The Eye is Quicker Read online

  As Martin Scorsese has often remarked, every time one makes a picture, one feels as if one has to learn to do it all over again from scratch. In that sense, Pepperman’s ability to lay out basic strategies and techniques and to warn about possible pitfalls makes this book useful even to experienced editors. But unlike so many books about editing, which describe the relationship between an editor and the many famous directors he or she has worked with, this book is filled with examples of students editing their own material or material directed by classmates. It is, therefore, students of all ages that will find The Eye Is Quicker an invaluable guide each time they set out on the absorbing, tricky, and thrilling journey of editing a movie.

  Amy Taubin

  Amy Taubin is a contributing editor for Film Comment magazine and Sight and Sound magazine. Her book, Taxi Driver, was published in 2000 in the British Film Institute’s Film Classics series.

  ONE

  the eye

  is quicker

  “In all films, good or bad, cinematic

  poetry struggles to reveal itself.”

  — Luis Buñuel

  I encourage students to develop their skill at storytelling: Structure, Inflection, and Pacing. At times, I’ll ask a student to stop editing, and tell me their story in a crisp, direct, and focused way. Film editing is — in utility — about storytelling. It is a unifying blend of story, delivery — techniques in conveyance, manner, and tone. Film editing is rendering storytelling delivery in images: The story is introduced to the eye. Better yet, film editing is all about storyshowing.

  Let me begin with a story that will help set in motion many practical ideas, and guidance for making a good film better.

  When my evening classes are workshops, I teach until 10:00 p.m. I take a taxi from the School of Visual Arts to Pennsylvania Station for the train ride home to New Jersey. My wife was uneasy about my walk across 23rd Street and uptown to 31st Street at such a late hour. I insisted that it was safe, “There are lots of people on the streets of New York all night long.” My wife persisted, “That’s just it, they could be dangerous people. Promise you’ll take a taxi.” I promised.

  After finishing my class, I’d walk from the editing room, down five flights of stairs, hand my roster to the security officer at the front desk, exchange a “Goodnight,” and exit the building raising my hand to hail a cab. Remarkably, in strict synchronization, a taxi would roll across 23rd Street in precise timing to my arrival at curbside. When you work in film, such things occur —just like in the movies!

  Then one night there was no taxi. I saw some with their ‘Off-Duty’ light illuminated. A few approached, but were occupied.

  A hurried walk to Penn Station from SVA takes scarcely less than 20 minutes. My train is the scheduled 10:35. After several minutes I began walking west on 23rd Street. I looked back again and again, checking for a cab.

  I walked all the way to 6th Avenue before coming to a red light. To continue to the station without having to stop, I turned right, and began walking uptown along the avenue. More than likely I was going to catch my train, but I was badly into promise breaking.

  I was less apprehensive about an encounter with a mugger, than troubled by athreatening irony. Would my broken promise — and first late night walk to catch the train — lead to my murder?

  At 26th Street the light was red to uptown traffic, so I crossed 6th Avenue and walked west on the north side of the street.

  Suddenly, somewhere between 6th and 7th Avenues, I flinched! I heaved my shoulders upward, simultaneously dropping my body in a ducking action. In an instant my arms were defending my face and head. There was no attacker. The street was without a single (or dangerous) person. I was thankful.

  As it turned out, my quick protective moves were in reaction to my hair wavering into the peripheral sight of my right eye. I had automatically reacted to safeguard my life. That no cognitive appraisal was required to ‘duck and cover’ got me thinking.

  I was twelve years old when my father purchased our first television. He surprised the family with a 13-inch Motorola. As were all TVs then, it was a black-and-white set. I hadn’t missed much during my years without a television. There were very few programs — I remember watching station patterns on a cousin’s set; they held interminably, accompanied by a fixed tone. We also had an open invitation from upstairs neighbors — the first family in the building to own a television — to join them every Tuesday evening at eight to watch the Texaco Star Theater, with Milton Berle.

  But soon after my twelfth birthday we had a television in the kitchen of our apartment.

  On Sunday evenings, before having to turn in for the night to begin the next school week, I was permitted to watch the Ed Sullivan Show. Mr. Sullivan was a columnist with the New York Daily News and hosted his own variety program, which featured every known form of entertainment. I took special pleasure in the magicians. I was awed by their flamboyance, their mind-boggling illusions, and in the over-all anticipation of their acts.

  A few of my uncles could do some amazing card tricks; could even ‘pull’ a quarter out of my ear. But magicians on the Ed Sullivan Show were world-class.

  I entered Penn Station. I thought about the assertive power the eye holds among all the senses; and of all the expressions which ‘give voice’ to this fact — and then some: See if the soup’s any good; see if it’s cold outside; see what I mean? I recalled that in the earliest days of MTV I overheard two young boys talking about a new album release. One asked, “Have you seen the new Michael Jackson song?”

  I boarded the 10:35 train. I was safe. I had protected myself from my longish hair — the only peril en route. But my memory had been jogged. I remembered the Ed Sullivan Show, and something my father told me.

  One Sunday evening, while my family watched one of Ed’s magicians, my father offered up the ‘secret’ of their incredible practiced craft. “The hand is quicker than the eye!” I have heard the assertion many times. It is not true. The eye is quicker! This fact is indispensable for film editors. It holds a very simple significance: Directly it means that the moment selected for the joining of images must be ‘calculated’ to the very speedy interpretive facility of our eyes — a specific cut can work well or poorly. It is equally fundamental to our ability to ‘decode’ collections of images: The eye is ever alert to ‘take in’ information, and swift to embrace intricate descriptions. The eye is quicker than you might envision to ‘get the picture.’

  TWO

  mind watching

  the cuts

  “Editing is the creative force of

  filmic reality.”

  —V. I. Pudovkin

  Have you ever watched the eyes of passengers as a subway train enters a station? Their pupils switch briskly from left to right. The passengers are trying to read the posted street signs on the platform pillars.

  Some half-dozen years before my family was able to watch television programs on our own set, my father would, on many a Sunday morning, take my younger sister, me, and a large bag of unshelled peanuts, on the subway. We traveled to Times Square to feed pigeons. We were on the train for some six or seven stops, and I would make the trip uptown an ‘undercover’ adventure — I would surreptitiously watch people’s eyes. The repositioning of the pupils, in speed and range, is spectacular. Our eyes are as resolutely watchful when fixed on a movie screen. While they might not affect the same subway dance, we know they take great pleasure as images boogie, tap, and waltz.

  There is delight to the eye as diverse compositions cut into sight. The appeal is so marvelous that the eye can easily be dazzled without regard to substance; in the same way sweets can seduce the tongue without regard to sustenance. Could this provoke a discussion about the integrity of Sugar Sweet Puff Cereal, and film editing?

  At least three million years — I apologize, but I must speed through them and stay attentive to my point — of the human eye giving us an on-the-spot defensive reflex have predestined our survival; and the astonishing c
apacity of our eyes to absorb information — as well as gain pleasure — has predetermined the emergence and evolution of the visual arts.

  Yet, with all the history — and my hasty prehistory — of the quick-eye’s reflex, the asserted aim of the film editor is to craft the invisible cut. Is it possible for cuts to go undetected? In an effort to check my ‘eye is quicker’ brainchild, I tried a straightforward test.

  I asked my students to watch a scene presented via a VCR and monitor, and to raise a hand whenever they became aware of a cut. I played the scene, and hands went-up. No student failed to spot each and every cut. Not a single cut went unobserved!

  If CUTS are discernible — and with very few exceptions they are — what are film editors determined to achieve? How can the audience sit undistracted by the starkness of frequent cuts? Why do some cuts produce disconcerting obviousness? Or, quite simply, are there good cuts and bad cuts? If there are, what are their attributes?

  Certain characteristics inescapably engage the eye. The principal eye-catcher is movement. Remember my longish hair?

  Out of this knowledge about movement and the eye has come the timeless adage: Cut on Action. This is a simple practice to facilitate a safe cut — a cut that is more or less inconspicuous. Cutting on action doesn’t promise an invisible cut, but at times it is one of the few exceptions illustrating the possibility of an (almost) undetectable cut. Continuous frames of film — at 24 frames per second — depict movement. Even in the finest focused shot, single frames of movement can reveal various degrees of blur. The more extreme the movement, the greater is the likelihood of blur in any single frame. If shots are joined at frames of extreme action — and greatest blur — the eye might fail to spot the cut; and sometimes no hand will go up — at least not so quickly.

  You can see — but not so easily — an example of this ‘blur effect’ in the Cadets Exercise in the Courtyard scene, from Colonel Redl. During the push-ups drill [Figure 2.1] a cut is made after young Alfred Redl looks down — the top of his cap facing the camera. The incoming cut to young Kristof Kubinyi is instantly recognizable because Kristof is facing the camera.

  Figure 2.1

  Later, during the squat-jumps drill, a cut is again made from young Alfred to young Kristof, but this time both boys are facing the camera, at a moment of excessive blur. [Figure 2.2] You may need to watch more than once to…

  Figure 2.2

  …catch sight of the cut

  Very few cuts exhibit such characteristics. Most often the movement is modest, with only slight blur displayed. But the blur factor must be considered when a cut results in disconcerting obviousness. There are instances when a cut is disturbing because the movement (however slight), effects a trifling of blur in the Outgoing frame that exceeds (or is less than) the blur in the Incoming frame. The quick-eye will spot this hitch: a hesitating, or faltering of sorts. Ed Dmytryk refers to cuts that initiate such a sudden starkness as “mental hiccups!” The “mental hiccup” cut is conspicuous, and can be considered a ‘bad cut.’

  TIP: The ‘imbalanced blur’ bad cut can be made good by ‘seeing’ that there is a more, rather than a less, equal degree of blur on both sides of the cut. There are lots of times when an adjustment of a single frame will make all the difference.

  The most common “mental hiccup” is triggered when a cut — made too soon after a movement begins — doesn’t allow for an ‘evolution’ from the quick-eye’s reflex to a mindful response. In other words, the eye responds to the movement with quick vigilance while the conscious brain wonders, “What was that?” If you say, “What was that?” as fast as you can, that’s something akin to a “mental hiccup.”

  These bad cuts can be made good by either trimming the Outgoing cut of the motion that has grabbed the eye, or by adding 2-3 frames to the Outgoing (extending the movement), thus allowing a mindful response. The latter is very helpful when a swift movement grips the eye: a quick head turn, or a hand speeding upward. Extending the movement by 2-3 frames creates an extended action across the cut. Interestingly, this kind of cut can be obvious when viewed in slow motion or in reverse, revealing repetitiveness, or a near-doubling of the action; yet the extended cut works wonderfully well when viewed forward at normal (24 fps) speed.

  For a great example of a Quick Head-Turn, and its extended cut in action, screen Jack Returns to “Grandfather” scene from Little Big Man.

  After exchanging greetings, Jack learns that Grandfather has been wounded, and is blind. Jack is told that the “white man” is responsible; and he quickly turns his head to look for “Buffalo Walla Woman.” Concentrate on Jack’s face. The action of the head-turn begins with the camera facing Jack’s front. The extended cut of the head-turn is completed with the camera at Jack’s back — as he turns and faces the camera. [Figure 2.3]

  Figure 2.3

  See if you can spot the near doubling of the head-turn.

  All cuts exist within the margin of two film frames: the Outgoing and the Incoming. A cut across action must take into account another equally decisive feature of the ‘quick-eye’ reflex: how does the eye ‘read’ the spatial illusion of the projected image. Film is a two-dimensional rendition of space, and if a Quick-Head-Turn is joined — on either side of the cut — with the head in precise profile, the cut can be perceived as ‘paused.’ This is especially true if the frame in profile contains too little blur. The profile calls attention — in the quick-eye — to the film’s two-dimensional presentation. The profile is (often) ‘read’ as a still frame. This is true for all cuts across a continuing action: a spinning ballerina, with an Outgoing or Incoming cut at the moment her body is precisely aligned, in profile or straight ahead, or arms correspondingly matched — parallel to the background — eliminating the foreshortening that visually ‘implies’ three-dimensions, will likely be perceived as ‘paused.’ [Figure 2.4]

  Figure 2.4

  HINT: There’ll be more about film’s two-dimensional rendition of three-dimensional space.

  The spinning ballerina presents a good lesson in focal point. The etymology of the word ‘focus’ is of special interest; and curiously, the definitions of the word ‘Interest’ are immediately allied to those of ‘focus’: attention; notice; awareness. ‘Focus’ is of Latin derivation meaning ‘hearth’, as in fireplace — literally the French ‘foyer.’ Remember my mentioning that ‘movement’ is the principal eye-catcher? Movement, and whatever (else) catches the eye — even within a single film frame — is the focal point. Light catches the eye, and fire (or fireplace) attaches to the derivation of ‘focus.’

  TIP: A cut that captures too brief a shifting in light — a lamp coming on or going off — will conspicuously catch the eye; it might require an extended cut.

  After movement comes people. Our eyes will take quick and immediate notice of people. The face takes preference. The eyes take greater preference. A blink of the eyes — there is movement — is of paramount preference, as would a change in facial expression(s): shifting eyes, mouth, or brow. If any of these facial expressions just barely begin, and a cut is made prior to a ‘mindful response,’ you’ll end up with a “mental hiccup.”

  How does a face as focal point influence the example of the spinning ballerina? To our eyes a spinning ballerina is principally — or ‘prima’ — a spinning face. If a cut is made during her spin, with preference given to the position of her face— being certain that the cut ‘conceals’ the fact that the movie screen is flat, [Figure 2.5] and that there is an equal distribution of ‘blur’ — it will, in all likelihood, be successful even if the ballerina’s arms or legs do not match across the cut, because the audience’s eyes will be concentrated on the face.

  Figure 2.5

  Successfully spinning a ‘mismatch’

  TIP: In all cases, if you can find the focal point — where your eyes inevitably gaze— you can ‘find’ (or fix) a cut!

  There are occasions when something weirdly jarring happens at a cut. This is more than likely a result of
your quick-eye reflex doing its job. The eyes dart to a sector of the film frame when a movement alerts them more rapidly than the brain’s cognitive appraisal can bear it in mind: “What was that?” Watch the cut again. Do you ‘see’ what your eyes saw?

  TIP: Use your hands to cover all but the portion of the screen that you thought your eyes were watching. If the cut now seems to work, look again, this time full screen, and you’re certain to find the movement your eyes spotted. It might be the boom microphone dipping into view at the frame’s top; or an actor you ‘thought’ went unobserved, shifting his hand, or eyes. With some practice — that’ll come with experience — you will develop the uncanny facility to have your brain ‘watch and note’ your eyes’ automatic responses.

  The truth is that cuts are no more invisible than the film image itself is invisible. Film is, in large part, given life by the indispensable cut; and the moment of the join can be apparent and trouble-free at the same time. In much the same way we can point to isolated words on a page, and separate sounds which make up words. But we are not truly reading unless the eye-brain disregards the parts for the whole. We are not wholly listening unless we draw together the words into sentences, into ideas and meaning.

  Plainly put, the good film editor strives to join the many film fragments, so that the structure established might hold enchantment, with no attentive concern about a cut. If there is form and purpose the audience can be captivated by the experience. In all creative storytelling, whether film, theatre, or literature, the aim is the same: have the fragments fade, and what remains is the harmony of the whole.