Zoom Lens Put to Imaginative Use in Shadows of Fear

The "Sugar and Spice" episode of TV's Shadows of Fear uses the zoom lens in an imaginative way for an interesting effect.

Anne's (Sheila Hancock) husband, Victor, is having an affair. She's known it for a while. She found a letter to Victor from his mistress. But tonight Anne has other problems. Her son hasn't come home. She has reason to believe that Victor picked up the boy from school. But why would he? And where are they now?

As the night wears on, Anne wonders if she should call Victor's mistress (her phone number was in the letter) to see if Victor and their son are with the mistress. But neither Victor or his mistress know that Anne knows about them. If he and the boy are not there, Anne will have revealed her knowledge to the mistress for nothing.

In the following scene, Anne breaks down and phones the mistress. The camera zooms closer to Anne's face every time the phone rings.

Ringing and zooming work together in mutual support. Anne wants to talk to the mistress, yet doesn't want to talk to her. Ever been there? Where you dread talking to someone, yet are anxious to do so? Each time the phone rings, Anne expects and wants the mistress to answer, yet is relieved when she doesn't.

The zooming heightens this tension. We only zoom during the phone rings, each zoom bringing us closer to Anne's tense face. It has been said that comedy is a long shot; tragedy a closeup. Seeing a character up close helps the audience to identify with that character and empathize with her emotions. And horror is a genre that requires strong audience empathy with the protagonist.

Apart from heightening tension and character identification, the zooming in "Sugar and Spice" serves another purpose. Shadows of Fear featured plays that were videotaped on TV sound stages. Back in the 1970s, TV cameras were larger and more unwieldy than today. None of that handheld, shaky-cam style of shooting permitted by later, smaller cameras.

As a result, TV shows that were shot on sound stages in the 1970s were "stagy" and "static." The zooming in "Sugar and Spice" is an example of an innovative director trying to liven up the visuals in what is essentially a stage play.

"Sugar and Spice" was directed by Patrick Dromgoole.

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For more information on sound and cinematography in horror, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

Creative Lighting in Boris Karloff's Thriller

An admirably creative use of lighting appears in a 1961 episode of Boris Karloff's Thriller, "God Grante That She Lye Stille."

Margaret (Sarah Marshall) is a young woman possessed by a witch's ghost. In the end, the witch is defeated and expelled from Margaret's body. Margaret then lies exhausted in bed, attended to by Edward (Ronald Howard), a doctor who has fallen in love with Margaret.

Margaret and Edward speak. Edward helps Margaret sit up in bed. They hug and make plans for their future. Then Margaret is set back down in bed, whereupon she dies.

Observe the lighting in this scene. Margaret is initially brightly lit. But when she is set back down on bed, she is placed into darkness.

There is no logical reason within the story for this sudden darkness. All the presumed light sources in the bedroom should still be functioning. This change in lighting nondiegetic in that it doesn't originate from within the story.

Aesthetically, the change in lighting is symbolic and emotional. A subtle way of symbolizing the life leaving Margaret, while also conveying the emotional pain felt by Edward (and hopefully by us, the audience).

This change in lighting is subtle, because I doubt that many viewers consciously noticed it. It more likely affected them solely on an unconscious, emotional level. I myself wasn't sure the lighting had changed when I first saw this episode. Rather, I did a double take, thought it might have changed but wasn't sure, then replayed the scene. Of course, this would have been impossible in 1961 when the episode first aired.

The cinematographer was Benjamin H. Kline. Directed by Herschel Daugherty.

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For more information on lighting for horror, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

Admirable Use of Extreme Long Shots in It Follows

Extreme long shots of people often disempower them on screen. A tiny astronaut seen against the vastness of space, or against a vast alien spaceship (e.g. Alien, 1979), emphasizes the astronaut's vulnerability. So too when we see tiny urban campers walking or rafting amid a vast, untamed wilderness (e.g., The Final Terror, 1983).

But in It Follows (2014), extreme long shots achieve the opposite emotional effect: they empower the monster that's stalking its victims.

This is because of the context of the story. Jay (Maika Monroe) is being stalked by a monster. This monster is an enigma. Jay knows little about it, other than that it takes on the appearance of people. It can resemble anyone, even a loved one, and change its appearance at any time. Some clues that a person is the monster are that 1. the monster cannot talk, and 2. other people can't see it. Some less reliable clues are that the monster usually has a deadpan expression, though its expression can turn hostile. And it usually walks toward you in a slow, steady gait, though it can pause.

Anyone can be the monster. Anyone can be a threat. To know, one must examine the person up close. If you call out, does he respond? Is her expression friendly or deadpan? (Alas, to get near enough to the monster, to see if it is the monster, can be fatal.)

Any tiny person in the distance, coming in Jay's direction, is a potential threat. Of course, most people will not be the monster. This uncertainty means that the audience will be unnerved at the sight of anyone in the distance approaching us. We have no way of knowing which passerby is actually the monster.

Consider when Jay goes to the lake. She is sitting in a chair, conversing with her friends. A woman emerges from the foliage in the distance.

This scene is well staged, in that Jay and her friends are all sedentary. Only the unknown woman moves. Because she is the only movement on screen, she catches our attention.

At this point, Jay is in a medium long shot, the woman in extreme long shot. Because she is so tiny on screen, she is an enigma. We can't discern her expression. She walks casually, as any normal person might. But the audience is unnerved, especially because Jay is unaware of the woman's approach. If it is the monster, her friends won't be able to see her. And if they did, they might think nothing of it; they don't fully believe in Jay's monster stalker.

The scene is well played out. As the woman approaches Jay from behind, Jay continues talking to her friends, Kelly (Lili Sepe) and Paul (Keir Gilchrist). Kelly lies on a blanket in front of Jay. Paul is seated to Kelly's right.

 

 

 

 

 

When Jay's hair is lifted, Jay initially thinks nothing of it. It might be the wind. But her friends, and the audience, sees that the person doing the lifting is invisible, thus the monster.

(Although the monster was visible to us before, it might be that the monster is now invisible because we are seeing it from Kelly's point of view.)

Throughout the film, the monster is often (not always) seen in an extreme long shot. This empowers the monster not only because it makes it difficult to tell if it really is the monster, but also because it helps to shroud the monster in mystery. It is often true in horror that the more enigmatic is a threat, the more threatening it is. The less we know, the harder to defend or fight against it. The less we know, the more unnatural it seems; the more it feels like an Other.

It Follows ends with a similar, and very effective, use of extreme long shot. The monster might be dead, but can Jay really be sure? She walks with Paul, who is now also cursed. We see them together on an ordinary suburban street. Then we see them from behind. When we see them again from the front, there is a man behind them in the distance, walking in the same direction.

 

 

This unknown man's presence is unsettling both because he's in an extreme long shot (making him an enigma), and because his appearance is sudden. Of course, he might be a neighbor who exited his house while we were watching Jay and Paul from behind. Who knows?

The end.

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For more information on framing and staging, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

Acting Errors in The Fear of Darkness

When creating a character on film, it's important for an actor to ground the character in reality. The more real the character feels to an audience, the easier for the audience to empathize with the character, and thus suspend their disbelief regarding the supernatural events the character experiences.

Little things are important. Details enhance, or subvert, the audiences' sense that the character, and events on screen, are real. A viewer might not even know why he didn't like a film, only that it didn't feel right.

In The Fear of Darkness (Australian 2015), Skye (Penelope Mitchell) insists that an extra dimensional entity killed her boyfriend. The police think that Skye killed her boyfriend; that she is insane. They've placed Skye in the care of Sarah (Maeve Dermody), a psychologist who's trying to heal Skye.

The Fear of Darkness is reasonably enjoyable, albeit mediocre and unoriginal. But one thing especially irritated me. Sarah kept removing her eyeglasses. Anyone who's experienced near-sightedness, and thought about it, knows that Sarah's behavior rang false. And once I thought about it, I couldn't stop thinking about it. Every time Sarah removed her glasses reminded me that it was only a movie.

Why does Sarah wear glasses? Presumably because director Christopher Fitchett wants us to think that Sarah is smart. She's a doctor. A scientist. Why, she's so smart, she even wears glasses!

That's an old trope. Put glasses on a young, pretty actress, so we all think she's smart. But okay. So Sarah wears glasses. But she is too young to be far-sighted. So she must be near-sighted. In which case, actress Dermody should behave as would a near-sighted person.

Far-sighted people use reading glasses to magnify materials that are up close, like words in a book or on a computer screen. They remove their glasses to look at a person across a room, because even slightly longer distances appear sharper without reading glasses.

But near-sighted people wear glasses all day. They put them on in the morning, and keep them on until bedtime. To a near-sighted person, everything, near or far, is shaper with glasses.

Yet Sarah treats her glasses as would a (much older) far-sighted person. She's always putting them on and taking them off. Here are two examples, among many:

Sarah wears glasses to read some papers. But then she removes them to look at people across a conference table. This is how a (much older) far-sighted person uses reading glasses. But near-sighted people need glasses for both reading and seeing people across a room.

Now this scene is doubly fake ...

We begin with Sarah reading a computer screen. So now she doesn't need glasses of any kind to see a computer screen? But she needed them in previous scenes.

Then something interesting appears on screen. Sarah puts on her glasses. Why? To get a closer look? Nonsense! If she could see the screen well enough to use a search engine, she does not need glasses for "a closer look."

And then, wearing glasses, Sarah sees something far across the room, apparently in the mirror. Well, that makes sense. A near-sighted person would need glasses to see far across the room.

So Sarah gets up -- and removes her glasses! -- as she approaches the mirror. Why? To get a better look? From far across the room? Again, nonsense. She saw the entity with her glasses. Why take them off now? Being near-sighted, the room would go blurry once Sarah removes her glasses.

I don't know who is responsible for Sarah's constant eyeglass play, Dermody or Fitchett, but Sarah is thoughtlessly mimicking elderly movie scientists, who often remove their (reading glasses) when looking up from some papers. But neither Dermody or Fitchett asked themselves, why do elderly people remove their glasses?

Because they're far-sighted, which the young Sarah cannot be.

But if she can't play with her glasses, that leaves Sarah with only two realistic options. Either lose the glasses -- But then how will we know that Sarah is smart? Or keep her glasses on throughout the film, never removing them -- But then we won't see Dermody's pretty face!

Either option would work. But because horror films are entertainment, and attractive actors are a selling point, The Fear of Darkness reduces eyeglasses to a "smart girl" prop (i.e., an optional accessory) on a pretty face, at the expense of creating a more realistic character.

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For more about the performances of actors in horror, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

Two Problems with "Proof of Concept" Short Films

Hollywood calls them "proof of concept" (POC) films. Short films that are a sample of an (as yet) unproduced feature film to potential investors. A POC short film aims to "prove" that its story will look great expanded into a feature.

Some POC films also showcase the intended feature film's cast. But sometimes a different cast is used in the actual feature, for artistic or financial reasons. For example, Grace, whose POC I saw in 2007 at a film festival.

It's common for filmmakers to submit POC films to festivals, hoping to win awards and thereby entice investors. But while POC films might occasionally interest investors, they generally fail as short films. This is because, like a short story, a pleasing short film should be self-contained. It should have a beginning, a middle, an end. And engaging, well-defined characters. A dilemma facing those characters. And a final resolution. Closure.

Too often, POC films lack closure. They leave viewers hanging. We get the sense that the real story begins after the film ends.

Roger Sampson's Visitor (2017) is such a film. It opens with Dr. Price (Ashley Felkner) examining a pregnant woman, while explaining her new experimental drug. Dr. Price says, "It will help women, who couldn't be mommies before, to have children." We later see Dr. Price at her home, talking to her voice recorder, repeating the wonders of her new drug. She is pleased that the FDA is expected to approve it soon.

We then cut to what appears to be an alien spaceship descending to earth. We intercut shots of the alien craft's decent with shots of Dr. Price at home, strangely affected. She falls into a zombie like trance, eats glass, and exist the house. The End.

Huh? What did I just see? This ten minute film was mostly just exposition about Dr. Price's new wonder drug. Then the alien ship is introduced and Dr. Price leaves home. What was that about?

This is clearly a POC film. Want to know what happens to Dr. Price? How the aliens are connected to her new drug (if at all)? You'll have to watch the (as yet nonexistent) feature film.

POC films can usually be spotted through this lack of closure. There is exposition. Characters are set up and introduced. A great conflict or problem (often upcoming and always unresolved) is broached. Then ... The End.

Becca Flinn-White's The Candlelight Witch (2018) suffers this same problem. In this six minute film, two children and a babysitter are alone on a dark night. The babysitter relates an urban legend about a witch. The witch appears and kidnaps the babysitter.

Whereupon one child asks, "So what do we do?"

The other replies, "Get her back."

The End.

 

Once again, I sensed that now begins the real story: the struggle to regain the babysitter from the witch. But you'll have to wait for the (as yet unproduced) feature film to see it.

I have confirmation that Visitor and The Candlelight Witch's are POC films. But I can usually spot them just from this lack of closure, which leave me emotionally dissatisfied. Seeing Visitor or The Candlelight Witch, I feel as if I've left the theater ten minutes after the film began.

A satisfying film need not resolve every problem. Many fine horror films end with an implication that the threat lives on. But a self-contained cycle of dramatic events should be resolved. Halloween (1978) had closure even though Michael Myers was still alive and would return, because Laurie Strode's night of horror had ended. Tomorrow was another day. Nothing in Halloween mandated that Myers continue to terrorize Strode in Halloween 2.

But a well made POC short film needn't lack closure. Some are not merely advertisements for planned feature films, but stand on their own artistically.

Becki Pantling's Off Duty (2018) is a seven minute film about a psychic police officer. Its story is self-contained. The officer arrives at an investigation and resolves the problem. I didn't know it was a POC film until I'd read it marketing materials.

Perhaps one reason that Off Duty works as a short is because it promotes an intended TV series rather than a feature. So really, Off Duty is an episode from an intended series. TV series usually offers some closure with each episode, even if some dilemmas are left unresolved until the following episode.

This does not mean that a POC short for an intended feature film must lack closure.

Another problem with some POC films is that they start well into the story. Yes, it's generally a good idea not to have too much exposition; to begin a film with the drama already in progress. But some POC films take this too far.

Ozlem Altingoz's Birth (2018) feels like the later scenes of a feature. Maybe she choose to film these scenes for her intended feature because they're especially effects laden. (See, investors, how cool this will look when it's finished?) But as a viewer, I felt as if I'd arrived very late to the film. That I should know what was going on, but didn't.

I was annoyed by this lack of back story. Some mystery is good, but Birth inundated me with too many unexplained details. A possessed wife, an expectant baby on the way, a son's vague accusations against his parents ... how did these all connect? Who are these people? What brought about this situation? What are they talking about?

The ending failed to answer any of my questions. It only raised more questions. Which, I assume, would be explained in the upcoming feature.

There is nothing inherently wrong with a "proof of concept" short film. But do tell a self-contained story. Explain what needs to be explained. And give us closure.

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For more about structure in horror films, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

Off Duty Uses Creative Lighting to Depict the Supernatural Realm

In Off Duty, Police Constable Layton (Becki Pantling) investigates a haunting in a warehouse. It's something she performs "off duty," perhaps because the higher ups would frown upon her psychic gifts. She can commune with ghosts.

Off Duty is a spooky little ghost story, creepy and atmospheric. A British horror short which successfully captures that X-Files vibe. A police procedural with a serious tone and unexpected, original twists. PC Layton isn't just a ghost hunter. She's a vigilante.

The lighting is especially impressive. DP Jamie MacLeod uses two distinct lighting setups. One for the normal world and one for the astral realm that Layton enters. Warm yellow lights for normalcy. Cold blue lights for the astral plain.

 

  
The concept is similar to the lighting schemes used in Insidious and Stranger Things (to depict "The Further" and the "Upside Down," respectively), but simpler and on a much lower budget. Thankfully, Pantling and MacLead avoid the use of green nightvision. Ghost hunter films should give that a rest.

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For more about lighting in horror films, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

The Case Against Film Subtitles: Dubbing Is Better

Back in film school (NYU) I was taught that, regarding foreign films, true cinéastes prefer subtitles over dubbing. This is why lowbrow exploitation films (Godzilla and Zombi 2) are dubbed, whereas highbrow art films (Jules and Jim and Breathless) are subtitled. 

The rationale is that an actor's voice is part of his performance. Dub the actor, and you can no longer appreciate the film as performed by that actor. It becomes a new film. This is especially obvious with certain actors who have highly distinctive voices, such as Clint Eastwood and Arnold Schwarzenegger. If you've seen films with their voices dubbed, you not only hear, you can feel the difference.





Nevertheless, I prefer dubbing.

Sure, I prefer Schwarzenegger in his original voice. But that's because he's speaking English, a language I understand. I might not appreciate his voice as much if he were speaking German and I had to read subtitles.

The notion that an actor's performance is better preserved with subtitles, rather than dubbing, is overrated. It's true that dubbing dilutes an actor's performance, but in a way, so do subtitles. This is especially true with films that are dialog intensive -- a lot of dialog, quickly spoken, to the point that the actors are practically speaking over each other.

Subtitles dilute an actor's performance because, when I watch a dialog heavy film, I can't actually watch the actors. Streams of sentences incessantly fill the bottom of the screen. No sooner do I finish reading the text than a new word dump appears. I can't keep up. I repeatedly pause the DVD to read the dialog. Then I unpause, and pause again, so I can read the next batch of sentences. It's like flipping through pages. I'm no longer watching a film. I'm reading a book.

How then can I focus on the actors' performances? Their facial expressions, reactions, or even their voices? You can't appreciate a vocal performance when you hear it broken into bits from constantly pausing the DVD.

Another distraction is the surprisingly large number of misspelled words and incorrect punctuation in many subtitles. I've seen we're spelled were, and I'm spelled Im. I saw a film in which a mad scientist was conducting experiences rather than experiments. One character said "I was a theft." when he clearly meant "I was a thief." 

Among foreign horror films, inept subtitles are the rule rather than the exception. It's rare that I see a film whose English subtitles are in perfect English.

What's the problem? Is there a shortage of "professional" script translators overseas? Have the big studios booked the few competent translators? Or do indie horror filmmakers have such low budgets that they can't afford competent translators? Maybe they think that translation is easy, a safe item on which to save money, so they can't be bothered to hire a professional? Instead they recruit some student intern (for no pay) who's looking to break into the business, despite his not having achieved sufficient English language proficiency to do a competent job.

Every incorrect subtitle, every pause of the DVD, distracts me, interrupting my suspension of disbelief, lessening a scene's tension or humor, hindering my enjoyment of the film.

Unfortunately, subtitles are now the norm in horror films. It wasn't always so. Italian exploitation films of the 1970s and 1980s were routinely dubbed. I think the practice of subtitling horror films began with the advent of J-horror in the late 1990s.

Why is subtitling the new norm? I don't think it's because distributors have suddenly gained an appreciation for film as an art form. Rather, subtitling is cheaper than is dubbing. Either way, you hire a translator for the script. But now you needn't hire a new cast of actors to perform that script in a foreign language. The more countries you hope to distribute the film in, the more money you save.

The rise in the number of indie horror filmmakers worldwide, along with a concomitant increase in horror film festivals to encourage their efforts, is another factor. It's a race to the bottom. If you see your competition getting away with saving money by not hiring actors to dub foreign dialog, why should you spend extra? Thus have subtitles -- poorly written at that -- replaced dubbing as the new norm.

Horror fans have enthusiastically embraced many dubbed films over the decades. So although contemporary horror filmmakers might say they're opting for subtitles for art's sake, really, it's to save a dime.

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For more about sound issues in horror films, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.