the light, happy smile withwhich he surveyed the girl at play. But we knewthat in all three cases the face was exactly the same.

But the combination of various pieces in one oranother order is not sufficient. It is necessary to be

able to control and manipulate the length of thesepieces, because the combination of pieces of varyinglength is effective in the same way as the combina-tion of sounds of various length in music, by creatingthe rhythm of the film and by means of their varyingeffect on the audience. Quick, short pieces rouseexcitement, while long pieces have a soothing effect.

To be able to find the requisite order of shots orpieces, and the rhythm necessary for their combina-tion—that is the chief task of the director's art.This art we call montage—or constructive editing.It is only with the help of montage that I am able tosolve problems of such complexity as the work onthe artists' acting.

The thing is, that I consider that the main dangerfor an actor who is working on the films is so-called" stagey acting." I want to work only with realmaterial—this is my principle. I maintain that toshow, alongside real water and real trees and grass,a property beard pasted on the actor's face, wrinklestraced by means of paint, or stagey acting is impos-sible. It is opposed to the most elementary ideasof style.

But what should one do ? It is very difficult towork with stage actors. People so exceptionallytalented that they can live, and not act, are veryseldom met with, while if you ask an ordinary actormerely to sit quietly and not to act, he will act foryour benefit the type of a non-acting actor.

I have tried to work with people who had neverseen either a play or a film, and I succeeded, withthe help of montage, in achieving some result. It istrue that in this method one must be very cunning ;it is necessary to invent thousands of tricks to createthe mood required in the person and to catch theright moment to photograph him.

For example, in the film The Heir to Jenghiz Khan,I wanted to have a crowd of Mongols looking withrapture on a precious fox-fur. I engaged a Chineseconjuror and photographed the faces of the Mongolswatching him. When I joined this piece to a pieceof the shot of fur held in the hands of the seller I gotthe result required. Once I spent endless time andeffort trying to obtain from an actor a good-naturedsmile—it did not succeed because the actor kepton " acting." When I did catch a moment, andphotographed his face smiling at a joke I made, hehad been firmly convinced that the shooting wasover.

I am continuously working on the perfection ofthis method, and I believe in its future. Of course,one can photograph in this way only short bits ofseparate actors, and it is the art of the director, withthe help of montage, to make out of the short bitsa whole, a living figure.

Not for a moment do I regret that I took this line.I more and more often work with casual actors, andI am satisfied by the results. In my last film I met

the Mongols, absolutely uncultured people who didnot even understand my language, and, despite this,the Mongols in that film can easily compete, as faras acting honours are concerned, with the bestactors.

In conclusion I would like to tell you of my viewson a very tricky question which I have met recently.I mean sound films.

I think that their future is enormous, but whenI use the expression " sound film " I do not in anyway mean dialogue films, in which the speech andvarious sound effects are perfectly synchronisedwith their corresponding visual images on thescreen. Such films are nothing but a photographicvariety of stage plays. They are, of course, new andinteresting, and will undoubtedly at first attractthe curiosity of the public, but not for long.

The real future belongs to sound films of anotherkind. I visualise a film in which sounds and humanspeech are wedded to the visual images on thescreen in the same way as that in which two ormore melodies can be combined by an orchestra.The sound will correspond to the film in the sameway as the orchestra corresponds to the film to-day.

The only difference from the method of to-day isthat the director will have the control of the soundin his own hands, and not in the hands of theconductor of the orchestra, and that the wealth ofthose sounds will be overwhelming. All the sounds

i44 PUDOVKIN

of the whole world, beginning with the whisper ofa man or the cry of a child and rising to the roar ofan explosion. The expressionism of a film can reachunthought-of heights.

It can combine the fury of a man with the roarof a lion. The language of the cinema will achievethe power of the language of literature.

But one must never show on the screen a man andreproduce his word exactly synchronised with themovements of his lips. This is cheap imitation, aningenious trick that is useless to anyone.

One of the Berlin Pressmen asked me : " Do younot think that it would be good to hear, for instance,in the film Mother, the weeping mother when shewatches over the body of her dead husband ? "I answered : "If this were possible I would do itthus : The mother is sitting near the body and theaudience hears clearly the sound of the waterdripping in the wash-basin ; then comes the shotof the silent head of the dead man with the burningcandle ; and here one hears a subdued weeping."

That is how I imagine to myself a film that sounds,and I must point out that such a film will remaininternational. Words and sounds heard, but notseen on the screen, could be rendered in anylanguage, and changed with the film for everycountry.

Allow me to conclude this note by thanking youfor the patience and attention with which you havelistened through my address.

(Delivered, in the present translation by I. M. and S. S. N., to

the Film Society, in Stewart's Cafe, Regent Street, February 3,

1929. Published, slightly amended, by the Cinema, February 6,1929)

IVCLOSE-UPS IN TIME 53

(address for the workers' film federation)

DURING the summer of the year 1930 Iattended a meeting in the Palace of Labourat Moscow. Work was ended. Outside inthe street it was raining hard, and we had to waitfor it to stop. The globules of water reboundedslightly from the sill ; now they were large, nowsmaller until they vanished in the air. They moved,rising and falling in curves of various form, in acomplex yet definite rhythm. Sometimes severalstreams, probably influenced by the wind, unitedinto one. The water would strike upon the stone,scattering into a transparent, shivering fan, then fall,and anew the round and glistening globules wouldleap over the edge, mingling with the tiny raindropsdescending through the air.

What a rain ! I was but watching it, yet I feltto the full its freshness, its moisture, its generousplenty. I felt drenched in it. It poured down onmy head and over my shoulders. Most certainly theearth, soaked brimful, must long have ceased todrink it up. The shower, as commonly occurs insummer, ended almost abruptly, scattering its lastdrops beneath the already brightening sun.

I left the building and, passing through the garden,146

paused to watch a man working with a scythe. Hewas bared to the waist. The muscles of his backcontracted and expanded with the even sweep of thescythe. Its damp blade, flying upwards, caught thesunlight and burst for a moment into a sharp,blinding flame. I stepped near. The scythe burieditself in the wet, rank grass, which, as it was cutaway beneath, slowly gave down on to the groundin a supple movement impossible to describe.Gleaming in the slanting sunrays, the raindropstrembled on the tips of the pointed, drooping grass-blades, tumbled, and fell. The man mowed ; Istood and gazed. And once more I found myselfgripped by an unaccustomed feeling of excitementat the grandeur of the spectacle. Never had I seenwet grass like this ! Never had I seen how the rain-drops tumble down the grooves of its narrow blades !For the first time I wa§ seeing how its stalks fall asthey yield to the sweep of the scythe !

And, as always, according to my invariablecustom (doubtless one familiar to all film directors),I tried to imagine to myself all this represented onthe screen. I recalled the reaping scenes recordedand included scores of times in an abundance ofpictures, and felt sharply the poverty of these lifelessphotographs in comparison with the marvellous andpregnant richness I had seen. One has only topicture to oneself the flat, grey manikin waving along pole, invariably in slightly speeded tempo, topicture the grass shot from above and looking likedry, tangled matting, for it to be clear in what

F*

measure all this is poor and primitive. I recall evenEisenstein's technically magnificent General Line>where, worked out in a complex editing construction,is shown a reaping competition. Nothing of itremains in my memory, save men rapidly wavingpoorly distinguishable scythes. The question washow to capture, how to reproduce to others this fulland profound sensation of the actual processes thattwice this day had made me marvel. I torturedmyself on my homeward way> flinging myself in mythoughts from side to side, seizing and rejecting,testing and being disappointed. And suddenly, atlast, I had it !

When the director shoots a scene, he changes theposition of the camera, now approaching it to theactor, now taking it farther away from him, accordingto the subject of his concentration of the spectator'sattention—either some general movement or elsesome particularity, perhaps the features of anindividual. This is the way he controls the spacialconstruction of the scene. Why should he not doprecisely the same with the temporal ? Why shouldnot a given detail be momentarily emphasised byretarding it on the screen, and rendering it bythis means particularly outstanding and unprece-dently clear ? Was not the rain beating on thestone of the window-sill, the grass falling to theground, retarded, in relation to me, by my sharpenedattention ? Was it not thanks to this sharpenedattention that I perceived ever so much more thanI had ever seen before ?

I tried in my mind's eye to shoot and construct themowing of the grass approximately as follows :

1. A man stands bared to the waist. In hishands is a scythe. Pause. He swings the scythe.(The whole movement goes in normal speed, i.e.,has been recorded at normal speed.)

2. The sweep of the scythe continues. Theman's back and shoulders. Slowly the musclesplay and grow tense. (Recorded very fast witha " slow-motion " apparatus, so that the move-ment on the screen comes out unusually slow.)

3. The blade of the scythe slowly turning at theculmination of its sweep. A gleam of the sunflares up and dies out. (Shot in " slow motion.")

4. The blade flies downward. (Normal speed.)

5. The whole figure of the man brings back thescythe over the grass at normal speed. A sweep—back. A sweep—back. A sweep. . . . And atthe moment when the blade of the scythe touchesthe grass—

6. —slowly (in " slow motion ") the cut grasssways, topples, bending and scattering glitteringdrops.

. 7. Slowly the muscles of the back relax and theshoulders withdraw.

8. Again the grass slowly topples, lies flat.

9. The scythe-blade swiftly lifting from theearth.

10. Similarly swift, the man sweeping with thescythe. He mows, he sweeps.

11. At normal speed, a number of men mowing,sweeping their scythes in unison.

12. Slowly raising his scythe a man moves offthrough the dusk.

This is a very approximate sketch. After theactual shooting, I edited it differently—more com-plexly, using shots taken at very various speeds.Within each separate set-up were new, more finelygraduated speeds. When I saw the result upon thescreen I realised that the idea was sound. The newrhythm, independent of the real, deriving from thecombination of shots at a variety of speeds, yieldeda deepened, one might say remarkably enriched,sense of the process portrayed upon the screen.

The chance spectators, who were ignorant of thenature of the method employed, confessed to havingexperienced an almost physical sense of moisture,weight, and force. I tried to shoot and edit the rainin the same way. I took long shots and close-upsat different speeds, using " slow motion." The slowstriking of the first heavy drops against dry dust.They fall, scattering into separate dark globules.The falling of rain on a surface of water : the swiftimpact, a transparent column leaps up, slowlysubsides, and passes away in equally slow circles.An increase of speed proceeds parallel with thestrengthening of the rain and the widening of theset-up. The huge, wide expanse of a steadily pouringnetwork of heavy rain, and then, suddenly, the sharpintroduction of a close-up of a single stream smashing

against a stone balustrade. As the glittering dropsleap up—their movements are exceptionally slow—can be seen all the complex, wondrous play of theirintersecting paths through the air. Once more themovement speeds, but already the rain is lessening.Closing, come shots of wet grass beneath the sun.The wind waves it, it slowly sways, the raindropsslide away, and fall. This movement, taken withthe highest speed of the " slow-motion" camera,showed me for the first time that it is possible torecord and reproduce the movement of grass beforethe wind. In earlier pictures I had seen nothingbut a dry, hysterically trembling tangle. I amdeeply convinced both of the need for and the senseof practicability achieved by this new method.

It is of the highest importance to appreciate, inall its profundity, the essence of this work in " slow-motion," and to exploit it not as a trick, but as ameans of consciously, at required points, retardingor accelerating movement to a precise degree. It isnecessary to be able to exploit every possible speedof the camera, from the very highest, yielding onthe screen exceptional slowness of movement, to thevery least, resulting on the screen in an incredibleswiftness. Sometimes a very slight retardation justof the plain and simple walk of a human beingendows it with a weight and significance that couldnever be rendered by acting. I tried to render ashell explosion by an editing construction of shotsat various speeds : Slow at the beginning ; thenvery rapid flight ; slightly retarded development ;

the ground slowly sinks away, and then suddenlyfragments of earth start flying very rapidly straightat the spectator ; for a fraction of a second aninstantaneous change and they are flying slowly,crushingly and terribly, then an equally suddenchange and once more they are flying fast. It cameout excellently !

Cinematography with the " slow-motion " camerahas long been practised. The disconcerting strange-ness of retarded movement on the screen, the possi-bility of perceiving forms that ordinarily areimperceptible and invisible, yet none the lessexistent in actuality, exerts so powerful an impressionon the spectator that it is already no uncommonthing for directors to insert shots taken in " slow-motion " into their pictures. (It is to the point hereto note that the charm of a cleverly " captured "movement in a drawing often depends on the same" slow-motion " effect, only here the role of the" slow-motion " camera is played by the artist's eye.)

But all the directors who have exploited retarda-tion of movement have failed to do the one thingthat, in my view, is the most important. They havefailed to incorporate the retarded movement in theediting construction as a whole—in the generalrhythmical flow of the film. Suppose they havebeen using " slow-motion " to shoot a horse jumping,then they have shot it as a whole, and as a wholeinserted it in the picture, almost as a separate" dragged in " sequence. I have heard that JeanEpstein shot a whole film in " slow-motion " (I think

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 153

it was The Fall of the House of Usher, from E. A. Poe'sstory), using the effect of retarded motion to give amystical tinge to every scene.

This is not at all what I mean. I refer to theincorporation of various degrees of retarded speedof movement integrally in the construction of agiven editing phrase. A short-length shot in " slow-motion " can be placed between two longer normal-speeded shots, concentrating the attention of thespectator at the desired point for a moment. " Slow-motion " in editing is not a distortion of an actualprocess. It is a portrayal more profound and precise,a conscious guidance of the attention of the spectator.

This is the eternal characteristic of cinemato-graphy. I tried to construct the blow of a fist ona table as follows : The fist rushes swiftly down onto the table, and the moment it touches it thesubsequent shots show a glass, stood nearby, slowlyjumping, rocking, and falling. By this conjunctionof rapid and slow shots was produced an almostaudible, exceptionally sharply sensed impression ofa violent blow. The full processes shown upon thescreen by the editing together of shots recorded atvarious speeds seem endowed with a rhythm peculiarto themselves, a sort of breath of life of their own.They are alive, for they have received the vital sparkof an appraising, selecting, and all-comprehendingconcept. They do not slip by like landscape pastthe window of a railway carriage beneath theindifferent glance of a passenger familiar with theroute. They unfold and grow, like the narrative of

a gifted observer, who has perceived the thing orprocess more clearly than anyone else has ever donebefore.

I am convinced that this method can be extendedto work in shooting a man—his expression, hisgestures. I already know by experience whatprecious material is afforded by a man's smile shotin " slow-motion." I have extracted from such shotssome remarkable pauses, wherein the eyes alone areengaged in a smile that the lips have not yet begunto share. A tremendous future stretches before the" close-up of time.55 Particularly in sound film,where the rhythm is given point and complexity byits conjunction with sound, particularly here is itimportant.

(Written but not delivered as an address for the Workers' FilmFederation Summer School, 1931, and published, in the presenttranslation by I. M. and H. C. Stevens, in The Observer, Jan. 31,1932, by courtesy of whose editor it is now reprinted.)

V

ASYNCHRONISM AS A PRINCIPLE OFSOUND FILM

THE technical invention of sound has longbeen accomplished, and brilliant experimentshave been made in the field of recording.This technical side of sound-film making may beregarded as already relatively perfected, at least inAmerica. But there is a great difference betweenthe technical development of sound and its develop-ment as a means of expression. The expressiveachievements of sound still lie far behind its technicalpossibilities. I assert that many theoretical ques-tions whose answers are clear to us are still providedin practice only with the most primitive solutions.Theoretically, we in the Soviet Union are in advanceof Western Europe and U.S.A.

Our first question is : What new content can bebrought into the cinema by the use of Sound ? Itwould be entirely false to consider sound merely asa mechanical device enabling us to enhance thenaturalness of the image. Examples of such mostprimitive sound effects : in the silent cinema wewere able to show a car, now in sound film we canadd to its image a record of its natural sound ; oragain, in silent film a speaking man was associatedwith a title, now we hear his voice. The role whichsound is to play in film is much more significant

155

than a slavish imitation of naturalism on these lines ;the first function of sound is to augment the potentialexpressiveness of the film's content.

If we compare the sound to the silent film, wefind that it is possible to explain the content moredeeply to the spectator with relatively the sameexpenditure of time. It is clear that this deeperinsight into the content of the film cannot be givento the spectator simply by adding an accompanimentof naturalistic sound ; we must do something more.This something more is the development of the imageand the sound strip each along a separate rhythmiccourse. They must not be tied to one another bynaturalistic imitation but connected as the result ofthe interplay of action. Only by this method canwe find a new and richer form than that availablein the silent film. Unity of sound and image isrealised by an interplay of meanings which results,as we shall presently show, in a more exact renderingof nature than its superficial copying. In silentfilm, by our editing of a variety of images, we beganto attain the unity and freedom that is realised innature only in its abstraction by the human mind.Now in sound film we can, within the same strip ofcelluloid, not only edit different points in space, butcan cut into association with the image selectedsounds that reveal and heighten the character ofeach—wherever in silent film we had a conflict ofbut two opposing elements, now we can have four.

A primitive example of the use of sound to revealan inner content can be cited in the expression of

the stranding of a town-bred man in the midst of thedesert. In silent film we should have had to cut ina shot of the town ; now in sound film we can carrytown-associated sounds into the desert and edit themthere in place of the natural desert sounds. Uses ofthis kind are already familiar to film directors inWestern Europe, but it is not generally recognisedthat the principal elements in sound film are theasynchronous and not the synchronous ; moreover,that the synchronous use is, in actual fact, onlyexceptionally correspondent to natural perception.This is not, as may first appear, a theoretical figment,but a conclusion from observation.

For example, in actual life you, the reader, maysuddenly hear a cry for help ; you see only thewindow ; you then look out and at first see nothingbut the moving traffic. But you do not hear the soundnatural to these cars and buses ; instead you hear stillonly the cry that first startled you. At last you findwith your eyes the point from which the sound came ;there is a crowd, and someone is lifting the injuredman, who is now quiet. But, now watching the man,you become aware of the din of traffic passing, andin the midst of its noise there gradually grows thepiercing signal of the ambulance. At this yourattention is caught by the clothes of the injuredman : his suit is like that of your brother, who, younow recall, was due to visit you at two o'clock. Inthe tremendous tension that follows, the anxiety anduncertainty whether this possibly dying man maynot indeed be your brother himself, all sound ceases

and there exists for your perceptions total silence.Can it be two o'clock ? You look at the clock andat the same time you hear its ticking. This is thefirst synchronised moment of an image and its causedsound since first you heard the cry.

Always there exist two rhythms, the rhythmiccourse of the objective world and the tempo andrhythm with which man observes this world. Theworld is a whole rhythm, while man receivesonly partial impressions of this world through hiseyes and ears and to a lesser extent through hisvery skin. The tempo of his impressions varies withthe rousing and calming of his emotions, while therhythm of the objective world he perceives continuesin unchanged tempo.

The course of man's perceptions is like editing,the arrangement of which can make correspondingvariations in speed, with sound just as with image.It is possible therefore for sound film to be madecorrespondent to the objective world and man'sperception of it together. The image may retainthe tempo of the world, while the sound strip followsthe changing rhythm of the course of man's percep-tions, or vice versa. This is a simple and obviousform for counterpoint of sound and image.

Consider now the question of straightforwardDialogue in sound film. In all the films I have seen,persons speaking have been represented in one oftwo ways. Either the director was thinking entirelyin terms of theatre, shooting his whole speakinggroup through in one shot with a moving camera.

Using thus the screen only as a primitive means ofrecording a natural phenomenon, exactly as it wasused in early silent films before the discovery of thetechnical possibilities of the cinema had made it anart-form. Or else, on the other hand, the directorhad tried to use the experience of silent film, the artof montage in fact, composing the dialogue fromseparate shots that he was free to edit. But in thislatter case the effect he gained was just as limitedas that of the single shots taken with a movingcamera, because he simply gave a series of close-upsof a man speaking, allowed him to finish the givenphrase on his image, and then followed that shotwith one of the man answering. In doing so thedirector made of montage and editing no more thana cold verbatim report, and switched the spectator'sattention from one speaker to another without anyadequate emotional or intellectual justification.

Now, by means of editing, a scene in which threeor more persons speak can be treated in a number ofdifferent ways. For example, the spectator's interestmay be held by the speech of the first, and—withthe spectator's attention—we hold the close-up ofthe first person lingering with him when his speechis finished and hearing the voice of the commencedanswer of the next speaker before passing on to thelatter's image. We see the image of the secondspeaker only after becoming acquainted with hisvoice. Here sound has preceded image.

Or, alternatively, we can arrange the dialogue sothat when a question occurs at the end of the given

speech, and the spectator is interested in the answer,he can immediately be shown the person addressed,only presently hearing the answer. Here the soundfollows the image.

Or, yet again, the spectator having grasped theimport of a speech may be interested in its effect.Accordingly, while the speech is still in progress, hecan be shown a given listener, or indeed given areview of all those present and mark their reactionstowards it.

These examples show clearly how the director, bymeans of editing, can move his audience emotionallyor intellectually, so that it experiences a specialrhythm in respect to the sequence presented on thescreen.

But such a relationship between the director inhis cutting-room and his future audience can beestablished only if he has a psychological insight intothe nature of his audience and its consequentrelationship to the content of the given material.

For instance, if the first speaker in a dialoguegrips the attention of the audience, the secondspeaker will have to utter a number of words beforethey will so affect the consciousness of the audiencethat it will adjust its full attention to him. And,contrariwise, if the intervention of the second speakeris more vital to the scene at the moment than theimpression made by the first speaker, then theaudience's full attention will at once be riveted onhim. I am sure, even, that it is possible to build upa dramatic incident with the recorded sound of a

speech and the image of the unspeaking listenerwhere the latter's reaction is the most urgent emotionin the scene. Would a director of any imaginationhandle a scene in a court of justice where a sentenceof death is being passed by filming the judge pro-nouncing sentence in preference to recording visuallythe immediate reactions of the condemned ?

In the final scenes of my first sound film Desertermy hero tells an audience of the forces that broughthim to the Soviet Union. During the whole of thefilm his worse nature has been trying to stifle hisdesire to escape these forces ; therefore this moment,when he at last succeeds in escaping them and himselfdesires to recount his cowardice to his fellow-workersis the high-spot of his emotional life. Being unable tospeak Russian, his speech has to be translated.

At the beginning of this scene we see and hearshots longish in duration, first of the speaking hero,then of his translator. In the process of develop-ment of the episode the images of the translatorbecome shorter and the majority of his wordsaccompany the images of the hero, according as theinterest of the audience automatically fixes on thelatter's psychological position. We can considerthe composition of sound in this example as similarto the objective rhythm and dependent on the actualtime relationships existing between the speakers.Longer or shorter pauses between the voices areconditioned solely by the readiness or hesitation ofthe next speaker in what he wishes to say. But theimage introduces to the screen a new element, the

subjective emotion of the spectator and its lengthof duration ; in the image longer or shorter doesnot depend upon the identity of the speaking man,but upon the desire of the spectator to look for alonger or shorter period. Here the sound has anobjective character, while the image is conditionedby subjective appreciation ; equally we may havethe contrary—a subjective sound and an objectiveimage. As illustration of this latter combination Icite a demonstration in the second part of Deserter ;here my sound is purely musical. Music, I maintain,must in sound film never be the accompaniment. It mustretain its own line.

In the second part of Deserter the image shows atfirst the broad streets of a Western capital ; suavepolice direct the progress of luxurious cars ; every-thing is decorous, the ebb and flow of an establishedlife. The characteristic of this opening is quietness,until the calm surface is broken by the approach ofa workers' demonstration bearing aloft their flag.The streets clear rapidly before the approachingdemonstration, its ranks swell with every moment.The spirit of the demonstrators is firm, and theirhopes rise as they advance. Our attention is turnedto the preparations of the police ; their horses andmotor-vehicles gather as their intervention growsimminent ; now their champing horses charge thedemonstrators to break their ranks with flying hoofs,the demonstrators resist with all their might andthe struggle rages fiercest round the workers' flag.It is a battle in which all the physical strength is

marshalled on the side of the police, sometimes itprevails and the spirit of the demonstrators seemsabout to be quelled, then the tide turns and thedemonstrators rise again on the crest of the wave ;at last their flag is flung down into the dust of thestreets and trampled to a rag beneath the horses'hoofs. The police are arresting the workers ; theirwhole cause seems lost, suppressed never to re-arise—the welter of the fighting dies down—against thebackground of the defeated despair of the workerswe return to the cool decorum of the opening of thescene. There is no fight left in the workers. Sud-denly, unexpectedly, before the eyes of the policeinspector, the workers' flag appears hoisted anew andthe crowd is re-formed at the end of the street.

The course of the image twists and curves, as theemotion within the action rises and falls. Now, ifwe used music as an accompaniment to this image weshould open with a quiet melody, appropriate tothe soberly guided traffic ; at the appearance of thedemonstration the music would alter to a march ;another change would come at the police prepara-tions, menacing the workers—here the music wouldassume a threatening character ; and when the clashcame between workers and police—a tragic momentfor the demonstrators—the music would follow thisvisual mood, descending ever further into themes ofdespair. Only at the resurrection of the flag couldthe music turn hopeful. A development of this typewould give only the superficial aspect of the scene,the undertones of meaning would be ignored;

164 PUDOVKIN

accordingly I suggested to the composer (Shaporin)the creation of a music the dominating emotionaltheme of which should throughout be courage and thecertainty of ultimate victory. From beginning toend the music must develop in a gradual growth ofpower. This direct, unbroken theme I connectedwith the complex curves of the image. The imagesuccession gives us in its progress first the emotionof hope, its replacement by danger, then the rousingof the workers' spirit of resistance, at first successful,at last defeated, then finally the gathering andreassembly of their inherent power and the hoistingof their flag. The image's progress curves like a sickman's temperature chart ; while the music in directcontrast is firm and steady. When the scene openspeacefully the music is militant ; when the demon-stration appears the music carries the spectatorsright into its ranks. With its batoning by the police,the audience feels the rousing of the workers, wrappedin their emotions the audience is itself emotionallyreceptive to the kicks and blows of the police. Asthe workers lose ground to the police, the insistentvictory of the music grows ; yet again, when theworkers are defeated and disbanded, the musicbecomes yet more powerful still in its spirit ofvictorious exaltation ; and when the workers hoistthe flag at the end the music at last reaches itsclimax, and only now, at its conclusion, does itsspirit coincide with that of the image.

What role does the music play here ? Just as theimage is an objective perception of events, so the

music expresses the subjective appreciation of thisobjectivity. The sound reminds the audience thatwith every defeat the fighting spirit only receives newimpetus to the struggle for final victory in the future.It will be appreciated that this instance, wherethe sound plays the subjective part in the film, andthe image the objective, is only one of many diverseways in which the medium of sound film allows usto build a counterpoint, and I maintain that onlyby such counterpoint can primitive naturalism besurpassed and the rich deeps of meaning potentialin sound film creatively handled be discovered andplumbed.

(Written for this edition and Englished by Marie Seton and I. M.)

VI

RHYTHMIC PROBLEMS IN MY FIRSTSOUND FILM

IT is sad to find that, since the introduction ofsound and the predominance of talking films,directors both in the West and in the SovietUnion have suddenly lost the sense of dynamicrhythm that they had built up during the last yearsof the silent cinema. It is almost impossible to-dayto find a film with the sharp dramatic rhythm of,for instance, the Odessa Steps sequence in Potemkin,or of certain episodes in the early picture Intolerance,which belongs to the first period when the hithertomechanical film record became a creative medium.Most of the latest sound films are characterised byexceedingly slow development of subject and dia-logue full of interminable pauses. Many directorsare developing a talkie style that involves the use ofexplanatory words for matters that should beconceived visually ; this kind of style introduceselements from the Theatre into a medium wherethey are out of place. Theatre has its own technique,depending on the power of the spoken word sinceit is incapable of presenting visual changes in rapidsequence, while Cinema is based on the possibilityof presenting a variety of visual impressions in atime and space differing from that obtaining in thenatural material recorded.

166

I do not believe that this change of method isindicative of any audience change of taste. I thinkthat the real situation is that directors hesitate tomake experiments with sound, and particularlyhesitate to apply montage to the sound strip.

Many hold the view that, with the introductionof sound into film, the cutting methods establishedduring the development of silent films must all goby the board. The development of constructiveediting of frequent changes of shot made possible insilent film the achievement of great richness of visualform. The human eye is capable of perceiving,easily and immediately, the content of a successionof visual shots, whereas, as they point out, the earcannot with the same immediacy detect the signi-ficance of alterations in sound. Accordingly, theymaintain, the rhythm of changing sound must bemuch slower than need be that of changing image.They are right, in so far as concerns the combinationwith a succession of short images of a series of equallyshort sound effects matched with them in a purelynaturalistic relation. Certainly it would be impos-sible to compose the short shots of Eisenstein'sOdessa Steps sequence in Potemkin—the soldiersshooting, the woman screaming, the childrenweeping—with sound cut in a parallel manner.Consequently, it is held, we must make each imagelonger, thus diminishing the richness of the visualform ; the rapid montage of the silent film mustgive place to more leisurely scenes recorded from amore set distance and with a relatively fixed camera

position, the construction being linked by the spokenword and not by the sequence of dynamically editedimages. This policy, I maintain, is the line of leastresistance, and instead of helping film to progress,holds it back, forcing it once again into its primitiveposition of mere photographic record of materialactually suited to the Theatre. There is no necessity,in my view, to begin a sound when its correspondingimage first appears and to cut it when its image haspassed. Every strip of sound, speech, or music maydevelop unmodified while the images come and goin a sequence of short shots, or, alternatively, duringimages of longer duration the sound strip maychange independently in a rhythm of its own. Ibelieve that it is only along these lines that theCinema can keep free from theatrical imitation, andadvance beyond the bounds of Theatre, for everlimited by the supremacy of the spoken word, thefixture to one significant position throughout ofdecor and properties, the dependence of both actionand audience's attention entirely upon the actor, andreduction of the world's wide globe to a single roomless its fourth wall.

One of the most important problems in myDeserter was posed by the mass scenes—meetings,demonstrations, etc. First, it is necessary to under-stand that the mass never has been and never willbe mere quantity ; it is a differentiated quality. Itis a collection of individuals and quite different fromtheir sum ; each mass consists of groups, each groupof persons. These may be united by one emotion

and one thought, and in that case their mass is thegreatest force in the world. The conflicting pro-cesses at work within the groups to produce thisresult afford immediately obvious dramatic material,and accent upon the characteristics of individuals isan integral part of the creation of a living mass.What real method can there be of creating thisqualitatively altered mass of individuals save by theediting of close-ups ? I have seen a German film inwhich Danton is shown speaking to the citizens ofParis ; he was placed at a window, and all we wereallowed to know of his audience was their massvoice, like the traditional " voices off.5' Such ascene in a film is nothing else than a photograph ofbad Theatre.

In the first reel of Deserter I have a meetingaddressed by three persons one after the other, eachproducing a complexity of reactions in their audience.Each one is against the other two ; sometimes amember of the crowd interrupts a speaker, sometimestwo or three of the crowd have a moment's discussionamong themselves. The whole of the scene mustmove with the crowd's swaying mood, the clash ofopposing wills must be shown, to achieve these endsI cut the sound exactly as freely as I cut the image.I used three distinct elements. First, the speeches ;second, sound close-ups of the interruptions—words,snatches of phrases, from members of the crowd ;and third, the general noise of the crowd varying involume and recorded independently of any image.

I sought to compose these elements by the system

of montage. I took sound strips and cut, forexample, for a word of a speaker broken in half byan interruption, for the interrupter in turn oversweptby the tide of noise coming from the crowd, for thespeaker audible again, and so on. Every sound wasindividually cut and the images associated aresometimes much shorter than the associated soundpiece, sometimes as long as two sound pieces—thoseof speaker and interrupter, for example—while Ishow a number of individual reactions in theaudience. Sometimes I have cut the general crowdnoise into the phrases with scissors, and I have foundthat with an arrangement of the various sounds bycutting in this way it is possible to create a clearand definite, almost musical, rhythm : a rhythmthat develops and increases short piece by short piece,till it reaches a climax of emotional effect that swellslike the waves on a sea.

I maintain that directors lose all reason to beafraid of cutting the sound strip if they accept theprinciple of arranging it in a distinct composition.Provided that they are linked by a clear idea of thecourse to be pursued, various sounds can, exactlylike images, be set side by side in montage. Re-member the early days of the cinema, when directorswere afraid to cut up the visual movement on thescreen, and how Griffith's introduction of theclose-up was misunderstood and by many labelledan unnatural and consequently an inadmissiblemethod. Audiences in those days even cried :" Where are their legs ! "

Cutting was the development that first transformedthe cinema from a mechanical process to a. creativeone. The slogan Cut remains equally imperativenow that sound film has arrived. I believe thatsound film will approach nearer to true musicalrhythm than silent film ever did, and this rhythmmust derive not merely from the movement of artistand objects on the screen, but also—and this is theconsideration most important for us to-day—fromexact cutting of the sound and arrangement of thesound pieces into a clear counterpoint with theimage.

I worked out in fine rhythm, suitable to soundfilm, a special kind of musical composition for theMay Day demonstration in Deserter. A hundredthousand men throng the streets, the air is filled withthe echoing strains of massed bands, lifting the massesto exuberance. Into the patchwork of sound breakssinging, and the strains of accordions, the hootingof motor-cars, snatches of radio noises, shouts andhuzzas, the powerful buzzing of aeroplanes. Certainlyit would have been stupid to have attempted tocreate such a sound scene in the studio withorchestras and supers.

In order to give my future audience a trueimpression of this gigantic perspective of mass sound,its echoes and its multitudinous complexities, Irecorded real material. I used two Moscow demon-strations, those in May and November of one year,to assemble the variety of sounds necessary for myfuture montage. I recorded pieces of various music

and sound, varying in their volume, transitions frombands to crowd noises, and from hurrahs to thewhirling propellers of aeroplanes, slogans from theradio and snatches of our songs. Just like long-shotsand close-ups in silent film. Then followed the taskof editing the thousand metres of sound to createthe hundred metres of rhythmical composition. Itried to use the pieces like the separate instrumentsthat combine to form an orchestra. I recorded twomarching bands, and as passage of transition fromone to the other cut between them some dominatingsound like a mass hurrah or a whirling propeller. Iendeavoured to bring the pieces already possessinga musical rhythm of their own into a new montageover-rhythm.

The images that go with this sound are editedwith similar exactness, smiling workers, merrymarching youths, a handsome sailor and the girlsthat flirt with him. But this sequence of images isbut one of the rhythmical lines that make up thewhole composition ; the music is never an accom-paniment but a separate element of counterpoint;both sound and image preserve their own line.

Perhaps a purer example of establishing rhythmin sound film occurs in another part of Deserter—thedocks section. Here again I used natural sounds,heavy hammers, pneumatic drills working at differentlevels, the smaller noise of fixing a rivet, voices ofsirens and the crashing crescendo of a falling chain.All these sounds I shot on the dock-side, and Icomposed them on the editing table, using various

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 173

lengths, they served to me as notes of music. Asfinale of the docks scene I made a half-symbolicgrowth of the ship in images at an accelerated pace,while the sound in a complicated syncopationmounts to an ever greater and grandiose climax.Here I had a real musical task, and was obliged to" feel" the length of each strip in the same spiritas a musician " feels " the accent necessary for eachnote.

I have used only real sound because I hold theview that sound, like visual material, must be richin its association, a thing impossible for reconstructedsound to be. I maintain that it is impossible arti-ficially to establish perspective in sound ; it isimpossible, for instance, to secure a real effect of adistant siren call in a closed studio and relativelynear the microphone. A " distant" call achievedby a weak tone in the studio can never create thesame reality of effect as a loud blast recorded halfa mile away in the open air.

For the symphony of siren calls with whichDeserter opens I had six steamers playing in a spaceof a mile and a half in the Port of Leningrad. Theysounded their calls to a prescribed plan and weworked at night in order that we should have quiet.

Now that I have finished Deserter I am sure thatsound film is potentially the art of the future. It isnot an orchestral creation centring round music,nor yet a theatrical dominated by the factor of theactor, nor even is it akin to opera, it is a synthesisof each and every element—the oral, the visual, the

philosophical ; it is our opportunity to translate theworld in all its lines and shadows into a new artform that has succeeded and will supersede all theolder arts, for it is the supreme medium in whichwe can express to-day and to-morrow.

(Written for this edition and Englished by Marie Seton and I. M.)

NOTES AND APPENDICES

A.—GLOSSARIAL NOTES

IN the discussion of any technical subject itis necessary to employ technical terms. Tech-nical cinematographic terms afford wide oppor-tunities for ambiguity and obscurity in two ways.In the first place, they are usually not inventedwords, but words in common use extended to em-brace technical meanings, to the confusion of thelayman. In the second place, they vary slightlyowing to differing practices in differing countries, oreven in different studios, to the confusion of theexpert. It is therefore desirable to establish, bydefinition, the sense in which technical terms havebeen employed in the preceding essays.

The word Producer in the film world is properlyapplied only to the business man, financial organiser,managing director of a producing concern ; thedriving-force rather than the technical guidancebehind any given production. Producer in thestage sense has become Director in the films. Thisterminology is American in origin, but is nowuniversal in England also.

The word Scenario is loosely applied to almost anywritten matter relating to the story preparation ofa film in any of its stages. The course of develop-ment is roughly as follows* : The Synopsis is an

* Theme is a term of sense almost exactly congruous to its non-specialist meaning. It never represents a written document, exceptpossibly in the case where the film's genesis is represented by theproducer commanding, " Make me a war-film, a film of mother-love, or so forth."

175

outline of three or four typewritten pages containingthe barest summary of character and action. It ismade for the convenience of the producer orscenario-chooser, who may be too busy or unwillingto study potential subjects at length. In theadaptation of a book or a play, the synopsis repre-sents the first stage. In the case of an original film-story it may rather be a precis of the next stagefollowing.

This is the Treatment. A treatment is more exten-sive, usually from twenty to fifty pages. Here,although still written throughout in purely narra-tive form, we have, already indicated by means ofa certain degree of detail in pictorial description,the actual visual potentialities of the suggestedaction. The use of the word scenario for either ofthese documents is more common with the laymanthan with the technician. Credit for a treatmentis given, on a title or in a technical publication,more often by the words " Story by" than byassociation with the scenario. The words " Scenarioby " imply work on a yet later stage—the shooting-script.

The Shooting-script is the scenario in its finalcinematograph form, with all its incidents andappearances broken up in numbered sequence intothe separate images from which they will be laterrepresented. These separate images are calledScript-scenes, listed, in the typewritten abbreviationof a usual shooting-script, simply as Scenes—e.g.Scene i, Scene 2, etc. The words appearing uponthe screen are also listed, as Main-title (the name ofthe film, and credit-titles), Sub-titles (never " cap-tions "—this is a layman's term). Inserts, writings that

are part of a scene, and Superimposed titles, a termcarrying its own meaning.

It is evident from Pudovkin's essay on the scenariothat an intermediate stage, quite unusual in Englandor America, intervenes in U.S.S.R. between thepurely narrative treatment and its complete cinema-tographic analysis, the shooting-script. In this stagethe titles stand already numbered, so do the separatetiny incidents, but there is no indication yet of theimages to be selected to compose them. Such anincident Pudovkin terms a " scene,55 using the wordalmost in the sense in which it is used in a classicalFrench play, to indicate not merely a change ofplace, but even a change of circumstance such asthe entrance or exit of a player. To avoid confusion,the word scene has been avoided in this text, beingrendered by " incident,55 except in the examplegiven of this stage of treatment.*

The Sequence is a convenient division, into a seriesof which the action naturally falls. The sequencesare already feelable even in the purely narrativetreatment, and may each contain numbers of inci-dents, or scenes (in the Pudovkin sense). The sequenceof the stealing of the Princess embraces all the businessof running away with her, possibly involving inter-actions at several different geographical points. The" scene 5> (Pudovkin5s sense) of the Princess being stolenprobably covers only the actual carrying her out ofher bedroom ; dragging her down the stairs wouldbe another " scene 55 (incident, in the phraseology

* Those interested to study further the Soviet method of writingscenarios are referred to two published examples : that of Eisensteinand Alexandrev's " The General Line" published as a booklet inGerman, and extracts from Eisenstein, Alexandrov and Montagu'su An American Tragedy,*' published bv the late H. A. Potamkin in" Close-Up."

I have employed). The separate parts that composesuch a " scene," the as yet further indivisible atomsof the film-structure,* are termed variously accord-ing to their function considered at the moment. Intheir philosophic function we term them separateimages ; materially, separate pieces of celluloid ; func-tionally, in the shooting-script, script-scenes (abb.scenes) ; as separate tasks upon the floor of the studio,or as separate parts of a finished, edited film, Shots ;while in the cutting-room we find that each isrepresented by several subsimilar pieces, varying innumber according to the number of times its actionwas respectively shot, spoken of as the several Takesof one shot.

On the floor of the studio we Shoot or Take theshots. The latter expression is perhaps the morecommon in speaking of a script-scene in single aspect(" How many times did we take that scene ? "), theformer as a general term (" We shot ten scenes beforelunch " ; " We could not shoot to-day, because offog "). The word Turn, a transliteration of whichis used in several European languages instead ofshoot, is used in English only of the special activityof a cameraman (" Who turned for you on thatpicture? "). Note that in our last example Pictureis used to mean whole film. This sense is slang ratherthan technical. The picture should properly implythe composition space of an image f—i.e., Picture-shape, meaning screen-shape. The camera Set-up

* The actual subdivisibility of the atom is in film paralleled onlyby those instances (double exposure and the like) in which a singleshot is blended from the effects of more than one separate camera-action.

t The composition space termed picture on the floor is termed aframe in the cutting-room, though its height, as a unit of the length of

refers to its position in relation to the shot object,not only its distance from the object, but also itsangle to it. If we alter the one or the other we alterthe set-up. The Camera-angle, in this sense, is therelation between the vertical and horizontal axes ofthe object shot on the one hand, and the plane of thefilm at the moment of shooting on the other. Thedistances of the camera from the shot object aretechnically designated as Long-Shot, Mid-Shot, andClose-Up, with their manifold supplementaries. Notwo studios, directors, or scenarists will agree abso-lutely about the measure of these shots, which haveconstancy only in their relation to one another. Onetechnician will describe a distance showing the figurefrom crown to knee as a mid-shot, another as amedium long-shot. The full tally is something likedistance-shot, long-shot, medium long-shot, mid-shot, semi-close-up, close-up, big close-up (or, in the appropriatespecial case, big head).

It is important to gain a clear conception of theactivities embraced here by the word Editing. Theword used by Pudovkin, the German and Frenchword, is montage. Its only possible English equivalentis editing. But in England, in the trade, the editor istoo often conceived of as a humble person, called inafter the damage, or good, has been done upon thefloor, to accomplish a relatively mechanical taskupon material the effect of which has been alreadysettled. The word editing, as used here in its correctsense, has a far wider, constructive application. It

the picture, has then become more significant than its general shape.The frame, three-quarters of an inch high on the actual piece ofstandard size celluloid, is the concrete unit, repetition of which gives,in projection of a shot, the illusion of movement.

covers manifold activities, not only those whichcompose in the cutting-room an appearance fromsingle images, but those which, in the work on thescript, predetermine and select those images andtheir sequence which will be necessary to form thelater appearance proposed. In its later uses by theRussians—and here we often retain montage—itimplies mounting or amounting of all the affectiveimpulses of sound or vision that in one way or anotheramountedly affect the spectator. The degree towhich the verb monter, to build or edit, is still compre-hended in England as implying little beyond therelatively mechanical concept to cut, indicates thedegree to which an understanding of the creativeprocess implied by its wider sense may be fruitfulfor the future advancement of the industry.

B.—SPECIAL NOTES

(i) NOTES TO " THE FILM SCENARIO AND ITS THEORY "

I. It is interesting to note that at least three majorfilms turned out so long that they were issued in twoparts intended to be booked at successive weeks :Fritz Lang's Nibelungs {Siegfried, called Nibelungs inEngland, and Kriemhild's Revenge, called in EnglandThe She-Devil) ; the same director's Dr. Mabuse andGustav Molander's Jerusalem from the Selma Lager-lof story. American super-productions of unusuallength concede an interval at half-way on theirpremier showing, and are shortened subsequentlyfor general release. The over-long Stroheim pictures

Greed for Universal and Wedding March for Para-mount were ruthlessly cut down and the wholes havenever been seen. On the Continent, where single-feature programmes are the rule, a film usuallyattains 9,000 feet—-if hours. In England andU.S.A., with the habit of double programmes, onlyexceptional films attain 90 minutes and the usuallength is 70. {p. 9.)

2. Neglect of this rule, to establish clearly thetheme first of all and select all incident only toexpress it, was almost certainly the root cause of thefailure of Pudovkin's penultimate film, A Simple Case.Not all its later devised ingenious embellishmentscould save it, the fault was in its genesis, (p. 10.)

3. This example may be obscure to the readernot grounded in reformist or revolutionary politics.To a Russian an anarchist is a definite type—shock-headed, piercing eyes, spouting, impractical—invivid contrast to the communist ideal of an athletic,disciplined, handy-man, that the hero finally be-comes. The replacement in the scenario of a vaguelyturbulent character by an anarchist is thus, to aRussian, a gain in definiteness. It is as if a character,vague and intangible, were described in an Englishscenario as being " in the army." By tighteningin revision the character is made a sergeant-major.Everyone in England knows what a sergeant-majoris like ; the other persons in the story can be readilycharacterised by their reactions to him. The gain indefiniteness is obvious, {p. 11.)

4. How far and under what conditions are" spoken phrases " admissible in sound films ? Theauthor gives his view on this question in essays VIIand VIII. {p. 14.)

5. Here in the original follows a sentence : " Butit is necessary to know them, and the reader's atten-tion is recommended to the short bibliography at theend of this sketch." A fruitless recommendation, for,alas, the printer omitted the bibliography, (/>. 17.)

6. The classic example of the creation by ex-traneous methods of a tension not implicit for mostaudiences in the given dramatic material is theSeparator Sequence in The General Line. {p. 18.)

7. Scenes and script-scenes. Refer to GlossarialNotes, (p. 21.)

8. Here a wide textual alteration has been made.In the original the author gives guidance for sensingthe amount of material required in each reel (ratherthan in the scenario as a whole), for " it must beborne in mind that each reel must, to a certainextent, represent a self-contained part of the picture.In order that the short interval necessary for chang-ing the reel in exhibition shall not break up the unityof impression, effort must be made to distribute thematerial in such a way that the intervals occur atthe place of junction of one just completed part ofaction to the beginning of the next. In a technicallywell-constructed scenario the conclusion of a reel isused as a special method completing the action,analogous to the dropping of the curtain at the endof an act in the Theatre."

These remarks were conditioned by the fact that,at the time of the sketch, and even now, most placesof film exhibition in Russia are equipped with onlyone projector. The conception of the reel as aself-contained dramatic part has no value for theproducer in Western Europe and America, wheretwo-projector exhibition is universal, unless perhaps

for the amateur. It should be noted, indeed, that inproduction for two-projector exhibition the reverserequirement obtains. The cutter should take carenot to divide his reels at the end of a sequence. Ashort footage is almost always lost to view in eachchange-over, owing to the precautions taken by theoperator to avoid at all costs the shattering appear-ance on the screen of the tag " End of Reel X " or" Reel X + 1." For example, the penultimate andlast reels of Two Days. Here the Russian, relying onhis interval, shows at the end of the penultimate reela short shot of the father kneeling by his hanged son ;slow fade-out. Interval for lacing up the next reel.Fade-in, father rising to his feet. We are aware thathe has been long dazed with sorrow, and has at lastreached a critical impulse, to fire the house of hisson's executioners. On a Western apparatus thechange-over swallows all, or the best part of, thefades. The father appears merely to indulge in amore or less irrational kneeling-down and almostimmediate standing-up, and much of the " Tight-ness " of the psychology of his impulse is lost. Careshould be taken, therefore, by the cutter to divide hisreels preferably at a place of cross-cut shots whereloss of perhaps the last foot of one and the first footof another will be insignificant, {p. 21.)

9. Note that in a talking-film script, the dialogueis set out bunched up on the right-hand side of thepage, as in a play, not between the scenes and levelwith them, as the spoken sub-titles here. {p. 21.)

10. Refer to Glossarial Notes, {p. 23.)

11. A girl member of the Young CommunistLeague, (p. 23.)

12. This paragraph remains equally true for

sound films in Pudovkin's view. So long as an imageappears it should not be casual, but selected for itsexpression ; similarly speech should not be casual—the speech that might happen to be uttered—butrigidly selected and arranged for maximum ex-pression. See his essays VII and VIII. (/?. 27.)

13. The principle has a useful application, byconverse inference, for the editor (the cutter andtitler, called in after the damage is done) as well asfor the scenarist. Suppose he be confronted withthis weak scene of Olga walking out on her husband,already made, he can slightly strengthen it byweakening the preceding title—that is, making itmore indefinite. Thus : " Olga, unable to endureher hard-hearted husband, came to a crucialdecision." {p. 33.)

14. A long experience of titling enables me to benot contradictory, but perhaps more definite. Threeconsiderations affect titles ; they are, in order ofdescending importance : (a) content, (b) style,(c) compression.

The absolutely clear significance of the content forthe development of the action is paramount. Thatsatisfied, the use of phraseology in spoken titleshelping to characterise a speaker or his mood, or ofstyle in continuity titles wedded to the momentaryspirit of the film, may be exceedingly valuable.Compression, though to be considered only after theother two desiderata, is highly important ; thoughfew spectators are analphabets, reading is, to manyof them, an exercise, and, if the screen be full oftype, an astonishing number make no effort to beginon it at all. (p. 33.)

15. Methods of measuring title-length vary. That

given here, though used in several studios, is anexcessively large approximation. A more exactallowance is one foot for each of the first five words,and one foot for each subsequent pair of words. Thispresupposes that a material part of the time takenin reading a card is taken up, firstly, in adjustmentto the first appearance of the card, secondly, inadjustment to each new word ; length of words isregarded as temporally relatively unimportant, formost long words are recognised when only a part oftheir length has been spelt out. For this view thereis experimental support. (/>. 33.)

16. To it belongs also the science of selection offount (or script), tone, and background, (/>. 34.)

17. To avoid interruption of the flow of rapidaction by length in a title, the Russians introducedthe method of " split-titles," that is, distribution ofthe essential content to be rendered on to two orthree separated cards ; each is thus shown short infootage and the tempo undisturbed. Still faster, inhis penultimate film, Pudovkin cut alternate framesof a title and a picture in battle scenes. This gavean effect of almost machine-gun rapidity. Alternateframe effects can also be got, perhaps more easily,in what is called an " optical printer." {p. 35.)

18. The text is here slightly amended. The authorgives as his simple form the iris-in and iris-out,mentioning what is called the fade only as a variant.Irises were used far more in the past than to-day,the fade has now been found to be less distractingto the spectator. The mere reversal of their respec-tive positions, with litde phrase alteration, is effectivein modernising the passage, {p. 35.)

19. See Note 18. {p. 36.)

20. These effects have lately come very muchinto fashion ; they are called " wipes," and are mostusually effected not in the camera but on the printer.

(A 36.)

21. The mix need not be effected at once in thecamera ; it can be made subsequendy in theprinting, or by various trick processes. As a matterof fact, however—though there is no theoreticalreason why it should be so—such processes andprinting machines are, in practice, nearly alwaysimperfect, and result in a loss of photographicquality, (/>. 37.)

22. Accomplished by means of a camera accessory,such a shot is termed a " pan." Accomplished byfree-hand, it is usually termed a " swinging " shot.

^•370

23. There is strong difference on this point. Acostly process, owing to the time taken for thecomplex preparation of such a shot, the prodigalAmericans use it more and more frequently, forsuch purposes as the following of a character alongpassages, up flights of stairs, and so forth. Tracking(and panning) are in disfavour with the left-wingRussian school, for, naturalists, they hold suchmethods easily tend to remind the spectator of thepresence of the camera, {p. 38.)

24. The same effect is often obtained by gauzesor cigarette smoke in front of the lens. {p. 38.)

25. Scenes and script-scenes. Refer to GlossarialNotes, (p. 39.)

26. A further wide textual alteration. Discussionwas given of the editing of the reel (" each reel isa more or less complete whole, corresponding, toa certain degree, to an act upon the stage ") and of

the scenario separately. In considering reels, theauthor repeated the desideratum that their materialmust be independent and self-contained, though nowadding that, with two-projector exhibition, this isunnecessary. In considering the scenario as a whole,the author suggested the various size of reels asa means of sparing to the end the energy of thespectator. The early ones long, while he is fresh, themiddle reels shorter, and the last reel, if necessary,longer again, so that the pure final action need not beinterrupted by new lacing-up. These observationsare significant in Western Europe and America foramateurs only. Refer to Note 8. {p. 45.)

27. The author here repeated, almost word forword, the account of those scenes given on p. 19.(A 49.)

(ii) NOTES TO " FILM DIRECTOR AND FILM MATERIAL "

28. The great significance here alluded to byPudovkin is the economic consequence that cost ofperformance becomes a mere fraction of cost ofproduction. Whereas in the theatre or concert hall,chief analogies in the entertainment industry, costsof repeat performance are relatively much neareroriginal production costs. This, not anything in theirrespective intrinsic possibilities of creative method,determines the paramountcy of theatre for esotericgroups, and puts the cinema as a mass art out onits own with limitless financial resources, (/>. 52.)

29. The original here speaks of the impossibilityof approaching " scenes," using the word in theclassical French sense. See Glossarial Notes, {p. 57.)

30. The net is " cheated." Any movement or

188 PUDOVKIN

object outside the picture-frame or otherwise un-remarked is said to be " cheated." {p. 57.)

31. Communist mixed Boy and Girl Scouts, (p. 58.)

32. By a curious error of mistranslation on thepart of the German renters of this film it has beencustomary to refer to this warship as an armouredcruiser (Panzerkreuzer). Both in actuality and in theRussian name of the film the Potemkin is a pre-dreadnought battleship, the full name of which isPotemkin Tavritcheski (ex Pantelimon, ex Kniaz PotemkinTavritcheski). It was completed in 1900, and itsdetails are given as follows : Displacement, 12,480metric tons ; complement, 741 ; guns, four 12",sixteen 6", fourteen 11-pounders, six 3-pounders ;5 torpedo-tubes, speed, about 16 knots. It closelyresembles those English classes of pre-dreadnought—Bulwark, Formidable, Majestic, Canopus—of which somany examples were lost during the war. (p. 67.)

33. These are the marble steps leading from thestatue of the Due de Richelieu on the boulevard tothe docks below, (p. 67.)

34. In the German edition the translators hereinserted Ruttman's Berlin as a film of this kind. Thisis absurd ; Berlin was most carefully scripted andexactly executed, and the instance was repudiatedby Pudovkin when brought to his attention, (p. 72.)

35. The counter to this rule is, of course, Dziga-Vertov with his theory of the " Kino-eye." Dziga-Vertov holds that the director should stage nothing,simply going about quietly and unobservedlyaccumulating material with the camera, his " Kino-eye," and that only such a film as one in which thedirector's " interference " with the natural courseof events is limited to choosing and eliminating

details can properly be called documentary. It isall a matter of degree. At the one pole there is thearbitrary, staged and acted event—Chang or thesandstorm in Turksib, at the other the lurkingabout the streets of Ruttmann in Berlin orDziga-Vertov. But even Dziga-Vertov would doubt-less repeat and " interfere " in the sense of the nexttext paragraph to secure certain material, (p. 74.)

36. In England it is the whole work of one memberof the producing team, the " continuity " or floor-secretary, to aid the director to keep watch oncorrespondences of this kind. (p. 79.)

37. Recall that the director's field will alter withevery lens. Modification of the amount of space tobe embraced may often be effected not by changeof set-up but by change of lens. (p. 80.)

38. In " The Dynamic Square," Eistensteineloquently pleads for all those male shapes utterlybanned from proper screen expression by its at presentaccepted frame, (p. 81.)

39. The Mechanism of the Brain, Reel One. (p. 83.)

40. At the former Imperial summer residence inLivadea, near Yalta, (p. 89.)

41. Pudovkin is himself a declared and practisingdisciple of the American Griffith in this matter.Compare the steady, inexorable flow of spring riverice and the marching, demonstrating workers inMother ; compare the storm, existing for the storynot in reality but only in emotion, that sweeps awaythe English at the finale of Jenghiz Khan. This lastis his most daring and remarkable achievement. Forthe risk of introducing an emotional environmentaleffect is that it is much less likely than a real oneto be apprehended unconsciously by the audience;

it may become a symbol, requiring conscious effortfor comprehension, and risk passing the audienceby, e.g., the Regeneration Sequence in Simple Case.(/>. IOI.)

42. Recall again the Separator Sequence, GeneralLine, Reel Two. (p. 104.)

43. Example : The grimacing and painted Kraussstanding on a real hill, pretending to influence a realfox, real foxhounds and horses ; a preposterous scenein The Student of Prague, (p. 106.)

44. It requires such an abundance of stock onthe regular pay-roll as can only be afforded by thewealthiest film-company. The herding of extrasinto a film-city, in which all companies centralisetheir studios, has, however, something of the sameeffect, (p. 108.)

45. Many historians of the Theatre would dis-agree, (p. no.)

46. For Pudovkin's views on the proper relationof speeches and movements in dialogue film seeessays VII and VIII. (p. 115.)

47. Remember also the face of the Mongol in thefinale of The Heir to Jenghiz Khan. {p. 119.)

48. Soft-focus, refer note 24 (p. 122).

49. This is a considerable over-estimate for theconditions of commercial film production in theWest. Companies with big studio investments hategoing on location ; they must keep their studiosoccupied to cover their overheads, (p. 129).

50. This, of course, the elimination of the supere-rogatory, is what makes the Close-up the keystoneof the whole power and effectiveness of the cinema.A measure—the ultimate possible—of the uncon-sciousness of the West and its innocence of theory

was seen at that meeting of the Academy of MotionPicture Arts and Sciences, the would-be learnedsociety of Hollywood, at which were deliveredEisenstein's remarks on " The Dynamic Square."This meeting was called to consider Wide Film.A prominent cameraman from Fox was recountinghis experiences. Although one could not approachclose enough to the subject to secure a close-up, hedeclared this was no drawback, for the image onthe screen was so large that the characters5 expres-sions could none the less be clearly discerned evenin mid-shot ! Despite the presence of a multitudeof directors and leading technicians from everystudio, this astounding appraisal excited no remark.To this day, though their pragmatism has taught themto drop Wide Film after stinging losses, the bigcompanies are probably quite mystified and unableto account for the public's indifference to it. (p. 129.)

51. There is a growing tendency, alas, in Englandand America for the director too to leave, his pictureat this point passing to an " editor." It derives fromcommercial envy of the " quickies," and must tend,with them, to standardisation and mechanicalisationof style, (/>. 136.)

52. In spite of this address it should be noted thatPudovkin does very often use actors. Inkishinov,Baranovskaia, Batalov, Baturin, are examples ofmore or less experienced actors in leading roles inhis films. Other equally important parts are, it istrue, played by complete novices and he certainlyhandles them all, experienced and otherwise, withthe technique prescribed here for the handling oftypes. Dovzhenko uses types rather more, and onlyEisenstein invariably, {p. 137).

ig2 PUDOVKIN

53. Various means of obtaining " Close-ups inTime " have been used previously by directors otherthan the quoted Epstein. Turning the camera fast—though not in actual exaggerated slow-motion as inthese experiments—is not at all uncommon forcertain underlinings. Some of Fairbanks athleticfeats were probably recorded in this way to em-phasise their grace. Eisenstein, on the other hand,has always emphasised his moments by repetitivecutting. Recall the repetition in the enthroning inthe tractor in the last reel of General Line, in thebridge scene of October, and as for the Odessa Stepsscene in Potemkin—you will find that the soldiersmarch down this whole length two or three times ifall the descent shots are added together. These areother technical means to the same end as theexperiments in A Simple Case here described, (p. 146).

C—V. I. PUDOVKIN :

ICONOGRAPHY

The Mechanism of the Brain (Mejrabpom-russ, 1925)

Technical scientific direction : Professor L. N.Voskresenski and Professor D. S. Fursikov.

Technical cinematographic direction : V. I.Pudovkin.

Physiological experiments and operations : Pro-fessor D. S. Fursikov.

Animal-life direction : L. N. Danilov.

Conditional reflex experiments on children :Professor N. I. Krasnogorski.

Child-life direction : Professor A. S. Durnovo.Diagrams : I. Vano, D. Tcherkess, V. Merku-

lov.Photography : A. N. Golovnia.

A documentary film illustrative of compara-tive mental processes, more particularly of theprogress in knowledge of conditioned reflexesattained by workers in Professor Pavlov's labora-tory at the Academy of Sciences, Leningrad.Regarded as unsuitable for public presentationby the B.B. of F.C., February 1929. Firstexhibited in England, privately, to the RoyalSociety of Medicine (Neurological Section),March, 1929.

2. The Chess Player (Mejrabpom-russ, 1926).

Direction : V. I. Pudovkin.

A short comedy in which, by means of anexperiment in cutting and editing, J. R. Capa-blanca is made to appear to play a part.

3. Mother (Mejrabpom-russ, 1926).

Based on the story by Maxim Gorki.

Scenario : N. A. Zarkhi.

Direction : V. I. Pudovkin.

Art Direction : S. V. Koslovski.

Photography : A. N. Golovnia.

Cast: The father—A. Tchistiakov* ; the mother

—Vera Baranovskaia ; the son—Nikolai Bata-

lov.

Baranovskaia and Batalov are professionals,Tchistiakov is an accountant of Mejrabpom,he has appeared in each of Pudovkin's subse-quent films. A small part in the film, that of a

* Kenneth Macpherson, in Bryher's Film Problems of Soviet Russia(q.v.), identifies this character as the actor Leinstiakov.

mild, bespectacled officer, is played by Pudov-kin. First performed in England, privately, atthe Film Society, October 1928. Regarded asunsuitable for public presentation by the B.B.of F.C., November 1928.

4. The End of St. Petersburg (Mejrabpom-russ, 1927).

Scenario : N. A. Zarkhi.

Direction : V. I. Pudovkin.

Art Direction : S. V. Koslovski.

Photography : A. N. Golovnia.

Cast : The Bolshevik—A. Tchistiakov ; his

wife—V. Baranovskaia ; the peasant boy—

I. Tchuvelev ; Lebedeu—V. Obolenski ; a

jingo—V. Tsoppi.

The peasant boy is played by a peasant,whose brother appears, also as a peasant boy,in the blackleg scene. The part of his preg-nant mother is played by a peasant woman.The stockbrokers are all former stockbrokers.Obolenski similarly a member of the formergoverning class. First performed in England,privately, at the Film Society, February 1929.

5. The Heir to Jenghiz Khan (Mejrabpom-film, 1928).

Based on a story by Novokshenov.

Scenario : O. Brik.

Direction : V. I. Pudovkin.

Art Direction : S. V. Koslovski and Aronson.

Photography : A. N. Golovnia.

Cast : The Mongol—V. Inkishinov ; his father—I. Inkishinov ; the Partisan leader—A. Tchistia-kov ; the Commandant—L. Dedintsev; hiswife—L. Billinskaia ; his daughter—Anna Suja-kevitch ; a fur-trader—V. Tsoppi ; a soldier—K. Gurniak ; a missionary—R. Pro.

The four last-named actors are professionals.Inkishinov is assistant producer in the Meyer-hold Theatre. His father in the film is playedby his actual father, on the location in which hehas always lived. The Mongols and Mongolianceremonies are actual. The film was regardedas unsuitable for public presentation by the B.B.of F.C., August 1929. First presented inEngland, privately, at the Film Society, February

1930.

6. The Story of a Simple Case (Mejrabpom-film, 1931).

Theme : M. Koltsova.

Scenario : A. Rzheshevski.

Direction : V. I. Pudovkin.

Photography : G. Kabalov.

Cast : (Prologue) Worker—A. Gortchilin ; his

wife —Tchekulayeva ; son — M. Kashtelian ;

(Story) Uncle Sasha—A. Tchistiakov; Paul

Langovoi—A. Baturin ; Fedya £heltikov—V.

Kuzmitch ; Masha Langovoi—E. Rogulina ;

the second wife—M. Belousova.

Baturin is a concert-singer ; Kuzmitchactually a Red Army Officer ; Belousova aProfessor of Psychology. The film was firstpresented in England, privately, at the FilmSociety, May 1933 ; it has been withdrawn inthe U.S.S.R. It was at first provisionally namedLife is Grand,

7. Deserter (Mejrabpom-film, 1933).

Scenario: N. Agadjanova-Shutko, M. Krasno-

stavski, A. Lezebnikov.Direction : V. I. Pudovkin.Art Direction : A. Kozlovski.Photography: A. N. Golovnia.

Sound Recording : E. Nesterov.

Music: I. Shaporin.

Sound System : Tagephon.

Cast: Boris Livanov, M. Aleshchenko, A. Bes-

perotov, S. Gerasimov, I. Gliser, K. Gurniak,

A. Konsovski, V. Kovrigin, I. Lavrov, T.

Makarova, T. Svashenko, A. Tchistiakov,

V. Uralski.

D.—INDEX OF NAMES

Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences,

Hollywood, 191Academy of Sciences, Leningrad, 193Adventures of Mr. West, The: L. V. Kuleshov,

Mejrabpom-russ, 1924, x, 18Agadjanova-Shutko, N., scenarist, 195Aleshchenko, M., actor, 196Alexandrov, G. V., film director, 177America : D. W. Griffith, United Artists, 1923, 98,

in, 135"American Tragedy, An," scenario, 177Aristotle, viii

Arnheim, Rudolf, writer, xiAronson, art director, 194

B

BalAzs, Bela, writer, 8

Baranovskaia, Vera, actress, 191, 193, 194

Barthelmess, Richard, actor, 100, 129

Batalov, Nikolai, actor, 191, 193

Battleship " Potemkin" The: S. M. Eisenstein, Sov-

kino, 1925, 67, 85, 87, 97, 115, 119, 122, 126, 166,

167, 192Baturin, A., actor, 191, 195Belousova, M., actress, 195

Berlin : W. Ruttmann, Fox Europa, 1928, 188, 189Besperotov, A., actor, 196Beyond the Law : not identified, 131Billinskaia, L., actress, 194Brik, O., scenarist, 194British Board of Film Censors, 193, 194, 195Brunei, Adrian, x, xiBryher, writer, 193Buchanan, Andrew, film director, xi

C

Capablanga, Jos£ Raoul, 193

Chang : M. C. Cooper and E. B. Schoedsack, Para-mount, 1927, 189

Chaplin, Charles, vii, 105

Chess Player, The (P.), 193

" Cinema," journal, London, 145

" Cinema," journal, New York, xi

" Cinema Quarterly," journal, xi

" Cinematic Principle and the Japanese Theatre,The," essay, xi

" Close-Up," journal, xi, 177

Colon, Cristobal, ix

Cupid, 88

D

Daddy : Sol Lesser (Jackie Coogan), First National)1923, 68

198 PUDOVKIN

Danilov, L. N., director of Zoological Park, Lenin-grad, 192Danton, Georges Jacques, 169Days of Struggle, The : Perestiani, 1920, xDedintsev, L., actor, 194

Deserter (P.), 161, 162, 168, 169, 171, 172, 173, 195" Detective Work in the G.I.K.," essay, xiDr. Mabuse, the Gambler: F. Lang, Ufa, 1922, 180" Doing without Actors," essay, xiDovzhenko, Alexander, film director, ix, 191Durnovo, Professor A. S., psychologist, 193" Dynamic Square, The," address, xi, 189, 191Dziga-Vertov, film director, 188, 189

Einstein, Albert, ix

Eisenstein, S. M. (correctly transliterated Eizen-

shtein), ix, xi, 67, 87, 88, 148, 167, 177, 189, 191,

192End of St. Petersburg, The (P.), xv, xvi, 194Epstein, Jean, film director, 152, 192Ermler, Friedrich, film director, ix" Experimental Cinema," journal, xi

Fairbanks, Douglas, 105, 192

Fall of the House of Usher, The : J. Epstein, Epstein

Productions, 1929, 153Famine : not identified, 34" Film," book, xi" Film Art," journal, xi" Film Problems of Soviet Russia," book, 193

" Filmregie and Filmmanuskript," book, xviiiFraenkel, Heinrich, xFilm Society, ix, 137, 145, 194, 195" Film Weekly," journal, xviiiFox, film producers, 191

Friedland, Georg and Nadia, translators, xviiiFursikov, Professor D. S., of Professor Pavlov'slaboratory, 192

G

GARDIN, V. R., FILM DIRECTOR, X

Gay Canary, The : L. V. Kuleshov, Mejrabpom-film.

1928, x" General Line, The," book, 177General Line, The : S. M. Eisenstein, Sovkino, 1929,

148, 182, 190, 192Gerasimov, S., actor, 196Gish, Lilian, actress, 100, inGliser, L, actor, 196Gogol, Nikolai, 60Goldman, Hazel, xi

Golovnia, Anatolia N., cameraman, 193, 194, 195Gorki, Maxim, 193Gortchilin, A., actor, 195Greed (from " McTeague ") : E. Stroheim, Metro-

Goldwyn, 1923, 181Griffith, David Wark, 19, 20, 65, 67, 86, 98, 100,

105, 106, in, 118, 122, 127, 129, 135, 170, 189Gurniak, K., actor, 194, 196

H

Hammer and Sickle, The : V. R. Gardin, 1921, xHeir to Jenghiz Khan, The (P.), 142, 189, 190, 194Hellstern, Eileen, x

I

INKISHINOV, I., ACTOR, 194

Inkishinov, V., actor, 191, 194, 195

Intolerance: D. W. Griffith, David Wark Griffith

Corporation, 1916, 7, 19, 49, 65, III, 166Isle of Lost Ships, The : Maurice Tourneur (Milton

Sills and Anna Q,. Nilsson), First National, 1923,

J

Jerusalem : G. Molander, Nordwesti, 1926, 180

KKabalov, G., cameraman, 195Kashtelian, M., actor, 195" Kino-Eye, The," theory, 188Kinopetchat, publishing organisation, 50, 136Koltsova, M., writer, 195Konsovski, A., actor, 196Koslovski, S. V., art director, 193, 194Kovrigin, V., actor, 196Kozintsev, G., film director, ixKozlovski, A., art director, 195Krasnogorski, Professor N. I., psychologist, 192Krasnostavski, M., scenarist, 195Krauss, Werner, actor, 190Kriemhild's Revenge : see The NibelungsKuleshov, L. V., viii, x, 60, 61, 117, 138, 139, 140Kuzmitch, V., actor, 195

LLagerlof, Selma, writer, 180Lang, Fritz, film director, 180Lavrov, I., actor, 196

Leather Pushers, The (Reginald Denny), Universal,

1922, 29, 127Leinstiakov, actor, 193Lezebnikov, A., scenarist, 196Lichtbildbuehne, publishers, x, xviiiLife is Grand: see The Story of a Simple CaseLivanov, Boris, actor, 195

Living Corpse, The : F. Otsep, Prometheus, 1929, xLloyd, Harold, actor, 105Love and Sacrifice : see AmericaLubitsch, Ernst, film director, vii

M

MagPhail, Angus, x

Macpherson, Kenneth, writer, 193

Makarova, T., actress, 196

Marsh, Mae, actress, 106, in, 119

Mechanism of the Brain, The (P.), 189, 192

Mejrabpom-film, producing organisation, 194, 195

Mejrabpom-russ, (see Mejrabpom-film), 192, 193,

194Mendel, Abbot Gregor, viiMerkulov, V., animator, 193Meyerhold, Vsevolod, theatrical producer, 195Molander, Gustaf, film director, 180Montagu, I., xviii, 145, 154, 165, 174, 177Mosjukhin, Ivan, actor, 140Moskvin, Ivan, actor, 114Mother (P.), xvii, 144, 189, 193

N

Nesterov, E., sound recordist, 196Nibelungs, The : F. Lang, Ufa, 1924, 180

Nolbandov, S. S., xNovokshenov, author, 194

O

Obolenski, V., actor, 194

" Observer, The," journal, 154

October: S. M. Eisenstein, Sokvino, 1927, 192

Old and the New, The : see The General Line

Orphans of the Storm, The : D. W. Griffith, United

Artists, 1921, inOtsep, Fiodor, film director, x

Paramount, film producers, 181

Pavlov, Professor I. P., 193

Perestiani, film director, x

Peter the Great, xvi

Pickford, Mary, 105, 106

Poe, E. A., writer, 153

" Principles of Film Form, The," essay, xi

Postmaster, The : Y. A. Jeliabujski, Mejrabpom-russ,

i925>. IJ4Potamkin, H. A., writer, 177

Pro, R., actor, 194

Procrustes, viii

Pudovkin, V. I., viii, ix, xi, 177, 179, 181, 184, 185,

187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195

Ray of Death, The: L. V. Kuleshov, Mejrabpom-russ, 1925, 104Remnants of a Wreck, The : not identified, 97

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 203

Richelieu, Armand Emmanuel du Plessis, Due def

188Rogulina, E., actress, 195Royal Society of Medicine, 193Ruttmann, Walter, 188, 189Rzheshevski, A., scenarist, 195

Samson, 106

Saturday Night: Cecil B. de Mille (Conrad Nagel and

Leatrice Joy), Famous Players-Lasky, 1922, 14Saviour, St., 60Seton, Marie, xi, 165, 174Shaporin, L, composer, 164, 196She-Devil, The: see The MbelungsSiegfried: see The Mbelungs" Sichtbare Mensch, Der," book, 8Stevens, H. C, translator, 154Storm over Asia : see The Heir to Jenghiz KhanStory of a Simple Case, The (P.), 181, 190, 192, 195Strike: S. M. Eisenstein, Sovkino, 1925, 49, 127Stroheim, Erich, film director, 180Student of Prague, The: Henrik Galeen (Conrad

Veidt), Sokal, 1926, 190Sujakevitch, Anna, actress, 194Svashenko, T., actor, 196

T

Tagephon, sound system, 196Tchekulayeva, actress, 195Tcherkess, D., animator, 193Tchistiakov, A., actor, 193, 194, 195, 196Tchuvelev, I., actor, 194

204 PUDOVKIN

Ten Days that Shook the World : see October

Tisse, EduarcL cameraman, 85

Tol'able David : Henry King (Richard Barthelmess),

First National, 1922, 27, 32, 96, 97, 104, 113Tolstoy, Leo, x" Transition," journal, xiTrauberg, Ilya, film director, ixTrauberg, Lev, film director, ixTsoppi, V., actor, 194Turksib : Turin, Sokvino, 1929, 189Two Days, Georgi Stabavoi, Vufku, 1928, 183

U

Universal, film producers, 181Uralski, V., actor, 196

V

Vano, I., animator, 193

Virgin of Stamboul, The (Priscilla Dean), Universal,

1920, 126Voskresenski, Professor L. N., physiologist, 192

W

Way Down East: D. W. Griffith, United Artists,

1920, 100, 129Wedding March, The: E. Stroheim, Paramount,

1928, 181Workers' Film Federation, 154

Z

Zarkhi, N. A., scenarist, 193, 194

FILM ACTING

Non-professional as an old woman" Simple Case," Pudovkin.

FILM ACTING

CONTENTS

SHAFTS*

I. The Theatre and the Cinema

II. The Basic Contradiction of theActor's Work

III. Discontinuity in the Actor's Work

in the Cinema

IV. Theoretical Postulates of Discon

tinuity ....

V. Rehearsal Work .VI. The Editing Image.VII. Dialogue ....

VIII. Dual Rhythm of Sound and Image 90

IX. Intonation, Make-up, Gesture

X. Realism of the Acted Image

XI. Work with Non-Actors

XII. Casting .....

XIII. The Creative Collective

XIV. Personal Experiences

XV. Conclusions ....

5

1122

41536579

99108118127

133144

l5l

PLATE

I. Non-professional as an old woman. Frontispiece" Simple Case," Pudovkin

FACING PAGE

II. Savitsky, non-professional (former Si-berian Red Partisan), as a strike-breaker.

" Mother," Pudovkin 14

III. Tchistiakov, then non-professional (book-

keeper since become actor), as thefather.

" Mother,5' Pudovkin 17

IV. Batalov, actor, as the son.

" Mother," Pudovkin 21

V. Rogulina, then first-year student at theG.I.K. (State Institute of Cinemato-graphy, Moscow), as Masha, wife of theRed Army Commander.

" Simple Case," Pudovkin 28

VI. Tchuvelev, actor, as a peasant boy, andBaranovskaya, actress, as a worker'swife.

" End of St. Petersburg," Pudovkin 32

VII. Tchuvelev, actor, as a peasant boy.

" End of St. Petersburg," Pudovkin 37

VIII. Pudovkin as a police officer, and Bara-novskaya, actress, as the mother.

" Mother," Pudovkin 44h* 7

8 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PLATE FACING PAGE

IX. Sovrotchin, actor, as a strike-breaker.

" Mother," Pudovkin 49

X. Pudovkin as a bourgeois of the Empire.

" New Babylon," Kozintsev and Trauberg 53

XI. Tchistiakov, then non-professional, asthe father.

" Mother," Pudovkin 60

XII. Pudovkin as a docker.

" Deserter," Pudovkin 64

XIII. Baranovskaya, actress, as the mother.

" Mother," Pudovkin 69

XIV. Baranovskaya, actress, as the mother.

" Mother," Pudovkin 76

XV. Tchistiakov, now actor, as Fritz, aGerman workers' leader.

" Deserter," Pudovkin 81

XVI. Livanov, actor, as a German worker.

" Deserter," Pudovkin 85

XVII. Non-professional in small part.

" Deserter," Pudovkin 92

XVIII. Baranovskaya, actress, as the mother.

" Mother," Pudovkin 96

XIX. Non-professional (Red Army man fromOdessa), in small part.

" Simple Case," Pudovkin 101

XX. Unnamed player as a jail officer.

" Mother," Pudovkin 108

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 9

FACING PAGE

XXI. Pudovkin as Fedya and Vvedensky,actor, as the informer,

" Living Corpse," Otsep 117

XXII. Pudovkin as Fedya and Nata Vashnadze,actress, as Masha, the gipsy.

" Living Corpse,55 Otsep 124

XXIII. Livanov, actor, as a German worker and

a boy, non-professional, as the son of aslain German worker.

" Deserter,55 Pudovkin 129

XXIV. Pudovkin as Fedya and Vvedensky,

actor, as the informer.

" Living Corpse,55 Otsep 144

FILM ACTING

CHAPTER ITHE THEATRE AND THE CINEMA

Discussion of such questions as the interrelationshipbetween film and stage, the necessity for the cinemato absorb and benefit from the traditions and dis-coveries of the theatre, the respective problems offilm acting and stage acting, etc., is often along en-tirely wrong lines. The only profitable basis forsuch discussion, too often disregarded, is the con-sideration of the cinema in its aspect as a step in thedevelopment of the theatre.

To understand what we must discard, and whatpreserve or alter, in our stage heritage we must firstappreciate those technical possibilities which dis-tinguish the new nature of cinema from the natureof theatre.

I use with purpose the word possibilities, becausenot only theoreticians, but many practical filmworkers also, limit their achievement by regardingthe cinema as little more than a photograph,mechanically recording what in essence basicallyremains a theatrical performance conditioned by thespecific technical conditions of the theatre.

The intrinsic possibilities of the cinema are onlyii

realised in full when its new technical means are ex-ploited, not merely in a mechanical fixation of theforces already found and used by the stage, but alsoin the discovery of novel, often more profound andmore expressive methods of communicating to thespectator the concept of the creative artist. We shallalways be in a position to use a camera merely tophotograph a theatrical performance, and this meremechanical use of it can, in fact, be of definite servicein educational work. But, I repeat, the mechanicaltransference to the screen of a stage show, with all thelimitations conditioned by the latter's technicalmethods, is not the proper line of development of thecinema.

The fight against theatricality in the cinema in noway implies antagonism to the stage as such. It onlyputs before us as our task, simply and clearly, theexamination and analysis of the contradictions arising in theprocess of the development of the theatre, and their resolutionin the cinema, not by slavish imitation of the theatre's solu-tion, but by use of the cinema's own technical possibilities.It means repudiation of a number of theatricalmethods and discovery and acceptance of analogousspecific filmic methods.

It is thus clear that, to discover the specific charac-ter of the work of the film actor, our first task is toanalyse the contradictions in the work of the stageactor. And, equally essential, to appreciate sharplythe distinction between the material-technical basisof theatre and the material-technical basis of cinema.

What prime basic contradiction of the theatre is

THE THEATRE AND THE CINEMA 13

eliminated in the cinema ? Every several work ofart may be defined as an act of collective perceptionand modification of reality. This is to say that everywork of art is to be regarded not as a process of twofactors—the creative artist and the work created—but as a more complex process, consisting of threefactors: the creative artist, the work created, and thespectator apprehending it.

The act of perception of a fragment of reality,recorded and fixed by the artist in the work hecreates, resumes life and repeats itself in perceptionby a multitude of spectators. In concert with theartist, the spectator likewise perceives a part of real-ity, and, in his act of doing so, thereby transmutesthe work of art to a social-historical phenomenon,i.e. from a paper, or canvas or celluloid symbol to anactual process.

A stage show, exactly as any other work of art, hasreal existence only in respect to its contact with thespectator. The Soviet artist has for his spectatorthe whole population of the Soviet Union; ulti-mately, the population of the world. What doesany given stage show represent in terms of its em-brace of the mass spectator ? The numerical em-brace of one stage production performed in anaverage-sized theatre throughout one year would beapproximately 100,000 spectators. The embrace ofa theatrical art work is widened by its productionin a number of other theatres. But, even granted ahigh technical level of the theatrical network, theproductions staged in Moscow will differ qualita-

14 FILM ACTING

tively from those staged in Odessa, Kiev, and Kazan.They will inevitably vary with the coefficients ofmethod and skill of the producers, with the casts,with the technical resources of the respectivetheatres. Even in the same town it is certain thatthere will be qualitative difference in production ofthe same play in different theatres. Suppose we gofarther, and consider the ultimate embrace of themany-millioned spectator of the colkhoz,1 we imme-diately encounter a qualitative difference of thehighest degree. Contrast a production at the FirstMoscow Art Theatre, and at a colkhoz theatre,which not even the most perfect conceivable organi-sation of the on-tour system could contrive to servicewith acting forces of first strength.

Consequently, in the theatre, the widening of itsnetwork is in direct contradiction with the qualityof its performance. The theatre has, however, onefurther technical means of expanding its spectator-embrace, and that is, increase in the size of itsauditorium. Here too, however, there is a definitelimit beyond which this contradiction implicit in thevery nature of the stage show comes once again tothe fore. The first desideratum for the actor is thathe must be distinctly seen and heard. In order to bedistinctly perceptible to a larger number of specta-tors the actor studies voice delivery, learns to makehis gestures obvious and clear without losing theirintrinsic character, he learns, in short, to move and

1 Collective farm, each with its own cultural facilities, includingtheatre.—Tr.

II

Savitsky, non-professional (former Siberian RedPartisan), as a strike-breaker.

" Mother," Pudovkin.

THE THEATRE AND THE CINEMA 15

speak in such a way that he can be seen and hearddistincdy from the last row in the gallery.

But the broader an acting gesture, the less it canbe shaded. The more intensified the actor's tones,the more difficult it is for him to transmit to thespectator the finer shades of his voice. Loudness oftone and widening of gesture lead to generalisedform and stylisation, which tend as a techniqueinevitably to become dry and cold. The depth andrealism of the image that the actor creates tendto vary inversely with the size of the audience thatsees his performance. Increase in size of a theatricalbuilding has thus a boundary beyond which thebuilding itself dictates the actual form of the pro-duction, even its transmutation into specialised formsof mass spectacle: festivals, carnivals, parades, etc.

We perceive from these considerations that stageart, in the circumstances obtaining in practice,evinces a contradiction between numerical increaseof its audience (along two possible lines) and qualita-tive improvement of performance.

How is this contradiction escaped in the cinema ?The degree of quality in the work of art is fixed onceand for all at the time of single production of thefilm. The quality attained can be conveyed un-modified to any audience by means of a cinemanetwork capable of development to any dimen-sion. The measure of spectator-embrace is solvedsimply by the specific technical character of thecinema. The spectator-embrace can be increasedin number to include the entire population of the

16 FILM ACTING

world. The quality of the performance at any givenpoint in the network, however remote from thecentre, varies solely as the quality of the technicalequipment of the given theatre at which it takesplace, and this is merely a matter of standardisation.At some future date it may well be that every dwell-ing will have a projection equipment, operated bysome improved form of radio-television, and givingthe possibility of simultaneous and uniform presenta-tion of a film in every conceivable corner of theglobe.

Certainly the same means might be used forsimultaneous and ubiquitous transmission of atheatrical performance. But the cinema's propertyof indefinitely repeating its performance at its fixedand optimal degree of quality will remain unique.

The second aspect of the contradiction in theatri-cal acting, also referred to above, quality varyinginversely with the size of the auditorium, is equallysolved in the cinema. The size of the cinema theatreis no handicap to performance, for the possibilityof increase in size of the screen, or in number of thesound-reproducers, is unlimited. Thus, at the timeof shooting, the actor can speak without straininghis tones in the slightest, he is free to exercise thefinest shading of voice and gesture. We shall laterhave to discuss the importance of this fact for thespecial character of film acting.

I now come to a new contradiction, arisen fromthe influence upon theatrical development of ourcontemporary life. The artist, drawing the specta-

V

VV

O

J3

>

o

£ 5

tor into a joint perception and modification ofreality with him in the process of creating andapprehending the work of art, has a general ten-dency to embrace his fragment of reality as widelyand deeply as he can. In an epoch such as ours,wherein the tempestuous development of realitycontinually outpaces the generalisation of it inhuman thought, it is natural that this tendencyshould express itself in an endeavour to deal realisti-cally with the innumerable only newly discoveredfacets of this reality.

The eager desire to discover, beyond eachgeneralisation, the living complexity of life, evernew-faceted, inevitably gives rise to a desire toembrace a maximum number of events in the workof art and consequently to expand it over a maximumembrace of time and space.

To contrive the increase in the work of art of thespace-time embrace of reality, each art form has itsown specific methods deriving from its own specificmaterial technique. In the theatre, for example,the principal means of attaining this end is thesplitting-up of the performance into separate actsand scenes. A one-act performance of two personsengaged in dialogue and lasting without intervalfor an hour embraces exactly that, an hour's con-versation between two persons stationary in oneplace—and no more. To embrace a bigger sliceof time we split the act into two scenes. The firstcan be played as springtime in Berlin, the second assummer in Moscow. Such a division of an act into

parts gives us the possibility of embracing not onlybigger time, but also bigger space.

In his productions of classical plays, Meyerholdtries to imbue them with a contemporary content,and consequently is perpetually overflowing thelimited framework which, in the classics, holds theaction within a unity of time and space. In orderto create in the audience, by means of the show,the necessary feeling of the dialectical complexityof the event, Meyerhold expands each act by tech-nical stage devices that have the object of theatricallyexpressing the new content which the modernspectator, and the artist in concert with him, per-ceives in reality.

Thus in his productions Meyerhold splits the actnot only into scenes but into many episodes withinscenes. An interesting example is his production ofOstrovski's The Forest, in which, by means of thissplitting, he literally guides his two actors through-out a whole province without them leaving the stage.

But development along this line, while remainingat the same time conditioned by the materiallimitations of stage technique, inevitably comes to adead end fixed by an insoluble and purely materialcontradiction. It is impossible to conceive a stageperformance cut up into one- and two-minute bits.Such a performance would presuppose entirely newengineering inventions enabling scenic changes atthe speed of lightning, enabling the spectator totransfer his attention from one point of stage spaceto the other with the speed of the successive bits.

THE THEATRE AND THE CINEMA 19

In his production ofRazbeg,1 Okhlopkov makes anattempt to scatter separate tiny scenes throughoutthe whole space of the auditorium, so that to followthe change of episode, the spectator is obliged toturn his head right, left, up, sometimes even straightbehind him. Of course, if a mechanically perfectseat could be devised that would save the spectatorthe unnecessary exhaustion (and the crick in hisneck) caused by the movements imposed on him, theproblem might be said to have been by this meansresolved in his favour. But is it worth while invent-ing such seats, when the technical basis of the cinemasolves precisely this problem with the utmost ease ?

In the hoary days of cinema, when the style wasmore ultra-theatrical than ever since, and it had notyet occurred to anyone that the film could be any-thing but a simple photograph of a staged play,even then, the cinema used scenes each of which wasno longer than 5 minutes long. In other words,the longest scenes of the film at its birth were equalto the shortest scenes of the stage at its most modern.

The possibility of lightning-like change of action,also, was inherent and realised in the most infantiledays of cinema. The possibility of almost infinitewideness of embrace both in space and time wasalready appreciated and realised in the very firstworks by serious masters of film art.

The splitting-up of the stage performance into

1 Impetus, a play from the novel of the same name on colkhozlife by V. Stavski, produced at the Krasnaya Presnya Theatre inMoscow.—Note by V. I. P.

20 FILM ACTING

pieces, a natural development of theatre accentuatedin these days by the present eagerness to embracewider space-time fragments of comprehensiblereality, reaches, at a certain stage of its development,a point of standstill on the stage and, at the same time,a starting-point in the cinema. The 3-minute bitthat is an unthinkable high limit of speed for a scenechange in the theatre is, in the cinema, the last limitof slowness.

What is the new material-technical base whicheliminates from the cinema this second contradiction,shown above to be an obstacle implicit in theatricaldevelopment ? In the main this new technique isenabled by two instruments. First, a movablephotographing apparatus, that serves in some sortas a technically perfected spectator's eye. This eyecan retreat from its object to any distance in orderto embrace the widest possible spacial field of vision.It can approach the tiniest detail in order to con-centrate upon it the whole attention. It can jumpfrom one point in space to another, and the sumtotal of all these movements requires, to all intentsand purposes, no physical exertion on the part ofthe spectator. Second, a microphone, almost asreadily movable and representing an attentive ear,capable of apprehending every sound without strain,be it the barely audible whisper of man or the roarof powerful sirens made faint by distance.

The purpose of this study is to define the mainrespects in which this new material-technical basisaffects the work of one of the most important

O "cJo

V ^>

S w

u m

~ O

PQ

THE THEATRE AND THE CINEMA 21

members of the creative ensemble in cinema or intheatre—the actor.

It would, of course, be wrong to assume that thenew technique affects the actor's work only bylightening it, in that it removes the necessity for himto overcome a whole series of specific theatrical con-tradictions (such as the intensification of voice-toneand exaggeration of gesture needed to overcome thespace separating actor from spectator in a largebuilding, as mentioned above).

The new material-technical basis of the cinema notonly affects the actor's work by lightening it in cer-tain respects, it also imports many difficulties notpresent in stage work, or present there in milder andmore tractable form.

Before discussing the specific work of the film actorit will be best first to consider those aspects of theactor's work common to both film and stage, andtherefore inescapable in either.

CHAPTER IITHE BASIC CONTRADICTION OF THE ACTOR'S WORK

The fundamental of the actor's job, both in film andon the stage, is the creation of a whole and lifelikeimage. From the very start of his work the actorhas to set out to grasp and ultimately embody thisimage, shaping himself in the course of stagerehearsal or, in the cinema, in the so-called ' prepar-atory work.'

Both in stage and screen work the actor has toembody the image in its deepest sense, ideologicallyand teleologically. But this task is not only con-ditioned objectively, it is also conditioned, of course,subjectively.

The image that has to be worked out is con-ditioned not only by the intention of the play as awhole, but also by the nature of the actor's self, it isrelated to himself as an individual personality. Anyproblem involving modification of his personality,however one may regard it, is obviously per seindissolubly linked with the continuous actualexistence of the actor as a live individual, with all theelements of character and culture contributing tohis formation. The relation between the proposedimage and the actor as a live person is particularlystrong at the beginning of his work. For this is theperiod at which emphasis lies on the element of his

emotional attitude to the image, his so-called' feeling ' of some aspect of the image that particu-larly excites him and thereby serves as the essentialpoint of departure of his work on it. Only laterdoes the actor proceed to the task of thoroughlyunderstanding and grasping the play as a whole,appreciating its ideological content. Then hiswork widens and becomes the solution of the mostgeneralised problems of the play.

The work of the actor on the image is thusoriented two ways. The image the actor builds ashis work develops, on the one hand is constructedout of himself as a person with given individualcharacteristics, and on the other is conditioned bythe interaction of this personal element and theintention in general of the play.

The final object of the actor and his performanceis to convey to the spectator a real person, or atleast a person who could conceivably exist in reality.But at the same time, all the while he is creating thisimage, the actor none the less remains a live,organically whole self. When he walks on the stage,nothing within him is destroyed. If he be a niceman acting a villain, he still remains a nice manacting a villain. Hence the creation of the imagemust be effected not by mere mechanical portrayalof qualities alien to him, but by the subjugationand adaptation of the qualities innate in him.

An image of the necessary reality will only beachieved when the given series of expressions, bothinternal and external, required by the play is

expressed not by a set of words, gestures, and inton-ations dictated by formula or whimsy and mechani-cally repeated, but as result of the subjugation andre-expression of the actor's own living individuality.This manner of constructing a role will give it anorganic unity that it will never receive if it bearbitrarily separated from the living organic unityof the actor as a person.

The duality of the creative process in the actor'screation of the image is only an aspect of the dualityor dialectic of every process of comprehension ofreality, indeed every practical getting-to-grips-with-itby man with any phenomenon. In political work,for example, which is creative in the sense in whichis the fulfilment of every task, there is the dialecticof the conflict and unity of theory and practice.Theory is checked by practice, practice generalisedby theory, and only as resolved resultant of theseconflicts does work proceed correctly. The emo-tional side and the logical side represent the dualityin an actor's work of creating an image. If hisconstruction is to have the organic unity of life,logic of synthesis must be informed by personalemotional excitement, and, correspondingly, emo-tional urgings must be based upon and checked inthe light of the logic of the play. This considerationimmediately exposes the limitations, both in theatreand in cinema, of the often recommended naif andnatural c type.'

The idea that the alpha and omega of acting canbe expressed by a ' type ' is based upon the regarding

of acting as a sort of mechanical process capable ofbeing disintegrated into separate and quite un-connected bits. It ignores the fact that the actordoes, in fact, exist as a live person, if a type, then aperson unconscious of the inner meaning of his work,and thus, to say the least, unable to further thecreation on stage or screen of the unification andwholeness necessary for living verisimilitude ofimage.

Here let us reaffirm our principal desideratum foracting both on stage and screen. The aim and objectof the technique of the actor is his struggle for unity, for anorganic wholeness in the lifelike image he creates.

But the technical conditions of work on the stageand for the screen impose a number of demands onthe actor that perpetually tend to destroy his unityand continuity in the role.

The splitting-up of the performance on the stageinto acts, scenes, episodes, the still more subdividedsplitting-up of the actor's work in the shooting of afilm, set up a corresponding series of obstaclesthrough and over which the entire creative collective(actor-producer in the theatre, actor-director-cameraman-etc. in the film) must combine to carrythe organic unity of line of the actor's image.

This unavoidable technical split-up of his work isimmediately in direct contradiction with the actor'sneed to preserve himself in his acting whole and un-divided. In both play and film, this contradictionalways obtains. In actual performance, the actorplays in bits. Between two entries, between two

performances, though not playing, his existence iscontinuous.

Bad actors and bad theoreticians get round thiscontradiction between the mechanical splitting dic-tated by the conditions of performance and the needfor the actor to strive to live uninterruptedly in theimage by maintaining that the gestures and wordsnecessary for the part can simply be mechanicallymemorised, and thus suspended, as it were, over theintervals.

Where one regards the actor as a c type ' who onlymechanically repeats externally dictated gestures,the intervals between the separate bits of acting do,it is true, look like vacua that do not need to be filledwith living material linking up the part as a wholeon and off the stage, not only during a performanceor shooting, but also during rehearsal.

This superficial attitude to the actor's work isespecially prevalent in the cinema. But, actually,the discontinuity of the actor's work must never be ignored,but always treated as a difficulty to be overcome. Let it beadmitted that splitting-up into bits is less serious onthe stage than in the cinema. The technical con-ditions of stage work allow the bits of continuedexistence in the given image to be longer. And thereis a whole series of methods in the work of the stageactor's study of the image designed to the end ofbringing about a maximum of linkage of the separatebits of the role into one whole within the actor him-self. First and foremost of theatrical methods forthis purpose is rehearsal. During rehearsal the

THE BASIC CONTRADICTION 27

stage actor does not limit himself by the hard-and-fast conditions imposed by the text of the play.Stanislavski makes his actors in rehearsal act notonly their parts as they stand in the play, butsupplementary action not, in fact, in the text, butnecessary to enable the actor completely to ' feel■himself into his part.

Rehearsal work of this kind enables the actor tofeel himself an organic unity moving freely in alldirections within the frame of the image planned.Essentially, it is precisely this work that links the separatebits of his acting to the feeling, however discontinuous infact, of a unified, continuous real image.

Rehearsal work of this kind is precisely the oppor-tunity for the actor to transform the abstract thoughtand general line of expression that he has hit on toexpress the image into concrete acts and manners ofbehaviour.

If the actor remain only at the c thinking ' stageof his creative work, even for a moment, then inrespect to that moment he ceases to be an actor.If the actor decide that the person he is portrayingmight have killed a man between acts one and two,then he should not only include the murder as anabstract element of his treatment of the image inthe second act, but he should, in fact, actuallypractise acting this murder non-existent in the play,so that he may inwardly feel not only the concept ofthe murder, but, as really as possible, all the potenti-alities of the murder and its influence on the charac-ter of the image.

28 FILM ACTING

This sort of rehearsal work, designed to connect thecomplexity of the objectively planned image withthe live and actual individuality of the actor andall its wealth of individual character and culture,might be termed the process of being absorbed into orembodying the role.

Stanislavski in one of his essays speaks of the art ofliving an image and the art of presenting an image,distinguishing by these terms two kinds of acting,the first basing itself on inner impulse, the secondon externalised theatrical forms.

Stanislavski says: " While the art of living animage strives to feel the spirit of the role every timeand at each creation, the art of presenting an imagestrives only once to live the role, privately, to showit once and then to substitute an externalised formexpressing its spiritual essence: the hack actor dis-regards the living of the role and endeavours towork out once and for all a ready-made form ofexpression of feeling, a stage interpretation for everypossible role and possible tendency in art. In otherwords, for the art of living representation, living therole is indispensable. The hack manages without itand indulges in it only occasionally."

This is, in effect, what we have said, using for theword ' living ' the term ' absorption ' or ' embodi-ment,5 since it is specifically that process of settingup a profound linkage between the subjective per-sonal element of the actor and the objective elementof the play. If the image be properly constructed,then this linkage has been set up. It is a linkage

Rogulina, then first-year student at the G.I.K. (StateInstitute of Cinematography, Moscow), as Masha, wife

of the Red Army Commander.V " Simple Case," Pudovkin.

THE BASIC CONTRADICTION 29

that, as Stanislavski says, is present in the work ofevery good actor, absent from that of the hack,whom Stanislavski rightly regards as better vanishedfrom the stage.

One may agree or disagree with the necessity forliving the role in the complex and meticulous senseof the Moscow Art Theatre school of actors, but inany circumstances the organic relation between theactor's individuality and every live element in theimage he plays is indispensable.

This relation is a precondition for any verisimili-tude in the image. Naturally, all that has been saidof the organic continuity and unity of the roleapplies equally to the organic continuity and unityof the performance as a whole. Stanislavski's basicpostulate of the necessity for an actor to discoverc intermediate action ' remains in force.

It should here be noted that the process of personalidentification with an objectively planned image isnecessary not only in film and stage work. Isuggest that a concrete feeling of connection betweenthe individuality and the image to be created isnormal and essential for the creative process inevery art.

There is a body of instructive evidence about theirwork from writers, who describe how, frequently,they mouth the words of the characters they are in-venting in order to test by concrete, personal sensa-tion the phrases, words, and intonations they areseeking.

We recall that Gogol declared all the characters

in Dead Souls to be, in fact, dark sides of his ownnature that he wished, by expression, to annihilatein himself.

The system of rehearsal is the special means thetheatre takes to aid the actor in his struggle toincarnate himself in his role.

CHAPTER IIIDISCONTINUITY IN THE ACTOR'S WORK IN THE CINEMA

All that has been said hitherto of the paramountimportance and necessity of the actor's striving forwholeness in his image in the theatre applies, ofcourse, with equal force to the work of the film actor.It might, indeed, be said that realism, that is, byimplication, the lifelike unity of the im&ge, is aproblem more pertinent and urgent to the film actorthan even to the actor in the theatre. It is character-istic of the stage that effective performance is, as amatter of fact, possible upon it on a basis of exag-geration of theatrical convention, performancehaving an abstractly aesthetic character maximallyremoved from direct reflection of reality, but thecinema is characteristically the art that gives theutmost possibility of approach to realistic reproductionof reality.

I emphasise here as elsewhere the word c possi-bility.' This is in order that the reader shall notthink our analyses of possibilities, or our recom-mendations, the attempt to fix a static complex ofmethods as sole law of expression for cinema once andfor all. Certainly the cinema too is capable ofproduction in conventionalised style, style abstractedfrom direct representation of reality; certainly thecinema also is capable of generalisation, can develop

1 31

32 FILM ACTING

it to any degree, even to the limit of the supremeantithesis black and white. But none the less, thecinema is par excellence the art form capable ofmaximum capture of living reality in direct repre-sentation.

The question of the degree of generalisation to beemployed in any given specific instance in an artform—this is always a question of the sense of pro-portion of the skilful creative artist, and the measureof its Tightness is ultimately the reaction felt by thespectator when the work of art is complete: eitheracceptance by the experience of a real emotion—always the highest valuation for a work of art—orelse cold negation.

But in discussing possibilities, I endeavour todetermine the general tendency of development ofthe specific given art form, which, after all, thecreative artist must take into account, howeverpersonal his own solution.

In the cinema, exactly as in the theatre, weimmediately come right up against the problemposed by the discontinuity of the actor's work beingin direct contradiction with his need for a continu-ous creative ' living-into ' and embodiment of theimage played.

Owing to the special methods used in filming,which we shall discuss later, this contradictionbecomes in practice even more acute than in thetheatre. If we assemble some of the stories thatstage actors have to tell about their experiences onoccasional film work, we shall find a whole host of

of

>>

a

>

o

ctf

u

pq

V

"3 ^

O u

+j uc o

CO ^

>

o

H

-5

o

PQ

CO

P<WH

H

to

O

Q

denunciations, protests, even indignant swear words,all inspired by the notorious and fantasticallyexaggerated discontinuity of the film actor's job.

Actors maintain that either they have to portraythe image they play in extremely abstract manner,limited as they are in study to a superficial readingof the scenario, or, alternatively, they deliver them-selves bound into the hands of the director and hisassistants, becoming will-less automata, executing inobedience to a series of shouts and orders a mechani-cal task the purport of which is incomprehensible tothem. Actors further hold that they lose everypossibility of feeling the unity of the image, everypossibility of preserving during the process ofshooting a sense of live continuous individuality,owing to the fact that they act the end of their roleto-day, the beginning to-morrow, and the middlethe day after. The various bits are tangled, theyare terribly short; from time to time somebodyphotographs a glance that relates to something theactor will be doing a month hence when somebodyelse has photographed a hand movement that hasto do with the glance. The image created by theactor is split into minutest particles, only later to begathered together, and, horribile dictu, this gatheringis effected not by him but by the director, who, in themajority of cases, does not allow the actor to comeanywhere near to or observe the process or evenhave the remotest connection with it. Such, ongeneral lines, is the protest of the stage actor who hasdone work for the cinema.

But is it really true that the cinema, owing to itstechnical peculiarities, so inflexibly dictates aninevitable elimination of all possibility of the actorconcretely feeling the wholeness of his role ? Is itreally inevitably necessary to make the actor work insuch conditions, which, as creative artist, he isunable to accept ? Of course not. We mustrecognise that the system of work with the actorhitherto in vogue with the majority of considerabledirectors is not only not perfect, but plainly andsimply wrong. And it is our task to discover linesalong which, just as in theatre (and we have alreadyseen that discontinuity exists also ip stage acting,but to a lesser degree), the actor can be furnishedwith working conditions enabling him to effect theessential process of living-into his role.

Let us state here in set terms that, however thesolution be found, it will not be by avoidance ofsplitting up the acting of the actor during the pro-cess of shooting itself; for from this we not only shallnot escape, but, in fact, must not escape if we areproperly to appreciate the essence of the path alongwhich the cinema's main development lies. Wemust not avoid this splitting up, but simply seekand find corresponding technical methods to aid theactor in struggling against and overcoming it,thereby re-establishing for him the possibility ofinternally creating and preserving a feeling of thesum total of the separate fragments of acting as asingle image, organically livened by himself. Thetheatre helps the actor by development and particu-

DISCONTINUITY 35

larisation of the method of rehearsal. We in thecinema must find means of following the samepath.

First for a moment let us understand whencederives this distorted degree of splitting up we havejust admitted as characteristic for cinema. Thediscovery and establishment of the need to split upthe actor's acting into editing pieces derives imme-diately from the methods, technical in the narrowestsense, found appropriate by directors and from themaking of films as such. From the earliest momentof appearance of the cinema, those who most pro-foundly and seriously adopted it, whether con-sciously or otherwise, as an art form capable ofdevelopment on independent lines were directors,and accordingly it is natural that the most importantworks first achieved in cinema were attained underthe aegis of marked directorial control.

The directors sought, and indeed found, incinema specific potentialities enabling them, by itsmeans and its means alone, to exert an impressionon the spectators not only powerful, but in certaininstances more powerful than that which could havebeen achieved in any other medium.

It is the directors who discovered those specialforms of composition for the at first wholly visual,subsequently compound (partly sound) images offilm termed montage or constructive editing. Rhyth-mic composition of pieces of celluloid introduced theelement of rhythmic composition indispensable forimpression in any art. In providing the indispens-

36 FILM ACTING

able basis for making the cinema an art at all, it atthe same time made it an especially notable one, forit enabled also a wealth of embrace of the actualworld impossible to any other art save perhapsliterature.

The perception and realisation of the camera-microphone combination as an observer ideallymobile in space and time not only gave straightwayto the film an epic sweep, it not unnaturally tendedto distract the director and scenarist associated withhim from proper recollection of the importance ofbearing constantly in mind that a living humanindividual is an individuality of at least a givenprofundity and complexity of its own. The possi-bility of swinging the focus of attention of the tech-nical recording apparatus to a boundless number ofdifferent points of interest, their combination in thecutting process, the possibility of eliminating actionfrom a film at given intervals, as though contractingor expanding time itself, all these possibilities led toresults that placed the cinema pre-eminent amongthe arts in its capacity for breadth of comprehensionof material of the real world. At the same time,however, the distracting process of exploring thesepossibilities led directors at a given stage in thedevelopment of film to a point at which they beganto use the living man, the actor, merely as onecomponent in the film, side by side with andequivalent to other components, material of equaland undifferentiated value, ready to take its turnand place and submit as inanimately to editorial

VII

Tchuvelev, actor, as a peasant boy.' End of St. Petersburg," Pudovkin.

composition in the closing stages of the creativework on the film.

The actor became, so to say, shuffled, sorted out,used, in effect, like an aeroplane, a motor-car, or atree. Directors, in searching for the right methodsof constructing a performance cinematographically,missed realising that to get fullest value in a per-formance, cinematographic or otherwise, by a livingbeing, that living person must not only not beeliminated in the process, must not only be preserved,but must be brought out; and if this bringing outbe not realistic, that is, not unified and alive, in theend the man in the film will be a great deal morelifeless than the aeroplane and the motor-car (which,it must be confessed, is precisely what has happenedin the work of some of our directors). With theactor used as a machine, in a mechanical way,became associated a whole flood of theoretical out-pourings based on a mechanical extension of theeditorial methods of alternation in length of piecesin cutting into a methodology for the actor's workon the floor. These technical outpourings could,in fact, only unfairly be dignified with the name oftheory, inasmuch as they were only justifications ofan empiria based on experiments concerned withsomething quite different, the main problems ofeditorial composition in film.

Their trend, however, was roughly as follows.On the screen we have long-shots and close-ups.Therefore the actor mus| exactly adapt his behaviourin front of the camera to the requirements of these

various camera-angles. On the screen there existsan undoubted interaction of effect between twoadjacent pieces of film, an interaction which obtainsthough the content of the first piece be acting by anactor and that of the second any phenomenon thedirector or scenarist may require, taking place atany point of space whatever, however far removedfrom the actor in actual fact. Therefore the actormust be able to act his short piece without beginningor end and in absence of that which eventually willinfluence the content of his acting by interactionwith it on the screen.

On the screen we can move the actor in the actionwith lightning speed from any one point in time orspace to another, which we cannot do in the actualshooting on the floor. Therefore the actor must beable to act separate bits separated from one anotherby any time interval and trust their combinationentirely and solely to the director, the only personguided by fore-perception of the film in its alreadycompleted state.

This is the way in which some have imaginedthe sum total of technical activity demanded ofthe actor. This mechanical understanding lacksall appreciation of the main fact, which is that thecreative process of the actor is and must remainthe fight for the feeling of the living substance of thatimage any component separate action in the make-up of which, however far removed from its fellow,will none the less be connected with it within theactor. And, further, that the technique of this

DISCONTINUITY 39

process can and must be no more and no less thanthe methods of this fight. No help has ever beenafforded the actor in this direction, and consequently,truth to tell, the technique of acting in the cinemahas remained at a low level.

I must emphasise yet again that, in speaking ofthe unity of the image and divining a technique tohelp the actor to achieve it, I in no way renounce orrepudiate the indispensability of making separate,relatively short pieces in the process of shooting.There is a tendency afoot to help the actor by trans-forming his work to longer pieces and longer shots.This tendency is really nothing but a step along theline of least resistance, squeezing back into thecinema by contraband route the specialities andtechnique of the stage. This tendency is one thatignores, or deliberately turns its back upon, preciselythose potentialities of the cinema that have set it ina place distinct and apart from the other arts, aplace, as I have already said, earned directly by themultitude, and therefore shortness, of the piecescomposing a film. This path is open to anyone.The film Groza x must, from this point of view, beconsidered as definitely reactionary. At the sametime it undoubtedly has an important instructivelesson for us, as it is one of the first in our cinemathat has given the actor a chance to feel himself alive human being in the process of his acting on thefloor.

Of course, it is not this road leading to the mere

1 The Tempest, directed by Petrov, from the play by Ostrovsky.—Tr.

bounding of cinematograph performance by stagelimits of time and space that is the right road for thecinema. We must give battle on that general frontthat includes the uttermost wealth of possibilitiesthe cinema can give, and whereon, as is thenatural course, we shall consequently encounter themaximum number of obstacles.

CHAPTER IVTHEORETICAL POSTULATES OF DISCONTINUITY

The aim of the theatre, as of any other art form, is,let us repeat the definition, the collective compre-hension and modification of reality by its reflectionin the work of art. The only basic weapon in thearsenal of methods the theatre has at its disposal forcarrying out this process is the actor's dialogue.That embrace of reality to the maximum degreewhich is the aim and purpose of the artist is, in thetheatre, fundamentally possible only by means of theactor, the human being, by means of his gesture,his speech, and his linkage to other persons in dia-logue.

It is true that, in the performance on the stage,apart from the human individual, the materialshaping of the action also plays a part in the directrepresentation to the spectator of the reality outsidethe actor. But none the less, the theatre is of sucha character that the primary basis conveying thecontent of the performance is the speaking humanbeing, i.e. the actor linked to other actors by dia-logue.

The representation of the reality outside the actorin the theatre is exceedingly limited by its technique.There are certain instances in which the materialpart of the performance, the background, is

4*

given prominence. But when the theatre choosesthis line, it rapidly exhausts its possibilities ofdevelopment. In general the portrayal of wide andvaried events environmental to any given element ofhuman activity is possible only by their descriptionin the text; that is to say, once more and again byhuman speech spoken on the stage, that is, by theactor.

The direct portrayal of events organically con-nected in content with the action but separatedfrom it in space or time can, in the long run, only berendered on the stage by their narration. Messen-gers, or a compere, are typical theatrical devicesoften introduced for the purpose.

The world of reality, grasped by the artist in hiscreative act of comprehending it, in the main canpenetrate the theatre only through the actor, hisvoice, his gesture, his movements, his behaviour.This is the characteristic of the theatre.

The cinema is different. That which on the stagecan only be narrated, on the screen can be directlyrepresented. The special technical basis of thecinema, already discussed above, is to a remarkabledegree capable of direct portrayal, direct trans-mission to the spectator of any event occurring inreality.

It might be argued that direct portrayal is neithernecessary nor even specially desirable. In theprocess of generalisation essentially typical of everycreative act, especially in art, one might renouncethe direct representation of separate events dispersed

THEORETICAL POSTULATES 43

in time and space and gather them into a generalisingwhole that the artist might situate anywhere in anysingle spot. No one can dispute the necessity forgeneralisation in the creative process. But itsrealisation to the extent of an idealistic compromisewith facile and old-fashioned forms and rejection ofnew possibilities never heretofore available must, inmy view, be regarded as essentially wrong andreactionary.

I once had occasion to talk to a playwright whofrankly admitted that, when planning a play onaviation, he realised without doubt that materialof such a nature would fall more clearly, expres-sively, and effectively into the form of a film.

Here is a concrete example, a notable and signi-ficant phenomenon of our present-day reality, theworld development of aviation, one which in con-siderable degree conditions a change and develop-ment in the psychology of mankind, and which in itsfull richness can be mastered and transmitted to theaudience only by direct representation of events sofar-reaching in scope and occurring in such dimen-sions that they cannot possibly be accommodated onthe stage of a theatre.

On the stage the actor will tell of a flight, inliterature the author will add to the tale a descrip-tion of the circumstances exterior to the inwardemotions of the person flying, but only the cinemacan unite for the benefit of the spectator the directand fullest sensation of both.

A direct portrayal, for reasons sufficiently obvious,

44 FILM ACTING

invariably exerts an especially strong and vividimpression. In strength of influence on the specta-tor, the theatre, owing to its directness of repre-sentation, even of its limited material, has hithertoheld foremost place among the arts. If we takeinto consideration the capacity of the cinemadirectly to introduce material immeasurably richerthan that which the theatre can ever hope to tackle,we perceive how, of its own nature, the cinema canapproach or even transcend literature in its excep-tional power of impression.

The cinema is in a sense a potential mirror,directly representing events in the wholeness of theirdialectical complexity. In the wholeness of thisreflection resides a profound force irresistibly drag-ging the spectator himself into participation in thecreative process. The directness of representationof cinema material, even having regard to the ele-ment of generalisation inseparable from its comrposition, forces the spectator to take himself anactive part in comprehending it at the moment of itsportrayal.

It is noteworthy that Lenin, with that strikingsimplicity and clarity in understanding the essenceof things invariably characteristic of him, imme-diately determined the cinema as first and foremosta powerful means of the widest embrace and under-standing of reality and its transmission to the many-millioned masses—and this just on the basis of achance report of purely technical character.

I refer to the well-known programme for the

>o

cinema, in which Lenin emphasised the importanceof the cinema's astonishing ability to portray theworld, to acquaint broad peasant and working-class masses with the nature of other countries, andso forth.

Our cinema, at least in so far as the work of itsbest directors is concerned, has developed and isdeveloping principally in the direction of incor-porating in films the maximum possible wealth, indirect representation, of the variety of events ofreality, sometimes indeed at the expense of thenecessary degree of generalisation.

This characteristic cannot, in my view, be re-garded as explicable simply as the outcome of theindividual taste of the directors. We should, in myview, bear in mind the fact that the living realityaround us is pushing forward under our noses withso manifold a growth that, more often than not, ingrasping it and passing it on to the spectator, wehave no time to pause and mould its complexity intothe lijnits of a generalisation.

Realise the multitude of dogmas that has beenexploded and destroyed during the revolution.The fight, still continuing, against dogma, againstthe remnants of capitalist consciousness, oftenexpresses itself in the offer by the artist, instead of aformula, of its living content, as though directlyappealing to the spectator to co-operate by himselfperforming, in his act of comprehension, the neces-sary generalisation of the complexity presented tohim.

The point is illustrated by an example only in-directly related to our subject. That exceptionallygifted writer, Leo Tolstoy, who achieved a book,War and Peace, amazing in its vitality and in the end-less wealth of real and live material it contains, wroteas he grew older Resurrection, a book in which pageafter page, chapter after chapter, is full of generalisa-tions, dissertations, deductions, in which the personsmove less and act less, in which the persons arethemselves fewer and the space of action narrower.And this same Tolstoy towards the close of his lifeconstantly wrote philosophical treatises devoid bothof life and live characters.

The above remarks on Tolstoy are not, of course,in any sense a valuation of the various stages of hisart. I desired only to instance by this example thefact that whole and important works of art can becreated in a creative tension deriving from avigorous youthful perception of reality, withoutrenouncing the widest direct portrayal of theinnumerable separate elements of reality.

The advancement of generalisation is, of course,one path of development, but it is none the less liableto grow into dogma; that is to say, at a given stageto cause a change over into senile decay, to changefrom an art capable of moving people to cold anddry sermonising.

This is why, in pondering the various paths opento the cinema, I cannot but recall the achievementattained by Tolstoy's amazing genius in War andPeace, and reflect with alarm on the fate of that same

THEORETICAL POSTULATES 47

genius of Tolstoy frozen stiff into the iceberg ofidealist dogma.

We must not be frightened by the wealth ofmaterial in our films. I have often come acrossrabid protagonists of the famous Chaplin filmWoman of Paris. This film is certainly an exampleof the highest directorial and acting skill, but thetrouble is that its partisans not only praise the filmas an example of skill, but desire to elevate itsmethods into a pattern for the basis of film art.The film is staged in a deeply intimate manner.The action hardly even leaves the limits of a coupleof rooms. The one solitary exterior that occurs inthe film portrays a section of roadway on which thedramatis personae meet for the last time and separateon their respective ways.

The painstaking attention of its author-director isconcentrated on the minutest details of the small dramathat unrolls in the intimate circle of its four or fivecharacters. This is all very excellent and possiblein its way and in no wise to be rejected by us. Thefilm Groza {The Tempest) is very similar in itscinematic treatment to the Chaplin film.

But it seems to me that this type of film is notmerely unsuitable to many of our Soviet filmwriters, but in general is liable to distract the cinemafrom its specific, exceptional, and most effectivepossibilities.

For Chaplin all the wealth of events linked to-gether in the complicated life of human society wasnot necessary, because these phenomena have long

48 FILM ACTING

ago been transmuted by bourgeois thought into acorresponding number of dead dogmas. Chaplin,living in a bourgeois milieu, easily detaches his worldof four persons from the c rest/ because the c rest 'for him and for the audience to which he appealsis just a world of ready-made ideas fixed and notespecially exciting. The universally accepted ideasand norms of a bourgeois audience represent a wallwith which it screens itself from the perils of adeveloping society, and it is the bourgeois artist'sjob to preserve this wall intact. Contact with" therichness of the outer world must inevitably bealarming for the bourgeois artist. Whereas with ouraudience and our artists it is, of course, quite different.

The organic link between the tense-strung com-plexity of our epoch and the character of the workof art in cinema is certain. And a striving towardsmaximum mastery of reality in content, the realisa-tion of the maximum possibility of direct repre-sentation of reality on the screen, just as certainlyleads to the specific method characteristic of film art—montage or the editing together of numerousrelatively short pieces.

We must, further, mention here an additionalspecific potentiality of cinema which also inevitablyentails the splitting up of the actor's work in theprocess of being shot.

Imagine an actor delivering an emotional speechin a large auditorium. The listening crowd reactsto the words of the orator. It applauds, it interruptswith isolated calls and shouts. Suppose we desire

IX

Sovrotchin, actor, as a strike-breaker." Mother," Pudovkin.

to portray the crowd not as a thousand-headedfaceless mass, but as a many-imaged unity, if weappreciate the fact that a mass is comprehended inits real content and significance only when are per-ceptible its component individual groups, and withinthese their component individuals. Then we shallbe obliged to transfer the position of the camerarapidly from place to place, we shall be obliged, inthe course of the oration, to change alternately fromlong shot embracing both orator and audience toseparate closer shots, penetrating into the thick ofthe mass, and glimpsing a group or single listenerreacting by shout or gesture. We shall inevitablyhave to split up the one speech of the orator intoseparate pieces, in order that they may be weldedin the process of editing into a whole with theseparate pieces of members of the audience reacting,and thereby derive unity from the multiplicity ofmany-imaged details.

It might be argued that, for the purpose of anediting construction of this type, it is unnecessaryto break the whole speech of the orator into separatepieces in the shooting. It might suffice to shoot thespeech as a whole and subsequently to chop it onthe cutting bench into the necessary separate piecesinterleaved with the given auditor pieces. But filmdirectors who strive to exploit the cinema's possi-bilities to the full cannot follow this course. Theyuse not only words out of the orator's speech.Realise what tremendous importance in the con-struction of the whole image of man in action have

his gestures and his pantomime connected with hisutterances. This pantomime, at times of the mostfine and complex order, plays a part no less import-ant than the intonation of the voice.

Now, the culmination of the impression effected byan uttered word or sentence depends upon a move-ment of the hand; again, the closing of the eyes mayadd an unexpected touch of pathos to another wordor phrase. Only the cinema, by virtue of themobility of the camera, can so direct the excitedattention of the audience that, at any given momentof his acting, the actor can, as it were, turn to theaudience his most poignant, most expressive, side.

And it is this method of shoving the play of theactor right up under the nose of the audience thatinevitably necessitates the splitting of the singleprocess of the speech into separate pieces in theactual shooting.

At one moment we see the face of the orator witheyes tight shut. At another his whole body strain-ing with arms held high. For an instant we catchhis glance directed straight at us. A nervousmovement of his hand behind his back may alsoserve as a definite and colourful characterisation ofsome moment.

Such material can only be obtained by shootingbits of the speech separately, with change ofposition of camera and microphone. Simultaneousshooting by several cameras at once, placed atseparate points, will not give us an unhamperedlysharp and vivid editing treatment on the screen,

THEORETICAL POSTULATES 51

because a camera placed for a close-up would bebound to get in the way of a camera taking along-shot at the same time. Separate, interruptedshooting is indispensable.

The question must be formulated simply in thisway: should the immensely rich possibilities affordedby the cinema for the purpose of deepening theplay of the actor be sacrificed to the natural desireof the actor to dwell in his acting image as whollyand uninterruptedly as possible, or should one searchfor means of helping him that none the less permitthese possibilities to be maintained and exploited tomaximum advantage ?

The difficulty of solving this problem is, basically,the long and the short of the difficulty confrontingthe cinema actor, and the methods and ways ofsolving it are, in sum, the conditioning methods ofhis technique.

We have already seen that this difficulty existsalso in the theatre. The break between two stageentrances of an actor does not differ materiallyfrom the break between two shots in the cinema.

The whole content of a stage play could, after all,take the form of a single continuous speech that oneactor-speaker could utter without leaving theboards. In general, however, the theatre variegatesits content, introducing action shared in by numer-ous dramatic personam, and portraying directlynumerous deeds and events, not merely reportingthem in speech. It splits the course of the playinto acts, thereby eliminating chunks of time.

52 FILM ACTING

The actor could, really, remain on the stagethroughout the duration of a whole act without for asecond being switched from the action, but thetheatre as a rule insists on taking him off into thewings, because realistic enlargement of the actiondemands the introduction of new characters, andthese new characters must not only push variousold ones temporarily into the background, but evenfrom time to time squeeze them from the orbit ofthe audience's attention altogether. Whereupon thefirst actor must stand in the wings waiting for themoment when the development of the play's actionwill once more drag him front stage.

I repeat that this ' split-life,' this discontinuousanimation, of the stage actor, does not differorganically from the € separate-shot-acting ' of thefilm actor in the course of the shooting of a film.

The contradiction between the personality of theactor and his striving in the process of his acting tobecome a linked part of the whole circumstancesenvironing the wide sweep of development of arealistic film, this contradiction, I repeat, existsnot only in theatre and in cinema, but is analogousto the contradiction in creation general to all arts.

And, we must affirm once more, the solution ofthis contradiction will be achieved not by its elimina-tion, but by proper understanding of the significanceof the methods of acting technique, and consequentlyof the means legitimate to employ.

?0

r^ 1

V

O a

o

bo

Sh

o

>o

-a

o_1>*«

CHAPTER VREHEARSAL WORK

What are the basic methods the actor finds ? Wehave already seen that the theatre supports him in hisfight for organic unity of the acting image by meansof a detailed methodology of rehearsals.

In these rehearsals, obedient to the will of theactors and producer, the stern temporal conditionslimiting the players are for a space removed and sub-stituted by more unified and uninterrupted workaiding the actor to link, in whatsoever direction maybe necessary, his live personality with the image heplays.

At rehearsals the actor, free from breaks in timeor position, can link the separate pieces of his roleinto one whole, can concretely live into his image,checking it by a series of pieces of his role outsidethe play, but undoubtedly organically belonging tothe image. In short, at rehearsals he can do allthat work which will enable him later on to feel everyseparate piece of his role, however interrupted itmay be mechanically in the course of the perform-ance, as his own, belonging to him, and if notuninterrupted in the sense of his physical presenceon the stage, at least inwardly uninterruptedin the unity of his feeling and understanding ofthe role.

53

What do we do in the cinema in the way ofproviding technical help to the actor in his difficultcreative work ? It must be admitted that thisassistance, where it is even given at all, is in mostproducing collectives of an exceedingly perfunctorycharacter. Sometimes there are attempts at just apreliminary working-through the script with theactor by the director. The role is discussed, therole is, in fact, talked all round and about, so-calledactor and director ' role-conferences ' take place.Something on the lines of so-called c round-tableconferences ' in the theatre (work in the theatre pre-liminary to rehearsals) takes place in the cinema toa greater or lesser degree. But no practical pre-liminary work with the actor on the lines of linkingthe image found at the ' round-table conference 'with its outer expression, actually the basic starting-point of the work needed to transform an actorthinking about a role into an actor acting it, hasever been used as a normal course.

In his preliminary work on the image the actorhas, quite ridiculously and unnecessarily, beenmechanically separated from practice, from theconcrete work on himself as a live, connectedly andunitedly moving and speaking human being. Theactor has approached the work of being shot, aprocess already requiring technically fixed and de-fined methods of execution, quite unaided, and ableonly academically to image to himself the generalmeaning of his role, in no way having linked it tohis concrete live individuality. Such has been the

position in the best cases; in the worst the actorpurely and simply has not known anything about hisrole apart from the sum total of directorial instruc-tions restricted to each piece being shot. Naturally,each shot is proceeded by a sort of travesty of arehearsal, but this cannot be considered seriously,for no antecedent work has ever been done upon itto give it an inner link to the unity of the actor'simage.

It is this incorrect attitude to the tasks of actingwork that has given rise to the pseudo-theory of themontage (edited) image (a theory for which no singleindividual is responsible). This theory deduces,from the fact that an impression of acting can becomposed mechanically by sticking pieces together,the illegitimate assumption that separate pieces, notconnected inwardly within the actor, will neces-sarily give an optimum result.

The true significance of the edited image is quitedifferent; it has considerable importance for thecinema actor, and we shall speak of it later.

Just as in the theatre, so in the cinema, themethodology of rehearsals is all-important for theactor.

In fact, as we have already observed, this method-ology is even more important in the cinema than inthe theatre, since the hyper-discontinuity of actingwork in shooting desiderates a correspondinglyespecially clear, definite, and detailed absorption bythe actor of the wholeness of his role.

Systematic rehearsal work in the cinema prior to

shooting has so far been conducted only by way ofexperiment.

I cannot speak of the work of the ExperimentalFilm Collectives, as they have made no verbal orWTitten record of their experiences in this field. Ishall discuss the experiment of Kuleshov in his film:The Great Consoler.1

Kuleshov wrote a shooting script, that is, a scriptworked out in technical detail as it is to be shot onthe floor and edited afterwards. All tfre shots inthis script, numbered and with their numericalorder preserved, were transferred to a miniaturestudio floor. In fact, prior to the shooting of thefilm, he staged a performance consisting of veryshort scenes each in length identical with the piecelater to be edited. As far as possible Kuleshovplayed each scene through on the studio floor in sucha way that subsequently, after most careful rehearsal,it could be transferred back to and shot withoutalteration on the actual floor used in shooting.

His rehearsal system attained three results. First,it achieved the preliminary work with the actor tothe deepest possible degree. Second, it gave theexecutives the opportunity to c see ' the film, as itwere, before it was shot, and make in time anycorrection or alteration that might be required.And third, it reduced to a minimum the waste oftime during the preliminaries to each shot, which,as is well known, in general run away with a greatdeal of money.

1 A film blended of O. Henry's life and Alias Jimmy Valentine,

The combination of these results gave Kuleshov'swork a somewhat peculiar style. First and foremost,in striving at all costs to make the rehearsal perform-ance an exact pattern of the future screen perform-ance, Kuleshov undoubtedly not only rehearsedhis actors, but also to some extent adapted his filmto a form more convenient and simple for the carry-ing out of the rehearsal.

It is not a coincidence that Kuleshov's film con-tains few dramatis personae. It is not a coincidencethat Kuleshov has no crowd scenes. It is not acoincidence that the extremely sparse and limitedexteriors take the shape either of empty countryroads or of city streets on which one never meetsa soul save those few dramatis personae.

Kuleshov, of course, wrote his script in this way,set the action in these scenes, chose this subject andthis number of characters precisely to give himselfthe chance to fit the film rapidly and easily into theframework of a stage performance, one, moreover,of necessity played on a stage rather especiallyprimitively fitted out.

I do not think this work of Kuleshov should betreated as wrong in principle. The effort was un-doubtedly a most interesting experiment. Theexperiment was not wrong, but any mechanicaldeduction that might be made from it along the lineof converting the method into a dogmatic recipeto be used in the shooting of any and every filmwould most undoubtedly be wrong.

Our task remains, of course, the finding of such

ways, such forms, and such methods of adjusting arehearsal period as will in no wise handicap thefilm in the field of its exploration of every possiblewide and rich development.

We are still faced with the problem how to organ-ise preparatory rehearsal work on a film whichdefinitely and markedly strives to develop alongcinematic lines, that is, including a series of scenesembracing a large spacial canvas, locations, andcircumstances such as cannot be reproduced on arehearsal floor.

We must not and cannot pander to a desire toplay the future film through on a rehearsal floor tothe extent of eliminating from it elements which,though they have no direct physical link with theactor in his acting, yet none the less contribute tothe film the power and richness that make it a trulycinematic work of art.

In my view the discovery of the correct methodsfor the rehearsal period will only be attained bykeeping clearly and exclusively to our main purpose.This purpose is, of course, the actor's work on hisacting image. All the rest, the demonstration of thewhole film to the executives, the learning by rote ofset-ups in advance (which latter is, in fact, nevercompletely possible unless the film limits the canvasit shoots to the space within the studio walls), mustbe subordinated to the maximum fostering of con-ditions aiding the actor to solve his main technicalproblem—embodiment in the image.

What, then, are the main postulates of the method-

REHEARSAL WORK 59

ology of the rehearsal period ? First let us considerthe editing structure set out in the sheets of theshooting script. The sheets of the shooting scriptlist a series of short pieces. Nearly every element ofthe actor's behaviour linked to the inner order of theaction is interspersed with numerous pieces showingthe audience either parallel action by other actorsat quite a different location, or epically developedelements of events into which the actor is incor-porated by developments of the general action, orboth.

Suppose such a scene: a person in a room is talkingto a man who excitedly awaits a meeting with hisbrother. The brother is expected by air. Theexcited wait is interrupted by the ring of a telephonebell. Information is given that the aeroplane isabout to land. On the screen the action changesto an aerodrome where we see the plane landing anda sudden crash that causes the death of the brotherarriving. The next piece to follow portrays thewaiting brother receiving the terrible news.

Should one in the rehearsal period strive to workout separately the two pieces of the state of the wait-ing man, separated as they will be on the screen bythe conventionalised plane crash ?

For work with the actor this would not only beunnecessary, but wrong and harmful. The onlycorrect course is to rehearse both pieces in con-junction, thus enabling the actor to stay in theacting image without interruption, and to replacethe specifically cinematic element of the portrayal

60 FILM ACTING

of the crash by a single telephone call announcingthe disaster.

Suppose on the screen an actor, fleeing from pur-suit, swim a river, and meet on the opposite banka man whom he was seeking in order to deliver tohim some message, it would, of course, be futile andstupid to waste time and energy by staging an actualswim across a river during the rehearsal period.What is important for the actor during rehearsalis the presence somewhere in his role of a seriousobstacle requiring to be successfully negotiated, andthe inclusion of this sensation of recent victory overthe obstacle in his feeling during his conversationwith the person met beyond the river. In rehearsalconditions, any physical obstacle could serve asequivalent for the river, a window, for example,through which he might have to climb, or a door hemight break down, before entering the room.

I choose obvious examples of this kind in orderto make clear the simple point that the separateshots (or editing pieces) of the shooting script,divided into its multitudinous incidents, an abun-dance of which cannot be reproduced on the stage,should properly be transmuted into some other formfor the actor to facilitate his concentration in re-hearsal on the absorption of the unity of the actingimage.

This new form of script might be termed an- actor's script.5 In an actor's script the separatepieces concerning him would be approximated toone another for the paramount purpose of preserving

u si

.15 -a

.3

•2 S

o

>

o

X

for him as far as possible a longer duration and lessinterruption in his acting. The whole material ofthe director's editing or shooting script would bepreserved. Only it would be rearranged in a newsequence, enabling nearer approximation of theshots in the actor's role, thus giving him largerpieces of united inner movement.

Of course, such a linking up of the separatepieces in a role will in some cases entail the replace-ment of certain pieces by equivalents, as in the justinstanced case of the telephone ring instead of theplane crash.

The actual task of translating a shooting scriptinto actor's scripts is certainly one which requiresconsiderable practical experience for its properperformance. But its purpose is clear and simple.

Stage practice, particularly the practice of theStanislavski school in the matter of € interval ' or1 hiatus ' pieces in rehearsal alluded to by us before,can be particularly fruitful for film rehearsals.

Kozintsev has stated that during rehearsal workwith the actors on his latest film, The Youth of Maxim,he concentrated solely on those parts of the roleoutside the actual action of the film.

The point of his observation is, once again, thefact that the main problem of director and actorinvariably boils down to the establishment in re-hearsal of the inner unity of any given piece with therole as a whole.

So as not to confuse the actor with theatricalconventions alien to the cinema, the director must

surround him at rehearsal with real equivalentspractical within the limits of a stage or rehearsalroom. So as not to force the actor to waste energyin imagining such things as rivers that he will meetin the actual story, the director and actors in re-hearsal add equivalent pieces, enabling the innercontent of the actor's behaviour to remain un-changed, the river he will have to swim beingreplaced by some analogous obstacle such as those Ihave already suggested.

Let me once again emphasise the extreme dangerof introducing into cinema rehearsal work specificallytheatrical conventions unconnected with actualproblems of shooting.

Kuleshov's method of solving the rehearsal prob-lem by having the whole future film played over onthe floor involves such a danger.

I repeat once more, also with emphasis, that an* actor's script • such as I describe requires careful,meticulous, and profound modification to replacereal-life conditions set out in the editing script withequivalent real conditions practicable for the re-hearsal stage. And this process can no doubt bestbe effected in actual concert with the actor.

We should approach the problem wrongly if weexcluded a priori from this process all possibility ofcreative work on the script by the actor himself.

The beginning and end of the old system was itsorientation around the reduction of the actor's workto an almost mechanical performance of a ' task 'allotted him by the director. We shall never escape

REHEARSAL WORK 63

from the old system of treating the actor as a prop,as a type, if we do not set the question of creativeinter-influence of actor and director right at the fore-front of work on the film, already at the stagepreceding shooting.

Hitherto the actor, encountering only the com-plexly constructed shooting script of the director,able to envisage his own future work only abstractly,has been deprived of the possibility of determiningclearly and concretely any possible disagreement hemight have with the directorial conception of thepart. I suggest that an ' acting script' and re-hearsal work with it will provide that now missingconcrete basis for a creative mutual influencing ofactor and director.

The director's will and effort are devoted to maxi-mal expression of the whole of the film, and his workon the editing or shooting script is oriented from thisangle, exploiting in this script all the wealth of thespecific methods provided him by the technique ofthe cinema. But subsequently he should compressthe shots in this shooting script into an acting script.This new acting or rehearsal script would not merelyrepresent the solution of the given shooting problemsas set out in the shooting script, but also the concretefulfilment of the requirements postulated by theactor's need for aid in maintaining unity andvividness in his image. From this script, in theprocess of rehearsal, new data would doubtless beforthcoming, justifying a second edition of the shoot-ing script, inevitably, quite properly and to creative

64 FILM ACTING

advantage replacing the first. And only in thislast form would the script actually go forward forshooting.

This is a means, it seems to me, whereby might beachieved a real linking of the actor to the unity ofthe work of the whole shooting collective.

rt

^4>O

T3

3 Q

QQ

X

CHAPTER VITHE EDITING IMAGE

We now come to the shaping of the editing image.This concept, the subject of the most acrimoniouscontroversy, is in fact the crux of the novel anddifferent nature of the cinema, distinguishing itfrom the theatre.

When the stage actor works on his inward embodi-ment into the acting image, his work is bound inex-tricably with two tasks: firstly, the search for itsexternal form of expression—voice, gesture, grimace—and secondly, the clear consideration of thatgeneral ideological tendency of his role that links hiswork with the performance as a whole and with eachof its details separately.

Let us analyse the first task. In working on hisexternal expressiveness, the stage actor naturallymoulds the whole process of his acting into arhythmic form. His speech receives in delivery in-tonational emphasis or weakening according towhether he wishes at any given movement to seizeand hold the audience by the c content * or thec emotional' side of his speech. In his pattern ofmovements and gesture he also creates moments ofrise and fall, of vividness and restraint, of strengthand weakness. But an actor moving and speakingon the stage always remains at relatively the same

65

constant distance from the spectators, in a positionin space more or less constant in respect to them.For the spectators to see his hand, he must show itto them; for the spectators to see his face, he must turnit to them; for the spectators to hear his whisper,he must raise it to the level of loudness.

The cinema has to create its analogous rhythm ofexternally expressive form in a different manner. Ihave already described how the camera and micro-phone can move to approach or recede from theactor, how they can espy the finest movements of hisbody, eavesdrop the most delicate intonations ofhis voice. By this means the acting of the actor,treated in long shot and in close shot, angled fromvarious set-ups, is rendered especially vivid andexpressive.

If the stage actor, in the course of working out themaximum external expressiveness of his role, wish,at some given moment of the performance, to centrethe whole attention of the audience on, let us sup-pose, his smile following the word ' No/ then heknows perfectly well that not only must his word bespoken well and his smile smiled well, but that theaudience must listen to the word and watch thesmile especially attentively.

For this purpose, the actor uses in support of thestage delivery of his role all the complex mechanismof theatre technique. He can use sets, or composi-tion of the action in them, leading the attention ofthe audience away from his colleagues and fixing it,precisely at the crucial moment, on himself. He can

THE EDITING IMAGE 67

use a pause immediately following, spotlights, con-centrating their light on him alone.

In the cinema all this complicated system ofmethods can be reduced to a single close-up. Theclose-up in the cinema is an integral part of therhythm of external expression of the actor.

The editing of separate camera angles in the cinema is themore vivid and expressive equivalent of the technique thatobliges a stage actor who has inwardly absorbed his actingimage to ' theatricalise ' its outer form.

The film actor must clearly understand that themoving of the camera from place to place is notsimply a means of realising purely directorialmethods. The understanding and feel of the possi-bilities of the shooting of shots from various anglesmust be organically included in the process of theactor's own work on the external shaping of his role.

The film actor must feel the urge and the necessityfor a given camera position for the shooting of anygiven piece of his role in precisely the same way as astage actor feels the necessity, at a given point in thecourse of his role, for making an especially empha-sised gesture, or for advancing to the footlights, or forascending two steps of a scenery stairs.

The actor must appreciate that it is in this verymovement of the camera that lies latent that essentialsensitivity that removes work in the field of art fromthe sphere of shapeless naturalism.

However profoundly the stage actor embodies him-self into his role in the course of his work on theimage, he must not, and in fact does not, forget the

68 FILM ACTING

need always to consider also the objective contentand value of the final result—his behaviour in actingon the stage during the actual performance por-trayed to the audience. The image, howeverdeeply absorbed by the actor, does not exist in theperformance as a separate entity. Linked by thecourse of the action, it is subject to the complexinterplay and mutual influence of all the forcescomprising the performance as a whole.

The supremely important social class significanceof the actor's performance is determined by the per-formance as a whole. There is not an element inthe performance, be it the acting of a colleague, orthe material composition of a scene, but must belinked to the final form of the whole and therefore ofthe remaining parts. Even during the very firstmoments of work on the image, when the actor ismainly seeking and feeling for ways of embodyinghimself as a given individual in the image he intendsto play, he is yet clearly conscious of and sets beforehimself as his aim the figure sketched out by thelibretto of the play, wlxich figure eventually will moveand speak upon the boards. He appreciates whatthe future stage image is and how it is embedded inthe entirety of the performance. But on the stagethe actor who sought and shaped the role yet re-mains in the finally discovered and shaped perform-ance a live person. The image he finally finds andfixes in himself and in the performance, he neverseparates from himself as from a living, feeling, andspeaking person.

X

In the film it is quite otherwise. The culminatingachievement of the actor's work—in the theatre thestage image—is in the cinema something of a quitedifferent order. As final result appears the editedimage—a screen image of the actor, recorded andfixed once and for all upon the film, a final andoptimum version of his work's achievement, which,quite apart from any other distinction, has in thecourse of its expression been subjected to a technicalfinishing process quite impossible of application to aliving being.

Just as in the unity of the stage show the image ofthe actor is c produced ' in the fullness of its contentby the complex interaction of all the forces comprisedin the performance, so in the cinema the separatepieces of shot acting of the actor are moulded into aunified image the unity and orientation of which aredetermined not merely by the unity found by theactor within himself, but also by the exceedinglycomplex interaction of those many pieces containingalien phenomena, situated exterior to the actor.

The most comprehensive, the profoundest linesdetermining the content of the image, are discern-ible, of course, only when the whole composition ofthe film is available.

We have already noted that the wealth of eventsof the world of reality which the cinema can embraceis much wider than that accessible to the theatre.While the relationship between a given actor andthe whole performance is on the stage determinedprincipally in the conflict between the actor and his

colleague, an actor using dialogue like himself, in thecinema the actor encounters not only man. In thecompleted film the acting actor is brought into rela-tionship with the whole tremendous complexity ofobjective reality, and in this respect therefore isplaced in a position nearer to that of a part of aliterary work than to that of a dramatis persona in aplay.

Thus the concept of the edited image by no meansimplies (as some have sought to declare) a negationof the necessity for unified work by the actor on hisrole. The concept of the edited image is by nomeans an affirmation of the doctrine that the filmactor is merely a type actor providing piecemealmaterial for mechanical composition into a pseudo-whole in the process of editing.

On the contrary, this concept, analogous to thatof the stage image, demands from the film actorfirstly a knowledge of how consciously to exploit thepossibilities of vari-angled shooting for the purposesof his work on the external shaping of his role, and,secondly, clear consideration of its creative place inthe edited composition of the whole film, in orderthat he may understand and bring out the mostcomprehensive and profound bases of his acting.

In stage work there exists a clear and precise con-cept, the ensemble; in the creation of the ensembleparticipates not only the producer, but also eachseparate actor, building his work in direct connec-tion with the whole of the performance. In thecinema the equivalent concept has reached in its

shaping almost the limit of technical precision. Afilm, a work the material of which includes the actingof actors, can attain, in the exactitude and precisionof its rhythmic construction, the exactitude of therhythmic construction of a musical composition.Hence the especial strictness and rigidity of therequirements to which film actors must subordinatetheir work in the course of its external shaping, thosefilm actors, that is, who value not only their ownroles, but the film as a whole.

The stage actor knows well that an unhappilychosen or badly played tune preceding his speechcan not only damage but distort the role he is tryingto create. The film actor must understand that apiece of a landscape or some other phenomenon,either preceding or following the piece with hisacting in it, will indubitably enter as a componentinto the line of his image as it will be apprehendedby the audience watching the screen.

The edited image is that final and definite formthat enters into interaction with the third elementcomprising the work of art—the spectator. In dis-tinction from the stage image, it is divorced from theliving actor, and for this very reason, in order not tolose realistic unity, must be conceived by the actorand thought out carefully from the very first stagesof his work on himself and his role.

While on the stage the actor can more exactlyadjust his place in the whole during the actual courseof the second performance to the audience, the filmdoes not give him this opportunity. Further, the

work of the actor in endeavouring to reach sharpestapprehension of the film as a whole is more complexand difficult. Therefore it must be regarded asparticularly paradoxical that this side of his work,the study of his relation to the film as a whole, is farmore deeply provided for in the theatre than in thecinema.

Here we should mention still another difficultycharacteristic of the work of the film actor. In thetheatre exists the so-called c living link ' between anactor and his emotionalised audience. It is a well-known fact that performances of a show differ, andthat this difference depends on and is caused bydifferences of audience composition. There exists anabundance of stories concerning notable actors andhow the living reaction of audiences has forced themat various times to find new business for their roles,or to discard business they had previously foundand used.

All stage actors declare that they derive the realhigh-pressure tension and inspiration necessary forfull value in their acting only from the feeling ofthe audience being moved.

In the cinema we are in the presence of an entirelynew phenomenon: never, not even during the mostimportant moment of his acting, when the actor isface to face with the camera recording his finalachievement, has he the chance to feel directly thereaction of a single spectator. He can imagine hisspectator only as a future spectator.

In the c living link * between actor and spectator

should be distinguished two elements, which we shallanalyse separately in their relation to the cinema.

The two elements are these: first, the generalexcitement and inspiration felt by the stage actoraware of thousands of eyes centred upon him, con-scious of a thousand-fold concentration of attentionupon his acting, and second, the presence of theliving reaction of the audience, as it were itselftaking part in the creative process of the develop-ment of the role, and thereby helping the actor.

The first element, direct consciousness in the actorof the multiple spectator, is completely absent in thecinema. At the moment of shooting, the actor seesin front of him only the dumb mechanisms of thecamera and sound-recording apparatus. The sys-tem used for lighting, which entails the surroundingof the actor with lamps, seems also as though deliber-ately engaged in isolating him into the space allottedfor the taking of the scene, a space so small thatsometimes the actor is even cut off from seeing thewhole of the room in which the action takes place.

But does it follow that the feeling of an audienceand the creative excitement and inspiration derivingfrom the audience are thereby necessarily excludedfrom the work of the film actor ? I hold that it doesnot. True, this feeling of the audience can comeinto existence only in a new and peculiar manner.

I remember a conversation with the now lateV. V. Mayakovski.1 He told me once about thefeeling he experienced when, during the years of

1 Committed suicide in 1932.—Tr.

revolution, he declaimed his verses to an enormouscrowd that had collected in front of the balcony ofthe building of the Moscow Soviet.

V. V. complained that nowadays he never feltthat tremendous inspiration he did then. Only inone circumstance, he said, do I feel the same excite-ment, if not an even greater than in those days, andthat is when I make a speech on the wireless.

I maintain that Mayakovski was completely andutterly sincere. It is interesting that to a man likehim, who undoubtedly had organically lived andnourished his creative process on the reaction of themass audience, the broadcasting studio did not feellike a solitary confinement cell isolating him fromhis listeners. That creative imagination which ispart and parcel of every great artist, which makeshim one with and related to all the world of reality,enabled him not only to appreciate intellectually,but to feel directly, that the words spoken into themicrophone spread immediately over a giganticarea and became received by millions of attentivelisteners.

Let us be clear that Mayakovski was not referringto an intellectual understanding of the importanceof wireless, but to a direct excitement and in-spiration caused in him by work before the micro-phone. Once more I repeat that Mayakovski likenedthis excitement to that which he had felt whendirectly before him he had seen listening a crowdthousands strong.

I consider that for a film actor who really and truly

THE EDITING IMAGE 75

lives in his art the possibility of such an excitement isnot excluded. On the stage an actor plays beforehundreds of persons, in the film actually beforemillions. Here is a dialectical instance of quantityincreasing over the boundary into quality to giverise to a new kind of excitement, not less real and,of course, not less significant.

Let us turn to the second element. The collabora-tion in creation on the part of the spectator, his livingreaction to the acting, his acceptance and applauseof the right and felicitous, his cold repudiation ofanything mistaken—none of this, also, can bepresent in the taking of a film.

Hence, I urge, upon the director, who is the oneand only witness of the acting during the shooting ofa film, reposes an especial responsibility, in no waycorresponding to any equivalent in the theatre. Thesolitude of the actor during the taking of the scenesweighs upon him. The director, of course, if hedesire to give the actor the maximum of help, if hewish to create for him the optimum conditions forfree, easy, and sincere acting, can so react to thework of the actor as to become for him a fine,responsive, and friendly—if sole—spectator.

I put forward this point in all seriousness, the pos-sibility for the director to make the actor believe inhim not merely as a theoretician, as a thinker andmentor, but also as a directly affected, eitheradmiring or disappointed, spectator.

The finding of this inner contact between directorand actor, the establishment of a profound mutual

76 FILM ACTING

trust and respect, is one of the most paramountlyimportant of all the problems in the technique ofthe work of a film collective.

My own practice in working with actors, which Imust confess myself quite unable up to date tocodify into any coherent or unified form that mightin any degree be called a system, is based entirely onthis contention, that all the most important momentsof an actor's work are based absolutely on this trustin me on the part of the actor.

I recall how, taking full advantage of the silenceof the cinema in the old days, I used literally to beunable to restrain myself from uttering words ofexcited praise that reached and encouraged theactor in the middle of his acting by reason of theirobvious and complete sincerity.

It is of interest to mention here that Baranovskaiain Mother categorically declared to me (we were thenabout half-way through the film) that she could notact unless I were in my accustomed place beside thecamera. I cite this, declaration as further confirma-tion of the fact that the presence of the director re-sponsively reacting to the actor's acting is an organicnecessity for the latter. I recall that I have invari-ably tried to establish the most intimate personalrelationship possible with all the actors playing prin-cipal roles in my films before the actual work ofshooting began. I have always regarded it as im-portant to win in advance the deep-seated trust ofthe acting ensemble, so that later the actors couldfall back on this trust and not feel solitary.

Baranovskaya, actress, as the mother.XIV " Mother," Pudovkin.

THE EDITING IMAGE 77

Many speak of the inevitability of a duality in theactor during his acting, when with one side of him-self he lives and plays in the acting image, and withthe other as though controls this play objectively.In my view this second, controlling side, is not at alla kind of imaginary spectator dwelling within theactor. This second side must, inevitably, be rootedin the living spectator existing external to the actor;it takes into account and bases itself on the former'sreaction, fulfilling its essential purpose in doing so,for otherwise the actor would be locking himselfwithin his own subjective circle and becoming acoldly abstract phantom.

I believe that the coldness and externally mechani-cal formalisation of acting often encountered in thecinema can usually be explained by coldness andmechanical formalisation in the directors method ofwork with the actor in shooting.

I emphasise that the decisive importance of thework of the director on the actor in shooting ischaracteristic for the cinema, and no equivalentobtains with anything like equal sharpness in thetheatre.

Let us note here, deriving from this, one morecharacteristic difference between stage and filmtechnique in acting.

In the theatre the actor must not only find theimage, absorb it, approximate himself to the externalforms of its expression, sense the necessary rhythmicforms of its playing and its link with the show as awhole, but he must during the repeated rehearsals

fix all this and ' can ' it in a definite shape. Althoughit is not disputed that at each subsequent perform-ance the actor will continue in a degree to develophis role, yet the element of learning by rote, fixing,and c canning ' his acting is inevitably present in thetheatre to a considerable degree, Thus the stageproducer at a given point cedes his place to thespectator, and the show reaches its perfect formwithout, already, his direct participation.

In the cinema the burden of the element of' canning' and memorising is removed from theminds of actor and director by the mechanism of thevisual and sound cameras and by the laboratory,which indefinitely multiplies copies from a singlenegative. In fact, until the very last, the culminat-ing moment of their joint creative work, the actorand the director in the cinema march in the liveliestand most direct contact.

CHAPTER VIIDIALOGUE

We now proceed to the next element in the filmactor's work which offers special difficulties. Thisis the absence, occurring in certain circumstances,of the opposite number in a duologue. We canscarcely imagine an instance of an actor in the theatrebeing obliged to talk to an opposite number in realityabsent. In the cinema this happens time and againowing to technical complications resulting from thedesire to exploit the method of editing in construc-tion of dialogue.

The stage, of course, is familiar with what istermed monologue, where the actor's direct oppositenumber in dialogue is the audience. But thecinema has a host of very different examples.

To cite an obvious one, let us take the case of ascene in which an actor addresses a crowd of Mon-gols, responding to their reactions. Quite likely theactor's words would be recorded separately inMoscow and joined up with pieces of scenes takenin Siberia.

Certainly it is possible to counter this examplewith arguments, valid to some extent, denying thenecessity, at least in the normal course, for breachesof this kind in the living linkage of the protagonistsof the general action. But I hold that such breaches,

79

80 FILM ACTING

perhaps usually less crude and of less degree, areinescapable in cinema. Let us take as anothercase a continuous close-up incorporating severalseparate dialogue bits, and for which the actor,instead of the connected development of thedialogue, receives only the short opening cue.

Granted that we remove all the technical difficul-ties deriving from faulty organisation of production,I think we must and shall be able to find meanswhereby, without losing a jot of the wealth ofpossible methods of editing treatment of dialogue,we shall yet be able to realise in practice a preserva-tion of the live link between the actor and hisopposite even in such work.

In the silent days it was easier. There one couldbuild around an actor to be taken in close-up abackground as complicated as might be wished andeliminate it in shooting by the angle from whichthe camera was trained upon the actor.

In the sound film matters are more difficult.The microphone cannot set exact limits to its sensi-tivity. The microphone picks up all the soundsoccurring around it up to a given strength and dis-tance away, consequently the actor can only beisolated in close-up by eliminating in actuality anyand every sound not meant to be recorded in thegiven section of film. In the silent film one couldremove everything superfluous for the finished filmand needed only by the actor to help him in hisplaying, not only by means of the isolating frame ofthe lens in the given camera set-up, but also by use

:.:^v -;: :^.;:--r:t^i:,' %\ ■

of the directorial scissors, which could snip off theintroductory business needed by the actor to get intohis stride for the given acting moment. At firstglance it might seem that in sound cinema boththese avenues are closed. Practice, however, hasfound ways round the difficulty.

As a rule, the sound film can be taken just as freelyas the silent, relying upon possible future alterationon the cutting bench of the material obtained. Thewords of an opposite number, the exhortations of thedirector, any and all noise accretions required by theactor for living intercourse with the human beingssurrounding him in the process of shooting, can beremoved by the scissors, always supposing there hasbeen exact and correct organisation of the materialduring the taking of the scene.

A piece which, edited on the screen, comprisesonly a short moment of the actor's acting can equallyin sound film be shot as a longish piece of acting,only the culminating moment of which forms thepiece used in editing construction. The beginningand end of the piece can be cut away by thescissors.

Working out methods for this is simply a questionof developing the practical side. This practical sidemust simply develop, guided always by commonsense, along the line of maximum assistance to theactor in enabling him to stay as long and connectedlyas possible in the acting image. The sound recordon the film is, in general, as pliable a material as thepicture film on which the image is recorded. This

record can be cut and edited, more—on occasionmust be cut and edited.1

Let us consider, for example, the pauses that sepa-rate from one another separate significant momentsin the speech of one or several actors. Not alwayscan these pauses be recorded in reality. Consideran instance we have already discussed.

An orator is addressing a listening crowd. Hiswords are interrupted by general hubbub, applause,individual shouts and yells. In taking such a scene,not even a director most set in stagy treatment of thecinema and most scornful of the paramountcy ofediting would be content with only one long shotshowing the scene as a whole, and not transfer thecamera from the orator to various of the individuallisteners reacting to his speech and back again. Butwith shooting in this way, in separate pieces, thepause that separates a completed sentence, or a partof a sentence left incomplete, on the part of theorator from the shout of listeners or the latter'sapplause would not be recorded. Inasmuch as thetwo pieces—orator and listener—have been shotseparately, the length of the pause on the screen willdepend not on its length in reality, but on the

1 In most sound systems used in the West, a cut sound track resultsat its point of junction (in spite of sound-masking measures, such asthe so-called blupe splice) in a definite if slight * plop.' A great dealof elimination of surplus sound, or combination on a single track ofsounds recorded separately, is effected therefore not by cutting, butby what is called * re-recording.' In theory this does not affectPudovkin's principle of possible pliability here enunciated, but inpractice—owing to the fact that a new celluloid track is dearer thana scissors snip—it does affect the extent to which that pliability isin fact utilised.—Tr.

DIALOGUE 83

amount of blank film the director inserts at the endof the orator's phrase and before that of the shoutinglistener.

From this example we see that in the process offilmic construction arises constantly the necessity tocreate in editing elements that enter integrally intothe tissue of the live actor's acting. Later we shallsee more clearly still how this very element, a pause,an element the tremendous importance of which isfamiliar to every stage actor, is inevitably dependenton the directorial scissors, that is, on the skill andinstinct of the director. Here is a reason, one ofmany, for finding a way of making possible a directparticipation by the actor even in the editing ofthe film.

The work of editing, of cutting and joining to-gether the pieces of acted film, demands subtle effortof the utmost creative importance in the field ofsensing the rhythm of dialogue. Theoretically, it isperfectly possible for the actor, in concert with thedirector, to set the final polish on the former's actingsolely by manipulating his screen image and screenvoice recorded on pieces of film.

There is no reason why the work of the real actorshould terminate before the editing process. Theactor should take a direct creative part in it, he mustclearly feel editing as the process of finally polishingthe shape of things.

I am so stubborn in emphasising the necessity forthe actor thus to participate in the editing, becausehitherto it has been a course in practice scarcely ever

84 FILM ACTING

adopted, and in consequence has led to the preval-ence of a most incorrect idea of creative editing as aperiod during which the dictator-director mutilatesand damages the living work of the actor in theinterests of the ritual inventions of his directorialmind.

The actor should be as close to the editing as thedirector. He should feel that he can lean upon himat every stage of the work. Editing should be preciousto him, as shaping of his performance into the ensemble isprecious to the stage actor, and he should be similarly eagerand anxious for its success and the final linkage of everyelement of his work into the whole.

I wish to turn back for a moment to our discussionof the living link between actor and theatre audience.

The reacting spectator will only correctly and pro-foundly apprehend the show when the producer andactor, by means of the exhaustive use of all the re-sources of their technique (using the term in itsbroadest sense), have succeeded in correctly guidinghis attention. If the spectator for some reason orother at a given moment of the show look, not at thehero when the action hangs on the words of the hero,but at some secondary character walking about inthe corner of the stage, the smooth crescendo of theaction is bound to be broken. The spectator willreceive an impression other than that intended byauthor, producer, and actor.

The technique of the stage has the effect of guidingthe awakened attention exclusively along a channelcreatively planned and discovered as the optimum

o -8

O

c

s «

H

>

X

form for portrayal of the material of the show. Andeach individual actor knows that, in the executionof his role, his stage technique must help him at thesuitable moment to concentrate attention only onhimself, at times even only on some detail of hisacting, or, alternatively, to efface himself and therebytransfer the spectator's attention to a colleague.

This process determines the rhythm of the show,that rhythm that is, in fact, the breath of life of anywork of art, the rhythm that moves the audience andwhich, in actual fact, determines that excitation ofthe spectator without which no work of art canproperly be regarded as such.

The induction of the spectator into the rhythm ofthe show and the inducing of him to follow it con-stitute one of the most difficult problems of thetheatre. In the cinema the technique of editing isbrought in to help solve it.

Let me recall here the principles on which I triedto build the screen dialogue in Deserter. Imaginefour people sitting in a room. They are talking toeach other. We know that when a spectator seesfour characters seated spaced out on a stage, hisattention, rendered intent by rhythm, moves fromone character to another in obedience to definitelaws. Now he looks at the speaker, now at thelisteners, now at a particular one of them. Thistransference of his attention is, in fact, dictated tohim by the line of the inner content of the scene.Each of the four actors has a definite significance inthe development of the action. Their interlocking,

the dependence of the possible actions of one on thewords of the other, is what causes the spectator tothrow his attention from one dramatis persona toanother, and the temporal and spacial diagram ofthis transference is naturally in direct causal rela-tionship to the importance the spectator grants ateach given moment to the given dramatis persona.

We know that the cinema, with its camera capableof movement and its consequent close-up, has thepossibility of selecting only that object necessary ata given moment as though concentrating thespectator's attention upon it. The non-stationarycamera as though takes upon itself the responsibletask of dictating to the spectator the precise rhythmand sequence of attention transference that hasbeen planned in advance by author, director, andactor. The cinema does not leave the spectatorthe freedom allowed him by the stage.

The rhythmic construction of a scene editably shotand then presented upon the screen achieves, as wehave said, a precision and exactitude only paralleledby that of music.

I shall take three various possible forms of editeddialogue (these by no means exhaust the possibili-ties).

First, let us imagine one of the four actors isspeaking. We see on the screen only the speaker;we hear the question he asks of one of his com-panions. The spectator awaits the answer to thequestion. In the theatre he would have turned hishead and looked at the person who was going to

answer, whereas in the cinema, the director, sensingthe inevitability of this impulse on the part of thespectator, replaces with lightning speed the imageof the questioner with the image of the person ques-tioned. The spectator first sees this actor, thenhears the expected answer. In the edited sound filmthe image of the actor appears narrowly in advanceof his words.

Now case two. A person is speaking; we see himon the screen. He finishes speaking, but our interestis still centred on him for some reason—probably weexpect him to continue his speech. At this moment,however, one of the others join in; we hear hiswords, but for the moment we do not see him, andonly when the impact of his words on our conscious-ness has aroused our interest, do we turn our head tolook at him. The edited sound film is so con-structed that a portion of the words of the secondactor is heard over the image of the first, and theimage of the second actor, a fraction delayed,appears only after a given lapse of time. Here thesound precedes the image.

The third case. A person speaks; we are inter-ested in the reaction of the other actors to this speech.We watch them as they listen to the continuingspeaker. Our attention is transferred back andforth from speaker to listeners and again to speaker.In the sound film follow alternately images of thespeaking actor and the listening actors with thewords of the speaking actor constant over the imagesof both.

88 FILM ACTING

If we analyse carefully these simplest examples offorms of edited dialogue, we see that we have heretwo complementary kinds of rhythm marching sideby side. The first is a sound-dialogue rhythm inwhich words alternate with pauses, a question issucceeded by an answer. And these speeches andpauses alternate in the same way as they do inobjective reality. The dialogue is here recorded, asit could be if played through on a theatre stage.

What, now, is the second kind of rhythm, that ofthe alternation of the images of the individual actors?

We have seen in these examples how the alterna-tion of the images may not always coincide with thealternation of the voices of the given actors. Theimage is at times ahead of the appearance of a newvoice, at times behind, or changes rhythmicallyduring the continuous speech of one and the samevoice. The alternation of images here fundamen-tally represents the emotional and intellectual atti-tude of the spectator towards the content of thedialogue, towards the content of each role, towardseach of the persons taking part in the given scene.

In fact, when a director edits a scene, he estimatesby how much the words should precede the image,or the image the words. It stands to reason, forexample, that, if the importance at the given momentof the actor who has just finished speaking be con-siderable, then the spectator must be offered a con-siderable portion of the words of another speakerbefore he will tear his attention away from the firstand transfer it to the second.

DIALOGUE 89

While if, conversely, the argument of the second beimpatiently awaited by the eager spectator, beinganticipated as vital and important in the course ofthe development of the action, then a single syllablemay suffice to swing the attention of the spectatoraway from first to second.

Hence we perceive that the process of editing doesnot imply a purely mechanical function of separateimages. The combination of the two complemen-tary rhythms—objectively recorded speech andedited image—yields as result the entire revelationof the significance of the scene; it is the means where-by the director hints to the spectator the requi-site attitude to the scene that will reveal its innercontent, and indeed also the relationship of thatcontent to the unity of the whole of the film.

Hence we repeat once more, the interrelationshipof pieces determined in the editing treatment of ascene is no mere mechanical matter. It is a problemsolution of which involves the profoundest generalisa-tion of the content of the scene. In resolving it,there must be borne in mind the relative importanceof every character, or, from another point of view,the logical course of interest of the eager spectator,for the rhythm here found will determine the actualcourse of his attention, and therefore, in the end, theunity and clarity of his reaction to the film.

CHAPTER VIIIDUAL RHYTHM OF SOUND AND IMAGE

One of the most important elements in the solutionof the problems of sound cinema is the knowledgeand ability to master the possibilities offered by thecinema in duality of sound and image rhythm. Inattempting to realise these possibilities, the directorin editing makes himself the first, as it were thefundamental spectator. For the purpose of gettingthe very best out of the actor, as we have seen, theactor himself can be included in this editing work.And if so, in this process is developed and utilised inits appropriate function that second side of the actorthat in the theatre supervises and checks from thespectator's angle, as it were, by responding toaudience reaction.

To realise his full value in the cinema, the actorcan and should not only play his role, but be cap-able, as well as the director, of bringing to life in theediting process the editing treatment planned,thereby compelling the spectator to accept, in itscreatively found due proportion and significance, fherole he plays. By sharing in the discovery of theappropriate forms of rhythmic alternation of piecesof image and sound, the actor shares in the persua-sion of the spectator to the desired inner valuation

90

RHYTHM OF SOUND AND IMAGE 91

of his acting in any given scene in its relation tothe whole.

What follows here does not bear directly on theacting of actors in film, but for information, since itis desirable that actors should fully understand allthe possibilities of film and editing, I should like tocite one example of editing from Deserter, showing acombination of the two rhythmic lines of soundand image in accordance with a principle entirelydifferent from that already described.

In the simple examples of the editing of dialogueelements already given, it has chanced that thesounds reproduced the line of reality objectively,whereas the image represented the subjective atti-tude to reality of the spectator.

The combination could, of course, equally easilybe effected vice versa; that is, the image could befixed objectively in the line of reality, the soundcould render the subjective valuation of this realityin respect to the spectator.

The last part of Deserter portrays a workers' demon-stration in Hamburg and its dispersal by the police.How is this done ? First, I shall follow the line ofthe image.

The quiet streets of Hamburg; street traffic; thetraffic policeman in control. Suddenly appears asymptom of disquiet. The policeman's eye catchessight of a distant banner. Panic on the streets.They empty. The demonstration approaches. Itsstep is sure and confident. The mass of workersgrows, again and again new detachments pour to

92 FILM ACTING

join the demonstration from the side-streets. Sum-moned by alarm signals, motor-cycles and motor-cars filled with police come tearing up. They meet.A clash. The demonstration stops. Mounted andfoot police hurl themselves at the workers, a battlebegins, centring around the scarlet banner carriedat the head of the demonstration. The banner falls,but is raised again and again. The battle rages, itsfortunes swaying, but becoming more and more in-tense—the police are gaining the upper hand. Thedemonstration is defeated. The banner crashes tothe ground with the hero clinging to it and a police-man clinging to the hero. Those arrested arebeaten up and led away. Then suddenly, at thevery last moment, when the defeat of the workershas overwhelmed the spectator by its apparent in-evitability, the banner, torn from the hands of theenemy, soars once again above the crowd and, passedfrom hand to hand, moves farther and farther away,establishing the moral if not the physical victoryof the demonstration.

This is how the image goes. If it be plotted fromthe viewpoint of its emotional effect, it can be repre-sented by a complex curve with a rise at the begin-ning, a relative drop in the middle, a vacillation, adeep drop near the end, and a final rise at theconclusion.

Now, there is a sound line in association withthis image. I decided to render this sound linein music only. Usually music in sound films istreated merely as a pure accompaniment, advancing

>

in inevitable and monotonous parallelism with theimage.

Had I intended to connect the music with theimage of the scene just described in this usual way,this approximately is how it would have gone. Awaltz during the portrayal of the streets of Hamburg;a rousing, cheery march tune in association with theaggressive forward march of the demonstration; theintroduction of a danger and disquiet theme whenthe police appear; the enemy theme strengthenedeach time the banner falls and rousing fanfares eachtime it rises during the struggle; music dropped tothe uttermost depths of despair when the demonstra-tion is defeated, and lifted to triumphal victorychords when the banner once more soars above thecrowd.

The composer—Shaporin—and I decided tofollow another road. The score was written,played, and recorded for the whole of the sequenceas a single-purposed unity, a workers* march tunewith constantly running through it the note of sternand confident victory, firmly and uninterruptedlyrising in strength from beginning to end.

What was the significance of this line ? We rend-ered in this second line, that of the sound, the sub-jective attitude to be adopted by the spectatortowards the content of the happenings in the image.

Marxists know that in every defeat of the workerslies hidden a further step towards victory. Thehistorical inevitability of constantly recurring classbattles is bound up with the historic equal inevitabi-

lity of the growth of the strength of the proletariatand the decline of the bourgeoisie. It was thisthought that led us to the line of firm growthtowards inevitable victory which we follow in themusic through all the complications and contradic-tions of the events shown in the image.

The music guides the line of portrayal of the innercontent representation of this historical march tocertain victory, consciousness of which cannot, forus, be separated from perception of a worker march-ing into battle. What results on the screen ? As wepass along the quiet streets of Hamburg, we hear inthe music, softly yet at the same time firmly, thesounds of the tune of the marching workers. Thespectator derives rather an odd feeling from the in-congruity between this music and the sight of thegleaming motor-cars as they glide past the windowsof luxury shops. By the time the banner of thedemonstration appears, the music has grown moreand more definite, its significance is clear to thespectator, and it drags him into step with theworkers' mass now firmly marching along the wide,suddenly emptied streets.

The police hurl themselves at the demonstrators,the battle begins, but the brave music informed withthe revolutionary spirit that moves the workers andlinks them to the spectator continues to grow. Thebanner falls, but the music rises to crescendo. Theposition of the workers becomes more and moredesperate, but the music grows. The demonstrationis beaten, the hero perishes, but the music grows.

RHYTHM OF SOUND AND IMAGE 95

The defeat of the workers and the victory of thepolice overwhelm everything, but the music grows.And suddenly, at the very last moment, the bannerthat blazes up above the crowd synchronises in thefinale with a maximum strength of emotional inten-sity in a musical phrase crowning in one topmostflight of sound the whole sequence and the wholepicture.

When this sequence has been shown, especiallywhen separate from the rest of the film, I have hadthe opportunity to observe cases of great emotionalupheaval, particularly among persons whose liveshave been devoted to the tasks of the working-classstruggle. It has been clear to me that the emotionof such spectators cannot be attributed to the com-ponent elements separately, such as skilful editing ofthe image or the high quality of Shaporin's musicalscore. The crux of the matter is, of course, that theemotion derives from far deeper elements integratedas a result of the combination of the two lines—theobjective representation of reality in the image andthe revelation of the profound inner content ofreality in the sound.

Though the example we have dealt with here doesnot relate directly to the actor's work, it yet is im-portant for him, for he is one of those who mustunderstand particularly clearly the significance oftreatment of sound and image, not in their primitivenaturalistic association, but in a more profound—Ishould term it realistic—association enabling thecreative worker in the cinema to portray any given

L

96 FILM ACTING

event, not merely simply in direct representation,but in its deepest degree of generalisation. Onlythen when, for each given event, we have found theindependent rhythmic lines of sound and imageappropriate to it, and thereby endowed its expres-sion with the dual nature that opens the path to itsdialectical understanding, shall we obtain therealistic and exceptionally forceful impression thatthe so numerous technical means of the cinemamake possible.

We must not in our work for one moment allowanything to stand in the way of fullest realisation ofthis possibility. This is why we must seriouslytackle the question of broadening the understandingand share of the actor.

Though it might pass that in silent film the actorwas completely separated from editing, both duringshooting and during the subsequent cutting-benchwork, yet in sound film such a practice becomes aserious source of weakness.

In sound film the actor's possibilities in his meansof organising the form of his work to be presented tothe spectator are extremely widened, and at thesame time there has come greater need for precisionand point. He is able to control without mistake theemotions and interest of the spectator, if, of course,he understand properly the art of editing. Thefact that realisation of those possibilities involvesediting of diverse separate angles means that theproper understanding of them will bring him to anappreciation of the reason and necessity for splitting

S 1+-» ~

o ^of

>^

>

o

c

03

>

RHYTHM OF SOUND AND IMAGE 97

his acting during shooting. New possibilities alwayscreate new complications.

Full realisation will make actors and theoreticiansof film acting at last understand that this problem,like any other, cannot be regarded only from oneside. To be influenced solely by the desire to makethe best and easiest opportunities for the actor toremain longest in his part will mean that we shallbring into our work the theatricalisation of cinemain its worst form. Long pieces, the shooting of filmsin shots of long duration in which two or moreactors remain on the screen throughout, playing thescene through as though on a stage and forcing thespectator himself to pick out and choose what he hasto look at or listen to at any given moment, just asthough he were a member of a theatre audience—allthis leads to development of cinema along a falseand erroneous path, for in following it we follow aline of least resistance and renounce use of all thegood which the cinema gives us and which alonethe cinema can give.

The actor will only appreciate the technique of hiswork correctly when he understands it as a weaponfor his creative struggle. Struggle for what ? Ireply: for the realistic unity of the acted image. Thediscontinuity of acting in the cinema which enablesas a result an edited image that can deeply affect thespectator must not be destroyed by mechanicallylong scenes, but, by means of the actor's technique,by finding method for his work, we must enable himto destroy discontinuity's possible bad influence on

the unity of the acted image. Discontinuity of floorwork must be counteracted by unity of rehearsalwork.

The unity the actor discovers within himself duringthe rehearsal period must serve to avert mechanicalisolation of the separate pieces he has to deal within actual shooting.

CHAPTER IXINTONATION, MAKE-UP, GESTURE

On the stage there are three main matters for theactor's technique to deal with: voice, gesture, andmake-up. Each of these matters is determined, aswe have already seen, by considerations of what ismeant by c stage technique'; that is, as we havealready defined, the means used by the actor toovercome the harsh limits imposed on him by themechanical basis of the stage, and to achieve realisticunity in his image.

When the actor works on his voice production andhis intonation, he is guided not by the dictates ofhis role, but by the distance separating stage fromaudience. Actors on the stage whisper loudly,thereby contradicting the very meaning of the act ofwhispering. What matter that the dramatic situa-tion demands that a given actor's whisper be notheard by his colleague standing near ? Not a scrap.The whisper must at all costs be heard by thespectator sitting in the back row of the balcony.

When the actor works on the plastics and expres-siveness of his gestures, he strives to make them wideand generalised, eliminating minuteness not becausethe character whose image he is representing wouldhave made such wide gestures, but because they mustbe perceived by the most remote spectator.

99

ioo FILM ACTING

Still again, the actor puts on vivid rouge and drawsa line of make-up for the purpose of making theshape and movements of his face clearly visible fromthat maximum distance which is mechanically con-ditioned by the dimensions of the theatre. Thusgestures, voice, make-up all constitute technique.It is implicit in this technique, we should under-stand, that the actor, in increasing the volume of hisvoice, yet strives not to let his lines degenerate intofalse declamation; in broadening the sweep of hisgestures, yet strives to retain their realistic shape; inworking out his make-up, remains yet oriented uponthe realistic features of the human face.

The sum total of the stage actor's work on hisvoice, gesture, and make-up is covered by theformula: theatricalisation of the external shape ofthe acted image. This process cannot, of course, beconsidered as actor's technique by itself. It formsalso a particular element in the general craft of thestage. But, speaking generally, in any art thetechnique of giving external shape to its elementscannot be treated as something separate, indepen-dent, and isolated from the creative process as awhole.

In emphasising it as c technique,' I only desire toemphasise its direct dependence on the specific con-ditions of theatrical performance, distinct from theconditions of cinema.

The c theatricalisation ' of the actor, his techniquein response to theatrical conditions, cannot be treatedseparately as an art in itself. It is conditioned by

m

s

s

rt

O

O

2

x

the actor's striving to make his creation as vivid andeffective as possible, and, in presentations of realisticstyle, it links up with the general struggle of the artistto preserve in the image the maximum complexityand vividness of the real-life event being reproducedin stage conditions.

The term ' theatricalisation ' of the actor's imageshould be paralleled in the cinema by a term' cinematicisation.' I regard this term as worthinventing, because it corresponds to a definitecontent in our film work.

While c theatricalisation ' involves a strengtheningof the vividness and effectfulness of his voice delivery,gesture, grimace on the part of the actor himself, bydeliberate effort transforming his normal non-stagedelivery, gesture, grimace, the cinema achieves thesame result of strengthening vividness and effective-ness by the use of a camera moved from place toplace, change of angle, perspective, lighting, neareror farther microphone, which means, in other words,that ' cinematicisation' is mainly bound up withediting and the knowledge of its methods. Everyexpressive movement of man is always conditionedby the dialectical conflict of two elements: the innerurge to widen the movement as much as possible,and the volitional brake restraining the movement,the two by their interaction thereby resulting in anexpressive form for the movement.

There exists a definite norm determining the shapeof human movements in the ordinary conditions ofreal life. On the stage this movement shape is

altered by means of slackening somewhat the re-straining tendency of the will. By this means, byunbraking, weakening the restraint of the will, thestage actor, preserving the inner meaning of thegesture, preserving its inner urge, yet increases itssweep and thus makes it clearly and distinctlyvisible to the spectator in the theatre.

The cinema does not require this unbraking fromthe actor. The least movement, inwardly stimulatedand restrained to the utmost degree, can yet be seenand heard by the spectator through the agency ofclosely approximated camera and microphone.

We are familiar, even in the theatre, withefforts to approach realism in acting, the principalbeing those that characterised Stanislavski and hisschool.

These efforts were realised in their most markedform in the early works of the First Studio of theMoscow Art Theatre, where the theatre was nobigger than a fair-sized room and the actor thusmaximally approached to the spectator. But thismethod in the theatre immediately and inevitablyresults in a degree of intimacy that contradicts thebasic requirement of every art—to embrace andexcite the maximum number of spectators.

The policy of changing the theatre into an inti-mate ' emoting circle' inevitably resulted in a reac-tion and a demand for theatricalisation of the actingand the whole performance as such, a reactionwhich, in fact, was led by Stanislavski's closestpupils, among them Vakhtangov.

As we have already seen, the close-up in thecinema removes the contradiction between thedesire for realism in the actor's acting and the re-quirement of a maximum audience.

What are the changes resulting from this in thetasks that confront the film actor? First of all,resulting from the possibility of approximation ofcamera and microphone to the actor, disappears theneed artificially to raise the volume of the voice andincrease the scale of the movements of the body andface. In practice disappears from the actor's workthe element of special study of voice production andstrength of tone, which, in the film actor, need onlybe strong enough to cover the distance separatinghim from his colleague; in other words, as strong aswould be requisite in the conditions of actuality.

(We recall that on the stage the actor must endowhis voice with a strength determined not by thedistance separating him from his colleague, but bythat separating him from the spectator seated in thegallery.)

The elementary crudity of theatrical make-upbecomes, also, entirely purposeless. In the cinemathe quality of make-up, where this be necessary atall, is estimated by its efficaciousness in preservingall the finest complexities of expression of the givenhuman face. An artificial expression—a cheekpasted on, a line drawn to represent a non-existentfurrow—are simply idiotic in the cinema, inasmuchas, deprived of their theatrical purpose of helpingthe actor to establish an expression at a distance,

they simply become a hindrance damaging thatexpression, particularly destructive in close-up.

If a film actor were made up in a theatrical way,one would have to put the camera in shooting farenough back not to see the details of the made-upface, so as not to show them to the spectator.

Stylised make-up automatically forces the cinemato renounce its own methods of work and change toa simple recording of a theatrical performance fromthe distance and angle of the audience seated in thetheatre. Everything ' theatricalised ' is wasted oreven harmful in the cinema.

The actor's work, at that moment of it whichtakes place in front of the camera, can be as near reallife as is imaginably possible. The film actor play-ing in an exterior, in a real garden, by the side of areal tree or a real river, must not feel himself alienand apart from the reality around him. Theformalisation of his work is expressed in that formali-sation demanded by cinematic acting. Creativework in these conditions demands no less effort, noless technique, than the ' theatricalised ' acting ofthe stage actor, but of an entirely different kind.

In his book My Life in Art, Stanislavski relates how,on an occasion during one of their provincial tours,a group of actors taking a walk in a park happenedby chance on a spot that reminded them of the stagesetting of the second act of Turgeniev's play A Monthin the Country.

The actors decided to try playing impromptu inthe natural background.

Stanislavski thus tells of the attempt: " Came myentry; Olga Knipper and I, as required by the play,walked along the long tree-bordered avenue speakingour lines. Then we sat down on a seat exactly as inour stage business, started talking—and stoppedbecause we could not continue. My acting seemedfalse to me against the background of real nature.And people say our theatre has brought simplicity tothe point of absolute naturalism! How stilted andformalised seemed everything we were accustomedto do upon the stage."

I believe that the main element in the acting of thefilm actor has to be precisely the opposite of this, hasto be, in fact, precisely the ability to walk with acolleague, without the slightest feeling of falsehoodor awkwardness, along a real garden path andcontinue the conversation thus begun sitting on areal bench under a real tree.

Shooting in exteriors has always characterised thestyle of really cinematic productions, and, in myview, it will continue to do so in the future.

It is interesting to note that the theatricalisedstyle of the film The Tempest transforms the fewexterior shots used in it to the appearance of merepainted backcloths.

Stanislavski got his feeling of falsehood probablybecause the feeling of the natural background sur-rounding him forced him back upon feeling in all itsfullness the living reality of his colleague, the impulseto speak and move in such a way as he would if con-nected with her alone, to raise his voice no higher

io6 FILM ACTING

than necessary from the point of view of a personstanding close to him, to sit down on the bench insuch a way as to be turned comfortably towards theperson he was talking to without consideration of anaudience looking at him from a definite viewpointand demanding not merely the fact of a givenmovement but its emphasised portrayal.

Despite the fact that Stanislavski had striven withall his might towards the creation of actuality in thetheatre, by means of transplanting naturalism on tothe stage, training himself as an actor precisely intothe scheme of a complete separation of himself fromthe audience and inclusion of himself into a separatelife, with his colleague, on the stage, subduing thefeeling of special c portrayal' of his behaviour—yetat his first contact with the surroundings of real lifehe felt the inevitability of the influence of stageconditions on the form of the actor's creativework.

When we speak of the c unnecessary staginess ■ ofa film actor's performance, we so term it not becausestaginess necessarily involves anything of itself wrongor unpleasant. We simply register an unpleasantsensation of incongruity, and therefore falseness, asthough at the sight of a man striving to negotiate anon-existent obstacle.

An elocutionary distinctness in an uttered word,theatrical loudness in a voice, even a slightly empha-sised or generalised gesture, conflicting on the screenwith the nearness of the huge close-up that is thenearest approach of spectator to actor, inevitably

INTONATION, MAKE-UP, GESTURE 107

creates a sensation of unnecessary and foolishfalseness.

But the same artificiality, the same gesture, intheatrical conditions, and therefore realisticallydirected towards the overcoming of obstacles reallyexisting, becomes a high form of art deeply movingto the audience.

In a theatrical school, work on voice productionand intonation forms the basis of the lessons on actingtechnique. In sound-film training, efforts are nowmade in the same direction, but unfortunately theyare too often based on a mere mechanical transplan-tation into the cinema of stage practices.

I believe that the Americans, who have devoted alltheir attention to the perfection of recording appa-ratus, and the invention of apparatus that can correctspeech defects recorded on the film by modificationin cutting or re-recording of the film itself, are on amuch more promising path.

The whole idea of elocution and voice productionin sound film reminds one of the hoary and idioticconcept of c photogenic faces,5 and how film techni-cians used to declare in the old days that an actorcould possess special facial and bodily qualitiescapable of creating a perfect and expressive screenimage. Nowadays, at all events, we know thatcameras and lighting have shown that any humanbeing can give a beautiful image; all we have to dois to find out how to photograph him.

CHAPTER XREALISM OF THE ACTED IMAGE

From all we have said so far, it might be concludedthat the technique of the film actor must be orientedaround two basic elements: first, the mastering of,and subordination by him of his acting to, the crea-tive problems of the art of editing; second, theabsorption of the acted image, organically andwholly.

But we come now to the question—what part isplayed in the film actor's work by what in ordinaryparlance is called sincerity, spontaneity, natural-ness ? We know that in the cinema, in contrast tothe theatre, there are frequently instances of actorswho act their own selves. There are cases of sup-porting or minor roles played by persons who havenever studied acting in any conceivable way, yetwho not only create strong and impressive images,but also fall in perfectly with the general styleof the film, although professional actors also takepart in it.

This would be impossible on the stage. A reallive dog in The Eccentric,1 the thundering of thehooves of real steeds on the wooden boards inHamlet, either is revolting and entirely out of key withthe whole performance. Yet one could hardly name

1 Play by A. Afinogenov.—Tr.108

XX

Unnamed player as a jail officer," Mother/' Pudovkin.

a film in which, alongside real actors, one does notsee animals and children, who in no wise damageits sense of stylistic unity.

Plenty might be said against the contention that acasual man from the street, a * non-actor,5 could acta big and complicated role in a film. But it is im-possible, without theoretical trickery, to argue thatsuch a casual6 non-actor ' in a small scene or simple' bit,' even placed next to a good film actor, wouldnecessarily create in a film the same feeling of dis-turbance and out-of-placeness for the spectator thathe feels at the sight of non-theatrical behaviour onthe stage, such as in the already cited cases of dogsand horses, or, for example, the children who aresometimes introduced into a stage show.

Stanislavski himself, who, from the very beginningof his dramatic career, strove to attain naturalness inacting, was forced to abandon the idea of introducinginto a theatrical performance an old peasant woman,in spite of the fact that she seemed to him to be theembodiment of truth and expressiveness.

It is, of course, not suggested that a film actorshould limit himself to the possibility of once or twiceplaying his own self. Even if he play his own self,he must none the less modify his behaviour to somedegree, in subordinating it to the task set out by thefilm as a whole; the role, even if himself, must begiven some basic ideological directional characteristic.In no case, of course, will or can the image appearingon the film be a simple copy of the given person whoacts, with the whole sum of his individual character-

istics. In the end even a casual * non-actor *(wrongly called t type 9 x) in some measure followsthe editing instructions of the director, in otherwords, does some acting.

The film actor, in the course of a protracted careerinvolving work in several films, is bound to work onthe creation of various images some of which at leastare not identical with his own individual character-istics. Thus, inevitably, is bound to arise the ques-tion of working over himself, embodiment in animage outside himself, howsoever it may be dealtwith.

The actor in his creative process first learnsreality; then, together with the spectator and bymeans of the specific peculiarities of his art, he ex-presses externally the results of his knowledge in theform of a newly organised artificial behaviour com-posed by himself. In this work he invariably strivesto preserve in live undestroyed shape his personalexistence, he strives to continue to feel himself infront of the camera a whole, living person and not amechanised likeness of one, and if, as we havealready seen we do, we deny the mechanical con-ception of the construction of the actor's work, thenalready we acknowledge the necessity in this processfor c incarnating oneself into ' the image.

I shall not here analyse the process of' living into/or appropriating to one's person, the image. A

1 Pudovkin uses the word * type,' not for the non-acting material,to whom it is sometimes applied in the West, but for a stylised figure,who always plays a given role and none other—villain, hero,policeman, mother-in-law, etc.—Tr.

whole series of methods to this end, assembled eveninto a complex methodology, has been worked outby stage craftsmen. We have and will again laterdiscuss its importance.

Let us now note only and essentially that this pro-cess of appropriation of the image, the transmutationby the actor of his personal behaviour into thebehaviour of the role-man, is indispensable for thetransmission to the spectator of an organically whole,realistically impressive live image. Having ac-cepted this principle, we then note that, in thetheatre, the person of the actor inevitably comes intoconflict with the element of theatricalisation in theexternal forms of the image he appropriates. In thecinema these elements of theatricalisation are madeunnecessary by the presence of the non-stationarycamera and microphone that make possible anedited shooting of the actor. The actor in the film,being thus freed from the element of theatricalisa-tion, is left with, as sole preoccupation, maximumapproach of himself to realisticness.

By what process do we gather knowledge of aphenomenon as more and more real ? By the pro-cess of approaching it, studying it, in all its depth, inall its richness, in all the complexity of its linkage toother phenomena.

In art we term an image realistic if it be a repre-sentation of objective reality imaged with maximumexactitude, maximum clarity, maximum profundity,and maximum embrace of its complexity.

The frequent use of the word * maximum * in this

description suggests to us that naturalism is thehighest form of the realistic tendency in art.

But again and again it is necessary to repeat thatnaturalism, realism, and idealism in art are notseparate and independent forms, capable of existenceunconnected with one another.

Naturalism and idealism are both hypertrophiedforms, divorced in their development from theproper course of apprehension of reality, whichalways returns from abstract generalisation toliving actuality, in order, having generalisedliving actuality once again, thereby to advanceforward.

Naturalism, idealism, and realism in art standin the same relation to one another as domechanism, idealism, and dialectical materialismin philosophy.

Those of the naturalist school, in copying a pheno-menon of actuality and not generalising it, create amere cold mechanism, without the inner links thatexist in actuality within the phenomenon, andwithout the outer links that bind it to other pheno-mena as a part to the whole.

The realism of a representation increases asits approach to the complexity of an actualobject and as its deepening by detail, but at thesame time it must portray the object as part of awhole.

Realistic work, then, only escapes from naturalismwhen in its representation of a phenomenon arepresent both the general external linkage and the

inner generalising elements that (together with theoutward appearance) make the given phenomenonin actuality a part connected to a whole.

Applying this principle to the work of the actor,it is clear that the realistic tendency in art will urgehim towards the necessity for assembling, at somestage of his work, the separate discontinuous piecesof his acting in front of the camera into a wholeinseparably linked with the whole of the show and,in general, with the place of the show in our con-stantly developing social life.

The old paradox of Diderot, which pointed outthe possibility of the actor during a show being ableto make the spectator cry by the excellent playing ofhis role and, simultaneously, his colleague laugh ashe stands in the wings, by a comic grimace, andwhich thus apparently established the possibility ofa mechanical split in the actor's behaviour intobehaviour of a living person and behaviour in theplay—none the less in no way contradicts the neces-sity, at some stage or other of the actor's working onhis role, for a whole and organic unity of these twobehaviours.

In this sense the teaching of Stanislavski is in itspremises profoundly true and honest. Let it be thatthe actor on the stage does not, during the perform-ance, live the life of the character he acts. But if theaudience gets, in the impression it receives, a feelingof living realistic unity in the image, then this unitymust come from somewhere.

This unity must emerge somewhen during the

creative process of the actor's work on the character.Coquelin and Karatuigin,1 who both used tp * putsomething over' in their acting, somewhere andsometime in their work must have created the con-tent they portrayed.

The example of the cinema makes this contentioneven more clear. Actually, the grey-white shadowsthat flicker across the screen do not feel anything.They are there, technically fulfilling the part onceand for all allotted to them, a series of fragmentary,separate movements—yet none the less the spectatorreceives the impression of a unified image. Why ?Because as the basis of the selection of these separatemovements has been made the organic unity of thereal phenomenon recorded on the film.

It is interesting that it is characteristic of thecinema that it can allow the actor to stop his workbefore the form found for embodying his role has yetbecome a habit learned by rote and mechanicallyrepeated.

We know that there exists in the theatre the perilof * getting stale,3 as it is called.

Stanislavski, giving in his memoirs a comparativevaluation of his acting in the role of Dr. Stockman inits earlier and later phases, writes as follows: " Stepby step I look back through the past and realisemore and more clearly that the inner content thatI put into my role at the time of first creating it andthe outer form into which the role has degeneratedin course of time are as far apart from each other as

1 A Russian Garrick.

REALISM OF THE ACTED IMAGE 115

heaven and earth. At first everything came froma beautiful and moving inner truth, and nowall that is left of it is empty husks, rubbish, anddust left over in body and soul from various casualcauses that have nothing in common with real andtrue art."

I incline to think that this weather-beating ofStanislavski's inner truth was not solely due to thefrequency with which he repeated his role. Surelyit was due to the fact that Stanislavski himselfunderwent changes, and the inner organic elements,which at first linked him to the image of Stockmanhe had found, later no longer existed.

I cite this example because its sharpness underlinesthe contrast provoked by the film actor's work, thefeature of which is that its living real link with theacted image ceases much earlier than does that ofthe stage actor, and, in the main, ceases at thatconscious and deliberate moment of choice whichthe artist in any given art except the stage art usesto place a limit to his polishing of his creation.

The film actor must be truthful, sincere, and, inhis striving for realism of the image, natural. Thisnaturalness is not destroyed in him by the demandsof theatricalisation. But, on the other hand, to findthe right content for the acting image does inevitablyrequire a great deal of important preliminary workon the inner absorption of it.

Here we see converging the fundamental claimsof the Stanislavski school and the basic desideratawe set out for the film actor.

n6 FILM ACTING

In my view, many of the methods adopted by theMoscow Art Theatre school are closest to what iswanted and most useful to bear in mind when settingup a school of film acting. Of course, one must beable to recognise and separate out from all the basicrules promulgated and introduced by Stanislavskithose elements of theatricalisation which are suitableonly for a theatre school.

The right course, I fancy, is to imitate the MoscowArt Theatre school, not in the form in which itactually exists to-day, but in the form in which itwould exist based upon Stanislavski's ideas ofverisimilitude of acting which, in the last resort, hecould never realise because, so long as he worked inthe theatre, he could never rid himself of its con-ventions.

Extremely interesting are those passages inStanislavski's memoirs where he speaks of the neces-sity for c gestureless ' moments of immobility on thepart of the actor, to concentrate on his feelings allthe attention of the spectator.

Stanislavski felt that an actor striving towardstruth should be able to avoid the element of portray-ing his feelings to the audience, and should be ableto transmit to it the whole fullness of the contentof the acted image in some moment of half-mysticcommunion. Of course, he came up against abrick wall in his endeavours to find a solution tothis problem in the theatre.

It is amazing that solution of this very problem isnot only not impracticable in the cinema, but

V

oo z

en

3

CJfa

13

>o

fa

XX

REALISM OF THE ACTED IMAGE 117

extreme paucity of gesture, often literal immobility,is absolutely indispensable in it. For example, inthe close-up, in which gesture is completely dis-pensed with, inasmuch as the body of the actor issimply not seen.

CHAPTER XIWORK WITH NON-ACTORS

In speaking of realistic work by film actors, it isnecessary to point out the tremendous importanceof the experiments carried out in the cinema in workwith so-called ' non-actors* (I deliberately refrainfrom using the misleading term ' type '). I am farfrom the intention of providing excuse for any theoryaffirming that the cinema does not need speciallytrained actors. The formulation of such a theoryhas in the past been carefully ascribed to me, regard-less of the obvious fact that all my practical experi-ence in the cinema, in literally every film, has beenconnected not only with specially trained film actors,but also with former stage actors.1

I shall not delve into these ' theoretical exaggera-tions,' which I have already referred to elsewhere,but simply recall the facts, which are, that, in indi-vidual cases of work with non-actors, we have dis-covered in practice that, and sought in theory thereason why, elements of the real behaviour of aperson not trained in any school are not out ofplace in a film and, indeed, at times can serve

1 Pudovkin has, it is true, never specifically advocated the exclu-sive use of non-actors. But how far his enthusiasm for each problem-of-the-hour has laid him open to the ascription he complains of maybe judged by the reader of his lecture to the Film Society, includedin Film Technique (Newnes).—Tr.

118

as an example to be followed by experiencedactors.

It seems to me that these experiences point firstand foremost to the fact that the film actor, both inthe whole and in every fragment of his work, shouldalways orient his behaviour on the real concretefeeling of the purpose he follows in each separatepiece. It should be recalled here that, in thecinema, this purpose nearly always has real, and inall the fullness of their reality sensible, forms. Thewhole atmosphere of exterior work, so characteristicfor films, shows this.

In what manner have I used casual persons, non-actors, in my own films ? My method has been tocreate in the given pieces those real-life conditionsthe reaction to which of the non-actor was bound tobe precisely that element I needed for the film.

Let us take as example the Young Communist andhis piece of acting at the meeting in the last reel ofDeserter. The boy photographed in this role was anaturally self-conscious subject, and, of course, theatmosphere of shooting and his anticipation of therequirements the director was about to make fromhim combined to render him excited, self-conscious,and tie him generally into knots.

I purposely strengthened and increased the atmo-sphere that was making him self-conscious becauseit gave me the necessary colouring. When I madehim stand up in response to applause, and then beganto praise his acting unstintedly and flatteringly, theyoungster, much as he tried, was unable to hold

back a tremendous smile of complete satisfaction,which gave me as result a gorgeous piece. I regardthis piece as one of the most successful in the wholescheme, if such a term is legitimate in this case, ofthe film's acting.

In this case all the real conditions of shooting didin actual fact happen to coincide with the conditionsthat later invested the scene on the screen. Theyfitted both the confusion of the Young Communiston being unexpectedly elected to the presidium of ahuge meeting, and his uncontrollable pleasure whenthe huge meeting greeted the announcement of hisname with unanimous applause.

Certainly it was not the acting of an actor, for theelement of conscious creation was not present in thelad who portrayed the Young Communist. But thisexperience can be turned inside out and applied onits practical side to help any actor wanting to find, inconcert with the director, a realistic prop to bolsterup his mood.

In the theatre, of course, as we have already seen,a real-life prop of this kind has either to be imaginedor replaced by the magic ' just suppose' inventedby Stanislavski.

About this * just suppose ' Stanislavski writes asfollows: " The actor says to himself: all this scenery,props, make-up, public performance, etc., is a com-plete lie. I know it and I don't care. These thingshave no significance for me . . . but . . . just supposeall this that surrounds me on the stage were true,then this is how I should react to this or that event."

From this magic cjust suppose,5 according toStanislavski, derives the true creative existence ofthe actor. Maybe this is true, for the theatre, sincethe theatricalisation of the actor's behaviour is anindispensable aspect of his art. In the cinema,however, even if this c just suppose ' exist, it does soin an entirely different form, probably connected,as is nearly every element of generalisation, with theediting treatment of the role.

I recall another characteristic example of workwith a non-actor occurring during the shooting ofThe Story of a Simple Case.

There was a scene as follows: a father and hissmall son, a Pioneer, who have not seen each otherfor a long time, meet. It is early morning. Theboy is just out of bed. He is stretching and flexinghis muscles after sleep. At his father's question," How's life, Johnny ? " he turns towards him, andinstead of an answer gives him a sweet, rather shy,smile.

The task set was complicated and, besides, theobject to be shot had to be a boy about ten years ofage, because in the cinema not even the most old-fashioned and stage-minded director would dare touse a grown-up actor, or a girl made up to representa boy, as is possible and has often been done on thestage.

In working with a non-actor it is impossible tocount on rehearsals. Mechanically rememberedmovements are nearly always useless in such cases.To find the necessary form creatively and then,

having found it, get it repeated is, of course, in workwith anybody not specially trained also impossible.Therefore it is necessary, even in a case of suchcomplex action, to be able, taking into account asfinely and sensitively as possible the character of theperson playing, to establish for him such conditionsas will produce the movements required by thedirector in natural and inevitable reaction to agiven external stimulus.

I therefore planned as follows: I decided, first andforemost, to make the boy experience a real pleasurefrom the process of stretching, more even, feel a needfor it. To achieve this, I bade him bend forward,grip his feet with his hands, and hold them in thisposition until I gave him permission to straighten up.

" Then," I told him, " you'll feel a genuinepleasure in stretching and straightening yourmuscles, and that's just what I want."

I deliberately explained to him the content of thewhole problem, reckoning that he would be inter-ested in the experiment. This interest I needed forthe success of point number two of my task.

The boy was really interested; I felt it. Now Ifurther reckoned thus: when I give him permissionto straighten out, and he stretches with genuinepleasure, I shall interrupt his movement with aquestion: " Well, Johnny, isn't it grand to stretch ? "

Talking during the shot was not allowed; the boyknew he had to keep silent. I knew his nature well,and I was convinced that he would answer me withprecisely the smile I needed, acquiescent, and a

WORK WITH NON-ACTORS 123

little confused and shy at the unusualness of thesituation.

I repeat: rehearsals would have been useless; Iwas all out for the spontaneity of the reaction I hadforeseen might come.

The scene began. The boy stood bent down-wards. I allowed him to straighten out, he stretched;I saw on his face a satisfaction both of physicalpleasure and from his feeling that the game I hadsuggested to him was going without a hitch. I putmy question and received in reply the beautiful andsincere smile I wanted.

Of course, it might have failed, but I was con-vinced that it would not, and I was right.

Work with casual persons, of course, requiresespecial fertility of invention on the part of thedirector. Equally, of course, it cannot be general-ised into a principle suitable for work with all actors.Nor is it possible to schematise such examples ofwork with ' non-actors ' into a sort of scholasticsystem. But I do believe that, from the experienceof such work, one might derive much that would beuseful in practice for the process of absorption intothe image, and the search for externally expressivemethods of portrayal of inner states.

The creation of conditions that evoke a reactionnaturally can sometimes be of great assistance in thesearch for forms for the acting even of professionalactors, especially in circumstances of shooting inexterior.

In considering the question of the c non-actor/ the

124 FILM ACTING

following should also be borne in mind: while it isidle to suggest the complete replacement of experi-enced and specially trained film actors by casualpersons, it is equally impossible to attempt to pro-duce a film with the whole colossal number of rolestaking part in it filled exclusively by professionalactors. To refuse in any circumstances to usecasual personnel without special training in actingis to abandon film-making altogether. A simplemathematical calculation will prove this: the num-ber of big roles in an average play is fifteen totwenty; in an average film there will probably bemore like sixty, eighty, even a hundred separatescenes of different persons, each of whom has definiteand considerable importance. Tiny bit roles, occu-pying as small a time on the screen as twentyseconds to a minute, yet often solve highly importantand serious problems and correspondingly demanda high level of expressiveness.

The mass, the crowd that remains on the stage ofa theatre as something solid, general, undivided,splits in the film, as we know, into close-ups. Thecontent of a crowd as a whole is revealed throughthe detail of its component human beings. In aclose-up, each of these components of the crowdrequires to be no less true and expressive than theactor who plays the leading role.

While on the stage a petty incident may be of onlyslight importance, turning out to be only a connect-ing link or, perhaps, just background atmosphere, inthe cinema, with the continuous concentration of the

WORK WITH NON-ACTORS 125

attention of the spectator on each frame, thesetransitional, merely connecting elements do notexist.

In the film, every piece, even the smallest, musthave a hundred per cent/content if the film is to beconstructed clearly and rhythmically. The highstandard that must be applied to the smallest inci-dent should be considered in conjunction with thepractical difficulties of concrete film production andthe impossibility of keeping hanging around an in-definite number of small-part players. In Holly-wood, of course, thousands of extras and small-partplayers live permanently in the film city. But thissystem could hardly be established with us.1 Withthe correct development of cinema as an art maxi-mally embracing and absorbing reality, with theconsequent increase of exterior scenes causing loca-tion journeys of producing units to various parts ofour country, one can hardly reckon upon cartingabout with one a huge crowd of actors for use onlyin one-minute-long scenes.

We shall always have to face the necessity for thedirector to know how to use for such scenes whateverpersons he can collect on a location possibly farremoved from his headquarters in the capital.

The position is further aggravated, I suggest, bythe impossibility of using broad make-up, which on

1 In the Soviet Union the general shortage of labour precludesnlm-extra-ing as a profession. Film crowds are called, in the main,from a roster of persons whose occupation is of such a nature as toenable them to snatch a few hours from their jobs at odd intervals.—Tr.

the stage can transform a young Khmelev * to anold porter.

Of course, there could still remain open the courseof adapting the scenario to the stock company thegiven studio has at its disposal. Kuleshov, whowrites his scenarios with a meticulous eye on the sizeand composition of his producing collective, is in-clined to favour this style of work. But this path, itseems to me, is not one that opens for exploitationthe colossal possibilities of the cinema; on the con-trary, it closes the way to real, profound develop-ment.

This is a matter that raises questions of the funda-mental style of work. There is no reason why oneshould not take into account one or two leadingactors, the better to adjust the content of thescenario, but it is out of the question to attempt it inrespect to a hundred incidents. Such an attemptwould even be objectless since experience has alreadyshown, as we have seen, that ways can be found offully exploiting untrained material in film acting.

The only barrier preventing such use would bescholastic maintenance of i the cinema is for theactor" as an abstract principle.

1 Also a Russian Garrick.—Tr.

CHAPTER XIICASTING

I return once more to the film actor's work on hisrole, and propose to pause at the very first stage—that of the choice of it. The film actor, like anyartist in any art, bases himself on the profoundestabsorption of the image in its teleology and in itsideology. In this process are inevitably present notonly objective but also subjective elements.

If his only interest in the image planned is the taskto be performed by the play or scenario as a whole,and if in the execution of this task he, as an actor,is not also interested in the image itself in the deepestdegree, then no work of art will result.

If the play as a whole and the role in the playsolve something that is alien to and divorced fromthe inner world of the artist himself, then no work ofart will result. Only if play and role both speak insome degree about something that the artist himselfdesires to say with deepest sincerity and passion,only then can one be sure that his work will resultin a real creative work of art.

I hold that from the very beginning, at the primaryfirst encounter of the actor with his role, there mustbe present the element of deep inner interest on thepart of the actor.

But apart from this general inner interest from the

m 127

128 FILM ACTING

very start of the work, the actor must infallibly feeland think out clearly the degree to which he himselfis suitable for the perfect execution of the futurework. It is no good the appeal of a role that in-terests the actor being limited to its ideological con-tent. There must be an element of sympathy forcharacteristics in the role that will find an echo inthe individual character and cultural background ofthe actor and can therefore become points of depar-ture for the direction of his future work in appro-priating the image.

From the first moment he encounters his role, theactor must feel an emotional sympathy with it initself, apart from its links to the scenario as a whole.This primal moment of presentiment of the fullnessand reality of the image may be personal to the actor,or may be discovered by him with the help of thedirector.

But in either case, this element of the actorbeing deeply moved by the possibilities of his pro-posed future work should determine the choice ofcasting.

It will be advisable to dwell a little more fully onthis question of casting, because our present practiceis still the mechanical allotment of roles to actors,sometimes without taking into consideration theirpersonal individual qualities, and always ignoringtheir creative interestedness.

It is clear that an actor's work in a given role willonly give good results when it is preceded by anelement of choice in his acceptance of the role—the

£2

o

rt

KJ

So

o

v<3

J H

outcome of an urge within him to play the particularrole.

The film actor is far less favourably situated in thisrespect than the stage actor. The cinema knowsno, or, more strictly speaking, few, established actingcollectives, and the scenario, although as a rulewritten for a specific director, usually ignores thequestion of the cast, which is only later assembledand fitted into the roles.

The opportunity for a film actor to choose a roleis non-existent, and limited in practice to the possi-bility of saying yes or no to the offer of a given role.

I must say that the fault lies not only with thepresent organisation of the film industry and thelack of initiative obtaining among scenarists anddirectors. A large share of responsibility, permit meto say, for this sad state of affairs lies at the door ofthe lack of film culture among the actors themselves.

Let us analyse carefully the meaning of the elementof being carried away emotionally by the role,which alone should decide the actor in his choiceof it.

Before he begins his work on the image, the actormust (else he is no artist) be able to size up all thisfuture work generally, as a whole. On the onehand, he must see in it his own interest in andemotion at the general task; on the other, and para-mountly, he must sense in it clearly those possibilitiesin the external treatment of the image that arelinked, first, with his estimate of the personal quali-ties of the proposed character, second, with his

knowledge of the technical means he possesses toexpress them.

A rapid sizing up of all the possibilities the futurerole can give him is essential for the actor. It is thisnecessary, first-line general planning associated withevery task and taking fully into account the problemswith which it will confront him which should decidea man in taking on a job or refusing it. To thispreliminary sensing of the role, the actor must bring,as I have said, not only a general ideological interest,but a complete summary review and feeling over ofhis own abilities and possibilities, his acting talents,the technical methods he possesses, his character,temperament, and background; in short, the sumtotal of his psycho-physiological characteristics.

A stage actor, when approaching the task ofgeneral feeling of the image, and weighing up thepros and cons of accepting or rejecting it, makes useof his knowledge of the specifics of stage work.

As we have seen, in his system of training, the filmactor should approach the Stanislavski school.Therefore the basic elements of his primal liking fora r6le should be founded principally on the innercontent of the image. But none the less, it would bea gross error to divorce this content from theexternal forms by means of which it will be trans-mitted to the spectator from the screen.

Unfortunately full knowledge of these forms hashitherto been the exclusive possession of the director,and the actor has either possessed such knowledgenot at all or only in small, highly insufficient degree.

CASTING 131

The liking of a film actor for a given role has beenprimitive, in most cases quite disorganised, and oftenthe mere desire of a comedian to play Hamlet. Incase of an organised liking, the actor sympathetictowards a role is attracted by it because, even in theprimary sensing of it, he already appreciates thatevery element in it that interests him not only doesexcite and interest him, but also is perceptible tohim as one he can form and shape. The tasks maybe as difficult as can be, but they will be accomplish-able—that is the main thing.

For a primal taking-to-the-role of this kind, it isunquestionably necessary that the actor possess fulland all-sided knowledge of the technique of his art.He must be fully armed with technical knowledge inorder to judge whether a liking for a role on hispart will lead to a real, and the necessary, result.

The stage actor who knows his stage, his pro-ducer, and his colleagues, the technical bases of thetheatre, can bring this primal sizing up of his partto the pitch of imagining himself as he will appearon the stage in front of the audience.

The film actor, as a rule, does not imagine to him-self the possibilities he has, or which can be put at hisdisposal, for the creation of the final form of hisimage on the screen, and without imagining this anactor cannot properly work. Hitherto this imagina-tion has been the exclusive prerogative of the direc-tor. This is the man who hitherto has visualised inadvance the actor's edited image, that is, the imagethat is to exist on the screen for the spectator, and it

has been his task to introduce this visualisation intothe subjective compass of the living actor.

Of course, the film actor is not responsible for thefact that the general organisation of our film industryprevents and hinders his opportunities of sufficientlymastering the technical culture of film art. But, forwhatever reason, he has been placed in such a positionas to be unequipped to exercise full responsibilityin his choice of a role. He has been mechanicallyseparated from the sphere of editing, which has beenkept as a preserve for the director, whereas in truthknowledge of it is the first and foremost condition offull film-culture for the actor most of all.

In conclusion, therefore, we see that the questionof an actor's primal liking for a role comes back inpractice in the end to the fact that the actor must bein possession of a much wider and deeper technicalknowledge of the cinema, so that his liking for a rolewill be not just based on a primitive hunch, but anelement, obeying definite laws, in the full creativeprocess of work on the image.

CHAPTER XIIITHE CREATIVE COLLECTIVE

To deal with the question of the necessity for activeparticipation by the actor in the choosing of his role,it was at one time thought to find a solution byorganising a system of actors putting in ' claims ' fortheir roles. These c claims ' were to be based oncomplicated discussions about the schedules ofthemes planned by each studio, which were supposedto be the concrete expression of the creative hopes,over the given period, not only of scenarists anddirectors, but also of actors who were supposed tochoose and stake ' claims' for definite images thatappealed to them. In my view such a system isonly likely to result in an unnecessary and foolishmechanical competition of claims. Obviously noreading of claims, reports, or memoranda could pos-sibly replace for the director and scenarist an essen-tial acquaintanceship with and feeling of the givenactor himself.

Memoranda and meetings are no use for a realunderstanding and estimate of the actor by hisprospective director; what is required is profoundmutual study. To speak the plain truth, themajority of directors and actors of to-day, despitethe fewness of their numbers, have hardly ever meteach other. The question of the producing collec-

133

live has, in fact, not even been taken as far as thevery first step of its possible development.

In recalling my own experience, I noted to whatdegree of inner contact a director's intimacy with anactor should reach in order to ensure the progress ofshooting in that atmosphere of mutual help andtrust that is so necessary for fullest advantages increative work.

Our producing collectives are not together longenough to be able to organise themselves for theproper carrying out of even one film.

At present we are so organised that a director hasno real contact with even the leading members ofthe cast until just before the actual beginning ofshooting.

I must quote again my experience with Baranov-skaya, when our contact only reached the real innerstage about half-way through work on the film.With the actor Livanov it was much worse—we onlyreached a mutual creative understanding right atthe end.

Such a degree of lack of contact with and know-ledge of an actor is, of course, impermissible andunpardonable, and indicates the need for immediateand most drastic reorganisation.

I cannot see the formation of permanent creativecollectives being a practical full solution to the prob-lem. One must repeat again and yet again that thecolossal and unwieldy size of acting staff involved byany such attempt, in view of the limited possibilitiesthe cinema affords the actor of radically changing

his appearance, would inevitably cramp the creativesweep of the scenarist's imagination, in other wordsstrike a blow at the most vital and characteristicessential of the film—its idea content.

On the other hand, of course, one should obviouslysupport, develop, and encourage to the uttermostand in every possible way the organisation of perma-nent collectives in such cases as do find it feasibleto transform the weight of their efforts into the weld-ing of a creative unit out of their componentworkers, if only for instructional purposes, toraise the general cinematic culture of the actorsconcerned.

But I think that, apart from the creation of perma-nent collectives, we should also face up to theproblem of bringing about circumstances whichwould enable an actor and director who have joinedforces only for one or two films to achieve a profoundinner mutual understanding and a linkage to oneanother of maximum extent.

The one and only basis for the formation of a col-lective with such an understanding is: first and fore-most, the organic collaboration in the creativeprocess of all its component workers; next, agree-ment in viewpoint, agreement in methods of work,in general cinematographic culture.

Work by such a collective, to go further—the veryexistence of such a collective in any real sense—isconceivable only in circumstances where all theworkers of a producing unit collaborate in as closecontact as possible from their very inception as a

unit. Immediately and inevitably arises the ques-tion of the participation of the actor in scenariowork. We have already noted that the commonexperience is for an actor to be confronted with ascenario already written, containing a role cut anddried and ready for him, when he should be engagedin investigating the role for elements that move himand could condition the fullness and content of hissubsequent creative work.

There also occur examples of a scenarist writinghis script with a given actor in view. This, of course,happens when the scenarist knows the identity of theactor to be cast, as would be the case in the circum-stance of existence of a permanent collective.

But yet a third method is possible, and in this theactor, invited by director and scenarist, would beintroduced into the work during the actual processof writing of the scenario, and therefore actuallyexercise a certain influence on his role. The con-tact resulting would be complex—scenarist, scenario,role, actor, director. This method would andshould be adopted before the scenario is actuallyplotted definitely into its edited shape of shootingscript. It is my regret that no practice any wayapproaching this has ever been known in our filmhistory to date.

Though one might legitimately say that there havebeen instances of contact between a director and hisactors or between a director and his scenarists, onecan with equal certainty state there has never been,in the whole of our film history, an instance of close

contact and co-operation between actor, scenarist,and director.

In my own experience, I have never had a collec-tive, and I must confess that during my work I haveadmitted actors to creative collaboration onlygrudgingly and to a miserly extent. This has, ofcourse, principally been due to the general atmo-sphere of production, which never leaves time formutual intercourse of a really deep creative naturebetween the workers in a producing collective.

When the actual process of production of the filmhas started, it is already late to begin to set up realcontact, and in some cases is quite impossible. Onecan still rouse a greater or lesser interest and keen-ness on the part of an actor in his work, but one cannever hope for a really welded linkage with him. Itis therefore not difficult to appreciate that it is quitetaken for granted that the actor should fall outaltogether when the most important stage of workon the film begins—that of editing. He steps aside,and returns only to see the film in completely fin-ished state when he has no chance whatever tomodify anything the director has done.

Why is the period of production marked with suchexcitement and nervous strain ? Chiefly becauseone has always to work with an incomplete scenarioand insufficient preliminary preparation. Too oftennearly the whole of a director's energy during theshooting of a film is spent on working over the shoot-ing script, and he only has a chance to familiarisehis collective with the most vital and important

elements in their creative work a day, or even anhour, before shooting.

This is a hopeless and essentially bad method ofintroducing the actor into the creative work of thecollective. No collective can possibly be createdduring the production stage of a film; the good andonly proper time for its creation is, of course, thepreparatory pre-shooting period.

It is only during this preparatory period that theconditions suitable for mapping the general lines tomutual understanding obtain. It is only during thispreparatory period that the general orientation ofthe film can be felt, schools of thought agreed, a realgrowth of utmost fullness take place.

We have already made clear the handicappedstatus of the film actor in our industry. While thedirector has the chance to say as clearly as he likeswhat he wants done, to choose the scenarist mostsuitable for the carrying out of what he plans, topick his own cast, the film actor has hitherto had nopossible means enabling him to express a desire forworking along given lines of his selection.

One school has suggested as way out the giving tofilm actors of the opportunity to try themselves outin duplicate during the preparatory period, therebygiving them a chance to convince the director oftheir comparative suitability and advantages for thegiven roles. But to have a possibility of choice, onemust have enough alternatives to choose from. Doour actors have this possibility ? Of course not,because the actual process of writing the scenario,

the writing that establishes the final shape, fixingsharp and pointed characteristics suitable to a givenparticular actor, is done apart and away from allthe actors. The moment the scenarist and directorleave synopsis and treatment, which only generallysketch the outlines of the future characters, and startto develop and work out the actual scenario andshooting script, they, in fact, take away from theactor all chance of choosing his role.

If only the planned scenarios while still in theirprimary form of synopsis and treatment could bespread broadcast among the acting personnel, thenat last the actors, considering and weighing theirown possibilities, could express a choice of directorand scenario, and then, by further contact, havethe definite possibility of joint creative work. Thiswould be the first real step towards setting up a realcreative collective.

But the practical solution of this problem will, Ifear, encounter serious difficulties. The acting staffof a given studio is usually in definite degree limited.The directorial staff is usually also limited. Whenone proposes a solution envisaging wide use of allforces for establishing creative collectives, one shouldprobably begin by considering how to overcometendencies towards separation in the various separatestudios.

In my view a film-producing unit should be en-titled to claim sovereign and separate status only ifit has some definite and individual creative ' face,5that is, if its separately welded collectives together

comprise a collective of higher degree, also weldedto creative purpose. But we have no such producingunits. Acting and directorial staffs are distributedcasually, without any relation to their style of workor so-called * school • of art. This being so, pendingsome sort of regrouping on the basis of commonstyle or artistic tendency among proposed colla-borators, I think we must envisage, as practicalpossibility, exchange on a wide scale of their respec-tive creative elements between the various units.

The wide broadcasting of synopses and basictreatments of films planned for production must beeffected not within the limits of one unit, but amongseveral, so that mutual choice of director and actorwill have the chance to operate under conditions ofreal fairness.

In direct relationship with all this is the questionof the so-called * range • of the actor, that is to say,the limits of his type, which, in the cinema, are, infact, purely physical, connected with the externalexpressiveness of his acting elements. The possibili-ties of changing the physical appearance of the actorare far more limited in the cinema than on the stage.

For purposes of realistic work in film, the possibi-lities of artificial make-up entirely disappear; forexample, it is quite impossible to alter a three-dimensional shape with a two-dimensional line. Todraw or paint the relief of a face, as on the stage, isimpossible in the cinema because the vacillatingcontrasts of light on movement will invariably exposethe false immobility of a painted shadow and show it

up just for what it is—a dirty mark. The paintingof non-existent relief on a face in the cinema beingimpossible, to be effective it must be constructedtri-dimensionally, but even so, such an artificial andstuck-on protuberance will cease to be lifelike if itexceed a relatively tiny size, for it will fail to takepart in the live and subtle interplay of the muscularsystem of the human face.

Make-up is possible on the stage only because therelatively constant footlights and stage lighting yieldno shadow, and the spectator, seated relatively dis-tantly, thus fails to remark and be disturbed by itsimmobility.

Variety in an actor's roles in the cinema derivesmainly from inner design, from variation in conductin the novel conditions created afresh in each newfilm. In the cinema one and the same actor, withface and even character unaltered, can play manyfilms.

We know, for example, how Chaplin, always stay-ing in the same make-up and always preserving thesame character, has created a tremendous genericimage that passes through the whole series of hisfilms.

It is in the light of these facts, I maintain, that weshould study the question of the limits to a givenindividual's acting possibilities in the cinema.

At this stage, inescapably, the question of the so-called c star-system ' comes out into the open. Howis a * star * made and made use of in the bourgeoisworld ? If an actor has been accepted by the public

142 FILM ACTING

in some film owing to his appearance, owing to hismanner of acting, this latter being in most casesalmost a trick, then the producing unit does all inits power to preserve, as carefully and rigidly as pos-sible, all those properties in the actor that appealedto the public, and to adjust to them, by any make-shift, any material, so long only as that material isslick and catchy. In fact, the ' star system ' meansno more than that the director presents the c star,5 inhis given discovered form, against some backgrounddictated by his employers. An example of the kindis Adolph Menjou, who acted brilliantly underChaplin's direction. In a series of further, alreadydesperately stupid films, mechanically preservingunchanged the appearance and general scheme ofhis behaviour, he has gradually become a less andless interesting empty doll.

I think that this method of repetition of appear-ance of an actor the public has once liked is neitheracceptable to us, nor, indeed, is it in general accept-able as a form of art.

The repetition of an actor's appearance on thescreen in a new film should not be effected simply forthe sake of showing him once more unaltered in theshape the public liked, but in the course of making anew step forward on the path of his advance. Hemust somehow further develop the image on whichhe has begun to work, and carry this image througha new section of reality abstracted for the purpose.

Menjou, in contradistinction, has simply beenshown repeating himself time after time, which has

THE CREATIVE COLLECTIVE 143

meant fundamentally no less than the collapse of histalent, because the film has just happened roundhim, instead of himself entering into the film.

Chaplin manages to preserve ever the same image,yet at the same time in each and every film of his heinterests, because he is ever passing through newand still newer cross-sections of reality, thereby eachtime creating a really organically whole work of art.

A film with a c repeat' of an actor must representsome process in his development, some processobedient to laws, transforming the repeat into a stepon the road towards wider and wider revelation ofthe image he has created.

CHAPTER XIVPERSONAL EXPERIENCES

Now that I am drawing to a close, I should like tosay just a few words about my own experiences inacting. It occurs to me that in these experiences arereflected all the unclarity and confusion about innerfundamentals, which are the reason why, to thisday, the film actor has to all intents and purposes noagreed school of acting. My first roles were associ-ated with the methods of Kuleshov. The sole andonly content of play-acting in that school is externalexpression, or treatment of the image only by amechanical sequence of motions selected either bythe actor or, sometimes, by the director.

The edited image of the actor on the screen wasthere constructed, exactly similarly, from a numberof mechanically joined pieces, connected only by atemporal composition of schematised movements.Even the elements of the close-up, which, one wouldthink, would require a greater degree of inner workfrom the actor, were usually restricted to the learningby heart of facial movements disintegrated intoanalysed components. Such director's commandsas : jut out the chin, open the eyes wide, bend orraise the head, were a frequent part of the routineof the shooting process.

There used to be a certain amount of talk about144

X

X

the possibility and necessity for basing all thesemovements on some inner something, though whatthis ' something' was no one quite knew or at anytime defined.

At times, I remember, this 4 something' wasmerely the satisfaction one experiences at thesmooth and easy execution of a scheme one hasmemorised. At others one experienced an ecstasydifficult to distinguish from the sensation of generalphysical tension derived from consciousness of theimportance of some deed one is accomplishing.

This is how I worked both in The Adventure of Mr.West and in The Ray of Death.

I must observe here that a tremendous feature ofour work was the fact that Kuleshov, who possessesimmense talent for teaching, did not neglect to steepus thoroughly in both scenario and editing workand gave me the chance, not only myself to act, butalso to direct little scenes with other actors.

The completeness of this embrace of the wholeprocess of creating a film on all its sides accustomedme to feel myself not only as a being working beforethe camera, but also in the continuity of the futureimages that were to appear as the result of editing.

I consider that Kuleshov's school, despite all themechanism of his then approach to the actor, wasimmensely helpful to every member of his collective,and it is no accident that there emerged from itsuch fine actors as Fogel and Komarov.

I made an effort in my work at that time to basemyself on inner mood, and to find some quality

within myself that would enable me to feel, at themoment of shooting, a fully and wholly live being.But I had no possibility really to develop this duringall the time I was with Kuleshov. Only when Iwent to Mezhrabpom and started work on my owndid I get the chance to approach acting from a newangle, though admittedly this was in the course ofmy work as director. But every time I made afilm, I always tried also to take a small part in itmyself.

I regard as comparatively successful the little pieceI played in Mother, where I represented an officer, apolice rat, who came to search the dwelling of Paul.I remember that for this role, by habit of my oldtraining, I based myself principally on the externaltraits of its image. I began by cutting my hair enbrosse, grew a moustache, and put on a pair ofspectacles, which, it seemed to me, by their contrastwith the military uniform, which always lends acertain air of bravado and masculinity to th^ wearer,would especially emphasise the weak and degradedcharacter of a typical police-officer rat.

I remember that the only inner mood on which Itried to base my acting was one of sour drearinessand boredom, such as seemed to me should causethe spectator to feel vividly the dourness of policemechanism, which impersonally and remorselesslymutilates every spark of living thought and feeling.

I remember that all the work on this tiny part wasmost closely bound up with its editing development.The somnolent, bored, and dreary figure of the police

officer, mainly shown in long shot and medium shot,was purposely changed to close-up and big headwhen, in the course of the role, I began to showglimpses of interest in the chase as I scented thespoor.

My only big acting job was the role of Fedya inThe Living Corpse. Here I was not the director. Thetask was big and complex. In every aspect ofthe development of the role the question arose of theteleology and directional aim of the image, of itsplace in the film, and its relation to the significanceof the film as a whole. It must be admitted thatnot one of these questions was adequately solved.

My work on this film, owing to various attendantcircumstances, took the form, on the whole, of aholiday from directorial work. I gave myself upentirely into the hands of the director, consciouslydeciding that I should not, in any given piece offilm, make any attempt to transcend the limits ofmy own personal appearance and personal character.

What this meant was that in consequence I sur-rendered to the director the task of creating a unitedimage. I never thought of the edited image as awhole. I had only an idea of the editing treatmentof the individual pieces. As general linking-upelement for formation of the whole, I provided myown self; in simpler language, I played this man asmyself.

In each individual moment of the acting, by meansof various methods of strictly individual kind andapplicable only to myself, I brought myself into a

mood suited to enable me, in all personal sincerityand the unity of my own character, to make thevarious movements and go through the variousactions required of me by the scenario and director.

I recall a scene in which, revolver in hand, I standbehind a stove, peering round its edge, displayingto the spectator the half-crazed face of a man onthe verge of suicide.

I remember that, to act this piece, I hid from thecamera behind the stove and, pressing the revolveragainst my heart, repeated without a break thewords of Kirillov in Dostoievski's The Demons: " Atme, at me, at me. . . ." When finally this hadbrought me into an almost fainting condition, Ipeered around the edge.

I recall another scene typical of the same principle.In an empty hall, just before leaving my home andabandoning my wife, I take leave of my sister. Iremember that it was quite easy for me to summonup in myself a feeling of extreme care and tendernesstowards the girl who played the role of the sister.She appealed to me in life as a person. To feel that,on going away from her for ever, on leaving heralone in this empty house, I should call forth frommyself sorrow and a desire to help her, a caress thatat the same time would be a parting gesture puttingher away from me, was simple and easy: it was notalien to, but actually accorded easily with, my real-life characteristics.

Speaking in general, my work in The Living Corpsewas carried out to an extent with considerable and

PERSONAL EXPERIENCES 149

profound inner feeling and was heavily chargedemotionally, but it never gave me the feeling that Ihad it in me to play any other role, one based on animage not fully reproducing my own and usualcharacter as manifested in life.

My experience in playing in The Living Corpse can,of course, in no way serve as a proper example ofacting work.

The inner linkage, the inner organisation of thecharacter, was built up not by the path of transmuta-tion of self, but by that of direct manifestation of self.In each given piece, I remained in the fullest literalsense of the word myself. Any element new andalien from myself appeared solely as the result ofediting. In other words, the screen image of Fedyaappeared solely as the result of dictates laid downby the scenario; it was never constructed creativelyby acting the character.

I incline to think that the basic and decisive factorin this work was precisely my personal indifferenceto the image as a whole, which made me approachmy work as a mere journey across the film, withoutstriving to subordinate my actual self to the teleologyof the image, which alone can give the actor notjust the satisfaction that comes from the accomplish-ment of a technical task, but the sense of a solutionof the ideological tasks posed by the film as a whole,living, growing, full of content, not only for thespectator, but also for the actor as well.

I hold that, in the present state of our cinematictheory and practice, it is still impossible to speak of

any definite system of work or system of training forthe actor. Such a system has first to be created,and to begin with, as the point from which we mustdepart, we must take the establishment of the indis-pensable conditions that provide the possibility oforganising such systems.

At this stage all I can do is to limit myself to thesimple narration of the empirical experiments inmy own and other people's work.

CHAPTER XVCONCLUSIONS

i. The new technical basis of cinema (non-station-ary camera and microphone) renders not only un-necessary but senseless for the actor all the techniqueconnected in the theatre with the wide distanceactually separating the actor from the stationaryaudience. The following are therefore eliminated:stage-specialised voice production, theatricaliseddiction, theatricalised gestures, painted features.

2. In consequence of this the theatrical sense ofan actor's ' range ' becomes altered. The variety ofroles he can play in the cinema is dependent: eitheron the variety of characters he can play while pre-serving one and the same external appearance(Stroheim), or, alternatively, on his development ofone and the same character throughout a variety ofcircumstances (Chaplin).

3. Having lost the possibility of creating a ' type 'with the aid of theatrical methods: stylised make-up,generalised gesture, emphasised voice expression,and so forth, the film actor in exchange acquirespossibilities, inconceivable in the theatre, of closelyrealistic treatment of the image, maximal approachin his acting to the actual behaviour of a living manin each given circumstance. A ' type ' is created inthe cinema largely at the expense of the general

151

i52 FILM ACTING

action, at the expense of the wealth of variety ofhuman behaviour in various situations. (Comparethe development of the ' type ' in the novel form andin drama—the cinema here is nearer to literaturethan to the theatre.)

4. From the culture of the stage actor is taken overinto the cinema everything connected with the pro-cess of creating a united image, and its c absorption 9by the actor, everything that precedes the search for' stage ' and ' theatricalised ' forms for the acting.(Of course, in practice no sharp division betweenthese two periods exists. A feeling ofc stage ■ formwill always be present with the stage actor, yet it ispossible to some extent to draw a line.) For thisreason the Stanislavski school, which emphasises(more truly, emphasised) most particularly theinitial process of deep c absorption' by the actor ofthe image, even at the expense of the * theatricalisa-tion ' of its content, is nearest of all to the film actor.The intimacy of acting of the Stanislavski schoolactor, leading sometimes to an overburdening ofthe performance with little-noticed details andthus a loss by that acting of theatrical * panache,'is inevitably and remarkably developed in thecinema.

5. All the means theatrical culture has created tohelp the actor wholly ' absorb' an image scatteredin pieces throughout a play must be taken over intocinema practice. In the first rank of importance isrehearsal work, developed paramountly along theline of creating for the actor every possible condition

CONCLUSIONS 153

for prolonged, unbroken existence in the image (therehearsal scenario).

6. The editing treatment of the actor's image(composition on the screen of the separately shotacting pieces) is in no sense a directorial trick, takingthe place of acting by the actor. It is a new, power-ful, peculiarly cinematic means of transmitting thisacting. To master it is as important for the filmactor as it is important for the stage actor to master* theatricalisation ■ technique (stage delivery of hisacting).

7. Hence it follows that the culture indispensablefor the film actor will only attain the necessaryheights when included in it is profound knowledgeof the art of editing and its various methods. Thisdesideratum has hitherto incorrectly been appliedonly to the director.

8. The growth of a film actor cannot be separatedfrom practical work on his film, and accordingly hemust be closely linked with it, beginning with thefinal polishing of the scenario in the course of re-hearsals and not being discarded from it during theperiod of cutting.

9. In work in sound films, the actor equipped withthis culture must strive to find examples of actingand its editing that will develop forms of powerfulimpressiveness, such as were found in its day by thesilent film. He must not yield to the reactionaryforce that tempts both himself and the director—adaptation to mechanical use of theatrical methodsalien to the film.