Film School: Authorship

There’s a theory which goes: Movies are a director’s medium, and television a writer’s.

The extent to which this is true can be argued over at great length. Should directors get as much credit as they do for a film’s success? Is it not the person who came up the story, the writer, just as important as the one who had the technical expertise to put it up on the screen?

Of course, there are certain directors whose stamp is so firmly put on their films that they must be considered the ‘author’ of the piece. These directors are often referred to as auteurs.

Defining which directors should be considered as auteurs is not as easy to define as people may think. Certain directors like to work with the same cinematographer, so that shots we may consider hallmarks of a director’s film could in fact be the calling card of their long-time collaborator.

One of the most cited examples in favour of auteur theory is Citizen Kane. Welles co-wrote, directed and starred in the ground-breaking movie, and it’s easy to see his stamp all over the brash, bold story told.

Films by directors such as Scorsese, Tarantino, Leigh or Wes Anderson are very easy to identify. To the extent where people often complain that their latest film was too similar to their last. Perhaps this complaint is the very thing which proves that the movies they direct are very much their own.

However, what about those who manage to make very different films in a variety of genres, can these directors not be considered auteurs?

Let us consider the cases of Fincher, Boyle and Spielberg: all of whom have won oscar nominations for their directing, and are known for dabbling in a number of different genres.

David Fincher recently directed The Social Network. Can one reasonably call him the ‘author’ of the piece, when one can so clearly see the fingerprints of its writer, Aaron Sorkin, all over the screen? My answer would be ‘no’. While Fincher’s stylistic touches can be seen in some parts of the movies, I think it would be very unfair to describe him as the main creative mind behind the film.

Likewise with Danny Boyle. The differences between each of his films are such its difficult to consider him their author. The three writers he has worked with: John Hodge, Alex Garland and Simon Beaufoy; all seem to have had a marked impact on each film and how its story is told.

Finally, Spielberg has made movies as varied as Jurassic Park and Schindler’s List within the same year. These two films have few similarities between them in terms of story or themes. Is it the case that one most successful directors of the modern era is not an auteur?

Well, perhaps that’s overstating the case. There are themes that emerge in films like Close Encounters of the Third Kind, The Last Crusade, War of the Worlds and Hook: all of which deal with flawed fathers who need to rebuild their relationship with their kids.

However, films like Raiders of the Lost Ark and Artificial Intelligence have seen him collaborate with other directors. These films cannot be seen as merely “A Film by Spielberg,” but rather “A Film by Spielberg/Lucas” or “A Film by Spielberg/Kubrick”.

Perhaps we could say that Spielberg is very much the ‘author’ of certain films, but is happy to put someone else’s vision on the screen when inspired to do so.

So, to conclude, sometimes directors can be consider the ‘author’ of a film and sometimes they can’t. The extent to which that’s true only the people who’ve actually worked on the film can truly know.

Film School: Editing

Editing to me, is the least sexy of the film disciplines. Writing, directing, acting or cinematography are all skills and jobs I can see the joy and creativity in. Editing, on the other hand, is essentially being locked in a room for months on end, going frame by frame through endless reels of footage as you move from close-up to wide shot back to close-up.

Of course certain films and directors are more well-known for their editing styles than others. Take for example, the terrifying scene from Requiem for a Dream, which must surely hold the record for most cuts per second, as we quickly move from horrifying scenario to horrifying scenario.

Take also, the more recent example of Scott Pilgrim , where Edgar Wright, inspired by the tropes of comic books, cuts to reaction shots of characters during key scenes in the movie (normally accompanied by 80s video game sound effects). Actors from the movie have described how Wright would want precisely the right half-a-second shot, with their eyebrow raised ‘this much’ and eyes looking at precisely the right angle. In a film like this, it is the editing, not the actors who are doing the brunt of the work.

Largely, however, editing goes unnoticed by the viewer, too immersed in the story to consider why the director has used a close-up for that part of the scene, and a wide shot for another.

Jean Luc Godard, however, decided to draw attention to his own edits with what became known as ‘jump cuts’. That is, when the foreground of a scene changes only slightly, but in such a way that it is obvious a cut/edit has been made. It’s perhaps easier to see in this clip from Godard’s Breathless:

The first jump cut occurs after about 14 seconds, and there are plenty more after this.

One might ask the obvious question: what’s the point? Surely the idea of cinema is to immerse, and by drawing attention to its own techniques, does something like a ‘jump cut’ not do the opposite?

One can argue for a long time about the reasoning behind a film-maker like Godard, known for breaking the conventions of cinema as and when he pleased. One of the things he does do, however, is force us to question what we are being shown by more conventional film-makers. By drawing attention to the editing in his own film, it forces us to consider the apparently more subtle editing in other works. What purpose is it serving? How long are the shots? What is the camera really showing us? What are we having to imagine is going on around it?

An actor, not quite on their A-game, can be made to look better by only holding on their sad-face for so long, or by making a long stare into the distance look like regret/thoughtfulness/longing/satisfaction/resignation depending on what the previous and/or next shot shows us.

Editing, you see can cover a multitude of sins (as well as perhaps even causing a multitude of sins). The process of weaving together hours of footage is something quite unique to the filmed narratives of movies and television. However, the choices of what to show us, when and for how long can be just as important as story, characters or cinematography.

Film School: Style

This term I’ve started a film course called Introduction to Film Studies. The structure of the course is that we looking at different themes in film each week: from Editing to Ideology. Last week I looked at Narrative, this week it’s Style.

When one thinks of a style of writing, it’s easy to tell the difference between a Shakespeare and a Joyce; a Wilde and a Burns.

Likewise in cinema, it’s often easy to tell who the director is because of their style. Wes Anderson, Martin Scorsese, Stanley Kubrick, and The Coen Brothers all having certain filmmaking hallmarks that set their movies apart from the rest.

Whether it’s their documentary-style filming (Greengrass), quick editing (Edgar Wright), gothic fairytale worlds (Burton), or their unique soundtrack (Tarantino), there’s always something that sets these ‘stylish’ filmmakers apart.

Of course such trademarks or little touches can stifle creativity just as easily as they can encourage it. Directors becoming inhabited by an overly singular view about what their movie must contain.

It is perhaps self-evident that with style must come substance for audiences to continue to buy into the worlds of these visionary auteurs. In the same way actors like Nicholson and Cera are accused of playing the same character again and again, directors can be accused of making the same film again and again if they become too attached to a particular style of filmmaking.

Whether we are prepared to put up with such overtly flamboyant touches can often depend on our vision for what makes a great film.

For some filmgoers, going to the cinema is something of a religious experience: the choice of venue, what seat they sit in, and the frequency with which they attend all being dictated by their view of what such an experience should be like.

It therefore stands to reason that just as in religions like Christianity where there are widely differing opinions on what style is best for a worship service, so there are equally diverse views on what style makes for the best film-going experience.

Some prefer simple, slow-moving affairs, giving the ‘parishioners’ time to meditate and consider what they are viewing. Others prefer fast-paced, thrilling experiences which leave the ‘congregation’ exhilarated and energised by the end of the experience.

Like preachers, filmmakers may be telling exactly the same tale, or making exactly the same point, but the style with which they do it can be the difference between inspiring and alienating their audience.

If one considers the three Batman movies: The TV adaptation starring Adam West, Tim Burton’s Batman or Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins, one can see how the tale of a man wearing a cape fighting the crazed criminals of Gotham City can be told in three entirely different ways.

Which one you prefer is entirely a matter of taste. However, it demonstrates perfectly the fact that style has an incredible bearing on one’s enjoyment of a film.

Style within film, as oppose to story or characters, is often the thing which most accurately reflects the personality of a director. The manner in which a story is told and the techniques they use to do that, reveal a lot about their vision for what makes a film great. Our relationship with style is often harder to pin down than our relationship with story or character: why we prefer one form over another coming down to a personal preference we may find it difficult to fully articulate.

Film School – Narrative

At the start of 2010, I attended an evening film course at Edinburgh Uni, and as part of that decided to review the ten films we looked at.

Last week I started another course called Introduction to Film Studies. The structure of the course is that we looking at different themes in film each week: from Editing to Ideology. This week it’s Narrative

Narrative, or the story and how it’s presented, is fairly fundamental to film. Our favourite movies tend to be the ones with the best stories: stories that appeal to us for a variety of different reasons. Whether it’s the characters, the twists, or the emotional rollercoaster we are taken on.

Within the context of narrative, I believe there are two main ways to present a story: showing and telling.

Telling is the most common form of narrative. Here, the director has a clear story to convey, and a clear sense of how the audience should feel at various points in the film. For me, the masters of this form would include Hithcock, Spielberg, and more recently Christopher Nolan.

All know the importance of pacing a story properly: introducing the audience into their character’s world, and ramping up the tension as and when required to entertain the audience in a very clear, direct and well realised way.

This form of storytelling is deceptively simple, but without the right creative mind to see the story through produces movies devoid of themes, emotion or interest. (cf. Transformers 2, Pirates 2 or X-Men 3).

For the same reason I don’t like comedies designed simply to make me laugh , I don’t like movies which are made with the sole intention of keeping me entertained for two hours. Strong movies, in my opinion, produce strong, emotive feelings from their audience and challenge the way they view the world. It’s unlikely directors like Michael Bay or Roland Emmerich with their limited creative ambitions, will ever produce such a movie.

The much more difficult, and often less popular, way to ‘do’ narrative is to show: a narrative which gives less signals to the audience abut how to feel at any one time. These movies tend to be much slower-paced, and often more character-orientated – so that it’s not always clear what the premise is or what the movie is about, until the final act (or sometimes even after the credits roll).

It could be argued The Godfather is an example of such a movie: with its array of characters in the first act, slowly focussing in on one as we move into its second and third acts. As such, instead of being entertained in the opening forty minutes or so, it can be difficult to follow everything that’s going on. However, on second or third viewing there’s much more to come back to in this type of movie than most of this summer’s blockbusters.

Paul Greengrass’ two documentary-style movies United 93 and Bloody Sunday likewise take their time to set-up the main characters before showing us their famous and familiar events in the final acts: with a much more devastating emotional punch as a result. However, in another director’s hands, or if it had been done in a different style, the actual story at the centre could have had a completely different impact than the one Greengrass manages to create.

You see, it’s not that these types of movies don’t have a story. It’s more that they rely on the audience stay with the movie despite being kept in the dark in large parts as they are shown events without a clear sense of what they are supposed to take from them, without a clear sense of what they are being told.

Perhaps it’s best put like this, a familiar narrative structure which tells its story, allows one’s movie to be digested and enjoyed by as many people as possible. Often at the expense of giving the viewer something to come back to later.

A more difficult, complex structure which shows its story will not appeal to everyone. As a result many will refuse to watch the film, or stay with it beyond the first act. However, the benefits are a movie which ‘holds up’ to repeat viewings and allows for different viewer interpretations each time.

Narrative is often considered the most important of filmmaking techniques. The ability of a movie’s story to hold our interest often relies on the tale it is trying to spin. However, my favourite movies are often the ones that perhaps don’t have a clear plot which moves from A to B to C, but instead explore a theme or character. It’s not the case that showing = good and telling = bad. It’s just that the best examples of the latter are the ones that have had the greatest impact on me – long after the final credits have rolled.

Film School: Vagabond

In 2007 Sean Penn directed Into The Wild, a true life tale about a young man who wants to escape the clutches of modern capitalism by never staying in one place for any marked length of time. The pinnacle of this way of living is to go off into the wild of Alaska by himself for an indefinite period.

Way before that, in 1985, French director, Agnes Varda, made Vagabond, or to give it its French title Sans toit ni loi, which translated literally means “Without Roof or Rule”. Like Into The Wild it’s about a young woman, Mona, who lives on the road and has no place to call her own. Relying instead on the kindness of others to survive.

A fictional tale, the main thing that separates it from Into The Wild is that the lead character has none of the lust for life that Penn’s movie does. Where as Hirsch’s character is able to bring a lot of warmth and encouragement to the people he comes across, Mona seems like much too broken a character to be able to do the same thing, and will sometimes greet kindness with a special kind of apathy.

In fact, the true nature of her character is at the centre of the film. Characters address the camera, at various points in the story, expressing their experiences with her, and opinion on her. All differ wildly. What they do have in common in that they reflect something of their own prejudices and outlook.

These differing perspectives give the movie an added dimension, as we the audience are invited to piece together who Mona really was, and whether she was a victim of circumstance or a master of her own fate.

Overall, there’s a lot to like in this film. The faux-documentary style, the ambiguous nature of the main character, and the way people’s opinions reveal more about themselves than about the person they’re describing all make this film very easy to recommend.

I started this series based on titles I was studying at an evening course at Edinburgh University. Vagabond marks the end of the course, and so the end of the series. If you’ve missed any of the Film School articles, just click here.

My next series will be “Films of Shame”. That is films, I really should have seen by now, but haven’t.

The first five will be:

1. Citizen Kane
2. Godfather Part 2
3. The Shining
4. Taxi Driver
5. Annie Hall

I’d be interested to know other people’s “Films of Shame”. Have you never seen “Star Wars”, “Schindler’s List” or “The Wizard of Oz”? Do you have to pretend to know what’s so special about Bruce Willis’ watch in Pulp Fiction? Or do you sometimes intersperse conversations about Lord of the Rings, with “My Precioussssss” in the hope no one will find out your guilty secret?

Confessions welcome below: