LA MEGAFIRMA CRISIS DE LOS BANCOS AMERICANOS

1 Notes by Helen van Dongen .

in the script. He used a rough, fl exible story-outline to give shape and unity to his whole fi lm, but employed nothing even vaguely resembling a shooting script. The details, and in many cases the larger outlines of con-tinuity, were solely determined by the nature and quality of material which had been shot and were not worked out before reaching the editing bench.

For Louisiana Story ² we did not have a shooting script indicating what individual scenes to shoot or where to place them in the fi nal story. Instead we had a visually and cinematically written script, the main aim being that the story be readable. For instance, Flaherty wrote the opening sequence as follows:

“ We are deep in the Bayou Country of Lower Louisiana. It is the high-water time of the year — the country is half drowned. We move through a forest of bearded trees. There are wild fowl everywhere, in fl ight and swimming on the water. We are spellbound by all this wild life and the mystery of the wilderness that lies ahead. . . . ”

To cover this sequence an enormous amount of miscellaneous material was shot, not only when going out to make shots for this specifi c sequence, but all during the shooting period, whenever something was sighted that might eventually be used to express the atmosphere and geography of the country. (200,000 ft. of material were shot for the fi lm which was in the end 8,000 ft. long.) Almost anything could cover this theme and almost anything was actually shot. Like everything living in the swamp, our images grew abundantly. We had scenes of alligators sitting on their nests, slithering through the water, basking in the sun or rearing their ugly heads from a mud-patch in the swamp-forest; strange and magnifi cent birds perched on tree-tops or sitting on branches sticking out of the lily-pond; snakes sliding up trees, lotus-leaves refl ected in the clear water, dewdrops on the leaves, little fl ies skimming the water, a spider spinning its web, Spanish moss dangling from huge oak trees, fi shes, rabbits, fawns or skunks, and others too numerous to mention.

Such a great quantity and variety of material, all temporarily fi led under the heading “ scenes for introduction ” — all of it covering the theme “ atmosphere of the swamp and forest ” — of course presents its own diffi culties in editing. At the fi rst screening all this material looks incoherent. Where, in this welter, is the main theme that must be developed?

The editor had no precise shooting script to follow which told him: “ We open with a close-up of a lotus-leaf silhou-etted against the water, followed by a shot of an alligator climbing upon a raft. . . . ” Instead, there was only a general description of the locale and of the atmosphere and feeling which should be expressed ( “ We are spellbound by all the wild life and the mystery of the wilderness which lies ahead . . . ” ).

The editor has to discover and disclose the director’s design and use as further guides:

(1)the indication that he has to portray a mysterious wilderness as yet untouched by civilisation;

(2) that he has to portray this in a lyrical mood to conform to the style and balance of rhythm in the rest of the fi lm and that this wilderness has to be seen through the magic eyes of a twelve-year-old boy (the editor has to watch that this par-ticular sequence does not unfold like an epic or become a glorifi ed travelogue);

(3) though each shot already possesses the inherent qualities of the mysterious wilderness, each shot in itself is still neutral in content and remains so until it is brought into proper relationship to another shot — when it will at once become alive and acquire a deeper meaning;

(4) last but not least: the screening and discussions with the director.

The dominant factor in the selection and continuity of the scenes should be their emotional content, their inner meaning. Once the desired feeling and atmosphere are conveyed throughout the sequence and a balance and unity have been achieved between form and content, the metric and rhythmic values will take care of themselves.

2 Notes by Helen van Dongen .

Here is how the opening sequence looked, when fi nished: white clouds are refl ected in the water.

5 C.U. Lotus-leaf, the shadow of unseen branches on it. In the foreground of the leaf: dew drops. trunks of trees are standing in the dark water, silvery Spanish moss dangles from the branches. ( Shot from a fl oat-ing raft which moved slowly along , while the camera itself pans very

3 Director: Robert Flaherty. Editor and Associate Producer: Helen van Dongen. Robert Flaherty Productions, 1948 .

Ft.

slowly in the opposite direction, thus creating an almost three-dimensional far-ther in through the moss, as if passing through a Japanese screen.

says — swim up these waters from the sea. He’s seen their bubbles — often.

The boy bends low to pass underneath the low-hanging Spanish moss. He paddles away from camera.

Forest. The boy is very small in the midst of the huge oak-trees. He paddles

Ft. this little bag of salt at his waist,

13 mys-teries of the swamp which lie ahead. Robert Flaherty’s approach is a poetic, lingering one, admiring one object, then looking around and beyond it. Our surroundings are undisturbed by the hum-drum of civilisation and the editing is kept in harmony with these surroundings, free from the agitation of quickly changing scenes or intercuts.

Look, for instance, as a specifi c example at scene 8 . For seventy feet, in one continuous shot, we glide through the swamp-water, discover the boy and follow him from far. Had this long scene been intercut with other detailed scenery, however beautiful, the feeling of complete tranquillity, the mystery and poetic atmosphere inherent in the image itself, would have been destroyed.

4 Notes by Helen van Dongen .

The introduction sets the pattern at the start with images of details. A leaf, strange and beautiful in form, a bird we do not see in our everyday life, the shadows of feathery branches, the silhouette of an alligator, a dewdrop glistening in the sunlight — together they form a pictorial narrative and indicate a strange and mysterious country. Only after we have seen these details is it revealed that we are in a forest, itself mysterious, for it is in the midst of a swamp. The huge oak trees have beards of silvery Spanish moss hanging low. And then, almost unnoticed at fi rst, we discover afar a human form, a little boy paddling his canoe through the silent waters.

This boy comes to us imbued with the mystery of the birds or the lotus-fl ower. We do not fi nd it strange that his name is Alexander — Napoleon — Ulysses — Latour, for it is in keeping with grandiose and imposing surroundings. When we bend low with him, to pass underneath the Spanish moss — as if parting a Japanese curtain — we penetrate farther into a fairyland and we accept readily that he believes in mermaids and carries charms to defend himself against werewolves and other unseen enemies of his imaginary world.

This ready conception and complete absorption of atmosphere is the result of the juxtaposition of shots. Had we, for instance, opened the sequence with the long continuous scene of the bearded forest (as an orientation scene of the locale in which the tale was set) we would have no preparation to understand and appreciate its charms and mysteries. The scene in that case would have represented nothing but a forest with a boy paddling through it. Had the details followed this scene they would have been mere images along the boy’s course through the forest. In the continuity which we follow in the fi lm we are emotionally prepared to appreciate the qualities of the forest. The preceding details, their mysterious quality and beauty, have awakened our curiosity and induce us to follow the boy eagerly and participate in his discoveries.

The choice of these scenes and their continuity was not decided upon a priori . Within the scope of the concept of the sequence their selection and continuity were determined by several factors:

(1) the subject-matter of each scene;

(2) the spatial movement of each image, which is not dominant but operates alongside other factors. It is secondary in importance but cannot be ignored;

(3) the tonal value. By this I mean the colour of a scene, its nuances within the range of black and white. In combination with other factors this colour can set or sustain an atmosphere. (For instance: a brilliant shot can represent simply the mid-dle of the day, or it could represent a happy day. Brilliant combined with silvery refl ections can create a magical atmosphere.

Grey could be simply approaching night or a cloudy day with approaching rain. Grey could also be used emotionally to warn of impending disaster);

(4) the emotional content which is the important and dominant factor.

It is important to remember that all of these factors have to be seen, judged and used in conjunction with each other, for it is the collective estimate of all these elements, of all these appeals which eventually will result in a successful juxtaposition of scenes.

To show the relative importance of each factor and the complexity of reasoning between each scene, let us analyse, for example, the fi rst two scenes of the introduction. Paying attention for the moment only to spatial movement:

After a very slow fade in (eight feet) during which the camera panned upward slowly, the scene opens up on an enor-mous lotus-leaf undulating lazily. Behind the leaf there is an almost imperceptible motion in the water caused by little bugs skimming the surface. In scene 2 we see an alligator swim slowly, making lazy ripples in the water-surface.

Analysing only the movements in both scenes we fi nd that the upward slow pan of the camera in the fi rst scene coin-cides with the slow movement of the undulating leaf, which in turn is in accordance with the lazy movements of the alligator in shot 2 . An almost imperceptible sense of direction is created because in the fi rst shot the leaf itself cups slightly towards the right and also bends over in the same direction, which is also the direction in which the alligator is swimming. The slight rippling in the water in shot 1 is continued in shot 2.

Bringing the mechanical continuity so much to the foreground without mentioning the other factors gives it a sig-nifi cance out of all proportion. Actually these movements may be hardly noticeable in the fi lm; nevertheless they are

part of the general appeal of the continuity of these two shots and they are part of the atmosphere and emotional content.

Examining the tonal value , we fi nd that both shots have that silhouette-like quality, brilliant white in the refl ected clouds, deep black in the refl ected mud-patches. In one scene we have the black refl ection of the lotus-leaf, in the next the black form of the alligator. Both scenes indicate a brilliant, sunny day in beautiful surroundings. By itself this would mean nothing were it not so intimately connected with the other factors.

The emotional content in turn is a composite impression created through the subject-matter, the photographic quality and composition within the frame, the slow and lazy movements, the brilliant sunlight, the refl ections and silhouette-like atmo-sphere. Each shot by itself records no more than a fi xed event, fact or movement, and has a limited association. It is only when read in their present juxtaposition that these single associations, now combined, form a new concept. All these factors create a feeling of unreality. These two shots together indicate the indolence of the sub-tropics with the aura of mystery and magic which will be developed in the following scenes.

Let us go back a little to the breakdown of factors which led to the continuity of the fi rst two scenes. Before any assembly is done, these two scenes might fi nd themselves at widely separated places within the reels the editor is working with. The fi nal continuity is the result of a long period of shifting scenes, now in one combination, then in another, until fi rst some, then more, impose their own combination upon you. When in their right combination the scenes start speaking. The closer one comes to the fi nal correct continuity the more the editor is able to read his scenes. Once the fi nal continuity is reached one can read or analyse step by step all the factors which caused two or more images to demand to be in a certain continuity. The other way around seems to me to be impossible — unless everything, from the very fi rst conception of the idea, is calculated beforehand.

Before going on to discuss Helen van Dongen’s account of the editing of this passage, we must say something about the broad underlying intention of the fi lm as a whole. Flaherty is not here concerned with making an instructional fi lm: he uses natural material, of course, but only as a means of expressing an emotional atmosphere. The actual sub-ject-matter of his shots matters only in as far as it reinforces and throws fresh light on a prevailing mood. The facts of the locale are used as the merest starting point through which the emotional climate of the scene can be expressed.

What matters about the opening shot of the fi lm, for instance, is the feeling of tranquillity which it conveys, not the fact that it happens to be a lotus-leaf. A different shot — of a sleeping animal, a gently swaying branch, or a shaft of sunlight on the bank — might have served equally well if it conveyed a similar emotional meaning.

This fundamental artistic aim — to express the feeling and atmosphere rather than simply the facts of a situation — is strongly refl ected in the nature of the editing. The account given by Helen van Dongen bears little resemblance to our previous analyses. In the reportage and fi ction-fi lm sequences which we have discussed earlier, the shots derive most of their signifi cance from their subject-matter and acting, and the editor’s main job is to create smooth, dra-matically effective shot-to-shot transitions. Here, however, we are concerned with an entirely different set of values.

The subject-matter is of secondary importance and there is no direct continuity of action from image to image. Accordingly, very little has been said about the mechanical transitions: each cut brings with it a fur-ther strengthening or slight modifi cation of the prevailing mood, without revealing any new facts essential to the continuity. That being so, the predominant need is for a shot-to-shot balance of feeling and the purely mechanical transitions become of secondary importance.

Similarly , where the story-fi lm editor deliberately sets out to give his passage a tempo appropriate to its dra-matic content, Helen van Dongen hardly mentions individual problems of timing. Here, only very few shots carry essential factual information and the editor is not tied to keeping any one image on the screen longer than the mood of his piece requires.

If this involves the editor in using an unusually long-lasting shot, then there is nothing to prevent him from doing so. Shot 8 , for instance, in the opening sequence, in which a new character is introduced, is left on the screen for fully seventy feet. Showing the boy for the fi rst time in the course of this long-lasting shot, makes it appear as if we were discovering just another wonderful thing in the forest — much in the same way as we discovered an alligator or a bird, earlier on. Had the boy been introduced for the fi rst time by a cut, his presence would have been felt as something extraneous to the forest, and would have broken the emotional pattern which has been built up so far. (This is not to imply that correct timing and smoothness are unim-portant. They are necessary in the same way as it is necessary to a painter to be a good draughtsman. Timing and smoothness form an essential pre-requisite of a creative editing construction without in themselves being a primary aesthetic factor.)

Questions of timing and smoothness having been relegated to a position of relatively subsidiary importance, we are left with two main creative processes in the editing of imaginative passages of this kind.

Firstly , there is the task of selecting the material. From the practical side, this is a job requiring a lot of hard work and a good memory; it is, moreover, the prime creative process and as such requires a high degree of experience, ability to assess the fi ne shades of meaning inherent in a shot and the judgment of an artist. In general, all that is worth noting here is that the various shots selected which will convey a certain shade of feeling when edited do not necessarily refl ect that particular feeling individually. The whole complex atmo-sphere of the opening sequence of Louisiana Story is conveyed by such emotionally varied images as the still close-ups of fl owers and birds, calm yet menacing shots of the alligator and swift electrifying glimpses of a water snake. Individually, these shots convey at best only a minute fraction of the overall feeling; in juxtaposi-tion they convey the whole awe-inspiring, magic-yet-real atmosphere of the forest.

Further than this, there is little that can profi tably be said. Here, one is discussing factors which are so closely dependent on the individual aesthetic judgment of the artist as to make any hard-and-fast theoretical discus-sion useless and indeed meaningless.

The second task, which is of the profoundest importance once the preliminary selection has been made, is the orga-nisation of the shots into a series of expressive shot juxtapositions. A bird, a glistening drop of water and a glimpse of sunlight can be used to convey a particular atmosphere, but in what order, and in what relationship to each other? A series of images all reinforcing each others ’ mood (as in the fi rst half dozen shots quoted) may be ideal in one place; a sharply contrasting juxtaposition (as in 24 , 25 and 26 ) may be best in another. How crucially important the order of the shots can be in conveying a particular meaning is suggested by Helen van Dongen’s remark that a rearrangement of scenes — using an opening image of the forest as an establishing shot — could have made this sequence into a sort

The second task, which is of the profoundest importance once the preliminary selection has been made, is the orga-nisation of the shots into a series of expressive shot juxtapositions. A bird, a glistening drop of water and a glimpse of sunlight can be used to convey a particular atmosphere, but in what order, and in what relationship to each other? A series of images all reinforcing each others ’ mood (as in the fi rst half dozen shots quoted) may be ideal in one place; a sharply contrasting juxtaposition (as in 24 , 25 and 26 ) may be best in another. How crucially important the order of the shots can be in conveying a particular meaning is suggested by Helen van Dongen’s remark that a rearrangement of scenes — using an opening image of the forest as an establishing shot — could have made this sequence into a sort