Why do we even watch movies? Shouldn’t we be reading, or making something, making love, eating or, best of all, sleeping? What is it about movies that keeps me awake? Literally, why do I lose sleep to watch them (and also, to be fair, the occasional novel)? There is something magical, and more encompassing, than say, looking at a painting or photograph or, yes, reading. And which is the nearest thing to a movie? Pictures, paintings or photos, as a movie is made of a bunch of them (and yes, there is a movie that is entirely painted frames—it’s about van Gogh.) Or novels with their stories? Or is it a soundtrack? Because the first thing is, movies have audio, which of course, music also has. But I’m not one for listening to music. It’s background noise. I'd rather nap or let my mind wander for 90 seconds before starting something. Ozu, generally, uses music like the 90s food pyramid said to use fats and sugar: sparingly. It’s awesome. Sometimes it adds to the...
Thanks for sharing this article. It illuminated several things about the movie for me. Ebert points out that the "language of shooting and editing that we subconsciously expect at the movies," is absent from The Passion of Joan of Arc, which reminded me of some of our conversations about Tokyo Story. When he says, "We assume that if two people are talking, the cuts will make it seem that they are looking at one another," I saw a connection between Dreyer and Ozu that I had previously missed because I was so preoccupied with the difference in tone between the two movies. I think it's interesting that, although both directors reject the same cinematic conventions, the effect is so different. In Joan of Arc, when there is a cut between two characters without a visual cue to indicate that they are talking to each other, it is confusing and stress-inducing, and conveys the same overwhelmed feeling that I imagine I'd feel if I were the one being interrogated. While there is perhaps some disorientation involved when the same thing happens in Tokyo Story, the effect is significantly diminished by the fact that the characters are always clearly in a place. I mean that they are almost always shown against the backdrop of elaborate sets, so that even if the editing of the conversation is a bit disjointed, it's always occurring in an environment that seems very commonplace. This counteracts the disorientation that the cuts sometimes create, so that the movie has a comfortable, not at all stress-inducing atmosphere throughout. Dreyer, on the other hand, insists on constant close-ups, not allowing us contextualize the interactions at all. And when there is some discernible background, it is, as Ebert points out, "built according to a weird geometry that put windows and doors out of plumb with one another and creates discordant visual harmonies." I think this comparison exemplifies the way that all parts of a movie work together to establish its tone. The same technique is used in these two movies to entirely different effects, because they differ so much in other respects.
ReplyDeleteGreat insights. It always struck with with Ozu that in a naïve viewing of Tokyo Story his way never strikes us as unnatural -- but only when we reflect on conventional methods. This must mean that conventional methods are not as natural as they might appear to be. Perhaps also the essence of dialogue is looking directly into a person's face, and when a camera is allowed to do this, and when the actor can pull it off, it will not feel unnatural. In Joan of Arc there is very little "direct looking into" anyone -- hence the strange angles.
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