Quent Cordair Fine Art

“Landscape” as discussed here not only includes spacious skies, amber waves of grain and purple mountains’ majesties, but seascapes and cityscapes. We’ll also glance at some paintings in which human figures appear, but telling a story is not the focus.
Like still-lifes, landscapes have often been considered second-class compared to history and narrative paintings, or indeed any paintings with human figures. How did this attitude develop, and what message or meaning can landscapes offer?

Landscape painting in ancient and medieval times

Little is known of Greek painting, since artists painted on walls that have long since crumbled or on wooden panels that have long since disintegrated. Based on vase paintings and literary references, we do know that Greek artists of the Classical period (5th-4th c. BC) always focused on the human figure. Landscape was a subsidiary element, used to set the scene or help identify the characters.
The Romans, who conquered the Greek mainland in the 2nd c. BC, were intensely innovative and practical in matters of technology, including architecture and infrastructure. Under the protection of Roman laws and Roman soldiers, the standard of living and the level of knowledge around the Mediterranean increased steadily for centuries. In art, though, the Romans were content to make copies of Greek painting and sculpture. The Odyssey Landscapes (1st c. BC; better reproduction at http://www.sci.ccny.cuny.edu/~stan/skyart2.pdf, p. 5) include swaths of land and sea as a setting for the adventures of wily Odysseus. Roman frescoes buried by the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius occasionally include cityscapes such as one in the Metropolitan Museum’s Boscoreale Room, whose buildings are drawn with a charmingly erratic notion of linear perspective. The Romans’ fondness for such mundane scenes testifies to their overriding concern with the natural world during the late Republic and early Empire.
After the Fall of Rome (traditionally 476 AD), a few Byzantine artists persisted in copying Greek and Roman works, including elements of landscape. (See the 6th-c. Vienna Genesis.) In Western Europe, however, all attempts at realistic landscape disappeared - not surprisingly, given the combination of Christianity’s emphasis on the next world and the misery of medieval life. An outdoor setting for a religious story might be indicated by one elaborately stylized tree or rock. Thirteenth-century French painters dispensed with even such tokens, using instead a checkered background or a sheet of gold leaf. (See Queen Melisende’s Psalter, 1131-1143.)

Landscape in the Renaissance

The turning point for the re-emergence of landscape painting came in 13th-c. northern Italy, where increased political freedom, a rising standard of living, and the spread of St. Francis of Assisi’s distinctive form of spirituality led to renewed interest in portraying life on earth. Giotto (1267?-1336) was not only a genius at figures and composition, but was adept at placing his figures in a this-worldly setting. (See his Lamentation, ca. 1305-1310). A generation later Ambrogio Lorenzetti painted a wonderful 46-foot fresco in Siena illustrating the effects of good and bad government (1338-40), which incorporated a cityscape and a landscape.
With the invention of oil painting in the early 15th c., painters suddenly had a wide range of colors, plus the ability to show subtle gradations and to depict extremely precise detail. In works such as the Ghent Altarpiece, Jan van Eyck staged his religious stories against beautiful landscape backgrounds. Van Eyck is credited with inventing “atmospheric perspective,” the decrease in intensity of colors and contrast toward the horizon that makes a painting seem to recede into infinite depth.
Meanwhile in Italy, Brunelleschi had developed a system of linear perspective that allowed artists to mathematically calculate the size of objects as their distance from the viewer increased. Using linear and atmospheric perspective, painters could persuasively show three-dimensional space on a two-dimensional surface. By the late 15th c., landscapes were incorporated into portraits as well as narrative scenes: see, for example, the works of Memling (ca. 1430-1494) and, most famously, Leonardo’s Mona Lisa, ca. 1503-1505. Albrecht Altdorfer’s Landscape with Footbridge, ca. 1520, is considered the first pure landscape, without any human figures. Sixteenth-century Venetians such as Bellini (St. Francis in Ecstasy, 1480) and Giorgione (The Tempest, 1505-1510) were the first to make human figures act within the landscape, rather than merely using the landscape as a backdrop.

Landscape in the 17th to 18th centuries

Wealthy 17th-c. Dutch loved landscape as well as still-life painting. Since Protestantism forbade religious images, paintings of mundane scenes became common in Dutch homes. Rubens (1577-1640), famous across Europe for his portraits and narrative paintings, also excelled at landscapes. Landscape with the Chateau of Steen, 1636, is a “portrait” of the country estate to which Rubens retreated after a lifetime of diplomatic service. Other Dutch painters specialized in seascapes, panoramas of flat Dutch farmland, ruins and woodlands. Even Vermeer, who usually painted interiors with solitary figures, produced an exquisite cityscape, the View of Delft, 1661-1663.
Landscape painting elsewhere in Europe ran to different themes. After Louis XIV established the French Academy in 1648, landscape (like still-life) was considered an inferior genre. Poussin (1593/4-1665) and Lorraine (1600-1682) often did paintings whose titles were mythological or historical, but whose focus was land, sea and architecture. Lorraine is credited with making all the light in a landscape emanate from a single source, as in Seaport with the Embarkation of the Queen of Sheba, 1648.
During the 18th c. the British came to the fore in landscape painting. Gainsborough (1727-1788), who later became a popular high-society portraitist, began his career with dramatic paintings of the English countryside based on Dutch models. Turner (1775-1851) was fascinated by the effects of light and the power of Nature. His tiny human figures don’t so much tell a story so much as give scale to Nature’s overwhelming forces, as in Snowstorm: Hannibal and His Army Crossing the Alps, 1812. Most famous and influential of the British landscapists was Constable (1776-1837), who painted familiar, intimate views of the English countryside in a monumental size and with great attention to flora, fauna, light and atmosphere. The White Horse, 1819, and The Hay Wain, 1821, had tremendous influence in England and abroad.
Yet another variety of landscape painting is exemplified in the paintings of Friedrich (1774-1840), the best-known German Romantic painter. Like Constable he painted with meticulous detail, but like Turner, his subjects tended toward the dramatic, fantastic and somber, as in Winter Landscape, 1811.

Landscape in the 19th and 20th centuries

Beginning in the 1860s, the French Impressionists adopted the 18th-c. British landscapists’ practice of painting outdoors, but took plein-air painting even further. They not only made sketches outdoors but also completed paintings there, striving to render minute changes in light and atmospheric conditions. The culmination of this trend is Monet (1840-1916), who in the 1890s began his “series paintings”: twenty paintings of poplars, twenty of haystacks, thirty of the façade of Rouen cathedral, almost fifty of water lilies. All these ostensibly landscape paintings focus on changes in color and light, while the subject and artist’s point of view remain static.
An exhibition of Monet’s Haystack series in 1896-97 was a revelation to the Russian painter Kandinsky: “The idea that an object is an indispensable element of any painting had been discredited.” Composition VII, 1913, shows how Kandinsky acted on that revelation.
The landscapes of Cezanne (1839-1906) also influenced the development of early 20th-c. abstract art. Over the course of two decades Cezanne’s paintings of Mont Ste. Victoire, his favorite landscape subject, show a progression from normal if somewhat mosaic-like representations of the landscape to “representations” that are an almost unrecognizable abstract pattern.

What’s to like about landscapes?

In last month’s essay on still-lifes, I wrote that human figures are the most efficient — but not the only way — to convey “the pleasure of feeling what it would be like to live in one’s ideal world.” (Ayn Rand, “Art and Sense of Life,” Romantic Manifesto p. 38) Several aspects of landscape painting may be meaningful or appealing.

1. Content. Some landscapes are filled with indications of a human presence: buildings, tilled fields, railroad tracks, and so on. Others show land that’s untamed or reverting to nature. Which content you prefer will depend on your mood and your misanthropy.
2. Style. Landscapes can be clear and sharp, like Poussin’s or Lorraine’s. They can be blurred, like those of the Monet and other Impressionists. They can be somewhere between, like those of Rubens, where less precisely defined areas “frame” the part of the painting Rubens wants us to focus on. Colors also evoke a strong emotional response. Much as I love cityscapes, those done in smoggy browns and grays repel me. On the other hand, although I dislike the blurriness of the Impressionists, I’m attracted by their vivid colors: cobalt blue and chrome orange were among the synthetic pigments invented during the 19th century.
3. Composition. Lorraine was particularly adept at creating a “path” that leads the viewer’s eye to a focal point. The focal point’s presence suggests an appealing orderliness in nature — more precisely, in the way men see nature. (As anyone who’s ever snapped pictures of landscape knows, nature doesn’t conveniently dispose itself into organized patterns.) Turner’s early works have strong focal points as well as brilliant light and colors: see his paintings of Cologne and Dieppe at the Frick Collection. Details as “simple” as the height of the horizon line and the spectator’s point of view can subconsciously make one cheerful or oppressed: compare Constable’s The Hay Wain with Wyeth’s Christina’s World.
4. Context. A landscape may remind you of a particular place or time. Rubens’ Landscape with the Chateau of Steen reminds me of the Appalachian foothills where I grew up. The background of Bellini’s St. Francis in Ecstasy “reminds” me of Tuscany, a region I’ve longed to visit for years. Bear in mind as you read the comments below that, as in the column on still-lifes, I am telling you my own emotional reactions to certain pieces and the reasons behind those reactions, rather than making philosophical or esthetic evaluations.

Christina Romano Puckett

Puckett never incorporates people or buildings in her paintings. Normally that would make me less interested in them, but as it happens, I have fond memories of attending conferences and visiting friends in California. The type of scenery that appears in her paintings reminds me of those times. The two I like best — Blooming California Buckeye and Pines, Sedges and Fog — both include glittering lakes. Although I seldom feel an irresistible temptation to swim, I love watching the play of light on brilliant blue water.

Dale Momii

Momii does seascapes: breakers crashing on the shore or waves lapping it. I prefer those of his paintings that incorporate other elements I like, such as the colors of the sky in Monterey Sunset, and the palm trees in Evening Stroll.

Sylvia Bokor

Bokor’s landscapes are much more stylized than Puckett’s or Momii’s. She’s apparently less interested in precisely recording texture and light than in the massing of forms and the juxtaposition of colors. Look at the balance of the cliffs and their reflections (up and down, left and right) in Mesmerizing Views. It’s not symmetrical, yet it feels satisfyingly balanced. “Stylized” and “impressionistic” are often contrasted with extremely detailed or “naturalistic” works. If you’ve ever wondered about the difference between “stylized” and “impressionistic,” look at Bokor’s Water Lilies in contrast to one of Monet’s series paintings of water lilies. Bokor seems to have searched out and represented only the most distinctive elements of the flowers and their setting. Monet attempted to regress to the level of mere sensation. Indeed, he once told a disciple that “he wished he had been born blind and then had suddenly gained his sight so that he could have begun to paint in this way without knowing what the objects were that he saw before him.” (Lilla Cabot Perry, “Reminiscences of Claude Monet from 1889 to 1909,” quoted in H.W. Janson, History of Art, 5th ed., p. 908, selection #92)

Alfredo Gomez

Dawn’s Reflection reminds me of the nineteenth-century Hudson River School’s landscapes celebrating the beauty of America, except that its colors are more vivid. Like Rubens’ Chateau, this scene reminds me of the countryside where I grew up — but in the same way that Gomez’s Red Apple (see last month’s column on still lifes) reminds me of real apples. Mother Nature in the raw is seldom so well composed and beautifully tinted.

Damon-A.H. Denys

The French have a name for that gorgeous time just before full dark: l’heure bleue, “the blue hour.” When I first saw this painting, that time of day is what came to mind. After I looked at the title, though, my emotional reaction changed. Is the Evening Storm coming or going? Should I feel anxiety or relief? What’s communicated by a work of visual art is not always what’s implied by the title. (Imagine being fascinated by a painting of a beautiful woman, then finding out the painter titled it Eve.)

Han Wu Shen

I liked Spring Is Coming more after learning its title. At first glance I had focused on the stark branches, but the title made me pay attention to the faint hints of green, so delicately rendered. It reminds me of that day in February or March when I first notice buds on the trees, and realize with relief that the long, cold Northeast winter will soon be over.

Bryan Larsen

Even in a sketch such as Study for Among the Clouds 2 Larsen’s work is stunning. Look at the way the paler clouds curve to “frame” the two spires. Look at the shape and placement of those spires: shift them significantly further apart and the composition would break into two pieces; shift them closer and the spires would lose their separate identities. Look at how the setbacks on the right-hand spire are balanced without being symmetrical. It’s not surprising that a man who puts this much thought into a study can produce such wonderful finished works.

At the famous Salon exhibitions in nineteenth-century Paris, a mediocre mythological painting would invariably have been displayed more prominently than the most exquisitely composed and executed still life. Why were still lifes considered second-class art for centuries? Is there an objective reason to compare them unfavorably with paintings incorporating human figures?

History of still lifes as a genre

The earliest surviving still lifes in Western art appear in frescoes in Pompeian homes buried by the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in AD 79. The Romans, a mundane and practical people, had no qualms about setting still lifes of everyday objects side by side with mythological stories adapted from Greek art.
With the Fall of Rome (traditionally AD 476) and Europe’s descent into the Dark Ages, however, artists turned their attention almost exclusively to religious subjects such as Biblical stories and scenes from the life of Christ and the saints. Only toward the end of the Middle Ages, as increasing wealth and freedom made life more than merely a struggle for survival, did artists again show an interest in accurately representing this world. Jan van Eyck of the Netherlands (d. 1441), for example, was fascinated with using the new oil-painting technique to render material objects in meticulous detail: shining kettles, drifting smoke, lush velvet, dogs and feathers and lace and light. (See his Arnolfini Marriage, 1434.)
Still-life painting as a genre reached a pinnacle in seventeenth century Holland. Dutch merchants had built a trading empire that stretched round the world, and reveled in the goods their wealth could acquire. Building on two centuries’ study of artistic technique developed by Renaissance painters, Willem Kalf (1619-1693), Jan de Heem (1606-1664) and others produced superb still lifes such as had never been seen in the history of Western art. Their subjects were the luxury items the Dutch so prized.
But there was a catch. Despite their interest in wealth and material goods, the Dutch remained staunch Calvinists. Their artists favored a type of still life known as the Vanitas vanitatum (”vanity of vanities”), which depicted objects of expensive materials and exquisite workmanship. The artists took care, however, to include subtle reminders that death is inevitable and earthly pleasures cannot last. Scattered among the luxury goods are half-peeled fruit, overturned or broken vessels (as if the people using them had died or fled), and short-lived creatures such as butterflies.
While the Dutch were pondering the ephemeral nature of earthly goods, in Paris Louis XIV (L’etat, c’est moi!) established a state-supported school for painting and sculpture. To counter years of strife between Protestants and Catholics, he encouraged artists at the Academy to produce art promoting patriotism and piety. The subjects of choice for this didactic task were moralizing tales from Greek, Roman and French history. For almost two centuries, history painting was viewed not as one equally valid genre among many, but as indisputably the best type of painting. Portraits, landscapes and still lifes were merely a way to supplement income between history paintings. At the annual Salon exhibition, where much of the buying and selling of French paintings took place during the nineteenth century, Academy members assigned prime locations to history paintings.
Toward the end of the nineteenth century a radical change occurred in the way art was marketed and sold. The Industrial Revolution’s technological improvements made the dissemination of words and images infinitely faster and easier. Artists began to be known and sought after for their own work, rather than as winners of an award at the Salon. Dealers opened galleries to sell paintings year round, relieving artists of some of the burden of marketing their own works. Among the first to have their paintings sold in galleries were Impressionists Monet (1840-1926) and Renoir (1841-1919). They were followed by artists such as Cezanne and Van Gogh, whose avant-garde still lifes and other paintings were rejected by conservative Salon judges.
In the meantime, the eighteenth-century Enlightenment’s shift to a more secular worldview had made collectors less interested in seeking Christian or didactic messages in the paintings they purchased. We might expect that the Enlightenment’s renewed interest in the natural world combined with technical advances in paint and colors during the Industrial Revolution would have led to some wonderful still lifes by the end of the nineteenth century. After all, the best still lifes have been painted by artists who are fascinated with this world. Unfortunately, by that time the dominant philosophical ideas (particularly on the nature of knowledge and the nature of art) had led to a radical change in both subject and style. Rather than a Kalf with nineteenth-century sensibilities we got Cezanne and Picasso. (More on French nineteenth-century art and philosophy in an article due out later in 2006.)

The message of still lifes

Even if we grant that paintings need not have a didactic or moral message, the question remains: can a painting of a bouquet of roses “speak” to a viewer as well as a painting with human figures? Art’s purpose, according to Ayn Rand, is to provide man with the psychological energy he needs to carry on his life:

Since a rational man’s ambition is unlimited, since his pursuit and achievement of values is a lifelong process—and the higher the values, the harder the struggle—he needs a moment, an hour or some period of time in which he can experience the sense of his completed task, the sense of living in a universe where his values have been successfully achieved. It is like a moment of rest, a moment to gain fuel to move farther. Art gives him that fuel; the pleasure of contemplating the objectified reality of one’s own sense of life is the pleasure of feeling what it would be like to live in one’s ideal world. (”Art and Sense of Life,” Romantic Manifesto, p. 38)

The most efficient way to present such an ideal world is to show human actions and emotions. Still lifes can, however, accomplish the purpose less directly, by relying on what you bring to them as well as what’s actually represented. How?

1. Content. A still life can present exquisite manmade objects, perfect natural objects, or an arrangement of objects that complement each other, making them a delight to the eye and a reminder of how much beauty the world offers.
2. Style. An artist can show objects in a clear and vivid way, full of interesting colors and textures, flooded with enchanting light. Certain styles can make you glad you have eyes to see, and make you feel that you perceive more clearly through the artist’s eyes than through your own.
3. Context. The objects represented may have strong associations for you. Sometimes the significance of a painting lies not in what’s represented but in the memories you bring to it.

Some people have trouble stating explicitly why they like certain works, and therefore don’t feel quite comfortable liking them. Perhaps the comments that follow, on a selection of still lifes at the Cordair Gallery, will help you introspect about your own reactions.

Sylvia Bokor

I love the colors and textures in Pewter Pitcher: they’re sharp, clear and vivid. It reminds me of the way I see the world on a clear autumn day. Years ago my husband bought a very similar work by Bokor, in part because he liked the style and in part because his beloved grandmother owned a candy dish just like the one in the painting. For him, buying a still life based on that association is perfectly reasonable, although for most viewers the type of silver dish shown won’t be significant.
For contrast with Pewter Pitcher, look at Chardin’s Still-Life with Plums (ca. 1730) at the Frick Collection in New York. Chardin chose to depict a few pieces of fruit with subdued colors and softened textures. In the center are a very dark glass bottle and a clear glass half-full of water, both humble household objects. All are arranged on a cracked wooden table set against a somber wall. Although the composition is nicely balanced, it speaks of a workaday life that doesn’t interest me enough to make me want to contemplate it.

Tom Sierak

I associate bouquets of roses such as those in Glass Cat with special occasions — so many that I no longer connect roses to a particular event but to celebrations in general. Merely seeing a bouquet of them lifts my spirits. For some reason that probably goes back to my childhood, the combination of cobalt blue and yellow appeals to me very strongly. I love the textures here as well: the velvety petals, the glints on the vase. Looking at the technique of this drawing also gives me the psychological boost I get from seeing someone perform a job well: having tried to draw with pastels many years ago, I can appreciate the skill that went into producing Glass Cat.

Alfredo Gomez

Cezanne’s still lifes make me want to hurl away the fruit and visit the nearest grocery store for fresh supplies. (See his Still Life with Apples, ca. 1890, in The Hermitage.) Gomez’s Red Apple appeals to me for its color and its perfect shape — it’s like an illustration of Ayn Rand’s comment about a painter showing a visual abstraction of an apple.

It is a common experience to observe that a particular painting - for example, a still life of apples — makes its subject ‘more real than it is in reality.’ The apples seem brighter and firmer, they seem to possess an almost self-assertive character, a kind of heightened reality which neither their real-life models nor any color photograph can match. Yet if one examines them closely, one sees that no real-life apple ever looked like that. What is it, then, that the artist has done? He has created a visual abstraction. He has performed the process of concept-formation — of isolating and integrating - but in exclusively visual terms. He has isolated the essential, distinguishing characteristics of apples, and integrated them into a single visual unit. He has brought the conceptual method of functioning to the operations of a single sense organ, the organ of sight. (”Art and Cognition,” The Romantic Manifesto, pp. 47-48)

On the other hand, as soon as I saw Red Apple next to Crazy Pears on the Cordair site, my subconscious dredged up memories of sore feet, damp wool and kerosene. As a teenager I spent decades every winter (time crawls when you’re not having fun) in a barely heated concrete shed on the family farm, searching out the one bad apple or pear that might spoil the whole barrel. Seeing apples or pears in bunches still tends to make me recall that, and for that reason I don’t enjoy contemplating those Gomez paintings side by side. Obviously that’s an extremely idiosyncratic reaction. You might well associate them with your mother’s apple pies or an autumn weekend in New England.

Jerald Rough

Rough often paints arrangements of objects that are either man-made or significantly man-altered: a pineapple converted into an exotic drink container (Aloha), candy in a wine glass (Kissable), or a delectable dessert (Forever on Sundae). I like his gleaming textures and vivid colors. Although Rough depicts very different objects, his paintings remind me of Dutch artists such as Kalf who chose to show luxury items rather than mundane ones. As an unrepentant lover of puns, I also enjoy Rough’s choice of titles.

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These are my personal reactions, not to be confused with an esthetic or philosophical evaluation of the paintings. Your reaction to a particular work ought to be as distinctive to you as my reaction is to me, because it’s based on your life and your values.
A still life with the right style, subject and associations can offer as much pleasure and inspiration as a painting filled with human figures. Given that, why would you settle for a picture whose colors nicely match your living-room sofa or bathroom décor, when you could have a picture that speaks to you on a very personal level?

On the Academy Awards for Best Picture

Before I discuss standards for judging films esthetically, as promised in last month’s column (“Best Picture—Says Who?”), one reminder. Esthetic standards aren’t the only ones by which a film can or should be judged. Quite a lot of viewers look at the moral and political implications of the Best Picture nominees rather than at artistic quality, or begin by eliminating films based on gut reactions. To me, however, a Best Picture nomination implies a certain level of esthetic quality. Only after you eliminate artistically inept efforts do other considerations come into play.

The purpose of a film

To evaluate a film as art requires knowing the purpose of a film, and then judging how well the basic elements of the film work together to achieve that end.
What does a film do? It tells the viewer that a certain issue, event, emotion or principle is worth thinking about and perhaps fighting for or against: love, hate, courage, the Civil War, the individual vs. the state, and so on. Director Sidney Lumet says the theme is the first thing he identifies when he starts to work on a film: “The theme (the what of the movie) is going to determine the style (the how of the movie).” (Making Movies, p. 10).
Evaluating a film esthetically means looking at the “how” of the movie. Do all its elements work together to convey the theme? There may be subplots, plot twists, flashbacks and dream sequences, but once you’ve watched the end of the film, you should be able to analyze how every gesture, every line of dialogue, every costume and every camera angle contributed to the theme. To put it negatively, nothing should be inexplicable or pointless, and nothing should be confusing unless (as in many mysteries or thrillers) confusion is necessary at a certain point in the plot development.

Analyzing vs. reviewing

Analyzing a film is much more time-consuming than writing a review. A reviewer aims to tell potential viewers whether a film’s worth seeing. At minimum, he should give the plot-theme or premise of the story—a brief statement of the main characters and conflict. (See my Chronicles of Narnia review). If the film has noteworthy acting, special effects, music, and so on, the reviewer should mention them. His one inviolable rule must be never to ruin a potential movie-goer’s enjoyment by revealing the ending. Most reviewers see a movie only once, and that’s usually adequate.
Analysis, on the other hand, is the study of how all the elements in a film combine to reveal the theme. You can’t analyze a film without discussing the ending, because the ending is a crucial part of the plot, and the plot is what reveals the theme. Analysis requires that you watch a film several times: once for first impressions of the plot, mood and theme, and at least once more to study the means by which the theme was conveyed. First content, then style; first the what, then the how.

Analysis: structure

Without a system for analysis, you risk ignoring subtle but important elements. On the other hand, if the system is too complicated you won’t be able to remember and apply it. The method outlined in this column is based on the stages of making a film:

• Pre-production, including script and production design
• Production, including acting and camera work
• Post-production, including editing and audio

As in all analysis (be it of sculptures, stocks or computer failures), the most difficult task is not finding the answers but finding the right questions. I hope to delve into this more deeply in a future essay. For this column I’ve chosen instead to compare a short exchange from two film versions of the same story, in order to show how minor details can change a viewer’s interpretation. (By my count, I’ve looked at each of these scenes nine times over the past two weeks. For most of us non-professionals, only crucial scenes in our most beloved films merit this kind of attention.)

Pre-production: before the camera rolls

1. The scriptThe script is the most fundamental element of a film. By rights it should have the longest discussion in this column. However, a script is a subcategory of literature, and can be analyzed according to the same principles: theme, plot, characterization, style. (See Ayn Rand, “Basic Principles of Literature,” The Romantic Manifesto.) The bottom line is that in a film, as in a well-constructed novel, every scene and every line of dialogue must advance the plot (hence show the theme) either by action or by revealing motivation.
   Let’s see how that’s accomplished in two versions of one brief exchange in Cyrano de Bergerac, in the films starring Jose Ferrer (1950) and Gerard Depardieu (1990). The 1990 version is in French (http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/1256) with subtitles. The 1950 version uses Brian Hooker’s accurate and evocative translation. (the paperback version)
   In Rostand’s 1897 play, this 36-line exchange in Act V, scene 4 is a turning point. Cyrano reads aloud a farewell letter he wrote to his beloved Roxane fourteen years ago, on behalf of handsome but empty-headed Christian, whom Roxane believed she loved. Roxane found the letter in the pocket of the dying Christian and treasures it as Christian’s final words. When Cyrano reads the letter, Roxane finally realizes that it was Cyrano’s words and soul she fell in love with years ago. Cyrano attempts to deny that he loves Roxane and that he once spoke and wrote for Christian. When he finally admits it, he justifies his silence after Christian’s death on the grounds that although the tears on the letter were his own, the blood was Christian’s. At this point Cyrano’s friend LeBret rushes in to tell Roxane that Cyrano is mortally wounded.
   In the 1950 and 1990 film versions, this exchange takes about 2.5 minutes. What did the screenwriters do to Rostand’s original?

   Script of the 1950 version

   The 1950 script includes all but one of Rostand’s lines, as translated by Hooker. Missing is Roxane’s “How many things have died… and are newborn!” Elsewhere only half a dozen minor alterations are made—so slight that they might merely be chance variations by the actors.

   Script of the 1990 version

   The 1990 script cuts two lines in which Roxane expresses amazement that Cyrano has pretended to be merely a friend for fourteen years. It adds a poignant three words just after Roxane asks Cyrano how he can be reading the letter, since “Il fait nuit” (”Night is falling”). Cyrano repeats, “Il fait nuit,” which has a much deeper significance for us than for Roxane, since we know Cyrano is dying.
   The use of Rostand’s original lines is a major asset in the 1990 version—like all great poetry, the original is infinitely better than any translation. Alas, most Americans don’t understand French, and the English subtitles are rather clunky. They’re not wrong, but they lack the beauty and nuances of Rostand’s original or even Hooker’s translation. Rostand’s Cyrano says, “Roxane, adieu, je vais mourir!” (”Roxane, adieu, I’m going to die”—i.e., “I’m in the process of dying”). Hooker’s translation is “Farewell, Roxane, because today I die,” which makes the time more specific than Rostand did. The subtitle on the 1990 version says flatly, “Roxane, farewell, for I must die”—which almost implies that Cyrano intends his death, rather than that it will just happen today. Another nuance vanishes when Roxane, enlightened, says “Les lettres, c’était vous,” translated by Hooker as “The letters—That was you.” The 1990 subtitles say, “The letters were yours”—much less personal and immediate.

2. Production design (Art design)Production design sets the visual style of the movie. (See Lumet, Making Movies, chapter 6.) It can include:
   • A color palette, which may shift over the course of the film. In Chronicles of Narnia, for example, the colors in Narnia change from icy white and blue at the opening to rich greens and browns as the White Witch’s power weakens and winter turns to spring. Even when you don’t consciously notice the colors, they affect your mood throughout the film.
   • Costumes. Their colors should work with the palette of the film, and their style should add to your knowledge of the character who wears them. Imagine The Matrix heroes in tweed jackets, and the Pevensie children wandering through Narnia in black leather trench coats.
   • Scenery, whether on location, in a studio or computer-generated. The colors should coordinate with the overall palette of the film. The scenery should not only create a place where the characters can act as the plot requires, but should add to the mood.
   • Special effects. Although these are created by a completely separate team of professionals, their colors and style ought to work with the film’s palette, costumes and scenery.

   Production design in the 1950 Cyrano

   Since the 1950 version is in black and white, there’s no color palette. In our exchange, Roxane’s high-necked gray dress has a white collar that recalls a type of clergyman’s collar—very severe, suitable for convent wear and mourning. Her hair, elaborately curled, is half-covered by a lace scarf. Cyrano is in black, relieved only by a white collar and the white plume on his hat.
   Significantly, the Hooker translation ends with Cyrano claiming that he dies with one thing untouched: his “white plume.” In the translation this harks back to Act IV, scene 4, when Cyrano reminds De Guiche (who, to avoid capture, tossed away the scarf indicating his rank) that Henri of Navarre, even when outnumbered, never flung away his “white plume.” Until he falls dead to the ground, Ferrer’s Cyrano resolutely keeps his grip on his plumed hat.
   The background to this exchange is very low-key. Cyrano and Roxane act against man-made tree trunks with a faint, unobtrusive texture.

   Production design in the 1990 Cyrano

   Roxane wears head-to-toe black, but her dress is rather low-cut and her veil is lace. Not a curl escapes from beneath her veil. Even dressed so severely, Roxane remains strikingly attractive. Seeing her, we are reminded that black is the color of deepest mourning. In contrast, the 1950 Roxane, gray-garbed and elaborately coiffed, seems less grief-stricken.
   Cyrano’s hair is heavily streaked with gray; he looks much older and more fatigued than when we first saw him. He, too, wears black, right down to the feather in his hat. Only a white neck scarf relieves the somber outfit. I thought this might be meant to recall the scarf De Guiche lost at Arras in Act IV, scene 4, but Le Bret and Ragueneau soon enter wearing precisely the same sort of neck-scarf. Why doesn’t the 1990 Cyrano have a white plume? In Rostand’s original and in the dialogue of the 1990 film, De Guiche threw away “une echarpe blanche” (”a white scarf,” worn as a sash or belt across the chest, signifying rank). Cyrano reminds De Guiche that Henri of Navarre never let fall his “panache blanc.” A “panache” was originally a very noticeable group of feathers on a headdress or helmet; by extension, it came to mean flamboyant confidence. At the end of Rostand’s play and the 1990 film, Cyrano says he is dying with his “panache” untouched. There’s no plume on Depardieu’s costume, then, because his Cyrano is not talking about a plume.
   In the 1990 version, the exchange is set in a sunny garden full of bright greens. After Roxane approaches Cyrano to tell him it’s too dark to read, the background colors fade from vivid green to greenish-gray and gray (see Camera work below), and the mood becomes somber.

   Production: capturing it on camera

3. ActingThe goal of the actors should be to portray characters who are consistent and well motivated, via their dialogue, gestures and actions.

   Acting in the 1950 Cyrano

   Ferrer’s interpretation of Cyrano in this exchange is very restrained. As he reads the letter, he gazes into the distance rather than at Roxane. We watch him struggle for control, and sense that only by not meeting her eyes can he continue to deny his feelings—especially when he exclaims, “No, no, my own dear love, I love you not!” In fact, once he has taken the letter from her, he doesn’t meet her eyes again until 70 lines later, when Le Bret and Ragueneau are present to provide an emotional buffer.
   Roxane, meanwhile, progresses from startled (as Cyrano begins to read), to agitated, to almost happy as she realizes her beloved is still alive.

   Acting in the 1990 Cyrano

   Roxane in this version stands motionless, thinking intently, during the first part of the scene. Then she starts to smile, and ends up kneeling by Cyrano, pulling his arm insistently as she tries to make him admit he loves her.
   Depardieu’s Cyrano (like Ferrer’s) is very restrained, keeping his face down, avoiding eye contact, struggling for control. I love what he does with the added line (see Script, above): “Il fait nuit” (”Night is falling”), which has a double meaning for those who know he’s mortally wounded. Depardieu delivers the line while looking up slowly, sadly, away from Roxane. Then he returns to the conversation, continuing the pretense that nothing’s wrong.
   He does look at Roxane, kneeling beside him, when he delivers the line, “Non, non, non, mon cher amour, je ne vous aimais pas!” (Hooker’s “No, no, my own dear love, I love you not!”). The only quibble I have with Depardieu’s Cyrano in this exchange is that I find it difficult to believe he could look into Roxane’s eyes and deliver that lie. Ferrer’s refusal to look at Roxane seems more believable.

4. Camera workLike good production design, good camera work makes its point without drawing attention to itself. Consider:
   • Framing. Who’s in the shot, how are they positioned, and what does that imply about their relationship?
   • Camera movement. Does it hold still or move? If it moves, does it do so in long slow motions, short jerky ones, or something in between? Is the camera above or below the actors, or at their eye level? What mood or point of view does the camera’s movement create or emphasize?
   • Lighting. What do the light and shadow emphasize, and what mood do they set? Are parts of the film lit differently: flashbacks, dream sequences, different locations? What does their lighting suggest?
   • Focus. Which parts of the shot are in focus, which are blurred? What’s the effect? Does the scene look “normal” or is it distorted, as, for example, in an extreme close-up or a wide-angle lens that makes objects at the sides of the frame change shape? What’s the effect?

   Camera work in the 1950 Cyrano

   At the beginning we see Cyrano and Roxane in alternating shots, close-up or at medium range. The lighting is particularly strong on Roxane’s face as she realizes that Cyrano wrote the letter—the light is dawning, literally as well as figuratively. Her face is still strongly lit even when she tells him it has become too dark to read.
   After Roxane approaches Cyrano to ask, “How can you read now?,” the two of them remain in the frame together. Cyrano, however, is closer to us, so we tend to focus on him although we can also watch Roxane’s reactions to his words, and observe her face when she speaks. The camera stays still from then until Le Bret enters, not zooming in or out, focusing our attention on the characters’ faces.

   Camera work in the 1990 Cyrano

   In this version the camera shifts much more frequently, zooming in for close-ups and tracking Roxane’s agitated movements. When Cyrano begins to read, the camera shows only Roxane, as she listens to his voice and speaks to herself. Since it was his voice rather than his face that gave Cyrano away, showing only Roxane works very well. After she turns to speak to Cyrano, the camera alternates between the two, until they both appear in the frame as she kneels beside him to pull at his arm.
   At the beginning of the exchange, sunlight pours down on trees and grass behind Roxane. When she turns to Cyrano, the lighting changes. The camera zooms in and turns away from the sun, so that only dappled semi-darkness appears behind the two, and the mood turns somber.

   Post-production: after the shooting’s over

5. Editing”Only three people know how good or bad the editing was,” writes Lumet; “the editor, the director, and the cameraman. They’re the only ones who know everything that was shot in the first place.” (Making Movies, p. 155) As a non-professional, I focus on what’s visible in the completed film: the rhythm of the cuts (when one camera angle shifts to another) and the images that are juxtaposed before and after the cuts.

   Editing in the 1950 Cyrano

   In the 2.5-minute exchange, this version has six cuts. All occur in the first half, and involve switching from Cyrano to Roxane and back. After that Cyrano and Roxane are in the frame together.

   Editing in the 1990 Cyrano

   In 2.5 minutes, this version has no less than thirteen cuts. For the first third, the camera is on Roxane as she listens to Cyrano. In the second third the shots alternate between Cyrano and Roxane, roughly as each speaks. In the final third the two are together in one shot until the camera follows Roxane as she rises abruptly and moves away, while asking Cyrano why he has been silent for fourteen years. The abrupt movement of the camera echoes Roxane’s sudden shift of mood.

6. AudioLike every other aspect of a film, if the audio is done well you’ll barely notice it. Audio falls into several categories:
   • Sound effects. Sounds are added that were not picked up in the original shooting, but help convey action or set a mood: footsteps, heavy breathing, the scrape of a chair.
   • Musical score. Music may be continuous or used for a few minutes here and there to set a mood or identify a character. The music may follow the rhythm of the editing, or may change before or after a cut to help the transition from one scene to another.
   • Mixing. The dialogue and other sounds recorded with the filming, the sound effects, and the musical score must be combined with exquisite balance. One of the blackest sins in a film with a decent plot is to mix the audio so the sound effects and music overpower the dialogue.

   Audio in the 1950 Cyrano

   Cyrano’s letter-reading is backed by violins overlaid with faint chanting—melancholy music suited to Cyrano’s statement that today he’ll die. When Roxane approaches Cyrano to tell him it’s too dark to read, the music livens and a flute creeps in: Roxane is hopeful. At the point where she insists that he must be in love with her, the violins come back and the tempo slows, preparing us for Cyrano’s explanation of why he didn’t proclaim his love, and for Le Bret’s arrival with the news that Cyrano is mortally wounded. The music stops dead when Le Bret arrives.
   I have little tolerance for “music” without melody, so it was instructive for me to note that the film score in this exchange has no melody. It’s there to set a mood, not to carry on by itself, although it’s so loud I find it impossible to ignore it.

   Audio in the 1990 Cyrano

   When Cyrano begins reading the letter there’s a melancholy thread of music, so faint I had to strain to hear it. It fades away by the time Roxane realizes she’s heard Cyrano’s voice before, and the rest of the scene runs without musical accompaniment. The dialogue is so moving that I didn’t even notice the lack of music.

Evaluating a film esthetically

Now, finally, we return to the question of how to evaluate a film. The minimum requirement for a film that’s good esthetically is that it have a theme which is presented clearly via every cinematic means available: script, production design, acting, camera work, editing, audio. A viewer should be able to look at the film scene by scene, even frame by frame, and know exactly what purpose any element serves, and how it contributes to the film’s theme.
Is the 1950 Cyrano esthetically better than the 1990 version? Since I haven’t analyzed the two films in detail (except for the one exchange discussed above), I won’t venture to say. For my own edification, I looked at the 1950 and 1990 films act by act, and saw many excellent aspects of both, and many instances where one or the other was definitely superior.
Suppose we narrow our focus from the entire 1950 and 1990 Cyrano productions to the two scenes I looked at in detail. Is one of them notably better, in esthetic terms? The way the exchange is framed in the 1950 version, with Roxane and Cyrano together in the second half, is very effective. On the other hand, the use of Rostand’s original lines in the 1990 version is a definite plus—assuming you can understand spoken French. So is the lack of music—by contrast, the music in the 1950 version seemed loud and cloying. Yet the fact that Depardieu’s Cyrano looks into Roxane’s eyes while he vehemently denies that he loves her strikes a very false chord.
The ultimate test of each exchange is how it fits into the context of the whole film. Is the characterization consistent? Is the rest of the film structured so that this scene and its every detail seem inevitable—but only after you’ve seen them?

Other types of evaluation

As I said at the end of my column on the Academy Award for Best Picture, the fact that we can’t numerically quantify the various aspects of a film doesn’t mean we can’t objectively evaluate them. It’s not a quick or easy process, but we can sort out which aspects do their job superlatively well, and which might have been improved.
Studying the details of a film systematically also makes it easier to discuss other types of evaluation. If you yearn to discuss the political or moral content, you’ll be more adept at identifying the scenes where it’s expounded or implied. If you want to discuss your emotional reaction, you’ll be able to state precisely what you’re reacting to, rather than just stating what you kind of think you feel. In other words: analysis is a starting point, not an end.

Millions of people — not all of them film buffs — will tune in on March 5, 2006, to learn what movie has been voted the Academy Award (Oscar) for Best Picture. But just who are the people who vote that a movie is “Best Picture”? What are their qualifications, and what are their standards?

Who’s in the Academy

On the model of the academies established during the Enlightenment to promote research and the dissemination of knowledge, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences was established in 1927 to preserve and promote the fledgling film industry. Today the Academy comprises fourteen branches, among them writers, producers, directors and cinematographers. Each branch’s membership committee examines the credentials of top professionals in its field and makes membership recommendations to the Academy; the Academy then issues official invitations to membership. A non-Academy member nominated for an Oscar is automatically considered for membership, although he or she may be rejected during the review process. The Academy has just short of six thousand voting members.

The nomination process

Three hundred eleven American films met the Academy’s basic requirement of having played in Los Angeles County for at least seven days in 2005. By January 21, 2006, Academy members submitted ballots for Oscar nominees within their respective fields of expertise (for example, writers voted on Best Screenplay) as well as for Best Picture. The top five vote-getters in each category became the official nominees, to be announced January 31.
In the next round of voting, whose ballots are due in late February, members can vote in all categories. The votes will be tallied by PricewaterhouseCoopers (an independent accounting firm) and the results announced at the gala Academy Award ceremony on March 5.

Academy standards and predispositions

But on what grounds do Academy members vote? Do they consider content, artistry, financial success, or a combination of these? The short and surprising answer is: we don’t know. There is not and never has been an official set of standards or guidelines for choosing Best Picture. Few Academy members publicly discuss even their own standards.
Well, then: does the Academy count on sheer numbers to neutralize factors such as personal prejudice, political bias and massive ad campaigns by Hollywood studios? Contacts in the film industry tell me that a typical Hollywood filmmaker would be shocked at the very idea that standards could be established. In the view of the Academy’s leaders, said screenwriter/director Greg Bowyer, “whatever gets the most votes, that’s the best! There is no further thought or analysis or judgment required… Not only do they evade analysis, but they are outright hostile to it.”
Despite the fact that no standards have been established, past choices for Best Picture show recognizable trends in content and outlook. According to www.Filmsite.org, since 1927 most Best Picture Oscars have gone to dramas (39%), trailed distantly by historical epics (16%), comedies (14%), musicals (11%), war movies (8%), and (at 5% or less each) action-adventure, western and suspense movies.
Not surprisingly, given the liberal political bias of Hollywood, award-winners tend to portray the Left as good and the Right as evil and reactionary. There’s also a recognizable trend in the protagonists and plots of the Best Picture winners. For the past decade, admirable characters who struggle to overcome formidable obstacles and finally achieve their goals have been rare in Best Picture winners. More often the protagonists have a few appealing characteristics but end up defeated, deprived of their values, or deceased. Think of Braveheart, The English Patient, Titanic, Shakespeare in Love, American Beauty, Gladiator, A Beautiful Mind, Chicago and Million Dollar Baby. Only Lord of the Rings 3 (Best Picture 2003) has protagonists who fight for the good and win through at the end. In most of the years from 1995 to 2004, upbeat films competed for Best Picture and lost: Apollo 13, Babe, Sense and Sensibility, The Full Monty, Chocolat, Seabiscuit, Ray … The list goes on. Upbeat films are being made, but Academy Awards for Best Picture don’t go to them.

Other critics, other standards

The Best-Picture trends in genre, political bent and type of characters are easy to see statistically, after the awards are announced, but they don’t help a typical viewer judge for himself which films of a given year were particularly good. Nor will listening to other film critics help: critics often disagree on the best picture in a given year.
For example, the Golden Globe Awards are announced in mid-January by the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, a group of about 85 professional journalists who cover Hollywood for international publications. Each year HFPA awards Best Picture (Drama) and Best Picture (Comedy or Musical). In six of the past ten years HFPA has awarded Best Picture (Drama) to the film that received the Oscar for Best Picture. In two other years, HFPA gave the Best Picture (Comedy or Musical) to the same film that the Academy later named Best Picture. (See chart.) That’s a substantial overlap, but far from complete agreement.
Roger Ebert, who has been writing and speaking on film for almost forty years, is one of America’s most influential critics and the first to win a Pulitzer Prize. Over the past decade Ebert’s top-rated film for the year, announced in December (http://tinyurl.com/dhff8) has agreed only once with the Academy’s choice for Best Picture—in 2004, with Million Dollar Baby. In five of the past ten years, the Best Picture winner didn’t even make it to Ebert’s list of the year’s ten best films.

Let’s descend from the rarefied world of professional critics to the American public. Using box-office receipts as the public’s vote for best picture, there’s a glaring disparity between popularity and the Academy’s Best Picture winners. Of the films produced from 1995 to 2004 that rank among the top fifty grossing movies of all time (in adjusted dollars; see http://www.filmsite.org/boxoffice.html), only Titanic and Lord of the Rings 3 have won Best Picture awards. Half a dozen other blockbusters were not even nominated for Best Picture: Star Wars Episodes 1 and 3, Shrek 2, Spider-Man 1 and 2, and Passion of the Christ. At most, such films receive nominations in technical fields such as special effects, editing or sound.

Are objective standards possible?

Few would argue that Star Wars Episode 1 deserved a Best Picture nod simply because the public thronged to see it. In many cases, factors that don’t appear on screen make a film popular, such as its place in a series (Star Wars) or the familiarity of the story or character (Spiderman). But if we ignore financial success as well as critical acclaim, what means are left to judge a film? Can we name a best picture based on anything except whim?
Perhaps we can approach this question from a different angle. Is it possible to choose the best New England clam chowder among twenty entries? After all, no one has decreed the size of the potato cubes, or how many pieces of clam or celery should be in a serving.
First: we may argue about the details, but certain ingredients and proportions are required if a concoction is to qualify as New England clam chowder. No clams, no clam chowder: clams are essential. Clear chicken broth instead of a cream base: clam soup, not clam chowder. Too many potatoes: clammy potatoes rather than clam chowder.
Second: we are not seeking the platonic ideal of New England clam chowder, the one recipe that now and forever will trump any other clam chowder in every respect. The question we’re considering is which of twenty bowls of clam chowder is the best.
A few of our twenty clam-chowder entries might be eliminated because a chef, in a burst of creativity, produced a delicious soup that failed to meet the basic requirements for clam chowder. To the bowls that remain, we can apply objective criteria such as the quality of the ingredients, the proportions at which they’re combined, and the skill of the preparation. An element of personal taste will still be involved in judging — you may love celery while I detest it. However, if we agree on the basics, we can at least discuss which of the competing clam chowders is best, rather than merely shouting our opinions at each other.
Returning to films: yes, there are many facets to a film. No, we can’t grade each one to the tenth of a percentage point and average them out to determine the Best Picture of the Year. Yet standards are possible, if we identify the basic elements of films and study their realization and integration in a specific film. Based on that, we can judge whether a particular film surpasses other films created that year.
More on the basic elements, their integration, and evaluation of films in next month’s column on this site.

*Thanks to Patrick Tyson for corrections to the 1999 films listed.

Movie Reviews and How to Write Them

In a magical world that they’ve stumbled into by accident, a group of ordinary siblings (sensible and brave Peter, smart but cautious Susan, sweet and optimistic Lucy) must first save their angry, rebellious younger brother Edmund — and then themselves — from the wrath of the power-hungry, sadistic, murderous White Witch. Those who love The Lord of the Rings series often love The Narnia Chronicles, too: same type of magical setting, same innocent heroes who don’t intend to save the world but find that they must, same implacably evil and utterly ruthless foes. Even for those thoroughly familiar with the Narnia series, the movie offers some surprises, since the screenwriters considerably livened up the action, although they managed to do it without distorting the spirit of the book.

As anyone knows who’s seen the trailer for this movie, the special effects are remarkably sophisticated — the multitude of computer-generated characters interact seamlessly with the actors. It’s a credit to their creators and the skills of the human actors that the movie doesn’t become just another CGI extravaganza. The youngsters who portray guileless Lucy and rebellious Edmund are particularly convincing, but the White Witch is in a category by herself. It’s startling to watch her toggling the charm on and off. Later, when she’s taunting an enemy before killing him, she lets her emotions erupt with chilling effect. Although we see little blood shed, the White Witch and her minions would probably terrify small children.

For some who read the story as children, the Christian symbolism may now be so startlingly obvious that it’s distracting. I’d recommend the movie for children who like action-adventure movies; they would probably not agree with me that a few chase and battle scenes should have been shortened. I’d also recommend Narnia for parents who want to see a film with their children that isn’t explosions interspersed with expletives — a movie that’s entertaining, and whose plot and characters they’ll be able to discuss later.

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All too often I read movie reviews that give away the plot, or focus on one obscure point that doesn’t help me decide whether I want to spend my time and money seeing a film. Below I’ve tried to capture the process that I went through to write the review above.

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Today I will write a review of Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. OK, fingers, start typing.

Can’t. Don’t know where to start. The movie was over two hours long, full of images and dialogue and pretty scenery and fantastic computer graphics, and then there’s the Christian symbolism and that annoying plot twist (almost literally a deus ex machina) near the end… J.K. Rowling wouldn’t have introduced “new” magic at a pivotal point in the plot. Hrumph. My daughter, a big fan of fantasy books and movies, thought Narnia “rocked out loud,” and my husband, a fan of murder mysteries and political discourse, thought it was entertaining but not gripping. Does any or all of that information belong in my review?

That depends on who my audience is: family, friends, the general public or a very specific audience such as Objectivists. This review will be for a general public who wants enough information within five minutes or so to decide whether to see Narnia. Flat-out statements of my likes and dislikes won’t help them. Discourses on Christian symbolism or on the use of the deus ex machina from Ancient Greek drama to the present won’t interest most of the general public, either.

What then, should I include in a review that aims to help strangers decide whether to see Narnia? Don’t know. Fingers, take a rest while the brain works this through.

All right, we’ll try something simple. Review this coffee mug for potential buyers. What’s the first question? How well it fulfills its purpose. Its purpose is holding hot liquid for me to drink. That means the mug has to be strong enough to hold nearly boiling liquid, and of some shape that I can pick up to sip from. It has to be some color, but the color’s not important. It has to be some shape, but it can be many different shapes, as long as it serves the purpose.

What’s the purpose of a movie? Art, according to Ayn Rand, is “a selective re-creation of reality according to an artist’s metaphysical value-judgments,” and its purpose is to give man “a concretized projection of [his] values, an image in whose likeness he will re-shape the world and himself.”

Stop!

This is a movie review, not the Third Discourse on Esthetic Theory. Anyone who’s interested in the theory of art will have to read Rand’s Romantic Manifesto and Leonard Peikoff’s comments in Objectivism: The Philosophy of Ayn Rand. In a movie review aimed at a general audience, there isn’t room for this sort of discussion.

Is there some common-sense ground on which I can assume I and potential viewers of Narnia can meet? I’ll assume that like me, they’re interested in movies as entertainment. Random sequences of images and sounds aren’t riveting entertainment. To hold my attention for a couple hours, I need a plot. The movie has to tell a story in dialogue and images. The story has to be a progression of events that logically follow one after another and build to a climax, or else it’s just like a home movie — it may have significance for a few people, but for most viewers it’ll be meaningless, hence boring. Other elements in the movie, such as camera work, costume design and even acting are essential to the movie, but they must all work to convey the “bones” of the movie, the story.

How can I tell potential viewers about the story without giving away the ending? A plot synopsis would ruin the suspense the film-makers strove to create. What I need to do is give the “plot-theme,” the situation that drives the action. I’ll briefly describe the main characters and the conflict they face, without giving even a hint of the outcome. That way viewers can decide 1) if they’re likely to care what happens to the characters, and 2) whether the story line intrigues them enough to spend a couple hours of their life watching it unfold. If they’re intrigued by the situation and the characters, they’ll probably be glad to have seen the film even if the ending isn’t exactly as they would have wanted it.

OK, I need to work out the plot-theme for Narnia. I’ve done this before, and it’s almost always much harder than I expect.

So who says writing is easy? Get going.

First, who are the viewers supposed to be rooting for — whose actions drive the story? That’s easy: the four Pevensie children. They’re given distinct characters from the very beginning of the movie, where Edmund rushes out in the midst of an air raid to rescue a photo of his father, and scowls rebelliously when his sensible older brother, who unhesitatingly rushed out to save him, berates him for his thoughtlessness. Susan is the smart one, but it tends to make her reluctant to try new things — occasionally even pessimistic. Lucy, the youngest, is sweet, charming, optimistic; she never stays angry with anyone for very long.

I can see right away that this is going to be a difficult plot-theme, because I need to incorporate these four very different children, with a few adjectives that will help explain their motivation. So: Peter is sensible but brave, Susan is smart and cautious, Lucy is sweet and optimistic, Edmund is angry and rebellious. Oh, and I should replace “children” with “siblings.” If these kids were strangers their determination to rescue Edmund wouldn’t be at all credible, given that they seldom show much affection to each other. With siblings, though, explicit displays of affection tend to be scarce.

It’s tempting to add Aslan to the list of protagonists in the plot-theme. However, he doesn’t actually appear in the movie until halfway through. While he’s vital to the story, it’s the children’s actions that move the story, in the sense that until they appear in Narnia (quite by accident), everybody including Aslan is just waiting for them.

All right, what do the children want, and who’s stopping them from getting it? Who (the antagonist) is easy: the White Witch, who has ruled Narnia for the past century, condemning it to be “always winter, never Christmas.” She’s determined to stay in power and is ruthless about torturing or destroying her enemies. She takes ferocious pleasure in their pain. The White Witch is murderous, power-hungry and sadistic.

Is the siblings’ goal to save Narnia? They fit the prophecy for the humans who will do so, but that’s not what they yearn to do. At first they’re simply curious. Then they want to save Lucy’s friend Mr. Tumnus. Then they have to rescue Edmund, who was beguiled by the White Witch on his first visit and has gone off to join her. In time, they discover that they have to help the Narnians fight the Witch or lose their own lives.

One more element that’s necessary in this particular plot-theme is a mention of the setting. Potential viewers don’t need to know that Narnia is reached through the back of a wardrobe in the country home of an English professor, but they do need to know that magical beings dwell in Narnia, and that the siblings stumble into that world purely by accident.

Now I have the elements of the plot-theme. Let me give it a shot. “In a magical world that they’ve stumbled into by accident, a group of siblings (sensible and brave Peter, smart and cautious Susan, sweet and optimistic Lucy) must save their angry, rebellious younger brother Edmund — and then themselves — from the wrath of a power-hungry, sadistic, murderous queen.”

Well, that’s wordy but enticing. It captures the fantasy elements and the battle to the death between the siblings who are trying to save lives, and the powerful enemy who’s willing to kill as often as necessary to keep control of her kingdom.

If I were posting a Yahoo! review, I might confine myself to stating the plot-theme. But suppose I want to go a bit further. I could say whether I’ve seen similar situations in other movies, and whether the plot as unfolds here is predictable or has unexpected twists and turns. C.S. Lewis’s Narnia series is often compared to Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings: same magical setting, same innocent heroes who don’t intend to save the world but find that they must, same utterly evil foes. For those who love LOTR, chances are Narnia will be very appealing. For those who haven’t read the Narnia series, many of the events of the plot will indeed be unexpected. Even for those who have read the book, the movie offers some unexpected twists, since the screenwriters livened up the middle and end of the book considerably.

Beyond the plot-theme, there are all those subsidiary elements that help tell the story and make it believable. Foremost among them I’d place characterization. Are the characters well-motivated, so that I understand why they behave as they do, or do they act unpredictably, leaving me wondering what got into them? In Narnia, the plot hinges on Edmund’s reckless behavior and Peter’s apparently habitual response (brave but exasperated elder brother to the rescue), both of which are set up in the opening scene of the film. The characters aren’t deep, with hidden layers of thoughts or internal conflicts, but they act consistently unless (as in Edmund’s case) something drastic happens to change their beliefs.

Characterization emerges via both action and by dialogue. Is the dialogue in this movie exceptionally revealing, witty, or distinctive? Does it sound like that guy talking to his friend at the next table, or like a fascinating stranger I’d love to chat with? In Narnia the main characters are polite and clear-spoken, but there were no particularly memorable lines. This is not a movie I’d have enjoyed just for the dialogue. However, since the dialogue (like the background music) is not especially good or bad, I don’t think I’ll even mention it in my final review.

Then there’s acting — the delivery of the dialogue and the actions of the characters on screen. Are each actor’s speech and movements consistent with the character he plays? Do his gestures, movements, the tics in his face and the timbre of his voice, all contribute to showing the character he’s portraying? Occasionally a film has a character so stoic that the viewer isn’t meant to know his feelings — Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, for example. In most cases, though, the actor should be letting me see quite clearly, from what he says and does, what’s driving his character at any point in the story. In Narnia I found guileless Lucy and rebellious Edmund particularly well portrayed. The White Witch is in a category by herself: I could see her toggling the charm on and off with Edmund. In one of the later scenes, when she’s taunting an enemy before killing him, she lets her emotions burst out with chilling effect.

As a movie reviewer I can also consider the look of the film. This encompasses the way the movie was shot, from the framing of each scene to the camera angles, close-ups, use of sharp or soft focus, bright or dark lighting, or the use of jerky, hand-held cameras vs. smooth, long shots. (See the Lumet book in the Suggested Readings.) If a film is shot well, the camera-work tells the story and emphasizes all the right points so unobtrusively that I don’t even notice it. The camera-work in Narnia is integrated to the story, never distracting.

The pacing of a movie depends on whether only essential scenes are kept, and whether they’re edited together so that the narrative flows. Bad editing can make the most intriguing story seem to drag. Narnia had some slow bits (mostly chase scenes and battles that could have been shortened), but in general the narrative moved along at a brisk clip, as it should in an action-adventure movie.

Finally, there are costumes, scenery and special effects. In Narnia the special effects are astoundingly good. Many of the characters were entirely computer-generated, yet utterly believable. As for the scenery, I did not have a mental image of Narnia, but the landscape seems completely appropriate: dense forests, distant mountains, craggy hills. It looks like a kingdom of considerable size, providing a satisfying series of obstacles to the siblings as they travel through it. The queen’s ice castle was stunningly beautiful yet forbidding, perfectly suited to her character.

For viewers still undecided about seeing the movie, a few final comments to give an overview might be useful. Is the mood of the movie upbeat or depressing? Did I spend more time with the good guys or the bad? I wouldn’t want to stress this too much, lest I give away the ending, but particularly for parents considering taking small children it’s worth mentioning that Narnia is suspenseful with a few rather scary sequences. Not much blood is spilled, but the White Witch and her minions are frightening.

Every viewer’s time is limited, and as a final point, I should say whether I thought seeing this movie was worth over two hours of my life. Did I come out feeling relaxed, refreshed, exalted, happy? Did it provoke me to think about some aspect of my own life? Would I go see it again? Would I recommend it to anyone else, and if so, to whom and for what elements? I came out of the theater feeling relaxed (not exhausted, as I often do after boom-bang-splat action-adventure movies) and eager to discuss the plot and characters with my husband and teenage daughter. Although I don’t think I could get more out of it on a second viewing (unless I wanted to study a detail such as the CGI effects), I would recommend it for children who like action-adventure movies. I’d recommend it to parents who want to see a movie with their children that’s not explosions interspersed with expletives — a movie whose plot and characters they’ll be able to discuss later. I’d also recommend the movie to those who read the Narnia series as children and remember it fondly: it’s a fairly accurate rendition of the spirit of the printed books, including the Christian elements (which grown-ups may find are now so obvious that they’re distracting).

Now I collect the plot-theme and the subsidiary elements that seem worth mentioning — that are so good or so bad that they might influence whether a viewer decides to see the movie. And here’s my review of The Narnia Chronicles: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. [BACK TO TOP]

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In a sequel to this article (early 2006), just in time for the Academy Awards, I’ll discuss evaluating movies, especially what is and what should be involved in judging a film “Best Picture.”

In the meantime, some suggested readings:

Sidney Lumet, Making Movies. New York: Vintage Books / Random House, 1995. Lumet states that when he decides to do a movie he first works out the theme, then gears everything else toward conveying that theme. He writes about revising the script, setting up a scene for shooting, use of different camera angles and colored filters, art direction, costume, editing, music and more. The book is an easy read, and is illustrated with examples from Lumet’s own movies: Twelve Angry Men, Network, Murder on the Orient Express, and others. This is not a book that will give you all the answers about every film, but it indicates some very useful questions to ask. Seeing Twelve Angry Men after you read it will be a completely different and fascinating experience.

For highly intelligent comments on directing, camera angles, lighting, etc., try Joss Whedon’s commentaries on assorted episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Firefly. The man cannot only write zippy dialogue, he can talk intelligently off-the-cuff. You might also try DVDs of your favorite movies with directors’ commentary.

Ayn Rand, The Romantic Manifesto. New York: Signet / New American Library, 1971.

Leonard Peikoff, Objectivism: The Philosophy of Ayn Rand. New York: Meridian / Penguin Books, 1991. See especially Chapter 12, on art. Dr. Peikoff’s taped lecture course “Eight Great Dramas” (available through the Ayn Rand Bookstore) is particularly useful for learning about the structure of a story meant to be presented visually, rather than read.

McKee, Robert. Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting. New York: Regan / HarperCollins, 1997. The indispensable textbook for screenwriters, but also a fascinating read for movie fans, since it sets out basic rules for putting together a good story for a movie.

Dr. Durante is a freelance writer on art and current events, and the author of Forgotten Delights: The Producers, A Selection of Manhattan’s Outdoor Sculpture. A second book on New York sculpture will appear in 2006. She runs the website www.ForgottenDelights.com, and has lectured on painting and sculpture at Objectivist conferences.