Wright On Film

With a busy summer winding down, I’m staring down an equally busy fall. Unfortunately this summer produced fewer blog essays than I intended, as I was busy conducting interviews and developing other research for my doctoral project. I hope to remedy that in the coming months, as I prepare for another round of festival-going at TIFF and take on a teaching challenge at my alma mater, the University of Toronto, where I was offered a full-year course on the history of American filmmaking in the studio era. So, along with my usual thoughts on film style and technology, there will be plenty of film for thought to keep this blog busy.

Today, a few more thoughts on 3-D.

In transcribing some interview material from my conversations with sound practitioners, I came across an interesting point made by a notable re-recording mixer. In addition to finding the right balance among sound effects, this effects mixer is often responsible for placing sound effects in the 5.1 sound space. This means, for example, spreading explosions across the front channels or sending a variety of “bys” or passes from the front to the rear surround channels.

Before the re-emergence and hype surrounding modern 3-D presentations, 5.1 audio represented one way to immerse the audience in the space of a film. Sound mixers routinely envelop audiences in different sound spaces as a way of conveying the spatial geography of a scene; to provide clues to the location of a scene; and to embellish the sound signatures of a particular locale. Sound was a natural choice to convey immersion, since it fills the entire theater space with speakers not only behind the screen but along the side and back walls of all modern auditoriums. But now with 3-D all the rage, it seems that immersive 5.1 audio may not be immersive enough.

Speaking casually about sound technology and the aesthetics of modern film sound, this mixer — who has some experience mixing for recent 3-D fare — expressed frustration with the state of sound in relation to the 3-D format. Here’s the whole quote:

“At the moment I feel it is just a strictly visual experience. With 5.1 you can’t make it sound like special venue sound. In a standard theater, you just can’t do it. You try. You try to exaggerate surround. You try to get more special with things. But you can only do so much because you don’t have a speaker over your head. You don’t have a wall lined with them, like they do in some theme parks.”

With so few films being prepared for release in 3-D, the reality of this situation has yet to be felt by the majority of Hollywood re-recording mixers. Many have noted that norms and conventions have yet to be augmented to better suit 3-D because time, resources, and the small number of actual 3-D films prevent people in sound editorial and mixing to re-conceptualize sound style. While visual effects departments get the time and financial resources they need to refine and complete shots, sound departments are routinely told by post-production supervisors that there isn’t extra time or money for fringe benefits like reconfiguring the 5.1 layout.

The traditional press, along with the blogosphere, have had a lot to say about 3-D (including my own essay on the subject), but few have noted how the sound track might work in relation to eye-popping imagery. I naturally assumed that the 3-D sound track must be exploring new avenues of immersion, or responding in some way to the illusions of depth. If hardware firms like IMAX and Dolby are spending millions developing 3-D technology and studios are readying a growing number of 3-D releases, then surely sound must be part of the innovation party. Well…yes and no.

No one can say for sure what the future will bring, but at this moment the state of the 3-D sound track is unchanged. That is not to say that mixers aren’t working with sound differently than with traditional 2-D films. As the effects mixer noted, they will sometimes push more “hard” effects into the split surround channels to mimic an action that sends the image “into” the theater. Backgrounds (also known as ambiences) may also be treated with more gusto. In this sense, mixers are pushing more sound into the theater space to complement the visual push. It also helps that most 3-D movies has been animated, a genre which often affords mixers greater play with sound level and placement. Things can be more lively, full, and bright with films like Monsters vs. Aliens and Coraline.

Mixers are, therefore, tweaking current practices to suit the new image. They are not, as one might imagine, re-configuring the sound of sound. Why not? Well, a new delivery system for sound would be costly for exhibitors, who have already had to install digital cinema projectors to offer films in 3-D. A new sound system may involve not only new processors, but also more loudspeakers behind the screen and along the side and back walls. For years Tomlinson Holman has been arguing for 10.2 surround sound, which adds a pair of left and right overhead channels, a pair of wide left and right channels, a second subwoofer, and a center rear channel (which Dolby introduced in 1999 with the release of Star Wars: Episode One — The Phantom Menace). This layout would add the overhead channel desired by our effects mixer, and gives more latitude to the behind-the-screen channels to localize sound more precisely.

This report from Audioholics points out that psychoacoustic experiments suggest that human sound localization is far greater on the horizontal plane and front hemisphere than on the sides or rear. Unfortunately, the home theater industry continues to emphasize the importance of surround channels, and continues to add rear channels to the home array as some 7.1 systems demonstrate.

In Japan, NHK has proposed a 22.2 system to complement their super high-def television technology. Another re-recording mixer introduced me to a new sound system out of Germany called IOSONO. Here’s a brief excerpt from their description of its cinema applications:

An IOSONO system really comes into its own with IOSONO-encoded material. Sound designers can place up to 32 independent sound objects anywhere outside of, or within, the theater, either far behind the walls or right next to any member of the audience. What’s more, these sound objects can be made to move along any given path, at any desired speed. Ever experienced a helicopter slowly flying into the middle of the theater and hovering right above your seat? With IOSONO, you can.

Here is a description of the technology itself:

A computer controls each loudspeaker separately and actuates it the moment the desired wave front would pass through it. To synthesize a spherical wave front originating from a point behind the speakers, for example, the speaker closest to the virtual source is actuated first, followed by the speakers to the right and left of it. This results in a wave front with a relatively large radius and a virtual source point outside of the listening space. Reversing the order of actuation (where the speakers closest to the virtual point source are actuated last) results in a wave field corresponding to that of a source within the listening space.

The result is a stable wave field in which the listener can localize the virtual sound sources as if they were emanating from actual objects. The loudspeakers themselves, however, cannot be localized. Wave field synthesis thus creates a stunning illusion of acoustic events in a space, adding a whole new dimension to audio in the entertainment and other industries.

Beyond the marketing language of the IOSONO system, it is easy to see how this type of application could be attractive to Hollywood sound mixers who seek to augment the soundscape of a 3-D film by adding more localized channels. As the effects mixer stated, 5.1 is not broad enough to pin-point sound in space. In fact, several mixers agree that 5.1 is a digital compromise between exhibitors and industry practitioners. More channels may represent greater creative control, but it inevitably costs more. And, according to Tom Holman, 5.1 achieves the minimum number of discrete channels required for an immersive sound field.

In practice, mixers often avoid pin-pointed sound in 5.1 sound space because of its potential to distract audiences from the screen. Which is why many supervising sound editors and final mixers aim to fill the rear channels with rich but undefined backgrounds. Very rarely is dialog placed in the rear for the same reason. With 3-D, mixers are faced with an image that calls attention to itself, so why can’t sound do the same thing? If an arrow is shot out from the screen and lands somewhere to the left-rear of the viewer, why not indicate the arrow hit with a sound effect in the left-rear of the auditorium? As I mentioned earlier, mixers already use the rears as transport channels for fly-bys or car-bys or other moving objects.

As much as mixers are frustrated with the financial constraints to 3-D sound, there are some theoretical issues that still lurk in the shadow of 5.1. Mixers may want more channels capable of reproducing localized sound, but they must first overcome the conventional logic of surround sound mixing: avoid localized sound in the far left, far right, and rear. Tom Holman once quipped, “In Top Gun, when jets fly left to right across the screen and then exit screen right, what may be perceived aurally is the jet flying off screen as well, right into the exit sign.”

That is why Holman, among others, has opted for immersive film sound not localized film sound. Unlike a theme park ride which often directs your attention through sound cues placed in a 360 degree fashion around a room (think of the Hall of Presidents in Walt Disney World), cinema sound must contend with a two-dimensional screen on which audiences must stayed focused, even with 3-D presentations where your eyes remain fixed on a general axis, where any movement outside that axis might reveal the images to be cardboard cutouts — a phenomenon all too familiar to me.

The call for special venue sound for 3-D presentations seems to be an unlikely reality given the cost and small base of films released in the format. The desire for special venue sound also hides a fundamental aspect of Hollywood filmmaking that James Cameron continues to emphasize, even as he touts his upcoming Avatar as a veritable “game changer” in the way we experience our movies. In an interview with the Daily Mail he stated,

The irony with Avatar is that people think of it as a 3D film and that’s what the discussion is. But I think that, when they see it, the whole 3D discussion is going to go away…That’s because, ideally, the technology is advanced enough to make itself go away. That’s how it should work. All of the technology should wave its own wand and make itself disappear.

He is emphasizing story clarity and intelligibility, two of the most fundamental building blocks of American cinema. As much as the technology can wow our eyes and ears, the experience is in service to something else: the story. So as much as Cameron is prepared to awe his audience, he’s acutely aware that the illusion will fail if the audience isn’t taken on a journey that means something more than eye-popping visuals.

Filmmakers, including sound professionals, have always had to reconcile the spectacular nature of technology with the need for narrative invisibility. This is especially the case with sound mixing, where their art is based on the fine balance of story comprehension and environmental immersion. It is, therefore, hard to imagine sound acting any other way than it currently does in 3-D environments, especially if directors like Cameron subscribe to the story-is-paramount ideology.

After being off the air for nearly a decade, Mystery Science Theater 3000 (1988-1999) is perhaps more popular now than it was during its initial run. While it has maintained a loyal fan base since its cable access launch in 1988, it continues to attract new fans — or MSTies — thanks to the release of 15 DVD anthologies of some of the show’s funniest experiments. Not to mention the countless websites devoted to the series and its satirical treatment of bad movies. Some of these movies have even re-entered popular discourse after being featured on the show, such as Manos: The Hands of Fate. Despite its strong niche popularity the series remains an acquired taste. Its mixture of broad shtick with esoteric observation is not hard to grasp, even for the uninitiated. Still, however, some viewers might find it hard to take pleasure in watching others watch bad movies.

The premise of the series is simple enough that the show’s original theme song distills its basic plot quite nicely:

In the not-too-distant future — next Sunday A.D. — there was a guy named Joel, not too different from you or me. He worked at Gizmonic Institute, just another face in a red jumpsuit. He did a good job cleaning up the place, but his bosses didn’t like him. So they shot him into space. We’ll send him cheesy movies. The worst we can find (la-la-la). He’ll have to sit and watch them all, and we’ll monitor his mind (la-la-la). Now keep in mind Joel can’t control where the movies begin or end (la-la-la). Because he used those special parts to make his robot friends.

The “experiments” sent by the evil Dr. Clayton Forrester (Trace Beaulieu) are among cinema’s tragic failures, which are lampooned by Joel Hodgson and his robot pals, Crow T. Robot (voiced by Beaulieu), Tom Servo (voiced by Kevin Murphy), Gypsy (Jim Mallon) and Cambot. We watch the cinematic travesties with Joel and co., who sit in a row of theater seats silhouetted against the movie. They laugh at the screen and make self-reflexive wisecracks that highlight the often uncontrollable badness of the movies they are forced to watch.

Unlike its premise, the history of the show is rather convoluted. After a mid-series network switch from Comedy Central to the Sci-fi channel in 1996, the show changed hosts (Mike Nelson replaced Joel), Trace Beaulieu was replaced with Mary Jo Pehl as Forrester’s evil mother, Pearl, and the voice of Crow was replaced with that of another series writer, Bill Corbett. Despite the acting replacements and the loss of Beaulieu and Hodgson, the writing staff remained relatively unchanged throughout the series’ run. The show’s most commercial outing was with Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Movie in 1996, which skewered the now revered Universal sci-fi flick, This Island Earth. In fact, the feature film represents a bridge between the “Joel years” which preceded it and the “Mike years” that followed it on the Sci-fi channel. An “almost but still not quite complete history” of the show is available here.

Part of the show’s longevity stems from a request by the writers to “keep circulating the tapes,” which would appear during the credits of each episode. In the days before streaming internet video, home recorded VHS tapes were traded among fans who might have missed an episode or an entire season of the series. The trend continues to this day with some sites selling bootleg DVDs of episodes not yet released officially on video. In fact, some of the best episodes remain unreleased due to copyright claims and licensing restrictions. Until they are all released, I’m sure the show’s creators would like you to keep circulating those tapes.

Postmodern Silliness

We, the audience, are back-row participants in the fun. Put rather dryly, the humor derives from the double-exposure of watching the film and listening to Joel and the bots simultaneously. The jokes are timed to interrupt the narrative as little as possible, thereby allowing the audience to experience the film in a rather unobstructed sense. Much of the humor is observational and thus tied to the happenings on screen, yet some of the most effective jokes are broad reflexive gags that highlight outmoded social and cultural attitudes, or point out inter- and extra-textual meanings across a wide range of films. In this sense, the show demands the audience to be schooled in the finer, if somewhat marginal, aspects of pop culture. How else can we explain the inclusion of a Herbert von Karajan reference in the offbeat 70s horror film, The Touch of Satan? Without veering too far into high theory, Mystery Science is postmodern humor without pretension. It unearths the forgotten disasters of cinema to pick them apart, line by line, and call attention to their relationship with other films. In one of the show’s best “meta” jokes, the cast spends the final minutes of Laserblast reading Leonard Maltin’s Movie Guide in hopes of finding other films that were also rewarded 2.5 stars out of 4 by the editors of the Guide. To the cast’s dismay, Maltin’s Guide suggests that Amadeus, Being There, Unforgiven, A Fish Called Wanda, and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom are on par with this utterly hilarious 70s sci-fi bomb.

I came to know Mystery Science in 2001 when it had already been canceled by the Sci-fi channel. My wife, who was then my girlfriend, introduced me to her collection of VHS episodes, and in a very short time I was hooked. With a name vaguely reminiscent of George McFly’s favorite TV show, Science Fiction Theater, the show appealed to me with its high-brow assault on some very low-brow movies. As an antidote to the sarcasm of the movie segments, the show’s bumper sequences are often silly, campy riffs between Joel/Mike and the evil earthbound scientists. Some of the funniest host segments feature the cast in a recreation or “homage” to that day’s film, where Joel/Mike and the bots don costumes and reflect the attitudes and behavior of the characters.

Not everyone understands the joy of watching the gang skewer a particularly bad movie. In his review for the feature film, Jonathan Rosenbaum snickered, “Of course making up your own wisecracks and passively listening to the wisecracks of ersatz spectators aren’t precisely the same activity. The potential creativity of the audience has been usurped…” Usurped is a strong word. I think this critical hesitation says something about our relationship with movies and how we watch them, which invaraibly leads to a feeling of being left out of the fun. Rosenbaum believes that passively listening to someone else make jokes somehow undercuts the whole enterprise of back-row heckling. In a way I see his point, but film viewing requires passivity. I would argue that the show rubs some viewers the wrong way because it asks its audience to forgive moviegoing etiquette and incorporate the wisecracks into the narrative. Whereas we might normally criticize the hecklers up front for ruining our moviegoing experience, Mystery Science Theater asks us to loosen our 1:1 relationship with the screen and participate in a weekly roast of a cheesy movies. It might not be active participation, but then again, why not? I wouldn’t be surprised to hear about MST3K screenings where people shout the jokes back at the screen like a Greek chorus.

The List

With nearly two hundreds episodes to its credit, dozens of classic lines and memorable moments, and some perfectly roasted films, Wright on Film presents its Top Ten Favorite Moments from Mystery Science Theater 3000. The list comprises a selection of the funniest lines, gags, or entire films featured on the show. Join the chorus with your own favorites, if they aren’t among the ten chosen here.

10. The Skydivers (1963)

“Somebody with Attention Deficit Disorder edited this film.” This Colman Francis gem about a group of professional skydivers is a bleak and dreary exercise in cinematic boredom. Not much actually happens in this movie, except for the frequent discussion and enjoyment of … coffee. “Coffee? I like coffee,” says one character. Mike replies, “Thus we peer into the complex inner workings of this character.” The film itself is almost unwatchable, due in no small part to the dreary grayness that saturates every frame of this film. Not much happens here, as evidenced by this exchange: “Wonder how high they’re gonna jump.” A guy responds, “I don’t know.” Crow quips, “Wow, they really captured that kind of situation.”

9. Soultaker (1990)

No, that’s not Martin Sheen as the Soultaker, it’s his brother, Joe Estevez, a veteran character actor who has appeared in dozens of direct-to-video genre pics, frequently with Robert Z’dar, another DTV favorite. Two of the funniest riffs by Mike and bots have to do with the size of Z’dar’s face: “He looks like a catcher’s mitt with eyes!” and — as Z’dar looks at Estevez — “Man, that guy’s face is small.”

8. Puma Man (1980)

An international co-production about a super hero with the powers of the ancient Aztec Pumaman (who might also be from an alien planet). It’s hard to determine what is funnier, the film’s visual effects or Donald Pleasance’s overwrought performance. The rear-projection flying sequences are completely inferior even for the period. Luckily the poor effects don’t go unnoticed by Mike and the bots: “I’m falling at a 60-degree angle, defying all the laws of physics!” Pleasance’s oddly affected British pronunciation of “Puma Man” (more like “Pee-yoo-ma-man”) never tires of being funny, especially since he seems to be relishing every syllable. Honorable mention also goes to the film’s funky disco score, which only adds to the joy of this 70s mess.

7. Merlin’s Shop of Mystical Wonders (1996 and 1982)

“Rock’n'roll martian…” So, basically this film purports to tell one story about the mystical sorcerer but is actually two different films by the same director cut together. It’s not that obvious, unless you happen to notice the 180 degree plot shift, the change in film stock, the different lighting styles, and most fundamentally the different fashion styles. One was made in the mid 90s, while the other reeks of the early 80s. Looking past the blow-dried hair and E.T.: The Extra Terrestrial references, the film’s most memorable character is a skeptical newspaper columnist who claims to eviscerate new businesses with his influential reviews. Of course, he sets out to review Merlin’s shop by leafing through his book of spells and making sarcastic remarks into a tape recorder. We’re not sure if the actor is overdoing it, or if the character is that ridiculous, but he nevertheless provides plenty of fuel for Mike and the bots. When his wife complains of his lack of tact and sympathy, the bots chime in: “If she had a store, I’d crush her!” Later, during one of his tedious interior monologues, Servo adds, “I talk to myself a lot. Long monologues complete with sarcasm.”

6. Boggy Creek II: …and the Legend Continues (1984)

“Can I borrow a cup of shirt?” A professor and three of his students head for the Arkansas backwoods in search of the legend of Boggy Creek, a woolly behemoth that is not unlike Bigfoot. Along the way, we must contend with the professor’s droning monologues, a sweaty swamp hillbilly, and Tim, the kid who refuses to wear a shirt. There are several jabs at Tim’s shirtlessness, Arkansas, hillbillies, and some technical oddities like the film’s inconsistent look: “My flashback wasn’t color corrected when it came back from the lab so it was kind of dark.”

5. Cave Dwellers (1984

One of a few MSTied movies to feature a main title credit sequence with footage from a completely different film. Thanks Film Ventures International! Set somewhere in the middle ages, this Miles O’Keeffe vehicle is about a He-Man named Ator, whose quest is to keep the Geometric Nucleus out of the hands of Zor. This one is very popular at our house as the one that started it all. It was the first VHS my wife bought. At the time, her youngest sister was taking the train in to the city for a weekend visit, and she wanted something fun for them to do. One look at Zor’s silly swan-topped black battle helmet, along with Crow’s apt quip, sealed the deal for the two of them: “You know that hat has a slimming effect on you.” It’s a small moment of silliness that was capped later in the episode when Joel and the bots donned the same oversized helmets during one of their host segments.

4. The Final Sacrifice (1990)

“So, Rowsdower, is that a…stupid name?” Arguably the most popular title not to be officially released on DVD, this also happens to be one of my favorite Canadian films. When an ancient cult idol is found by a boy, he sets out to discover the truth behind his father’s death. Incidentally, he must evade capture from the Ziox cult and its evil leader, Sartoris, by hiding in the back of an unsuspecting Canuck’s pickup truck, who may or may not be a former cult member. This God among men is Zap Rowsdower, our beefy anti-hero with a priceless mullet, thick Ontario accent, and penchant for stonewash denim. Ridiculed endlessly by Mike and the gang, most of the Rowsdower jabs are hilarious, including a few about his hockey hair. However, my favorite is a dig at the kid. He asks his grandmother if he is like his dead father. Crow replies, “No, he was masculine and likable.”

3. This Island Earth (1955)

Granted, this is the feature film “experiment” and not from the original series. We’ve included it here since it contains some of the show’s best riffing. That is not to say that there are more jokes here than in an average episode or that they are funnier, but the source material definitely provides much to be satirized. In a recent interview, Mike Nelson spoke about the elevated status of the original This Island Earth as one of the “best” 50s sci-fi flicks and noted that it’s still not very good. Perhaps the same people who have such reverence for the film haven’t actually seen it. Or maybe they haven’t seen the MSTied version, which points out many of the film’s shortcomings. Or maybe they have seen the Mystie version and can’t help but hold the original in higher esteem (what I like to call the Manos effect.) The “science and technology” montage is wonderfully silly, as is the “Normal view” song. My wife was lucky enough to see this movie during its theatrical release and while MST3K is hilarious on the small screen, the jokes feel even bigger with a large audience. For my wife, MST3K: The Movie still holds the title for the most she has ever laughed at a movie. Ever.

2. Time Chasers (1994)

“So in the future kids become gay agents?” I’ll admit that it was hard to get over the loss of Trace Beaulieu as the voice of Crow and initially I wanted nothing to do with Bill Corbett. Then came the release of Volume Five of the MST3K DVD collection and the awesomeness that is David Giancola’s Time Chasers. We are introduced to the less kind, more acerbic Crow T. Robot who is clearly unhappy with the casting of Matthew Bruch as our hero, Nick the time-traveling scientist. Crow yells “Hey wait a minute. This isn’t our star, is it? I will not accept this as our star, sorry.” This new Crow isn’t afraid to get angry and hold a grudge, “Movie! Hey Movie! Can I see your supervisor? This will not stand.” And who can blame him? Our hero is dressed in stonewash jeans, sporting a mullet and riding a 10-speed. And he looks to have a dinner roll attached to his chin. At least Rowsdower had a pickup. One thing is for sure, the crankier Crow gets, the funnier the jabs become. One of the best set pieces is the mezzanine office of the evil J.K. Robertson, which looks like it was filmed at a public library. The host segments are also very strong, with a hilariously gruff “alternate reality” Mike taking over mid-way through the film.

1. Mitchell (1975)

Who’s the puffy guy who is a big blurry sex machine? Mitchell! That’s right, Joe Don Baker is the pushy, puffy, greasy and sleazy cop who manages to bust up John Saxon’s crime ring and bed Linda Evans (a “loser actor bouquet” indeed.) Where to begin with Mitchell? Joe Don Baker’s face and girth make good fodder for the guys. You’d think there was a limit to how many fat, lazy and drunk jokes can be funny. But there isn’t. And it’s even funnier in song: “Mitchell, Mitchell — eye on the sandwich! Mitchell. Hearts poundin’. Mitchell. Veins cloggin’, Mitchell!” Not to mention that this is the episode that sees Joel’s escape from the Satellite of Love and introduces us to Mike. Unlike several episodes, Mitchell is a fairly watchable movie with actual Hollywood actors, including Martin Balsam and Baker (who has appeared in a few James Bond outings). Its humor, then, isn’t based on the unprofessionalism of the filmmakers but instead on the contrived plot and uncharismatic title character. Which are endlessly funny. Not to mention the low speed car chase. We’re still trying to figure out why Mitchell is eating an orange at an upscale restaurant. Apparently Mitchell doesn’t care for the ways of society and chooses to live by his own rules.

Keep circulating those tapes.

Has Michael Mann redefined the cinematic close-up? That question, along with a few others, nagged me after a recent screening of Public Enemies in Toronto. First, some context. I have long admired Mann’s artistry. There is drama in his unironic flourishes — the final moments in Heat or The Insider before the end credit roll when Moby’s music fills the air and the characters take one last look around before the screen goes black. There is precision in his mise en scene, a compositional control that rarely goes over the deep end of mannerism, when style only serves itself. He is not afraid to marinade cinematic moments with lingering stares, contemplative glances, and longer takes that follow characters in their moments of crisis, joy, confusion, or pain. One way Mann accomplishes this in-the-moment presentness is with the extreme close-up. If you haven’t seen Public Enemies and don’t want anything spoiled, then this serves as my warning that spoilers lie ahead.

While much of the early press on Public Enemies has emphasized its historical subject matter, Mann has spoken a little about his technical and aesthetic choices. In an interview with Ain’t it Cool News, Mann discusses the function of the close-up in his films. One passage is particularly informative:

I look for where or how to bring the audience into the moment, to reveal what somebody’s thinking and what they’re feeling, and where it feels like you’re inside the experience. Not looking at it, with an actor performing it, but have an actor live it, and you as audience, if I could bring the audience inside to experience. It became critical in THE INSIDER, because the ambition was to make a film that was as suspenseful as I knew, and dramatic as I knew those lives really were. And, it’s all talking heads, but the devastation, the potential devastation to [Jeffrey] Wigand and Lowell Bergman was total annihilation, personal annihilation, suicide–all that was in the cards for these guys. And, yet, it’s all just people talking. So, that kind of began an exploration into how I could bring you into experience in as internal a way as I could.

For Mann, the close-up is a ticket to a character’s soul, their inner subjectivity. The closer the camera gets, the closer we are to their thoughts.

A Pair of Subjectivities

The close-up has always been used for emphasis. They portray the emotion on someone’s face or clarify the presence of an object. We might even say that it’s the most cinematic of shots, since it affords an intimacy and immediacy that is rarely found in the other arts. But can a close-up convey character subjectivity?

Kristin Thompson offers a fascinating essay on the nature of subjectivity in cinema, which can be found here. She notes that “the more imaginative [filmmakers] have shown immense creativity in trying to convey what characters see and think.” She isolates two kinds of functions that emphasize character subjectivity: perceptual and mental subjectivity. As she puts it, both functions suggest being “with” the characters as opposed to merely observing them. Perceptual subjectivity offers a visual or aural connection to what a character sees or hears. Point-of-view shots or point-of-audition sound not only places the audience in the scene, but in the head of a character for a given time. There are countless examples of effective POV shots, but POA sound seems much rarer, if only because they are harder to spot. The Do Lung bridge sequence in Apocalypse Now is a good example. An American sniper loads his gun and takes aim at the trees, where a vocal Vietnamese sniper is perched, hidden by the dark. The U.S. sniper focuses his ears on the Vietnamese’s taunting voice then fires. The trees go silent. In the moment leading up to the killshot, the din of ground activity fades away and the acousmatic voice becomes the solo aural element on the sound track. We hear what the sniper hears as he strips away layer upon layer of sound until he aurally spots the tree sniper.

Mental subjectivity, in Thompson’s view, goes a step further by offering fantasies, dreams, and other image-sound elements that are experienced by only that character. The numerous gags in Throw Momma from the Train where Owen (Danny DeVito) fantasizes about killing his mother are good examples. Without framing the fantasy, DeVito convinces his audience by playing the scene through. Only then does he cut back to the beginning of the sequence and we realize that the second half of the sequence was a figment of his imagination.

But the Do Lung sequence could also qualify as mental subjectivity since the U.S. sniper is specially trained to hone in on particular sounds — that technique is fairly unique to him. If we heard the same sequence from Willard’s position, we might not hear the same focused sound. In this respect, Thompson’s definitions are by her own admission fluid and ambiguous: “Filmmakers can create deliberate, complex, and important effects by keeping it unclear whether what we see is a character’s perception of reality or his/her imaginings.”

By all accounts Michael Mann works in the gray area between these functions. Films such as The Insider, Ali, and Public Enemies are intimate character studies even if the subject matter of each is expansive. The Insider is as much about the news business as it is about the personal struggle of Jeffrey Wigand (Russell Crowe). It isn’t surprising, then, to hear Mann discuss that film in docudrama terms with lots of talking and exposition. He attempts to overcome the dryness of this approach by personalizing the story, thereby bringing the audience closer to Wigand, in three key sequences.

Immediacy and Despair

We are introduced to Wigand at the beginning of the film through a series of fragmented shots. Mann captures a birthday celebration in the B&W chemistry lab through a glass partition. Wigand’s profile appears in close-up, out of focus, as the party continues in the background, out of ear shot. He packs up his briefcase with haste, then exits the office. Cut to Wigand in the elevator. The camera is perched on Wigand’s shoulder, inches from his ear. We’re only slightly off Wigand’s own eyeline, a pseudo POV shot. The doors open and Wigand exits — the camera holds its position. We move into the lobby still attached to Wigand by Mann’s fly-on-the-shoulder camera. As he approaches the floor security guard, we cut to a wider shot of Wigand passing the guard. Mann slows the film down, stretching the moment, giving an impression of Wigand’s own stunned numbness to the situation.

Later in the film, following a contentious meeting with Brown & Williamson chairman Thomas Sandefur (Michael Gambon) and B&W legal counsel, Wigand leaves corporate headquarters in a rage. He calls Lowell Bergman (Al Pacino) from a pay phone to blame him for the way the company was treating him. Framed again extremely tight, Mann’s camera is inches from Wigand’s face. In this way, Wigand’s enraged state is expressed with the extreme close-up. It’s made even more jarring when we cut to Bergman’s, who is framed in medium long shot, while Wigand is right in our face.

It’s also interesting to note that during the B&W meeting, Mann incorporates the on-the-skin close-ups into his shot reverse-shot compositions.

These two uses of the extreme close-up aim to bring us closer to Wigand’s inner subjectivity, to be on his skin — if not totally in his thoughts. I would even suggest that the tight framing also leads to a kind of compositional clostrophobia, where Mann’s camera seeks to make us feel Wigand’s pain. It’s not necessarily a POV shot, since both sequences utilize relatively objective camera angles, which are positioned outside Wigand’s body. We also don’t get much POA sound in either case. Instead, Mann uses a particular camera technique — bringing the camera close to the skin — in order to satisfy the need for inner subjectivity.

It’s not an altogether new technique, either. The Dardenne brothers achieved a similar effect in Rosetta. The rather grim tale of a young Belgian girl’s struggle with poverty and social alienation utilizes the same sort of on-the-skin camera to further bring us into her world. At times, we’re locked on her face and experience the world around her only through sound.

To express the enormity of the Normandy invasion in Saving Private Ryan, Spielberg offers surprisingly few establishing shots, and instead relies on a few well-placed extreme close-ups. The most notable example comes after the battle, as Horvath (Tom Sizemore) remarks, “That’s quite a view.” Close on Miller’s helmet, he raises his head, takes a swig of canteen water, and takes in the sight: “Yes it is. Quite a view.” Spielberg’s camera moves in closer until Miller’s eyes are the only thing in focus. Only then do we cut to a series of wider shots of the beach. Again, the close-up emphasizes the connection between character and audience without taking the form of a traditional POV shot.

The final example of character subjectivity from The Insider is one of Mann’s only forays into mental subjectivity. Late in the film Wigand is holed up in a hotel room, his wife and children having already abandoned him. He’s all but given up, seated in a chair, unshaved, disheveled. A hotel employee attempts to get him to answer a telephone call from Lowell, but he’s drifted off into a daydream. Lisa Gerrand’s hypnotic voice primes the viewer for an unexpected fantasy that unfolds around Wigand. A pastoral mural on the wall behind him begins to morph into his old backyard, where his two children are playing. He turns to face them as the two girls stop and stare back. The moment is broken when we cut back to the hotel employee, who is still on the phone with Lowell, saying “He doesn’t seem to be listening.”

It’s a relatively short daydream, but a bold move on Mann’s part to include such a whimsical touch in an otherwise button-down narrative. It works because we’ve been primed by the various close-up techniques to expect a glimpse into Wigand’s psyche.

Rat-a-tat-tat

Public Enemies continues Mann’s close-up technique on a more visceral level. Instead of portioning out the device, he composed much of the film in a deliberately tight fashion. One film critic went as far to say that he dispenses with the use of establishing shots altogether! For the record, there are a few scattered throughout the picture, here and there. But the critic’s point is well taken: there are far fewer master shots than in any conventional actioner, including the Bourne series, which is anchored by a series of sprawling city shots with legends indicating the location.

Chicago itself is presented as a disjointed city; the Biograph theatre floats somewhere in between Dillinger’s hideaway and the Bureau’s HQ. The bank heists remain coherent, but verge on the indefinable. According to the filmmakers, Mann expressed a desire for immediacy in order to move beyond the period niceties of 1930s Chicago. As Roger Ebert noted in his review of the film, “Mann redressed Lincoln Avenue on either side of the Biograph Theater, and laid streetcar tracks; I live a few blocks away, and walked over to marvel at the detail. I saw more than you will; unlike some directors, he doesn’t indulge in beauty shots to show off the art direction. It’s just there.” In fact, Mann wants you to think that the detail is on their faces.

In the same Ain’t it Cool News interview, Mann mentions the psychological importance of the extreme close-up in the film:

So, with Homer, outside the bank, and he sees that police car drive up. There’s a close-up–it’s something you can only do in hi-def–I’ve got the lens right here, and you’ll just see the focus shift to right to the stubble, and then I’m heightening that and color timing by raising the contrast just when we get there. So, you really feel you’ve gone right into Homer, and you can feel his awareness just climb up. There’s no nervousness, there’s nothing. But, you see he has totally taken in the arrival of the cops outside.

Again, in Mann’s view, the closer we get to the skin the closer we can absorb that character’s emotional state. We not only see the sweat begin to bead, but we might also begin to sweat ourselves.

We don’t get any closer than with Johnny Depp’s vivid portrayal of Dillinger himself. He plays Dillinger close to the chest, but that’s where Mann’s camera can peel away the hardened exterior to reveal his cheek scar, his five-o’clock shadow, and a range of muted emotions that are exclamation points in close-up. In the film’s final minutes, the close-up is combined with a pseudo POV shot of the fatal bullet that enters the back of his neck and exits under his right cheek. As he lies dying on the sidewalk, Mann returns to the on-the-skin shot one more time to see Dillinger in a much more vulnerable light. Ironically, we’re so close, yet we still can’t make out what he’s saying.

Returning to my original question — has Michael Mann redefined the cinematic close-up? — I don’t think so. Mann is an ambitious filmmaker who often seeks to refresh cinematic conventions if only to tell very familiar stories. The close-up remains a choice in the filmmaker’s bag of tricks to emphasize. But I would argue that even a long shot can emphasize character psychology, if placed in the hands of a talented filmmaker.

Mann’s close-ups are interesting because few other directors today portray subjectivity this way. They have become a signature Mann shot. With The Insider we witness Jeffrey Wigand’s crisis with a macro lens, while the rest of the film remains detached and cool. I would argue that Public Enemies erases that borderline between close proximity and objective control. By placing the audience in the immediacy of Dillinger’s present, the close-ups lose their emotional edge, their ability to read character subjectivity, and we are ultimately left with mannerist excess.

At certain points the close-up can emphasize character psychology, to bring us closer to their skin. As much Mann tries, though, it can’t put us in their skin.

This blog has been dark for quite a while now, which is the result of my current research schedule. I haven’t been able to keep up with regular posts because the dissertation has been consuming much of my time lately. Part of my absence stems from a recent sojourn to Los Angeles where I was fortunate enough to spend some quality time with Hollywood sound professionals — from Foley artists to sound supervisors to final re-recording mixers — in an attempt to get a first-hand view of things.

Before I embarked on this massive doctoral project I had hopes of being able to speak with high level sound practitioners in order to bridge the divide between film theory and practice. But even my thesis committee doubted the degree to which I would be granted access to the production and post-production process of low and high budget pictures. But after completing dozens of phone interviews I was slowly cracking the once thought to be permanent glass that separated academic film studies from the world of modern film production. Right now I can’t go into any sort of detail about what I saw and heard, since I’m saving that for my bigger writing project (i.e. the thesis). But it’s safe to say that I observed some very creative people doing some very creative things with sound and picture. I probably learned more about the industry and the post process on this short trip than in my years of graduate study.

I’d like to thank everyone who invited me to spend time with them and observe their work. They could not have been more welcoming and generous to me. I appreciated all the candid conversations, the lunches, and the opportunity to sit quietly and observe it all.

One thing that does not get much attention in film criticism is the degree to which filmmaking is an intensely collaborative art. While the director is still considered the captain of the ship, he or she relies on a crew of imaginative and hard-working craftspeople who make large and small decisions with every cut. They live and breathe projects for months on end — some for even longer. It reminded me of a George Carlin line: “I’m never critical or judgmental on whether or not a movie is any good. The way I look at it, if several hundred people got together every day for a year or so — a number of them willing to put on heavy makeup, wear clothes that weren’t their own and pretend to be people other than themselves — and their whole purpose for doing all this was to entertain me, then I’m not going to start worrying about whether or not they did a good job.”

The access I was granted certainly showcased the collaborative nature of the industry. At one point I was asked for my opinion on some minor sound choices, presumably because I haven’t lived with the images and sounds for weeks or months. It was all fresh to my eyes and ears, and I soaked up as much as possible.

This whole experience emphasized once again one of the major problems with film studies today. Far too few scholars who study contemporary media engage with the filmmaking community. Even with hundreds of monographs devoted to specific films, filmmakers, cinematic movements, historical periods, and technical achievements — we know so little about how films are made. What fascinates me and other scholars such as David Bordwell are the ways in which decisions are made by directors, editors, composers, mixers, and designers. As Bordwell has put it: what are the constraints and possibilities that inform their work? How do they work with limited budgets, shorter deadlines? How does technology assist or disrupt their workflow?

These insights may not redefine how we analyze films as finished products, but they do afford us an opportunity to explore how they were finished. It also raises the question about whether or not films are ever finished, or if they are simply let go at some point. With more and more films being scheduled for release a year or more in advance, post-production crews are frequently in a race against the clock to complete a sound mix or prepare an editorial assembly for a preview screening.

By also considering the mechanics of the industry in which films are made, we can identify broader aesthetic trends that may not be limited to one or two films. My own experience is that Hollywood craftspeople are so fine-tuned to their work that they have a difficult time articulating particular aesthetic choices and ascribing a specific purpose to them. It would be like asking a lawyer — who is drowning in a massive criminal trial — what particular aesthetic informs their speaking style during their opening and closing statements. I believe this is where the historian, whose skills at observation and scholarship, can assist in filling out the details that the filmmaker is too close to identify.

The biggest advantage of studying contemporary works is that the filmmakers are still around to answer your questions. Instead of relying on trade press clippings or limited interview material, why not seek out the editor or composer or mixer yourself?

A former professor of mine would question the usefulness of interviewing filmmakers because there was the potential that they would confuse the film with their intention. As in, “I intended that shot to signify the emotional state of the girl.” In this way, the filmmaker is imposing a meaning on something that is not so arbitrary. This professor would argue that the film stands on its own, to be studied separately from its making and its intention. Which is a fair argument. But by excluding the artistic process from an analysis of the finished work seems highly problematic to me.

Sometimes it’s hard to be an academic in film studies who actually loves movies and the history of the movies. With all the snobbery, esoteric tastes, and glamorization of half-baked theories, I wonder if most film scholars are actually movie fans. There’s nothing quite like passing through historic studio gates, roaming around lots, chatting with feature directors and other crew members about their craft. On this visit I kept my enthusiasm in check, played it close to the chest, but was in total amazement every minute I spent talking Hollywood shop. It’s not every day that a kid from Toronto can do that. In the months to come I’ll be back to continue the fun and continue to peek behind the curtain.

The trip also afforded me an opportunity to be revel in some cineastic pleasures. I took in The Hangover at the Cinerama dome, now the Arclight complex. I’ve written about old movie theaters in Toronto here, but must admit that L.A. takes the cake for unique, historic, and technically proficient cinemas. That the Arclight has staff outside the doors ready to handle any audio or projection problems is pretty impressive. I should be posting a piece on The Hangover and its use of the 2.40:1 aspect ratio soon. It’s something that I noticed while watching it on the dome’s massively curved screen.

The Silent Movie Theatre is another gem, which showcases a diverse bunch of (mostly sound) films, in a facility that was built in the 1940s as a home for silent pictures. I avoided official studio tours, but did my own driving tour and came across a famous movie house that brings back more terrifying memories than Norman Bates’ house. And to think that it sits steps away from the hustle and bustle of Sunset Blvd. See if you can guess it…

So many other sights and sounds from the trip. I witnessed the taxing job of ADR (a.k.a. “looping”) on both the actor and supervisor. I found out that studio cafeterias have amazing food. I appreciated the honesty of filmmakers to share their thoughts on the state of the industry. I apparently avoided “June gloom,” which plagues the city with dreary days. Between all the real work I was there to do, I managed to take in a sunset in Malibu and a hike through the hills. I almost missed the elephant statues from D.W. Griffith’s Intolerance at the Hollywood and Highland Center. Had several great meals with old friends. And to think all of this constitutes work. Alvy Singer had it wrong about L.A.

If you know me or have read some of my posts, you’ll know that I am a film music devotee. The music of film guided my early education in cinema as I came to know the work of Hitchcock through the music of Herrmann, Spielberg through Williams, Burton through Elfman, Fellini through Rota, and Leone through Morricone. From there, things multiplied quickly as my tastes expanded and I was introduced to different styles (minimalism), periods (Miklos Rozsa’s 40s noir), and trends (Jerry Goldsmith’s electronics). Ironically, despite my note-by-note analysis of many works, I have no training whatsoever in reading music or playing an instrument. Over the years I’ve picked up quite a bit of theory by reading album liner notes, film music texts, and critical writings on the subject. But it still remains an obstacle for someone like me who writes on film not to be able to delve into the compositional science of this so-called neglected art.

So, for years I have been trying to find ways to study the craft without relying on musicological methods. To be honest, most musicological studies of film music are dry reads, often forgetting that the notes and motifs are to be married to an image-track and joined with other sonic elements like dialog and effects. Strictly musicological studies tend to divorce the music from the rest of the film, preferring instead to reach broad-minded conclusions about artistic style and dramatic intent based on close textual readings of the score. What’s missing is an understanding of how music affects the audiovisual experience, and how that experience is crafted by composers in the industry.

Music as Industry

A few years ago, two other approaches to the study of film music struck a chord with me. The first is exemplified by Robert Faulkner’s 1978 essay in Qualitative Sociology, “Swimming with Sharks: Occupational Mandate and the Hollywood Film Composer.” Faulkner distills the working relationship between the composer and director in Hollywood and argues that the composer may have artistic license on a project, but ultimately the producer and/or director will negotiate the role and function of music in the film. Faulkner writes, “Only the craft really belongs to the craftsman. The product belongs to someone else.”

Faulkner’s approach is both economic and social, in that he focuses on the nature of collaboration in the film industry. He is less concerned with aesthetics or style as they relate to specific films or composers, but instead how artistic sensibilities gel with the larger filmmaking culture in Hollywood. “The composer’s clients seldom find themselves in the situation where they must follow instructions and depend on the recommendations of the artist/expert, as is often the case with a lawyer or physician,” Faulkner argues. “The commercial craft is precarious: it is negotiated and re-negotiated on a situation-to-situation basis. While both composer and filmmaker are theoretically in accord with the end product of their relationship — a ‘good’ film score — the means by which this is achieved can be a source of conflict. Meddling and interference is a constant problem. Once the score is completed, the filmmaker is the final arbiter of a composer’s labor. He or she has the power to do what he or she wants with the music.”

For anyone who bothers to know such things, there are too few studies of modern Hollywood that delve into the division of labor, the relationships among craftspeople, and the struggle between art and commerce. In my own research interviews with sound professionals, there is a common thread among them: many are experiencing shorter production schedules, budgetary cutbacks, and post-production supervisors and producers who want creative decisions made quicker and films turned around in record time. In this environment, composers sometimes have too little time to develop their ideas; other times, their ideas are drowned out by other sonic elements or dropped altogether from the final mix. Jerry Goldsmith’s second-last score for Richard Donner’s Timeline was dropped but subsequently released on CD by Varese Sarabande because eleventh hour editorial changes required Goldsmith to redo several cues. Because of his health at the time, Goldsmith and Donner agreed to part ways, which opened the door for Donner to hire Brian Tyler to compose a brand new score for the re-edited version.

The question remains how composers (and other craftspeople) deal with these obstacles. How does this affect their creative decisions and choices? To what extent do composers rely on what I would call “fallback principles” to complete a sequence or an entire score because of time restraints? By this I mean the degree to which composers utilize a set of creative assumptions based on training or instinct.

Music as Expression

The second approach rests on the expressiveness of film music. I am particularly drawn to Noel Carroll’s theory of “modifying music,” whereby music helps to clarify mood, setting, character, or dramatic import of a scene. Jeff Smith has noted that Carroll’s theory represents “an aspect of musical cognition, a means of enabling spectators to gauge the emotional qualities of a scene” (”Unheard Melodies? A Critique of Psychoanalytic Theories of Film Music”). By acknowledging the emotional currency of film music, we can begin to understand its affective qualities beyond both musicological and abstract psychoanalytic frameworks. “A cognitive account of film music,” writes Smith, “would not only more directly address the issue of the spectator’s awareness of film music, but would also address the spectator’s mental activities in utilizing cues that musically convey setting, character, and point of view.”

The study of musical cognition — or our ability to understand the emotional expressiveness of music — offers us a valuable way to discover how music affects our experience of a film. Even a casual observer will acknowledge the presence of repeated themes (motifs) that signify characters or other visual iconography. They will also be attuned to the tonal dynamics and mood of music in specific sequences. The ubiquitous example here that combines both of these affective properties is Jaws. I’m thinking specifically of the pier incident sequence when a pair of bright bounty hunters attempt to lure the shark to them with a holiday roast. We’re triggered to the presence of the shark by the two-note sawing motif. John Williams uses the motif not only to note the presence of the shark, but to also indicate its proximity to the bounty hunters. Since we cannot see the shark, the orchestra’s loudness and intensity act as barometers. We’re also cued to the danger and violence of the act, which is emphasized by the guttural churning of the double basses and horn counterpoint. Listen here.

The music here is an unambiguous example of music that serves an emotional role. The threat of the shark is expressed musically, since it is goes unseen for much of the picture. As an audience we are placed in a more informed position than the two hunters: we know when the shark is going to strike because the music (which is not heard by the characters) leads us to this conclusion.

The debate among film music scholars (and some fans) that film music should not manipulate or lead the audience is as old as the practice of underscoring for motion pictures. I gave up a long time ago trying to make sense of it, since many composers will admit that their job is in service to the dramatic and emotional core of the narrative. By their very nature they heighten the emotional tone of a scene through a variety of practices. In a 1996 interview Jerry Goldsmith exclaimed, “The job of the composer is to delve into the emotional aspect of the film. I’ve heard so many people and critics say, ‘Well, the music is leading the audience emotionally. It’s not right!’ Or, ‘you’re manipulating us!’ Well, what the hell? That’s what we’re here to do! Good film is manipulating your audience!”

Moving Music

In this way, film music can move us emotionally. With all the hype surrounding the release of the J.J. Abrams’ new Star Trek film, I was reminded the other day of Goldsmith’s contribution to the musical heritage of Gene Roddenberry’s film and TV franchise, especially one scene at the end of 1997’s First Contact. I’m a fan of this entry in the series, but always felt the final scene played a bit stiff. However, all the hesitation and awkward staging seems to melt away when Goldsmith accentuates the emotional significance of this moment, when humankind makes first contact with an alien species. Skip ahead to 6:40 to see this sequence here.

“I want one theme that will sum up the entire…spiritual, dramatic message of the picture,” Goldsmith noted in 1993. “I need the main theme and I need some motif,” he added. “Not a theme but a motif. Something secondary.” These comprise Goldsmith’s building blocks of a score, no matter what genre, tone, or setting. These elements also carry with them the emotional punctuation and grammar of the score. In this example from Rudy, Goldsmith scores the final game with a brassy four-note motif that works in conjunction with the more lyrical and sweeping Irish-flavored theme for Rudy himself (heard when he’s carried out).

What’s even more impressive about the music than its emotional register is its ability to keep the sequence moving. When Goldsmith spoke about audience manipulation, he was referring to a particular practice that emphasizes emotional manipulation (high strings = tears; screeching strings = horror). But another kind of manipulation positions the composer as pace-setter. The Rudy example works well in this respect, since Goldsmith’s two melodies work to create two different moods that affect the pacing of the entire sequence. The 4-note football motif, with its diving violins and reactive brass, works the audience into a frenzy of surreal action. Although David Anspaugh’s camera remains at the sidelines for most of the sequence, the soundtrack (including the music and effects) remains much closer to Rudy’s perspective. Though Rudy cannot hear the music, Goldsmith approximates the tension and excitement with Rudy in mind. Once Rudy is lifted up by his teammates, the tone shifts and Goldsmith returns to the more familiar emotional pull of Hollywood film scoring. The lyrical theme, joined by a choir of voices, moves the audience tonally towards the film’s resolution as it moves them emotionally. The bold timpani roll signifies a slowing-down of the action as Goldsmith scores the remainder of the scene more gently, thereby stretching the apparent passage of time.

Two simple melodies in service to a story. Whether we consciously hear the music or not, Goldsmith and others like him have shown that music can be a modifying element in a film. I’ve tried to argue here that such a modifying effect need not be reserved to an emotional framework, designed to move the audience spiritually. This is certainly the case, even as Goldsmith has pointed out in the quotes above. However, my own attempts to study film music have led me to consider the modifying elements as temporal and spatial in nature. Music moves the audience through a sequence, both emotionally and temporally. Ask yourself why you feel almost out of breath after one of these dramatic sequences. You haven’t moved in your seat, but you have been moved by the rhythmic and expressive nature of film music.