Never underestimate the genius of Film — or that of its new voices.

Elliott Crosset Hove in GODLAND 2022. Writer-Director Hlynur Pálmason, Cinematography Maria von Hausswolff.

Is there a new generation that really values cinema anymore? That’s the dark thought. Richard Linklater.

Born in the final couple of decades of the 1800s, virtuoso of the 1900s — sound, color, widescreen bringing developing language — then beginning, finally, to open up in the current century to voices previously suppressed and denied, Cinema, so Linklater suggests, nevertheless may be withering on the vine.

Why does he say this? Is it true? Coming from such a brilliant cineaste, the comment surely warrants our singular attention.

Established and revered exponents are still going strong. From Scorsese to Wenders to Spielberg to Herzog, from Campion to Almodóvar, from Kaurismaki to Holland the work keeps coming, often among the best of their respective oeuvres. (Haneke, sadly, has been missing in action for a while now, while Terence Davies has been lost to us too soon.)

More recent generations continue to bring astonishing work to the screen.There hasn’t been a movie from Lynne Ramsay for a while but Andrea Arnold’s cinematic Cow from a couple of years ago is a gem. Bong Joon Ho persists in amazing us. Sofia Coppola’s Priscilla constitutes yet another fine film from this intensely intelligent, deeply engaging director. Nolan is at his best with Oppenheimer, Haynes with May December, Payne with The Holdovers.

Of late, we have Yorgos Lanthimos, Barry Jenkins, Ari Aster, Chloe Zhao, Celine Sciamma, Sam Esmail, Julie Ducournau, Alice Diop, Kauther Ben Hania, Charlotte Wells, and so many others.

You may disagree with specific examples here and there (and of course those cited go nowhere near to scratching the surface), but the nature of the generational flow of substantial cinematic outpouring seems to me undeniable.

In just the last couple of years the output has been overwhelming. We have Celine Song with Past Lives, every element of cinematic language articulated on the screen. There’s Hlynur Pálmason’s Godland, its cinematography by Maria von Hausswolff limpid, breathtaking as the landscapes it presents, crystal precise as the portraits it paints.

The sheer number of remarkable movies and movie-makers continues to be astonishing.

Should we be considering other factors though?

The development of streaming as an element in the Linklater pessimism perhaps? The filmmaking giants now work with Netflix, Apple, Amazon however. This way, they’ve been able to give us movies the studios would never have greenlit. (As a half-American do I say ‘greenlighted’?) But is this a mixed blessing?

Watching on TV, on this device or that, does this keep viewers from the big screen? Many movies wouldn’t get made unless they are streamed though; there wouldn’t be audiences for them in the theatres because they wouldn’t exist in the first place.

How about the preponderance of tablets, iPads, smartphones, etc. Is this causing the language of visual storytelling to change? And for the worse?

But is this change such a bad thing? Doesn’t a language need to keep evolving if it’s to stay alive? Mightn’t those devices inform that evolution? Is screen language really becoming less ‘cinematic’ as a consequence of their use or is it becoming more flexible, growing in its forms of address by drawing on our various current modes of visual interlocution?

When TV made its entry into the lexicon of the screen, there were at least a couple of ways in which Cinema responded. Close-ups became more prominent, for example. The wide screen was adopted more and more. (Here close-ups became less prominent when some directors simply treated the frame as though it were depicting a stage, its lateral axis containing the action in wide shot.) The Cinerama format of 2.65:1 (three 35 mm cameras covering the action, three projectors and a curved screen its machinery) was seen as a way of attracting audiences away from their Academy Ratio (4:3) TV sets. 1.85:1, 2.35:1 were also tempting while at a time of black and white TV, Technicolor in the movie theatre was also considered a draw.

Now though, new filmmakers are reverting — if reverting is the right word — to academy ratio. The power of the vertical, as opposed to the lateral axis, is again being recognized. (See the above frame from Godland.) Perhaps not so much in mainstream, commercial movies though…

And as for black and white — what Wim Wenders once described as ‘the most beautiful colors’ — the palette was not long excluded from movie discourse .

Are these concerns — of the nature the screen we watch a movie on, its technology, its shape — irrelevant to the question of cinema’s survival however?

Is there a more of a problem in the movies that are made, distributed, and consumed? Movies of particular types? Franchise movies? Superhero movies? And the nature of the industrial structure that enables their manufacture?

Is it also a question of audiences and their acculturation? Their expectations? Their concept of the film viewing experience? Does it follow that, because of types of movies currently prevalent and a movie theatre environment geared to seducing the viewer into becoming a pampered consumer of them, audiences are becoming less discriminating? Is it that Cinema needs discerning adherents in order to survive?

Writing in 1926, Virginia Woolf commented: People say that the savage no longer exists in us, that we are at the fag-end of civilization, that everything has been said already, and that it is too late to be ambitious,”. But these philosophers have presumably forgotten the movies…

And she continued, in relation to the act of watching a film: The eye licks it all up instantaneously, and the brain, agreeably titillated, settles down to watch things happening without bestirring itself to think.

Later, she gives the game away when she says: Is there, we ask, some secret language which we feel and see, but never speak, and, if so, could this be made visible to the eye? Is there any characteristic which thought possesses that can be rendered visible without the help of words?

What was she talking about? Of course thought processes can be rendered visible without words. Simply cutting from a look to what the looker sees then cutting back to their reaction, for instance, reveals a character’s thoughts. The actor’s nuances of expression reveal a character’s thoughts. A camera move, its placement, a cut, color, lighting, soundscape, score, composition, mise-en-scène may all convey thought processes.

She complains that movies dumb down audiences only to then reveal she has no idea of how the language of the screen works. (Nor could most viewers articulate this, although they nevertheless understand it.) Presumably, given the date of these observations, she’s talking about silent movies. She’s writing in the year before Gance’s Napoleon is released and a quarter of a century into filmmaking by Chaplin and Griffiths, in the age of Eisenstein, Von Stroheim, early Lang, early Dreyer.

Such filmmakers already brought a rich, highly developed film language. Audiences were smart enough to follow it then — as they are today.

So does it come down to the stories we are being fed these days? Simplistic combat between good and evil, Manichaean struggles to be won by the superheroes who once were the gods that all Americans, no matter ethnicity or faith, could worship, but who have now become the interchangeable cyphers generated by corporate business. Has product replaced myth, the eyes taking in the pabulum on the screen as the stomach absorbs the junk concessions accompanying it?

Maybe, maybe, maybe… but let’s not forget those amazing new filmmakers, and where they come from, and what they bring that is new and fresh.

Even as a straight white male, as a working class London boy I was told that I would never get into filmmaking in any capacity whatsoever because ‘you don’t know the right people.’ (The English class system — don’t you just love it.)

Think (or perhaps you know) how much more of an impossible mountain to climb this aspiration has been for a woman, or anyone from most of the world’s population, who don’t look like me. Movie-making, for most of its history, it goes without saying, has been the province of the well-to-do male. (Scorsese is one of the few giants to emerge from the working class.) Now the barriers are coming down, even if there remains a way to go.

It is from these previously ignored, disenfranchised swathes of humanity that the survival–NO, THE REAWAKENING — of Cinema is coming about.

A Cinema for all of us. The screen of the human soul. What’s in you, what’s in me, up there in the language of the image: moving, static, beguiling, shocking, tempting, repelling, mesmerizing, sobering, oneiric, inflected, uninflected, devastating, revelatory, transgressive, decorous, indecorous, magical, austere, flamboyant, intricate, plain, serene, dynamic, subversive, celebratory, unflinching, reaching out and reaching in — to our perception, our thought, our visceral sensation, our emotion, to the very nature of our being…

Like us, as Cinema — as it lives and breathes, the equal of any art — ever affirms.

Peter Markham January 2024

1. To shoot the actors. 2. To shoot Cinema.

Publicity from The Taste of Things (2023) Writer-Director Trần Anh Hùng, Cinematography Jonathan Ricquebourg.

Trần Anh Hùng, Writer-Director of The Taste of Things (for which he won the Best Director award at Cannes), France’s entry into the 2024 Academy Awards, in a Q&A after a recent screening of his film, commented that there are two types of director.

The first group, he says, shoots the actors. They film performances then cut the resulting shots together. They cover the actors’ actions, dialogue, flow of emotion and then choose from these what they wish their audience to see at any given moment.

I know this approach well. Working in production at the BBC TV studios in London after coming out of university, I saw the “simply point the camera at the actor” method.

Four or five cameras would be lined up across the front of a set. A “vision mixer” would sit up in the “gallery” while the director, perched next to them would call out the shots and instant cuts. The scene would have been rehearsed extensively in the BBC Rehearsal Rooms in North Acton, between the taped outlines of the sets.

All that remained was for the actors to perform in the actual sets as each scene played out in the studio while the huge , unwieldy video cameras simply recorded their performances on the inadequate analogue videotape of the day.

There was little thought given to the language of the screen.

Movie cameras don’t have to be placed at the front of the set of course. (Hou Hsiou Hsien did this in Flowers of Shanghai however, only to create a film of impenetrable visual tedium — such a contrast to some of his other remarkable work.) A movie camera can be placed anywhere to get any angle on characters and action, should the director so wish.

The editing process is different from that old studio practice too. Not simultaneous. Not instant.

The approach is the same though. The actor is what matters. The recording of their performance for the subsequent recreation of the scene in the edit drives the process.

The next type of director, according to Trần Anh Hùng — and he’s one himself — is the filmmaker who strives for a screen that is cinematic. This is the filmmaker who thinks in terms of the flow of images, not of movies as filmed theatre.

“Cinema”, according to this remarkable Vietnamese-French filmmaker, is the highest of three levels of the director’s movie making:

3. Story. 2. Theme. 1. Cinema.

When 3. and 2. have been established, the director can strive for 1.

Trần talked of the precision he adopts in this final and essential stage. He knows exactly when a shot starts and when it ends, and this is how he shoots. Thus he anticipates his edit in granular detail. In this, he says, he draws inspiration from John Ford who would hold up his hand in front of the lens, moving it away only as he called “Action”, holding it up again as he called “Cut!”

Ford, of course, was working at a time when directors had very much less say in the editing of their movies. He was ensuring that his film would come out as the one he intended to make. Trần’s circumstances are different although this he didn’t mention. But for him certainly, this philosophy works to dazzling effect.

I wouldn’t recommend filmmakers in general be so dogmatic however! The master Krzystof Kieslowski would take footage from anywhere, from before “Action” had been called, from after he had cut, from anywhere the camera had happened to be rolling.

And what’s wrong with the filmmaker giving themselves several options,allowing leeway in when a cut is made in the edit, and enabling flexibility in the modulation of rhythm?

Perhaps then, not all directors need be solely in Trần’s purist tribe, admirable as that might be? Cinematographer Janusz Kaminski has described how Stephen Spielberg will sometimes specify exactly the shot he wants his DP to get while on other occasions will wait to get onto the set to work with the actors and go from there.

Such a master — perhaps America’s most underrated filmmaker — surely has permutations of possible shooting strategies for a scene already in his head before the shoot though. With such consummate grasp of the language of the screen, this director is hardly one to opt for performances patched together.

Nevertheless, this flexible approach is perhaps typical of many directors who neither adhere strictly to the vision of Trần Anh Hùng nor settle for mere coverage.

There are many more ways of categorizing filmmakers. Many more possible polarities. The restrained vs. the flamboyant. The purist vs. the eclectic. The vulnerable vs. the predatory. The “sacred” vs. the “profane”. Those who conceive every detail early on vs. those who practice patient evolution… The montage vs. the long take exponents. The visual storyteller vs, the visual “grammaticist”. Plus other opposites…

My point is that Trần Anh Hùng posits a declarative philosophy that— whether we agree with him or not—prompts us to reflect. His championing of what he calls precision is, whatever the filmmaker’s individual process, a call for rigor and comprehensive connection to, and engagement with, their material. And these are virtues that may be manifested in so any ways…

So filmmakers might do well to listen.

Peter Markham December 2023

Filmmakers and the Psyche of the Moment (From Medium February 2021)

From Ammonite, Cinematography Stéphane Fontaine

How aware is the filmmaker of the messages their film might be communicating? Not the intentional but the unintentional ones. How aware should they be? How aware can they be? And how much is an audience conscious of the messages they receive? Do the unintentional missives of the filmmaker follow pathways into the unsuspecting minds of their audiences more insidioius than any intentional messaging? Certainly, a director like Hitchcock could intentionally sway an audience one way or another by a simple sound in the background barely noticeable but subliminally efficient in evoking, say, a wish for a character to travel (a train whistle), or to lay the foundation for a suspicion of guilt (a police siren). Filmmakers use intentional subliminal messaging all the time — or they do if they’re proficient. The audience doesn’t realize how it’s being played, and even if it did, probably wouldn’t complain. Cinema, its practitioners know, delves deep into the psyche, into subterranean depths we all of us share. Do they realize though, that it works the other way too — that if a film can exert influences over its audience, the zeitgeist, the undercurrents of contemporary culture and its leanings can also exert a power over its makers — whether they go along consciously with those inclinations or they don’t? Once those proclivities have become embedded in a story, the story exerts agency over filmmakers unaware of the meaning they then reinforce.

It was Abba Kiarostami who said that a film would mean nothing if it didn’t tap into the memories of its audience, whose members recognize the emotions it evokes and recreates them within themselves. Those emotions may echo the filmmaker’s own as well as having been brought to fruition by the story, the characters, the situation. If the director and their collaborators know what they’re doing, they will have allowed those reservoirs of feeling within themselves to inform their movie. But there are times, surely, when those feelings are too deep, too shared, too universal, to be recognized, even by the creative team itself.

It’s hard enough to grasp the contours of one’s own psyche, but to understand how the psyche of a nation might impact one’s work at any given time, seems to me far more challenging. There’s the conscious recognition of contemporary events, contemporary conflicts, and how these can fuel a story and its drama, but that understanding is limited to known thoughts and feelings about the frictions of the day. Looking back at a period in history can yield insights the contemporary observer has missed. Events, issues, moods, fears and desires may often be the symptoms of deeper instabilities, roilings we cannot comprehend until we see them through the perspective of hindsight.

In 2016, the UK, by means of a plebiscite corrupted by misinformation, voted by a small majority to leave the EU. The visceral instincts were obvious: hostility to immigrants, to people of color, a hankering for some golden age that never existed, a craving for lost imperial power coupled with an island mentality came together to bring out the worst in people. I suspect that few filmmakers supported the move to turn the nation’s back on the European project. Indeed, I can’t recall any notable director or screenwriter hopping onto the xenophobic wagon. One would imagine then, a dearth of Brexit messaging in movies produced during this time.

Not so.

The Darkest Hour presents a Churchill hagiography. A complex man battling with depression, also a racist, a snob, responsible disastrous Dardanelles campaign of the First World War and the Bengal famine, is portrayed as a rollicking populist. Traveling on the tube, which he never did, hobnobbing with passengers of color, which he never did, paradigm of the plucky Brit, Darkest Hour’s Winston comes across as an epitome of the Brexit mentality. Europe was going over to the Nazis — parallel to a controlling, predatory EU, led by Germany as proclaimed by the Tories and the Brexiteers. Darkest Hourwas the perfect vehicle to match their manifesto, and yet few seemed to notice. Performances were praised, direction lauded but the message of the film..? No comment. It dived in too deep to be discerned.

Dunkirk delivers similar plucky Brits, extricating themselves from a dastardly Europe. How the lump in the throat swells when the cottages on the cliffs of England are finally glimpsed, and how the demons of patriotism arouse us! Is Christopher Nolan a Brexiteer? I have no idea. The interweaving of the broad canvas he conjures with the intimate dramas he brings to life hold me and I marvel. But seeing those cottages, those cliffs, and knowing the Brits in their little boats have outwitted the German war machine brings home what’s going on. “Let’s get Brexit done!” Old Etonian Boris Johnson would chunter. He needn’t have bothered. Dunkirk already had.

If those two films don’t offer character assassinations of Europe sufficient, 1917 steps in to fill the gap. Lumbering as the tanks of the day, the movie piles on the contempt for “Johnny Foreigner”. A German pilot, rescued, turns, of course, on his rescuer as against all the odds a single Tommy journeys through an improbable topography, nothing like its historical counterpart, to alert his fellow Brits of some cunning scheme by The Hun, thus managing to get the message through in time to condemn the plan to failure. Germany vanquished again, the Brits in their trenches — ever stoic in their chthonic substrata — prevailing.

The Anglo-catabasis continues with The Dig — England’s treasures excavated deep in the earth when a stubborn archaeologist of modest birth unites with a toff landowner to begin the excavation of the Sutton Hoo treasures. As with Churchill down in the London underground (catabasis again), upper class and low join together to get things done. Former glories are rediscovered, the inheritance of the soil, the safety of the past, history salvation for the present. An Australian director, yes, but the English collective psyche holds sway all the same. Ammonite digs even further, reveling in Mary Anning’s discovery of fossils emerged from the mud. What more perfect symbol for the tired delusions of perfidious Albion than a fossilized ichthyosaur, once lord of the ocean but now reduced to a lump of rock in a glass display case? England as relic. Says it all.

The movie version of Downton Abbey shores up the Brexit edifice, with its upstairs/downstairs bubble, so at odds with the vision of European director Michael Haneke, whose masterly White Ribbon by contrast eviscerates the class system of a rural community early in the last century. Perhaps TV’s The Crown will spawn a movie version before too long, we English reminded of our place — both on the class ladder and in our “splendid isolation” from those continental neighbors across the Channel.

A counter-current? How about Steve McQueen’s visionary Small Axe films? This is England, The Clash sang, and McQueen now reveals, with rather more penetrating vision. Stripped of sentimentality, unflinching in the face of unremitting assault on London’s black English by the Metropolitan Police, righteous in McQueen’s anger but leavened by his warm humanity, these gems glow with the compelling narrative of a new Britain, one we might have missed had we been relying on Brexit Cinema. The story continues, not subsumed into some fake past but vibrant in the present as it reaches to the future. The final film Education begins and ends with 12-year-old protagonist Kingsley Smith gazing up at the stars in a planetarium. (A promise of anabasis). I’m with Kingsley, I reflect. Cosmos over territory. Possibility over fear. Wonder over nostalgia.

Conscious messaging, surely, on McQueen’s part, and an answer to the doubtlessly unconscious leanings of some of his contemporaries.

Peter Markham February 2021

The symbiosis of learning and invention

(Abel Gance, 1889–1981. Filmmaker, innovator from the past, inspiration for the present and future. Image from silentera.com)

The English conservative commentator Michael Oakeshott observed that:

The task of the teacher is to free his pupils from servitude to the present.

(Mr. Oakeshott, why are the teacher’s pupils necessarily his?)

The English/American liberal commentator of this article replies:

The task of the student is to free their teacher from servitude to the past.

Question: Could both Oakeshott and myself be correct?

A highly successful writer-director-screenwriter, at the time my student, once asked why I’d spent over ten hours taking the class through Hitchcock’s Notorious when we don’t make movies that way anymore.

Another student, after I had broken down one of Scorsese’s complex sequence shots, its consecutive, component vignettes, its layered focal planes, dual passage of time, and bravura camera movement, remarked But we don’t shoot like that now!

It was as though they were suggesting that understanding the thought behind the execution of a shot limits us to parroting that shot mechanically rather than informing our own insights so that we may better formulate our own, fresh approach…

After one recent class, a notably talented young cinematographer said to me I didn’t realize you could learn from an old movie!

It’s as though each generation thinks it has to start anew with no foundations to build upon.

As though what has come before had built-in obsolescence.

As though the nature of human experience, of desire, love, fear, hate, lust, intimacy, need, vanity, insecurity, heroism, cowardice, violence, compassion, disappointment, aspiration, hope, thought, reflection, denial, epiphany change inexorably generation by generation…

As though the nature of story and the challenges of storytelling mutate decade by decade so that the questions asked today by say… Emerald Fennell or Charlotte Wells are somehow radically different from those asked by say… Edwin Porter or Charlie Chaplin.

As though the screen, that planarity before us, has altered more than its aspect ratio and morphed in its nature, age by succeeding age, into something indefinably different from what it’s been before.

As though the screen’s language, its practical aesthetics of today bear no resemblance to its preceding counterparts.

As though changes in technology, in equipment, in cameras change everything else.

As though changes in taste change everything else.

As though we are with each superseding generation doomed to cultural, emotional, and artistic amnesia.

As though we are condemned to invention without memory.

As though memory is an obstacle to invention.

As though awareness of the past is an obstacle to new vision.

As though learning and knowledge must be severed from the creative process.

As though there can be no evolution, only a starting out again… and again… and again…

I once read that PT Anderson kept TCM on in every room in his house so that as he moved from one to another, he could maintain sight of the images from the movie playing.

Perhaps that’s why PTA, Steven Spielberg, and Martin Scorsese recently joined forces to protect the network:

https://ew.com/tv/tcm-insiders-detail-fight-to-protect-turner-classic-movies-network/

Because when the past is lost, so is the present, so is the future.

As an educator, I’ve been fortunate to have worked with many outstanding new filmmakers. Among the most film-literate, probably the most film literate (not to mention the most literature-literate) has to have been Ari Aster. Ari’s encyclopedic film history awareness hardly seems to have prevented him from becoming such an astonishing and inventive newcomer over recent years.

New technology, new “platforms”, new methods of distribution are often presented as fundamental cinematic progress. They are not. Of course they may have profound effects, for the better or worse, on the well-being of the art of the filmmaker, but the delivery system is not the item to be delivered. The conveyor belt is not the candy.

Each generation finds its own voice. Each its own idioms. Each its own stories. Each its own cinema.

But also… each discovers its own understanding of the past, of the language of its predecessors.

And that fresh insight prompts, informs, nourishes, inspires fresh invention.

So perhaps: The task of the teacher is to free his pupils from servitude to a present which owes nothing to its past.

While: The task of the student is to free their teacher from servitude to the fixed past and show them how what has come before can be understood in new ways that prompt new approaches.

Plus, of course, astonishing the teacher with those new approaches…

Peter Markham September 2023

An unapologetic screed against disrespect for cinema.

(Screenshot from the Fandango app.)

You know how it goes.

It happens after the 20 minute blitzkrieg of mindless trailers, each of which leaves you never wanting to see another movie in a movie theater or be in the vicinity of anyone who might be titillated by such overcooked and unremitting bombast.

It happens just as the first frames of the film you’ve come to see appear on the screen and you are focusing with all of our expectant faculties on image, sound, energy, event, trying to take in the reverberations of emotion and tone, and searching already for some sense of connection and meaning in what is up there.

You are thinking that no matter on how many occasions you have experienced this thrill of cinema, now always seems like the first time, that what is familiar is also fresh, that film as a phenomenon itself is being born before your very eyes, and you with it, new to the world, pristine to the ages, when…

To read please on go to Medium at:

https://pmarkhamca.medium.com/movie-latecomers-what-are-they-thinking-36f8151c1e8d

I would love to hear your thoughts and comments on all posts at Medium.com

https://pmarkhamca.medium.com/ :

And how the term “prep” reveals a faulty mindset.

Screen capture from Powell/Pressburger’s 1948 The Red Shoes.

There have been masters in cinema who have worked in theatre and there have been those who haven’t. There are teachers of filmmaking who went to theatre school or worked in theatre and still think that way and there are those that didn’t and don’t.

Ophuls, Mizoguchi, Bergman, virtuosi of cinematic language, were also adept in the discourse of the stage. Even Ken Loach was interested in plays before he was drawn to movies. Hitchcock, Dreyer, Godard were by contrast cineastes pure and simple. Ramsey, Arnold, Martel are some of the many contemporary directors whose cinephilia, so far as I understand, has needed little or no nourishment from the stage.

I can think of filmmaking educators who think cinema is theatre with a camera pointed at it — or rather, they don’t think, they assume. Thus they differ from the best exponents of both art forms who understand the nature of each.

I’ve heard that the Prague Film School, decades ago, wouldn’t allow first year directing students anywhere near a camera. Their first task, it was understood, was to elicit performance without regard for the screen. This may as well have been a theatre program. Performances and staging established, the next step, by inference a subsidiary step, inferior to the physical production of an event was seen as the recording of the action on film and its piecing together.

It’s purely what’s in front of the camera on set or on location that matters is the supposition here. That’s when and where it happens. This is theatre with camera and editing added.

Such a mindset leads to further misplaced thinking…

Fix it in prep! Fix it in post! So they say. Fix what? And why fix? Why prep? And what does it mean?

Let’s first consider prep. What does this term suggest but the assumption that nothing actually happens until the actors arrive on set. That’s wrong. The decision-making that occurs in the shoot by no means marks the beginning of the filmmaker’s work, which may start as soon as they conceive of the idea of their film, or write the screenplay, first encounter a draft of one or collaborate with a writer on their script.

Preparation is not preliminary to the making of the movie but is part and parcel of that making.

Prep might be better described as formulation, a process through which nothing is fixed but everything is developed, the time when visualization in part and in whole comes together, when sets are designed and locations chosen, and when casting occurs — in itself the foundation for performance.

These tasks continue with the shoot, with the discovery on set of revisions and improvements of planned staging and shooting, with the actors’ and director’s conjuring of performance, and with the input of circumstance and the unanticipated vicissitudes, accidents,, and sundry surprise offerings the universe tends to provide. Even with the best formulation this can prove the filmmaker’s ‘thinking on one’s feet’ stage.

Next comes post. Forget the term fix. You don’t fix things in post. Post is not triage. It’s not mere salvage. Or rather it shouldn’t be. This is where the filmmaker travels further along their symbiotic journey of intention and discovery. Where, through editorial art, the elements of storytelling, emotion, and meaning, take flight. Where sound design modulates and vivifies the world of the movie. Where, at last, the film gets the upper hand over the filmmaker and in the best of circumstances says This is what I am.

Throughout the entire process, the making of the film is both realization and evolution, evolution and realization. Not merely the mounting of a production on set and its “coverage”.

Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s 1948 The Red Shoes, contains a breathtaking ballet sequence that in the way it morphs from a front-on view of a proscenium arch stage to dazzling cinematic montage reveals a profound understanding of the natures of theatre and film. Here, the representation of a theatre event is transformed into the artifact that constitutes a movie.

Space and time, constants in the physical world of the theatre, give way to their modulated and manipulated cinematic counterparts. What never happened as a complete scene on set comes to fictional life on the screen.

Complete scenes can of course happen on set or location. Complete movies even, as is the case with Balint Kenyere’s astounding short Before Dawn, shot in a breathtaking single take by cinematographer Matyas Erdely. Without pre-visualization however, without rigorous, forensic formulation — the creative work of several cinematic minds — such a powerful work could not have been achieved. It was in the formulation that the vision of the film found its form. Its execution, even if the skill involved beggars belief, was purely technical and practical.

Hitchcock even once commented he wished that once he had a film together in his head, there would be no need to make it. Luckily for us, he was denied his inclination!

Nevertheless, as his mindset shows us, the master made cinema, not filmed theatre…

Peter Markham July 2023

The primal shock of sudden movement.

Screen capture from Hereditary (2018), Writer-Director Ari Aster, Cinematographer Pawel Pogorzelski.

When I looked for a screenshot of the nun’s appearance as she first rises into frame at the end of Hitchcock’s Vertigo, I found myself getting nowhere. I couldn’t find a static frame in which this ominous figure begins to be remotely discernible.

I tried later shots, as James Stewart’s Scottie glances over and the film cuts back to the nunnish newcomer, but then she’s already there and simply seeing her without having first succumbed to the shock of her abrupt rise into shot, conjures little horror.

I couldn’t understand. Why, no matter how many times I’d watched this masterpiece, had I experienced the most seismic of shudders, my blood running cold in the instant it took the image I thought I had seen to register?

How come I couldn’t find a single still frame of that jolting moment?

Resigned to failure, I reflected that I had no screen capture to illustrate the article I wanted to write, a piece on under-the-skin chill in horror movies as opposed to the more common visceral or body horror. Yet that single instant in cinema is the most powerful example I can think of what might be described as a subcutaneous jump scare. (A down to earth term for what I used to call a frisson, a word that covers sudden shivers or thrills of other natures too.)

What should I do then, I wondered in my frustration? Find a frame from another film, I thought. I pondered on. De Palma’s Carrie! That’s it! Yes! The hand reaching up from the earth to grab the mourner friend’s arm.

So I try for a screen grab of that. But nothing there barely does justice to the moment either. The movement is so rapid that any individual frame shows little but a peripheral blur. There’s a fundamental difference to the Vertigo shock though — here, as the image moves, we see and we know what we are seeing. While the sudden movement jolts us, we know immediately that this is Carrie’s arm. With Hitchcock’s nun by contrast, we know nothing of who or what we are seeing until the subsequent shot of her.

Master cinematographer Robert Burks lights — or rather darkens — the shot of her appearance for that very effect. Whereas De Palma’s DP Mario Tosi ensures that we register Carrie’s posthumous arm, because that is what the movie needs at this point, Burks shrouds Hitchcock’s mysterious phantasm in impenetrable shadow.

Then, finally, it came to me. I got it! After seeing the Hitchcock vignette more times than I can count — my memory on each occasion subsequently conjuring the image in that split second that was never actually there — I finally found the epiphany of what it is that happens

It’s a movie, stupid! I thought.

The fright I experience is the result of sudden MOVEMENT pure and simple. It’s this abrupt shift alone that scares the living daylights out of me!

And it is NOT seeing clearly what or who it is making this movement that renders the moment so alarming!

What could be more primal — primordial more to the point? What Hitchcock is giving us is the jump scare any creature with eyes to see, or receptors to sense, experiences. The impression, imperfectly sensed, of a sudden change in the environment. Of something else out there! What might it be? A living thing? A mortal threat? A predator?

The most primitive, instant, neural alert that we, like any sentient being, experience.

(With their unremitting, brainless bombast of noise, score, and montage, horror movie trailers completely miss this element, so rarely scare anyone.)

Surely there’s foundation in Hitchcock’s Jesuit education as a boy for a Catholic nun as Scottie’s nemesis. Obsession, desire, erotic longing must be followed by damnation. The inner turmoil of the artist precipitates their greatest art. In Vertigo the master’s greatness, perhaps spurred by his upbringing, is manifested in his articulation of our most fundamental engagement with the world, the abrupt realization of something uncertain and undefined present outside of ourselves.

What shot, then, I wondered, could I use to introduce this article, which would now focus almost exclusively on under-the-skin horror? What, in considering sudden movement, might suffice?

I came up with what you see above, from Ari Aster’s Hereditary — a sudden draft from left of frame and the faint susurrus of it we hear that prompts Annie’s shiver as she’s been looking to Joan, out of shot to frame right. We don’t see that breath, but we do see the abrupt swish of Annie’s hair and the turn of her head as her hand and shoots up.

Unexpected, sudden — a movement literally from out of left field! This, I thought, is the framed jump scare I’ll go with…

As Hitchcock’s nun comments: God have mercy!

Peter Markham July 2023

A reflection on my obsession with ominous obsession…

From Frantz (2016), Writer-Director François Ozon, Cinematography Pascal Marti. Inspiration: Broken Lullaby(1916) by Ernst Lubitsch.

Is it simply the image radiating on the screen that draws us so helplessly to Cinema? Is it a story told through its flowing visual language? Is it the deep, overwhelming emotions the medium conjures? The mesmerism of vista, the dread of shadow? The heightening of a fictional world that envelopes us? The desperate journey of a flawed but irresistibly compelling character? The grace of an innocent? The duplicity of an anti-hero?

Is it the visceral dynamism of the “action” movie”? Is it the quiet, intimate drama of looks and gestures, the friction and tension of dailiness revealed through what remains unspoken?

Is it the suspense of the cliffhanger, of what it might be that lies in a closed box, of the protagonist capable of going one way or its transgressive opposite, of the impossible moral dilemma, the devastating epiphany, the fate perhaps, that awaits the oblivious unfortunate? The true identity of the stranger, the true meaning of the event, object, sound, sight yet to be revealed?

Is it the charisma of the star? The experiential nature of an art which fools us into thinking we can stay safe as witnesses before rendering us impotent at the mercy of a power both overwhelming and insidious?

Is it simply the drama that plays out on the screen’s planarity, captured from optimum angles, observed from a distance one minute, engulfing us in its turbulence the next?

Is it the thrill, the hypnotic spell, the voyage out of ourselves that we come to discover takes us into ourselves?Might it be the quiet contemplation of one film’s resonant understatement or the fairground antics of another’s brash flamboyance?

Is it spectacle or is it something commonplace we might see each day but given fresh significance by lighting, framing, or by context afforded placement in the cut?

Or are we drawn to the movies simply to escape, to divert ourselves, to taste the excitement of danger, violence, death but without cost, to thrill to the erotic, the sensual, the seductive — to realms of desire and delight denied the humdrum life of the audience around us? (Although perhaps not all of it!)

What is it that you can’t resist and so draws you in? Is it any of these — or is it something else?

I was recently watching Francois Ozon’s 2016 Frantz. The first part of the movie is a remake of Ernst Lubitsch’s poignant 1932 Broken Lullaby in which, after the end of the First World War, a French soldier, burdened with remorse, visits the family of the German soldier he has killed. Mistaken by the dead man’s parents and fiancée as his friend, the protagonist finds himself unable to reveal the truth…

Ozon takes the story further. He puts us in the narrative POV not of the penitent Frenchman but of Anna, the German fiancée who, not knowing of his past, falls in love with him. After he leaves without revealing his identity or what he did — in the process prompting unbearable suspense — Anna decides to travel to Paris in search of him.

As she seeks out his whereabouts, and the camera journeys with her over her shoulder or — as I recall — becoming her eyes, I was reminded of another film, one to which I have always been inescapably drawn. Hitchcock’s Vertigo has long been my favorite movie. As James Stewart’s hapless “Scottie” Ferguson heads with unhesitating determination to his devastating fate I am tugged along with him, reveling somehow in an odyssey I know can only end badly.

Anna and Scottie, I realize, follow a path with which I’m familiar. Somehow I know it, so I identify with them.

Vertigo (1958), Director Alfred Hitchcock, Screenplay by Alec Coppel and Samuel Taylor, Cinematography Robert Burks.

My nightmares have lasted most of my life, terrifying in the darkness of early morning hours until, strangely enough, with the arrival of the pandemic they stopped. In these tenebrous episodes I would find myself, like Anna and Scottie, en route through some barely defined interior, some street or alley draped in shifting shadow toward some as yet unknown but undoubtedly terrible revelation. Meanwhile, even I as moved relentlessly forward, some nebulous presence would approach me, like a dollying camera, from behind — never seen and never quite making its unthinkable contact before I’d wake, screaming down the neighborhood and surrounding environs.

Here I have, what I now see, draws me to Cinema.

Ozon’s Anna and Hitchcock’s Scottie are obsessed, Anna with finding the French soldier, Scottie with the enigma of Madeleine. There are countless remarkable movies that lack any such obsessive protagonist but it is obsession, the obsession that certain cinema captures and conveys so obsessively, that obsesses me. Just as in my sleep I have walked obsessively along so many ominous paths toward… and only to be ambushed by… what?

The Godfather, to many, is the film they regard as the greatest. With his myth, Coppola exposes the guts of America and perhaps the dynamics of patriarchy and family more ancient. Vertigo, by contrast, and Ozon’s Frantz, with their myth, and maybe the weekly nightmares screening in the cinema of my sleeping mind, conjure not the canvas of power and bloodline but burrow even more terrifying into the defiant, lonely, primal psyche.

Even if we do not all share in Londoner Jesuit-educated Hitchcock’s flawed persona—admission: I’m a Londoner by birth if not similarly acculturated — or have experienced what I believe may have been the complex PTSD behind the chilling claustrophobia of my scenarios, the phenomenon that leads me to Cinema, I realize, has nothing less than universal reverberation…

Such a journey is of course, one that we all venture along as we voyage, day by day, to the final unknowable event that, sooner or later, awaits us…

Peter Markham June 2023

Presumptuous thoughts for your dismissal or (illuminating) comments…

From JASON AND THE ARGONAUTS (1963), Director Don Chaffey, Screenwriters Alan Beverly Cross, Jan Read, Cinematography Wilkie Cooper, Talos the Statue by Ray Harryhausen.

In a recent article from Far Out (https://faroutmagazine.co.uk/the-130-films-martin-scorsese-calls-guilty-pleasures/), which refers to another from Film Comment back in September 1978, writer Jack Whatley draws our attention to what was once Martin Scorsese’s list of ‘guilty pleasures’ — movies that may be bad in many respects but which the master had enjoyed.

It was finding Jason and the Argonauts in this miscellany of 130 titles that prompted me not to reflect on ‘guilty pleasures’ as I disagree with the assumption underlying it (that we are in some way guilty when enjoying a film, and presumably that means a “bad” film) so much as the notion itself of a “bad” film.

What is it that makes a film “bad? For that matter, what is it that makes one “good”?

How, for example, could I consider as being bad a film that utterly transfixed me as a boy for its 104 minutes? (Did I see it at the Tooting Granada or the Streatham Odeon?) Is it supposed to be bad because it isn’t historically accurate? So the Greek myths it’s based on were “accurate”? Of course not. How can the mythic be accurate” Accurate to what?

Is it bad because it has a giant statue that comes to life, that there are skeleton warriors, a multi-headed monster, and its fantastical action is complemented by characters speaking in accents about as far from the sonorities of the ancient Aegean as from what was then my South London twang?

Is it because by later standards Ray Harryhausen’s gorgeous stop-motion animation looks so determinedly ‘old, school’? (Not allowing that — it still has its magic.) Is it because, even if the events it depicts may be those of fantasy, it may not in the process follow the most credible or accomplished dramatic narrative?

Is it because it’s corny, pulpy, preposterous and doesn’t represent the height — or anywhere near it — of the art of the filmmaker?

It’s years since last watched this Hellenic hokum so I can give no definitive answer to any of these questions but what I will say is that this movie possessed me as a callow boy and that coming out of the cinema (movie theaterhere in America), I saw that gargantuan bronze Talos stepping out of the film to tower over the streets of Tooting and Streatham, intent on wreaking havoc across its tracts of terraced (row) housing amongst which stood my own family flat.

Jason and his A’s stimulated my terror, wonder, and hungry imagination.What more could I have asked? Only that it actually move me. But more of that later…

A film that knew itself, Jason’s screen odyssey seemed to me truthful in ways I could not at the time of first encountering it begin to understand.Now though, I would insist that, for all of its thunderous flaws, Jason and the Argonauts has an “integrity” that bad movies do not have.

Although “bad” in many ways, it’s good not only in its magical spectacle but is sound in the most important respect: it cleaves to its own identity, and this self-knowing gives it authority.

What then might be the aspects of a movie that might render it “bad”? (As I think most are.) You might argue that this is down to purely subjective judgement. You don’t like a film? So then it’s mediocre? That’s not a reason of course. We can dislike movies but still recognize their value.

Some suggestions for a “bad” movie. This is a movie that:

Proselytizes.

Evades the moral questions it prompts.

Has story problems.

Shifts genres to fix its story problems.

Uses transitions to avoid story issues.

Uses promiscuous narrative POV to avoid storytelling issues and to prompt maximum titillation.

Had characters that are one-dimensional.

Hides its failings behind high production values.

Churns out the same old tropes and clichés.

Pulls its punches.

Has no punches to pull.

Leaves no traces in one’s memory, no heart, no challenge, no sense of itself, nothing.

Panders shamelessly to contemporary culture and assumptions, whether they be facile or laudatory.

Dishes out the usual populist sadism and sentimentality.

Tries to make the world a better place.

Tries to make the world a worse place.

Wallows in its own righteousness.

Betrays no trace of visual sensibility.

Doesn’t tell its story.

Doesn’t have a story to tell.

Affects a knowledge of its world when it has none.

On the other hand, what does not necessarily make a film “good”?

Everyone loves it.

Critics go for it.

It wins awards.

It’s based on a literary masterpiece.

Its milieu is respectable, posh, privileged — financially or culturally.

It’s violent.

It shocks.

It’s non-violent.

It doesn’t shock.

It has good actors.

It looks good.

It looks gritty.

It has spectacular VFX.

It had a high budget.

It’s tasteful.

It’s distasteful.

Its craft follows all the “rules”.

Its craft is careless.

So what is it that I think makes a film “good”? Contradicting my earlier observation, may I give a few subjective insights? (For a more thorough, analytical approach see my new book, to be published this September: The Art of the Filmmaker: The Practical Aesthetics of the Screen, Oxford University Press — please forgive the plug.)

So… a good film:

Moves me (which J and the As didn’t, although that I forgive)

Amazes me.

Stays with me.

I can’t entirely explain it, sometimes even quite understand it yet somehow it still gets to me….

After three weeks of rejecting it, I wake up thinking “That was something!”

It knows itself.

I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen.

I can, but then discover I can’t.

It presents a paradox, a question for which there is no answer.

When I’m watching it, I wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world or doing anything else.

I discover this during the experience of watching it.

I discover this as it ends.

It takes me on a journey I didn’t expect.

It reveals a voice I can’t deny and so don’t want to.

It reveals cinema in a fresh way.

It possesses me.

It leaves me amazed at cinema.

It leaves me astonished at just being alive to see it.

Its imperfections form its perfection.

And most important of all: It reveals the enduring mystery of the human soul.

Lastly, there is this:

I want to feel that art is an utterance made in good faith by one human being to another. I want to believe there are geniuses scheming to astonish the rest of us, just for the pleasure of it.

Novelist Marilynne Robinson

That seems to me helpful in distinguishing between “good” and “bad” cinema — at least if we accept and revere our glorious narrative form as art.

Which I do.

Peter Markham May 2023

Or how cinematic wisdom lies in uncertainty.

(Screen capture from Aftersun, Writer-Director Charlotte Wells, Cinematography Gregory Oke. A24 Films.)

Seeing a particular new filmmaker’s fresh visual discourse and adept delivery of emotion has prompted thoughts on one of my favorite topics.Charlotte Wells’ Aftersun eschews the observance of rote filmic rhetoric for the true cinematic language her movie discovers. How might filmmakers in general similarly avoid the reductionism of conventions and assumptions so often taught and so readily accepted?

Students tend to prefer the teacher who delivers certainty. ‘This is how it’s done. How it works. It all boils down to this,’ they claim. Whether born of common supposition, precedent, wisdom handed down, experience, or little but dogma, the all-knowing maxim pithily delivered prompts pre-determined approaches from its adherents while the question formulated but non-judgmental, or the paradox defiant in its contradiction, or the fundamental challenge realized but unresolved yield only further uncertainty and continuing exploration.

Filmmaking students are no exception. Many gravitate to educators who nail down their art and craft to the certainties of the “industry professional”so that they may follow in the paths these cognoscenti have laid out as they make their own movies, the first and those subsequent. They become filmmakers with go-to approaches and solutions, the practitioners of film grammar, for instance, rather than film language. They make films that look like everyone else’s. There’s little joy in in the discovery of how a scene might be staged, shot, and cut because there is no discovery, just a regurgitation of every staged, shot, and cut scene that’s previously fitted the mold.

That way lies a cinema of the locked mindset, devoid of the nourishment of doubt, of heresy, of mischief, of the subversive imagination — a cinema of boundaries impermeable to danger, to innovation, to the influences of other arts, philosophy, thought, form, and above all to the unfathomable mystery of the human soul and the true emotion to which it gives voice. A mechanistic cinema intended never to fail, oven-ready for the safety-net filmmaker. “Product”, “content” — the pabulum of the “creatives”. (Language as an instrument of dissimulation.)

These words, from philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein, not a filmmaker of course — although I once read he loved westerns that he would watch from the front row — might in this respect bear consideration:

Philosophy aims at the logical clarification of thoughts. Philosophy is not a body of doctrine but an activity.

Philosophy, the Austrian-Cantabrigian sage tells us, is not about a collection of established certainties, a body of doctrinebut is an activity — the never-ending task of investigation through the logical clarification of thoughts.

Could something similar be said of filmmaking? Is it a body of doctrine? Are its tenets set in stone or do they evolve? Are they there to be taken from some tablet of conventions or might they prove to be ever elusive but nevertheless worth seeking out? Might what works in one context, one movie, one sequence, not work in others or might something different work better? Might there be different ways of making something work? Might there be different contexts and connections to be considered before one is chosen and even then… there will be doubts remaining.

Philosophy, of course, doesn’t require a budget! (Although philosophy academics generally require a salary.) Filmmaking, on the other hand, can be tough without one… Yet just as story can reveal in so many ways the contradictions of the human condition with a breathtaking clarity more compelling than a philosophical treatise so the task of cinematic storytelling itself can invite contradictory, novel, unexpected strategies in its process that reveal an art perennially triumphant in escaping the confines of certainty.

Director John Ford of The Searchers and other great movies who taught/teaches us so much, commented that Directing is a job of work. Some job! Some work! In his demystification of his own brilliance the master was perhaps alluding to the formidable practicality demanded of the film director who must plan rigorously yet still be able to think on their feet once on set. The director, in other words, needs a flexible mindset — and certainty is the enemy of flexibility.

Director John Patton Ford of Emily the Criminal whom I taught and who always teaches me so much in return, said in his AFI Conservatory Commencement speech that although it may not seem like it when you’re in its throes, the period of not knowing is the best time of all, the most fruitful time in a filmmaker’s process — an opportunity for open exploration, for questions and their clarification — the clarification of thoughts.

It is this activity that the filmmaker does well to continue throughout the making of their film. What do we have here? What am I dealing with? What’s the story? How am I going to tell it? How might this connect with the visual strategy of the sequence, the act, the movie as whole? What are the counter-thoughts and the doubts I am pushing to one side? Too scared of addressing. What am I missing? What’s so in front of my eyes that I’m not seeing it? But then you arrive on set… Even a director as adept as Steve McQueen has talked of how, although he formulates so much of his approach so thoroughly, he always has to ask himself: Now how am I going to do this? Now how can I make this scene work? (Watch his Small Axe sequence of films to see how he does make his scenes work, over and over.)

So… find your questions and make them clear. Don’t let certainties get in the way!

All of this said, a director owes it to their team, to their self, to their movie to make production decisions by the necessary deadlines. The production designer, costume designer, cinematographer and others such as the special effects designer can’t afford to leave everything until the last minute or they won’t be ready for the shoot.

Easy to deal with that and be decisive when you are certain. But does this entail that clarity without certainty need stand in the way of decision-making? Maybe it does — at least in the case of making the wrong decisions. Less chance of that. Certainty without clarity can be the consequence of confusion, a means of denying it, and can often lead to confused decision-making. Clarity, by contrast, is the realization of questions and challenges with no easy answers, the acknowledgment and indeed embrace, then the working with what is uncertain but understood as such.

It is through that unflinching clarity that a filmmaker may come to know their film. Such clarity comes not from filmmaking as a body of doctrine, in the words of Wittgenstein but, in his words too as an activity.

Final thought and contradiction (?): the filmmaker who does not immerse their self in the body of cinema history (which is not doctrine but compendium of practice) and does not learn from the masters misses a fundamental resource in their search for clarity.

Peter Markham April 2023