Rationale:
Intellectual montage: the idea that the collision between two representational images can create, in the mind of the viewer, a third image or idea that is not visually representable. This concept was not properly recognized until Russian filmmakers, such as Sergei Eisenstein, began using it heavily in their films as well as writing about it. Very quickly, intellectual montage turned into somewhat of movement, with even music composers like Sergei Prokofiev starting to keep the effects of juxtapositiong in mind. Now, intellectual montage has become a subset of Soviet Film Theory and is now implemented throughout nearly all kinds of film.
I intend to look further into Soviet Film theory and how it has affected modern film, as well as illustrate the methods in which the artists, that were at the forefront of the movement, promoted Soviet Film culture. The main filmmakers I intend to look into include Seregei Eisenstein, Lev Kuleshov, and a more modern artist in Alfred Hitchcock.
Introduction:
Films and movies have become a great source of entertainment for people of all ages. Cinema was first demonstrated in France on 28 December 1895 in Paris’ Grand Café , and ever since then, it has become one of the world’s most popular past times. There was a point when moving images were deemed impossible to create; yet nowadays we can find such things wherever we look. Although the history of cinematography is still very young compared to other forms of art, it is important to study it, as its prevalence in society is so prominent.
Despite originating in France, this new medium took off wherever the Lumières took it, and when it reached Soviet Russia, a greater use for it was found. Not only did Soviet Russia produce some of the most pivotal artists for this young medium, but they also discovered its political uses. Discarding the old ways of posters and flyers, film became a powerhouse in terms of propaganda.
A key part of propaganda is the connotations and associations it instils in its viewers. It is made to encourage a way of thinking, and lead a society to a train of thought that will hopefully become widely accepted and implemented. This is where film came into play. Before this, all that could be produced were stagnant images with words on them. Film allowed for not only moving images, but also the ability to selectively pick and chose these different images, (both moving and not), and create a coherent sequence.
Having originated in psychological manipulation through propaganda, film proved to be a master of provocation. A main objective of the production of movies is to leave the audience thinking or feeling a certain way. As old film techniques were mostly based around “idea manipulation” for the benefit of political parties, there is no doubt that nowadays similar techniques are used to enhance an audience’s experience. I will analyze the techniques and rules used by past cinematographers and show how they have affected the way modern film is created.
Intellectual Montage & The Kuleshov Effect:
Intellectual montage is the “idea that the collision between two representational images can create, in the mind of the viewer, a third image or idea that is not visually representable.” A simple example of this can be found in the stills below: a shot of a mother and child, succeeded by a glimpse of the Communist flag.
(Fig. 2) Stills from Battleship Potemkin (1925) – Sergei Eisenstein
These separate images are connected by their place in the narrative – the mother points out the flag to her child. However, they carry a further significance by sharing a meaning/emotion created by their “juxtapositioning”. This meaning is something larger and more abstract than what can be derived from the individual shots. What is evoked is the idealism of communism. The mother is prideful of her country, and she attempts to share this patriotism with her child, who resembles a message of hope for the future of Russia. The flag that the she points to is not only for the sake of the narrative but also for this metaphorical purpose. She is asking
her child, (the future), to notice this flag and hold its values true. In a way, this sequence of scenes is enforcing the preservation of Communism, a message that was often included in Soviet films. These images and emotions that are suggested by the connecting of these two images is what Eisenstein meant by “intellectual montage”. If either frame were matched with a different image, their end meaning would be changed and so would their intellectual impact on the viewer.
(Fig. 3) Diagram of the Kuleshov Effect
When the same image is paired with different images, the emotion can be changed completely. From top to bottom, the pictures on the right column are a girl in a coffin, a bowl of soup and cup of water, and lastly, a woman lying on a couch. These are matched with a photograph of a man’s face holding a nearly expressionless gaze. The two images are supposed to instil in each other an entirely new atmosphere, which in these three cases is clear. Regardless of what the first image is paired with, a general environment of mourning would be evident. Any sort of deathly motif is commonly associated with sadness and grieving, although it can be used to create an eerie atmosphere, as illustrated in horror films. Images of untouched food would generally encourage an audience to think about eating, and thus feel some sense of hunger. A woman lying on a couch is also a clear indication of sexual desire or interest.
Having paired these “provocateurs” with such a simple image, (the man’s plain expression), this effect is easily implemented with a more malleable subject. This effect was investigated and demonstrated thoroughly by the Soviet filmmaker Lev Kuleshov in the 1910s and 1920s, and has been used by many filmmakers since.
A great example of this can be found in The Godfather (1972), in the final scenes of the film, which have come to be known as the “Baptism of Fire”. It is at this point in the film that Michael Corleone has taken it upon himself to avenge the death of his brother, taking the burden upon himself to eliminate the heads of the rival families and end the Five Families War.
(Fig. 4) Still from The Godfather (1972) – Francis Ford Coppola
The director Francis Ford Coppola quickly cuts between shots of Michael’s nephew’s baptism and the separate shootings. As Michael makes his vows and renounces the devil and “all his works”, the audience is exposed to rapid shots of his hired assassins killing the heads of the other families. Parallels and allusions are carefully instilled through sequencing; for example, the pastor dips his fingers in holy oil and forms a cross on the baby’s forehead and the scene immediately after shows Al Neri, one of Michael’s assassins, taking a revolver out of a brown paper bag, also letting a fabricated police badge fall out the bag as well.
Under most circumstances, these two scenes, part of a much bigger sequence, would be incoherent when put together. Despite this, an obvious allusion to beginnings and formal processes is expressed. The child is being removed of original sin and is given the opportunity to live a sinless life. On the other hand, Al Neri is at the start of his killing spree, preparing for his upcoming shootings by checking his inventory. What is being played with is the idea of innocence. The pastor delicately submerges his fingers in the oil, just as Al Neri methodically puts on his fake police uniform and takes out the gun. Both procedures, a baptism and a preparation for assassinations, are tasks to be taken care of systematically, though on the face of it, the two might not seem relatable at all.
Al Neri wipes down the sweat from his face with a rag in the midst of these shots, drawing similarities to how the child would have been dried after being baptised. One is the getting rid of perspiration, a “dirty” fluid produced by man, and the other, is the taking away of a holy substance. They both represent attempts to become clean, though the first is purely physical and the second is religious.
Foreshadowing is a commonly used technique in all kinds of story telling. Renouncing the devil and all his works and rapid shots of his assassins out killing the heads of the Five Families. Ms. Vogelsang notes that each of these scenes has been foreshadowed. Moe Green, killed while getting a massage, had been rubbed and patted by the servile Fredo. The Don calls Tattaglia a pimp, and he is shot in bed with a girl. Others are shot in an elevator so they will no longer “rise” against the Corleones. The master villain, Barzini, used a fake cop to set up the Don; Michael uses a fake cop to kill him.
Sergei Eisenstein:
“A bourgeois family is shattered by the father’s tyranny and the mother’s neurotic love affairs.” Eisenstein, born into a middle-class family, had his path in life predetermined even before his birth: he was to become an architect like his father. However, the Russian Revolution came as a blessing, destroying these plans by ridding his father of his general’s rank and his mother’s fortune, paving a way for him to freely make his own decisions. The Revolution was his liberator, allowing him to become a director and, by 27, a world-renowned Revolutionary artist. Eisenstein would formulate his own style of filmmaking, breaking most of the young rules of film production, and becoming an influential artist to not just future cinematographers.
I like to believe that the most remarkable thing about Eisenstein’s editing is his disregard for traditional filmmaking rules. Artists like D. W. Griffith had already laid the foundation for this type of expensive filmmaking though had done so by being very careful in order to allow the viewer to experience smooth transitions and coherence between shots. However, Eisenstein – desiring disquieting, thought-provoking conflicts between frames – gladly broke all of the newly established rules.
It is a basic rule of filmmaking that a director should not violate the “180-degree” rule. This rule allows the audience to maintain a sense of direction: viewers should know where everything in a shot is in relation to everything else. For example, when filming a conversation between two people, one person should always be on the right, facing left, and the other should be on the left, facing right; a director can film that discussion anywhere within 180 degrees around them, as going past 180 degrees and crossing to the other side would be visually disorientating. Another example of this would be if a horse were running from left to right in one shot. Another shot of the same horse should picture it running in the same direction, (left to right). Violating this rule would make the audience think that the horse had
changed direction, and is no longer running towards a place but rather is coming back from somewhere.
(Fig. 5) Stills from Battleship Potemkin (1925) – Sergei Eisenstein
Eisenstein oft chooses to do the opposite, not wanting his viewers to feel settled in their seats: he frequently violates this rule to create a sense of chaos and disorder, as in the frames above, where sailors throw a naval officer overboard. The action is first filmed from the left, then from the right, and lastly from behind. This same moment is essentially viewed three times, from three different angels. By being spliced together so quickly, the motion is made to seem more dynamic, yet also disorientating.
We are exposed to rapid changes in perspective; the speed of the editing does not allow us to think about the altering view points, and the falling naval officer seems to plunge into the water in a spiralling motion. As viewers, we do not actively think about this, and probably do not even recognize it as it happens. Yet, the created “emotional effect” heightens the chaos and significance of the moment subconsciously. We are made to think of the officer’s perspective being dizzy, rather
than us being rendered so. Visually, things are spinning, and this holds a meaningful point towards the narrative as well. The disorientating filmmaking alludes to this point in the story where the crewmembers of the ship decide to overthrow their captains. Undoubtedly, this event would have been baffling for the officers, and the quick changes in perspective hint towards the shift of power, from them to the crew.
(Fig. 6) Stills from Battleship Potemkin (1925) – Sergei Eisenstein
“The Odessa Staircase” has become one of the most famous and influential scenes in movie history. The sequence may only last about 7 and ½ minute long, but the way in which it depicts the massacre is extremely powerful. “Featuring a cast of roughly 3,000 actors and extras, and shot over a two-week period in the brutal Odessa sun, this is the sequence that taught filmmakers how to shoot massive action scenes.” It is generally believed that compared to all other scaled action sequences, none have the same emotional impact that this does. However, Eisenstein cannot take all of the credit, as this masterful sequence was a joint effort with his cinematographer Edward Tisse. Eisenstein was given the task to piece together over 170 individual shots, filmed in an experimental manner by Tisse, to put forth the grand scale as well as the individual turmoil of the slaughtering.
I’m going to resist the urge to write another 5,000 words on this sequence alone—books have been written already—but a few observations are in order. The first thing that strikes me about it is that it is not “realistic” in the traditional sense of the word: for all its painstakingly staged, often brutal violence, this is not documentary style filmmaking, but carefully constructed storytelling for dramatic, emotional purposes. For example, it is self-evident that tricks are being played with time here: even the Cossacks—moving in a steady, terrifyingly robotic pace down the staircase—could not possibly take nearly eight minutes to reach the bottom; the crowd fleeing in terror would reach the bottom in a matter of seconds. Likewise, spatial relations are fairly fluid in this scene, with things often happening above or below where it makes any sense for them to occur.
What we are seeing, then, is not a single, literal recreation of many individual events, but multiple points-of-view of the same events, superimposed on top of each other for cumulative effect, not for documentary clarity. Though Eisenstein maintains a simple, unidirectional narrative through the progress down the stairs, this is not, ultimately, linear storytelling, but holistic: by cutting back and forth between different mini-narratives, different characters, different angles and approaches, he is conveying to us the full range of psychological and emotional experiences of his “mass protagonist” from within. By doing so, he is unlocking the storytelling power that is unique to film: no other medium could provide such a comprehensive, gestalt view of such a large, unwieldy event.
The other thing that strikes me about this sequence is an ironic one: much more than in comparable scenes by artists—like Griffith—who weren’t communists, and who were not committed as Eisenstein is to the notion of the masses as hero—this scene’s power depends as much on individual experiences as communal ones. To convey the true impact of the massacre, Eisenstein picks out a few select individuals amid the chaos to focus upon, and it is their experiences that become the emotional focus of our viewing. For all his focus on “the masses,” he never forgets—or lets us forget—that the masses are made up of individuals, experiencing individual human tragedies.
Though there are other recognizable faces we pick out and follow through the throng, there are two mini-narratives that serve as the heart of the sequence, and both of them involve mothers and children. The first is the woman whose son is shot as they flee down the steps. We have already seen this woman and her son in the crowd earlier. (They were the ones gazing at the Communist flag in the example I used above.) Eisenstein lingers on several shots of children, sentimentally evoking the hope for the future of Russia, and—in the lack of feeling shown them by the Tsar’s troops—the justification for the entire revolution.
Here we see how Eisenstein directs our attention to this one small moment in the overall chaos, engaging our sympathies in a single, relatable mini-narrative while simultaneously using it as representative of the overall cruelty. The mother and son begin as just two figures almost lost in the crowd, but as the shooting starts, and the crowd descends the stairs, Eisenstein keeps returning to this mother and child, and we see the monstrous Cossacks (whose faces we never see) fire their guns, and we watch the boy go down. (In a brilliant appeal to audience sympathies, we realize the child is hit before the mother does: she keeps running several steps before she realizes the child is no longer with her.)