Academic Exchange
Quarterly Summer 2003 Volume 7, Issue 2
Applying Film Theory in Teaching Fiction
Tammy Ostrander,
Tammy Ostrander is an associate professor at the
To augment the traditional
analysis of a literary text, teachers may consider applying concepts from film
theory to a literary work. Often film
theory concepts appeal to highly visual students and provide a framework to
thoroughly discuss image. The
construction of images can underscore a work’s theme, symbolism, and character
development.
Keyword – Novel
The study of literature has
a long and rich history in terms of forms of analysis. Almost any student who emerges from even a
rudimentary course in literature will be able to identify literary themes,
symbols, narrative structure, and character development as primary issues in
the analysis of a literary work. Today’s
students, more than any other population in our history, are also particularly
visually oriented. The impact of film,
television, and video games on the general population has created visually
savvy viewers and readers if for no other reason than simple saturation. Although the benefits and disadvantages of an
overwhelmingly visual culture can be debated, the impact cannot be denied. Students often have a highly hewed
understanding of visual images; this talent can be applied to the study of
literature. By using some of the
concepts from film theory, we can augment the teaching of literature by using
the skills developed from a highly visual culture.
Most films have a great deal
of commonality with most novels. Both
tend to be narrative in structure, have characters and conflict. A good film, like a good novel, will also have
theme and symbols. What differs then is
how the two are constructed. The
construction of the image impacts the response of the reader and viewer. Marshall McLuhan,
the seminal philosopher on mass media, developed the concept of hot and cool
media. He differentiated between the
novel, a cool medium, and the film, a hot medium, based on how much the
viewer/reader had to work to complete the image. In the novel, the reader must picture the
images in her mind. Conversely, a viewer
of a film has to do little work, other than stay awake, to complete the
cinematic image. Perhaps this difference
can explain why most people believe that the book is usually better than the
film. They have more of an investment in
completing the image in the book. They
can picture their Uncle Al or the neighbor’s English sheep dog in the novel; in
the film, they see Mel Gibson.
What can be gained by
merging the two is a thorough analysis of the image itself, whether cinematic
or literary, and how that image contributes to all the other standards of
literary analysis. How does the image
assist in character development? How
does the image support the general theme?
These types of questions, since they are inherently visually oriented
and therefore extremely accessible to today’s students, might best be answered
using concepts from film theory.
The great Russian filmmaker Sergei Eisenstein was one of the
first directors to discuss the theory of making of film. As a relatively new art form, Eisenstein’s contributions to the development of film
theory were groundbreaking. Eisenstein contended that creating a good single shot in a
film was a matter of visual conflict. He
identified a number of types of visual conflict, but the most prominent were
conflict of graphic direction or line, of scales (images are constructed on
different scales), of volumes (small items contrasted with large items), of
masses (varying intensities of light), and of depth (close and far
images). Eisenstein
characterized visual conflict as a type of syntax, a visual grammar. These elements of visual conflict appear in
any film, but are particularly prominent in black and white films. These concepts may also be used to analyze
image creation in fiction as well.
Shirley Jackson’s short
novel The Haunting of Hill House provides an excellent example in which
we can apply Eisenstein’s concept of visual conflict
to a novel. This work uses these same
visual conflicts to create the sense of a “deranged house” (70) and person who
are out of balance, off-center.
Conflict of graphic line or direction: “… nothing broke the straightness of the hall except the series of doors, all closed.” (38)
Conflict of scales: “She brought her hand up to the heavy iron knocker that had a child’s face ... and then the door opened without warning and she was looking at a woman…” (36)
Conflict of volumes: “…two smaller doors flanking the great
central double door.” (64)
Conflict of masses: “On either side of them the trees, silent,
relinquished the dark color they had held, paled, grew transparent and stood
white and ghastly against the black sky…. Her eyes hurt with tears against the
screaming blackness of the path…. Eleanor and Theodore looked into a garden,
their eyes blinded with the light of sun.” (174-176)
Conflict of depth: “They were standing by the rail of the veranda: from there they could see down the drive to the point where it turned among the trees again, and down over the soft curve of the hills to the distant small line which might have been the main highway, the road back to the cities from which they had come. Except for the wires which ran to the house from a spot among the trees, there was no evidence that Hill House belonged in any way to the rest of the world.” (49)
The reader is constantly
barraged by these images of a world out of kilter: dark resisting light, small overpowered by
big. It should come as no surprise then
when the main character, Eleanor, succumbs to the madness of the unbalanced
house. She merely mirrors the images
around her.
In this example, the theory
of visual conflict and how it is used in the novel and in the black and white
film version of The Haunting demonstrates not only how the characters
develop, but also how the overall theme of the novel is constantly underscored
by the images that describe the landscape and house. The madness of the house as depicted in the
constant visual conflicts overwhelms the weak-minded.
Eisenstein was one of the first filmmakers to discuss the use
of montage as an ideological tool (Kolker). For Eisenstein, the
single shot or image could convey conflict, but a series or sequence of images
created an intellectual component in a film.
Eisenstein’s 1928 film about the Russian revolution, October,
provides an excellent example of his original use of intellectual montage. Within the first 10 minutes of the film, a
series of shots of Kerensky are interspersed with
shots of a golden peacock unfurling its tail.
Ultimately, what is created by the side-by-side images is a
metaphor. Kerensky
is like the preening golden peacock.
Modern audiences often view this sequence and others like it as clumsy
and simplistic. They also find the
technique to be alien. In many ways, it
is the visual equivalent of our most rudimentary definitions of a
metaphor: he is a peacock.
A more sophisticated
collision of images through montage creates an extended metaphor that can
establish the environment in which the story lives. The sequence of images may initially function
as a metaphor. However, as a sequence of
images develops, it begins to produce something much greater than a simple
metaphor; a well constructed series of images can produce a character’s world
view.
A Room with a View, by E. M. Forster, provides an example of how a
sequencing of images moves beyond simple metaphor to depict the mind-set of the
characters. Consider these contrasting
images of the view:
Lucy Honeychurch’s view (the romantic young heroine of the novel)
“… and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno…” (13)
“He carried her to the window, so that she, too, saw all the view.” (202)
Charlotte Bartlett’s view
(the spinster chaperone)
“Miss Bartlett, in her room,
fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the
apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes
or secret entrances.” (13)
“… she felt sure that she
would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room –
something with no view…” (138)
“She [Lucy] went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She would not think what she would have done. ‘Come away from the window, dear,’ said Miss Bartlett, ‘You’ll be seen from the road.’” (73)
Any one image regarding the
view is not sufficient to develop a character’s world view. However, an extended sequence of repeated
images such as those regarding the view in A Room with a View does
establish the environment that becomes the central theme of the story as well
as the way the characters interact with that environment. Lucy sees the view as something exciting and
full of promise from which she does not shy away.
For further examples of
intellectual montage in film, consider the first few minutes of Natural Born
Killers or A Simple Plan. The
opening sequence of Natural Born Killers contains over 100 edits in the
span of only a minute or two. Images of
Mickey and Malory (portrayed by Woody Harrelson and Juliette Lewis) are spliced with images of rattlesnakes,
scorpions, and wolves. All are natural
born killers. The opening sequence of A
Simple Plan is less frantic but still depicts the use of intellectual
montage by splicing images of a fox invading a chicken coop with images of Hank
(portrayed by Bill Paxton). Throughout
the film Hank reveals his vicious, vulpine nature. Using film to develop a sense of the
sequencing of images provides a useful skill in awareness of image sequences in
a literary text.
The number of edits also
influences the degree of ambiguity of an image.
Simply put, the more edits, the less ambiguous the image, the more the
viewer’s focus is directed. The point of
the film, Natural Born Killers, is to leave no doubt in the viewer’s
mind about the nature of the main characters.
They are unredeemable. A sharp
contrast to the opening sequence in Natural Born Killers is the opening
sequence of The Player. This
sequence is an extended long shot lasting about 2 minutes. A well-choreographed shot, the camera glides
from one discussion to another without identifying which conversations are
important. The ambiguity of the opening
sequence of The Player establishes an ambiguity that infuses the entire
movie. The movie is a mystery; no one
knows who the villain is. Even at the
end of the movie, we are left uncertain about the goodness and badness of the
central character.
The longer an individual shot lasts, the more ambiguous the image
because the viewer must determine what images among many are important.
The effect is much like
stream of consciousness writing. In the
following example from Virginia Woolf’s novel, Mrs.
Dalloway, the unconnected thoughts of the character mirror the structure of
the opening scene from The Player, touching first here and then there on
a wide range of subjects:
It was all over for her. The sheet was stretched and the bed narrow. She had gone up into the tower alone and left them blackberrying in the sun. The door had shut, and there among the dust of fallen plaster and the litter of birds’ nests how distant the view had looked, and the sounds came thin and chill (once on Leith Hill, she remembered), and Richard, Richard! she cried, as a sleeper in the night starts and stretches a hand in the dark for help. Lunching with Lady Bruton, it came back to her. He has left me; I am alone for ever [sic], she thought, folding her hands upon her knee. (49)
In both the long shot and the stream of consciousness sequence, the viewer or reader is left with a certain ambiguity about what is important and how are the pieces connected. Retaining ambiguity in film is a particularly difficult enterprise.
In the short story, “A Very
Old Man with Enormous Wings” by Gabriel Garcia Márquez,
the central crux of the story is the question of whether or not the very old
man with enormous wings is an angel.
Throughout the story, Garcia Márquez is able
to craft an image of the old man that is both detailed and yet ambiguous. The old man is described at length: he is smelly, lice-infested, and in serious
need of dental work. He fails several
tests that the local scholars devise for him to prove or disprove that he is an
angel. He does not speak Latin and
refuses to eat mothballs, the standard food of angels. Finally, the very old man is able to fly away
from the small village, the mystery of his angelhood unresolved.
In Tales Beyond Solitude,
an interview in which Garcia Márquez discusses the
differences between the art of the cinema and the art of the novel, the
crafting of this particular image for film is examined. Once the image becomes visual in a film, the
ambiguity is lost. The more edits or
shots, the less the ambiguity. Although
the tests of the angel are depicted in the film version of the story, the robed
old man with gigantic feathered wings looks very much like our notion of an
angel. Garcia Márquez
discusses this issue of trying to retain the ambiguity needed to propel the
central question of the story when the visual image is so completely
unambiguous and the technical devices (edits) further define the image. Ultimately, the film crew decided to add an
unexpected scene to the film to increase the ambiguity they believed was lost
in the transition from novel to film.
The very old man is viewed washing his clothes on the beach; he has
removed his wings and laid them out to dry beside him while his very human arms
and hands do the work.
This contrast between the
film image of the very old man and the literary image draws attention to how
the image was crafted. This particular
example also draws attention to the concept of ambiguity as a powerful literary
tool. A close reading of the text
reveals a delicate balance between the desirable vagueness that creates the
central question of the text – is the old man an angel – and a well-defined
image that the reader can picture in her mind.
Too much ambiguity and a reader may not engage in the text; too little,
and the central question is lost. Using
this lesson from film theory emphasizes the importance of a well-crafted
ambiguous image.
These techniques from film
theory specifically focus on image and how the images contribute to the overall
structure and theme of the story. With
visually oriented students, using visually oriented analysis can generate a
rich discussion of a literary text. Further,
asking students questions about converting a piece of fiction to a film can
further stimulate discussion. Would a
film of this novel be better in black and white or color? If color, how much color saturation? Are there any particularly rich images for
film or particularly problematic ones?
What visual metaphors could be used?
Should a certain scene contain many edits or only a few? How would the story of the novel have to be
altered to make a successful film?
Applying film theory
concepts to literature shifts the focus of analysis from the traditional
methods to a much more visually-oriented process. Film theories also emphasis image. These concepts augment the traditional
analysis of a literary work by showing how the central theme, primary symbols,
and character development is underscored by the images constructed by the
author.
Works Consulted
Eisenstein, Sergei. “Film Form.”
Film Theory and Criticism:
Introductory
Forster, E. M. A Room with a View. 1908.
Garcia Márquez,
Gabriel. “A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings.”
Studies in the Short Story. Eds. Virgil Scott and David Madden, 5th
ed.
The Haunting. Dir. Robert
Wise. Perf. Julie Harris, Claire Bloom. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer,
1963.
Jackson, Shirley. The Haunting of Hill House. 1959.
Kolker, Robert. Film,
Form, and Culture.
Márquez: Tales Beyond Solitude. Dir. Holly
Aylett. Prod. Sylvia Stevens. Ed. Virginia Heath. Home Vision, 1989.
McLuhan,
McGraw-Hill, 1964.
Natural Born Killers. Dir. Oliver
Stone. Perf.
Woody Harrelson and Juliette Lewis. Vidmark
Entertainment, 1994.
October. Dir. Sergei Eisenstein. Music:
Dmitri Shostakovich.
The Player. Dir. Robert
Altman. Perf.
Tim Robbins. New Line Home Video, 1993.
Smith, Scott. A Simple Plan. 1993.