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  A stunning example of such storyshowing from The Verdict Galvin Confronts the Admitting Nurse scene. Attorney Galvin has been searching for a missing witness who can provide evidence on behalf of his client — a young woman given the wrong anesthetic during childbirth, and now in a permanent coma. He learns that the witness — the former admitting nurse — has left Boston, the place of the story, and is ‘hiding out’ in New York City. He flies to New York to seek her help.

  With a Cut Away/Insert of a Boston to New York airline ticket in the breast pocket of Galvin’s overcoat — spotted by the nurse — we know that she knows exactly what the ‘visit’ is about. [Figure 10.1] A thousand words in (dreadful) dialogue are avoided: Exposition, which would have ‘forced’ the audience to sit through a ‘re-telling’ of events and information while the ‘new arrival’ in the film — the admitting nurse — gets ‘caught up’ on the background facts of the court case; and the attorney’s introduction and request.

  Figure 10.1

  …And not one word more…

  You will find mention of this scene — on the last page — in Ed Dmytryk’s On Film Editing. He hoped it signaled a return to the montage approach to filmmaking. When montage is efficient — Cut Away/Insert assisted — it calls to mind the ancient, and original, adage: One picture is worth ten thousand words!

  Awareness of how students, and those new to editing, begin to construct scenes — most conspicuous, film openings — directs me to this topic.

  HINT: The premise of this chapter is indispensable to suggestions offered later.

  It is easier to ‘find’ a scene by working from Close-Ups (Cut Away/Insert) Outward, than from Long-Shots (Master Shot) Inward. This approach, and structure, provides the audience with a “what will the story bring?” mind-set. Its helpfulness is obvious in the first cuts of a scene; its utmost value is observable in the opening of a film.

  Most screenplays begin with a description of Place — an explicit Master Shot. This is often sustained in production, and frequently isolates Place, from Character, from Story. It is altogether enticing to begin a film with this (admittedly) exaggerated opening:

  1. The PLANET EARTH. Zoom-In to:

  2. The WESTERN HEMISPHERE. Zoom-In to:

  3. NORTH AMERICA. Zoom-In to:

  4. The UNITED STATES. Zoom-In to:

  5. The MIDATLANTIC STATES. Zoom-In to:

  6. NEW YORK STATE. Zoom-In to:

  7. NEW YORK CITY. Zoom-In to:

  8. A WINDOW In An Apartment Building. Zoom-In thru:

  9. The WINDOW To See Our PROTAGONIST.

  Such a structure manufactures surplus beginnings while delaying the story. There is a kind of ‘introduction’ of elements: Here is the Place; here is the Protagonist — or other Character(s); now, let’s start the Story. Simplicity — and good storyshowing — is better served when elements are integrated.

  HINT: Add Place, Character, and Story to the three Distribution of Information elements from the last chapter. You now have six key elements.

  For terrific examples of integrating Story, Place(s), and Character(s), screen the opening scene(s) in Atlantic City and Chinatown.

  Atlantic City does not open with a panoramic view of Atlantic City, or a “Welcome to Atlantic City” sign. It opens on a Cut Away/Insert of lemons. [Figure 10.2] A knife cuts the lemons. A finger hits the play button on a cassette-radio. We see a woman wash herself with juice from the cut lemons.

  Figure 10.2

  The camera moves Outward…

  Chinatown does not open with a panoramic view of Los Angeles followed by a Zoom-In past an exterior Private Investigator sign, and into an office window. It opens on an Extreme Close-Up of a black-and-white still of a couple, surreptitiously photographed, in the act of lovemaking. [Figure 10.3] A hand sorts through additional photos. The camera moves Outward to reveal a second man — certainly the PI — seated at his desk, watching the man with the pictures: the Pi’s client, and cuckold.

  Figure 10.3

  …Distributing ever-newer Information

  TIP & HINT: Both films use vivid and dramatic contrasts between Image and Sound.

  In Atlantic City, cleansing the body with freshly squeezed lemon juice is accompanied by a recording — from the cassette-radio — of a Maria Callas aria. In Chinatown the photographs are accompanied by whimpering. What at first could be sounds of lovemaking ecstasy — coming from the still photos(?) — turns out to be the husband’s suffering moans.

  Good examples of openings that delay storytelling by ineffectively partitioning Place, Character and Story: Joe Gould’s Secret and Straight Story.

  Joe Gould’s Secret introduces Place via ‘Time.’ [Figure 10.4] Precious time is taken-up with an introduction to era.

  Figure 10.4

  Don’t make the STORY wait

  Straight Story spends an exorbitant amount of Time on Place, [Figure 10.5] superfluously introducing the locale and ‘settings,’ then, (almost) Zooms-ln and through a window.

  Figure 10.5

  Was I not exaggerating?

  HINT & TIP: A Cut Away/Insert doesn’t have to ‘sit silently by.’ It can be fully integrated with other images, and sounds.

  For an example of a Cut Away/Insert brilliantly integrated — and intercut — with dialogue, and physical action, screen the Detective Comes Calling on Colin scene from The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner. Money has been stolen from a neighborhood bakery. Colin is a prime suspect, and the chief detective on the case comes to ‘re-question’ him. The scene takes place in the doorway of an English working class row house. A heavy rain is falling. [Figure 10.6] The stolen money ‘washes’ down, and out, from its hiding spot: the rain gutter’s downspout.

  Figure 10.6

  A Cut Away/Insert beautifully incorporated

  I would ask this of screenwriters, directors, and editors: What is the first shot? How does it fix Character, and Place, to Story? Does the first shot advance inquiry? Where are we? Who is this? What is going on?

  OPENING SHOT: Extreme Close-Up. “ESCAPE” Key.

  A FINGER enters the frame and hits the Key.

  ELEVEN

  where’d

  the time

  go?

  “As a loyal believer in the Auteur Theory I

  first felt editing was but the logical

  consequence of the way in which one

  shoots. But, what I learned is that it is

  actually another writing.”

  — Bernardo Bertolucci

  A number of years ago I received a “Hello! Do you remember me?” letter from Germany. It was from a former Continuing Ed student. He was uncertain that I would, and he refreshed my memory by recounting one evening in the editing class.

  Most Continuing Ed students arrive after a full day at work; at times they are weary on arrival, or will be soon. I try to provide a mix of hands-on editing, critique, screenings, and discussion in each and every class. This seems to revitalize the group.

  Following a VCR screening of a film sequence, I put forward a few ideas about Time. Time — let’s not forget beats — as it was represented in a scene; in a sequence; and its relation to the employment of time in the film’s overall form. The student from Germany raised his hand.

  First he mentioned a topic that I had discussed some classes back. The topic had to do with the two-dimensional presentation of film; apprehension stirred-up by the 180 Degree Rule — how to figure on what side of a scene to place the camera — and the possibilities for film to describe three-dimensional space; and the editor’s place in all of this. The student asked, “Isn’t this week’s topic, ‘Film Time,’ actually the same as a previous topic, ‘Film Space’?” Then he embarked on a crisp summary of Einstein’s theory of General Relativity.

  I’ll keep this part simple. I try very hard to steer clear of theory, and I remind the reader that I don’t do fractions.

  The student’s first-rate account of Einstein’s ideas about space/time continuum did establ
ish a number of principles which fascinatingly linked Einstein to film editing.

  A screenplay — storytelling — and the production that depends on it, contains both Definite, and All-Purpose Time: A story might ‘play’ in a chronological Time Structure of a Definite day, or two, or three; or ‘play’ in a non-chronological Time Structure of All-Purpose days, or weeks, or more; or ‘play’ in a combination of time structures. It is not uncommon to discover that adjustments are required. Often conversions are necessary. The recognition that time shifts are desirable brings together the editor’s search and Einstein’s theory.

  Albert Einstein put it like this: “When a man sits with a pretty girl for an hour, it seems like a minute. But let him sit on a hot stove for a minute — and it’s longer than any hour. That’s relativity.”

  Film Time is exactly what Mr. Einstein’s example suggests: It is a feel of time; it is a sense of duration. It might be described as psychological time, or emotional time. It is why some 120-minute-long films seem interminable, while others of matching measured time seem fleeting. Most often it is not the quality of the story, but rather the qualities in the storyshowing.

  1. Alexander Nevsky. The Battle on Ice scene. The Russian peasant army, under Prince Nevsky’s command, awaits the German knights. The Russians stand (nearly) motionless. The German knights approach, at a gallop, across the frozen lake. [Figure 11.1] The prolonged tension is represented in the Time/Duration before the armies clash.

  Figure 11.1

  Extended Time;

  Extending Tension

  2. Dog Day Afternoon. Robbers and Hostages Exit the Bank and Board a Bus scene. [Figure 11.2] It takes longer (in measured time) for the robbers and hostages to make their way to the curb, and board the bus — there is visible repetition in the boarding actions — than it does to drive to Kennedy Airport. The Time Extension — and then Compression — underpins the dramatic storyshowing. Where is dramatic tension? How does Extending and Compressing Time enhance emotion as they move the story forward?

  Figure 11.2

  Editing Visual/Emotional Inflections

  The Dog Day scene employs movement and motionlessness to produce Extended Time and Emotional Duration: the standing New York City Police officers and FBI agents, and the moving robbers and hostages. Some 40 years earlier the Nevsky scene did the same: the waiting Russian peasants, and the galloping German knights.

  HINT, HINT: Contrasts in Juxtaposition.

  3. Witness. The Amish Boy in the Train Station Restroom scene. Time is extended — many more toilets than earlier — as one of the killers searches the stalls looking for the source of a low cry. The Amish Boy escapes detection. The shot holds on his face. Beat, beat, beat. Then a cut: We see the back of a policeman. We hear police walkie-talkies. The policeman clears the frame, and we see the Amish Boy in the arms of his mother. They are seated on a bench in the station waiting area. Policemen are all about. [Figure 11.3]

  By ‘passing up’ images of the Amish boy ‘screaming’ out from the restroom, a brilliant instance of pure cinematic storyshowing is crafted:

  Figure 11.3

  The clout in Time Left Out!

  “The hell of good screenwriting is that the most important part is what gets left out.”

  — Raymond Chandler

  HINT & TIP: The Rhythm — in Image and Sound — that builds the killer’s search of the stalls is (surprisingly) asymmetrical.

  Let me point out a missed Time storyshowing opportunity in Witness. Gathering Amish make their way to a farmhouse. [Figure 11.4] A title appears:

  Figure 11.4

  Several scenes later, a horse-drawn carriage rolls along pristine countryside. In Long Shot, the carriage enters screen left; as it nears the midpoint of the frame, an ‘18-wheeler’ approaches, air brakes sounding. [Figure 11.5] This shows us the way from the 19th to the 20th century.

  Figure 11.5

  Be careful with Pictured Words

  A chief concern for the editor should be the correlation between the Time Frame of the story’s events, and the film’s Emotional Time. Simply, is it credible and effective for the events as structured to occur within the Time Frame of the story? The editor must fuse the distribution of information, and the ‘feel’ of Time.

  TIP: There are always improvements in time structures to be uncovered in postproduction. There are always time deletions to be discovered. A vital share of good storyshowing goes to Structuring Time.

  A thesis student submitted a script. The story was classic in its premise, themes, and hopefulness. It derived many essentials from The 400 Blows and The Bicycle Thief. It was a tender tale of a mother and son facing great hardship in the aftermath of the father’s death. Upon completion of a first assembly we screened Dead End. The assembly matched the sequential order of the screenplay — which read just fine — and we’d run into a problem. The Emotional Time felt too abbreviated, too hurried.

  HINT & TIP: Everything changes when images are the means of presentation. The ‘means’ determine selection and arrangement.

  We realized that we had to ‘find’ a configuration of images that would achieve a credible and effective presentation in storyshowing Time. The death of the father compels the mother to seek employment. In the screenplay, the descriptions of the mother’s preparations to find work — looking in the classified section of a newspaper; checking her resume; dressing; applying make-up; going on interviews — were written for a single day. In the editing we separated these images to provide more (emotional) time. Instead of playing the Definite Time of one day, an All-Purpose Time of about a week was established. It was ‘suitable’ to have the mother wearing — in the dailies she was — the same clothing whenever she went job hunting: The ‘outfit’ was her finest. [Figure 11.6] The additional time was also good for the drama. The mother was more despondent after many days of failing to find work.

  Figure 11.6

  Dead End

  Director, Bao Vu; Editor, Magnus Akten

  The son has a severe limp, and is the target of a bully. When he leaves for school, he’s stalked by the bully. Later, in the classroom, the bully continues his harassment. As written, the two events occur in the above order, signifying the Definite Time of one and the same day. In editing they were made to play as All-Purpose days by simple reordering. The bully is first encountered in the classroom scene…. and on another day the son is teased on his way to school. [Figure 11.7] The street encounter is more perilous — the audience now knows the bully — and a freer, more expansive ‘feel of time’ is established.

  Figure 11.7

  No Continuum; More All-Purpose Time

  In the screenplay the mother has little money left in her checking account, and lots of bills to pay. When the landlord threatens eviction, and sexually propositions her (in the presence of the boy), she takes the boy’s watch — a prized gift from the father — to a pawnshop for quick cash. In the screenplay the son applies for a job as a restaurant delivery boy; he is turned down for want of a bicycle. He steals one!

  These events were reordered: We see the mother with bills. The watch is brought to the pawnshop. [Figure 11.8] The quick cash will pay the bills. It is several days — and job searches — later that the landlord threatens eviction, and makes sexual advances, in the boy’s presence.

  Figure 11.8

  The pawnshop cash is ‘now’ only a temporary solution for the family

  Many days and events have passed since the boy sought the restaurant job. Only now does the boy steal a bicycle. [Figure 11.9] Good for the drama: The boy must make money to defend the honor of his mother; the audience feels ambivalent.

  Figure 11.9

  Stealing is wrong, but…?

  Also reordered was the screenplay’s scene of the boy’s single day on the job — the same and definite day the bike’s owner shows up. We increased the feel of time by separating specific actions: the boy with his bike arriving at the restaurant following a delivery; exiting the restaurant to make a delive
ry; inside the restaurant, getting paid, and counting his money; returning home, and hiding the stolen bike. [Figure 11.10] This last appeared in the screenplay immediately — Definite Time — after the boy stole the bike.

  Figure 11.10

  All-Purpose days at work

  The new structure provided a far better distribution of event, consequence, and (attempt at) solution. It engendered a brazen dilemma for the boy, and considerable despair for the mother. It strengthened the drama. It readily, and strikingly, established a credible and effective Duration — a feel of time.

  HINT & TIP: Screen The Captain and Dersu Explore a Frozen Lake scene from Dersu Uzala. Take note of the entrance and exit beats of the men at cut points. Some depict the two already in frame — sometimes walking; other ‘times’ still. [Figure 11.11] The scene is a masterful example of creating — in measured minutes — hours of escalating fear.

  Figure 11.11

  HINT: A study In Asymmetrical Beats

  While it is possible to ‘cut and paste’ script pages to find new structures, the logic of words is unlike visual logic. It is why, once the dailies are in, many editors no longer care to ‘look at’ the screenplay. Visual logic will stir generous transformations — many not perceptible in the script reading. The possibilities are vast, and clearly ‘pictured’ when the film is viewed, assembled, and viewed again. Scenes unexpectedly connect in new assortments, building new — and resourceful — Sequences.