No title

FALL 1968

CINEMA

JOURNAL

Jack C. Ellis: The Young Grierson in America, 1924-1927 Herbert G. Luft: Carl Mayer, Screen Author

Peter Harcourt: What, Indeed, Is Cinema?

Jerzy Toeplitz: Cinema in Eastern Europe

JOURNAL

CINEMA

Volume VIII, Number 1, Fall, 1968 With this issue we propose to become semi-annual. We may prefer to stay that way. Once a year, which is all we have attempted till now, is hardly often enough for the journal of a vigorous and growing academic society. But we are wary of the grim demands of a regular quarterly publication. It can drain the blood from effective teaching for those who must fill its pages. We especially don't want to suggest that there is any second-hand substitute for alert and thoughtful screenwatching. We do hope to present-in a style that is at the same time serious, concise, interesting, and relaxed-some valuable contributions to the history and criticism of cinema. We plan to seek work of quality and authority, with or without footnotes. We welcome a variety of contributions from members and nonmembers-theoretical, historical, comparative, critical, controversial. The social implications of cinema are never far from our thoughts. We are also aware of the scientific aspects of film production and of audience analysis. But most of the time, we shall probably emphasize film as an art and the criticism of it as one of the humanities. With this issue we begin publication of shorter or more specialized pieces in the Notes section. We hope that members, non-members, and especially graduate and undergraduate students in film study programs will want to use this section as a place to explore a new idea, dig into a moment of film history, or trim down the essence of a seminar paper. Cinema is unlike any other field of study. Its source material is shadowy, unsteady, indescribable. We are searching for our best approach, our discipline. A journal is a familiar American way of doing it right out in the open with everyone watching.

CONTENTS

Jerzy Toeplitz: Cinema in Eastern Europe

2

Jack C. Ellis: The Young Grierson in America, 1924-1927

12

Peter Harcourt: What, Indeed, Is Cinema?

22

Herbert G. Luft: Carl Mayer, Screen Author

29

Cinema Journal Notes

39

Book Reviews

46

STAFF EDITOR:

Richard Dyer MacCann University of Kansas

ASSOCIATE EDITORS: Arthur Knight University of Southern California Jack C. Ellis Northwestern University William Sloan New York Public Library

Printed at the JOURNAL OF THE SOCIETY OF CINEMATOLOGISTS. University of Kansas, Lawrence, Kansas 66044. Editorial office, 217 Flint Hall. ) 1968, Society of Cinematologists. Additional copies $2.00 from Gerald Noxon, 21 Maple Avenue, Bridgewater, Mass. 02324. Annual subscription, $4.00.

CONTRIBUTORS Jerzy Toeplitz began writing about the film in 1929 in Poland. A founding member of the Start Society, whose slogan was "fight for films for the public good," he wrote film reviews in daily newspapers, worked in the motion picture industry in England and Italy (1935-37), and after World War II was an administrator for Film Polski. Since 1948, he has been president of the International Federation of Film Archives. He is also a member of the Society of Cinematologists. Professor Toeplitz is best known in the United States as a member of the faculty (and during two important periods, rector) of the state film school at Lodz. In conjunction with his twenty years of teaching there, he has been head of the film department at the national Institute of Art since 1950, where he engages in research and supervises Ph.D. candidates. The latter is now his principal activity. He is supervising a multi-volume history of Polish film and is working on the fifth volume of his own history of world cinema. While Dr. Toeplitz was at UCLA during 1967, he was invited to visit the University of Kansas; his article in this issue is based on a public lecture he gave at that time. Jack C. Ellis is professor of film in the School of Speech at Northwestern University, where he has developed one of the major American programs in film teaching, including both production training and cinema history and criticism. He was a founding member of the American Federation of Film Socities and of the Society of Cinematologists. Dr. Ellis has for some years been concerned with the documentary film, its history and its contemporary role. His longplanned biography of John Grierson is well on its way to completion. We are especially glad to offer a chapter from it in this issue, as presented at the last annual meeting of the Society. The author hopes "that in response to it others may come forward with additional recollections, conjectures, and corrections." Peter Harcourt is well known to many of our readers as writer and editorial board member for Sight and Sound, the British

film magazine. A Canadian by birth, he says he "studied music at Toronto and English with Leavis at Cambridge." Becoming interested "in the educational possibilities of the entertainment film," he joined the staff of the British Film Institute, as lecturer and editor, for six years. He returned to Canada in September 1967 to establish a program of film studies in the English department at Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario. Mr. Harcourt's thoughtful response to a new book becomes in itself an important contribution to film theory. Herbert G. Luft, twice president and seven times chairman of the Golden Globe awards for the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, has contributed frequently to Films in Review and recently to the Los Angeles magazine, Cinema. He is correspondent for Film Kreis in Munich; Oesterreichische Film und Kino Zeitung, a motion picture trade paper in Vienna; and for the Jewish Telegraphic Agency, serving 100 weeklies in the United States and abroad. Peter Dart is associate professor of speech and journalism in the Radio-TelevisionFilm department at the University of Kansas, where he teaches film history seminars, television and film production courses, and the basic introduction to radio-television film. He has taught at Moorhead State College and San Francisco State College; he is a member of the Society of Cinematologists and the University Film Association. Philip di Franco is a graduate student in the cinema history program, School of the Arts, New York University, where he has been an assistant to Professors Robert Gessner and George Amberg. John Fell is head of the film department at San Francisco State College; Kirk Bond is a freelance living in New York City. Both are members of the Society and have written extensively in magazines about film and other subjects. George Amberg, professor of cinema history at New York University, wrote the tribute to Robert Gessner. Publication cost for this issue has been underwritten by the William Allen White Foundation and by the University of Kansas.

Cinemain EasternEurope Jerzy Toeplits

The cinema world of 1938-39 was a very small world. There were really only six centers of production which were known-France, Italy, Germany, Great Britain, the United States, and the Soviet Union. In most of the countries of the world even those six centers were reduced to four. There were very few sound Soviet films being shown outside the Soviet Union in the period 1934 till the beginning of the war; for political reasons, nobody wanted to show them. There were very few German films being shown for different political reasons. And so the average spectator in the United States, Poland, Hungary, Great Britain, or France would see mostly American films and sometimes French or Italian films. We knew that there were far-away centers of film production in Japan and India but they were totally unknown. Japanese films were shown to people of Japanese origin but not to the general public. That was the situation in 1939. The film world of today is a very large world. There are not six but several dozen centers of production and the average spectator is able to see films from many countries including eastern Europe. There were two instruments working toward popularization of exotic or unknown national cinemas. First, there was the development of the institution of the film festival. Before the war there was only one international film festival, in Venice, and this festival was very largely, especially at the end of the 1930's, a political festival, serving the cause of the axis powers, of Germany and Italy. Today we have around the world more than a hundred festivals and at least twenty important ones. The four most important in Europe are at Venice, Cannes, Berlin, and Moscow alternating with Karlovy-Vary. Among the twenty are those which do not give awards, as in London, New York, and Acapulco. Then there are the specialized film festivals: documentaries in Oberhausen and Mannheim, animation films in Annecy and Mamaia and so on. These festivals, which are very often criticized as being commercial enterprises, are in fact extremely useful because they popularize the unknown cinema. Every year in many places the films of all nations are shown despite political differences. Even in the cold war days these festivals were in a certain sense

CINEMAJOURNAL / 3 neutralist because in those years at the Karlovy-Vary festival there were films from the west and at Cannes and Venice there were films from the Soviet Union and eastern European countries. There is another instrument which plays a very important role, especially in the United States of America-the art theaters. They existed before 1939, but if one is to believe the statistics (and I think in this case the statistics tell the truth) the number of art theaters before 1939 varied from 30 to 40, whereas today there are well over 1000 theaters in the United States showing foreign films. So we see that the notion of a large film world is not a theoretical proposition but a reality. It varies from place to place. In larger centers it is most evident. But also in smaller places, thanks to the institution of the film society or film club, foreign films are being seen. This is especially true in universities. For these reasons, eastern European cinema is no longer exotic or unknown. BASICTRADITIONS

What do I mean by east European cinema? First there is the political distinction-we are thinking of the countries belonging to the socialist, or if you prefer, the communist group of nations. These countries have similar, though not identical, political systems, and this is felt also in the field of motion picture production. Historical factors, too, are similar. All these countries were liberated by the red army with the help of the local partisans. In Yugoslavia certainly the partisans played a much greater role than the red army itself but very definitely in all these countries at the end of the war the arrival of the Russian army changed very greatly the political situation. Then, in all these countries the leading role in political life is played by the communist party, although the communist parties are different nowadays and we cannot speak about any uniform model of the communist party all over the world. A third historical factor is the development of cinema in the Soviet Union. The Russian experience was well known and served as an example and model. The films themselves, however, were known more from hearsay or from film periodicals than from projection until 1945. With the exception of Czechoslovakia, the censors in east European countries did not allow Soviet films to be shown in cinemas. After 1945, the situation changed radically; old and new Soviet films were widely shown. There are three elements which seem to me characteristic and really decisive for the character of east European cinema in all the countries I am speaking ofthe Soviet Union, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Rumania, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia. First, they are all state owned cinemas. The state takes on the task of financing film production, running the theaters, and also controlling distribution of films in foreign counties and the importation of foreign films into these countries. The change from private to national ownership did not come at the same time in all these countries. In 1945, only three countries had a nationalized cinema: Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Yugoslavia. In Bulgaria, Rumania, and Hungary the nationalization came three years later. I should mention here as a

4 / CINEMAJOURNAL curiosity that in Hungary in 1946 cinema production was divided among four political parties-each one had its own producing company, cinemas, and distribution office. Nowadays in each of these countries nationalization is fully accepted; there are no exceptions. The second thing common to all these countries is that the rank of the cinema in the hierarchy of the arts is much higher than in the western states. There is a feeling that it is the duty of the state to take care of cinema, that the cinema is an important part of art-not entertainment, not industry, but art. The reason is quite clear. All the Marxists in all these countries have read the famous statement by Lenin that "of all the arts the cinema is the most important for us." He recognized the enormous propaganda value of the film, its influence on the masses. I must add that his statement is of enormous use in our countries. If we have any kind of financial difficulties with our authorities it is always very helpful to remind them of what Lenin said about the cinema, and then they must deal with us seriously. We do not allow them to forget what Lenin said. Still, it is a fact that the artists of the cinema in these countries are treated the same as any other artists-writers, musicians, painters. They belong to the same group of people; they have the same rights, the same privileges, and they are considered important. The third common denominator in all these countries is the idea of the film school as nursery for future film makers. I think this is of the greatest importance because there is a natural influx of new people with fresh ideas coming out of the schools into film production. Production could hardly exist without the schools. Producers do not have to search for people who might be useful to them. There is a regular channel for young people interested in film and seeing film as a career leading them from school into the profession. These elements are common in all those cinemas. Let me now speak about the differences. The first difference is that all these cinemas have their own national and artistic heritage-in literature, painting, theater, all the arts which collaborate with the cinema. Going back again to 1939, all the cinemas had different paths and different starting points. The strongest cinema existed in Czechoslovakia. It is very old, starting almost at the same time as cinema in other countries. In 1934 Czechoslovakia got the first prize for the best national selection at the Venice film festival. Czech films were known all over Europe, if not all over the world, for artistic achievements. They had also a very well organized economic and technical basis for production and very good studios. Hungary and Poland had production before the war but the artistic and technical level was poor. From time to time there was a work standing out above the average commercial level but such films were exceptional; they were producing strictly for the home market. Finally Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, and Rumania practically did not exist. The number of Rumanian films produced before 1939, from the very beginning, were ten or twelve. The same goes for Bulgaria, producing perhaps one every second year in foreign studios. In those countries it was necessary to start from scratch.

CINEMAJOURNAL / 5 You may ask why I do not mention East Germany. It is a special case. First of all, my sense of geography revolts when I include East Germany in eastern European cinema because to me it is very much central Europe. Secondly, in Germany there was total destruction of everything of any value during the Hitler era. We cannot speak of any tradition from 1933 on. The people were made to forget about anything that happened before Hitler. Certainly the young people did not know anything. In the Hitler era-quite different from the situation in Italy-there was no one using the cinema against the main current of political thought. In Czechoslovakia it was easier. Perhaps I am a little jealous, because not only were their facilities not destroyed during the war but they inherited a much better situation after the war than before. The Germans, not being able to produce in Berlin under the heavy bombardment of the allied air force, went to Prague and enlarged the film studios there. Prague was called in those days the ideal air raid shelter. The production of Czech films during the occupation was not considered any national treason or act of collaboration; Czech films were made for the Czech public and all the people worked. In Poland there was not one Polish film produced during the war. The Germans completely forbade the production of Polish films. Now how are we to look at the period 1945 to 1967? I think we can divide it into three distinct periods. The first goes from 1945 to 1948-49; the second, 1948-49 to about 1953-55; and the third from 1955-56 on. Until 1948 production followed the old pattern of prewar cinema in Czechoslovakia and Poland. There was no uniformity, but rather many different approaches to film, and many were produced by older film makers. The method of socialist realism, already accepted and adopted in the Soviet Union, was not yet officially accepted in these countries. FROM STALINIZATION TO DECENTRALIZATION

Then came the second or Stalinist period, after 1948, including political events like the blockade of Berlin, the crisis with Tito in Yugoslavia, and processes against many political leaders in Czechoslovakia and Hungary. Then started the tendency to make cinema in all these countries like the Soviet pattern and extremely uniform in character. There was a joke with more than a grain of truth told by one of my colleagues in the Polish film school. He said that if you entered a projection room during these years and saw a film on the screen but could not hear the dialog (perhaps there was something wrong with the sound) you could never tell whether the film you were seeing was Hungarian, Bulgarian, Czech, Rumanian, or Polish. They were exactly alike: the same kind of stories, the same kind of heroes, the same kind of enemies. There were certainly exceptions, but generally speaking during this period we saw this very depressing kind of uniformity and lack of national differences. During this time which we have called "the cult of personality" many film makers were following the lead of Mikhail Chiaurelli, one of the main directors in the Soviet Union,

6 / CINEMA JOURNAL

who made The Fall of Berlin (1950) and other very pompous, very monumental Stalinist pictures. Then came the death of Stalin, the Twentieth Congress, the thaw in the Soviet Union and in other countries. Then came the birth of national, antidogmatic cinema and really different cinemas in the different countries. This change was not an immediate change. In some countries it was earlier, in some, later. I think the first was Poland, as early as 1954-55. There were two other factors which helped Poland make this change, later followed by other countries. The first was the new model of production of films which was introduced in Poland, the decentralization of production. Before 1954 in all these countries films were commanded to be made from one central administrative agency: the Ministry of Culture had the general direction of the cinema. There was an established plan of production-not only the number of films to be produced, but the character of the films: so many films about the Caucasus, so many films about the life of the workers, so many about the imperialist danger, and so on. Then they picked the directors for each film. Sometimes they didn't like to make such films but they agreed to make them. The autonomy of the film makers was very greatly limited by this centralized system. Decentralization meant that the initiative of making the films passed from the functionaries, from the ministries, from the offices of the central committee of the party, to the film makers themselves. They were to suggest the films they would like to make. People having the same kind of artistic interests and ideas joined forces and organized film units or companies. Some liked to make historical films; others wanted to do comedies. Films were still state owned but the task of making films was no longer the task of the ministry but of the separate groups or film units. After Poland did this, Czechoslovakia and Hungary accepted a similar model, and now I have heard, even before I left Poland for my visit here in the United States, the Soviet Union is also introducing the idea of the film group. Bulgaria, Rumania, and East Germany are still keeping the old model. Yugoslavia has gone far ahead and given not only autonomy but also complete independence to the regional companies. Yugoslavia is a federal republic and each republic has a different film studio which not only produces the films but sends them abroad, buys foreign films, and enters into co-production arrangements. This decentralization has helped the growth of national cinemas. In Poland, when film makers got the initiative, they got a new path. They abandoned rigid dogmatic formulas. They had a different spirit and they started to make films they liked to produce, the films they thought were necessary. The second thing of great importance was that this was the period when the graduates of the film schools entered film production. It is a long process. It is not automatic that one day somebody starts a film school and in three or four years there are new geniuses, new film makers ready to show the world how clever they are. The Polish film school was started in 1947. The debut of

CINEMAJOURNAL / 7 Andrzej Wajda was in 1954. The minimum period for the ripening of a new college and the system of a film school is at least five to seven years. The new wave in the Polish cinema was due to the graduates of the film school-Wajda and Munk. The new wave in Czech films-Nemec, Forman, Chytilova-came a little later but again they were graduates of the film school. In the Soviet Union we have had a great renaissance in the republican studios in various Soviet republics like Lithuania, Moldavia, and Georgia where again the young generation of film makers coming out of the film schools found work in the studios. Finally, in Hungary there is a special institution, the Bdla Balizs film studio, named after the famous theoretician of film in the 1930's. Film students, after finishing at school, can go and experiment in this studio at Budapest where they have special facilities. Many of the shorts shown all over the world were produced in the Bela Balizs studio. LOOKING AT WAR AND INDIVIDUALISM

Meanwhile in each country, writers and directors were reevaluating recent history, the war and the resistance. Why? Because in the day of the dogmatic cinema everything was treated in an extremely superficial way. Nazis were arch criminals and the resistance fighters were arch heroes. The actual situation was much more complex and difficult, and this was well known. The resistance politically was not united during the war. It was united in the sense that it was fighting against the Germans, but there were conflicting tendencies. To say that all the resistance were at the same time communists was very far from the truth, especially in Poland, where the organization directed from London was really powerful and effective. Then there were the human factors. It was not an easy thing for a young man to join the resistance. There were family problems, problems of personal happiness, even of very human cowardice. Not all the people were born heroes. Some were taking part in the fighting but were frightened at the same time. Some were hesitating. There were not many but there were some who were traitors who couldn't resist the fear of persecution by the secret German police. So it was absolutely natural after a series of heroic films to look again at the recent past and to say something different, something more personal, more psychologically and sociologically true. The great contribution of the Polish film school-and I'm not speaking of it in terms of an educational center but of the style of such men as Wajda and Munk and Kawalerowicz-was the fact that the new directors looked with newly opened eyes at the past. One of the best examples is Ashes and Diamonds. It shows the very difficult position of a young man who has been fighting against the Germans and is now asked to fight against the Communists. He is a good Pole and a good patriot but he sees that there is a different concept of the future of Poland as brought by the people coming with the Russian army, by the Polish communists, and by the Polish nationalists. There were hundreds of such tragic conflicts and all this was waiting to be shown on the screen. It was the

8 / CINEMAJOURNAL same with the insurrection in Warsaw and the destruction of our capital, when 300,000 people were killed. The very fact that Poland lost during the war 7,000,000 people, twenty per cent of the population, made it necessary morally and psychologically to make films about the war. It was something very deep inside us because almost every family lost someone in the war. Our capital was totally rebuilt with great effort and many sacrifices. We had to make films about that. There was also the problem of the individual and society. In the Stalinist dogmatic period there were many slogans which were very popular but meaningless. We knew they were not true-not that the intentions were not good, but the reality was different. One of these slogans claimed there was no such thing as loneliness in a socialist society, that the socialist society is always helping the individual. But there were many conflicts between the concept of individual happiness and the welfare of the state or community. The words which were very much in fashion in the west had also been known in the east: "alienation," "frustration." These words were coming into the Polish, Czech, Yugoslav, Hungarian cinema because they refer to a problem not easily solved. Certainly the socialist society has ways to solve this problem which are different from those in the capitalist society, but it would be a blind attitude not to see that this problem exists everywhere. I think this was a great change. It was brought first of all by the Polish cinema. Then we saw the same change in the Russian cinema: in The Cranes Are Flying we saw for the first time the nonheroic side of the war, the attitudes of some people who were war profiteers. As a result of all these things the cinema regained something absolutely necessary in art-sincerity in approach, sincerity in treatment, and courage. You may ask me now: is the method of socialist realism dead? What has happened to this official theory of art, so firmly prescribed during the 1940's and the beginning of the 1950's? SOCIALIST REALISM DEFINED

Socialist realism is a term much used and much misunderstood. It is a very precise term historically. In the beginning it was a literary method, but then it was accepted by the theater and by other arts. It was defined and proclaimed as the official method in socialist literature in the Soviet Union in 1932, by means of a statute in the book of rules of the union of Soviet writers. Then during the first congress of Soviet writers in August, 1934, in speeches by the theoretician of the Communist party of the Soviet Union, Andrei Zhdanov, and by Maxim Gorky, the great Soviet writer, additional aspects of the definition of socialist realism were given. From these sources we can understand that socialist realism is applied simultaneously to three different levels of creative work. First, it was said both in the rule book and in the speeches that socialist realism means the historical approach to reality-that reality should be seen as a historical process having roots in the past and perspective in the future. This was nothing more than a reminder of the principle of Marxist historical materialism which teaches us to consider history as a process. If you ask me whether this

CINEMAJOURNAL / 9 first part of the definition of socialist realism is being forgotten in the eastern countries in the cinema my answer would be "no." I think the overwhelming majority of film makers do attempt to see reality as a historical process, never forgetting that this process has a past and some kind of future. Nor is it necessary to be a Marxist or a member of the Communist Party to have this approach. The second part of the definition was that the artist should always have in view the educational purpose of the work of art-that art should shape the recipient, reader, or spectator to accept the spirit of socialism. This was then followed in a very rigid way. Socialist realism ceased to be a method and became a rigid formula, like some of the formulas accepted in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries which insisted there was only one way to create a work of art. The spirit of socialism, a very general thing, was nevertheless interpreted as the execution of certain party commands. There were interpretations or guidance or advices about works of art, sometimes with disastrous results. Some of the goals and actions of the party, perhaps fully understandable and logical in terms of economics, cannot automatically be translated into a work of art because then the art becomes a poster, a slogan, and ceases to be a work of art. I think this part of the definition has been rejected in the sense of a narrow, rigid formula. But certainly an overwhelming number of film makers are trying to the best of their understanding to present to the public certain messages which would help the socialist cause. It isn't an order of the party any longer, but for many people it is an internal desire. The third part of the definition stressed the importance of using only those artistic styles and instruments which would be evident, understandable, clear, and very easily acceptable by the public. One such instrument was the positive hero-somebody giving the example. Again, it was believed that to make the content of the film absolutely clear, one should stress the dialogue. Words seemed less ambiguous than images. Therefore in the 1950's most of the films were very talkative. Beauty of image was looked upon with suspicion, as formalistic deviation. This part of socialist realism is certainly absolutely rejected all over the world, the Soviet Union included. I think the idea of the "positive hero" as the only kind of hero is no longer valid. Everybody who knows anything about art knows that sometimes the "negative hero" has a very positive influence upon the public and serves much better the purposes of the artist because he seems real and believable. To the question, then, "Is Socialist realism dead?" we must answer both "no" and "yes." In discussions of this subject, seldom does anyone go enough into history to examine the meaning of socialist realism and ask what remains and what is rejected. Certainly there is no longer any instruction given as to what kind of artistic works should be produced or in what form, or what kind of artistic instruments are to be used. All kinds of artistic forms and precedents now have their influence on the east European cinema-Italian neorealism at the very beginning of the Polish film school, then in Czech cinema certainly the French new wave and cinema vWrite. There is also the influence of British free cinema and the new realistic

10 / CINEMAJOURNAL features made in Britain and in recent years Antonioni and Fellini. I think that the large cinema world is not a closed world any longer. The continuous interchange of films influences people and thus it is possible for a man to find the style most appropriate for himself. I wouldn't say this to encourage imitation, but I think that the exchange of ideas and of examples is a very good thing. Let me say a few words about what has happened to Polish cinema. Many people ask me this: Why do we not have any longer films like Joan of the Angels or Ashes and Diamonds and why did Czech films become better than Polish films? Now if we speak about a certain gap in the Polish cinema, a weakening in the creative power of Polish cinema, I don't find the explanation to be simple or easy. I believe first of all that concern about the war had to reach its end. It was necessary, this reevaluation of the war, and everything that was to be said was said. Then there is a certain fatigue in film making both for individuals and for countries. It is very rare that a film maker can continue for many years having the same creative power. Sometimes he needs a respite, a change of style or of field. Nobody expected Kawalerowicz to produce a great historical film like Pharoah; probably he wanted to venture something he never tried before. Then there are the young people who were born after the war or were small children after the war and do not care about the war any longer. They are not interested in old wars but are more concerned about a future war. Young people have something to say on the screen and young people must say it. An older man cannot speak for them in a convincing way. Jerzy Skolimowski, a new young graduate of the Polish Film School, I think is the first in the group of young film makers who come now and say what young people want to say. In Czechoslovakia, too, they have a group of young men speaking for youth. I think it is good for different countries to come forward. I count very much on the Hungarian cinema. Some interesting things they have lately made indicate that they will produce excellent films. Perhaps there will soon be a moment of fatigue in the Czech cinema and they will have to give the priority to other nations. The processes of art are not under some iron rule that somebody who started well should continue always in the same way. People change and fashions change and ideas are changing. It is a fact very well known to me as a film historian, when I look at the past, and not only in Europe, that the existence of a definite school or a definite trend in the cinema never lasts longer than five or six years. The classic Soviet cinema started with Potemkin in 1925 and ended with Earth of Dovjenko in 1930. The first great Swedish cinema flourished from 1917-23. The neorealist cinema starting around 1943 in Italy reached its end by 1950. I think the rhythm of development of cinema is absolutely different from that in other fields, for the very simple reason that the cinema is closest to reality, in closest union with changes in the world. We are very far from the time when fashions lasted for centuries or decades. Changes happen quickly today and they have almost immediate reflections in the cinema. Therefore creative periods in film-making must be expected to be intense, exciting, close to contemporary feelings-and brief.

Ashes and Diamonds

The Cranes Are Flying

The Young Griersonin America, 1924-1927 Jack C. Ellis

An important few of the formative years of John Grierson, the Scot who would inspire and lead Britain into a documentary film movement, were spent in the United States. In 1923 Grierson had received an M.A. from Glasgow University with distinctions in English and in moral philosophy. After a short period lecturing at the University of Durham, he was awarded a Rockefeller research fellowship in social science for study in America. Although it is not clear that Grierson's research goals were precise at the time he left for the States, they may already have centered around the role of mass communication in shaping public opinion. He would have been aware, as Forsyth Hardy observed, that "the power to tap the springs of action had slipped away from the schools and churches and had come to reside in the popular media, the movies, the press, the new instrument of radio, and all the forms of advertising and propaganda."1 Evidently Grierson proposed to investigate "the dramatic and emotional techniques by which these media had been able to command the sentiments and loyalties of the people where many of the instruments of education and religion had failed."2 The selection of the University of Chicago, however (as a base to operate out of, as it would prove), may have been somewhat arbitrary. He chose Chicago, he would say years later, partly because of Sherwood Anderson, Ben Hecht, and Carl Sandburg.3 Even if, as he asserted, he might have gone to any university, it happened that he went to one with a distinguished social science faculty (as the Rockefeller Foundation would have known if Grierson didn't). CHICAGO Crossing on a ship carrying 30,000 cases of Scotch whiskey (he said) he landed at Halifax, Nova Scotia. From there he moved down "in stages" to Boston, then 1. Forsyth Hardy (ed.), Grierson on Documentary, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1966, p. 14. British edition, London, Collins, 1946. 2. Ibid., p. 15. 3. John Grierson, interview with author, September 1966.

CINEMAJOURNAL /

13

to New York, and finally on to Chicago.4 Once enrolled in the University, as a visiting post-graduate scholar, he attached himself to Charles E. Merriam, the brilliant pioneering political scientist. Though Grierson remained formally connected with the University throughout his three-year sojourn in the U.S. (a requirement of the Foundation no doubt), he never took a degree or wrote a thesis. "I will make my thesis," he had said. He did do research for Merriam, and the first assignment was a study of the "criminal drop-outs" among the children of Chicago's foreign-born population. This investigation began with records of the criminal courts; then the notion of the "drop-out" extended more widely to include other manifestations of social deviation among members of the I.W.W. (the "Wobblies"), alcoholics, drug addicts. A common characteristic was discovered: these were people who had been driven from their homes or, at any rate, had lost contact with their families. The strain between generations-the parents trying to hang onto the old world; the young attempting to become part of the new-was both eased and exacerbated by the then powerful popular press. For the foreign born there were 6,000 foreign-language papers in the country at the time. For the first generation there was the Hearst press and its imitators. Grierson noted that, with its simplification and dramatization, the latter served as an informal but none the less compelling means of leading young Lithuanians and Poles, Germans and Italians, Irish and Czechs away from their parents and the old country and into an Americanization of one sort or another. His interest in newspapers, which would remain constant throughout his life, began with this respect for their ability to assist in the conversion into United States citizens of the children of immigrants who read them. In fact, he became more interested in the melting-pot process occurring on Halsted Street than in the lectures being delivered in the classrooms of the Midway. The lessons he learned as a result of that interest he would always regard as the most important part of his Chicago experience.s At about the same time, Walter Lippmann, in New York, was expressing his grave concern over the practicability of Jeffersonian democracy in a large, highly complex modern state. His extraordinarily farseeing book, Public Opinion, had been published in 1922. In it he argued that the democratic procedures formulated when Virginia gentlemen kept themselves adequately (if somewhat tardily) informed by reading Philadelphia papers, then went to the polls to express their opinions on issues through votes for candidates, had broken down. They had broken down, he felt, largely because the ordinary citizen could not be expected to amass enough ever-changing information to make intelligent decisions about, for example, government regulations of business by an Interstate Commerce Commission, the effect of gold reserves on international trade, or the entrance into and prosecution of a world war. As a result, modern citizens, now in massive numbers, had become apathetic, indifferently or grudgingly allowing themselves to be governed by an increasingly large, specialized and powerful admin4. Ibid. 5. Ibid., all of the information in the above three paragraphs.

14 / CINEMAJOURNAL istrative machine over which they had no control. They clearly lacked both the understanding and interest to try and exert that control, he felt. What Lippmann was saying was not unlike what Grierson had come to feel about his schoolmaster father's theories of education-that "the gentleman in the library" had lost its validity, and certainly vitality, as a goal. The collective complexity of the problems being faced seemed both to Lippmann and Grierson to demand a kind of democratic education that went beyond the individual stuffing himself with knowledge. Though Lippmann's assessment of the possibilities of remedying the situation in time and on an adequate scale remained a discouraging one, he did point the way that Grierson was to follow, even the means he was at that time groping toward. The two analyses, his own and Lippmann's, Grierson was able to fuse during 1924 and 1925, leading to the activity to which he would become dedicated. As he later wrote, succinctly enough to defy paraphrase: The idea of documentaryin its present form came originallynot from the film people at all, but from the Political Science school in Chicago University round about the early twenties. It came because some of us noted Mr. Lippmann's argumentclosely and set ourselvesto study what, constructively,we could do to fill the gap in educationalpracticewhich he demonstrated.At first,I must confess, we did not think so much about film or about radio. We were concernedwith the influence of modem newspapersand were highly admiring of the dramatic approachimplicit in the journalismof Mr. Hearst. Behind the sensationalizing of news we thought we recognizeda deeper principle, and I think Mr. Luce at very much the same time was recognizingit too. We thought, indeed, that even so complex a world as ours could be patterned for all to appreciate if we only got awayfrom the servile accumulationof fact and struckfor the storywhich held the facts in living organic relationship together. It was Mr. Lippmann himself who turned this educational research in the direction of film. I talked to him one day of the labor involved in following the development of the yellow press through the evanescent drama of local politics. He mentioned that we would do better to follow the dramaticpatterns of the film through the changing characterof our time, and that the box office recordsof successand failure were on file.6 While Grierson was at the University there were other students who would later distinguish themselves in intellectual enquiry into communication and film, Harold Lasswell and Leo Rosten among them. During these days Grierson lived, part of the time at least, in a little room at the comer of Schiller and Clark, on the Near North Side. At this time he began a lifelong friendship with the Chicago painter Rudolph Weisenbor and his wife Fritzie, then living nearby on North La Salle Street. Early in their acquaintanceship Grierson impressed Rudolph by establishing the chronological order of 18 to 20 of his charcoal drawings, which Weisenborn characterized as "a remarkable feat." As the friendship ripened, Grierson proposed that the Weisenborns feed him and that he would furnish booze and take them to the movies and theater. He was receiving $150 a month from the Rockefeller Foundation, a quite comfortable sum then. 6. John Grierson, "Propaganda and Education," an address before the Winnipeg Canadian

Club, October 1943, reprinted in Hardy, op. cit., pp. 280-94.

.O-i

John Grierson inspects a new poster (1944), prepared by National Film Board Art Director Harry Mayerovitch. Grierson helped write the enabling law for the Canadian Film Board and was its first director, during World War II.

16 / CINEMA JOURNAL

Fritzie claimed that it was Rudolph who got Grierson interested in films; Rudolph was interested in everything visual, she said. They saw Greed together and Potemkin (later, of course), over and over. When attending movies Fritzie always sat separately because Rudolph and Grierson would make constant observations to each other about what was on the screen. After these outings, if the arguments between the two men became violent, Grierson would leave. The next day Fritzie would go to Grierson's room and ask him to come back. His reply sometimes was that he wasn't sure he wanted to talk to Mr. Weisenborn again.7 Mrs. Weisenborn suggested that Grierson was attracted to creative personalities -wanted to see what made them tick. Though not essentially creative himself, she felt, because he was jealous of this quality in others when it existed in natural state, he would sometimes strike out with biting comment.8 That he admired Weisenborn's talent there seems little question. He purchased twelve of his paintings in 1946-47, several of which hang in his home in Wiltshire today. At this time Grierson much admired Dashiel Hammett. To people he didn't like he applied the phrase "That guy is no good." Gordon Weisenborn, Rudolph and Fritzie's son, who became a film maker after Grierson kidnapped him at the age of 19 for work at the National Film Board, has suggested that the first paragraphs of Grierson's essays are often Hammett-like-presumably because of their short sentences, vigorous vocabulary, and the setting up of problems to be solved. Grierson's later British associate, Sir Arthur Elton, on the other hand, thinks the Shaw prefaces are a more likely model. Grierson and the Weisenbors often went to Negro cafes, to listen to Louis Armstrong, Bessie Smith, and others, before jazz was generally popular.9 Grierson would maintain his interest in jazz and popular music and popular performers generally. In 1966 he observed that the most sensible thing the State Department might do to improve the abysmal public relations of the United States abroad was to send Bob Dylan on a world tour.10 Grierson's start on his own prolific journalism began in Chicago, too. In the course of analyzing newspapers he wrote for them. He would always insist that analysis was to be followed by doing-that investigation should be conducted for the sake of action. At first, though, as in his earlier writing at Glasgow University, he did not concentrate exclusively on film. One effort was a column on painting for the Chicago Evening Post.l He would continue to write art criticism in England well into the 'thirties. He also did art and movie reviewing for The Chicagoan, an early little journal. For him beauty equalled vigor, as it would continue to do. As a hack job he wrote a series on "How to Make Movies" 7. Richard Griffith tells much the same story about Grierson's stormy relationship with Robert Flaherty, with Griffith in that case acting as envoy and peacemaker. 8. Much later, after he had left the National Film Board of Canada and was feeling low, Grierson told Rudolph that Grant Wood was the finest painter in America. (Weisenborn's paintings are resolutely abstract.) Hurting, himself, from the shadow cast on him by the cloud of the Canadian spy trials, Grierson wanted others to hurt, too. 9. All the material in the preceding paragraphs which clearly comes from the Weisenborns was obtained in interview with Rudolph, Fritzie, and Gordon, September, 1963. 10. Grierson, interview, op. cit.

11. Ibid.

CINEMAJOURNAL/ 17 for a trade journal-before he as yet knew anything about the subject-for which he received $150. In the course of this journalistic activity he got to know newspaper people. Before he departed from Chicago he left his Paris copy of Ulysses with Fritzie Weisenbor to be sent on to Elsie Robinson, columnist for Hearst. Fritzie kept it instead.12 HOLLYWOOD Though his respect for Charles Merriam continued, Grierson had become increasingly restless at the University. From the jaunts that followed he would recall that the famous editor of the Emporia Gazette, William Allen White, took him through a local department store to tell him where everything came from.13 Grierson was impressed by White's pride in getting things from all over the world and by his feeling that such department stores were "a powerful influence Farther west he on the imagination and a powerful spur to the future...."14 of A Ben Denver. veteran met and was influenced by judge of the Lindsey juvenile court, Lindsey had become well-known for his psychological clinic for children. In the course of this work he had informally analyzed the effects of films on young people.l5 Both White and Lindsey wrote about the film, incidentally, including articles in The Movies on Trial, compiled and edited by William J. Perlman.ls Already Grierson was following Lippmann's advice that he investigate the changing patterns of American film forms and contents, and the responses at the box office which provoked and supported these changes. Unknown to Grierson, possibly, but roughly coincident and similar to his thinking at the time was M. Luchaire's observation in 1924 to the League of Nations' International Committee of Intellectual Cooperation: "Only the Bible and the Koran have an indisputably larger circulation than that of the latest film from Los Angeles."17 When Grierson did get hold of Paramount box office results covering a considerable period of time ("... a young man named Walter Wanger opened the necessary files"18)he analyzed them in terms of the changing personalities of screen stars, the shifting values manifest in the films, and, more specifically, the evolution from Western to epic-Western.19 The Covered Wagon would be one of the key films screened by the beginners at the Empire Marketing Board Film Unit. This research was intended to be applied as well as academic-a projection 12. Weisenboms, interview, op. cit. During Glasgow days, Grierson is said to have given five pounds out of his meager resources toward the publication of Joyce's masterpiece. 13. Perhaps not directly recalled by Grierson, an analogous situation would be used as the central dramatic device in a film produced by Grierson's World Today, Inc., in 1947: Roundtrip: The U.S.A. in World Trade. 14. John Grierson, "A Mind for the Future," the St. Andrew's Day lecture, Scottish Home Service of the British Broadcasting Corporation, reprinted in Hardy, op. cit., pp. 382-93. 15. Grierson, interview, op. cit. 16. William Allen White, "Chewing-Gum Relaxation" and Ben B. Lindsey, "The Movies and Juvenile Delinquency," The Movies on Trial (comp. and ed. by William J. Perlman), New York, Macmillan, 1936, pp. 3-12 and 50-63. 17. Quoted in the Commission on Educational and Cultural Films, The Film in National Life, London, Allen and Unwin, 1932, p. 78. 18. Grierson, "Propaganda and Education," op. cit. 19. Grierson, interview, op. cit.

18 / CINEMAJOURNAL of the next star trend as part of it. Grierson recalls phoning Jesse Lasky to report excitedly: "I've seen her"-the young, hopeful Thelma Todd, who seems to have had the requisite sociological characteristics for the next star type.20 While intrigued by being at the center of this center of motion picture power, Grierson's economic sense told him that if he could not control the essential process of star-making, there was no way to finance the kind of films he was thinking about through the established industry and its forms. That, in short, what would become documentary film would have to be modeled on other precedents and to look elsewhere for its support. While in Hollywood, observing film production at first hand, he came to know a number of celebrated film makers. His early writings carry numerous references to this experience and to these men: "I knew Sternberg just after his I watched Sternberg make still Salvation Hunters and liked him immensely.... another picture, The Woman of the Sea, for Chaplin" (the latter never released).21 Of Erich von Stroheim's Wedding March he wrote: "I saw great slices of it shot and great hunks of financiers' hair torn from the roots in the process." Of von Stroheim playing a film director in The Lost Squadron he remembered: "I have seen him go off the hoop as he does subsequently, and be very much the blood-curdling creature of temperament he demonstrates."22 And, again, "I have heard [Raymond] Griffith and [Harry] Langdon and Chaplin all discuss the [screen] figures they attempted

to be ...

in the Hollywood

I knew ... "23

Apparently Donald Ogden Stewart was in on this same discussion and Grierson seems to have known him as well. He also wrote that he "saw something of" King Vidor in Hollywood "and liked him for that seriousness... "24 Eisenstein he met later in London when the latter was on his way to Hollywood. NEW YORK

Chicago, Hollywood, and New York, these were the main scenes of Grierson's American stay, but not in that strict order since he seems to have shuttled back and forth among them. In many ways the New York experience would prove more decisive than the Hollywood one. Journalism was his entree into New York, stemming from the interest newspaper editors and film critics took in his evolving ideas about film. He was invited to write as guest critic for several papers, notably the New York Sun.25 For the Sun he did a column in which he was "supposed to be a bit more highbrow than Cohen, the ranking film-editor, and the sort of odd body who looked after lost causes, including, as I remember, 20. Ibid. 21. John Grierson, "Shanghai Express by Josef von Sternberg." Everyman, April 14, 1932 and The Clarion, May 1932; reprinted in Hardy, op. cit., pp. 59-62. It was in this same review that he hung the famous epigramatical albatross around Sternberg's neck: "When a director dies, he becomes a photographer." 22. John Grierson, "'The Lost Squadron' with Erich von Stroheim," Everyman, May 26, 1932; reprinted in Hardy, op. cit., pp. 62-3. 23. John Grierson, "Criticisms-Romantic Anarchist-John Grierson Writes" (a review of Modern Times), World Film News, I (April 1936) 11; reprinted in Hardy, op. cit., pp. 48-9. 24. John Grierson, "Hallelujah! by King Vidor," the Clarion, October 1931; reprinted in Hardy, op. cit., pp. 82-3. 25. Hardy, op. cit., p. 15.

CINEMAJOURNAL / 19 most of the people who happened to be good."26 It was here, Grierson said, that names like Flaherty and Eisenstein were first exalted and words like tempo first articulated.27 In the course of his writing he would be taken "round the houses, and very rightly," by the trade journal Variety, for offering as general industry news what was actually "inside stuff" from Paramount. His conclusion from this affair was that, "In a film critic, concentration is liable to be misunderstood, and is best avoided."28 In one instance at least, the lost causes he was supposed to look after included religious films. Ten years later he was still sufficiently upset by the experience to write: "I have seen these pictures of Jesus.... I reviewed a batch of them for a New York paper, and wrote one of the rudest articles of my life: and no wonder. If I did not head it 'Jesus in a Nightgown' I should have done, for the preposterous array of nightgowns, wigs and false beards was a travesty of every reality the Gospels could possibly intend."29 Confronting another sort of faith and another kind of reality he was much more sympathetic. In an evaluation of the Soviet cinema he found it instinct with an art force capable of reaching into all fields of enquiry and imagination. He stressed the fluidity of its dramatic movement, the robustness of its approach, and the social reality of its content. The article was documented with references to many Russian films of the period.30 Surely the major outcome of his writing for the Sun was that it brought him into close relationship with Robert Flaherty, and formed one more link in the chain which would lead to the documentary film movement. He had seen Flaherty's earlier Nanook of the North (1922), of course; had even seen the first version of it, the negative of which had burned up while Flaherty was editing it in Toronto. There was at least one positive print remaining, which Flaherty showed around a good deal. Grierson had this to say of it later: ". . . by an odd chance, I once saw a good part of the original lost Nanook, and if I never mentioned it to Flaherty it was because it was not in his thought or memory that In his first version, Flaherty was still with the old anything survived. ... and planning learning from the ground up, not to Hale's Tours of travelogue mention the backs and fronts of sledges."31 Among the lavish reviews by well-known reviewers of Flaherty's second film, Moana, after its premiere at the Rialto Theatre on Broadway, February 7, 1926, the most important in historical perspective was certainly the one that appeared in the Sun the next morning under the anonymous pseudonym "The Moviegoer." 26. John Grierson, an obituary notice on Robert Flaherty, The Reporter, Oct. 16, 1951. 27. Grierson, interview, op. cit. 28. John Grierson, "Behind the Screen" (a review of a book of that title ed. by Stephen Watts), World Film News, III (April 1938) 18-9. 29. John Grierson, "Filming the Gospel a Dangerous Policy," World Film News, I (May

1936),23.

30. John Grierson, "The Russian Cineman Bear Awakens; The Movie Situation in the Land of the Muscovites," Motion Picture Classic (Brooklyn, N.Y.), XXV (June 1927) 18-9, 74, 78; summarized in Writers' Program of the Work Projects Administration in the City of New York, The Film Index: Vol. I, The Film as Art, New York, Museum of Moder Art Film Library and H. W. Wilson, 1941, p. 93. 31. John Grierson, "Flaherty as Innovator," Sight and Sound, XXI (October-December 1951) 64-8.

20 / CINEMA JOURNAL Writing at the time of Flaherty's death, Grierson told how he came to do that famous piece: I first met Robert Flahertyaround 1925 [Flaherty,who would have been 41 to Grierson's27, was living alternatelyin New York City and at his home in New Canaan, Conn.32] He had just come back from British Samoa with Moana, and he was having the difficultieshe was alwaysto have in the last stage of production. In this case it was Paramountthat did not see it his way. There was talk of a grass-skirteddancing troupe . . . and a marqueeoffering of 'The Love Life of a South Sea Siren.'... I took Flaherty'scase like a sort of critical attorney.33 The critical attorney's case was presented in part as follows: Moana deservesto rank with those few works of the screen that have the right to last, to live. It could only have been produced by a man with an artistic conscienceand an intense poetic feeling which, in this case, findsan outlet through nature worship. Of course Moana, being a visual account of events in the daily life of a Polynesianyouth, has documentaryvalue. But that, I believe, is secondaryto its value as a soft breath from a sunlit island, washed by a marveloussea, as warm as the balmy air. Moana is first of all beautiful as nature is beautiful. #

*

*

*

*

And therefore I think Moana achieves greatnessprimarily through its poetic feeling for natural elements. It should be placed on the idyllic shelf that includes all those poems which sing of the loveliness of sea and land and air-and of man when he is a part of beautiful surroundings,a figment of nature, an innocent primitive rather than a so-called intelligent being cooped up in the mire of so-calledintelligent civilization.34 Of course this was the first public use of the word documentary, but note that it is being used partly in the sense of document and partly in the sense of documentaire, a term French critics had coined to describe serious travel and expedition films as distinct from travelogues. Documentary would achieve its later meaning through practice-through the hundreds of British films of the 'thirties which proudly bore that label. Another interesting aspect of Grierson's review is the implicit laying out of the two lines of his life-long dialectic with Flaherty: 1) profound and sensitive praise for the beauties created by poetic genius-no one appreciated them more fully than Grierson; 2) final relegation of them to the "idyllic shelf" as the work of the modern world must be gotten on with. Grierson's single reservation about Moana was that it didn't tell the whole story-that through its omissions it was less than authentic and hence less relevant to Samoan life than it should have been: "Lacking in the film was the pictorial transcriptions of the sex-life of these people. It is rarely referred to. Its absence mars its completeness." Flaherty was also involved with a second event during the New York period which would leave a deep imprint on Grierson and the British documentary film to come. Towards the end of 1926 Flaherty helped in the launching of the first 32. Paul Rotha and Basil Wright, Flaherty: A Biography, London, 1959, p. 116; this is a typewritten ms. in the Museum of Modern Art Library on which was based Arthur CalderMarshall, The Innocent Eye: The Life of Robert J. Flaherty, London, W. H. Allen, 1963. 33. Grierson, The Reporter, op. cit. 34. The review is quoted in full by Rotha and Wright, op. cit., pp. 105-7.

CINEMAJOURNAL / 21 Soviet masterpiece to be shown in America: Potemkin. It was given a spectacular premiere on Sunday, December 5, at the Biltmore Theatre, with seats at $5.00.36 But it was Grierson who had prepared the American version. The events leading to his assignment he narrates as follows: "Douglas Fairbanks came back from a triumphant tour of the Soviet Union, and with him came the first print of a film that was to change a good many concepts of film-making. .... Somehow the rumour of this great new experiment in the dialectics of imagery reached us in New York, and somehow we found ourselves called upon to take it apart and put it together again for the American market."36 Herman Weinberg's further recollection is that, after three months of battle with the New York censors, Potemkin was passed with only two minor cuts: shortening of the close-up of the maggot-infested meat given the sailors, and deletion of a close-up of one of the women on the Odessa steps receiving a fusillade of Cossack bullets in her face. Part of the strategy, evidently, had been to add a foreword and an afterword testifying to the historical authenticity of the events portrayed.37 The effect Grierson's close familiarity with Potemkin must have had upon him (he came to know Eisenstein later) may account for an only half-facetious suggestion floating around England in the 'thirties that the British documentary movement was born from the last reel of Potemkin (especially the engine room scenes). As if to confirm its importance in his progress, Grierson chose to doublebill the premiere of his own first film, Drifters, with the first English showing of Potemkin, at the London Film Society, almost exactly three years after the latter's New York opening. By the end of the American stay Grierson's preparation seems to have been complete: citizenship education was the broad necessity, film the chosen medium, documentary its special form. Or, as Grierson put it on his return to Britain, not realizing possibly that he was refining the final years of the American experience: "What I know of cinema I have learned partly from the Russians, partly from the American westerns, and partly from Flaherty, of Nanook. The westerns give you some notion of the energies. The Russians give you the energies and the intimacies both. And Flaherty is a poet."38 The preparation over, the career proper was about to begin.

35. Ibid., p. 120. 36. In the memorial program for Eisenstein, at the Rialto Cinema, London, May 2, 1948, published by the Film Section of the Society for Cultural Relations with the U.S.S.R.;quoted by Rotha and Wright, op. cit., p. 120. Grierson'sphrase ("take it apart and put it together again") no doubt simply refers to the preparation of the silent titles in English, which would have required physical replacement. Later he was very much aware of the Eisenstein method and "took it apart" critically-"so thoroughly that it very much affected my own technique in my first film, Drifters." Letter, June 29, 1968. 37. Herman C. Weinberg, "Coffee, Brandy and Cigars: X," Films in Review, IV (JuneJuly 1953)291-4. 38. John Grierson, "Drifters by John Grierson," The Clarion, October 1929; reprinted in Hardy, op. cit., pp. 135-8.

What,Indeed,Is Cinema? Peter Harcourt

To what extent is film-making influenced by film theory? Is a theoretical position helpful in writing about films? Can appreciation of an artist be helped by knowledge-knowledge of the cultural background from which the artist springs, knowledge of the artistic conventions that he may have inherited? Has criticism ever directly helped an artist? Or is it chiefly a form of remedial teaching, making art more accessible to those too insensitive to respond on their own? Is criticism, finally, a rival to art-setting up competitive pleasures at the expense of the artist-in the case of the movies, offering a substitute literary experience for the actual multi-sensorial one that the film itself would provide? With a selection of the writings of Andre Bazin now in English, I have been reading through them again and again and then back to the original four volumes in French. I have been asking myself not only, "What is Cinema?"not only the questions noted above-but also: What kind of writing most profitably illuminates the dark mysteries of what cinema might be? And to what extent is such writing dependent upon an entire cultural context to make it seem relevant, a cultural context that is also involved with making films? Bazin certainly worked within such a context, a context of shared excitement about the possibilities of cinema which must have assisted him enormously in his own work, but which in turn-chiefly through his contributions to Cahiers du Cinema-he also helped to create. Wrriting in Paris immediately after the war, Bazin felt the atmosphere of the liberation in more ways than one. There was a sense that new things were possible. The re-birth of film in Italy confirmed this sense for Bazin; in many ways it seems to have settled his aesthetic. For Basin, neo-realism represented a standard of moral and stylistic purity by which other films could be judged. Without feeling the need to be partisan about the matter or to justify his position in theoretical terms, Bazin became the champion of the extended take and composition in depth within the frame. So crucial were these features to his own thinking about the cinema that again and again throughout the articles collected in Qu'est-ce que la cine'ma? Bazin links Renoir, Rossellini, Welles, and Wyler together-the Wyler, of course, of The Best Years of Our Lives. From our

CINEMAJOURNAL / 23 vantage point in time, few of us now would think of linking Welles (say) with Rossellini. But for Bazin, they had this basic characteristic in common: they both preferred composition in depth and an exploration of natural space with a moving camera to the sudden surprises and shock effects that traditional montage could achieve. Like Sadoul, Bazin drew our attention to two broad and opposing trends: those directorswho put their faith in the image and those who put their faith in reality.1 These two opposing trends had been represented from the outset in France the films of MWlies,on the one hand, and of Lumiere on the other. Bazin saw by Renoir as one of the chief descendants of the Lumiere tradition, the tradition of film-makers "who put their faith in reality." Renoir, Bazin explains, from the very first, had forced himself to look back beyond the resourcesprovided by montage and so uncoveredthe secretof a film form that would permiteverythingto be said without chopping the world up into little fragments,that would reveal the hidden meanings in people and things without disturbingthe unity natural to them.2 Bazin's excitement with neo-realism took much the same form. As in the filmsof Welles and in spite of conflictsof style, neo-realismtends to give back to the cinema a sense of the ambiguityof reality.3 When a film-maker composes in depth, he allows the spectator to select certain features within the frame that he then can respond to. Hence the ambiguity of potential response, directly related to this natural "ambiguity of reality." The film-maker who depends more upon editing, is more concerned to direct the response of the spectator, diminishing this ambiguity. The most forceful expression of this position is to be found, of course, in the writings of Eisenstein. Even when speaking about the theatre, Eisenstein thought in these terms: The basic materialsof the theatre arise from the spectatorhimself, and from our guiding of the spectatorinto a desired direction (or mood). . . . Attraction (in our diagnosisof the theatre) is every aggressivemoment in it, ... every element that can be verified and mathematicallycalculated to produce certain emotional shocks in a proper order within the totality-the only means by which it is possible to make the final ideological conclusion perceptible.4 The conflict arising from these two opposing trends has already been persuasively discussed in Film Quarterly some time ago by Charles Barr.5 There is, of course, a lot of refinement of detail that still needs to be done. For instance, among the Soviets, whom Barr tends to lump together as exponents of montage, there is really an immense variety of approach. I would claim that there is as much composition in depth within the frame in Pudovkin's Storm Over Asia as we can find in any Budd Boetticher movie; while among the montage manipu1. versity 2. 3. 4. 5.

Andre Bazin, What Is Cinema? Selected and translated by Hugh Gray. Berkeley, Uniof California Press, 1967, p. 24. Ibid., p. 38. Ibid., p. 37. Quoted in Eisenstein, by Marie Seton, pp. 61-62. "CinemaScope: Before and After," Film Quarterly, Vol. XVI, No. 4, Summer, 1963.

24 / CINEMAJOURNAL lators, surely the high priest of this particular impulse nowadays is Alfred Hitchcock-a film-maker whose work indeed allows very little choice for the spectator but whose films are not usually approached from this point of view. Nevertheless, the ethical implications of these twin traditions stand, I feel, as both Bazin and Barr have defined them. Bazin's position is perhaps most clearly stated in his repeated defense of Rossellini. During his Ingrid Bergman period when Rossellini had fallen out of both popular and critical favor, Bazin defended him in these terms: In Rossellini, 'realism'has nothing in common with everything that the cinema (with the exception of Renoir)has offeredup to now as realistic. It's not a realism of subject-matterbut of style. He is perhaps the only director in the world that knows how to interest us in an action simply by leaving it on the same plane of activity as its background.Our emotion thus is kept free from all sentimentality; that is, it is obliged to refer to our intelligence. It is not the actors that move us or even the event, but the sense that we are compelled to extract from it. With this kind of directing, the moral or dramatic sense is never apparent on the surface of reality. However, we cannot fail to grasp it if we have a conscience. Haven't we here a firm definition of realism in art: to compel the mind to take up sides without falsely arrangingpeople or things?6 And it was Bazin's allegiance to the cinema of natural space and natural movement that made him as well such a devoted admirer of the Western. The Westernvirtuallyignores the close-upor even the medium close-up. On the other hand, it is fond of travelling and panoramicshots that tend to deny the limits of the screenand to restorethe fullness of space.7 BAZIN AND KRACAUER

Presented in these terms, Bazin's position obviously has a lot in common with Kracauer's, in his faith in the cinema's capacity to 'redeem' physical reality. Yet (if I sense these things correctly), Bazin is a man that everyone speaks highly of, as of a master; while Kracauer-perhaps owing largely to the deflective authority of Miss Pauline Kael-has acquired very little prestige. Why is this? I don't want at the moment to cross swords with Miss Kael: one couldn't do it lightly and it would require a great deal of space. Yet all the time I have been reading through the collected Bazin, remembering Miss Kael's treatment of Kracauer,8 I kept wondering what she would think of Bazin's implied position, so close at so many points to that spelled out by Kracauer. Since Miss Kael obviously identifies with her own "relaxed men of good taste,"9 she acts as a kind of conscience for me whenever theoretical considerations challenge my confidence in my own response (something that it's safe to say never happens to Miss Kaell) or whenever new types of cinema or cinema from foreign cultures makes me aware of the phenomenological problems of perceiving a film at all. For some6. Qu'est-ce que le cinema Vol. III, p. 32. Translations from the French volumes have been done with the help of Jean-Jacques Hamm. 7. Ibid., p. 143. 8. Originally published in Sight & Sound (Spring 1962) but reprinted in I Lost It At The Movies. 9. Ibid.

CINEMA JOURNAL / 25

times, like Bazin and Kracauer, for whatever reasons, I am troubled by an uncertainty as to what cinema is-or could be. Kracauer's problem, it seems to me, is that he has always worked in isolation -or so I would deduce from his writing for I know nothing at all about his personal life-whereas Bazin was obviously only one of many thinkers in the cultural context of the film scene in Paris at the time. Bazin gives us the sense of someone talking to and writing for his friends and students who are exploring similar problems, viewing movies at the Cin6matheque (or wherever), all part of this exciting new world of film that finally threw forth the films of Godard, Truffaut, Chabrol, and the others. Kracauer, on the other hand, gives us the sense more of a man alone in a museum, researching through his interests, moving out from the claustrophobia of the enclosed set so prominent in From Caligari to Hitler towards a morally more affirmative cinematic philosophy of open spaces and real life, a philosophy that might "redeem" the world of cinematic art and save it from false and dangerous goals. Viewed in this way, I find something noble in Kracauer's position, if also, ultimately, something a little sad. It's as if his chosen society encouraged him to be "merely" an academic. He was not writing in Hollywood, close to the filmmaking scene; nor would anything he wrote ever affect anything that Hollywood might do. His academic pedantry-if that is what we have to call the tautological insistences of his book-must have been aggravated by the isolation he must have felt, working so far away from the active film scene. Perhaps by temperament, he would have isolated himself in any case, even if he had been working in France. For I have often wondered why he didn't comment more casually and more occasionally on the cinema as bits of it happened to interest him. He did at least once in that Vigo piece of his,L0a superb and irreplaceable analysis of Vigo's very personal and atmospheric style, an analysis that also conveys to us how much this kind of movie actually meant to him both as a critic and as a man. For like Bazin in this, it is the cinema of the open air that he goes for preeminently, the cinema of natural movement and everyday rhythms that, for him as for Bazin, seems to be the "essence"of the medium. If a more hip apologist for the same aesthetic needs to be adduced to free these insights from the atmosphere of musty prescriptions coming from the Museum of Moder Art, here is Godard saying much the same thing: The film isn't an object that films nature, the camera isn't only a reproduction apparatusthat films nature, the two togetherare one and the same thing. Cinema isn't an art that films life. Cinema is something that comes in between art and life.... In comparisonwith painting or literatureboth of which are arts from the outset insofaras there is a choice, an independent life, the cinema on the contrary simultaneouslygives to and receives from life. . . 11 This giving and receiving, back and forth from the cinema to life-which is something more characteristic of the cinema than of the other arts-seems very important to Godard as it is in different ways to both Bazin and Kracauer. Yet 10. In Introduction to the Art of the Movies, ed. by Lewis Jacobs, p. 223 ff. 11. From Cinema 65, No. 94, p. 56.

26 / CINEMAJOURNAL this isn't to say that Godard's films aren't stylized, that there isn't a shaping intelligence at work in them as well. And of course without this intelligence, there would be no films, no matter how much natural life! But it is this faith in the objectivity of the real world outside the artist's desire to shape and interpret it plus a willingness in the course of filming to let this objectivity affect what finally happens on film that Bazin and Kracauer and (occasionally) Godard care most about. So Bazin: Photographyaffectsus like a phenomenon in nature, like a floweror a snowflake whose vegetable or earthly original are an inseparablepart of their beauty.12 And Kracauer: ...even the most creativefilm makeris much less independent of nature in the raw than the painter or poet; ... his creativitymanifests itself in letting nature in and penetratingit.13 And of course, there has also been Panofsky: The mediumof the movies is physicalreality as such.... From this point of view it becomesevident that an attempt at subjecting the world to artistic pre-stylization, as in the expressionistsettingsof The Cabinetof Doctor Caligari (1919),could be no more than an exciting experimentthat could exert but little influence upon the general courseof events. To pre-stylizereality prior to tacklingit amounts to dodging the problem. The problem is to manipulate and shoot unstylizedreality in such a way that the result has style.l4 This view of life and of cinematic art which tends towards but can never achieve total cinematic naturalism could be offered as the Great Tradition in film-making, an attitude to which again and again the cinema has returned as if to renew itself after periods of big-studio artificialities or avant-garde experimentation. Whenever the cinema has become too involved in the traditional trickery of the Meli6s cinematic world or in the expressive potentialities of Eisensteinian montage, it has had to return to the more natural Lumiere tradition to gain a sense of renewal. Or so it has often seemed, whether with neo-realism and Free Cinema in the past or the Direct Cinema and CinemaVerite of today. This so-called Lumiere tradition is not the only tradition, but it would seem to me certainly the most important tradition. Alongside the prodigious Jean Renoir, whose complete works reflect not only the mind and style of the master but also all the local settings and periods that have played such an important part in his films, surely Cocteau (as film-maker) is basically a litterateur as Kracauer suggests (to Miss Kael's annoyance).l5 This is not to deny Miss Kael the right to have been thrilled by her experience of Le Sang d'un Poete (for art often affects us in private and mysterious ways) but simply to suggest certain limitations in Cocteau's understanding of the potentialities of cinema, an under12. Gray, op. cit., p. 13. 13. Theory of Film, p. 40. 14. "Style and Medium in the Motion Pictures" in Problems in Aesthetics, ed. by Morris Weitz, p. 542. 15. See I Lost It At The Movies, p. 286.

CINEMAJOURNAL / 27 standing that makes his contribution to the cinema a distinct but comparatively limited one, his films "an exciting experiment" (in Panofsky's phrase), offering a specialized appeal. BAZIN AND HIS CIRCLE

Thus it seems to me that without some interest in these theoretical matters or discussions of film syntax, without an awareness of the relevance of film theory both to criticism and creation, the critic simply has to assert the supremacy of his own taste. This only asserts the values (to a degree) of his own culture, perhaps even of his own income-bracket and of the class from which he comes. To what extent did Umberto Barbaro's passion for the "realistic" Sperduti Nel Buio actually help form the minds of the young students during the war at the Centro Sperimentale and so help the neo-realist movement to be as effective as it was?'8 And to what extent did Bazin (and others) help to clarify the taste (and therefore the aesthetic) of Truffaut and others? Ideas can affect responses and provide standards (or at least what feels like standards) and-most important of all-a basis for action. Kracauer's stress upon the cinema's natural affinity for unstaged reality, for the fortuitous in life, for a kind of open-ended and indeterminate narrative form might spark off in the sympathetic reader a whole new way of looking at the cinema. The apparent formlessness and imperfections of (say) La Regle du Jeu could be seen, from this point of view, as part of the virtues of this perennially interesting film. And if Kracauer is less objective in his analyses than he perhaps thinks he is, and certainly too prescriptive, I don't really mind because the challenging insights are there. Even if one claims-as I would-that Bergman's Sawdust and Tinsel is one of the most extraordinary films ever made and one of the most powerful, I would agree that a large part of its force comes from the unusualness of such a treatment, as if working against the basic cinematic grain. The immeasurable advantage that Bazin had over Kracauer is that he worked at the centre of an interest in film-making. By writing occasional pieces chiefly for Esprit and then Cahiers du Cinema he could imply his theoretical position without having to define it directly and work it out in narrowingly philosophical terms. Lecturing at IDHEC and writing for Cahiers, he could feel himself to be an influence, an influence that, as the testaments of friendship would imply, must have inspired practically everyone he met. In his extended review of Roger I_eenhardt's Les Dernieres Vacances, Bazin spends a large part of his review talking about the qualities of the man himself, because (as he explains) in a sense, they are more important than the film. The very core of Leenhardt will alwaysgo into his conversation,while his work, important though it may be, will never be morethan a by-product.17 (Is it simply coincidental by the way that Godard has now preserved for us some of this conversation in Une Femme Mariee?) What Bazin says here about Leen16. See Le Neo-Realisme Italien et ses Creatures, by Patrice G. Hovald. 17. Op. cit., Vol. III, p. 34.

28 / CINEMAJOURNAL

hardt I'm sure was also true of Bazin himself. His greatnesswill rest on the testimoniesof the people who knew him, who were taught by him, influenced by him, and who used to read him month by month in Cahiersand elsewhere. Reading throughthe four volumesof his collectedworks (which, by the way, are in no sense his complete works), there is very much the feeling of occasional pieces, even sometimes-as with his "Theatre and Cinema,"and "Painting and Cinema"articles-of commissionedpieces, of articleswritten at one remove from his most personalinterestin the cinema. Though no piece is without its characteristicinsights,a lot of the writing worksat a level of generalizationtoo removed from the specifics of individual films for anything said to be helpfully true. There is in the backgroundthe belles lettres tradition-unfortunately emphasized by the more generalpieces ProfessorGraychose for his one-volumeselection in English-always knowledgeable,sometimesamusing,but (to my mind) often lacking distinct purpose. I can't help but feel that this kind of writing is not the stuff that inspired so many friends or which convey to us now the centre of Bazin'spassion for the cinema. Bazin is at his best, as are all critics,when he is talking about the films that have engaged him most deeply. Again and again, Citizen Kane provides the touchstone, as does Wyler's The Little Foxes and The Best Years of Our Lives.

And of course Rossellini and De Sica and Renoir and the inexhaustiblevitality of the Americanwestern. Along with his two big pieces about the Western in Volume Three, the neo-realistvolume (Volume Four) perhapsprovides the most consistent working out of his own position on the cinema; the Wyler article (from Volume One) also allows him to convey with great force his own belief in the validity of cinematic naturalism: All the energy of the directing tends to suppressitself .... Thus the dramatic formand the actorsappearwith maximumpowerand clarity.18

Part of what appearsto be Bazin'sstatureas a critic (and as an influence)is that his faith in the cinemawas at the same time a faith in life.

18. Ibid., Vol. I, p. 150.

Carl Mayer,ScreenAuthor HerbertG.Luft

To Carl Mayer, a motion picture was a pictorial form of expression. A poet of the silent screen, he wrote in purely visual images. His staccato descriptions for the opening sequence of Sunrise attest his unique approach to cinematic composition. The scenario leads in with these words, Summer, Vacation Time, to go on as follows: Int. Railroad Station

Screen divided in two: Left

At the same time at the right side:

Both sides of screen dissolve into: Left

Vacation trains. Just leaving. Overcrowded with perspiring, traveling public. Waving through windows. Then: The trains have left. One sees through tall, glass arches. The City Plaza in front of railroad station. With highest houses. Shops, automobiles, street cars. Auto busses, elevated structure, people. In hot asphalt vapor. From a mountain tunnel. A fast vacation train emerges. With joyful people waving through the windows-passing-camera. Fast vacation train away from camera, going fast towards b.g. Running along the shore line. Where the surf plays.

Station up in the mountains. Vacation train arriving just now. Streams of people descending.

30 / CINEMAJOURNAL Tableau of steamer,1 ready to departwith skyscrapersin b.g.

At the same time on right side of screen

Saluting each other. Attendantsfrom hotels. Porters. Flags. Activity on beach. Joyful people. Happily jumping into rolling breakers. Seconds. Then: Both sides fade out softly.

Carl Mayer left no imprint of immortality, no stage plays, no novels. Yet, he stands out as a virtuoso of the visual medium. His contribution to the cinema best can be measured in a darkened projection room when light reflections throw onto the screen the imagery of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, The Last Laugh, and Tartuffe. When Caligari appeared, few avant-garde films of real depth had preceded it. There was Der Andere, a forerunner of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde made by Max Mack with Albert Bassermann as early as 1913. Simultaneously, Wegener brought out his early version of The Student of Prague, in which Hans Heinz Ewers paraphrased the Faustian theme of the student who sells his soul to the devil. Wegener's The Golem followed, the medieval legend of a clay-made monster. With these crude exceptions, audiences had been looking at thrillers, exotic adventures and ornate costume films. Caligari was inspired by Gilda Langer, a young actress whom Mayer met as secretary under stage director Eugen Roberts at Berlin's Residenz Theater. By chance, he found a writing partner in novelist Hans Janowitz who had come to the German capital as a demobilized army officer early in 1919. Janowitz, who passed away in New York some eleven years ago, said that he found the germ of Caligari in his own collection of short stories Three Chapters from Hamburg, in the Holstenwall tale of young Gertrude murdered by an unknown sex-fiend-a headline story experienced by him as a young journalist in October of 1913. Janowitz had recorded the incident, but it was wholly Mayer's intuition to conceive it in filmic terms. The character of the brutish mountebank-hypnotist (Werner Krauss) who forces his wild-eyed, sleepwalking medium Cesare (Conrad Veidt) to commit a series of murders, stems from Mayer's deeply rooted disgust for an army psychiatrist in World War I. Gilda Langer, meanwhile, had made her screen debut in Lang's Der Herr der Liebe (opposite Carl de Vogt). Just before Caligari was to go into production, Gilda jilted Mayer to become the fiancee of Dr. Paul Czinner (later a wellknown film director). As if borrowing a leaf from the gloomy pages of Caligari, Miss Langer died within one week, leaving the part of Jane to Java-born actress 2The "tableau of steamer"appeared in the center of the screen.

CINEMAJOURNAL/ 31

Lil Dagover-still active in German movies today. Disillusioned and crushed by the untimely death, Mayer was to cherish Gilda's memory throughout his short life. Caligari went before the cameras in November of 1919 at the Weissensee studio and was completed for an equivalent of $18,000 at the time Decla's major competitor, UFA, had been spending millions of dollars for costume spectacles. The much talked-about fragmentary sets cost less than $800. Actors such as Conrad Veidt and Werner Krauss received a mere $30.00 a day. Those responsible for the filming of Caligari have contradicted each other as to the frame story. Janowitz told me that Robert Wiene reversed his and Mayer's conception, after Fritz Lang (first assigned as director) had added the arbitrary ending. Producer Erich Pommer and Lang emphatically denied this, maintaining that the screen treatment already contained "a story within a story." It had been Mayer's idea to present Caligari in retrospect through the tortured eyes of the student (Friedrich Feher) who is plagued by a persecution complex. While Lang had visualized the frame story realistically, Dr. Wiene maintained the expressionistic setting throughout, thereby obliterating the thin line between two layers of consciousness, the hallucinations of a madman and reality. NEW DEMANDS FOR THE CAMERA

When Mayer wrote Caligari, he had neither experience in writing, except for some drama editing, nor had he ever worked in a studio. But he had the vision to look at the screen unspoiled by tradition. It is certain that Mayer never wrote for another medium. Born in Graz, Austria, in 1894, Mayer was the son of a speculator who committed suicide, leaving his family penniless. From childhood days, Carl supported his mother. Later, Mayer became an actor and did bit parts and assisted in provincial theaters. From World War I, he emerged a confirmed pacifist. Caligari was his denunciation of insane authority that forces human beings to kill against their will. Caligari exploited the screen's complexities and provided a powerful stimulant for Mayer to go on. Genuine, also for Pommer and Wiene, was his last expressionistic film, reflecting the folly of a painter (Hans Heinz von Twardowski) in love with the pagan priestess Genuine (Fern Andra). After Genuine, he shifted his inventiveness to the intimacy of the living room, to the everyday life of ordinary people. In Scherben (Werner Krauss and Edith Posca), he centered the drama around the conflict of three lower middle class people; a railroad worker, his daughter, and the seducer. The film had unity of time and locale, purity of form, and a closely knit story. With Scherben and other nonetoo-popular offbeat films, Mayer abandoned the romanticism of his contemporaries. In Lupu Pick, he was fortunate to find a mentor who shared his desire to create realistic images of life. Both stressed irrational and emotional factors and frankly discussed passions and perversions that few had dared to touch upon.

32 / CINEMAJOURNAL Scherben (Shattered) came as a daring innovation with the introduction of inserts and pan shots by cameraman Guido Seeber. From the conflict of a railroad trackwalker, Mayer turned to an even smaller cosmos, the world of a lowly housemaid. Hintertreppe (Backstairs) was written for Professor Jessner, one of Germany's foremost stage directors, who had made only one other picture, Wedekind's Erdgeist (Asta Nielsen). Hintertreppe is the story of a fragile woman (Henny Porten) tricked into intimacy by a sexobsessed, crippled mailman (Fritz Kortner) who withheld letters from her sweetheart (William Dieterle) to make her willing. Mayer dealt with human impulses; through his minutely detailed description, he led the actor away from theatrical mannerism. In Scherben, Mayer had introduced a new element of visual expression-the camera focus on details-perfected in Backstairs and subsequent films. Mayer asked the camera to concentrate on mute objects which people normally would look at in their daily chores, objects which became an integral part of storytelling. In 1920, Mayer wrote Der Bucklige und die Taenzerin (The Hunchback and the Dancer), centering around a cheap night club, with Sacha Gura, John Gottowt, Paul Biensfeld and Anna von Pahlen, in the leads. A minor work, it links him for the first time with director Murnau and cinematographer Karl Freund. During the same year, Mayer developed for F. W. Murnau the screen story for Der Gang in die Nacht (A Walk Through the Night) from the sentimental story, Le Vainqueur, by Danish author Harriet Bloch. The movie opened in Berlin in January of 1921 and was noted for dense atmosphere, a tightly-knit plot, and psychological details. The story involved a love triangle between a famed doctor (Olaf Foenss) who marries an entertainer (Gudrun Bruun Steffensen) but loses her to a painter (Conrad Veidt) whose eyesight he had saved. The younger woman commits suicide when the artist's eyes fail once more. Erna Morena lingers on the sideline as the other woman. Mayer's next for Murnau was Schloss Vogeloed, written late in 1920 from the novel by Rudolf Stratz for producer Pommer, with Arnold Korff, Paul Bildt, Hermann Valentin, Julius Falkenstein and Rudolf Leffler in character parts and Olga Tschechowa with Paul Hartmann as romantic leads. Photography was completed within three weeks since Mayer meticulously had laid out every detail in advance. Schloss Vogeloed deals with high society, a background Mayer later was to shun. When the story opens, a hunting party is assembled at a medieval castle and we are faced with a mysterious murder of long ago. Everyone, including the butler, seems to be suspect; the dead lovers (Paul Hartmann and Miss Tschechowa) appear in two dream sequences. Schloss Vogeloed was a logical extension of Mayer's writings; it proved that he was capable of condensing a rather involved novel. With his screen treatment of Stendhal's Vanina Vanini for director Arthur von Gerlach (1921-22), Mayer revitalized the distorted atmosphere in a realistic setting of the Napoleonic era, adding to it a specific fluidity. The governor of Vanina, who crushes his daughter's dream world, symbolizes destructiveness in an odd variation of the omnipresent army psychiatrist.

CINEMA JOURNAL/ 33

While the majority of German screen writers concerned themselves with surface problems, Mayer increasingly dealt with life itself. Sylvester (New Year's Eve), another scenario for Pick, written in 1923, ranks high among his intimate films. As in Scherben and Hintertreppe, it focuses on man's imperfection and the ugliness of human existence in an impoverished world. We are shown a mother and daughter-in-law jealousy that causes the husband's suicide during a joyous New Year's celebration. TOWARDREALISM

When Mayer wrote Der Letzte Mann in 1923, he had Lupu Pick in mind for the tragic character. To him Emil Jannings was never good casting for the role. Yet, when producer Pommer turned the property over to Murnau, the director insisted on Jannings. In Der Letzte Mann, Mayer had the boldness to hold up to the Germans their greatest weakness with inescapable logic. It reflects a fundamental grasp of the tragedy of those to whom a uniform means more than life. The doorman of the Hotel Atlantic is demoted to a washroom attendant. The physical loss of the uniform is a major disaster and affects him much more than the actual loss of the position. It creates within him a quick metamorphosis. Without the magnificent garment with its sparkling row of gold buttons, the majestic, umbrellawielding hotel porter becomes a tottering old man. He actually shrinks-his back bends, his face slackens. Repossession of the uniform becomes an obsession. It is a reverse of Oswald's The Captain of Koepenick in which the shoemaker puts on a uniform and impersonates an officer to exercise authority. In spite of Mayer's protest, Pommer insisted on a farcical happy ending (in which the doorman inherits a million dollars), mainly to attract the American market. Thus, The Last Man becomes the first man having the last laugh on those who had degraded him. The Last Laugh (the title of the English version) was the tragedy of the petty bourgeois who cherishes false hopes of grandeur. Just as Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman is destroyed by his own false sense of values and universal injustice, Mayer's hero falls victim to a specific German malady. It is interesting to compare The Last Laugh of 1923 to the Caligari of 1919. five In short years, the movies had acquired a wealth of subtlety, an advancement unmatched throughout the following forty years. According to Karl Freund, it was Mayer who unfolded a new technique through his visual approach-foremost in the scene in which the aunt discovers that the doorman had been demoted. Mayer wanted to move into an extreme close-up of Jannings' face and frightened eyes. Freund responded to the writer and, for the first time, mounted his camera on a dolly; whereupon, Mayer insisted on making the agility of the camera an integral part of the story-as in the opening shot, in which the elevator spews out the group of hotel guests rushing across the lobby and through the revolving door. The fluidity with which the camera follows the progress of action, capturing every fleeting thought, reflects the flow of life itself. Freund utilized the camera mobility with utmost precision, but first and foremost it was

34 / CINEMAJOURNAL Mayer who saw his story visually, seeking his object-not merely presenting itthereby identifying the audience with the lens of the camera. Tartuffe is the clearest-cut example of Mayer as a moralist. According to Freund, Carl Mayer insisted on different lenses for the frame story, which was harshly and realistically photographed, and for the baroque comedy which came out of the past as a soft image of life. For the modern sequences, sets were raised onto a ramp to be photographed in extreme low angles. Mayer's script described in detail actions and reactions of his characters, even timing their movements. He indicates how Tartuffe (Jannings) tries to sneak up on the beautiful Elmire (Lil Dagover), with his tongue dangling from his lecherous mouth tasting imaginary pleasures of lust and passion. Watched from behind a curtain by the jealous husband Orgon (Werner Krauss), Tartuffe creeps down, tip-toeing, step by step, still with massive movements. Mayer explains that the camera must precede, but should move a bit faster when the actor reaches the foot of the staircase, in order to change position and wait for a climax. Thus the eye of the camera fuses into complete audience identification. HOLLYWOOD, BY CORRESPONDENCE

In 1927, when William Fox called Murnau to Hollywood, Carl Mayer was assigned to adapt Hermann Sudermann's The Excursion to Tilsit, which was to become the motion picture Sunrise. Mayer flatly declined to come to America, maintaining that he would work only in his native environment. It took him many months to write the screen play. Murnau, meanwhile, preparing production at Fox and Lake Arrowhead, was forced to postpone the picture again and again. The theme of Sunrise is a simple one: A man frees himself from the bondage of evil to obtain forgiveness through love. Mayer's radiant treatment showed a reversal of his recent appraisal of humanity. Gone was his biting harshness. His writing had become a compassionate affirmation of life, a belief in ultimate goodness. He imprinted man's inextinguishable hope in this work. Whereas the hero of Sudermann's story-a farmer who schemed to murder his wife to run off with a tramp-redeems himself in death, the screen transposition allows redemption towards life. The two protagonists (anet Gaynor and George O'Brien) are seen with psychological insight; Mayer's descriptive flair catches the smell and texture of the village; the farm, the boat trip, and the city loom in the background of the poetic description. Art director Rochus Gliese built a multitude of sets: Ansass' cottage, the railroad station, the town sparkling with a million lights, a huge main square to accommodate 4,000 extras and 500 automobiles, the fair grounds, an enchanting restaurant-the most elaborate construction any studio had ever witnessed. The scenic design (by Herlth and Roehrig, who had worked with Mayer) was enlarged many times to make the film physically attractive. Freund, then head of Fox-Europa in Berlin, says that Mayer was furious when seeing the rushes. To the author, the prodigious sets looked more like a metropolis, U.S.A., than a small, sleepy-eyed farming community.

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari

Sunrise

36 / CINEMAJOURNAL Yet the lyrical language of Carl Mayer remained to dominate the basic pattern. Mordaunt Hall said about Sunrise in the New York Times: "Murnau reveals himself to be a student of psychology. Characters in his brilliant achievement live and they act according to the intelligence they are supposed to possess. Murau never permits them to surpass expectations of them. Yet, they see, hear, and think. Unlike most of the characters in motion pictures, these men and women always show that they know what is going on around them." Hall didn't realize that Mayer's creative imagination spoke first from the screenplay. He had taken a dusty novelette by a mediocre 19th century German author and transposed it into a pictorial statement of universal validity. The premiere of Sunrise took place at Hollywood's Carthay Circle Theatre on Tuesday, November 20, 1927; Mayer, who had been the moving force of its artistic composition was neither present nor missed. The Academy presented three of the very first initial Awards for 1927-28 to Sunrise and its craftsmen. Janet Gaynor received an "Oscar" as best dramatic actress; Charles Rosher and Karl Struss one combined for best cinematography; and the Fox studio one for "best artistic quality of production." During 1928, Mayer-still long-distance-collaborated with Berthold Viertel and Marion Orth on his second Hollywood picture for F. W. Murnau, The Four Devils, from the circus story by the Danish author Hermann Bang, with Janet Gaynor, Charles Morton, Nancy Drexel and Barry Norton as four aerial artists, Mary Duncan as the "femme fatale," and J. Farrel MacDonald as the clown. Mayer's opening sequence visually introduces the background to an ensuing drama-a city at night with a thousand neon lights, in a series of staccato impressions which swiftly relate to the theme itself. Blurred at first, the images become clearer to stand out on the screen against the darkness as we meet the four trapeze artists in their daily environment. Mayer was far ahead of his time in descriptive details, such as indicating how a team of race horses should be photographed effectively in the arena. He instructed the cinematographer to fasten a camera to the head of one of the galloping horses. The circus atmosphere is seen with the eyes of the dancing horses, with the vast crowd whirling about the moving animals from the misty dimness of the tent, a thousand faces circling the rim of the arena to stare at the center of the ring and, through the magic of the screen, simultaneously at the viewer in the theatre. At one point in the dramatic narrative, the camera is mounted on the trapeze while the eyes of a jealous female catch the outline of a seductive woman as she enters a dressing room. The camera pans swiftly and the ambiguous object of the lens crystallizes from its diffused background. THE LAST YEARS

On viewing S. M. Eisentein's Potemkin, Mayer had to admit that a fresh element was changing the very foundation of the cinema. Eisenstein photographed real people, unrehearsed and sometimes unprepared; he created his dynamic composition by a scientific process of intercutting-by fusing his ele-

CINEMA JOURNAL/ 37

ments and building up the rhythmic movement of machines, faces, and objects, to a high-pitched crescendo. Potemkin inspired Mayer to suggest to Karl Freund the idea for Berlin, die Symphonie einer Grossstadt, but he never wrote a line for the first feature-length documentary with the sole hero-a city. Producer Freund developed the story from a basic outline, photographing Berlin from a battery of cameras, with candid camera shots of the man on the street in everyday situations. Freund produced the film for Fox-Europa with Walter Ruttmann directing and editing the voluminous footage over a period of a year. Mayer had helped film director Paul Czinner, his antagonist of pre-Caligari days, with treatments for such silent films as The Violinist of Florence and Dona Juana starring Elizabeth Bergner (Mrs. Czinner). With the coming of talking pictures, he participated in two highly sophoisticated features, intimate drama directed by Dr. Czinner with Elizabeth Bergner both in Berlin and in Paris. Der Traeumende Mund was made for UFA, Ariane (from the novel by Claude Anet) by Nero Films; both co-starred Rudolph Forster. Ariane was later re-made in Hollywood by Billy Wilder under the title of Love in the Afternoon. In the adaptation of the Anet novel, Mayer added an element of subtle humor that was missing from the Hollywood edition. An English-language film was made in London by Czinner in 1936 from Der Traeumende Mund under the title of Dreaming Lips, in which Miss Bergner was joined by Raymond Massey in the Forster role and Romney Brent portrayed the tragic husband, a part originally played by Anton Edthofer. This time, Carl Mayer received screen credit. When Hitler rose to power in 1933, Mayer went to England into voluntary exile. Here, he was associated with the late Gabriel Pascal on Pygmalion and Major Barbara. Pascal said that Carl Mayer to him was a true source of inspiration and that his views and comments had a way of lighting up a particular scene or a single line of dialogue which helped the director to visualize and recognize it afresh. The late Robert J. Flaherty introduced Mayer to Paul Rotha. During the earliest phase of World War II, Mayer worked on Rotha's The Fourth Estate, a feature-length documentary showing world events through the pages of the London Times. Mayer took credit as consultant; he did no actual writing, but went through drafts of sequences to analyze them and to suggest improvements about continuity and structure. Mayer would scribble away in the dark of the projection room, and then spend two or three hours with Rotha in a Soho cafe where he drank innumerable cups of coffee as he deciphered his notes and explained his points. The exile, breathing freely in the British atmosphere, was anxious to make a film of Goldsmith's She Stoops to Conquer in which he wanted to eliminate cuts and changes of camera setups; his idea was to film the picture with a mobile camera-much as Hitchcock did later in Rope. He also wrote an unproduced screen story about the Salvation Army and its activities in the slums of London. He spent much time going the rounds of the studios trying to sell his story ideas. From 1941 until a few months before his death, Carl Mayer did considerable advisory work for Rotha's documentary units. He would go out on location and

38 / CINEMAJOURNAL discuss the script breakdown detail by detail. While German bombs were bursting over London, Mayer was helping Rotha in the assembling and final cutting of World of Plenty. During his last ten years, Mayer led a most frugal life. He read few books but devoured every newspaper he could find. Short in height, scarcely five feet, and rather frail, he was always smiling. Filled with plans for the future, he died of cancer at the age of fifty, after a year's illness. His grave in Highgate Cemetery, chosen for him by Paul Rotha, is next to the one of William Friese-Greene, another innovator of the moving image. Ivor Montagu, in his essay, "The Impact of Caligari," stated: "We have only to run over the record of Mayer's work to see how many original conceptions it includes, to see how often in their realization good directors, good cameramen, good actors and actresses achieved each the outstanding performances of their careers, to realize what a powerful original force in the team was there at work. His influence pervaded and moulded all his colleagues." In preparing a scenario, Mayer went out of town to hide for days and even weeks. He took the smallest detail seriously, working out setups and angles, experimenting with camera finder before jotting down his stage directions. Mayer's scripts could be transposed on to the screen without changes. The continuity of his films took shape in his mind, not afterward in the cutting room. Through movement alone, he achieved a complete unity of story construction. He helped to free the silent screen from stationary photography and printed captions. Under his hands, the cinema grew to maturity and intellectual depth. Gabriel Pascal said, "He had the soul and eyes of a poet-a poet who wrote in visual images rather than in words." The late Anthony Asquith believed that Mayer conquered a new emotional field for the cinema and that his influence, conscious or unconscious, is especially visible in many of today's films. Carl Mayer was a unique figure in the world of the cinema. His work is not voluminous; he wrote a mere dozen produced screenplays. But a film written by Mayer remained the work of an author.

Cinema Journal Notes Breaking the Code: A Historical Footnote Peter Dart In 1922 the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors Association (MPPDA) hired Will Hays to act as its director and spokesman. Hays was expected to thwart a growing demand by various pressure groups for federal censorship of motion pictures.l The MPPDA preferred selfregulation to more stringent governmental censorship and agreed to abide by Hays' advice concerning the production of motion pictures.2 From the most common and serious complaints of local censor boards Hays drew a list of "don'ts" and "be carefuls" to guide producers as they attempted to avoid controversy. This advice was formalized in 1934 as the Production Code of the MPPDA. The code was to be applied to specific productions by Joseph Breen and his Production Code Administration (PCA) office. An advertising code and a corresponding Advertising Code Administration (ACA) regulated exploitation.8 1. Ruth Inglis, Freedom of The Movies (Chicago, 1947), pp. 65-73. Inglis reports that in "1921nearly one hundred measuresrelative to the movies were introduced in the legislatures of thirty-sevenstates,"p. 70. 2. Arthur Knight, The Liveliest Art (New

York, 1957), pp. 110-112; Lewis Jacobs, The Rise Of The American Film (New York, 1939), pp. 290-291; Margaret F. Thorp, America at The Movies (London, 1946),p. 118; Inglis, pp. 87-93; and Murray Schumach, The Face on The Cutting Room Floor (New York, 1964),

pp. 3-48. 3. Inglis, pp. 139, 146-149. For a copy of the code see Inglis pp. 205-219. The PCA

Under pressure from the Catholic Legion of Decency and other religious groups, the MPPDA declared that no picture which violates the code would be issued a seal of approval. A $25,000 penalty would be assessed any producer, distributor, or exhibitor of an unapproved film.4 Therefore, Forum magazine concluded The establishment of the Hays office was one of the shrewdestmoves Hollywood has ever made. Millions believe that its censorship has legal force and consequently. . . there has been little agitation for governmental control. But Howard Hughes proved the impotence of self-regulation. Once the PCA was openly opposed, its strength withered.6 At a cost of nearly $3,000,000 and two directors Howard Hughes had finished The Outlaw and was granted a seal of apand the ACA worked closely together, and hereafter, especially in quotations, PCA may refer to control of either production or advertising. 4. Inglis, p. 125. 5. Forum, CVI (July, 1946), p. 21. 6. Dissatisfaction with the Code and the PCA was frequent but subdued. Sidney Howard, Alexander Korda, Joseph Mankiewicz, and Walter Wanger had unsuccessfuly challenged the code. See: S.V.R., "Play Safe But Be Suggestive,"New Republic, December 30, 1946, p. 907. See also Hortense Powdermaker, Hollywood:

The Dream Factory (New York,

1950),p. 311; see also pp. 54-81.

40 / CINEMA JOURNAL proval on May 23, 1941.7 In the Spring of 1943, Hughes premiered the Jane Russell vehicle in San Francisco. The picture was not a success. By special arrangements and with tremendous publicity Hughes kept the theatre open four months before he withdrew the film to develop a new advertising approach. Hughes did not submit his revised advertising to the Code office for approval. He had not changed the content of his film, which had been approved, but the MPPDA insisted that all advertising must also be inspected and approved if a picture were to have the code seal. Had Hughes submitted his new posters for approval they might have been accepted. As he later argued in court, they were no more lewd than the sensational advertisements for Gilda or Scarlet Street.8 But Breen was not to be by-passed.9 Before The Outlaw became notorious, Eric Johnston was quoted by Variety: "The picture industry may shortly go into court to seek to end forever local censorship by state, municipal and police boards."10After waiting sixty to ninety days, presumably to find the right picture on which to base his case, he planned to carry the fight to the Supreme Court. The Outlaw canceled all of Johnston's hopes. Variety lamented: Move toward liberali7ation of censorship, both inside and outside the industry, has been pretty well shelved by the current ruckus over "The Outlaw." As a matter of fact, present indications are that in place of the start that was made toward easing both industry self-regulatorymeasures and local political censorship, films 7. "Hughes Rebels," Business Week, May

4, 1946, p. 20; Allen Rivkin, "The Hollywood

Letter," Free World, June 1946, p. 50; and

are now faced with increasingthreatsfrom blue pencillers all along the line.ll Louis Thomann reported that since The Outlaw there had been a tightening up as to what the public sees and what it doesn't see in present movie

advertising. Code administratorsare keeping a keener eye on copy and still photographs before granting approval ....

[Consequently]borderlinecasesof feminine stars in scanty costumesare being decided without hesitation in favor of more modesty.1 And Variety complained that "Hughes' unorthodox selling of one picture must have an invidious effect on the rest of the picture industry."18 The Outlaw controversy helped to clarify the role that the code seal plays in the exhibition of motion pictures. The immediate effect was a tightening of control throughout the industry. Variety reasoned that removal of the seal from the film "would prevent practically every major house in the country from playing it."14 Forum said: The PCA likes to advertise the voluntary characterof the Code. However,this claim borders on sophistry because members of the associationhave agreed not to release films which do not bear the PCA's seal of approval .... An individual producer,

or even a single major studio, could not afford to disregard a PCA ban unless he could afford to shelve his product." In April, 1946, Hughes received a letter from the MPAA16 which said in part: Your conduct in connection with the advertising and exploitation of "The Out-

Variety,September 11, 1946, p. 24.

8. Inglis, p. 187. 9. Variety, May 29, 1946, p. 10, says that

"such ads as the skywriter Hughes employed to put circles with dots in the middle of them under the title of the picture"were held to be

in bad taste.

Louis F.

11. "Outlaw Sours Censor Drive," Variety, May 22, 1946, p. 5. 12. Louis Thomann, p. 122. 13. Variety, April 17, 1946, p. 6.

Thomann, "Hughes 14. Ibid., p. 30. The $25,000 fine was exFight Tightens Administration of Hollywood pected to be invoked. Code on Advertising," Printer's Ink, Septem15. Forum, loc. cit. ber 13, 1946, p. 122, says that advertisingcopy included the question: "How would you like 16. In 1945 Eric Johnston succeeded Will to tussle with Russell?" See also: Schumach, Hays as executive officer of the MPPDA, p. 58. changing the name to the Motion Picture 10. "Censors Face MPAA Court Test," Va- Association of America (MPAA). See Inglis, p. 90. riety, April 3, 1946, p. 9.

CINEMAJOURNAL / 41 the country's principal theatres within a week."2s Removal of the seal, then, was ... for your suspension or expulsion from tantamount to removal of the picture from theatres controlled by the major studios. membership.17 Although such publicity seemed to subHughes was called to New York to defend stantiate the power of self-regulation, it himself before the board of directors in a actually supported Hughes' contention that hearing on April 23, 1946.18 But before he PCA conservatism and control discrimicould be expelled, Hughes left the organiza- nated against independent producers. tion, suing it for $5,000,000. The New York Hughes loudly proclaimed his discontent; Times reported: this, in turn, aggravated MPAA fear of anti-trust actions. The complaint filed yesterday asserts that In September, after the seal was removed the associationthrough its seal of approval from The Outlaw, Eric Johnston issued a of advertising material, exercises coercion statement explaining the relative positions over 90 per cent of the film exhibitors in of the association, the exhibitor, and the the United States. Lack of approval it is maverick producer. contended,is virtual equivalent to boycott. Asserting that the association procedure Members of the Association, and indeed constitutes an unlawful system of private all exhibitors, are free to show The Outreview for a court the suit asks censorship, law in theatresowned or operatedby them of the rejection proceedings.9 despite the revocation of its certificate. They are under no obligation not to show Although the association had no precethe picture and no liability will attach if dent, the code seal was withdrawn from The Outlaw on September 6, 1946.20 they do so." was incensed: Hughes This was a revelation. The result, Inglis The censors might not like it [The Outconcludes, was that some theatres affiliated If the with the MPAA played The Outlaw. Johnlaw] but the public does. ... ston's statement and the subsequent amendJohnston office is going to try to keep the American public from seeing this picment of the code "unquestionably weakture . . . then it appears to me that the ened the enforcement mechanism of selfJohnston office is assuming the position of regulation."25 But for twelve years from dictator in the selection of the public's 1934 to 1946 the Hays-Johnston office had entertainment.21 declined to clarify the misinterpretation which the press and exhibitors had made With its seal withdrawn the film was concerning the seal of approval. By pressassumed to be unmarketable. Thomann ing The Outlaw case Hughes forced a resaid: "The Jane Russell vehicle cannot be interpretation. In the years following, shown in some 85% of the nation's theatres, many pictures (e.g. Hughes' own The including practically all of the bigger show- French Line, as well as Otto Preminger's houses."22 And the New York Times, in The Moon Is Blue and The Man With reporting the removal of the seal said that The Golden Arm) were widely exhibited this removal "ordered it withdrawn from without the sanction of the PCA seal.26 law," in the opinion of the board of directors constitutes grounds for proceedings

17. Quoted in Variety,April 17, 1946, p. 30. Ellipsis in the original. 18. New York Times, April 12, 1946, p. 22. 19. Ibid., April 23, 1946, p. 27. 20. Variety, September 11, 1946, p. 24. 21. Quoted in Ibid. Ellipses in original account. 22. Thomann, loc cit.

23. New York Times, September 9, 1946, p.

11.

24. Quoted in Variety, September 11, 1946,

p. 24. 25. Inglis, p. 142.

26. Schumach, pp. 60, 69. Eventually in 1949, after Hughes had grossed$6,000,000with his picture he made the changes which the PCA demanded and the seal was reinstated.

Past, Present, Future in Cinema Philip di Franco Editing is a unique aspect of the cinema for its manipulation of time-past, present and future. Although there is precedent in the novel for time manipulation, the indefinable and elusive immediacy of film (which prevents all but the most disciplined viewers from leaving a bad movie) allows the film artist to go far beyond the boundaries of the written word. Because cinema can distort the three elements of time so fluidly and with such vividness and because the visual quality, by definition, is a perceptual process more swiftly assimilated by the mind, time distortions in cinema are easier to accomplish, more readily discerned and stronger in artistic impact than those of the novel. The movie audience has had to accustom itself to the idiosyncratic nature of film and the editing conventions of the medium. Today a switch from present to past or from one story to another can be achieved without confusing the audience. This has not come easily, for many people are quite baffled by 81/2 and many more are totally at a loss with Last Year at Marienbad, which completely destroys time as a coherent function of events. Yet by and large the audience has learned and habituated itself to the complex time patterns of film and is continuing to do so. In fact, the contemporary audience is often impatient with the straight narrative film. In an age in which almost everyone is aware of thought processes, even in the most complex forms, the need for an artistic expression of these processes arises. Given that imaginings are "seen in the mind's eye," cinema alone is capable of rendering these imaginings adequately. Cinema can seldom render abstractions

adequately; the written word more properly can do so. Cinema is thus seen as an art form specifically appropriate to a technological society, with its orientation to visual perception and its learning process based upon seeing. A crucial aspect of editing is its dramatic value. If we consider the essence of drama to be conflict and its resolution or nonresolution by a hero (as in the "thesisantithesis-synthesis" idea), then the potential amount of variables of an art form determines the amount of dramatic energy realized. Because cinema has this vital power of time manipulation, a greater quantity of potential variables presents itself for artistic expression in cinema than in the theater. There are six types of editing: (1) continuous time, wherein film time and events correspond exactly to real life; (2) parallel time, wherein two or more different sequences of events or stories are told concurrently; (3) accelerated time, wherein segments of a story are left out so that the audience is propeled ahead in time; (4) decelerated time, wherein the repetition of a shot slows down the clock to enhance the climax of a dramatic moment; (5) previous time, wherein past time is rendered by flashing back to previous or past events; (6) future imperfect time, wherein events are rendered as visual fulfillments of imagined ideas in the mind of a character. Continuous time is by far the most frequent type of edit. It proceeds in direct relation to reality. For example: A man knocks on a door, the door is opened and he enters.

CINEMA JOURNAL / 43 In continuous editing this would be rendered: Shot I-A man goes to a door and knocks; the door is opened. Shot 2-The man enters the room as seen from the inside. None of the action is left out and the time and events correspond to the reality of the viewer. Film time (inside time) is equal to the viewer's time (outside time). A film made up of all continuous edits would be rather boring indeed-witness Andy Warhol's opuses like Sleep where there is no movement forward in time at all and, in fact, no editing except to splice the reels together. I think the reasons for the ensuing boredom are twofold. First, drama must have movement or progression, especially in today's times. Without this movement, a work seems static and boring. Second, the more a film proceeds in continuous time, the closer to reality is the art. If we agree that art is not equal to life then the work is lesser art if it duplicates reality. I do not mean to imply that all films which proceed in continuous time are necessarily boring. Though the time in High Noon corresponds almost exactly to the viewer's time, it is successful by dint of the inner drama of the script and its events. In fact, the time sequence works for High Noon by an exact correlation in time because the audience feels the time before high noon elapsing just as Will Kane does. The Passion of Joan of Arc proceeds similarly; time becomes a burden to Joan, as victim, and to the viewer, as sympathizer. However, in both examples parallel time is also an essential function of the continual progression. Continuous time editing is a usual feature of parallel, previous, and future imperfect editing after the edit to a concurrent story, a flashback, or an imagining. For example: Shot 1-A man goes to a window and gazes out. FLASHBACKTO:

Shot 2-The man as a boy is playing; he climbs to the top of a slide. Shot 3-He slides down. BACKTO: ACCET.pRATE

Shot 4-The man closes the window. After the flashback to the past, the time proceeds continuously and at the end of the flashback it accelerates ahead to the future.

A parallel time edit is one in which the action shifts from one story to another or from one sequence of events to another. The classic example of this is Intolerance, which tells four different stories at the same time. A simple example follows: Shot 1-A man approachesa door. Shot 2-A woman inside is reading. Shot 3-The man knockson the door. Shot 4-The woman hears the knock, gets up and opens the door. On first glance, one might say that the progression above is continuous, for it proceeds in a continuous stream. By convention, however, the viewer knows that the two actions are proceeding side by side in a concurrent mode. The Great Train Robbery is another simple example of parallel action. In one case, the bandits run from the posse while the posse chases them. In addition, previous to this, while the bandits rob the train and tie up the stationmaster, a dance is going on in town. Parallel time is really a cinematic convention which has developed from these primitive "meanwhile, back at the ranch" films. Griffith brought this method to full fruition and employed it in a rather complex fashion with Intolerance. Actually, it is quite difficult to pinpoint an action as parallel, since an edit to another storyline may or may not take the same time as the time elapsed in the original storyline. There is something radically wrong with the following example: Shot 1-A man starts a forkful of food toward his mouth. Shot 2-Another man sees him and begins to eat.

Shot 3-The first man is just arriving at his mouth with the food. Though the sequence of the first man is accurate, Shot 3 has not allowed for the feeling of a lapse in time while the second man performs his action. Parallel time is the first aspect of the compression of time in cinema. Through

44 / CINEMAJOURNAL this kind of edit, an artist can compress two stories or more into a single unit and gets the additional benefit of artistic comparison and a creation of relationships. By using four story lines in Intolerance, Griffith could substantiate his thesis that intolerance is timeless. Only through parallel editing was this possible. Accelerated time editing is merely continuous time with segments of action deleted. This is commonly used to propel a story ahead in time and is the second aspect (and more important one) of cinematic compression. A simple example follows: Shot I-A man approaches a door and knocks. DISSOLVE TO:

Shot 2-He is inside the room sitting down. Because the action between the two shots is so easily supplied by the viewer, it is not necessary and can be left out. With an awareness of just how much can be supplied by the viewer a director can pare down action, lengthen his time span, and compress an incredible amount into his story. In Citizen Kane an entire life is compressed into two hours without jarring the viewer. More and more today, the viewer is able to accept greater leaps ahead in time. Part of the reason for this is the habituation to the conventions of cinema and part is the over-exposure of plots. Technology itself has influenced the story progression by allowing quicker modes of transition, i.e. fades, dissolves, wipes, swish pans, and superimpositions. In this sense, form determines content. The need for quicker pacing may also have forced the new uses of these techniques. Decelerated time is accomplished by the repetition of the same shot or of a similar shot so that the climax is deferred for a longer time. Though the following example from An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge is quite complex, it is well worth considering in detail. Shot 1-Peyton Farquharemergesfrom the woods in a long shot running toward the camera. Shot 2-His wife sees him from the porch in a rather long shot. She runs toward

the camera (slow motion) and to the right with the camera panning and travelingwith her. Shot 3-Repetition of #1. Shot 4-Now in a closer long shot the wife continues to run toward him. Shot 5-Repetition of #1. Shot 6-The wife now in a medium shot continues toward him. Shot 7-Repetition of #1. Shot 8-Now in a medium close-up, she comes close to Farquhar,they embrace and are about to kiss. Shot 9-Peyton Farquharis hanged. Aside from decelerated subject motion, traveling shots, and telephoto effects, the essential technique is the repetition of shots. The climax is put off a number of times so that it arrives with greater impact. This, in turn, makes the second surprise climax even more bitter and sad. Extension of time generally prolongs an idea or an emotion. In The River we see a high tree being chopped down. By editing the fall of the tree into three or four shots, the impact of the final fall is increased in significance and the thematic statement is enhanced. Such fragmenting of an action into several shots may decelerate the action but it can produce the opposite effect of contracting time. Eisenstein and Griffith particularly employed this technique to enlarge an action for thematic effect. When the bridge is opening in Ten Days That Shook The World, Eisenstein edits this into many shots so that the impact of the final opening is more forceful. In the same film, however, Eisenstein fragments actions into small parts so that though the film time is more than the actual time for the action, the final aesthetic result is a feeling that the action took less than the actual time. Deceleration is unique to cinema though long descriptions in the novel tend to slow action down. Actual repetitions take place in poetry but not with the correlative power of edited shots. It is, in fact, illogical for a repeat of the action to happen; through convention, the viewer accepts the repetition. The flashback is most often used to relate past events through memory. There

CINEMA JOURNAL/ is precedence for this in the novel and it still exists as an important technique in writing. Before these days of quick cutting, a flashback was preceded by a distant look on a character's face, a rainy window melting, and a dissolve to the past (music becoming nostalgic). Now, we witness direct cuts to the past as in 8/2. Artistically, the major value of a flashback is to relate past and present in meaning. It also defines the character in the present and allows the viewer to know something about the character which other characters do not. In essence, the past acts upon the present to supply motivation. The classic case of this is the James Cagney gangster who in a confession to a Pat O'Brien priest tells about his rotten childhood. On a complex level Hiroshima Mon Amour depicts the past and its relation to present and future in a thematic statement. The influence of the past as a determining element of existing character traits is a function of our quest for psychological understanding and justification. For this reason, the flashback is closely united with the future imperfect edit as exemplified by 8.1 Here not only is the past a determining factor of the present, it influences the future which in turn influences the present. Specifically, past and future imperfect are polarized forces acting on the present. Future imperfect time is based upon the

45

images, events, or actions which exist in a character's mind. Generally it is the level of reality of imagination. The trend of the contemporary cinema and the novel is toward a combination of flashbacks and imaginings as they act upon the present. Technique is the major determinant, i.e. over-exposure, high key lighting, slow motion, filter shots, etc. In Last Year At Marienbad time ultimately dissolves and it is impossible to tell just exactly where one is. Of course this is Resnais' intent. Dreams like those in Bergman's films fall into this category and the technique must assume dream-like qualites. In the novel this is similar to Herzog's use of italics and his "letter-writing." The latest developments in color processing present complex reality-dream variations. Antonioni contrasts the cool, quiet natural setting to the murky gray colors of an industrial setting in The Red Desert. This advanced color processing offers the artist wide latitude in presenting reality or non-reality or juxtaposing realistic and non-realistic scenes to form coherent relationships. Primarily, the future imperfect is used to describe thoughts and in conjunction with the flashback makes cinema the best medium for capturing the essence of life in art. These two types of edit can lay bare the cerebral landscape of the human being and thus open up an enormous sphere of artistic expression.

Annual Meeting The ninth annual meeting of the Society of Cinematologists was held at the Institute of Film and Television of New York University (40 East 7th Street, New York City) Friday and Saturday, March 29-30, 1968. Forty of the seventy members attended. It was a busy and fruitful session. Fourteen papers were presented by George Amberg, Joseph L. Anderson, Mojmir Drvota, Martin S. Dworkin, Jack C. Ellis, Robert M. Hammond, David Madden, Gerald Noxon, Elmer Oettinger, Ernest Rose, Peter A. Soderbergh, Walter Stainton, Donald Staples, and Howard Suber. Some were committed to other publications; some will appear in due course in Cinema Journal.

In the election of officers for 1968-69, George Amberg was chosen president, Donald McCaffrey secretary, and Donald Staples treasurer. John B. Kuiper, after two years as president, was elected councilman, his term ending in 1972. Other council members are Sol Worth (1971), Robert Steele (1970), and Amos Vogel (1969). Richard D. MacCann, Cinema Journal editor, is an ex officio council member. Late March or early April was accepted by the membership as the probable time of the next annual meeting, with Montreal, New York, or California as possible meeting places.

CinemaJournalBook Reviews Interviews and Reminiscences Tom Milne (editor). Losey on Losey. New York, Doubleday, 1968. $2.95. Peter Bogdanovich (editor). Fritz Lang in America. London, Studio Vista, 1968. 10/6. Bordering a fine line between book and non-book in the film publisher's world of the sixties is the interview book. Probably it came in large measure out of the success of the Cahiers du Cinema minutely documented and finely argued interviews of the past decade. Certainly Francois Truffaut's Hitchcock is an outstanding example of the interview book at its most ambitious. What is needed? First, there's the interlocutor, preferably someone who approaches his assignment with enthusiasm and sophistication, and who has done his homework. Second, the director should be picked on other bases than age or garrulity (though, as Sidney Greenstreet said to Bogey, it's hard to trust a close-mouthed man). The director ought to represent a large enough body of work to merit our long-term interest. He should like to talk about his older films in the present tense, spelling out ongoing efforts in solution of current problems. He should be either secure, bitter, or impulsive enough to consider his own work and its milieu with candor. Finally, there is the ubiquitous tape recorder, chomping along at 17/ (4.8 cm. for European publications). Of course, motion picture people have been writing personal essays about their profession for many years, usually to far better effect than the non-doer manages, and there are directors whom one would still far rather read asking questions of themselves (Orson Welles, Peter Brook). On the other hand, some film makers come off better with other peoples' questions;

Godard at Berkeley was a good example. I think the interview book at its best can capture something quite unique, especially the open-ended, discursive sort of spontaneity that results if things start to move. Thus far, my favorite has been Tom Milne's Losey on Losey, part of the Cinema One series issued in London by Secker and Warburg and available here now as the Cinema World series at Doubleday. In several ways Losey seems an ideal subject-outspoken, sensitive to a wide range of production functions, even experienced in peripheral subject areas. Milne manages a thoughtfully premeditated kind of functional interrogation. As in a good conversation, certain motifs (Brecht, for example) reoccur, develop and expand. The accuracy of the transcription catches some delightful nuances. When Milne speaks of angst, Losey responds with ruminations on anger. The discussions on design (or what Losey calls pre-design), photography, and color are especially good. Too bad they're not illustrated, particularly the material on set dressing and on the collaborations with Hubley and MacDonald. Are these the things Eisenstein did, drawing on his own graphic resources, or are we talking about something else? The material on sound in the last shot of Accident is nice, too, catching as it does a director's intent, the practicalities of commercial film making, andimplicitly-a chunk of perception theory that undergirds Losey's approach to what he himself regards as esthetic pragmatism. Because of this pluralistic quality, such a book could, I think, be put to profitable use in several different course contexts: studying narrative form, for example, or approaching problems of stylization. Losey

CINEMA JOURNAL/ 47 says a lot that would contribute to discussions on film and society, especially his comments on the blacklist. Fritz Lang in America by Peter Bogdanovich, on the other hand, doesn't strike me as coming off with quite such distinction, though it does make small contributions to history. Lang's dealings with producers document an era as well as helping to define the perimeters of a commercial director's prerogatives. Occasional snippets of information are rewarding in a "file for the future" sort of way, as when Lang uses comic strips for insights into the American character. (Hitchcock scans them too, for ideas). There's little sense anywhere, though, that Bogdanovich is doing more than feed cues to his subject and looking after a topical overview on the discussion. However seemingly candid and sometimes selfdeprecating his manner, Lang never carries the charge of self-examination and retrospection to the distance we'd like to witness. Why couldn't he have been even the least bid prodded? There's too much awe. There are spots that might have been usefully worried by a follow-up query. Even TV interviewers do that with the famous. Some of the films get fairly short shrift, You Only Live Once in particular. Yet despite the superficialities, another value of the interview book can be evidenced here. You may find yourself ultimately at odds both with the director's posture and the interviewer's premise. It seemed to me at least that Lang, in the long run, is really one of his own audience. He tries to make a case for having structured his films (M in particular) to work on different levels to different audiences, but it's not very convincing. Rather, I conclude, not without sadness, that the old gentleman really shared with his audience the sex cum guilt and Gothic macabre and violence that he mined for so many years. He sounds like a good popular magazine editor who really is one of his own best readers; he knows what's needed. Both Lang and Hitchcock like to talk about working with writers; they seem to tackle each venture very much story-first. Far more than Losey, they seem to see themselves essentially as melodramatists,

constantly tinkering, adjusting, and readjusting the plot lines so as to delineate character in action without at the same time slackening their string on the collective nose of the audience. If they can just get the plotting right, then they can satisfy the Hayes office, the company and themselves. It's like a tin pan alley songwriting team trying to build the lost chord out of a major triad. This sort of thing comes across in an interview book too; much better than reading Chabrol on Hitchcock or Lotte Eisner on Fritz Lang.-John Fell One Reel a Week, by Fred J. Balshofer and Arthur C. Miller, with the assistance of Bebe Bergsten. Foreword by Kemp R. Niver. University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1967. 210 pp. $6.95. Silent Star, by Colleen Moore. Doubleday & Company, Inc., Garden City, New York, 1968. 262 pp. $5.95. Here are two good stories of America's film past. Fred Balshofer was one of the founders of the New York Motion Picture Company back in 1909. Arthur Miller was his protege and cameraman and went on to be a leading Hollywood cameraman through the twenties, thirties, and forties. Colleen Moore needs no introduction. Each of the first two tells his own story, with the chapter intercutting from one to the other. The accounts are sober, without the slightest attempt to glamorize. They succeed in giving valuable material about the old days and in addition they have a charm that dressed-up accounts cannot have. Actually the two men were not together very long. Balshofer founded Crescent early in 1908 and hired a very youthful Miller shortly afterwards. When some two years later Balshofer went west, Miller stayed behind and their paths separated. Balshofer continued with New York Motion Picture until around the end of 1913, then worked independently through the war years; but after the immediate postwar period he did nothing more with films except a flirtation with early sound that came to little. The curious thing about the Balshofer chronicle is that although he was a cofounder of NYMP and this was the famous company that produced Ince and became

48 / CINEMAJOURNAL one of the parts of Mutual, little of this comes out in the book. He mentions Ince but only incidentally. He doesn't even speak of Mutual, and brings in Harry Aitken only in relation to Triangle. He does have many sidelights on the film-making he knew and for those we are immensely grateful. Miller went over to work with Porter, moved to Pathe News and Pathe's Perils of Pauline, then spent about ten years, with some gaps, as George Fitzmaurice's cameraman. Then came work with Cecil DeMille, Tay Garnett, William Seiter, Raoul Walsh, David Butler, John Ford, Clarence Brown, Edmund Goulding, John Cromwell, William Wellman, Henry King, and Joseph Losey. He provides what is perhaps the key to that mysterious figure Edwin S. Porter. Porter puzzles us because at one time he seems a creative man and at another time only a commercial producer. Miller says that he was too much interested in every phase of film to be really successful in any one. At all events he emphasizes the great influence both Balshofer and Porter had on him. "They lived and breathed motion pictures," he says, "from morning till night." The most interesting part of Miller's story-to this reviewer-is his account of the years with Fitzmaurice. He dwells on lighting effects, which apparently meant so little to Griffith, and has two beautiful stills from At Bay of 1915. Fitzmaurice and Miller worked on the Ferguson-Reid Forever. Miller says this "was one of those rare picture-making experiences when every one seemed to be able to work in complete harmony." In contrast, Colleen Moore's book is what we may call "chatty." It is studded with one-line paragraphs. Names flow in an endless succession. But Colleen, being Irish, has a way with her, and one winds up being charmed completed by this book that she seems to have written herself. Surely no one but Colleen could have written the sly captions that go with the illustrations, all in the disarming, deadpan style that is prominent in her films. Colleen was in high school in Florida when the great opportunity came to work

for D. W. Griffith. Her mother believed that "opportunity only knocks once," and added: "Six months in Hollywood can't be much worse than having the measles." So Colleen went-and stayed to become one of the top stars, with a house that had "an Olympic-size swimming pool and a baronial air." She keeps emphasizing the work, the early hours that went into it, and she is frank without being mawkish about her own unhappy marriage. She figures, as so many people must have, that this may be part of the price one pays for professional achievement. The story of the orchestra in Zurich playing the American "national anthem" ("Stehen sie auf, bitte") and after two mistakes (first "God Save the King" then "Stars and Stripes Forever") coming through with "Yes, We Have No Bananas" -well, I suppose it's possible. In the main the book does ring true. She has some wild yarns to tell. Mauritz Stiller throwing John Gilbert off the balcony three floors above the ground. Maria Corda, who was to star as Helen of Troy, tearing off the sheer gown she wore because these stupid Americans insisted upon her wearing pants under her gown. Colleen and Tom Mix and Tony (or rather a double of Tony's) plunging through four floors of a building for a film. She tells a plausible, unsensational version of the Arbuckle case and has quite a bit on the strange story of the Taylor murder. And then the halcyon film period drew to a close. Sound came. Colleen made a few films, but in a little while she found a non-professional man to marry and began a new life as a "private"-and happy-person. For a few years (with her father) she was busy building the fabulous Doll House. Now that she has taken time to write a book about herself, one is reminded of the Colleen on the screen, or at least the Colleen in Ella Cinders. The twenty-six bosses of First National sound like the Indians in Ella Cinders. Was she only the sweet, delightful heroine of a string of comedies or did she have something to do with -Kirk Bond making those films?

THE

SOCIE'TY

OF

CINEMATOLOGISTS

A learned society founded in the spring of 1959, the Society of Cinematologists is composed of college and university film educators, film makers, historians, critics, scholars, and others concerned with the study of the moving image. The Society seeks to serve its members by stimulating an exchange of ideas, by encouraging and publishing research, by providing international relationships whereby likeminded people may know each other, and by assisting students and young people in their endeavors to engage in research, writing, and film making. Activities of the Society include an annual meeting at which papers are read, films viewed, and business transacted, and the publication of a members' newsletter and the Journal. FOR1968-69: OFFICERS

President, George Amberg New York University Secretary, Donald W. McCaffrey University of North Dakota Treasurer, Donald Staples Ohio State University Councilmen: John B. Kuiper Robert Steele Amos Vogel Sol Worth PHOTOGRAPHIC

CREDITS.

Front cover:

John Griersonat the 25th anniversarycelebration of the National Film Board in Montreal (NFB photo by Gar Lunney). Back cover: Photographiccollage from Sunrise, by Karl Struss, cinematographer

for the film. P. 11: Janus Films. P. 15: National Film Board. P. 35: David Bradley collection, Los Angeles, and Museumof Modern Art. Special appreciationto Kirk Bond, Jack Ellis, and Herbert Luft for securing these photographs.

I ROBERT

GESSNER

Robert Gessner died at the age of sixty, unexpectedly, after a long period of illness and a short time of I hopeful recovery. For those familiar with his active and vital presenceincluding the multitude of his former students-the finality of his passing is hard to believe. A man of letters as well as a scholar and teacher, he dedicated his long and distinguished academic career to film scholarship, a field of study which he continued significantly to define and develop. In the late thirties, he founded the motion picture department at New York University, a pioneer enterprise at the time. Appointed professor of cinema, he fought tirelessly for the recognition of cinema study as an autonomous discipline, establishing a four-year undergraduate program leading to a B.A. degree in cinema. He lived to see his efforts rewarded by success, even as he had the great good fortune to see his magnum opus, The Moving Image, completed in print. The Society of Cinematologists has particularly relevant grounds for honoring his memory. He was the prime moving spirit that brought our organization into existence. As founder and first president, he sustained the Society during its uncertain, initial years with his energy and faith.

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