Werckmeister Harmonies and an Orchestra of Pure Form

In general, cinematography, like music, is purely formal. In through tones of instrumentation, both arts create a boundless yet communicative language that does not represent the world but brings the world to life. In essence, all is built on form. In fact, consider form the expression of energy throughout the world; its dimensions are space and time. In other words, form exists as movement within these dimensions; a tone of Eb carries with it not only the space of its consequential frequency but the duration at which it might be heard. The same is true of the camera's eye, which occupies space and duration; a slow pan to the left carries with it the form of its movement as well as its duration. In addition, while music and film are considered separate arts, form does not preclude one over the other; form may be transferred from music to film to the mind, from the mind to film to music. This is transformation.

In fact, cinema tends to elude transformation, but pure cinematography is a cinema of transformation, hiding form beneath its barriers of content. The jokes and stories take precedence over the moving camera, the lighting, framing, shapes within, and designs of the image. In this sense, cinema becomes somewhat indistinguishable from other forms of communication such as literature, since it takes on the conceptual apparatus of alternate languages. In fact, storytelling is not unique to cinema, what is unique is the cinematography used to put the story together. The communication of something exclusive to the language of cinematography is to write with the camera from an autonomous point of view, one that appreciates form in itself; as a result, what occurs when cinematic form transfers into music or mental phenomena is that it communicates something untold by any other language. This is the goal of cinematography.

This phenomenon becomes almost tangible, when watching a film like Béla Tarr's Werckmeister Harmonies (2000). Béla Tarr's slow camera movements are often accompanied by a musical score. The scenes carry great depth and weight and offers duration and space through long takes and deep focus cinematography with a constantly moving camera. In fact, take the first scene of the film, for instance. János Valuska (Lars Rudolph) explains the effects of a solar eclipse and he speaks of darkness and the unknown, the camera very slowly moves back, opens up a great deal of space, and raises to just underneath a light fixture which overexposes the image. János Valuska states that all is still well, as the camera leaves the eternal spirit of light to reverse the interval of space to return to its original point. This sequence is accompanied by music, which too carries an interval structure and a reprisal. The movement of the camera here is not unlike the music that plays before it. In putting them together, the two arts form an orchestra of instrumentation that extends beyond music and into the cinema. In this way, cinema truly encapsulates not only the language of cinematography but the language of music as well. In this sense, what is reducible is a cinema whose cinematographic form shares an unseen musical nature, and whose musical form shares an unseen cinematographic nature.

The light and overexposure used in the first scene returns twice more in the film: it fills the room of the vulnerable old man whose spirit shares the grace of God, and it reveals the whale for it is a testament to God's omnipotence. In each of these scenes, Béla Tarr again uses both cinematography and music to create an orchestration that encapsulates both arts. The camera slowly winds down the corridor then slowly follows the men as they leave the building, paying penance in solemnity and prayer, as the tragic music again may be heard. The cumulative effect is a richness of form. The camera's inching forwards and backwards are yet another instrument to be added to the orchestral music that is heard. The shapes of figures and shadows, the movement of time, and the framing of the image also join in this orchestral landscape, a display of form that truly does not preclude one medium from the other. In this moment, there is neither cinematography nor music; all is part of an orchestra of pure form. This is cinema: image and sound become art.

Project: Run Lola Run (1998)

How can the city play a role as a protagonist in a film? In Run Lola Run (1998), every second counts as director Tom Tykwer explores topics of fate, free will, chance and determinism, where the city of Berlin is given a central role in orienting viewers to shifts of time and movement within the film.

The plot of Run Lola Run is simple but its themes are complex: the main protagonist, Lola, attempts to save the life of her boyfriend, Manni, who will be killed if he does not collect 100,000 marks in twenty minutes to pay his boss. Her attempt to save Manni is played out in three different scenarios, each of which begins with Lola taking a phone call from Manni in her apartment. However, in each scenario, slight variations in Lola’s actions, the actions of others, and the conditions of her environment, either delay or propel her progress by mere seconds — seconds in which major, and in some instances fatal, consequences are determined for Lola, Manni, and other characters within the film.

Thus, the film’s primary thematic inquiries arise in the difference a single moment makes from one scenario to the next. And this difference in time is made explicit through the position of the camera relative to Lola, the position of the camera relative to the city, and Lola’s position relative to the city when she moves through the same space in each scenario. This study uses traditional methods of architectural representation (plan and section) to investigate the positioning of these three elements — Lola, the camera, and the city — as she moves through four key spaces in Berlin in each scenario, to better understand the role of the city as a protagonist in the film.

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Location 1

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Location 2

Location 1
At this location, the position of the elevated train is a signifier for Lola’s pace in each of the three runs. In both Run 1 and Run 2, Lola is positioned below the train. However, because she is delayed at the beginning of Run 2, the train is located a few seconds (three seconds, to be exact) ahead of the position it had held at the beginning of Run 1 when Lola finally arrives on scene. This delay between Run 1 and Run 2 is emphasized by the starting location of the camera: a bird’s eye view in Run 1 introduces the setting, while a close-up view of Lola to begin Run 2 demonstrates an urgency of lost time. In Run 3, Lola is elevated to the same level as the train. This difference in Lola’s positioning suggests that, in Run 3, Lola will have a heightened understanding of her actions, and thus greater control in the outcome of the scenario. Meanwhile, other factors in each scene remain constant to underscore the positioning of Lola relative to the camera and the train. For example, all three scenes are exactly eleven seconds long, and each concludes with both Lola and the camera in the same location.

Location 2
As she crosses this street in Berlin three times, Lola’s movement is consistent in all three sequences to emphasize the position of the camera relative to the position of the city. The pace of each run is indicated by the starting position of the camera in each scenario. Analyzing the scene in elevation, we see that in her delayed run, Run 2, the camera begins in the bottom left, behind Lola, and pans to the middle right. In Run 1, which is the “control” run of the experiment, the camera begins slightly above center and pans to the bottom right. Finally, in Run 3, the quickest run,  the camera begins at its highest elevation in the top right, and ends in the same position as the camera of Run 1. So if we read the position of the camera from left to right and top to bottom, we can understand that both “left” and “bottom” are signifiers of slowness and delay. The speed of each run is demonstrated in the actual time of each scene, where Run 3 is the shortest scene at fifteen seconds, compared to sixteen seconds for Run 2 and seventeen seconds for Run 1.

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Location 3

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Location 4

Location 3
The gridded pavers of Gendarmenmarkt is key to understanding the concept behind three scenes filmed at this location. Both Run 1 and Run 2 are filmed from a static, orthogonal plan view. In Run 1, the camera is orthogonal to the grid of Gendarmenmarkt, and Lola runs at a forty-five degree angle across the frame. In Run 2, the camera is set at a forty-five degree angle to the plaza, and Lola moves parallel to the paving grid. Here, the positioning of Lola, the grid, and the camera re-states the delay of Run 2, where Lola must cross seven visible squares of the paving grid compared to only four squares in Run 1. And since the delay between Run 2 and Run 1 is three seconds, the three additional visible squares in Run 2 represent each second by which Lola has been delayed. Similar to Run 2 of Location 1, Run 3 across Gendarmenmarkt is filmed at ground level from a perspective that moves parallel to Lola, who is moving diagonally across the paving grid. Here, the actual time is inverted, with Run 3 taking eleven seconds, Run 1 taking five seconds, and Run 2 being the shortest scene at three seconds.

Location 4
The fourth and final location — the intersection of Lola, the ambulance and the sheet of glass — is the most complex sequence of the film. This scene is entirely about disruption: the disruption of the city by the ambulance, the disruption of the ambulance by Lola and the glass, and the disruption of the glass by the ambulance, and ultimately, the disruption of the film’s overarching plotline when Manni is hit by the ambulance at the conclusion of Run 2. Thus, although the camera is positioned at the same location to begin all three scenarios, Run 1, Run 2, and Run 3 are shot from eight, ten, and three camera angles respectively. That is to say, unlike the scenes for each of the three previous locations, which were each filmed in a continuous shot, the sequences of Location 4 are disrupted with multiple camera cuts. This is particularly true for Run 1 and Run 2, as both sequences are constructed around the anticipation of the ambulance colliding with the glass. Then, because the glass shatters in Run 2, suspense is not present in Run 3, the least disrupted sequence. Rather than a cllimactic disruption, Run 3 offers a new disruption — complexity interrupted by quietude — when Lola and the patient in the ambulance bring a calmness to the scene in the back of the ambulance. which foreshadows a positive outcome for Lola and Manni in the third and final scenario.

Adam Longenbach is an architectural designer and educator practicing in New York City. If you would like to submit an architectural project that looks at film, please email us at contact@INTJournal.com.

Interview (2007)

The first fifteen minutes of the film, Interview, feels like a weird, misplaced comedy about a miserable journalist and a dumb celebrity starlet. Pierre Peders (Steven Buscemi) and Katya (Sienna Miller) meet each other at a restaurant for an interview that Pierre needs to conduct for his magazine. The interview goes horribly wrong and each of them leave, hoping to never see each other again. Pierre, however, is involved in a car accident, inadvertently caused by Katya, and she invites him back to her loft. That's the set-up of the film.

The following act includes a psychological study into two contrasting individuals and their interactions in an open loft space during the course of the evening. They speak, drink and smoke, as the audience gets to know each of them in a completely new way. The ways in which both characters interact with the space and their surroundings is something that is both bizarre and familiar at the same time. We're first introduced to the loft space when Katya and Pierre exit the elevator. There is a wide shot that shows the massive scale of Katya's place, which is appropriate because of the unfamiliarity that Pierre must have with this new location. The audience tries to orient itself through the space as the two characters begin to drink in the kitchen.

In the course of the film, we see that Pierre becomes more comfortable navigating through the space and also gets more comfortable with Katya. They both begin to admit things to one another about their life and as the discussions get more intense, the location is a constant and acts as a source of comfort. There are multiple times where Pierre threatens to leave or Katya asks him to the leave, but for some reason, both characters want to keep riding the roller coaster. Pierre finally does leave the apartment, as you find yourself wanting him to stay.

Interview is more than just a study into these characters; it's an examination into how these characters react to their surroundings and how those reactions accentuate their personalities. The spontaneous nature of Katya is emphasized by her loud outbursts within her loft and the interactions with various spaces and pieces of furniture. The crude, odd behavior of Pierre is similarly underlined by his imposing nature in another person's apartment with his unwelcomed actions with personal space.

The most powerful aspect of Interview is also the underlying theme. It's always the unknown that keeps you wanting more. 

Screenshot: The Night of the Hunter (1955)

“Grown ups are complicated creatures, full of quirks and secrets.” - Roald Dahl

As parents, we do our best to protect our little ones for as long as possible from the nastiness we secretly know will invade their lives soon enough. We also try to encourage them to see the world as essentially a safe place where grown ups are (on the whole) to be trusted. How then to deal with a troubling film like The Night of the Hunter that undermines in all ways possible these essential pillars on which childhood rests?

The film, released in 1955 and directed by the great character actor Charles Laughton (his one and only directing credit), is based on a Davis Grubb novel, which tells the story of Harry Powell (Robert Mitchum), an unhinged religious fanatic who marries a gullible widow, Willa Harper (Shelley Winters) in an effort to get his hands on $10,000 of stolen loot. Powell discovers that the money has been hidden by Willa's children, sworn to secrecy by their real father before his arrest and subsequent death by hanging, as he sets about on his relentless and murderous pursuit of the children through a fantastical and nightmarish Depression-era West Virginian setting.

The film, failing miserably to connect with audiences on its initial release, has since gathered an enthusiastic following and is now heralded as one of the best films ever made. In addition to employing filming techniques, set design and an exaggerated acting style largely inspired by German Expressionism, the film also bends genres -- using both film noir and horror motifs in equal measure to present its skewed fairy tale vision of lost innocence. The Night of the Hunter, like all good fairytales, succeeds in blurring the lines between the familiar and the unfamiliar -- setting the stage for a journey of hardship leading to a ‘happily-ever-after’ resolution.

The screenshot above takes place midway through the film following the children’s narrow escape from Powell’s clutches and into a small boat that carries them down a river to temporary safety. They seek shelter and a place to sleep in a farmhouse, as John (Billy Chapin) is suddenly awoken by the ominous sound of Powell’s voice singing his now trademark rendition of "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms" and then sees him in silhouette leisurely ambling on horseback in the distance.

This terrifyingly beautiful shot introduces us to the unrelenting pursuer -- think The Terminator, Michael Myers or most recently the hidden force in this year’s It Follows -- embodying a nightmare scenario whereby there is no escape.

The visual of Powell on horseback is reminiscent of iconic American Westerns from the 1940s, but the impressionistic staged setting and back lighting add menace and disorientation to the scene. Powell’s pursuit of the children up until this point has been desperate and at times violent, but here he is calm and serene; a ghostlike apparition on the horizon. Is John still asleep? The hunter invading his dreams, foreshadowing the likes of Freddy Kruger in A Nightmare on Elm Street thirty years later?

It isn’t until John and Pearl (Sally Jane Bruce) are taken in by Rachel Cooper (Lillian Gish), who plays mother hen to a gaggle of other orphans, that the children are truly safe -- now part of a family unit that stick together and are joined by a common familial bond to protect and look out for one another.

This adopted family stands in stark contrast to their actual family -- an errant criminal minded father, hopelessly delusional mother and unfortunate drunk uncle (James Gleason) -- none of whom provide the moral compass and security that the children need. It’s their collective weakness that allows the predatory Powell to invade the children’s lives with such ferocious intent. But while Powell may have tricks and charms at his disposal, casting his charismatic spell over the children even though they know he poses a threat, Cooper is his equal; an opposing force of good who actually embodies the traits that Powell’s preacher uses as a disguise -- true religious faith, a charitable nature and a desire to do right in the eyes of God.

The standoff on the porch near the end of the film, which sees a shotgun toting Cooper keeping watchful guard from her rocking chair while Powell lurks in the shadows, couldn’t be more symbolic. Powell once again sings "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms" but this time Cooper joins in as if using a counter spell to render him powerless -- the two forces of good and evil, love and hate (as tattooed on Powell’s fingers), in a harmonious metaphysical showdown.

Screenshot is an ongoing column from Gabriel Solomons, Senior Lecturer at the University of the West of England, Editor-in-Chief of The Big Picture magazine and Series Editor of The World Film Locations and Fan Phenomena book series. Screenshot examines a single shot from a film and presents an in-depth analysis.

Kill Bill and the Erosion of the Set

The set of a film, even at its most despicable, is pristine. They convey a mood and a setting more expositional than the multiple locations that they are based; a single space can read as the epitome of a Midwest mother’s house, while someone else may register it is as a crack den. The set of a film is up on the screen with the stars, on display for a wide and scrutinous audience.

These sets may anticipate their own demise, often in an entropic relationship between the characters of the film and the film set itself. The destruction of a set at the hands of a film’s character is by no means a new notion -- Charles “Citizen” Kane reducing a room of opulence into nothing more than splinters, a group of anxious Frenchmen pulling apart the geometry of The Royal Garden Restaurant under Jacques Tati’s direction, or even Matt Foley ending a scene with an effective belly flop onto any given piece of furniture -- Kill Bill: Volume 2’s mobile home fight scene stands out as a particularly discordant relationship between person and architecture in film history.

The location, isolated at the bottom of a Texas desert and in driving distance to the very seedy strip club in which he is occasionally a bouncer, this home describes the character with a single panning image. The audience sees that he has no time for thoughtful decoration, but has plenty of stuff on the plywood walls and marble countertops (or, at least, they look like plywood and marble countertops). The single open space appears to be recovering from the presence of a small tornado; over all, his home is the picture of feigned luxury treated with abandon.

Elle Driver collects her money from the fatally bitten Budd after his deal with her goes sour. Elle opens the side door to the sight of Beatrix Kiddo on the verge of kicking her across the living space. The plywood bounces in recuperation. Elle attempts to unsheathe her sword only to have her reach foreshortened by the now apparently narrow dimensions of the room. This happens several times while Beatrix counteracts with several short-range hits and is pummeled to the floor.

Elle goes for an air kick from across the room, but rather than retaliate, Beatrix guides her again to the nearest wall. The plywood does not recuperate; it caves in. Elle goes straight through it and into the bathroom made of equally pliable materials. Beatrix hops through the newly opened wound and they continue their tussle in the now expanded living room. The hole in the wall becomes the expanding shield for both as their health deteriorates with the set.

Bernard Tschumi often recalls the discrepancy between symmetrical, harmoniously proportioned villas and the clumsy masses that stumble through them as the historical position of architecture in event-space, and perhaps in Kill Bill: Volume 2, we see a reversal of this principle. The two skilled assassins compete against an obstinately fragile background; a flimsy vinyl concoction eaten away by the two warriors that nearly go down with the ship.