Copyright 2018 by Gary L. Pullman
Instead of writing
descriptions, filmmakers project images. As Alfred Hitchcock points
out, style consists in the arrangement of the images; the images
themselves mean “nothing,” he says. A paraphrase of Alexander
Pope gets Hitchcock's point across well: Style is proper images in
their proper places. (For more on Hitchcock's view of style, see my
post, “Alfred
Hitchcock on the Importance of Style in Cinematic Storytelling.”)
In this post, let's take a look at a few specific images (motion-picture stills) of scenes from a variety of horror films, ascertaining their effects. By learning to convey thought, emotion, and suspense through the use of imagery, horror novelists and short story writers may create more effective descriptions, for artists often learn from their counterparts in other media and genres.
To focus specifically on the images themselves, we'll consider them out of context from the rest of the scene in which they appear, examining them only in terms of themselves.
In this post, let's take a look at a few specific images (motion-picture stills) of scenes from a variety of horror films, ascertaining their effects. By learning to convey thought, emotion, and suspense through the use of imagery, horror novelists and short story writers may create more effective descriptions, for artists often learn from their counterparts in other media and genres.
To focus specifically on the images themselves, we'll consider them out of context from the rest of the scene in which they appear, examining them only in terms of themselves.
In this image, a man (Jack
Torrance, we learn in the movie version of The Shining) looks menacing. His appearance is
unkempt, his hair uncombed, a few strands straggling over his brow.
He hasn't shaved recently, so his cheeks, chin, jaw, and upper lip
bear stubble. His eyes gaze madly under arched eyebrows. His face is
visible between a broken-out door panel, suggesting he may break
through the barrier separating him from whomever he's menacing.
There's not much between him and his intended prey. Were we to
summarize the idea that this single movie still communicates to the
audience, we might say “menace.” However, the image also
communicates such emotions as fear and suspense.
In a still from the movie
Veronica, two young
children, a boy holding a telephone and a girl clutching a doll,
cling to a woman—presumably, their mother—who stands in a living
room, holding a cross aloft. Due to her stance and her direct,
unflinching gaze, the woman looks brave and confident, in contrast to
the expression of fear on the children's faces. Due to the
association, in horror fiction, of a cross or crucifix with vampires,
we may conclude that one of the undead is her likely adversary
and, from her reliance upon the cross, a symbol of Christianity, that
she is a woman of faith. The image suggests that the conflict is of a
supernatural nature, a contest, on one level, between human beings
and vampires, but on another level, between God and demons, since it
is demons who animate the corpses that feed on human blood. Through
the window behind the woman and the children, we see three
stories of an adjacent building, which suggests that the woman and
the children live in an apartment house. What little furniture we can
see—a lamp, a shelving unit, part of the arm of an
armchair—suggests that the woman is a member of the middle class.
The contrast between the everydayness of setting and the supernatural
foe against whom the woman defends the children enhances both
worlds—those of the everyday and of the supernatural.
Various camera angles
suggest various emotions. Novelists and short story writers can use
this technique to create similar effects as those created by filmmakers. In this image, from The Birds, a victim of one fowl
attack (yes, pun intended) sits on the floor, staring in shock, her
hair disheveled and a bloody scratch across her forehead and right
cheek. Her jacket and skirt have been ripped, and her right leg is
smeared with blood. She looks exhausted, frightened, and dismayed. On
the floor, a seagull approaches her, while above it, a second gull
flies toward her, suggesting the woman's ordeal is far from over. The
dark shadow behind her, on the blood-splattered wall, emphasizes her
disheveled hair and her frailty. The picture also suggests the
incongruity of her situation: she sits inside a house, the floor of
which is partially covered with a carpet, but it is a home that
offers no safety from a natural world gone mad. Although we think of
our homes as secure refuges, this image shows us that they are poor
havens against wild animals. Our safety is largely an illusion. The
tilting of the camera has made the image stand out, because it offers
an atypical view of the scene. Normally, we do not see things at such
an angle, so the picture strikes us as different, and we are
hard-wired to notice the unusual; our survival, we have learned, may
depend upon our recognition of that which is unusual or singular.
Other camera angles allow filmmakers to represent additional cognitive, emotional, and thematic effects. Novelists and short story writers can adapt such techniques to their own narrative aims and needs.
Novels and short stories are not movies. That's one reason that films based on novels or, less often, short stories, are called “adaptations”: they must be adapted to the screen, or to cinematic storytelling. What works on the page may not work on the soundstage and vice versa. Novelists and short story writers who want to employ cinematic techniques must adapt these techniques to the printed page—that is, to the reading process, which differs in many respects from the viewing process. Readers are not audience members, just as moviegoers are not readers.
For one thing, readers read from left to right and from top to bottom, whereas the movement of the eyes of people watching a movie is more fluid, directed by color, intensity, the composition of images, on-screen action, relative sizes, the locations of characters, and many other elements. Even during moments when a scene is less active, viewers “fill in” the “spaces” between overt actions by visually considering the inactive or passive visuals included in the scene. For example, between a vampire's attack upon a woman and her children, a viewer's gaze might sweep the room, noticing the type and color of the drapes at the window, the building next door, a lamp or a bookcase, or a portion of an armchair. These observations are “automatic,” made while the viewer's gaze darts about the room until renewed action—the vampire's attack, perhaps—orients and claims the viewers' vision. In short, to be does not imply being singled out; to be seen simply requires that something be present in the scene.
Readers are more active participants in the storytelling process. They are not likely to envision specific “props” in a story or a chapter's scene. If the writer wants the reader to “see” something, he or she must present it, must describe it. Each particular character, object, or action must be described to be “seen,” “heard,” “felt,” “tasted,” or “smelled.” This necessity presents several problems filmmakers do not have. Long, detailed descriptions tend to bore readers. They don't want the story's action to be bogged down by the descriptions of a scene's particulars.
Other camera angles allow filmmakers to represent additional cognitive, emotional, and thematic effects. Novelists and short story writers can adapt such techniques to their own narrative aims and needs.
Novels and short stories are not movies. That's one reason that films based on novels or, less often, short stories, are called “adaptations”: they must be adapted to the screen, or to cinematic storytelling. What works on the page may not work on the soundstage and vice versa. Novelists and short story writers who want to employ cinematic techniques must adapt these techniques to the printed page—that is, to the reading process, which differs in many respects from the viewing process. Readers are not audience members, just as moviegoers are not readers.
For one thing, readers read from left to right and from top to bottom, whereas the movement of the eyes of people watching a movie is more fluid, directed by color, intensity, the composition of images, on-screen action, relative sizes, the locations of characters, and many other elements. Even during moments when a scene is less active, viewers “fill in” the “spaces” between overt actions by visually considering the inactive or passive visuals included in the scene. For example, between a vampire's attack upon a woman and her children, a viewer's gaze might sweep the room, noticing the type and color of the drapes at the window, the building next door, a lamp or a bookcase, or a portion of an armchair. These observations are “automatic,” made while the viewer's gaze darts about the room until renewed action—the vampire's attack, perhaps—orients and claims the viewers' vision. In short, to be does not imply being singled out; to be seen simply requires that something be present in the scene.
Readers are more active participants in the storytelling process. They are not likely to envision specific “props” in a story or a chapter's scene. If the writer wants the reader to “see” something, he or she must present it, must describe it. Each particular character, object, or action must be described to be “seen,” “heard,” “felt,” “tasted,” or “smelled.” This necessity presents several problems filmmakers do not have. Long, detailed descriptions tend to bore readers. They don't want the story's action to be bogged down by the descriptions of a scene's particulars.
Therefore,
any detailed description must be as short as possible and must be set up
as integral to the story. Sometimes, an introductory sentence or two
(or less) is enough. The transition should explain the importance of
the description and provide a specific point of view so readers know
why a particular description is important to the viewpoint character:
The
horror of her situation created an impression as indelible as a
photograph. Wendy could
never forget Jack, his hair uncombed, a few strands straggling over
his brow; the stubble of beard on his face; his wild, arched
eyebrows; the madness in his predatory gaze; his face, shoved between
the broken-out door panel announcing his intent to break through the
barrier at any moment. Her bathroom refuge had been inadequate and
flimsy. She trembled, even now, at the thought of how vulnerable
she'd been in the face of her husband's madness.
Another
technique is to make the symbolic significance of the description
(kept, again, to a minimum) explicit at the beginning of the
paragraph and, again, describe the scene from the point of view of
one of the characters involved in it:
The
fate of her children depended on her faith in God. Only He could
protect them now. She held the cross up, before them, like a shield.
In the center of their apartment's living room, her son, gripping the
telephone, her daughter, clutching a doll, clung to her. She must be
staunch in her faith, unbending and resolute. She stood her ground,
her unflinching gaze, her faith in God, and her love for her children
giving her courage and confidence. This was her home! In
this contest, between vampire and family, mother and children were
going to win, God help her.
The
scene from The Birds
is filmed from an omniscient point of view, which gives the action
the appearance of objectivity and disinterest, or impartiality. In
describing this scene in a novel, a writer could maintain this point
of view, shortening the description:
Melanie sat on the
floor, her back to the wall, staring in shock. Her hair was
disheveled, and bloody scratches marred her forehead and cheek. Her
jacket and skirt had been ripped, her right leg smeared with blood.
Exhausted, frightened, and dismayed, she watched the seagulls that
had invaded the house. One bird approached, walking across the
carpet; above it, a second gull flew toward her. Her ordeal was far
from over. Her safety was an illusion: a mere house couldn't protect
her from nature gone mad.
Alternatively,
this paragraph could be written from the limited third-person point
of view:
Melanie
sat on the floor, her back to the wall, staring in shock. Her hair
was disheveled, and bloody scratches marred her forehead and cheek.
Her jacket and skirt had been ripped, her right leg smeared with
blood. Exhausted, frightened, and dismayed, she watched the seagulls
that had invaded her house. One bird approached, walking across the
carpet; above it, a second gull flew toward her. My ordeal
is far from over. My safety's an illusion: a mere house can't protect
me from nature gone mad.
The
process doesn't seem that difficult when we already have images
supplied to us by movies, but when we have to plan a scene ourselves,
we have to be able to assume the task not only of writer, but also of
director. Before we can accomplish this undertaking, we have to learn
at least some of what directors know, such as camera angles and their
uses; storyboarding principles; the principles of cinematic style;
and how to communicate primarily through images, rather than through
words.
At the same time, we have to remember that novels and short stories are not inferior to motion pictures. They're merely different, and both media influence the other. Indeed, novels and short stories have powerful techniques and tools not available to moviemakers. A judicious use of them can only enhance novels and short stories. By adding techniques of filmmaking that enhance written storytelling, however, novelists and short story writers add to their ability to tell their stories more effectively.
At the same time, we have to remember that novels and short stories are not inferior to motion pictures. They're merely different, and both media influence the other. Indeed, novels and short stories have powerful techniques and tools not available to moviemakers. A judicious use of them can only enhance novels and short stories. By adding techniques of filmmaking that enhance written storytelling, however, novelists and short story writers add to their ability to tell their stories more effectively.
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