Film Directing Masters Essays On Cinemat PDF

Masters Essays on Cinematography
Twelve essays on the aesthetics and practice in cinematography
Eugene Doyen: Editor
FOR EDUCATION USE ONLY – ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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CONTENTS
Jack Cardiff and Technicolor RASHPAL SAINI 7

A Matter of Life and Death, Black Narcissus and The Red Shoes
John Alton and the Stylistics of Film Noir OLIVER DAVIS 17

T-Men, Raw Deal and The Big Combo
Sven Nykvist: Visions of Light VINET CAMPBELL 27

Through a Glass Darkly , Hour of the Wolf and Fanny and Alexander
Interior Visions: the films of Dion Beebe JAMES HAY 37

Collateral, In The Cut and Memoirs of a Geisha
Roger Deakins and the Period Film NEIL CALLOWAY 51

The Man Wasn’t There, Jarhead and The Assassination of Jesse James
by the Coward Robert Ford
Conflicts in Light: Vittorio Storaro ALISSA TIMOSHKINA 61

Last Tango in Paris, Sheltering Sky and Tango
Colour Contrast and the Films of Darius Khondji BASAK YAZAR 69

Delicatessen, Seven and Stealing Beauty
Cinematography and Story: Roger Deakins and the

Films of the Coen Brothers JARED JULIANO 77
Fargo, O Brother, Where Art Thou? and The Man Who Wasn't There
Robert Burks and the Objectification of the Hitchcock Blonde

JOHANNE STEPHENSON 83
Rear Window, The Birds and Marnie
Robert Richardson: Lighting and Composition in

the Scorsese Collaborations ALICE WYBREW 95
Casino, Bringing Out The Dead and The Aviator
Blurring the Boundaries of Reality: The Subjective Cinematography

of Matthew Libatique SARAH BENTLEY 103
Pi, Requiem for a Dream and The Fountain
The Cinematography of César Charlone in the films of Fernando

Meirelles GUILHERME PERDIGÃO MURTA 115
City of God, The Constant Gardener and Blindness
Teaching Materials
The purpose and Intent of Cinematography 131
Cinematography and Videography: essential principles 133
Teaching Programme: Cinematography in the Fiction Film 141
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Cinematography and Film Studies
This is a collection of twelve essays written by MA Film Studies students at Queen
Mary, University of London. Each makes a substantial contribution to understanding
the work of a cinematographer; and crucially, the role of cinematography as part of the
collaborative practice of filmmaking. These essays discuss cinematography across a
range of historical and theoretical contexts, including lighting for black and white
within film noir, the use of Technicolor, and the contemporary use of digital
technology in both production and post-production. This work is based on research
that links specialist technical writing on lighting and filming techniques to academic
film analysis, and in doing this illustrates how the subject of cinematography can be
successfully incorporated and articulated within the domain of film studies.
Teaching Materials
To illustrate how the subject of cinematography was discussed and taught within an
MA context, the teaching materials for this four-session topic are included at the end,
after the essays. It should be noted that the teaching and learning strategy was
research-based learning. There were no formal lectures, and students undertook
independent research work developed from screenings, seminars and student-led
presentations. It is very impressive that from this limited basis such individual,
distinctive and knowledgeable essays were produced.
Essay Texts and Images

The essays presented in this collection appear in the form they were submitted for
assessment. They have not been substantially re-written or edited. As such there may
be some variations in referencing, and presentation. Also, since all photographic
reproductions are in low resolution black and white they do not accurately reproduce
the images as they appear in the actual films. In these circumstances it is useful to refer
directly to the film in order to be able to follow the discussion of cinematography in the
essay.
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Jack Cardiff and Technicolor
A Matter of Life and Death (1946), Black Narcissus (1947) and The Red Shoes (1948)
RASHPAL SAINI
Jack Cardiff’s pioneering cinematography introduced colour into British cinema.

Having worked on the first British Technicolor production Wings of the Morning
(Harold Schuster, 1937) as the first British colour cameraman, Cardiff’s name has
become synonymous with Technicolor. Using the three-strip colour process Cardiff’s
cinematography is so vibrant ‘that you can virtually taste [the colours]’.1 Nowhere is
this more evident than in his first three feature films with Michael Powell and Emeric
Pressburger. A Matter of Life and Death (AMOLAD 1946), Black Narcissus (1947) and The
Red Shoes (1948) all represented a turning point in Powell and Pressburger’s post-war
cinema in which Cardiff’s colour cinematography played a vital role: ‘I [Powell] was
moving into new worlds of light and colour after the drab realism and Khaki of the
war’.2 This shift from realism to fantasy cinema gave Cardiff endless opportunities to
experiment with chiaroscuro and mixed coloured lighting styles to the point colour
was being used more than just for decorative purposes. Cardiff offered a more
conscious approach to controlling colour for narrative purposes, which, according to
Powell, was lacking in his [Powell’s] earlier work with Technicolor cinematographer
George Périnal in The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943) where there was no
‘planning for colour; it was just letting colour happen’.3
AMOLAD was Powell and Pressburger’s first real experiment with colour. The central
role of Cardiff’s colour cinematography is evident by the fact the film’s production
schedule was postponed for nearly nine months because Technicolor was not easily
available during wartime rationing. As Powell puts it, the film ‘had to be in colour. In
Technicolor’.4 AMOLAD is a story about two lovers, Peter Carter (David Niven) a
British Squadron Leader and June (Kim Hunter) an American radio operator who by
chance come into contact and fall in love over the radio as Peter descends from the sky
in a crippled bomber plane during the last day of the Second World War. Having
escaped death due to the mistake of heaven’s soul collector (Marius Goring) Peter is
forced to justify his reason to carry on living on the basis that he now loves June.
Central to the film is the correspondences between the forces of heaven and earth. One
can see why Powell was insistent that the film must be presented in Technicolor
because Pressburger’s script required frequent cross-referencing between coloured
earth and black and white heaven vice versa. This occurs, for example, when an
extreme close-up of Goring’s black and white rhododendron slowly turns pink as the
camera zooms out to establish the conductor is now in earth. A self-reflexive reference
to Cardiff’s work is made when the Conductor says ‘one is starved for Technicolor up
there’. This is not only a humorous reference to wartime deficit in British Technicolor
1 Martin Scorsese, ‘Foreword’ in: Jack Cardiff, Magic Hour: The Life of a Cameraman
(London: Faber and Faber, 1996), p. ix.
2 Michael Powell, A Life in Movies: An Autobiography (London: Methuen, 1986), p. 501.
3 Ibid., p. 499.
4 Ibid., p. 500.
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production (there were only eight British Technicolor films that were made during the
war5) but the phrase also sets colour’s relationship to Peter; that is to say, he will not
only lose his love if he submits to heaven but also the world of colour signified by the
deliberate attention to the surrounding rhododendrons.6 Cardiff’s methods of shooting
allowed the editor (Reginald Mills) to slowly fade into colour and black and white
stock with extended dissolves. Though a switch between colour and black and white
was not a new concept in cinema (Ian Christie recalls The Wizard of Oz (Victor Fleming,
1939) where there is a jump from black and white Kansas to Technicolor Oz7) the
smoothness of the transition between the two had some novelty at the time: ‘Never has
the reviewer seen such perfection of mechanics…. [The] dissolves from color to
monotone, as well as from full sets to miniatures are so smooth that it is difficult to tell
where one scene ends and the other begins’.8 Cardiff explains that the he shot ‘the
black and white sequence with a black and white camera, but the penultimate one was
done with a Technicolor camera, and that was printed in black and white’9, which
allowed the editor to slowly bring out the Technicolor colours from there on. Cardiff’s
method of presenting a slow transition from one world to the other (as oppose to a
simple cut) is a key visual signifier of Peter’s intermediate position between both
worlds, where he desires to be on earth yet there is a demand for his presence in
heaven.
Peter’s intermediate position in this world of colour is skilfully suggested during the
following shot-reverse-shot sequence as the Conductor and Peter have their first
conversation together in frozen time. Where as the rhododendrons in the background
are depicted in sharp focus during the low angle shots of the Conductor, a switch to
Peter shows a dramatic change in focus where the more distant roses are depicted in a
shallow depth of field, blurring and diffusing the pink and green colours of the
rhododendron bush to the point colour becomes almost intangible. Peter’s
intermediate status on earth is in fact impinged on the character from the outset during
the beach scene where he crash lands and miraculously survives. Cardiff’s
cinematography turns what looks like an earthy location with strong natural sunlight
into an uncanny vast space where the beach looks like earth, but it has enough
suggestions to imply it could be heaven as well. As Peter slowly wakes up after being
washed ashore there is a strong early morning orange frontal sunlight hitting Peter’s
face. Furthermore, as Lightman suggestions, a heavenly dream state is created by ‘the
curious effect of backlighting on the water’10 which picks up the uneven texture of the
coastal surface. Cardiff’s control of natural lighting establishes a sublime space that is
5 Duncan Petrie, The British Cinematographer (London: British Film Institute, 1996), p. 43.
6 Cardiff makes earth look more visually attractive and enviable than heaven. The
unfettered explosion of colour in this scene (the blossoming rose bushes) contrasts with
the mundane clinical look of heaven created with high intensity arc lamps. This is
demonstrated in the setting of the final trial where there is a large pool of flat white light
hitting the white glossy floor.
7 Ian Christie, A Matter of Life and Death (London: BFI, 2000), p. 11.
8 Herb A. Lightman, ‘Two Worlds in Technicolor’ American Cinematographer, Vol. 28,
No. 7 (July 1947), pp. 236 – 37 and 263 (p. 237).

9 Natacha Thiéry, ‘Interview with Jack Cardiff, “enfant terrible” of Technicolor’ La
Lettre de la Maison Française d’ Oxford, No. 11 (October 1999), pp. 150-59 (p. 152).
10 Lightman, ‘Two Worlds’, p. 237.
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enough to convince Peter he has arrived in heaven. Yet the low horizons and the
towering skies in Cardiff’s compositions continue to remind us Peter is still indebt to
the world above (heaven) and that he has still not completely handed himself in.
Cardiff’s expressive use of lighting is also evident in the chiaroscuro lighting style he
adopts for the interior scenes. A reoccurring interior lighting pattern he uses in
AMOLAD is half lit figures. During the opening sequence depicting Peter and June’s
intense conversation over the radio Cardiff lights half of Junes face, creating an ellipsis
on the top of her head. The accompanying red coloured backlighting adds to the
dramatic intensity of the scene which is further heightened by the piercing close-ups of
both characters. Cardiff again casts a black shadow on half of June’s figure when Peter
wakes up from his mental journey to heaven in which he has just escaped from the
Conductor by running down a large staircase. Cardiff maintains this lighting pattern to
the final scene of the film when the forces of heaven descend to earth. Here the upper
part of the frame (representing heaven) is lit using low-key shadows and the lower
frame is lit with intense light revealing the coloured world of earth at the base of the
staircase. This high contrast style of lighting were frames and characters are split into
two relates to the way the characters are also divided between the two worlds that are
clashing. The blackness of the upper part suggesting monochrome heaven almost
consumes the purity of the coloured mise-en-scène of earth, reminding us that Peter’s
right to love in a world of passionate colour remains unsettled. Such a bold
experimental style where colour is polluted with high contrast black shadows was not
permitted by Technicolor consultants at the time who preferred to see high-key
lighting levels and low contrast ratios in order to maintain a level of purity in the
display of colours.11 Cardiff instead set new standards using Technicolor where he
could offer a black and white German expressionist style of photography in colour; a
style that was deeply embedded in Powell and Pressburger’s cinema since their first
film together called The Spy in Black (1939).
The experimentation with colour and lighting in AMOLAD led the way to further
experimentations in Black Narcissus. Set in the windy Himalayas of India a group of
Anglican nuns lead by Sister Clodagh (Deborah Kerr) have been sent by Mother
Dorothea to establish a religious community in the mountainous village of Mopu. Soon
Mopu’s erotic past, eerie atmosphere and the sexual seductiveness of Mr. Dean (David
Farrar) drives the Sisters mad. This leads to the death of Sister Ruth (Kathleen Byron)
and the withdrawal of the nuns from Mopu. Powell exclaimed ‘the atmosphere in this
film is everything; and we must create and control it from the start. Wind, the altitude,
the beauty of the setting – it must all be under our control’.12 This was the main artistic
reason as to why Powell had chosen to film at Pinewood studios and not venture on an
expedition to India. Such a decision meant Powell was dependent on Cardiff’s lighting
and colour cinematography in order to create different moods that corresponded to the
Sisters’ changing state of minds.
One could argue this is Cardiff’s most painterly film. Cardiff’s style of lighting in this
film was heavily influenced by impressionist painters hence the term Cardiff often uses
to describe his cinematography, ‘painting with light’. In Craig McCall’s documentary
11 Petrie, British Cinematographer, p. 43.

12 Powell, A Life, pp. 562-63.
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‘Painting with Light’ Cardiff explains what attracts him to painters like Johannes
Vermeer is ‘simplicity of light’ where there are basic contrasts between light and
dark.13 Vermeer often painted his characters next to large windows where streams of
natural light seep into dark interiors. A few examples are Woman Holding a Balance
(c.1664), The Milkmaid (c. 1660) or The Geographer (1668). Cardiff’s character
compositions in Black Narcissus point out to this influence when characters are
frequently placed beside the permeable lattice windows of the palace in Mopu, which
lets in wind and light from the outside in order to suggest how Mopu’s erotic
atmosphere is slowly penetrating into the Sisters’ minds.
One particular scene in which Cardiff demonstrates his influence by Vermeer’s lighting
and composition style is in the opening scene in the Calcutta convent. High contrast
shadows are created on the walls as Mother Dorothea looks out of a large window. The
static camera matches the stillness of a painting. White light from the outside beams
onto Mother Dorothea’s white costume and it is reminiscent of the way light is used by
Vermeer to accentuate the hand, the sleeve and the face of the female figure in Woman
Holding a Balance. The clear white light cuts through the Venetian blinds, creating
horizontal liner shadows on either side of the window’s pale white outer frames which
metaphorically suggests a certain level of purity in the disciplined life the Sisters lead.
The simplicity of Cardiff’s lighting style matches the simplicity of life in the convent.
Cardiff also uses his chiaroscuro lighting style (seen previously in AMOLAD) in order
to cast a shadow of a rotating fan mounted on the ceiling onto an empty chair and a
bookcase. This harmonious, repetitive, rotating shadow further draws attention to the
orderliness and strong discipline in the convent.
The purity of the Sisters’ way of life is also maintained by lighting in the small chapel
the Sisters have created for themselves in Mopu. This is the only room in which the
Sisters can preserve any level of purity against the erotic scenic beauty of Mopu and
the vibrant blue room inside the palace. In one scene a long shot establishes four nuns
praying in the narrow chapel. The nuns are in a triangular composition which
symbolises the trinity of Father, Son and Holy Spirit. The symmetric orderliness of the
composition again points out to the simple life the Sisters desire in Mopu, which is
becoming increasingly unattainable as the erotic atmosphere of the village dominates.
In a BBC documentary Cardiff suggests he wanted the lighting in this scene to match
the purity of the Sisters’ oatmeal white costumes for which high intensity arc lights
where used against Junge’s (the set designer) blue sky backings to create a strong
natural sunlight effect. This is shown in a point of view shot as Clodagh looks towards
an open window in the chapel.14 Similar to the opening scene in the convent, Cardiff
also casts overbearing shadows, this time of a cross across Sister Clodagh’s face in
order to imply how the burden of religious discipline is beginning to imprison her
since she now yearns for the life she previously had in Ireland as shown in the
flashback that follows.
The pure white light that Cardiff uses in sacred spaces during the day contrasts with
the coloured lighting he uses during the night scenes. In one scene Cardiff’s blue
13 Craig McCall, Painting with Light (Modus Operandi Films, 2007), available in the
Criterion DVD edition of Black Narcissus.
14 Richard Blanshard, Behind the Camera (British Broadcast Corporation, 1999) aired on
BBC 2 on 6 November 1999.
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filtered moonlight contributes to the inhospitable atmosphere of Mopu that is making
the Sisters sick. An ill nun sits alone in her bedroom hearing the drums beating
outside. Cardiff pans across the erotic paintings on the room’s concrete walls, through
to a religious cross mounted on the wall (a deliberate attempt to show how erotic and
religious cultures are clashing) and then finishing next to the nun’s bed which is
draped with transparent white sheets. In contrast to the pure sunlight of the day
Cardiff’s blue light in this scene is claustrophobic and polluting. The white sheet and
the ill nun’s white robe is almost like a blank canvas for Cardiff to paint with coloured
light; thus, imposing colour and the erotic connotations it brings onto the nun. The
imposing nature of colour is shown earlier as well when Sister Ruth abruptly enters
Sister Clodagh’s office wearing a white dress stained with vibrant red blood.
Cardiff’s expressive use of coloured lighting reaches its climax during the final
sequence leading to Sister Ruth’s death. Powell’s intentions in this sequence (starting
with Joseph bringing Sister Clodagh her early morning tea and ending with Ruth’s
downfall from a cliff) was to create his first piece of ‘composed’ film where music,
image and emotion match to create an organic whole. Powell explains that the
sequence was carefully planned and shot step by step to match Brian Easdale’s
composed music to the point Cardiff had to use stopwatches during the shoot.15 In
order to match the momentary ruptures of sound from Easdale’s humming score
Cardiff uses soft bluish green lighting mixed with pinkish red hues to give the
impression the erotic past of Mopu is finally resurfacing to haunt the Sisters to its full
effect. Cardiff explains that ‘in the dawn sequence where Sister Ruth goes mad I used
soft greens in the shadows… because the juxtaposition of green and red is
uncomfortable and suggestive of tragedy – like Van Gogh’s billiard room at Arles’.16
Cardiff’s reasons for using clashing green and red filtered lights matches Vincent van
Gogh’s own purposes in his painting of a night café with a billiard:
I have tried to express the terrible passions of humanity by means of
red and green…. [where] there is a clash and contrast of the most
alien reds and greens, in the figures of little sleeping hooligans, in the
empty dreary room, in violet and blue.17
As Sister Clodagh reaches the chapel no longer is it illuminated with white light. The
purity of this religious space is submerged with erotic red light on the top third of the
set and pale green hues lower down. Colouring this sacred place parallels how the
nuns’ religious order (represented by the purity of white) has now been defeated by
the erotic coloured atmosphere of Mopu. A loss of purity and clarity is further
suggested by Cardiff’s decision to use a no.2 fog filter (again breaking Technicolor
production rules) as Sister Ruth comes out onto the cliff while Clodagh rings the bell.
The image becomes grainy, the colours slightly diffused by the softened focus and this
heightens the surrealism of the moment Ruth tries to kill Clodagh, only to fall to her
own death. In the end the ‘atmosphere’, which is made visible by Cardiff’s atmospheric
lighting, finally convinces Clodagh and her group that this is no place for a nun.
15 Powell, A Life, p. 583. Oddly, Cardiff does not remember filming to playback music
on set (Justin Bowyer, Conversations with Jack Cardiff: Art, Light and Direction in Cinema
(London: Chrysalis Books, 2003), p. 80).
16 Cardiff, Magic Hour, p. 88.
17 A letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 8 September 1888 available at:
http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/18/533.htm [accessed 16 April 2009].
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The Red Shoes was to be Cardiff’s third and final film for Powell and Pressburger. Based
on Hans Christian Andersen’s fairytale of the same name, The Red Shoes depicts a
young dancer’s ambition to make it into the ballet world. Boris Lermontov (Anton
Walbrook), as the ballet impresario, gives Vicky Page (Moira Shearer) an opportunity
to dance for him. When she falls in love with Lermontov’s musician (Julian Craster
played by Marius Goring) Page is forced to choose between her love for ballet and her
love for a man.
This fantasy film required a subjective style of cinematography in which characters’
states of mind could be clearly depicted. Cardiff had already demonstrated this skill
via his expressionist style of photography in AMOLAD and Black Narcissus where
chiaroscuro and mixed coloured lighting effects accompany the maddening obstacles
that typically confront Powell and Pressburger’s characters. Central to the film is
Page’s subjectivity as she progresses in the ballet world. Cardiff frequently uses jarring
camera movements from Page’s point of view in order to suggest there is an
underlying effect of psychological turmoil in this admirable world of ballet driven by
strong ambition. Before Page fully enrols into Lermontov’s Ballet Company there is an
early indication of her unstable mind during her first performance for Lermontov at
the Mercury theatre where she dances the Swan Lake. As Page pirouettes at one point
across the blue lit stage, Cardiff cuts to a point of view shot where the motion of the
pirouette is sustained by visually jarring whip pans. Despite the enormity of the three
strip Technicolor camera Cardiff was still able make ambitious camera movements to
match Page’s own zeal for the art of ballet. This point of view shot is as intriguing as
the point of view shot Cardiff shows from inside an eye in AMOLAD. The pirouette
ends with a big close-up of Page’s sharp gaze as she looks at Lermontov who is sat in
the audience in front of her. Cardiff often uses these close-ups in order to penetrate
into his characters’ minds, which is also demonstrated during the ‘composed’ film
sequence in Black Narcissus (the film’s highpoint of character subjectivity) where there
is at one point an extreme close-up of Sister Ruth’s possessed eyes.
The occasional jarring camera movements that suggest a rupture in Page’s mind is
sustained to the end of the film. When Julian Craster enters Page’s dressing room as
she waits for her return performance in The Red Shoes ballet to commence Cardiff
aggressively whip pans from a medium-close up shot of Page to Craster’s mirror
image, foreshadowing the mind numbing trouble ahead. For it is here, when
Lermontov eventually enters the scene, Page must make the difficult decision of
whether to choose art or Craster’s love. This decision overwhelms Page and Cardiff
visually demonstrates this when she is lead out of her dressing room by a backstage
assistant. In a narrow backstage corridor Page walks towards the static camera ending
up in Cardiff’s trademark close-up shot. As she does so, a focus pull is used where the
depth of field becomes shallower giving the impression Page is losing any sense of
orientation and quickly regressing into an unstable mind frame. The static camera
erupts into sudden movement as the red shoes lead Page outside the theatre and
eventually to her death. As she runs down the spiral staircase the steps whiz past (this
shot was achieved by placing the staircase on a rotating platform and the camera on an
elevator18) and then a rapid tracking shot is used as she continues to run. The visual
ecstasy of the camera movements that match Page’s psychology demonstrates how
integral Cardiff’s cinematography is in this character driven narrative.
18 Powell, A Life, p. 652.
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The depiction of character subjectivity reaches a peak during the 17 minute ballet
sequence imagined from Page’s point of view. The ballet portrays a story about a girl’s
desire for a pair of red shoes. Having acquired and danced with the red shoes all day
in a ballroom, in the fairground and across the park the shoes eventually take control
of the girl when she wants to return home. The shoes refuse to stop dancing till she
reaches a point of exhaustion and dies. The story matches Page’s own fate where her
position as a desiring figure (she wants fame through ballet and a man’s love at the
same time), eventually leads to her own death. For this heavily expressive ballet
sequence Cardiff used his expertise of translating paintings into moving images by
shooting from Hein Heckroth’s carefully planned storyboard paintings which outlined
the colour schemes of the sequence.19 The ballet sequence required careful planning
because Powell intended it to be his second piece of ‘composed’ filmmaking where
music, image and emotion match. As a continuation of his interest in simple lighting
techniques Cardiff used two newly developed 300 amp arc lights specially imported
from America. As Lightman explains, ‘the big arcs could cover the entire corps-de-ballet
in one clear source of light, and still produce a Technicolor light level’.20 For the
spotlight that gives the effect of theatrical lighting Cardiff used a 225 amp ‘brute’ light.
The visual presence of this light is essential for the mood of the ballet sequence. The
sharpness of the ‘brute’ light is controlled by the strength of the 300 amp arc lights that
light the entire stage. The brightness of the general lighting of the stage in the early
part of the ballet suggests a brief moment of equilibrium until the girl sees the
menacing red shoes in the window, where the spotlight becomes sharper and the
general stage lighting dimmer. The sharpness of the spotlight reaches its peak when
Page starts to have illusions of people from her own life. For example, as she meets a
ghostly Craster on stage the sharp spotlight is able to pierce through the blackened out,
void background, which represents how Page is now entering her unconscious mind.
Cardiff further depicts Page and her character’s subjectivity through coloured light.
The plight of Vicky and her character is expressed through the threatening presence of
the shoemaker. His entrances on-stage brings an eruption of coloured lighting: a close-
up shot of the shoemaker lit with stark blue under-lighting as he approaches the
camera; flashes of green and red mixed lighting when he leaps into the frame after the
paper dance (as pointed out earlier Cardiff uses this colour combination to suggest
conflict and tragedy) and later a mix of bright red and yellow lighting after the
shoemaker gives Page’s character a false sense of hope by giving her an unusable blade
to cut the red shoes. The shoemaker’s intention to kill the dancer metaphorically
represents the effect the men in Page’s life will have on her and this relationship is
literally shown at one point when the shoemaker’s figure transforms into Lermontov
and Craster. It is thus through Cardiff’s conflicting and visually threatening coloured
lighting Page’s fate is initially symbolically drawn.
To conclude, it is evident Cardiff’s colour cinematography played a vital part in Powell
and Pressburger’s post-war cinema. Cardiff’s expertise in colour allowed Powell and
Pressburger to experiment in new avenues and offered a new look for their cinema at a
time when the Archers were looking to shift away from wartime realism through
19 In a documentary Cardiff claims that both he and Heckroth choose the colours for
the ballet sequence paintings (David Lemon, A Profile of the Red Shoes (Carlton Films,
2000), available in the Carlton DVD release of The Red Shoes).
20 Herb A. Lightman, ‘The Red Shoes’ American Cinematographer, Vol. 30, No. 3 (March
1949), pp. 82-83 and 99-100 (p. 100).
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subjects relating to art, fantasy and individual subjectivity. Cardiff’s colours were
literally integrated into the narratives giving colour a conscious presence in all three
films. Cardiff effectively captured colour in the designs of Junge’s abstract sets and
Heckroth’s vibrant costumes and added his own contribution to colour through his
mixed lighting style. However, despite the complicated narrative meanings in the
colours Cardiff used and recorded (particularly in the two ‘composed’ sequences he
filmed), his style of photography was always simple, using clear cut blocks of shadow
and light against the depth the Technicolor colours could visually create.
Bibliography
Books
Bowyer, Justin Conversations with Jack Cardiff: Art, Light and Direction in Cinema
(London: Chrysalis Books, 2003).
Cardiff, Jack, Magic Hour: The Life of a Cameraman (London: Faber and Faber, 1996).
Christie, Ian, A Matter of Life and Death (London: BFI, 2000).
Connelly, Mark, The Red Shoes (London/New York: I.B Tauris, 2005).
Petrie, Duncan, The British Cinematographer (London: BFI, 1996).
Powell, Michael, A Life in Movies: An Autobiography (London: Methuen, 1986).
Street, Sarah, Black Narcissus (London/New York: I.B Tauris, 2005).
Articles in Journals and Magazines

Birchard, Robert S., ‘A Master’s Palette’ American Cinematographer, Vol. 87, No. 3
(March 2006), pp. 58-65.
Freer, Ian, ‘Hall of Fame’ Empire, No.145 (July 2001), pp. 118-25.
Geoffrey, MacNab, ‘Close Up: Technicolor Tyke’ Sight and Sound, Vol. 11, No. 7 (11 July
2001), p. 65.
Lightman, Herb A., ‘Two Worlds in Technicolor’ American Cinematographer, Vol. 28,
No. 7 (July 1947), pp. 236 – 37 and 263.
“Black Narcissus” Colour Masterpiece’ American Cinematographer, Vol. 28, No. 12

(December 1947), pp. 432 and 456-57.
‘The Red Shoes’ American Cinematographer, Vol. 30, No. 3 (March 1949), pp. 82-83 and
99-100.
Thiéry, Natacha, ‘Interview with Jack Cardiff, “enfant terrible” of Technicolor’ La Lettre
de la Maison Française d’ Oxford, No. 11 (October 1999), pp. 150-59.
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Documentary Films
Blanshard, Richard, Behind the Camera (British Broadcast Corporation, 1999).
Lemon, David, A Profile of the Red Shoes (Carlton Films, 2000).
McCall, Craig, The Colour Merchant (Modus Operandi Films, 1998).
Painting with Light (Modus Operandi Films, 2007).
Websites
http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/18/533.htm
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John Alton and the Stylistics of Film Noir
T-Men (1947), Raw Deal (1948) and The Big Combo (1955)
OLIVER DAVIS
This essay will relate the cinematography of John Alton in the films T-Men21, Raw
Deal,22 and The Big Combo,23 to the visual stylistics that define film noir, as gathered from
a range of critical theory, and how they function narratively and construct mood.
Although Alton rarely revealed his methods behind certain shots, his book, Painting
with Light,24 details the techniques he used for specific set-ups. These cinematographic
instructions illuminate Alton’s practices and intentions, and will be used to strengthen
the essay’s argument and analysis.
Film noir’s visual conventions will be applied to specific examples from the
selected texts, whilst detailing Alton’s methodology and techniques. These
conventions are: composition and mirrors, deep focus photography and fog, darkness
and night-for-night shooting, and high contrast and low-key lighting.
Composition and Mirrors

Composition in film noir is treated predominantly as a means of disorientation,
projecting its characters’ inner conflicts upon the surrounding metropolis. Absorbing
the nightmarish set designs of German Expressionism,25 noir composition favours
dizzying diagonals and oblique lines over the more traditional horizontals of Ford and
Griffith.26 This closes the frame into itself, isolating areas and confining figures and
objects. Openness is rejected to fuel the paranoid, fate-driven environments of noir.
The disorientating compositions are exaggerated and heightened with the
inclusion of mirrors. In addition to being a stylistic device, the mirror connotes the
“fragmented ego”,27 the schizophrenic and themes of masquerade28 present within noir
narratives. This is exemplified by a sequence in T-Men where the undercover cop,
Tony Genaro, is caught by the gang he has infiltrated.
Figure 1
Shots of Genaro aggressively searching his hotel room are intercut with shots of the
approaching gang. He finds his desired locker combination, but is then startled by the
21
T-Men, dir. by Anthony Mann (Eagle-Lion Distributors Limited: 1947)
22
Raw Deal, dir. by Anthony Mann (Eagle-Lion Distributors Limited: 1948)
23
The Big Combo, dir. by Joseph H. Lewis (Allied Artists Pictures: 1955)
24
John Alton, Painting With Light (Berkley, London: University of California Press, 1995)
25
Foster Hirsch, Film Noir: The Dark Side of the Screen (Cambridge: Da Capo Press, 1981) pp.53-7
26
Paul Schrader, ‘Notes on Film Noir’, in Film Theory: Critical Concepts in Media Studies and Cultural
Studies, ed. by Philip Simpson, Andrew Utterson and Karen J. Shepherdson (London, New York:
Routledge, 2004) pp.149-159 (p.154)
27
Janey Place and Lowell Peterson, ‘Some Visual Motifs of Film Noir’, Movies and Methods: An
Anthology, Volume 1, ed. by Bill Nichols (Berkley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press,
Ltd, 1976) pp.325-338 (p.335)
28
Foster Hirsch, Film Noir: The Dark Side of the Screen (Cambridge: Da Capo Press, 1981) p.90
17
unlocking door. After hurriedly hiding the evidence, Genaro stands upright to create
an over the shoulder shot (figure 1). A large mirror dominates the composition,
trapping Genaro in a frame within a frame; a visual signifier of his impending capture.
This stylistic reinforces the noir themes of paranoia and alienation. The formation of
closed-off shapes in the composition isolates Genaro; his figure appears ensnared in a
black and white Mondrian.
Here, Alton’s composition operates beyond the simple creation of mood. In featuring
the mirror so prominently within the frame, a greater emphasis is placed upon its
employment and how it reflects the protagonist’s mindset. Both the oblique lines and
intruding forces are doubled, posing an imminent threat. The gang enter the room
from two directions: the off-screen, real doorway, and in the reflected reality of the
mirror, truly surrounding Genaro as his environment twists against him. In his state of
panic, the figures are exaggerated, appearing more menacing than they could ever
physically be, creating a distorted and confusing picture. Alton expresses Genaro’s
inner anxiety through composition, and, in reflection and light, disorientates the
spectator as well as the protagonist.
Alton’s compositional use of the mirror also serves as a narrative device. T-Men
concerns the blurring distinction between the police force and the criminals they
oppose. Genaro, as an undercover policeman, possesses both identities: his own and
the underworld guise of Tony Galvani. The mirror emphasises this with its
connotations of split personalities and masquerade, outlined by Janey Place and Lowell
Peterson in their analysis of noir’s visual stylistics.29
Alton’s method for such set-ups deploys the mirror as an active element in both
composition and lighting. The key light would be “…placed near the camera, high
enough so that its image cannot appear in the mirror…”30 to light its subject. However,
“the reflection of the [light] illuminates the person sitting before the mirror, and
therefore becomes the actual key light.”31 This causes the reflection to be brighter than
the actual subject, articulating the importance of the masqueraded persona, alluding to
the real Tony Genaro’s impending murder.
Additionally, “to create an illusion of depth, walls reflected in the mirror should
be…lit more strongly than the wall around the mirror.”32 This guides the spectator’s
attention, as it does Genaro’s, firmly towards the intruders. The reflected back wall
also bestows the image with added angularities, or, as Foster Hirsch puts it, “the
fractured image mirrors the characters’ disintergration”.33 Alton’s intention for such
compositions was to blend the foreground into the background, where “…there is the
suggestion of fear and menace behind.”34 This undoubtedly isolates and traps Genaro
29
Ltd, 1976) pp.325-338 (p.335)
30
John Alton, Painting With Light (Berkley, London: University of California Press, 1995), pp.62-3
31
32
33
34
John Alton, Painting With Light (Berkley, London: University of California Press, 1995), p.84
18
within his environment, successfully demonstrating how noir aesthetics create mood
whilst simultaneously serving narrative.
Deep Focus Photography and Fog

Just as the composition in film noir isolates and disorientates its subjects, deep focus
photography achieves similar results. Employing a deep depth-of-field makes “…all
objects and characters in the frame be in sharp focus, giving equal weight to each.”35 It
became a noir stylistic because it eliminates a hierarchy of focus, denying
differentiation between the figures on-screen and the environment that traps them.
Paul Schrader argues that this bestows the image with “…a fatalistic, hopeless mood”,
that “there is nothing the protagonist can do; the city will outlast and negate even his
best efforts.”36
This is again demonstrated in T-Men, when a murder occurs in a Turkish bath. This is
a challenging example, as Alton’s deep focus photography instils the environment with
a tangible peril, more so than the fatalism Schrader outlines. Rather than ensnare its
subject in the venetian blinds and bars of an office or antique shop, where the
background is relatively static and indifferent, the Turkish bath envelops its victim in a
swirling fog of steam. Here, deep focus photography emphasises the environment
itself as the killer, rather than merely a location.
Schemer is surprised that Marshy, a fellow gang member, has joined him in the
Turkish bath. “I didn’t know you take these steam baths, Marshy”, asks Schemer. “I
don’t”, comes the foreboding reply. The Turkish bath appears overly large for the two
men who sit in it, dwarfing both in its scale, echoing Schrader’s notion of an imperious
environment. Alton’s deep focus photography accentuates this. Although allowing all
to be in sharp focus, a deep depth-of-field also pushes planes away from each other,
isolating figures and objects in illusory distance. Consequently, the far door of the bath
appears as unreachable as a horizon. This reflects Schemer’s mindset, that escape is
both unrealisable and futile. As Marshy exits, locking Schemer in the Turkish bath,
Alton’s deep focus photography simultaneously isolates and engulfs him in the room’s
immensity.
This effect is further emphasised when more steam seeps into the room. Although the
back wall is obscured in dense fog, Alton maintains the room’s size and depth “…by
placing the brightest light in the background, farthest from the camera”37. This pushes
the background away from the camera, and the wide-angle lens, favoured for deep
35
Ltd, 1976) pp.325-338 (p.330)
36
Routledge, 2004) pp.149-159 (p.154)
37
Gary Gach, ‘John Alton: Master of the Film Noir Mood’, American Cinematographer v77.n9 (Sep
1996), pp.87-92 (p.92)
19
focus scenes with low levels of light, bloats this sense of claustrophobia (figure 2, faintly
silhouetting Schemer against the door’s window of light).38
figure 2
This is where the deep depth-of-field presents itself most powerfully. The steam, most
likely Alton’s preferred vaporised Nujol,39 diffuses the light even more radically, yet
stays in focus, trapping the figure of Schemer within it. Alton achieved this by lighting
on “a higher key and with greater contrast than we would under normal
conditions…we use a wide-angle lens; out-of-focus fog is very unpleasant to look at.”40
The steam must be in sharp focus to stress the entrapment of its victim. To separate
Schemer from the vapour would be to lessen its choking and smothering effect on both
him and the spectator’s vision.
Unable to see Schemer’s struggle, we project our own images onto the foggy
screen. This is precisely what Alton intends, citing that “the tendency of nature is to
use fog to cover up”, and that its employment in film should parallel this effect.41
Here, Alton’s deep focus photography goes beyond merely complementing the
narrative and trapping the protagonist; the Turkish bath provokes a haptic response.
The steam’s deep depth-of-filed imbues the shot with a certain texture. The spectator’s
vision is restricted and smothered by it, aggravating the senses.
When analysing Alton’s work, it is hard not to compare him to a painter -
particularly the old masters whose chiaroscuro effects he admired and imitated.42
Gary Gach draws the same comparison, specifically to da Vinci, de la Tour and
Caravaggio.43 However, in the Turkish bath, I see in Alton the broad strokes of Turner
– that the subject is almost rendered secondary to the texture, the atmosphere, of the
scene.44 Alton uses a combination of light and deep focus photography to create a
pictorial space that engulfs its subject.
Darkness and Night-for-Night Shooting

During the 40s, the studios would shoot day-for-night; “that is, the scene is
photographed in bright daylight, but filters placed over the camera lens, combined
with a restriction of the amount of light entering the camera, create the illusion of
night.”45 Schrader notes that the post-war generation “craved realism”46, which noir
38
Ltd, 1976) pp.325-338 (p.331)
39
40
41
42
Dan Georgakas, ‘The Beloved Bs’, Cinéaste v23.n4 (July 1998) pp.54-55 (p.54)
43
1996), pp.87-92 (p.90)
44
David Piper, The Joy of Art: A Popular Introduction to Enjoying the Great Paintings of the World
(London: Mitchell Beazley Publishers, 1984) p.91
45
Ltd, 1976) pp.325-338 (p.330)
20
satisfied by filming on location, at night, and illuminating the scene with artificial light
sources: shooting night-for-night. With its associations to the underworld, where most
of noir’s crime narratives lurk,47 the establishment of a realistic night setting is
paramount to film noir’s mood. Night-for-night shooting is employed most effectively
during Joe Sullivan’s prison break in Raw Deal.
The prison break occurs at night under a blanket of black. Only suggestions of objects
exist in the lampposts’ light. To accomplish this effect, Alton would “…wet the
pavement to get reflections of the light sources in the picture.”48 Pat Cameron, Joe’s
accomplice, waits in her car outside. She stares expectantly at the prison for Joe, which
we are granted several long shots of. Two sets of barred windows provide a low-key
illumination to their surroundings, occasionally betraying the guard who patrols
before them. The night’s darkness is so dense, however, that light collapses on itself.
The immense dark created by Alton’s night-for-night shooting isolates the light sources
within the frame. This endows the shadows with a certain physicality – light
compressed, constantly articulating the claustrophobia and foreboding tension of the
prison. The night is made still and composed, almost a warning sign in itself of the
impending storm.
The persistent low levels of light at night create a lack of discernable detail, and we are
guided through the film’s sombre settings by Alton’s hand – a glimmer of car here, a
diffused lamp there. His intention when filming night-for-night shots, in particular
prison exteriors, was to use the low-level lighting to “heighten the mystery of a
scene.”49 He lets us become accustomed to the shadows, where the unexpected waits,
dilating our pupils to track our protagonists.
But then Alton summons light with an invasive presence. Much as he did in the
Turkish bath of T-Men, light is manipulated to embody physical presence. The
intrusive headlights of an approaching car break the night-for-night, low-level lighting.
This suits the narrative of Raw Deal perfectly; Joe is caught in a dragnet after his prison
break. Light signifies detection, emphasising its aggression and intrusion, itself the
antagonist when one wishes to remain hidden.
Alton juxtaposes night-for-night shooting with an immense beam of light from the
nearing car. Pat is lit extremely low-key, so much so that one can barely define her
shape (figure 3.1). From here, the approaching headlights are merely implied by the
increasing light within the car. The effect works in two stages. Firstly, a swinging key-
light, used for moving shadows on set,50 creates an impression of the approaching car.
Secondly, once the shadow has left Pat’s face, another key-light is employed, equipped
with a dimmer, but this time positioned only slightly to the camera’s right, almost
head-on. The second key-light builds in output until Pat is drastically overexposed
(figure 3.2).
46
Routledge, 2004) pp.149-159 (p.151)
47
Foster Hirsch, Film Noir: The Dark Side of the Screen (Cambridge: Da Capo Press, 1981) pp.1-21
48
49
50
21
Figure 3.1 Figure 3.2
The light is given a scorching, painful quality. The gradual overexposure is heavily
reminiscent of the first H-bomb test films. Pat appears to be obliterated as easily as the
shanty houses that littered their sites. By positioning the light almost directly head-on,
all the defining shadows on her face are eliminated. Her features are seared away.
After being accustomed to the low-level lighting prior to this shot, the spectator is also
dazzled. Like emerging from a dark room into a sunny day, or being blinded by an
intruder’s torch at night, the effect is invasive and disorientating. One physically
recoils from screen. Perversely, where light usually provides revelation and guidance
in film, here we instead find comfort and safety in the shadows it ignores. Alton
subverts his own night-for-night shooting techniques, and a noir convention, into a
narrative and affective tool.
It is essential to Raw Deal’s plot that Alton establishes light as hazardous this early in
the narrative. The main antagonist, Joe’s former boss, Rick, uses fire as a means of
domination.51 In one scene he scalds the face of a woman with a candle. By
cinematographically linking light with menace, the film’s climactic scene is given such
immense peril; a showdown in a burning room. Would the fire, in a world of black
and white, seem so vibrant and vicious if this had not been the case?
Contrast and Low-Key Lighting

Foster Hirsh argues that much of film noir is a battle between light and dark, both
visually and thematically.52 This is exemplified in the noir aesthetic of low-key
lighting. This was in opposition to the dominant lighting technique at the time, high-
key lighting, involving a small ratio of key to fill light, which ensured a balanced and
functional contrast.53 Low-key lighting, however, requires a much greater ratio in
favour of the key light, “creating areas of high contrast and rich, black shadows.”54
The shadows and darkness carry connotations of the mysterious, unknown and
dangerous, whereas the light provides relief, and an embodiment of the film’s forces of
good.
Although The Big Combo’s end shootout sequence is often the most remembered, where
Alton “…magically created an impromptu, stunningly photographed airport setting
51
Frank Krutnik, ‘Heroic Fatality and Visual Delirium: Raw Deal and the Film Noir’, Framework n15/17
(July 1981), pp.21-4, 108-110 (p.24)
52
53
Ltd, 1976) pp.325-338 (p.327)
54
Ltd, 1976) pp.325-338 (p.327)
22
out of a stage draped in black velvet and a revolving light”,55 the contrast of low-key
lighting is most striking during an earlier interrogation scene; our protagonist, Police
Lieutenant Leonard Diamond, has been shackled to a chair by the mobster he pursues,
Mr. Brown.
figure 4.
Mr. Brown enters the basement in silhouette, backlit by the stairwell behind him. His
figure is only partially revealed when he steps into the pool of light illuminating
Diamond, still attached to the shadows that flank him, never once allowing him to be
fully lit (figure 4). The lighting is then reduced to a low-hanging lamp, supporting
Todd McCarthy’s observation that many scenes in The Big Combo “…are clearly lit with
only one source.”56 In lighting solely with a key light, there is no fill light to relieve the
shadows. This creates the high contrast lighting often associated with noir. This is
typical of Alton:
In his swift lighting designs, he would establish a shot with only

three lights, and then subtract one and then another. Alton de-
emphasized the human form, making it an element within a mosaic
of different visual events. To do this, he would often incorporate
dark, negative space that [Dennis] Jakob called ‘an active aesthetic
element in the frame’.57
As the overwhelming light in Raw Deal was given physical elements, the shadows in
The Big Combo are solidified by bonding the forms of the interrogators. Each towering
figure fades into the darkness, creating a singular, oppressive force; merging into and
controlling the shadows that absorb them. Diamond is separated from this effect. The
frame visually crops his shirt and tie, and he is more fully lit, giving him a definitive,
solid appearance. By cloaking “…much of the action in darkness, lighting for mood
rather than exposure”58, Alton cultivates the shadows as a Petri dish for the spectator’s
unrealised fear. The high contrast of low-key lighting unifies its shadows, becoming a
battle between those forces for evil (dark), and those for good (light); an essential
technique for the establishment and embellishment of noir narrative and mood.
Alton’s reasons for such can be found in the opening to his chapter on ‘mystery
lighting’:
55
Hilary Smith, 'Painting with Light: John Alton', The National Film Theatre Programmes (1997), pp.4-9
(p.9)
56
Todd McCarthy, ‘Through a Lens Darkly: The Life and Films of John Alton’, Painting With Light
(Berkley, London: University of California Press, 1995), p.xxix
57
1996), pp.87-92 (p.91)
58
Ray Zone, 'Wrap Shot', American Cinematographer v83.n5 (May 2002), p.120
23
Where there is no light, one cannot see; and when one cannot
see, his imagination starts to run wild. He begins to suspect
that something is about to happen. In the dark there is mystery.59
Alton therefore uses the high contrast formed by low-key lighting to encourage the
spectator to share the protagonist’s fear and paranoia. His aim is to inject mystery
within the frame, lighting the scene with its singular, low-hanging lamp.60
Conclusion
This essay has demonstrated Alton’s adept employment of noir stylistics in his work,
stylistics that he helped create. The relevant theorists have correctly defined these
visual conventions of noir, and outlined the impact they have upon narrative and the
spectator. The essay has shown specifically how Alton consciously achieved such
effects though his cinematography, proving him both a noir innovator and
cinematographer.
Bibliography
Alton, John, Painting With Light (Berkley, London: University of California Press, 1995)
Flinn, Tom, ‘The Big Heat and The Big Combo: Rogue Cops and Mink-Coated Girls’, The
Velvet Light Trap n11 (Jan 1974) pp.23-28
Gach, Gary, ‘John Alton: Master of the Film Noir Mood’, American Cinematographer
v77.n9 (Sep 1996), pp.87-92
Georgakas, Dan, ‘The Beloved Bs’, Cinéastev23.n4 (July 1998) pp.54-55
Hills, Ken, ‘Film Noir and the American Dream: The Dark Side of Enlightenment’, The
Velvet Light Trap n55 (Apr 2005), pp.3-18
Hirsch, Foster, Film Noir: The Dark Side of the Screen (Cambridge: Da Capo Press, 1981)
Krutnik, Frank, ‘Heroic Fatality and Visual Delirium: Raw Deal and the Film Noir’,
Framework n15/17 (July 1981), pp.21-4, 108-110
McCarthy, Todd, ‘Through a Lens Darkly: The Life and Films of John Alton’, Painting
With Light (Berkley, London: University of California Press, 1995)
Piper, David, The Joy of Art: A Popular Introduction to Enjoying the Great Paintings of the
World (London: Mitchell Beazley Publishers, 1984)
Place, Janey and Peterson, Lowell, ‘Some Visual Motifs of Film Noir’, Movies and
Methods: An Anthology, Volume 1, ed. by Bill Nichols (Berkley, Los Angeles, London:
University of California Press, Ltd, 1976) pp.325-338
59
60
24
Schrader, Paul ‘Notes on Film Noir’, in Film Theory: Critical Concepts in Media Studies
and Cultural Studies, ed. by Philip Simpson, Andrew Utterson and Karen J.
Shepherdson (London, New York: Routledge, 2004) pp.149-159
Smith, Hilary, 'Painting with Light: John Alton', The National Film Theatre Programmes
(1997), pp.4-9
Zone, Ray, 'Wrap Shot', American Cinematographer v83.n5 (May 2002), p.120
25
Filmography
Big Combo, The, dir. by Joseph H. Lewis (Allied Artists Pictures: 1955)
Raw Deal, dir. by Anthony Mann (Eagle-Lion Distributors Limited: 1948)
T-Men, dir. by Anthony Mann (Eagle-Lion Distributors Limited: 1947)
Figure 1
T-Men, 1hr 10mins
Figure 2
T-Men, 1hr 3mins
Figure 3a
Raw Deal, 8mins
Figure 3b
Raw Deal, 8mins
Figure 4
The Big Combo, 30mins
26
Sven Nykvist: Visions of Light
Through a Glass Darkly (1961). Hour of the Wolf (1968) and Fanny and Alexander (1982)
VINET CAMPBELL
Sven Nykvist’s argues that light functions as a filmic language, a means of

communicating the mood and atmosphere of a script. According to Nykvist ‘the
cinematographer must immerse himself in the director’s vision, and discover the most
precise equivalents in lighting.’61 I will be exploring Nykvist’s approach to light in
three films directed by Ingmar Bergman,62 Through a Glass Darkly,63 Hour of the Wolf,64
and Fanny and Alexander,65 paying close attention to the way ‘lighting’ echoes ‘what the
script has given’66 Further, I will also discuss how Nykvist uses lighting in different
ways, conveying diverse meanings, according to the requirements of the script, for he
argues:
It is important to be straight unto the script, to help the audience

feel what the author has thought and so change the style of
photography for each sequence in the script.67
For Nykvist, light has kaleidoscopic potential, and if a scene or a film requires a
different ambience, then light can, and should, be used to convey this. Moreover, I will
also argue how ‘lighting’ literally ‘become[s] part of the interpretation of the story, a
vital component with a function of its own’68
In Through a Glass Darkly four family members vacation on a secluded island, in order
to help one of them (Karin) recover from a nervous breakdown. Light is used to
express the fraught tumultuous relationship between the family members as they
struggle to connect with one another. This is evident with the exterior scenes, which,
for the majority of the film, are dominated by under-scaled, mid to low key shots, as in
61 Robert Avrech, ‘Face to Face with Sven Nykvist’, Millimeter, 4, 7/8, (1 July 1976), 12-
16, 61, (12)
62 It may seem that a discussion of Nykvist’s work on these films will necessitate a
thorough discussion of Bergman too, considering the fact that their famed relationship
on set was very much a co-dependent one. Bergman suggests this when he says in
American Cinematographer, 79, 11, (1 Nov 1998), 74-76. ‘…the light in the images is
something I hardly think can ever be attributed to just one of us.’ Nonetheless, he also
says that ‘the impulse comes from me’ but ‘the enormously careful, subtle and
technically clever execution is all Sven Nykvist’s work.’ Bearing this in mind, for this
essay I will be focusing primarily on Nykvist as the main architect of this
cinematographic vision.
63 Through A Glass Darkly, Ingmar Bergman, Janus Films, 1962.
64 Hour of the Wolf, Ingmar Bergman, Lopert Pictures Corporation, 1968.
65 Fanny and Alexander, Ingmar Bergman, Sandrew Pictures, 1982. References to this
film are based on the five hour TV version of the film, and not the three hour theatrical
release.
66 'Let There be Light', Today’s Cinema, n9932, (17 Aug 1971), 4-5.
67 On Location, 7, 7, (1 Nov 1983), 74-76, (76). (Italics mine).
68 American cinematographer, 53, 4, (1 Apr 1972), 380-381, 456, (380).
27
the opening sequence. 69 By shooting on location with ‘the piercing Arctic twilight’70
this natural, dull grey light creates a desolate atmosphere and a sense of despair which
lingers over the family vacation. Nykvist deliberately utilised this natural lighting71 to
reflect the grave mood of the film, as he writes ‘the tone we were aiming for in that
production was a graphite tone—photography without extreme contrasts.’72 This
‘graphite’ lighting has the effect of colouring the mood of each family interaction with
a sombre hue.
When Martin (Karin’s husband) takes David (Karin’s father) out for a ride on the boat
and reveals the extent of Karin’s illness to him, the ‘graphite tone’ further creates a
sense of bleak desolation. During their conversation, the camera alternates between a
medium close-up shot of Martin and of David. In these shots the lighting is quite flat,
or ‘dead’73 as Nykvist terms it; the contrast range is low, with a predominantly mid-
key tone. These lighting choices serve to create a pessimistic atmosphere as Martin
informs David that ‘he [the doctor] couldn’t promise a lasting recovery’ for Karin. This
gloomy atmosphere remains, for even when Martin mentions that Karin’s illness is
‘relatively incurable’ and that there is ‘hope’ for a full recovery, it is unconvincing. The
lighting, with the stretch of endless grey in the background creates a sterile aura of
finality.
Natural, exterior lighting is also exploited to portray David’s isolation from the family,
for when the camera cuts to David he is lit with a lower contrast range than Martin; the
cloudy sky in the background is also a darker, mid-key tone. By separating David in
this way the audience are made aware of his distance from the family. David is Karin’s
father yet he is not even aware of the extent of her illness; he is literally in the dark on
her condition and also with regards to what is happening with the rest of the family.
In this way the lighting reflects the script by demonstrating David’s impotence as a
father figure. This is further compounded when Martin says ‘I’ve become her [Karin’s]
fixed point of existence, perhaps her one security’ and the camera cuts again to
Martin’s low contrast form as he responds with a resigned ‘I see.’
The way natural, simplistic, lighting is used in the interior scenes also illuminates the
fractured relationship of the characters and their state of mind. David hurries inside
69 The use of these cinematographic terms are primarily based on Minor White, Richard
Zakia, and Peter Lorenz’ book, The New Zone System Manual, 4th edn (New York:
Morgan Press, 1978), p.41-43.
70 Films and Filming, 9, 4, (I Jan 1963), 47, (47).
71 When applying his philosophy of light Nykvist prefers to use as little technical
lighting and effects as possible, instead, preferring to use simple, natural lighting. He
believes that the more realistic and natural a scene looks the more the audience will be
immersed in the reality portrayed in the film. In his words ‘You should feel that you’re
in the real room, and you don’t have that feeling if you have effects on every wall’ see
Robert S. Birchard, 'A Northern Light', American Cinematographer, 88, 2 (1 Feb 2007), 78-
82, 84-85, (80)
72 Sven Nykvist, 'Photographing the Films of Ingmar Bergman', American
Cinematographer (October 1962) at ‘bergmanorama: the magic works of Ingmar

Bergman’ <http://www.bergmanorama.com/index.html > [accessed 1 March 2008]
73 Peter Ettedgui, Cinematography, (East Sussex: RotoVision, 1998), p. 38.
28
the house following a very awkward family meal; the audience are given distinct
depth cues, which are heightened by the use of light, and help to create a sense of
David’s isolation. In this sequence the doorframe, which is closest to the camera, is in
the foreground and in darkness. As we look further into the room the middle ground is
much brighter, evidenced by the chest of draws which receives most of the light from
the window. In addition, the long shot view of David in silhouette by the window
makes his form appear indistinct amidst the dark shadows around the doorframe,
clearly placing him in the background. This, coupled with the boundaries of the wide
doorframe and the narrow window frame, create a point of convergence which makes
David appear abandoned and vulnerable. When David moves into the middle ground
where the light is brighter, he fumbles aimlessly for the tobacco then weeps in despair.
With these movements his form becomes splintered by sharp creases of shadow and
light, creating a dynamic chiaroscuro with a high contrast range, which heightens his
anguish. David then shuffles towards the left side of the frame causing the areas of
brightness on his body to dramatically transform. The contrast range is now low as his
form seems to merge with the darkness on the wall, before disappearing off screen
completely. When he re-emerges to stand by the window with his arms spread out in
a crucifix pose, the point of convergence, and the darkness surrounding him, creates an
image of the walls crushing in on him. The choreography of his movements
throughout this scene and the change in light and shading on his form, chronicles how
far David has sunk in despair, and allows the audience to feel his alienation from his
family. The lighting of the room thus becomes a reflection of David’s inner emotional
torment and frustration, as the illusion of familial bliss shatters around him.
In The Hour of the Wolf, light is used to illustrate the escalating madness which
overcomes an artist (Johan) as he and his wife (Alma) sojourn on what appears to be a
barren, isolated island. In this horror film Nykvist adopts a more surreal lighting style.
This has the effect of derailing the viewer as they are invited into the tormented psyche
of the artist, and the splintered relationship he has with his wife.
The boundaries between the real and the unreal are not clearly defined and the lighting
reflects this, as is shown when Johan and his wife visit the von Merkens’ castle. In this
scene everyone is sat around a dinner table, as the hosts attempt to entertain their
guests. However, the chiaroscuro lighting, with full-scaled contrast range, creates a
haunting, gothic atmosphere. The gaiety and warmth which the von Merkens attempt
to portray is exposed as artificial, as the lighting suggests something much more
sinister. Moreover, the way in which the faces are lit is also very telling, as Nykvist
says, ‘truth always lies in the character’s eyes…you are creating an ambience, and you
have to figure out how you are going to get light into the actor’s eyes or, when
appropriate, mask them.’74 The attached shadows on the faces of Johan and the Von
Merkens has the effect of making their eyes appear sunken and hollow like monstrous
skulls. The real seems to bleed into the horrific unreal as Johan’s hosts take on the
qualities of his own nightmarish demons; a discomforting aura also surrounds Johan
who is lit in the same way. Also, the fact that Alma’s face is the most brightly lit in the
room further disconnects her from Johan and the nightmarish von Merkens; this also
hints at the chasm which will later separate them. Alma is the object of purity and light
amidst the darkness which is closing in on her husband.
74Bob Fischer, ‘ASC Salutes Sven Nykvist’, American Cinematographer, 77, 2, (1 Feb
1996), 46-50, (48)
29
The next sequence I will discuss is when Johan and Alma have left the castle, and we
see an extreme long shot view of the couple’s silhouette walking along the coast amidst
a low contrast background; already we see the widening gulf that rips between them.
The next shot further compounds this as we see a medium shot of Alma walking
towards the camera; her dark silhouette is almost lost in the black underexposed
background. With no dialogue in this scene, the light serves to carve out the mood by
suggesting an underlying tension between the couple, creating suspense as the
audience eagerly anticipates the moment when they finally speak. In the next shot
Alma unleashes her frustration at Johan by saying ‘I’ve read your diary and am almost
ill with fear…I can see that something’s happening something awful.’ Their faces
remain indistinct, especially Johan’s whose entire frame is shrouded in a silhouette of
darkness. Thus, when Alma vows that she ‘won’t leave’ Johan, the atmosphere of
unease lingers. Even when Alma’s face becomes much clearer, Johan still remains
indistinguishable in his darkness; the audience feels Alma’s despair and frustration as
she is unable to reach through to her husband. This predominantly under-scaled, low
key lighting also suggests the hopelessness of the couple’s relationship and throughout
this scene there is a sense of foreboding, that all will not end well for the couple.
Light is used to illustrate the fractured psyche of the artist during ‘The hour of the
wolf’, a time when the restless are haunted by their deepest fears and nightmares and
also when most people die and are born. During this supernatural hour Johan tells
Alma of a bite mark he received, and the camera cuts away to a flashback of this event.
Nykvist ensures that the lighting is more dynamic and surreal for this haunting section
of the film, and makes use of ‘violent light’ which, according to Nykvist, has extreme
‘contrast’ and ‘vitality.’75 The scene is silent, apart from the music soundtrack, and
what little dialogue there is we are not permitted to hear. As a result of this, the
audience is forced to focus more on the visual image, aided by the use of light, to get a
feel for the mood. In this sequence Johan is fishing by the ocean when a half-naked,
young boy watches him, transfixed. The over-scaled lighting creates a dangerous
uncanny atmosphere, and the extreme contrast of light and dark, chiseled on the rocks,
suggest a nightmare from the deepest depths of Johan’s mind. As the young boy
inspects Johan’s painting equipment he is, at times, completely washed out in
overexposed whiteness. A mystical supernatural aura is created as his blinding white
figure makes him appear like a sprite, or a ghost, haunting the troubled artist’s
imagination.
Light is further used to expose the darker primitive side of Johan when he bludgeons
the young boy to death with a rock. We are shown a close up of Johan’s face, half of
which is sliced by darkness, creating a deformed monstrous visage. When, he
submerges the boy in the water, after killing him, the camera reveals his face to be
completely shrouded in darkness. He then shrinks back in to the darkness behind the
cliff, like a monster returning to his cavern.
Fanny and Alexander is an epic tale of the Edkahl family, seen through the eyes of
Alexander, as they experience pain, pleasure, love, death, magic and fantastical
imaginings. Through each experience the family endures, light is used to ‘translate’
75 Ettedgui, Cinematography, p.38.
30
this ‘to the right atmosphere.’76 The change in ambience caused by light, from warmth
to cold, darkness to light, also fits in with the overall belief postulated in the film,
namely that life also oscillates between moments of happiness and sorrow, good and
evil, light and dark.
The prologue begins with Alexander performing a toy puppet show; this scene makes
use of what Nykvist refers to as ‘gentle,’ ‘dreamlike light’ which is ‘very soft’.77 The
warm hazy glow of the candle-lights reflecting on the little stage and on Alexander’s
face has no sharp shadows. Since there is no harsh contrast between light and dark,
the light on Alexander’s face (and the rest of the set) blends into the attached shadows.
A sense of child-like innocence is conveyed; the warm tones help to portray the
seductive enchanting beauty of the fantastical world.78 In the next sequence Alexander
leaves his room to call for his family members. Here, the lighting changes to a
predominantly underexposed, under-scaled shot, which reflects his isolation and
loneliness. This is especially evident when he calls for Maj and we see the empty,
under-scaled hallway. When Alexander goes to sleep under the table, the under-
scaled room transforms into a full-scaled scene. The colours are more saturated and
detailed, whereas before they were drab and dreary. The light hitting the statue shines
bright and intense, making it appear animated, angelic, and supernatural. However,
this playful angelic aura is dispersed with the arrival of a scythe which drags
menacingly along the floor. This part of the scene changes to an under-scaled shot,
which emphasises the dismal brown and black hues. Consequently, the scene also
evokes a sense of terror and fear of the unknown, which is heightened when the owner
of the scythe is not immediately revealed. Suspense is created as we slowly see the
gruesome visage of the Grim Reaper appear, which, coupled with the dark tones adds
to the sense of horror. This sense of dread is accentuated in the next scene where we
see Alexander return his gaze to the brightly lit statue; in this scene the light, as if
feeling Death’s presence vanishes, seeming to shrink away in horror, to be replaced by
a darker colder light. The shot then switches to the maid filling up coals, and the room
is a predominantly pale olive green, with a low contrast range.
In this prologue, the lighting changes the ambience from happy to sad, warm to cold,
dark to light and, in one short sequence, outlines the changing atmosphere of the entire
five acts of Fanny and Alexander. Through examining several short scenes from the
76 Today’s Cinema, n9932, (17 Aug 1971) p.4-5.

77 Ettedgui, Cinematography, p. 38
78 A comparison with the puppet show in Hour of the Wolf will allow one to further
appreciate the way Nykvist conveys different moods through lighting. Although a
full-scaled scene, the extreme contrasts between light and dark, as well as the fact that
outside the stage is engulfed in darkness serves to create an eerie atmosphere. The
inner part of the stage, the section closest to the candles, is bright, and full scaled,
however, outside the stage it is engulfed in blackness, and under-scaled. Further, the
haunting atmosphere is further bolstered by the way the light hits the faces of the
audience, for it is predominantly flat dismal and grey. In addition when we are shown
the visage of Lindhorst, the puppet master, his face is lit in chiaroscuro. Further the
wooden bars in the stage cause a violent cast shadow to cut across the lower half of the
Lindhorst’s face, giving him a malevolent jack-o-lantern smile. Although, both The
Hour of the Wolf and Fanny and Alexander include a puppet show sequence, the different
lighting helps to create a completely different ambience, horror in the former and
warmth in the latter.
31
film, and how they correspond to the moods set out in the prologue, one will see how
Nykvist uses light to ‘reflect the nuances of the drama.’79
In the first act, during the family festivities, a warm soft light dominates, which is
accentuated by the bright red colours, and the candles, which light up the dining room.
This part of the film corresponds to the warmth and joy evoked from the puppet show
sequence in the prologue. There is however, a departure from this jovial scene, when
the dance leads the family past the banisters. In this sequence we see a flustered
looking Oscar, collapse in exhaustion on to the stairs. The scarcity of light in this scene
as well as the low contrast range, and brown, grey hues, serves to create a cold
atmosphere, and a sense of foreboding, reminiscent of the Grim Reaper sequence, and
when Alexander searched for him family members in the prologue. It will not all be
roses and sunshine for the Edkahl’s, and this brief scene gives a sense of the grim
darker moments which will feature in the story, as when Oscar’s later dies from stroke.
During the second act, after Oskar’s funeral, the children are woken up by the sound of
the piano. As they investigate the source of the sound they see the ghost of their father
playing a melancholy theme. The room where Oscar sits is full-scaled and the warm
glow from the living room lights creates a holy aura which surrounds him. However,
the outer part of the room is a low contrast, low key, under-scaled shot, which
surrounds Oscar like a cage and adds a sense of dark anguish and sorrow to the scene.
The camera cuts to a close-up of Oscar, and the contrast of light and dark on his face,
makes him appear haggard, further adding to the solemn atmosphere of loss and
mourning.
This atmosphere of loss lingers in to the Third Act where we see another actor playing
the role of Hamlet’s father, a role previously played by Oscar. It is also a year since
Oscar died, and the lighting reflects this grave mood. Contrary to the Christmas
pageant sequence in the first act which was warm, and bathed in soft lighting, this
sequence shows the lighting to be cold, and sparse. The theatre curtains are under-
scaled, swathed in a grim brown green tone, instead of the vibrant red glow which
caressed them before. When the camera cuts to behind the stage, the lone artificial
lamp makes the theatre seem bare and naked, and the theatre is stripped of its
fantastical hue.
In the fourth act we are shown inside the world of the Bishop a world which he
describes as ‘an atmosphere of purity and austerity.’ This is reflected in the scene
where the Bishop interrogates Alexander about the lies he told to the maid. A cold
grey light permeates the room, creating a low contrast tone, which reflects the
authoritarian and spartan aura of the Bishop’s home.80 In this world passion is
submerged, freedom is curtailed, and love is repressed; if there is any love permitted it
is the ‘strong’ ‘harsh’ kind which the Bishop allows. The blotchy cast shadows of
79 Ettedgui, Cinematography, p. 38
80Bruce A. Block, ‘Sven Nykvist, ASC, and Fanny and Alexander,’ American
Cinematographer, 65, 4, (1 Apr 1984), 50-52, 54, 56, 58, (56). Block’s article refers to the
three hour theatrical release of Fanny and Alexander, not the five hour television
release.; see also On Location, 7, 7 (1 November 1983), 74-76, (75).
32
Alexander, Fanny and the maid, pointing towards the bishop, coupled with the harsh
grey light from the window, serve to reinforce the dominance of the Bishop, and the
impotence of the other occupants in the room.
When Alexander is locked in the attic, the low contrast, predominantly, low key under-
scaled lighting creates an oppressive, stifling atmosphere, which reflects Alexander’s
own imprisonment, and loneliness. When the Bishop’s daughters taunt Alexander,
their grey tone gives them an inhuman quality. Further, the grey cold light from the
window only serves to heighten their pallid, ghostly visage. They are not of this world,
and when the older sister looms closer to Alexander, the attached shadows shrouds
half her face in darkness, which emphasises her malicious and sinister persona.
Further, the image of the younger sister lit in chiaroscuro lighting, peering behind the
shadowed wooden beams, creates a mood of horrific terror. The dark segments of the
film which I have discussed, in the first act, through to the fourth act, correspond to the
cold bleak sequences of the prologue when Alexander searches for his family
members, and when the Grim reaper arrives.
In the fifth act Isak manages to successfully kidnap the children from the dictatorial
world of the bishop. When they arrive at Isak’s place the atmosphere is in stark
contrast to the cold biting light of before. As Fanny and Alexander are shown to their
room, the light echoes the warm red glow in the puppet show of the prologue. It is a
relief to sink into the luxurious hues and tones of Isak’s place, as the children, and
indeed the audience, have been deprived of this in the previous acts. The lighting
suggests that the children are now permitted to return to the place of fantasy, love and
happiness. This low contrast, mid key tone also creates an intimate mood, which is
fitting for when Isak reads the children a story. The lighting creates an atmosphere of
hushed calm, which seduces the children and the audience into another world, and like
a healing balm, begins to soothe them from the trauma of the cold past.
The fluctuating journey of light in Fanny and Alexander becomes synonymous with the
fluctuating journey of life. According to the characters Aron and Isak, this constant
ebb and flow occurs because God himself embodies this conflicting dichotomy of light
and dark, ‘Everything is alive, everything is God, or God’s thought, not only what is
good, but also the cruellest things’.
In Through a Glass Darkly, Hour of the Wolf, and Fanny and Alexander, light is endowed
with narrative functions, helping to communicate the mood and themes of the script.
Moreover, throughout my analysis of these films one can see how the different
atmospheric requirement of each script, or scene, necessitates the use of different
lighting. From the ‘graphite tone’ of despair in Through A Glass Darkly, to the gothic
horror and bleak separation in Hour of the Wolf, to the myriad explorations of light and
mood in Fanny and Alexander. Nykvist’s cinematography uses light to reflect and
express the life of the script.
33
Bibliography:
Avrech, Robert, ‘Face to Face with Sven Nykvist’, Millimeter, 4, 7/8, (1 July 1976), 12-16,
61
Bergman, Ingmar, The Magic Lantern: An Autobiography by Ingmar Bergman, trans. By

Joan Tate (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1988).
Birchard, Robert S, ‘A Northern Light’, American Cinematographer, 88, 2 (1 Feb 2007), 78-
82, 84-85
Block, Bruce A, ‘Sven Nykvist, ASC, and Fanny and Alexander,’ American
Cinematographer, 65, 4, (1 Apr 1984), 50-52, 54, 56, 58.
Bordwell, David; Thompson, Kristin, Film Art: An Introduction, 8th edn (London; New
York: McGraw-Hill, 2008)
Chesire, David, The Book of Movie Photography: The Complete Guide to Better Moviemaking
(London: Ebury Press, 1979).
Ettedgui, Peter, Cinematography, (East Sussex: RotoVision, 1998)

Films and Filming, 9, 4, (I Jan 1963), 47, (47).
Films and Filming, 9, 4, (1 Jan 1963), 47
Fischer, Bob, “ASC Salutes Sven Nykvist, American Cinematographer, 77, 2, (1 Feb 1996),
46-50, (48)
‘Let There be Light’, Today’s Cinema, n9932, (17 Aug 1971), 4-5.
Monaco, James, How to Read Film: Movies, Media, Multimedia, 3rd edn (Oxford; New
York: Oxford University Press.
Monthly Film Bulletin, 28, 330, (1 Jul 1961), 92
Monthly Film Bulletin, 30, 353, (1 Jun 1963), p.79
Nykvist, Sven, ‘A Passion for Light’, American Cinematographer, 53, 4, (1 Apr 1972), 380-
381.
On Location, 7, 7, (1 Nov 1983), 74-76, (76)

Pizzello, Stephen, ‘Great Relationships’, American Cinematographer, 79, 11, (1 Nov,
1998), 74-76
Today’s Cinema, n9932, (17 Aug 1971) p.4-5
White, Minor; Zakia, Richard; Lorenz, Peter, The New Zone System Manual, 4th edn
(New York: Morgan Press, 1978)
Online Articles:
34
‘Dialogue on Film: Sven Nykvist’, American Film, 9, 5, (March 1984) 18, at
‘Bergmanorama: the magic works of Ingmar Bergman’
<http://www.bergmanorama.com/index.html > [accessed 1 March 2008]
‘Ingmar Bergman’ at ‘Strictly Film School’

<http://www.filmref.com/directors/dirpages/bergman.html> [accessed 1 March
2008]
Nykvist, Sven, ‘Photographing the Films of Ingmar Bergman’, American

Cinematographer (October 1962) at ‘Bergmanorama: the magic works of Ingmar
Bergman’ <http://www.bergmanorama.com/index.html > [accessed 1 March 2008]
Schneider, Dan, ‘Hour of the Wolf’ at ‘The Alternative Film Guide’

<http://www.altfg.com/blog/film-reviews/hour-of-the-wolf-ingmar-bergman/>
[accessed] 1 March 2008]
Thomas, Gordon, Bright Lights Film Journal, Issue 53 (2006), at ‘BrightLightsFilm’

<http://www.brightlightsfilm.com/53/wolf.htm> [accessed 1 March 2008]
‘Unbearable Lightness: Sven Nykvist’, Film Comment, 25 (September-October 1989), 52-

53, at ‘Bergmanorama: the magic works of Ingmar Bergman’
<http://www.bergmanorama.com/index.html > [accessed 1 March 2008]
Filmography:
Fanny and Alexander. Ingmar Bergman. Sandrew Pictures. 1982.
Hour of the Wolf. Ingmar Bergman. Lopert Pictures Corporation, 1968.
The Virgin Spring. Ingmar Bergman. Janus Films. 1960.
Through A Glass Darkly. Ingmar Bergman. Janus Films. 1962.
The Silence. Ingmar Bergman. Janus Films. 1964.
Winter Light. Ingmar Bergman. Janus Films. 1963.
35
36
Interior Visions: The Films of Dion Beebe
Collateral (2004), In The Cut (2003) and Memoirs of a Geisha (2005)
JAMES HAY
In a still relatively young career, cinematographer Dion Beebe has displayed a

substantial ability for variation and adaptability. An examination of his filmography
shows the great number of directors he has worked with, including Jane Campion,
Michael Mann and Rob Marshall, all of whom he has worked with twice, as well as
Kurt Wimmer, Gavin Hood and Gillian Armstrong. It also reveals the wide variety of
genres in which he has worked, including dystopian sci-fi thriller, musical, Japanese
period drama, erotic crime thriller, undercover cop action thriller and World War Two
romance. The variety of films Beebe has worked on has necessitated a considerable
variation in his use of mise en scene, tone, lighting, framing and composition in order
to aid and enhance the divergent narratives of these films. In an article written about
his time working on Michael Mann’s Collateral (2004), Bryant Frazer refers to Dion
Beebe as a ‘chameleon’ (Frazer, 2006). The term chameleon is problematic when talking
about Beebe, however, as while he is indeed adaptable, he is by no means invisible.
Beebe’s aesthetic influence on his films can be clearly seen, not necessarily as an
auteurist signature, relying on stylistic repetition, but certainly as an interpretive
ability so accomplished as to be visible throughout his work. This essay will consider
Beebe’s aesthetic influence and explore, through a close reading of three of his films –
Collateral, In The Cut (2003) and Memoirs of a Geisha (2005) – the various stylistic
techniques Beebe adopts to create mood, infer meaning and enhance narrative depth.
Collateral was Beebe’s first film working alongside Michael Mann and his first use of
High Definition cameras (hereafter, HD). It is a thriller that takes place over one full
night, in which Vincent, a contract killer, forces taxi driver Max to drive him around
Los Angeles to complete five assassinations. The primary reason that Mann chose HD
to shoot the majority of the film was to achieve the goal of making the ‘LA night as
much of a character in the story as Vincent and Max were’ (Holen, 2004: 41), by
utilising HD’s ability to achieve exposure in extremely low light levels – allowing them
to film night scenes using just the existing, ambient light – and its ability to maintain an
exceptionally long depth of field. Throughout the film, characters in the foreground,
and clouds, buildings and silhouetted trees on the horizon line, are all seen with a
clarity that could not be captured on film. One such use of this depth of field occurs
shortly after Vincent’s first victim falls out of a window, landing on Max’s taxi below.
As Vincent draws his gun to prevent Max from running away, he is filmed in a mid-
shot, just left of centre, over the shoulder of Max, who is positioned to the far right of
the frame. Vincent is almost entirely in shadow, lit only by the soft blue ambient light
coming from the apartment building out of shot to the left. Vincent is deliberately
positioned in the bottom half of the frame so as to make visible the lights and outlines
of several high-rise buildings behind him in downtown LA. As Mann notes in the
director’s commentary, ‘Downtown is about two miles away, you couldn’t see this
without using digital video’ (Mann, 2004).
Using HD’s increased depth of field on Collateral – as Beebe and Mann would do again
two years later on Miami Vice (2006) – serves both aesthetic and thematic purposes.
Firstly, it creates an innovative look in which background focus doesn’t sacrifice the
37
focus of characters in the foreground, adding, in addition to Vincent and Max, a third
element in the frame which serves to present the city environment as vast and
imposing, fulfilling Mann’s desire to have the city itself as a prominent character.
Furthermore, the long depth of field also aids the narrative and character development
of the film by illustrating the vulnerable and isolated situation that Max has been cast
into, a situation that for the majority of the film plays out beyond his control. This
depth of field is also seen through the windows from within Max’s taxi, which having
been established as a place of sanctuary for Max in his opening scene further
emphasises the effect that Vincent’s invasion into this space is having on him. To keep
the exterior city-at-night visible whilst filming inside the taxi, light levels had to remain
low; ‘a system had to be devised to light the actors in a way that would avoid the
“incandescent light in your face” look while still drawing in the surrounding
nightscape.’ (Hurwitz, 2004). To achieve this, these scenes were lit using electro-
luminescent panels that were customised for the film, and were able to be attached by
Velcro to any part of the taxi’s interior. The light emitted is a very soft, greenish one
that doesn’t block out the nightscape exterior. It also further enhances the effect of the
city being a character in the film as the panels make the shots look, as Beebe notes,
‘like there was no real source, [they] make it appear that everything was lit from the
street by the street’s own ambience’ (Hurwitz, 2004).
Beebe’s use of light and colour temperature to extrapolate character insight is seen later
in the film in the Jazz club scene. As the scene unfolds it is revealed that Vincent is a
Jazz aficionado, and upon killing the bar owner a close up shot of his face reveals a
momentary expression of regret; the ‘first anomaly to the perfect machine-like
presentation we’ve had from Vincent’ (Mann, 2004). The insight into Vincent’s
character and the internal conflict he suffers is portrayed aesthetically throughout the
scene, and I will use three shots in particular to illustrate this. At the beginning of the
scene, Vincent and Max are framed centrally in a long shot from the stage and both are
looking towards the musicians. A strong sidelight from off-screen left illuminates
Vincent’s body, leaving Max, seated to the right of Vincent, almost entirely in shadow.
This serves to infer Vincent’s imposing and dominant presence over Max, but more so
singles Vincent out as the sole appreciator of the music. Behind Vincent, orange and
yellow coloured artwork is lit by the only other source lighting in the shot, providing a
warm cocoon of light in the upper middle of the frame around Vincent’s head, giving
the impression of comfort and sanctuary. The strength of the sidelight, however, places
one half of Vincent’s face in complete shadow, suggesting a psychological conflict. This
is further inferred moments later as Vincent, Max and the bar owner are seated at the
table drinking, with Vincent once again positioned at the far left of the frame. The
warm orange artwork is still visible to the upper left of Vincent, and he is clearly
absorbed by the Miles Davis story the bar owner is recalling. The left side of his body,
however, remains bathed in the white light, the starkness of which is exaggerated by
his white shirt, white skin, silver hair and grey suit. Finally, just before he kills the bar
owner, he glances towards the kitchen to check that the waitress has left, and the
kitchen is lit by an extremely stark, neon-green light; completely at odds with the
warm, shadow-filled interior of the bar. This serves to portray, along with the strong
sidelight, the ever-present nature of Vincent’s cold, clinical and emotionless work, and
his inability to gain sanctuary from it.
38
The contrast of warm orange-red light with cold, neon green light can be seen in many
of Beebe’s films, and is often used to portray a psychological conflict within a character
– as in Collateral – or between two characters, such as the use of red and green square
glass tiles in Holy Smoke (1999). Both of these effects are achieved in In the Cut, Beebe’s
second film made with Jane Campion, where Beebe frequently uses the mixed lighting
of warm colours with neon-green. He also employs dimly lit, shadow filled interiors,
blurred and obstructed shots, and almost entirely hand held cameras to create a dark,
gritty, ambiguous and suspicious mood throughout.
In the seedy bar where Franny meets Cornelius at the beginning of the film, bars of
yellow, blue and white light stream in from the window and doorway, casting strips
across the ceiling, while unknown characters playing pool, on a deep red pool table,
remain indistinguishable in shadow. Two girls wear bright red and green dresses
respectively, establishing the colour dichotomy that will be seen repeatedly throughout
the film. On their first date, Malloy and Franny visit a bar lit by an array of practicals –
yellow floor and table lamps, red fairy lights, green neon fridge lights – as well as
unseen source lighting casting the same three colours throughout the bar and directly
on to the characters. The mixture of colourful, but soft and unrevealing, lighting
continues to emphasise the film’s theme of ambiguity and distrustfulness, while one
mid-length shot of Franny and Malloy seated at the bar, centre frame, bathes Franny
and her side of the frame in deep red, and Malloy and his side of the frame in neon
green. In aligning audience identification and subjectivity with Franny, as will be
discussed shortly, the red light on Franny thus signifies both her internal sexual desire
for Malloy (shown by a previous scene where she masturbates whilst fantasising about
him), and a sense of her being in danger, while the green light on Malloy signifies her
cautious distrust for him, and his dubious moral state. These same colours are used
again in Franny’s flat – through a red lamp shade above, and a neon under-cupboard
light – when they first have sex, illustrating Franny’s continuing distrust even after
satisfying her sexual desire for him.
One of the most striking visual elements of the film is Beebe’s use of blurred edges
around the frame to create and enhance subjectivity. Shots of Franny filmed from a
distance, obstructed by lampposts, signs, cars etc, and blurred around the edge of the
frame (of which there are many throughout the film), build tension by giving the
impression of her being observed; a tension that is heightened by the fact that the look
is never reversed, and so the suggestion of an unseen person spying is never confirmed
or denied. Often referred to as a feminist filmmaker, Jane Campion is known for
challenging and subverting gender roles in her films, and on a psychoanalytical level,
Beebe’s use of blurred edges around the screen serve to prompt a reading that the film
challenges the ‘male gaze’ of mainstream narrative cinema, a theory popularised by
Laura Mulvey’s ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’ (1975). In the various scenes in
which Franny reads poetry on the placards above the subway train windows, Beebe
uses a Clairmont Swing and Shift lens system which, as John Calhoun explains in
American Cinematographer, ‘throws the plane of focus to whichever angle one swings
the lens, [it is] used for moments of intense subjectivity’ (Calhoun, 2003: 77). The result
is a small area of focus in the middle of the frame that moves with the movement of the
camera. In doing so the audience follows word by word what Franny is reading,
explicitly identifying the shots as her point of view. When blurred edges in the frame
are used for non-subjective shots (such as within Pauline’s apartment), or the
39
aforementioned long shots in which subjectivity is never confirmed, the shots mirror
the ones used to display the ‘intense subjectivity’ of Franny’s subway scenes, and so by
association the audience gaze is made female, not male. This reading of the film is
further enhanced when considering the opening scene in which Franny secretly views
the unidentified man receiving oral sex. Beebe’s use of shadow to hide Franny mirrors
Mulvey’s summary of the cinematic audience in which ‘the darkness of the auditorium
[…] helps to promote the illusion of voyeuristic separation’ (Mulvey, 1975: 9), while the
repeated extreme close-ups of the erect penis subverts Mulvey’s paradigm of
male/active, female/passive, by making the subject (Franny) female, and the object
(the penis) male. Furthermore, Beebe’s use of extreme close-up highlights Franny’s
sexually aroused facial expression, signifying the penis as an ‘erotic object for the
character(s) within the screen story’, and as the gaze has been made female, an ‘erotic
object for the spectator within the auditorium’ (Mulvey, 1975: 11).
In stark contrast to the dark, gritty, hand held aesthetic of In the Cut, Beebe’s second
project with director Rob Marshall – his first being Chicago (2002) – was Memoirs of a
Geisha, a romantic drama following the journey of nine year old Chiyo from childhood
to adulthood, when she is renamed Sayuri, and her progression to the role of Geisha.
Beebe’s key reference points for the aesthetic of the film were Bernardo Bertulocci and
Vittorio Storaro’s collaboration, The Last Emperor (1987), for what Beebe calls ‘Storaro’s
audacious and elegant camera movement’ (Scott, 2006), and Stanley Kubric’s Barry
Lyndon (1975) for, as Beebe again states, ‘the incredible interior feel we needed for our
movie’ (Rogers, 2006).
Storaro’s influence is seen throughout the film with the proliferation of fluid camera
movement, utilising dollies, cranes and steadicam for over eighty percent of the
filming (see Thomson, 2006: 40). The effect of this shooting style enhances the sense of
journey, both literally and internally, that Chiyo undergoes throughout the film, whilst
also heightening the sensation of wonder that Marshall and Beebe wished to achieve in
portraying ‘a mysterious world full of exquisite detail’ (Fisher, 2006). A striking
example of this fluid camera movement used to achieve such an effect occurs the first
time Chiyo peers over the roof of the Geisha house. The camera, fixed to a
Technocrane, performs a slow push in towards Chiyo from mid-shot to close-up,
capturing her expression of wide-eyed wonder, thus signalling her subjectivity in the
following shot; a cut to the rooftops she is looking at captured through a slow tilt
upwards, gradually revealing the expanse of haze-shrouded rooftops spreading off to
the distance. The slow, free-flowing movement of the camera in this shot enhances the
enormity and seemingly mystical nature of the world that Chiyo has been cast in to.
Recreating the quality of the Japanese light in this shot and throughout the film – ‘a
soft, shadowless light that had a wintery feeling’ (Rogers, 2006) – was achieved
through constructing the largest freestanding diffuser ever made (see Appendix),
covering the entire outdoor set in a huge silk sheet. Doing this enabled almost
complete control for Beebe over the temperature and contrast range of the light in
exterior scenes, allowing for subtle alterations in order to accurately represent the
changing of the seasons.
This manipulation over the exterior light, combined with Beebe’s equal manipulation
of interior light in the film, serves not only to signal a passing of time, but also to infer,
once again, character development and interior thoughts. He uses lighting to chart
40
Chiyo’s journey by separating the film into roughly three sections; Chiyo as a child,
Chiyo becoming Sayuri the Geisha, and Sayuri after the war. The opening scenes of the
film are incredibly dark and take place largely in closed off interiors, often with just
one deep orange practical light (the Barry Lyndon influence is clear in these scenes)
from a 25watt bulb housed inside a paper lantern or cooking fire (see Thomson, 2006:
42). As Chiyo becomes increasingly accustomed to, and comfortable with her new
surroundings, more practicals and hidden supplementary fill lighting are used, sliding
doors are increasingly left open and more scenes occur outside, all serving to create a
lighter and less oppressive mood. After the war, neon and electric lighting is
increasingly used to create, as Beebe says, ‘a more neutral level of light that is seen
today’ (Rogers, 2006).
A pivotal scene in the film is Chiyo’s first meeting with the General, at which point she
falls in love with him and decides she must become a Geisha. Beebe’s lighting, framing
and composition in this scene add greatly to its impact, and signal the transition from
the first section of the film to the second. As the General kneels down alongside Chiyo
on the bridge, both are framed not only by the camera, but also within the curved
rectangular frame of the wooden bridge, creating a frame within the frame, giving
extra emphasis to this first meeting. Behind the two is a tree in full pink and white
blossom, signalling not only the change of season, but also the maturing of Chiyo into
a young woman. The sexual connotations of a ‘spring awakening’ further infer the
romantic union that will eventually occur between her and the General. A pan to the
right and slow zoom out as the General walks Chiyo to the cherry ice stand reveals a
bustling street scene, and shows the General leading Chiyo towards the blossoming
tree and his two Geisha’s, metaphorically leading her towards a new life. Beebe lights
the scene with a far higher Kelvin than in any previous scene, whilst the heavy silk-
diffusion and a low contrast range minimise the amount of shadow in the scene, and
thus further enhances Chiyo’s departure from the life of a house girl by creating a cool,
clear light entirely at odds with the dimly lit and claustrophobic interior scenes of the
first third of the film.
While the diversity of Dion Beebe’s filmography is considerable, a constant in his

films remains the manner in which he uses lighting, composition and framing to
expand upon and emphasise the interior psyches, feelings and emotions of his film’s
protagonists. This constant suggests a subscription to expressionism that is achieved in
spite of the inconsistency of genre, subject matter and locations of the films he works
on, which is achievable due to his adaptability and dexterity in utilising the tools of his
art. Dion Beebe is not an auteur, but his aesthetic influence is clearly visible. This
visibility derives precisely from the lack of repetition or overt similarity in his films. He
approaches each project afresh and tailors his technical and aesthetic choices to fit the
mood, tone and narrative of the film, which is evident from the close reading of the
three films addressed in this essay. Despite considerably varied content, they all deal
significantly with interior feelings, conflicts and emotions that are given life by Beebe; a
cinematographer whose influence markedly enhances the character development,
narrative extrapolation and aesthetic depth of all his films.
41
Bibliography
Alexander Ballinger, New Cinematographers, (London, Laurence King Publishing, 2004)
John Calhoun, ‘Interior Landscapes’, American Cinematographer, November 2003, pp.

77-85.
Bob Fisher, ‘A Conversation with Dion Beebe, ASC/ACS’, International

Cinematographers Guild, (2006)
<http://www.cameraguild.com/index.html?interviews/chat_beebe/index.htm~top.
main_hp> [accessed 12 March 2009]
Bryant Frazer, ‘How DP Dion Beebe adapted to HD for Michael Mann’s Collateral’,
International Cinematographers Guild, (2006)
Jay Holen, ‘Hell on Wheels’, American Cinematographer, August 2004, pp. 41-50.
Michael Hurwitz, ‘What It Took To Create ‘Collateral’’, Internet Encyclopedia of

Cinematographers, (2004) < http://www.cinematographers.nl/THEDoPH4.htm>
[accessed 12 March 2009]
Michael Mann, Collateral, (2004), Paramount Pictures.
Gerald Millerson, Lighting for Film and Television, (Oxford, Focal Press, 1994)
Laura Mulvey, ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’, Screen, Vol. 16, No. 3, (1975) 6-
18.
Pauline Rogers, ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’, International Cinematographers Guild, (2006)

Michael Scott, ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’, Dion Beebe, ASC, ACS, (2006) <
http://bonza.rmit.edu.au/essays/2006/Michael%20Scott/MemoirsofaGeisha.html>
[accessed 12 March 2009]
Patricia Thomson, ‘Feminine Mystique, American Cinematographer, January 2006, pp.37-

46.
Filmography
Barry Lyndon (1975) dir. Stanley Kubrick, Hawk Films.

Chicago (2002) dir. Rob Marshall, Miramax Films.
Collateral (2004) dir. Michael Mann, Paramount Pictures.
42
Holy Smoke (1999) dir. Jane Campion, Miramax Films.
In The Cut (2004) dir. Jane Campion, Pathé Pictures International.
Memoirs of a Geisha (2005) dir. Rob Marshall, Columbia Pictures Corporation.
Miami Vice (2006) dir. Michael Mann, Universal Pictures.
The Last Emperor (1987) dir. Bernardo Bertolucci, Yanko Films Limited.
43
Appendix
Clairmont Swing Shift Lens System
Access to shifts and swings also provides nearly total control over the focus plane, for extremely deep — or shallow —
depth of field. Distant objects and extremely close ones can both be sharp in the same frame. Or you can limit focus to a
particular object, isolating it even from objects the same distance from the lens. (Such as Franny’s POV shots of poetry on the
metro in In the Cut )
Memoirs of a Geisha – dir. Rob Marshall
To help simulate the flat winter light of Kyoto, key grip Scott Robinson and his crew covered the enormous set with a
retractable silk suspended from two freestanding trusses.
A night time view of the truss rigs. Measuring 50' high x 260' long, the structures stood 300' apart
44
Collateral – dir. Michael Mann.
Jazz Bar scene – Beebe separates Vincent from Max and the bar owner through the strong white side-light,
exaggerated by his white shirt, silver suit and silver hair.
High Definition’s impressive depth of field – making the city a dominant character in the film.
The reason for using High Definition video on Collateral was the ability to film “literally in [light] levels you could
barely see with the naked eye,” recalls Beebe.
45
In the Cut – dir. Jane Campion
Saturation of red and yellow light in a bar scene.
Observational distance shot, giving the effect of hidden surveillance.
Shallow depth of field and considerable use of light and shadow in Pauline’s flat.
46
Collateral
47
Memoirs of a Geisha
48
49
50
Roger Deakins and the Period Film
The Man Wasn’t There (2001), Jarhead (2005) and The Assassination of Jesse James by the
Coward Robert Ford (2007)
NEIL CALLOWAY
In a career that has spanned almost thirty years, the Briton Roger Deakins has worked
as a cinematographer in American films, notably in collaboration with the Coen
brothers, photographing all but one of their films since 1991's Barton Fink.81 Alongside
his work as the Coen's cinematographer of choice, has also undertaken numerous
projects with other directors. This essay will look at how he represents history and
often, though not always, photographs period films in a way that uses elements of the
style of photography and cinema of the period he is recreating. Looking at each of
these films not in the order that they were made, but in the order that they are set, I
will analyse one of his collaborations with the Coen brothers, The Man Who Wasn't
There82 and two films he was worked on with other directors.
Bringing an outsider's eye to the American films he works on, it is perhaps worth
noting that two of the three films this essay will look at were directed by non-
Americans; The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford83 by the New
Zealand born Andrew Dominik and Jarhead84 by the Briton Sam Mendes. This is
despite the fact that both films telling very American stories; that of a legendary US
outlaw in Dominik's film and the experiences of US marines in Mendes's.
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (hereafter Assassination) does
not, at first glance, resemble a classic western; the action does not take place in the
dusty streets of lawless frontier towns. Deakins says that director Andrew Dominik
referred to the film as a “Victorian western”;85 The west we see in the film is not the
'wild' west of myth, but a civilised, almost recognisably modern west, where towns
have been long established, in which mass media and communications exist, enabling
Jesse James and his gang to become national celebrities. Deakins's cinematography
reflects this, with shots that evoke the era's daguerreotype photography featuring
blurred edges and deep focus.86 Many of these shots are seen while a voice over is
heard, and as well as resembling the look of the time, their appearance as vintage
photographs underneath a third person narration, these shots are also reminiscent of
81 Barton Fink dir. Joel Coen, 1991. Burn After Reading (dir. Joel Coen, 2008) was shot by
Emmanuel Lubezki.
82 The Man Who Wasn't There dir. Joel Coen, 2001.
83 The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford dir. Andrew Dominik, 2007.
84 Jarhead dir. Sam Mendes, 2005.
85 Stephen Pizzello and Jean Oppenheimer, “Western Destinies” American Cinematographer,

88:10, October 2007. pp.30-40,42,44,46-47. p.33.
86 Jim Kitses, “Twilight of the Idol” Sight & Sound 17:12, December 2007 pp.16-20, pp.16-18.
51
the documentaries on the American West and the American Civil War directed by Ken
Burns, which feature slow pans across 19th Century sepia photographs.
Of the influence of period photography on the film, Deakins says that Dominik “had a
whole lot of photographic references for the look of the movie, mainly the work of still
photographers, but also images clipped from magazines, stills from Days of Heaven87,
and even Polaroids taken on location that looked interesting or unusual.”88 The
influence of Terrence Malick, director of Days of Heaven, should not be underestimated
– the casting of Sam Shepherd as Frank James in Dominik's film is surely an echo of his
appearance in Malick's earlier film, and Dominik, before a Directors Guild dispute
forced him to leave the film, shot second unit footage on Malick's 2005 film The New
World.89
The daguerreotype shots were created entirely in camera, with lenses which are now
named Deakinizers in honour of their creator, by using several small lenses in front of
each other to create the blurred effect. Some of these shots are also time-lapse images,
photographed by steadicam operator Damon Moreau, and shot when the steadicam
was not required.90 (see fig. 1)
Fig. 2 A time-lapse shot photographed using “Deakinizers” to create a blurred, large

depth of field.
In terms of cinematography, perhaps the most memorable scene of Assassination comes

with an early train robbery. Taking place at night on a stretch of railway track that
goes through a forest, it is lit only with the lights on the train or the lanterns of the
James gang (see fig. 2). A 5K Par was placed on the front of the train, with small gag
lights underneath the engine to illuminate the steam. The lanterns had 300 or 500 watt
bulbs placed inside them, sometimes with the flame still inside and the bulb dimmed
down to add more light.91 This gives the sequence an atmospheric, but also realistic
87 Days of Heaven, dir. Terrence Malick, 1978
88 Pizzello and Oppenheimer, 2007, p.37.
89 Emanuel Levy, “Assassination of Jesse James”,

<http://www.emanuellevy.com/search/details.cfm?id=7539> [accessed 1 st May 2010] The New
World, dir. Terrence Malick, 2005.
90 Pizzello and Oppenheimer, 2007, pp.38-39
91Pizzello and Oppenheimer, 2007, p.34.
52
look. Atmospheric because of the low levels of light, the steam and the darkness of the
surrounding forest, but realistic because the train is not lit by impossibly placed light
sources.
Fig.2 Jesse is silhouetted by the light of the train just before the robbery. The light on
the front of the train, those underneath illuminating the steam and the lantern – the
only light sources – can clearly be seen.
By using low levels of lighting, on occasions the film has moments where the interiors
are well lit, but the exteriors are too bright – an example of this is an early scene of
Jesse in a saloon, where the windows in the background are overexposed and the
foreground is underexposed. Reviewing the film, Edward Buscombe makes the
comparison between Deakins's photography of the bleak winter landscapes of the
Midwest, which he claims are “evocative of the coldness and emptiness that lie in heart
of Jesse James.”92
One way the film is reminiscent of classic westerns is in its concious homage to the
John Ford technique of showing a frame – such as a doorway – within the frame.
According to Deakins, he and Dominik often discussed this, so the cinematographer
was always looking for opportunities to “break up the wide frame.”93 One of these is
the moment Jesse catches Robert Ford's reflection in a picture just as Ford is about to
shoot him (see fig. 3).
92 Edward Buscombe, “The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford” Sight &
Sound, 17:12 December 2007, p.51
93 Pizzello and Oppenheimer, 2007, p.31
53
Fig. 3 In a point of view shot from Jesse James's perspective, Robert Ford is reflected,
and framed by the window, in the moments before he kills James.
Set in Northern California in 1949, The Man Who Wasn't There is a homage, in themes
and style, to the film noirs of that era that the film's characters may have watched.
Though shot on colour stock for practical reasons – according to Deakins it is better
quality than black and white film - as well as financial ones; contractual obligation
required a colour home video release in certain countries, the film was released in
black and white. In an interview with American Cinematographer, Deakins claimed that
for a film such as The Man Who Wasn't There black and white is more evocative in ways
in which colour photography isn't.94
In the same interview, Deakins noted that “lighting is not only about lighting, it is
about not lighting, and cutting off of objects as much as shining light on them.”95 This
is key to understanding the cinematography of The Man Who Wasn't There and its most
striking scene in terms of cinematography. This is also the turning point of the film,
and the scene Deakins is most proud of, comes when Ed Crane, the barber at the centre
of the action, is called to visit Big Dave, his wife's employer who has discovered Ed is
blackmailing him.
At night, Ed enters the department store that Big Dave runs, the only light from the
street light coming through the doors (actually an 18K light on a crane), a neon sign
and the lights of a Christmas tree, resulting in long diagonal shadows across the shop
floor, with the mannequins in silhouette.
When Ed enters Big Dave's office, we see Dave, apparently lit only by the lamp on the
desk (see fig. 4). In fact, as well as the light from the lamp wired with two 200 watt
halogen bulbs, there is some light on the left side of Dave's face, with a piece of silver
foil under the lamp to reflect more light up onto his face.96 This, combined with the
lack of a conventional fill light, creates sharply defined shadow lines.
Fig 4 Big Dave in his office, with the main source of light coming from his desk lamp.
94 Jay Holben “The Root(s) of All Evil” American Cinematographer, 82:10, October 2001, pp.48-
50,52,54-57. p.49
95 Holben, 2001 p.49
96 Jon Silberg, “Illuminating a Dark Deed” American Cinematographer, 83:3 March 2002, pp.56-
61, p.57-58.
54
When the shot shows Ed, he is lit with a “tweenie” (a small light with a wattage
somewhere between 200 and 1000 watts) as if that is the desk lamp, with second
tweenie bounced off a piece of white card to illuminate his face.97 (See fig. 5)
Fig 5. Ed lit by two tweenies as if they are a desk lamp.
When the scene cuts to show Ed and Big Dave fighting from the shop floor , Deakins
breaks from his usual style of cinematography continuity by lighting the office far
more brightly than it would realistically be, to “draw the eye directly to the most
important part of the shot: the struggling figures.”98 (See fig. 6) This is Deakins taking
cinematographer to another level: not just to light a scene so it looks good, but as a
device to control and guide the viewer's eye.
Fig 6. The fight between Ed and Big Dave as seen from the shop floor, with the office lit
so direct the viewer's eye
Towards the end of The Man Who Wasn't There, when Ed is led into the execution
chamber to be electrocuted, the room is blindingly white (fig. 7), as if Ed has been
transported into the flying saucer he witnessed – or perhaps imagined – outside the
prison moments before, or as if he is already dead, and this is a monochrome heaven in
the style of A Matter of Life and Death.
97 Silberg, 2002. p.59
98 Silberg, 2002, p.60
55
Fig 7 Execution chamber, UFO or the afterlife?
In contrast to Assassination and The Man Who Wasn't There, Jarhead's cinematography
does not set out to consciously evoke the look of the period. The film's setting – the
1991 Gulf War and its build up – is familiar to us in the form of green tinged night
vision scenes of bombing raids and anti-aircraft fire over Baghdad, and gun camera
footage of precision hits on Iraqi targets. In the film, Deakins eschews this style,
possibly because the war covered on television, conducted from high tech bombers
thousands of feet above the Iraqi desert is not the one the Marine Company shown in
the film participate in.
Much of Jarhead seems overexposed; blinding white light streams through windows
even in the US set training scenes. An argument could be made that this is because
much of the film – training in the US and boredom in the Saudi desert – has a
dreamlike quality, with reality only coming with the start of combat and the darkness
that shrouds the film once retreating Iraqis have set light to Kuwait's oil fields. It
should be noted that the final scenes, showing the company at home and at work in
America, and an early training scene where a recruit is accidentally shot during a live
firing exercise, have none of this bleached out feel to them. Deakins says that director
Sam Mendes “Wanted this feeling of nothingness. These guys are flown into this very
real but surreal landscape”99, what Ian McEwan refers to as “the flat and supposedly
empty landscape approximating a strategist's map on which fury of industrial
proportions can be let loose.”100 This fury will later be seen as a darkness that
surrounds – and even covers – the characters in the film.
Deakins uses other techniques to evoke a sense of time and place in Jarhead. A
sequence where Swoff, the main character, recounts his past – from his conception
while his father was on an R&R break during the Vietnam War, to him having sex with
his girlfriend during High School, the moments he talks about are shown as if they are
a home movie (see fig 8). They scenes are presented as if they are being projected onto
a screen that only occupies the centre of the actual picture, and have a grainy quality
and rounded corners to resemble 8MM footage. Though they try to ape the style of
home movies, they are not, and perhaps could not, be them. The events they show –
an argument, as well as Swoff's conception, for example are not images he either could
not have witnessed or would not want to have captured for posterity; they are
99 Denis Seguin, “The Art of film-making” Screen International, 1525, 25th November 2005,
pp.14-17. p.17
100 Saturday by Ian McEwan, Jonathan Cape, 2005, p.60
56
memories, or memories of stories he has been told, recounted and shown to us in a
way that informs the viewer that what they are watching is in the past.
Fig 8. The flashback as home movie.
Elsewhere in Jarhead, two scenes where the Marines are being interviewed by a TV
crew during the long build up to the war are shown slightly pixellated (see fig. 9), as if
what we are seeing is the actual interview footage, with the mens' names, ranks and
home towns also being shown on screen to reinforce this, and reinforce the status of
the Gulf War as a war covered in minute detail on television.
In his commentary to the DVD, Mendes states that he did not want any “God shots”
and according to Deakins, wanted to use hand-held cameras almost exclusively.101
This led to Deakins and Mendes vetoing each other's shots that would be unrealistic
from the point of view of an observer.102 In fact, there are several shots in Jarhead that
are both from a point of view and unrealistic, such as one from Swoff's point of view
through his gas mask during an impromptu game of American football in the desert
(see fig. 10)
Fig 9. Interviews with the Marine Company presented as video footage.
Fig 10. Swoff's point of view through his Gas Mask, unrealistic, but not a “God shot”.
101 Patricia Thompson “A War of the Soul” American Cinematographer, 86:11, November 2005.
pp36-47. p.37
102 Thompson, 2005. p.38
57
Deakins states his dislike for war films that have shots soaring over the battlefield, or
tracking behind a falling bomb.103 This is never shown in Jarhead. The lack of action
could lead to Jarhead being described not as a war film, but a film that happens to be
set during a war. When bombs are dropped in Jarhead, they are seen from the point of
view of Swoff and his sniper team partner Troy when they are denied the chance to
shoot an Iraqi in an airfield control tower, and it comes as a disappointment when they
see the airfield destroyed by air support being called in. Far from glorying in the
destruction, the film presents it as a opportunity snatched from the lead characters.
Though it may not try to recreate the media coverage of the Gulf War, Jarhead does
contain elements familiar to us from the conflict, from the interviews with the troops in
the desert during the long build up to combat, to the “highway of death” of destroyed
Iraqi vehicles and troops on the retreat from Kuwait, and most notably in the use of the
burning Kuwaiti oil wells.
The Marines among the oil well fires were shot on a sound stage, with indoor
substituting for the blacked out smoke filled skies. A black cyclorama – a revolving
background – was used, with towers of flickering lights – later replaced by computer
generated flames – standing in for the burning wells (see fig. 11). Deakins says “the
light was blooming”104 Going from bleached out flat desert to blacked out acrid skies,
the film changes from dreamlike boredom to the horrors and madness of war, however
briefly, purely by a change in lighting of the film.
Fig. 11 The darkness of a sound stage is turned into Kuwait's burning oil fields.
In all three of the films this essay has looked at, the Deakins's cinematography adds
something to the film, and in the way that it recalls the age, it helps immerse the
viewer in the era in which the story is taking place. His cinematography also sets the
mood for the film, be it a sense of piercing beauty at the landscapes in Assassination, or
a feeling of unease that comes with the film noir lighting of The Man Who Wasn't There
or the mixture of overexposed boredom and dark danger that features in Jarhead.
Bibliography
Buscombe, Edward, “The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford”
Sight & Sound, 17:12 (December 2007), p.51
103 Thompson, 2005. p.38
104 Seguin, 2005, p.17
58
Holben, Jay “The Root(s) of All Evil” American Cinematographer, 82:10, (October 2001),
pp.48-50,52,54-57.
Kitses, Jean “Twilight of the Idol” Sight & Sound 17:12, (December 2007), pp.16-20
Levy, Emmanuel, “Assassination of Jesse James”,
<http://www.emanuellevy.com/search/details.cfm?id=7539> [No date, accessed 1st
May 2010]
McEwan, Ian, Saturday, (London: Jonathan Cape, 2005)
Oppenheimer, Jean, and Pizzello, Stephen “Western Destinies” American
Cinematographer, 88:10, (October 2007), pp.30-40,42,44,46-47.
Silberg, Jon, “Illuminating a Dark Deed” American Cinematographer, 83:3 (March 2002),
pp.56-61.
Thompson, Patricia, “A War of the Soul” American Cinematographer, 86:11, (November
2005) pp36-47.
Filmography
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (Andrew Dominik, Warner
Brothers, 2007)
Badlands (Terrence Malick, Warner Brothers, 1973)
Barton Fink (Joel Coen, Working Title, 1991)
Burn After Reading (Joel Coen, Working Title, 2008)
Days of Heaven (Terrence Malick, Paramount, 1978)
Jarhead (Sam Mendes, Universal, 2005)
The Man Who Wasn't There (Joel Coen, Working Title, 2001)
The New World (Terrence Malick, New Line, 2005)
59
60
Conflicts in Light: Vittorio Storaro
Last Tango in Paris (1972), Sheltering Sky (1990) and Tango (1998)
ALISSA TIMOSHKINA
Cinematography is often perceived as a from of craft, and as a technical element of

filmmaking. Rarely is it perceived as an art form and even less so as a philosophical
intellectual endeavour. “To me, making a film is like resolving conflicts between light
and dark, cold and warmth, blue and orange or other contrasting colours. There
should be a sense of energy, or change of movement. A sense that time is going on —
light becomes night, which reverts to morning. Life becomes death. Making a film is
like documenting a journey and using light in the style that best suits that particular
picture… the concept behind it.” 105
Vittorio Storaro, started his journey into the world of cinema in 1958, becoming one of
the youngest cinematography students in Italy. Gradually he developed into one of the
world’s most renowned, influential and innovative masters in his domain. In various
interviews Storaro elaborately discusses the importance of personal expression
through the cinematic medium, seeing the knowledge of art history, philosophy and
psychology as an essential element of the profession, and envisages cinematography as
a form of art, which is capable of telling a story through light and colours. Naturally,
Storaro would not have been as prominent and influential if there were no solid
practices supporting his somewhat ‘poetic’ views. As well as being an outstanding
artist, he is also a skilful and an inventive craftsman, who devised and employed such
assets as Translight screens, a light console ‘Eclisse’, which allows to change the
lighting within the shot, and also made a ground breaking proposal of a Univision film
format, which prevents the distortion of the original image when it is displayed on a
cinema or a TV screen.106
Rarely has there been an auteurist approach in relation to the work of a

cinematographer, since it is only the director who can be granted the prestigious status
of a film auteur. However, if one where to propose such a notion, Storaro would
indeed make an ideal case study. He often suggests that a cinematographer should
write the story of a film with light, using the camera like a pen :‘ I am trying to describe
the story of the film through light’, ‘It’s like a paper and pen for a writer or canvas for a
painter’107, or : ‘From that moment on, I considered the camera to be like a pen.’108Such
105from Fisher, B., Maestro of Light,

http://www.cameraguild.com/index.html?magazine/stoo101.htm~top.main_hp
106 “I believe it is very important for cinema and television audiences to see movies exactly the
way they are composed by the director and cinematographer.” , states Storaro, thus signalling
his preoccupation not only with the image itself but also with the audiences’ reception of the
film, in Fisher, B., Maestro of Light, from
107Schaefer, D., Masters of light : conversations with contemporary cinematographers (Berkley:
University of California press, 1984) p. 220-221

108 from Fisher, Bob, Maestro of Light, in
61
statements are somewhat reminiscent of the famous notion of camera-stylo, proposed by
Alexandre Astruc in relation to the work of a director.109
Storaro’s personal authorial approach leads him to analyse every aspect of a given film,
engaging with its narrative and characters’ in order to portray them through the
devices of light and colour. He is arguably the only cinematographer to propose a
theory of colour which could be employed in relation to his profession. Storaro
believes that colour has as strong impact on the viewer, similar to that evoked by
music, narration, or acting, and sees it as his duty to enhance each film with a specific
palette, according to the mood and the conceptual meaning of each narrative.110
If one were to determine Storaro’s auteurist ‘signature’ or to define his approach in a
single word, it would certainly be ‘colour’. For it is indeed an inseparable element of
his work, which adds immensely not only to its aesthetic quality, but also enriches its
meaning, somewhat acting as an integral character of each film.
Vittorio Storaro envisages his profession as a form of a journey that starts within
himself from the moment he reads a script until he realises its concept in the cinematic
image. The ultimate aim of each journey is to resolve a conflict between the opposing
forces of light and darkness, of orange and blue colours, and thus to reach harmony. In
a span of some thirty years, he had written numerous stories of the emotional journeys
of the characters and depicted entire historical periods through the symbolic ‘language’
of light and colour.
This essay would like to adopt Storaro’s theory of colour symbolism in relation to
several scenes from Bernardo Bertolucci’s Last Tango in Paris ( 1972) , Sheltering Sky (
1990 ) and Tango ( 1998, dir. Carlos Saura) in order to examine whether and how does
such theory enrich and deepen their narratives, and how affective is the
communication of emotions, feeling and meaning through Storaro’s auteurist device of
colour.
Last Tango in Paris is a story of a middle aged man Paul (Marlon Brando), an american
living in Paris. The narrative functions through a series of sharp visual and thematic
contrasts, which are emblematic of Paul’s inner torments and tensions. He is full of
spite for his wife who had committed suicide, thus abandoning him in the world of the
living. Paul displaces the intensity of his feelings and emotions for Rosa into his new
illicit relationship with young and independent Jeanne (Maria Schneider). In this film
Storaro communicated the complexity of characters’ relations through the dominating
colour- bright warm shade of orange111. He perceived the importance of visualising the
contrast of Paul’s relationship with Rosa and Jeanne, which, together with the set
designer F. Scarfiotti, he communicates through the use space, light and colour.
Although Rosa is dead, her presence in the film is symbolised through the dark brown
and black space of the hotel, which is a associated with non-stability and non-
domesticity. Jeanne, on the other hand, is aligned with the warm, blood orange colour
109 Astruc, A., ‘The birth of a New Avant-Garde: the Camera-Pen’, Ecran Francais 144
(1948) in Graham, P., ed. The New Wave (London: Secker and Warburg, 1969) pp.17-23
110 from Thompson, David, Writing with Light: Vittorio Storaro, documentary ( USA, 1992)
[videorecording]
111 Storaro explains the reasons for the stylistic choice of orange colour in the film in Schaefer,
D., Masters of light : conversations with contemporary cinematographers (Berkley: University of

California press, 1984) p. 226
62
which represents the intensity and the energy of the sunlight, and overwhelms some
sequences in their apartment, a space intended for comfort, domesticity and pleasure.
There are two scenes of Paul’s intimate monologues, which exemplify how Storaro’s
choice of light and colour enhances the aesthetic quality of the scenes, as well as
strengthens the emotional impact of Brando’s performance.
After several sexual encounters in the apartment Paul and Jeanne share their first
intimate conversation, where despite never intending to disclose his true memories,
feelings and emotions, Paul (Brando) delivers a powerfully moving speech about his
childhood. The whole monologue is filmed in a static close up of Brando’s face, and the
entire dynamism of that scene comes solely from actor’s genius performance and
Storaro’s choreography of light, shadows and colours. The light seems to be coming
from a natural source of the afternoon sun shining through the window. It is not
softened or defused, but shines directly onto Brando’s face from the top left of the
frame. The moving shadow of Jeanne’s body creates a sharp tonal contrast, dividing
the frame into a dark shadow at the bottom and a soft red-orange light at the top of the
screen. According to Storaro’s theory, black is the colour of the unconscious, of the
dark inner drives. Red is the colour of blood and a symbol of vital energy, and orange
represents the warmth of a familial environment112. Such symbolic reading of colours,
undoubtedly works within the context of the film, and enriches the given scene with
conceptual meaning. Indeed, Paul is lured by the prospect for domesticity and
intimacy with Jeanne, however his deeper unconscious torments prevent him from
fully embracing such possibility. The pain and sadness evoked by the childhood
memories, yet also the comfort that he receives from confiding in Jeanne are
communicated by Storaro through the very contrast of the direct warm orange light
and the sharp dark shadow covering Paul’s face.
The other scene takes place later on in the film, when Brando delivers another
disturbingly naturalistic monologue by the death bed of his wife.
The mise-en-scene is composed of dark, cold colours from the opposite side of the red
colour spectrum. The scene is light from a natural source- a small orange table lamp,
which is covered with a blue cloth. Some artificial light is shone from the top of the
frame, creating a faint rim around Brando’s head. Rosa’s serene body is dressed in
white and is immersed into the cold violet colour of the flowers that surround her bed.
It thus symbolises that she had reached the supreme stage in life and has acquired
equilibrium through death, since it is the very meaning that violet and white carry
according to Storaro. The scene becomes almost obscure towards its finale. When
Brando breaks down in tears his face and body become a silhouette. Again the frame is
divided into two tonal planes, where the top is lighter and the bottom is completely
dark, with Brando’s face plunged into the sinister pain and inner trauma symbolised
by the black colour.
The emotional quality of the two sequences, despite a similarly intense performance by
Brando, is radically different. Since first one presents a monologue delivered within the
realm of warm, natural orange sunlight and addressed to the woman who embodies
112Storaro explain in detail the symbolism of all seven colours in Thompson, David, Writing
with Light: Vittorio Storaro, documentary ( USA, 1992) [videorecording]
63
sexuality, energy and life; whereas the second scene depicts a ‘cry of the soul’ coloured
by dark, cold, artificial light and is addressed to the woman who symbolises bareness,
stillness and death. Naturally the emotional and stylistic effectiveness of both should
be attributed to Storaro’s creation.
Sheltering Sky is story of a tragic journey of a couple through the foreign land of
Morocco, which leads to the break down of their relationship and their lives. Storaro
envisaged the central narrative conflict between Port ( John Malkovich) and Kit (Debra
Winger) in an aesthetic allegorical manner, translating a relationship between a man
and a woman into the contrast between day and nigh, sun and moon, light and
darkness, and orange(yellow) and blue colours.
According to Storaro blue is the symbol of femininity and it is associated with passivity
and the cool light of the moon. Yellow and orange symbolise the sun, the daylight,
which in the film is associated with the male protagonist Port. The journey of the sun
from day light of life into the nightlight and death is echoed by Port’s spiritual and
physical journey through the desert. In order to visualise such conflict through the
colour, Storaro utilised special blue and orange lens filters which enhanced the colours
of the earth and the day light, or enriched that of the nightlight and the sky.113
When the couple is first introduced in the intimate space of their hotel room, they are
immediately coded as the two opposing elements via the use of space, light and colour.
The protagonists are situated apart in different rooms, divided by a door frame,
moreover the two different spaces are characterised by contrasting colours. Kit is
positioned in a lighter, cooler space, wearing a light blue silk dressing gown and is
seated against a brown headboard and a white stone wall. Her environment, connoted
as feminine, stands in direct contrast to Port’s. He is depicted in a setting which
represents the opposite side of the colour spectrum. Similarly, he is lying on the bed,
however his body is immersed in a strong warm red-orange light. It is clearly a filtered
artificial light, which possesses a distinct metaphorical quality, thereby aligning Port
with his symbolic element of the sun. Storaro separates his characters through the
stylistic device of opposing colours, contrasting temperatures and different intensity of
light, thus foreshadowing the tragic outcome of the relationship, even before it is
suggested by the narrative.
After Port becomes contaminated with the fatale disease, his journey comes to an end,
therefore the colour spectrum of the film changes dramatically. In the scene of Port’s
last conversation with Kit, the sun is at first present in the form of a warm orange light
that enters the setting from a small window on a top right hand side of the frame. It
thus creates a strong contrast of shadow and light on Port’s face, as the left side of the
frame is obscured by the shadow. When Port utters his last phrase, the camera pans
towards left, revealing the couple’s profiles in a two shot. The sun light fades out
simultaneously, leaving the characters in a cold, bleak light of the green spectrum,
which symbolises the transitional period between the contrasting colours of orange
and blue. Consequently, a dramatic change to the lunar colour spectrum occurs, when
Kit walks out of their last shelter at night. The frame is now dominated by a deep blue
113from Thompson, David, Writing with Light: Vittorio Storaro, documentary ( USA, 1992)
[videorecording]
64
colour, and the image of the moon is clearly established in a point of view shot of the
heroine. Thus the cinematographer connotes the beginning of a lunar phase, dedicated
to the story of Kit’s journey.
Storaro’s profound understanding of the conceptual meaning of the film, and his
poetic approach to the narrative, transforms it into a parable of Sun and Moon,
elevating the story onto a broader allegorical plane, which one can relate to on
intellectual, emotional and aesthetic levels.
“Poetry in motion is the best way to describe Tango”, states Bob Fisher in his article on
Storaro.114 Tango is a film, composed of several narrative lines, combining
documentary, fiction and dance performances, all telling a story of the emergence and
development of a cultural phenomenon known as the Argentinean tango. In a self-
reflexive manner it reveals the nature and the process of an artistic creation in relation
to dance, music and cinema. Storaro’s part in the film is no less significant or visible
than that of the main protagonists, dancers and musicians. His performance is realised
through the mesmerising choreography of light and colour.
In that film he had utilised a unique lighting device ‘Eclisse’, which enabled him to
manipulate the lighting within each frame, thus acting as a conductor of a light
symphony in each sequence. “Unlike in theatre, in cinema we normally can change
every shot physically, so that's why nobody was thinking to have a system that can
change the lighting during a shot itself. But I love moving the light according to the
mood of the shot, according to the story, according to the kind of fantasy I want for the
audience.” 115Therefore, the change of light angles and its intensity appears to be
synchronised to the music, the movement of characters and to the atmosphere within
each shot.
Another device employed by Storaro, which created a unique dream-like quality in the
film, were the Translight murals. They allowed the cinematographer to produce the
most exquisite visual compositions of dancers’ bodies, shadows and silhouettes
depending on the position of the light in relation to the screens.
The colour in Tango is taken to its most powerful degree, exploding on the screen in all
the richness and intensity of the spectrum. Being true to his theory, Storaro aimed to
conceptualise each colour and to relate it accordingly to a specific dance, travelling
through the entire palette together with the development of the narrative. “ I was
trying to make a connection between life and light. Every single stop of the story I
visualised through colour…”, he continues to explain that in Tango it was more of a
backwards journey, starting in the present day of tango dance and travelling back to its
origins. "In the first sequence, you see very aged people dancing, so I started with
violet. After that, I go to indigo for the tango class, because that is the colour we reach
114Fisher, Bob, Tango: Poetry in Motion (online text),

http://www.cameraguild.com/interviews/chat_storaro/storaro_tango.htm, accessed
2nd April 2007
115in Calhoun, J., Two to Tango, (online text),

http://livedesignonline.com/mag/lighting_two_tango/, accessed 4th April 2007
65
when we transfer our knowledge to other people… Then I was using green when we
see the dancing between one man and two women, because green is between two
segments of the colour spectrum” and for more violent and passionate scenes which
portray the remote past, Storaro employed red and orange.116
Combined together, all three devices (colour, lighting console and Translight screens)
allowed Storaro to portray a most magical journey through the history of Argentinean
dance within the space of a single studio location.
The ‘Immigrant Tango’ performance is the culminating point of the narrative, and
arguably one of the most visually stunning sequence of the entire film. It begins with a
black out, gradually the dimmed light starts to increase, revealing an image of the sky
with both the sun and the moon ‘painted’ on the Translight screen. The frame is
divided by the two contrasting colours of orange and blue, according to the visual
associations with the sun and the moon. The screen is light from behind, so that the
dancers who gradually emerge on the stage are presented as silhouettes moving
towards the camera. The intensity of light increases from the right hand side of the
frame, creating high contrast shadows on the couples that now begin to dance. The
lighting is cold white and clearly artificial, it thereby increases the theatrical
performative nature of the sequence. At first the camera is positioned on the side of the
4th wall, representing the audiences point of view. However, once the music becomes
more upbeat and the dance begins to resemble the tango, the camera takes on a
position of the performer on the stage. It pans around the setting revealing the lighting
devices, thus encoding them as the integral participants of the performance.
Once the classical tango music begins, the lighting of the scene changes its intensity
and colour. It acquires a deep red shade, transforming the colours on the Translight
screen to blood orange and indigo. When Elena’s dance with the murderer takes place
the frame becomes flooded with the deep warm blood orange light. The anxiety,
evoked through music and colour intensity, increases until the fatale blow of the knife
occurs. The light again assumes its initial position at the back of the Translight screen,
creating a beautiful silhouette of Elena’s dying body. Thus the scene culminates at the
apogee of colours, music and emotions.
Through the employment of new technology in Tango, Storaro succeeds in resolving

the central conceptual and aesthetic conflict of his entire work: that between light and
darkness, sun and moon, between orange and blue colours ( an attempt that was
evident in both Last Tango in Paris and The Sheltering Sky). He reaches unique visual
harmony of light and colours by mixing them onto the canvas of the screen, indeed
utilising his camera as a brush or a pen.
To conclude, it is important to consider why Storaro uses the expression ‘to write with
light’, as opposed to a more common metaphor of ‘painting.’ As it has been mentioned
previously, Storaro firmly believes in the importance of cinematographer’s education
116Storaro continues to give a detailed explanation of the symbolism of each colour and its
relation to the specific part of the narrative in Calhoun, J., Ibid
66
and knowledge117. Therefore he embraces his proffesion from various aspects of Art
disciplines; it is not only a form of stylistic expression through cinematic devices, but
also a language with which a cinematographer expresses poetic or philosophical
concepts. Possessing a profound knowledge of colour theory, psychology and
aesthetics Storaro utilises colour in his work as technical device, stylistic element and a
metaphorical ‘language’.
Naturally, his theory of colour symbolism does not always work the same for each
film, since the orange in Last Tango in Paris has a very different symbolic and emotional
quality than the orange in the final sequence of Tango. However, such minor
inconsistency should not be taken against the cinematographer, for it proves that he
remains a professional who is foremost engaged with and sensitive to the film text
itself, and does not limit his creativity by the proposed ‘theorem’ of colour symbolism.
After all, Storaro also points out that some of the stylistic choices he had made were
not always carefully thought out, but were primarily governed by an immediate
instinctual reaction118. Similar can be applied to the audiences’ response to the films
discussed in the essay. Foremost, one is affected by their unique quality of colour and
light on an emotional and aesthetic level, which can then be conceptualised into a
certain theme of the texts. It thus proves that Storaro’s techniques and stylistic
approaches create balanced harmonious pieces that stimulate the viewer both
aesthetically and intellectually.
Bibliography:
Almendros, N., A Man with a Camera ( London: Faber and Faber, 1985)
Calhoun, J., Two to Tango, (online text),

http://livedesignonline.com/mag/lighting_two_tango/, accessed 4th April 2007
Doyen, E., (n.d.) Eugene Doyen’s Video Production Handbook ( online text),
http://www.bcuc.ac.uk/main.asp?page=687, accessed 4th April 2007
Fisher, B., Maestro of Light, (online text),

http://www.cameraguild.com/index.html?magazine/stoo101.htm~top.main_hp,
accessed 2nd April 2007
Tango: Poetry in Motion (online text),
117“I realized that at film school, they taught me mainly about cameras, lenses, film,
sensitometry, everything connected with technology. Nobody taught me anything about how to
interpret stories. I realized that we should use technology to express ideas and visions. Nobody
told me to study painting, music, literature or philosophy. I applied myself to studying the
works of the great masters of art, including Faulkner, Vermeer, Caravaggio, Mozart
and Rembrandt.”, from Fisher, B., Maestro of Light, from
118“…I didn’t know why I did all Paris in blue tines for The Conformist and then two years later I
did it in orange fir Last Tango in Paris. At the time, it was a feeling that I got..” in Schaefer, D.,
Masters of light : conversations with contemporary cinematographers (Berkley: University of
California press, 1984) p. 228
67
http://www.cameraguild.com/interviews/chat_storaro/storaro_tango.htm, accessed
2nd April 2007
Schaefer, D., Masters of light : conversations with contemporary cinematographers , (Berkley:

University of California press, 1984)
Tonetti, Claretta Micheletti Bernardo Bertolucci: the cinema of ambiguity, (New York:
Twayne, 1995)
Documentary films:
Glassman, A., and McCarthy, T., Visions of Light, documentary (USA, 1992)
[videorecording]
Thompson, David, Writing with Light: Vittorio Storaro, documentary ( USA, 1992)
[videorecording]
Websites:
www.storarovittorio.com
www.cameraguild.com
www.cinematographers.nl
www.depadova.it
www.livedesignonline.com
68
Colour Contrast and the Films of Darius Khondji
Delicatessen, (1991) Seven (1995) and Stealing Beauty (1996)
BASAK YAZAR
Colour Contrast and The Films of Darius Khondji
Darius Khondji, one of the most celebrated cinematographers of contemporary cinema,

defines his job to serve the director to visualize what is written in the script. Beginning
photographing films by François-Jacques Ossang’s black-and-white Le tresor des Iles
Chiennes (1991), Khondji’s innovative work for the second feature film he shot, Jean-
Pierre Jeunet and Marc Caro’s Delicatessen, brought him international recognition and
opened up the route for a career as cinematographer for the most notable European
and American directors including; Alan Parker, Sydney Pollack, Roman Polanski,
Bernardo Bertolucci, Michael Haneke, Woody Allen and David Fincher.
As Khondji himself affirms, he does not have a particular style.119 Nevertheless, the
distinct visual world of each story he helped to visualize shares certain technical and
aesthetic choices. This essay will attempt to examine the techniques Darius Khondji
utilized to create the look of three of his films, Delicatessen, Seven and Stealing Beauty,
which do not bear any similarity thematically or stylistically, yet involve the essential
characteristics of the cinematographer’s work.
Like many other cinematographers, Khondji turns to other forms of art, especially
painting, for inspiration when crafting the look of a film but above all, he is enthralled
by the powerful imagery of silent films. Quoting Orson Welles, who said that filming
in black-and-white was like putting a magnifying glass over the actors, which
separated them from their background, Khondji states that his aim is to achieve this
kind of contrast when shooting in colour. However, presence of too many colours
makes it a challenge to achieve contrast unless the colour in the image is controlled. In
almost every film he shoots, Khondji uses various laboratory techniques, ENR, CCE,
bleach-bypass, that give him the control over the colour and contrast to create the most
appropriate tone for the story and achieve dramatic effects similar to black-and-white
photography of early cinema.120 In addition to printing processes, Khondji frequently
’flashes’ the film by using the Varicon, which is a filter system mounted in front of the
lens and illuminates the negative with different tones during shooting and enables the
cinematographer to adjust the degree of colour contrast. Colour contrast has become
the distinguishing aspect of his art, though the density changes depending on the
dramatic content of the story.
Khondji develops intimate relations between the light and the character, he tends to
design and apply a particular lighting method for the main actors to reflect the essence
of their roles.121 For instance in Evita (1996), to juxtapose Juan Peron’s conflicting
character, who was deceitful behind his generosity, he sometimes half lit his face.
Similarly in Danny Boyle’s The Beach (2000), the way Khondji lights Leonardo DiCaprio
119 Peter Ettedgui, Cinematography (Crans-pres-Clingy, Switzerland: Rotovision, 1998) pp. 194
120 Peter Ettedgui, Cinematography (Crans-pres-Clingy, Switzerland: Rotovision, 1998), pp. 194-
200
121 ibid, pp. 203
69
changes as the character does. In the beginning of the film, DiCaprio is lit softly which
gives him a boyish look but after joining the beach community, his lighting becomes
more contrasty and sharp as Richard begins to go insane.
Given some major proclivities of the cinematographer, the following analyses of
individual films will explore further aspects of Khondji’s work.
Delicatessen is a surreal black comedy set in a post-apocalyptic period when the people
has resorted to cannibalism. The story revolves around a group of highly eccentric
characters living in an apartment building owned by the butcher who hires handymen
and subsequently murders them to provide meat for his customers.
The main inspiration behind Jeunet and Caro’s hyper-realistic world that they wanted
to create for Delicatessen was the accentuated visual style of French Poetic Realist films
of the 1930s. The temporal setting of the film is ambiguous nevertheless it has a retro
feeling. The entire film is soaked in a sepia-like tone, which gives the impression of a
fairy tale, albeit a morbid one. Khondji states that his inspiration for brown, warm red
and amber hues was George Bellows’ paintings.122 To achieve similar intensified tones
and increase the amount of the contrast, Khondji utilized bleach-bypass technique in
printing. This process skips the bleaching function during the development of the film
and retains a layer of silver on it which results in more defined blacks and whites and
drained colours. In Delicatessen, Khondji preferred to use ‘skipped bleach-bypass’
rather than the full process as he wanted to keep some colours on the film. To
strengthen or soften the contrast according to the mood of the scenes, he used warm
and blue gels to flash the film while shooting.
Khondji used Cooke lenses for the smooth and round look they provide and shot with
a wide angle lens which distorted the image particularly in close ups and made the
characters look more bizarre. The idiosyncratic inhabitants of the building resemble
comic book characters, not only because of their odd traits but also their looks. Khondji
was inspired by the pictorialist photographs, he generated a look in between painted
and photographed for the characters collaborating with the costume designer and
make-up artist. The cinematographer’s lighting method for the Butcher is rather basic
but conveys the essence of the character effectively. The Butcher is the antagonistic
figure; Khondji lit Jean-Clause Dreyfus from below to give him the brutal impression.
He also lit his hair from the back which made the character look more grotesque.
Delicatessen was largely shot in elaborately designed interior settings and for the
relatively few exterior scenes, Khondji intended to have an equally stylized look. He
shot with extensive use of fog to create the appropriate post-apocalyptic atmosphere.
In short glimpses of the outside world, few street lamps and devastated buildings are
seen but the rest in not visible due to the dense fog.
The predominantly dark register of the film’s lighting, including the day scenes, is
disrupted by the bathroom scene through the end of the film. When shooting this
scene, Khondji utilized a radical idea to reflect Julie and Louison’s helplessness and to
increase tension; he lit the bathroom in high-key. The two characters are stuck in the
122 Alexander Ballinger, New Cinematographers (London: Laurence King, 2004), pp.70
70
bathroom and there is no way to escape. They are fully in light and Louison will be
chopped if the butcher manages to break in. Khondji believes that this way it is scarier
than letting them to hide in shadows.123 The choice of the cinematographer to expose
the bathroom normally is also used to symbolize the opposing sides in the consecutive
scene. Following the cathartic flood sequence, the bathroom floor collapses and brings
the Butcher and Louison face to face. In this shot, the upper half of the frame, where
Julie and Louison are hanging on the wrecked bathroom, is fully lit while the lower
half, where the Butcher stands, is dark. The good and evil are associated with light and
dark.
The flood metaphorically represents purgation; the water carries away the corruptness.
With the eventual defeat of the evil, a complete purification is pursued and it is
depicted by a shift in the atmosphere. In the closing scene, the fog that has enveloped
the building throughout the film disperses and the blue sky is seen for the first time as
Louison and Julie plays music on the roof.
Thanks to the international appreciation of Delicatessen’s intriguing visual universe,

Khondji collaborated with director David Fincher in the first major American film he
shot. Fincher wanted the world of Seven to be ‘scary’ and Khondji evidently pushed the
limits of underexposure in order to convey the despair and horror that besiege the
never-named metropolitan.
The visual signature of Seven is raw and gritty, yet stylized. This quality was achieved
by blending different aspects of two cinematic references. Khondji fused the highly
stylized moments of Klute with the rough realistic atmosphere of The French Connection.
Likewise, the camerawork is composed of tough hand-held shots and elaborate static
and tracking shots. The chase sequence deserves attention for its effective use of these
techniques. As the detectives knock on the killer’s door, he appears at the end of the
corridor, silhouetted by the light coming from the window behind him, fires his gun
and runs. Mills starts running after him and the long chase begins. The dynamism of
the scene is captured by mixing different shots together, as the characters run down the
stairs, jump out to the rooftops and fall into alleyways, the shots change from tracking
to steadicam, hand-held to static. Throughout the scene, shallow depth of field
intensifies the tension and the mystery is enhanced by the use of smoke. 124The chase is
mostly given through Mills’ perspective, over the shoulder framings and shots
simulating Mills’ point of view put the audience into his position and increase
suspense as the audience cannot see the killer like the detective. Furthermore, camera’s
identification with Mills transmits the immediate reactions of the character, for
instance the camera reacts as Mills reacts to the gun shot. The lighting scheme changes
as Mills descends the floors. Each floor has a distinct tone, representing Mills going
down into hell, as interpreted by Bergery.125 The cold beige tone of the initial floor is
123 ibid.
124 Benjamin Bergery, Reflections: Twenty-one Cinematographers at Work (Hollywood, CA: ASC
Press, 2002)
125 ibid.
71
switched to filthy browns in another floor. As the chase moves on, the characters run
down very dark stairways, enter flats with bright daylight and go back to dreary
hallways. The stark change in the lighting adds to the rhythm achieved by the free
camera.
One of the indicative features of Khondji’s photography is source-lighting, which is
also noticeable in Seven. There are hardly any scenes that the source of light is invisible.
Whether the light comes from the torches of the detectives or the sconces in the
hallway, it is seen in the frame. Light direction also bears significance as Khondji
preferred not to direct the lights on the actors, allowing them to move in and out of lit
areas during their performance. Mostly, the lights are placed at the background and
the actors are silhouetted. Although it is a bold decision for a Hollywood production,
it works well for a gritty mysterious-thriller.
Seven has been categorized as ‘colour noir’ due to its expressionistic lighting. 126 Its
urban setting, hard-edged and bleak atmosphere anticipates noir conventions. For the
rough and gritty imagery, Khondji processed the film with Deluxe CCE bleach-bypass
technique that accentuates the contrasts and gives the inky blacks he favours. Also, he
preferred to use Primos lenses for the sharp images they provide.
Khondji’s shadowy and gritty photography amplifies the depressing mood of the
story. Along with the barely illuminated interiors, the exteriors are also dark. The rain
pours incessantly and the sun is masked. Furthermore, the viewer’s vision is limited
through extensive use of shallow depth of field. Khondji shot both interiors and
exteriors with low aperture to heighten the claustrophobic impression.127 This
technical choice has another effect, it intensifies the mystery. At the end of the chaotic
chase scene, the killer holds his gun to Mills’ head, the camera is focused on the barrel
of the gun and the rest is blurred, making it impossible to identify the killer.
The gloomy and contrasty ambiance is consistent throughout the film, but every crime
scene has a distinguished look in relation to the condition of the victims as well as the
theme of the crime. When they expect to find the killer, the detectives and the SWAT
team come across the skeletal Sloth victim tied to a bed in a horrifying tenement. The
dominating tones of this scene are filthy green and brown, suggesting decay. Khondji
created this feeling by applying green gels to the lights.
Khondji punctuates the dominant grey bleak look of the film with touches of colour. In
John Doe’s apartment, the orange beam coming from the sconces on the dark walls
interrupts the gloominess of the setting. There are several normally exposed scenes
that compensate the overriding darkness. Khondji employs high-key lighting in a few
places, such as the homes of the detectives and the precinct that give a sense of safety,
in an insecure urban setting. Especially the rows of fluorescents in the precinct
contradict the dismal world outside.
126 Chris Darke, ‘Inside the Light’, Sight and Sound, 6.4 (April 1996), pp. 18-20
127 Ballinger, Alexander, New Cinematographers (London: Laurence King, 2004), pp. 80
72
Through the end of the film, the killer reveals his identity and surrenders to the police.
The photography moves towards a brighter register from this moment on, the rain
stops, sun begins to shine. Yet, this shift in the atmosphere is ironical as the story gets
darker symbolically. The setting also changes from the claustrophobic metropolitan to
a vast open land. Though, Khondji did not light the characters directly and let them
move from dark to light, he lit Kevin Spacey naturally and softly, contrasting with the
diabolical nature of his crimes but emphasizing his calmness and his absolute faith in
his deeds.
‘like vertigo’ says Darius Khondji to describe his initial feelings about working with
Italian director Bernardo Bertolucci whose work with acclaimed cinematographer
Vittorio Storaro has undoubtedly influenced and inspired many filmmakers. Replacing
one of the masters of his profession in Stealing Beauty, Khondji aimed at creating a
naturalistic atmosphere for the intimate story of a young American girl who comes to
Tuscany to spend the summer with a group of bohemian friends of her recently
deceased mother.
While photographing Stealing Beauty, Khondji put aside his inky blacks and dark
shadows, instead concentrated on achieving contrast between colours and even
between different tones of colours such as the ochre colour of the path surrounding the
farmhouse and leading up the hill contrasting with the greens of the landscape. The
visual tone of the film was inspired by the Fauvist paintings of Matisse, Derain and
Marquet. To visualize this sensual story set in an idyllic Tuscan setting, which plays a
vital role in the film, Khondji created a colour palette composed of oranges, reds, blues
and greens and to enrich the saturation and the contrast between the hues, he used
ENR colour process. In ENR, which was first used by Storaro, the film undergoes an
additional black-and-white bath after bleaching to add the silver back on which
increases the contrast without draining too much colour.
The camera hardly rests in Stealing Beauty, it constantly floats around the rooms and
observes the characters. Bertolucci’s desire to use a fluid camera was disadvantageous
for the cinematographer as he had to limit his work to let the camera flow around
freely, he used aircraft lights and lit the interiors from outside. Voyuerism is a
dominant motif in the film and is conveyed through the use of mobile observant
camera and window framing which was borrowed from the ‘veduta’ in Italian painting
in which the landscapes and figures are seen through a window. Similarly, the actions
mostly unfold through a window or from a doorway in Stealing Beauty.
Khondji’s desire to integrate his lighting with the protagonist of the story is more
apparent in Bertolucci’s character drama and it becomes the essential motive behind
his intention to light Liv Tyler in a different way from the rest of the actors. He decided
to light Liv Tyler with fluorescents which ‘would lend her character a texture of
modern America to bring into Tuscany’.128 Lucy infuses this idyllic world of English
expatriates with light, sensitivity, and innocence, these feelings are pursued by an
individualized lighting scheme designed by the cinematographer. In addition to using
128 Peter Ettedgui, Cinematography (Crans-pres-Clingy, Switzerland: Rotovision, 1998)
73
fluorescents, Khondji sometimes used a Mitchell diffusion filter while shooting Tyler to
give her a pure and soft look and shot the other actors with a thin black net behind the
lens. He preferred to use Cooke lenses which provided the round and beautiful look he
wanted for Liv Tyler’s character as well as to further define the sensuality of the story.
Stealing Beauty is about Lucy’s growing into sexual maturity and the changes in her
emotional state are reflected by Khondji’s lighting. At times she is like a young girl and
other times like a grown up woman. Lucy’s innocent excitement upon seeing the boy
with whom she had her first kiss is enhanced by Khondji’s warm and soft lighting in
the shot following Niccolo and Christopher’s arrival scene. Lucy, who has been hoping
to renew the romance she had during her previous visit to Tuscany, finally meets
Niccolo and after he leaves, she opens the window and watches the car going away.
She is lit from the front by the light coming through the window, eliminating shadows.
Shortly after this scene, Richard, Miranda’s boyfriend, comes to Lucy’s room
apparently with the aim of seducing her. She responds wisely to his moves as she is
fully aware of his intentions. In this scene, Khondji lit Lucy from the side which casts a
slight shadow on half of her face rendering her expression more mature.
In the lovemaking scene, Khondji’s lighting is simple and careful, yet passionate. The
fire is the main source of light and is seen in the frame as favored by the
cinematographer. He used china lights to balance the light coming from the fire in
close up shot of Lucy when she loses her virginity; her face is illuminated by warm
orange hues. Orange represents passion for Khondji and is a part of the look of the
whole film but it becomes more strong and dramatic in this climactic scene.
Khondji manages to adapt his tendency to light in a contrasty and low-key manner to
an emotional and subtle film. One night, when Alex and Lucy are smoking a joint in
front of the house, the conversation comes to sexual experience and Lucy reveals that
she is still virgin. This scene is lit in a very low-key with the light coming from inside
the house and a crane light illuminates only the closest trees behind them. It is dark;
however, it is not like the scary atmosphere of Seven, the darkness intensifies the
intimate mood of the scene.
Bertolucci mentions that Stealing Beauty was a simple and light film that he made to
‘detoxify’ himself.129 Though it was criticized for its ‘lightness’ when compared to the
director’s earlier epic works, the atmospheric power achieved by the cinematographer
made the film heavier on the aesthetic side. Khondji’s impressionistic lighting
enhances the sensuality of the story without overwhelming it.
Darius Khondji explores the possibilities of the art of cinematography through the
wide range of work from highly stylized tableaux-like images of Evita to dark gritty
photography of Seven. Believing that every choice has an influence on the look of the
film, he carefully blends the technical with the artistic to forge to most suitable
atmosphere for the dramatic content of the films. Though he does not stick a definitive
129 David E. Williams, ‘A Passion for Colour’, American Cinematographer, 77.6 (June 1996), pp. 54-62
74
style or a particular genre, he contributes to the visualization of every film he shoots
with his sensitive sophisticated imagery.
75
76
Cinematography and Story: Roger Deakins and the
Films of the Coen Brothers
Fargo (1996), O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000) and The Man Who Wasn't There (2001)
JARED JULIANO
Beginning with 1991's Barton Fink, Roger Deakins has photographed every Coen
Brothers picture released, totaling eight films to date. As filmmakers, the Coens have
consistently played with genre and setting, creating highly stylized films set in a
variety of eras. I wish to examine the aesthetic strategies Deakins uses in relation to his
collaboration with Joel and Ethan Coen, particularly focusing on how each film's visual
style assists in telling the story. To do so, I've chosen three of their works that employ
very different thematic and stylistic approaches. In Fargo (1996), the isolation of the
Minnesota winter sets the stage, while O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000) is a
Depression-era tale of the deep South. Finally, The Man Who Wasn't There (2001) takes
place in the Noirish California suburbs of the late 1940's.
For Fargo, Deakins notes his desire to apply a 'simple' and 'observational' look to this
putatively true story, making the spectator feel as if they were simply watching events
unfold (Deakins 2004). Thus, most conversational scenes are shot using a minimal
number of set-ups and very little camera movement. For example, one short sequence
in the Lundegaard's kitchen begins with a long shot of the seated family, partially
obscured by the railing next to the stairs. The scene is lit entirely using practicals,
including a chandelier above the table and a lamp off to the right, both of which give
off whitish tones yielding a slightly desaturated palette. From this point on, each shot
consists of an over-the-shoulder close up of whichever member of the family is talking.
The camera focuses on one character per set up, with the foreground and background
slightly out of focus. Any camera movement serves solely to recenter each frame
around the in-focus character. These over-the-shoulder angles place the viewer in the
scene, but don't privilege any one position over the others. A similar pattern can be
detected in the majority of such scenes.
Meanwhile, the Coens tasked Deakins with emphasizing the bleakness and isolation of
the Minnesota plains for Fargo's exterior scenes. Deakins says, 'they wanted [the look of
the exteriors] to be quite bland. It's kind of a difficult balance to do something that's
bland but not boring' (Probst 1996, 30). The result is that the exterior shots emphasize
empty space and wide, snowy vistas, often using natural light filtered and softened by
overcast skies. Joel Coen says, 'We talked early on with Roger about shooting
landscapes where you couldn't really see the horizon line – so that the snow-covered
ground would be the same color as the sky' (Probst 29). When Steve Buscemi's
character, Carl, buries his ill-gotten money, this lack of horizon is in effect.
The sequence starts with a long shot of Carl sitting in his car, surrounded by grey skies
and white ground. Visually, Carl is dislocated: his surroundings are so indistinct, he
could be anywhere at all. After a couple of close-ups within the car, including a point-
of-view shot of the bag full of money, we return to the original long shot. Now, Carl
leaves the car and walks into the snowy fields alongside the road, the camera panning
77
with his movement towards the fence which serves as the only landmark in the area.
The next shot starts on the opposite side of the fence, slowly pushing inwards as if to
trap Carl. After another cut, this image is made more clear: the camera remains on the
opposite side of the fence, and Carl is framed in a medium shot by its wire mesh,
nowhere to go but the grey expanse of nowhere which yawns behind him. The camera
returns to the first zooming shot from beyond the fence, now even more tightly framed
on Carl's hands as he buries the briefcase.
From a reverse angle above his shoulders, we see him complete his burial, making the
hiding spot just as unremarkable as the rest of the landscape. Then, we return to the
other side of the fence and watch Carl, still hemmed in by the wire, look to each side,
with a corresponding point-of-view shot for each direction. The fence, once seen as a
landmark, is revealed in these point-of view shots to stretch on for indeterminate miles
in either direction, terminating only at the still-indistinct horizon. After returning to
the medium shot, we see Carl plunge an ice scraper into the snow, in an attempt to
provide some solid sense of location for him to seek when retrieving his money.
Another cut follows to a long shot from behind Carl, looking small beside the fence,
with the ice scraper barely noticeable. Even before we learn of his fate, we know he'll
never find his way back, thanks largely to Deakins's imagery.
As I've already noted, Fargo contains relatively little camera movement. In the previous
sequence, we saw how what little movement there is seems to be tied to heightening
the sense of entrapment characters feel. The camera zooms and pushes in on characters
in such key moments. Another example can be found in an earlier scene, when William
H. Macy's Jerry Lundegaard is on the phone, attempting to escape the insurance fraud
he's set up. Here, the camera begins on the opposite side of an internal window in
Lundegaard's office. Lundegaard is lit from both sides by the same natural, white light
that serves to slightly desaturate most of the film's daytime internal scenes, while the
vertical blinds on the window fulfill a similar purpose to the fence where Carl buries
his money. The camera slowly pushes forwards to the window, further entrapping
Lundegaard within the 'bars' of the blinds. Deakins notes this effect in the DVD
commentary, saying that 'instead of cutting, the camera's just slowly pushing in. You
know, as the conversation gets more and more devious, he gets more and more
trapped' (Deakins 2004). This subtle effect also foreshadows the failure of
Lundegaard's plan: we get the sense that he will, in fact, be captured and put behind
bars.
The sequence involving Lundegaard's eventual capture also deviates somewhat from
the plan Deakins and the Coens use throughout the film. Up to this point, the entire
film has been shot with mounted, stationary cameras, and any camera moves have
been smooth. However, Lundegaard's attempt to evade capture is shot on a hand-held
camera in one take. The shot begins outside of the motel room, and continues shakily
through as Lundegaard is pulled in from the window and placed down on the bed.
Deakins notes that 'Joel [Coen] really wanted this hand-held sort of news reportage [...]
effect, going for the sort of documentary, realism aspect of it' (Deakins 2004). These
deviations break up what is largely a static film, showing that Deakins and the Coens
are willing to be flexible when it helps convey feelings relevant to the story's needs.
78
Deakins's work on O Brother, Where Art Thou? provides some very different challenges.
The Coens had a very dusty, dry look in mind, despite shooting in the Southern US
during the lush, rainy summer season. Deakins says, 'I had to find a way to desaturate
the greens and give the images we were going to shoot the feeling of old, hand-tinted
postcards, [which was the look] favored by Joel and Ethan' (Fisher 2000, 38). Deakins
had to selectively adjust certain colors in order to highlight yellows and browns,
choosing in the end to digitally scan and manipulate the film (Fisher: 39). This process
still results in desaturated colors across the board, with the images presented looking
slightly washed out and pale. Almost all green has been eliminated, with lighter
shades becoming yellows and darker greens turning nearly black. While the 'hand-
tinted postcard' concept is effective at producing an old-time feel, it results in imagery
that is repetitive, if beautiful.
One sequence demonstrating the limits of this digital grading process can be seen quite
early in the film. After the three convicts have escaped from the chain gang, they
happen upon a small farm. George Clooney's character, Everett, brushes away a
branch of dry-looking leaves. There is a strong light source, presumably intended to be
the sun, above the frame and to the right. This light source causes strong glare on
Clooney's face, but the image is softened and blurred a bit due to the desaturated
colors. We then cut to a reverse shot of the farm, with strong shafts of sunlight cutting
down through the yellowed branches of trees. Some of the branches suffer the same
blurriness as Everett's face, and the shot looks very unrealistic and dream-like because
of it. After cutting away to title cards, we return to a low steadicam shot of the trio's
shackled feet as they attempt to catch a chicken, followed by a quick cut to a low-angle
steadicam shot of their faces. Again, there is a loss of resolution between the different
bled-out colors in the presence of this strong light. While the eventual conclusion of the
scene, a crane shot of the three cons walking down a bucolic road, is quite beautiful,
that beauty comes at the cost of an homogenized look and occasional loss of sharpness
throughout the film.
As in Fargo, Deakins again emphasizes landscapes in O Brother, using a 2.4:1

widescreen format to conflate the convicts' wanderings to the epic scale this adaptation
of The Odyssey would warrant (Fisher 40). To that end, Deakins chose to use Super 35
cameras, because 'the spherical lenses have the effect of pulling the audience closer to
the characters; it's more intimate' (Fisher, 40). The first few shots of Delmar and
Everett's picnic with Big Dan Teague display these tactics clearly. We begin with a very
long shot of the three, with a clear emphasis on the wide fields of Mississippi. Then we
cut to a medium shot of Big Dan finishing his meal. He is pulled into focus in the
center of the frame by the spherical lens, while the background fills the widescreen
behind him, in view though not in sharp focus. This is followed by a point-of-view shot
from Dan's perspective as he eyes the convicts' shoebox, and the camera follows his
glance to a medium shot of Delmar's face. Again, the lens works to separate Delmar
from the background, allowing the fields to roll on, unfocused, behind him.
Another similarity with Fargo can be found in both film's frequent use of roads in
symbolic ways. In Fargo, Deakins notes a theme of having busy roads in the
background of many shots involving Jerry Lundegaard (Deakins 2004). For instance,
the window behind his desk displays a freeway with constant traffic going in both
directions. This might represent Lundegaard's entrapment within his own scheme,
79
compared to the freely traveling cars passing around him. But in O Brother, roads serve
a different purpose. Combined with the widescreen format, roads serve to symbolize
the 'long and difficult road' the blind man on the railroad foresees. To that end, there
are many shots tracking the three convicts as they walk or drive down various roads.
One such sequence occurs during their first meeting with 'Babyface' Nelson. The first
shot tracks the trio, walking side by side towards the camera in a medium shot. A
dusty road stretches out behind them. This long take concludes when, in the distance, a
plume of dust signals the approach of Nelson's car. The next shot is a reverse of the
previous, providing a brief glimpse of the road running just as far in the opposite
direction. A cut to a very long shot of Nelson's car closing in follows. Next, the camera
reverses to another medium shot pushing in slowly on the trio, with the road framed
just off-center between Delmar and Pete. This subtly indicates that Nelson will be the
next 'vehicle' by which the convicts' journey on the 'road' of the story will move
forward.
While O Brother gets its 'old-timey' look from Deakins's digitally desaturated images,
The Man Who Wasn't There (set only ten years later) benefits from the use of black-and-
white. Although the film is something of a Film Noir pastiche, the photography is not
quite as high contrast as the typical Noir, perhaps because it was shot on color stock
and printed on black-and-white for contractual reasons (Holben 2001, 49). The
prevalent greys and mid-tones may be a result of having to simultaneously create both
a color and black-and-white film. Yet, there are moments when the imagery takes a
distinctly more Noirish turn. Cheshire and Ashbrook connect this with Ed Crane, Billy
Bob Thornton's character, losing his grip on reality. They write, ' His way of seeing the
world becomes more and more surreal and Roger Deakins' way of photographing it
becomes correspondingly more stylistic,' pointing to a late scene where Ed meets the
county medical examiner in a bar (Cheshire and Ashbrook 2005, 119). We can discuss
this scene in greater detail to determine the validity of their claim.
The two men enter the bar in a medium shot, streams of bright light pouring in in
smoky streams through the windows around the bar's door and creating a strong glare
on the wall behind the men. As they sit down, Ed's face enters deep shadow,
contrasted with glare on the wall, while Deakins lights only half of the medical
examiner's face, creating a near chiaroscuro effect. The majority of the scene is shot
from this one set-up, occasionally cutting to a reverse shot with far less contrast which
allows us to see Ed's muted reaction to the examiner's statements. This self-possession
seemingly contradicts Cheshire and Ashbrook's theory; Ed appears quite sane. Indeed,
many sequences demonstrate that Deakins had other integral story concerns in mind
when switching to a more Noirish look. For instance, Ed's murder of Big Dave would
seem the most obvious choice in this regard. However, as Jon Silberg's piece in
American Cinematographer covers this scene in great detail, I can do no more than refer
you to his work before selecting another scene for my own purposes (Silberg 2002).
Another suitable scene occurs much earlier in the film, again contradicting Cheshire
and Ashbrook. Ed's wife Doris is taking a bath while Ed stands in the doorway
debating in voice-over whether or not to invest in a dry-cleaning franchise. In the first
shot, the camera pushes in on Ed, who appears half in shadow, a practical in another
room providing contrast. In the reverse shot, the bathroom is lit by two more bright
practicals on the far wall, with Ed deeply silhouetted between the lamps and the
80
camera. As Doris calls him into the bathroom to shave her legs, he slowly walks in
followed by the camera. When he says, 'Maybe I could get the money,' he turns to the
side and is shot in full lighting, suggesting that his scheme to blackmail his wife's lover
has just come to him in a moment of clarity. The scene also points to the disconnect
between Ed and Doris, as she is only ever partially within the same frame as Ed. It's no
surprise, then, that his scheme will ultimately hurt Doris.
While the landscape plays a huge role in both Fargo and O Brother, the focus is shifted
in The Man Who Wasn't There from external space to the inner workings of Ed Crane's
mind. Indeed, Deakins and the Coens have already positioned us in Ed's perspective
by the end of the film's first sequence. Beginning with a long take focused on a barber
pole (over which the credits play), the camera slowly raises up and cants downward to
reveal a customer entering the shop as Ed's voice-over begins. Following a cut, we pan
along with the customer, and then push inward towards Ed's brother-in-law Frank and
an extreme close up of his incessantly talking mouth. The next cut places the camera
at floor level, pushing in towards Frank's feet as trimmed hair falls to the ground at
normal speed. Next, we cut to a close up of Frank's face, and push past him to a
photograph affixed next to his mirror. Until now, we haven't even seen Ed, although
the close match between his voice-over and the camera's focus have begun to place us
in his point-of-view. Then, we cut to a slow-motion medium shot of Frank powdering
his customer's head. Finally, in a slow-motion closeup, we're given our first glimpse of
Ed, who then turns to look at Frank. Another cut takes us back to a continuation of the
previous shot, now fixed in Ed's point-of-view. We now know that, despite his 'not
being there', we'll be seeing Ed's perspective on the events as the film continues.
The use of slow-motion here is also of interest. It seems to simultaneously present Ed's
detachment from the world, and attempt to cause the audience to share in his feelings.
A later sequence confirms this suspicion. Ed is leaving the barber shop one evening,
describing his feelings of alienation in voice-over. As he walks through a crowd of
people, the film transitions dreamily into slow motion. At first, the movement of the
passers-by seems stilted and off-kilter, though Ed still appears to be moving normally.
The changeover becomes complete just as Ed says, 'It was like I was a ghost walking
down the street,' at which point he too begins to move slowly. A subtle match cut to Ed
walking down his own empty street furthers the dream-like sensation of the previous
shot, providing a definite sense that Ed, always introverted, is more lost within himself
than ever. We return to normal speed only after another cut places Ed back within his
home, where he is truly secluded from the world to which he can barely relate.
From the vastly different treatments given to each of these three films, we can see that
Roger Deakins is versatile enough to adapt his techniques to fit the range of tonal and
thematic requirements found in the Coens' stories. It comes as no surprise that Deakins
plays an important role from the beginning of each project. Joel Coen says, 'We always
involve Roger very early,' noting his involvement from the storyboard stage onwards
and concluding that 'the style of the shooting is worked out between the three of us'
(Probst, 28). Their close collaboration and careful planning continue to find ways of
breathing visual life into the Coens wordy, literate scripts. Be it the bleakness and
palpable entrapment of Fargo, the lightly comical epic journey of O Brother, or the
internal existential crises of The Man Who Wasn't There, Deakins and the Coens
successfully continue joining forces to create powerful visuals that reflect each story's
heart.
81
Bibliography
Cheshire, Ellen and John Ashbrook (2005). The Pocket Essential Joel and Ethan Coen.
(Harpenden, UK: Pocket Essentials)
Deakins, Roger (2001). DVD Feature: 'Interview With Award Winning

Cinematographer Roger Deakins', The Man Who Wasn't There. Region 2, Entertainment
in Video.
Deakins, Roger (2004). DVD Commentary track, Fargo: Special Edition. Region 2, MGM
Home Entertainment.
Fisher, Bob (2000). 'Escaping From Chains', American Cinematographer, 1 October 2000,
pp. 36-42, 46-49.
Holben, Jay (2001). 'The Root(s) of All Evil', American Cinematographer, 1 October 2001,
pp. 48-50, 52, 54-57.
Probst, Chris (1996). 'Cold-Blooded Scheming', American Cinematographer, 1 March

1996, pp. 28-30, 32, 34.
Silberg, Jon (2002). 'Illuminating a Dark Deed', American Cinematographer, 1 March 2002,
pp. 56-61.
82
Robert Burks and the Objectification of the
Hitchcock Blonde
Rear Window (1954), The Birds (1963) and Marnie (1964)
JOHANNE STEPHENSON
In an alternative exploration of the man behind the camera, it seems apt to look behind
the scenes of one of the most written about film directors of all time, to explore the
influence of another professional on his work. For that reason, I have chosen to explore
the importance of cinematography within film, through analysis of the work of Robert
Burks, director of photography on the majority of Alfred Hitchcock’s later films, with
specific reference to Marnie,130 The Birds,131 and Rear Window.132 I will focus my study on
Burks’ cinematographic influence on what I consider to be one of Hitchcock’s main
themes: the objectification of the female blonde.
Bordwell and Thompson state: ‘Cinematography (literally, “writing in movement”)

depends to a large extent on photography (“writing in light”)’. 133 In analysing the use
of movement and light within these three films, I will focus on two main oppositions
that I have articulated within Burks’ work, namely camera movement / the static
camera, and light / shadow. Through analysis of these themes, I will show how
Burks’ cinematography links in with, and enhances, the direction and symbolism of
Hitchcock’s famous and frequently analysed films, highlighting a rare area of
Hitchcock study that has not yet been undertaken. Maurice Yacowar declares:
‘Hitchcock’s genius lies in his synthesis of mind, eye, and heart in the dynamic film
experience’.134 In this essay, I shall put forward the case that Robert Burks went on to
become Hitchcock’s ‘eye’ behind the camera, potentially taking credit for at least one
third of Hitchcock’s genius.
Camera Movement / Static Camera

The dichotomy between the moving and static camera within Burks’ work has to do
with the underlying conflict within these three films of seer and seen, of voyeur and
object.135 Subsequently, one of the most commonly used movements of the camera is
the tracking of the female blonde from behind.
Figure 1: Marnie
130 Marnie, dir. by Alfred Hitchcock (Universal Pictures, 1964).

131 The Birds, dir. by Alfred Hitchcock (Universal Pictures, 1963).
132 Rear Window, dir. by Alfred Hitchcock (Paramount Pictures, 1954).
133 David Bordwell and Kristin Thompson, Film Art An Introduction, 4th ed. (USA: McGraw-Hill, Inc. 1979),
p. 185.
134 Maurice Yacowar, ‘Hitchcock’s Imagery and Art’, in A Hitchcock Reader, ed. by Marshall Deutelbaum
and Leland Poague, 2nd ed. (UK: Blackwell Publishing Ltd, 2009), pp. 25-34, (p. 33).
135 ‘The power to subject another person […] to the gaze voyeuristically is turned onto the woman as the
object’, Laura Mulvey, Visual and Other Pleasures (London: Macmillan Press Ltd, 1989), p. 23.
83
Figure 2: Marnie
Figure 3: Marnie
In the opening shot of Marnie (figure 1), the camera begins in an extreme close-up of
Marnie’s handbag, tracking forward from behind Marnie as she walks. As the camera
movement slows down, more of Marnie’s body comes into the frame (figure 2),
beginning with a close-up of her derriere before the camera becomes static, allowing a
full view of Marnie from behind (figure 3). The fact that the camera is following the
female protagonist from behind situates the viewer as the voyeur – Marnie is unaware
that she is being watched. The transition from a tracking, to a static camera places the
viewer’s focus upon Marnie’s body, so that when she moves away, our eyes remain on
her, causing a voluntary yet manipulated voyeurism within the viewer. As Raymond
Bellour suggests, ‘it is the variation in distance between camera and object that serves
to inscribe cinema in the realm of the scopic drive’.136 Burks’ camera predominantly
focuses on one aspect of Marnie’s body, rather than the head and shoulders medium
front shots we commonly have of the men.
In The Birds Burks introduces the blonde female in the same way as in Marnie, although
this time, the transition from static to moving camera is reversed.
Figure 4: The Birds Figure 5: The Birds
136Raymond Bellour, The Analysis of Film, ed. by Constance Penley (Bloomington: Indiana University
Press, 2000), p. 219.
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The camera begins static, in a long shot of a city street in San Francisco. As soon as the
bus moves out of the frame, we see Melanie, still in static long shot, waiting to cross the
road. As soon as she begins to move (figure 4), so does the camera, panning counter-
clockwise as it follows her movements. As the camera pans, Melanie moves towards it,
so that the audience ends up behind her, looking at Melanie in medium shot (see figure
5). As soon as Melanie’s back is turned towards the camera, the narrative
objectification starts with a wolf whistle, aligning the film’s cinematography of
‘[clinging] possessively to […] [her] body’137 from behind, seamlessly with character
development.
Burks’ use of the moving and static camera continues to work in parallel to narrative
and character development throughout these two films, creating a cinematographic arc
to work alongside the arc of the narrative. In Marnie, as the female protagonist
deteriorates into her childhood the camera’s objectification of her adult body decreases.
The frequent camera tracking from behind becomes less frequent as the film continues,
culminating in close-up, front on shots of her terrified face which (in its expression of
innocent fear) becomes the focus for the audience, replacing the image of her
sexualised body from the film’s opening. Burks’ use of a red filter over the image of
Marnie in figure 6 also works to give the viewer an insight into Marnie’s subjective. 138
Seeing the vibrant red that she has in front of her eyes, the audience are experiencing
the moment from her perspective. They cannot therefore objectify Marnie here,
because, due to Burks’ colouring in this sequence, the audience is Marnie.
There is a similar cinematographic arc within The Birds. After Melanie has been hit by a
gull, Mitch puts his arm around her and together they walk away from the jetty.
Figure 6: Marnie Figure 7: The Birds
The camera shows them from the back (figure 7), in a repeat of its previous
objectification of Melanie’s body (see figure 5). However, this time it is different. There
are two characters framed, and the camera is panning clockwise, following both of
them. The focus is now on the couple rather than the single girl, hence the sexualised
look of the viewer is diminished. The objectification of Burks’ camera towards both
Marnie and Melanie therefore decreases the further we get into each film.
137Ibid, p. 217.
138The red filter ‘convey[s] to us the feeling of the condition itself – […] [allows] us to experience it directly
as Marnie experiences it’, Robin Wood, Hitchcock’s Films Revisited (London: Faber and Faber, 1989), p. 175.
85
Burks’ use of the camera in the introduction of the first female blonde in Rear Window
(though a minor blonde in the narrative) contrasts to his introduction of both Marnie
and Melanie. As the camera pans counter-clockwise around the courtyard of
apartments, the clearest view the audience has is of Miss Torso, whose windows are
open. She is placed with her back to the camera directly in the centre of her window
frame (in her underwear), before dropping her bra and bending down.
Figure 8: Rear Window Figure 9: Rear Window
Framed in the centre of the window therefore, is her derriere lifted high into the air
(figure 8). The inside of her apartment is dark and shadowy, due to the mock
naturalistic lighting of the set, creating the illusion that natural sunlight is coming from
the courtyard. The blonde then walks to the front of the window to pour a drink, and is
bathed in artificial sunlight (figure 9). It is the first time in the three films we have seen
a female in bra and knickers, and the first time the camera’s objectification of her body
has been so explicit. Burks has set her (and her derriere) up precisely in the middle of
his frame, immediately drawing the viewer’s eye towards her.
Even Rear Window however, has a cinematographic arc when it comes to the
objectifying use of the camera.
Figure 10: Rear Window
At the end of the film, when Lisa (the third protagonist blonde) is lying on the bed,
Burks’ camera slowly pans up her body, in close up, from her feet, along her legs and
torso and up to her head. This use of the camera pan is traditionally an objectifying
shot. However, in this instance, it is used ironically. Lisa is dressed in tomboy attire
(figure 10), and the pan in this context is therefore used as a joke, self-consciously
mocking its own objectifying tendencies.
Lens Masking
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The theme of voyeurism is further highlighted in each film by Burks’ use of a mask
over the camera or printer’s lens in order to block the passage of light, creating the
illusion that the viewer is looking through a lens. When Marnie and Mark are at the
races, a gentleman looks at the couple through a rolled up newspaper (figure 11). Mark
is turned away, and so only Marnie’s face is visible. Similarly, in The Birds Mitch looks
through a pair of binoculars at Melanie in the boat (figure 12). In Rear Window the same
effect is used with both Jeff’s binoculars and his camera lens (figure 13).
Figure 11: Marnie Figure 12: The Birds
In each instance, the spectator looks at the female blonde through the circular viewer
with the male character. The seeing is no longer accidental. The presence of the male
behind the lens is substituted for the eye of the viewer; hence the audience are now
actively spying, aligned with the male gaze.139 The use of Burks’ framing here makes
the audience complicit in the clandestine (and objectifying) act of peeping or spying.
Light / shadow
The other prominent aspect of Burks’ cinematography used in the objectification of the
female blonde is the use of lighting.
Glamorous Portraiture
In parallel with the tracking camera at the start of each film, Burks highlights and
objectifies the blonde female within the frame in the first half of each film with the use
of glamorous portraiture, ‘to add emotional overtones, and to beautify’.140 When
Marnie is washing her hair, Burks uses a close-up on the black hair in the sink and the
dye rubbing off. The camera does not show us her face until she is blonde (figure 14).
As she flicks her hair back, the camera is in close-up on her face which is lit from
139RearWindow ‘enables us to feel just that small amount of uneasiness necessary for us to question the
morality of what he [Jeff] is doing – our own morality since we are spying with him, sharing his
fascinated, compulsive “Peeping-Tom-ism”’, Robin Wood, Hitchcock’s Films Revisited, p. 103.
140 Gerald Millerson, Lighting for Television and Film, 3rd ed. (Oxford: Focal Press, 1991), p. 120.
87
above, bathing her face in light. A fill light softens her features and highlights her
feminine beauty, whilst eye lights cause her eyes to sparkle. She is the central image in
the frame highlighting her own attractive facial symmetry, and the audience cannot
therefore help but look at her as she sensuously throws back her wet, blonde hair.
Figure 12: Marnie Figure 13: Marnie
Another of many similar examples within this film is when Mark is watching Marnie
ride her horse. When she arrives in front of him, she is again the central image of the
frame, her face filmed in glamorous portraiture (figure 15). Burks has used soft frontal
lighting, a haloing back light and soft-focus lenses. A fill light also appears to have
been used to further soften and hence feminize the image, creating a highly fetishized
image of female beauty.
A similar use of glamorous portraiture is used on Melanie’s character in the first half of
The Birds (Figure 16).
Figure 14: The Birds Figure 15: The Birds
What is interesting in The Birds, is that Burks uses lighting to create a stark distinction
between the two young women within the film, the blonde and the brunette. The most
striking instance of this within the film is seen in figure 17. The two women are
framed, Annie front right, Melanie back left. Burks lights Annie’s face from the left
side, creating shadows on the right side of her nose, cheek, eye and chin, suggesting
the use of an oblique frontal key light. Her skin is dull, and it is not an attractive or
glamorous portrait. In the back left, Melanie is bathed in the desk light and glowing as
usual, lit from above and in front. Burks uses a fill light for Melanie that he doesn’t use
for Annie, giving Annie a much sharper and unfeminine image. Burks’ use of lighting
here sets up one female only as the objectified woman, treating Annie (the brunette)
simply as a narrative tool. This technique is also used in Marnie to distinguish Marnie
from her Mother. It works well as a way of highlighting (and objectifying) the blonde
continually within the frame, as the subject of the voyeur’s (audience’s) view.
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Shadow
Figure 16: Marnie
As with the use of camera movement however, the technique of glamorous portraiture
is not consistent throughout either film, as Burks creates another form of
cinematographic arc in his use of lighting. As Marnie’s mental state deteriorates, her
face is increasingly cast in shadow as the film progresses, paralleling her decreasing
sense of sanity.141 On their honeymoon, after Mark has whipped off Marnie’s dress, she
lies on the bed with the left half of her face obscured in shadow (figure 18) with the use
of side key lighting, illustrating the darkness and fear she feels by Mark’s betrayal.
Similarly, when Mark is holding Marnie after her nightmare in the bedroom (figure
19), there is another close-up of her face. There are shadows under her eyes, mouth and
chin suggesting the use of a steep frontal key light to create a ‘harsh modeling’142 effect.
Figure 17: Marnie
Similarly in The Birds Burks repeats this cinematographic arc of light to dark. As
Melanie’s bird attack in the attic causes a mental deterioration of shock, there is a
parallel decline in the use of lighting on her face. As seen in figure 20, by the end of the
film Melanie’s face is barely visible, the shadows increasing until she is completely
obscured in silhouette (figure 21).
141 ‘[Marnie] can only survive by preserving a carefully cultivated, artificial exterior personality; this
shattered, she would be in danger of disintegrating into fragments’, Robin Wood, Hitchcock’s Films
Revisited, p. 184.
142 Gerald Millerson, Lighting for Television and Film, p. 97.
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Figure 18: The Birds
Burks therefore decreases his use of glamorous portraiture and light throughout both
films, using an increase in shadows to document the mental decline of both protagonist
blondes.
Figure 20: Rear Window Figure 21: Rear Window
Just as with camera movement, Burks uses a different lighting technique in his
introduction of the protagonist blonde in Rear Window. When Lisa enters the frame for
the first time (figure 22), we see the shadow of her head looming over Jeff’s before we
see her face as she leans down and kisses him. She is the first of the blondes in the
three films to be introduced by Burks through shadow rather than light.
In questioning the importance of this lighting technique within the plot, it is possible
that her shadow here conflicts with her real image, representing the two sides to Lisa’s
personality embodied in the final image of the film when she is ironically dressed in
tomboy attire whilst reading Harper’s Bazarre magazine. On a more obvious level, it
represents the ominous foreboding Jeff currently feels at the prospect of marrying her.
The inversion of the lighting technique mirrors the inversion of narrative from the
other two films: in both Marnie and The Birds the protagonist blonde becomes more and
more unstable as the narrative progresses. In Rear Window the strength and depth of
Lisa’s character increases throughout the film, starting as the presentation of a shallow
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Daddy’s girl (figure 23), and ending in the image of a practical, yet sophisticated, brave
and gutsy heroine (figure 10).
Silhouette
As seen is figure 21, silhouette is used by Burks in each film to highlight a moment of
fear.
Figure 22: Marnie
In Marnie the protagonist’s Mother stands in the doorway of her daughter’s bedroom
in silhouette (figure 24), illustrating her part in the manifestation of Marnie’s fears.143
Burks here uses a lighting technique to help explain Marnie’s mental frustrations: the
Mother’s shadow represents Marnie’s mental repression of what happened on ‘that
night’.144 As Pomerance announces: ‘Darkness, […] [is] a quality of buried impulses
and memories: of the repressed, of […] all that we call “evil”’.145 Relating to this idea of
evil, in The Birds Burks uses a long shot of electric pylon cables covered in the black
silhouettes of crows against the murky night sky (figure 25), whilst in Rear Window, he
produces the silhouette of Mr Thorwald behind the closed blinds in the bedroom of his
disappeared wife (figure 26). In each instance, the silhouette outlines an object of fear.
Ironically, the object of fear at the beginning of Rear Window is the character of Grace
Kelly. However, as the films progress, the silhouette or shadow moves from being an
object of fear, to the subject who fears (see previous subsection): from Marnie’s Mother
143 Marnie’s Mother stands ‘not only for a purely private and hideous past but also as the twisted
embodiment of social repression and sexual exploitation’, Michele Piso, ‘Mark’s Marnie’, in A Hitchcock
Reader, pp. 280-294, (p. 281).
144 Marnie.
145 Murray Pomerance, An Eye for Hitchcock (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2004), p. 62.
91
to Marnie, from the birds to Melanie, and from Lisa to Jeff (who is outlined in
silhouette whilst waiting for Thorwald to arrive at his door at the end of the film). This
use of shadow shifting from object to subject mirrors a change in audience perspective,
from sharing the characters’ fears (the fears of the blondes in Marnie and The Birds) to
examining and analysing the characters’ fears at the end of the film.
As illustrated throughout this essay, Robert Burks’ use of camera movement versus the
static camera and light versus shadow highlights the theme of female objectification
within Hitchcock’s films, emphasizing the blonde female within the frame and
paralleling the development of her character within the narrative. The use of his
framing makes the audience complicit in the clandestine (and objectifying) act of
peeping or spying when the blonde character is at her best, whilst his changing use of
lighting and camera angle transfers the audience’s gaze to align itself with her
subjectivity when she is at her most mentally distressed, causing an increase in
audience empathy, understanding and analysis, and a decrease in sexual objectification
throughout the films. The cinematography is pivotal in establishing audience
perspective in relation to the female, and yet, unless the viewer is looking for it, the
effects are subconscious. Hitchcock himself declared:
I think one of the first essentials of the moving camera is that

the eye should not be aware of it. In other words, the eye
should be on the character moving, but I’m all for the moving
camera when it’s properly used.146
In line with the narrative focus on subconscious themes of repression in Marnie, fear in
The Birds and scopophilia in Rear Window the cinematography draws upon the viewer’s
own subconscious, drawing their eye, and in turn their identification and sympathy in
purposeful directions that they may not be consciously aware of.
Bibliography
Bellour, Raymond, The Analysis of Film, ed. by Constance Penley (Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 2000)
Bordwell, David and Kristin Thompson, Film Art An Introduction, 4th ed. (USA:
McGraw-Hill, Inc. 1979)
Chandler, Daniel, The ‘Grammar’ of Television and Film

<http://www.aber.ac.uk/media/Documents/short/gramtv.html>, [accessed:
25/04/10]
Deutelbaum, Marshall and Leland Poague ed. A Hitchcock Reader, 2nd ed. (UK:
Blackwell Publishing Ltd, 2009)
Gottlieb, Sidney, ed. Hitchcock on Hitchcock (USA: University of California Press, 1995)
146Alfred Hitchcock in interview with Herb A. Lightman, ‘Hitchcock Talks About Lights, Camera, Action’,
in Hitchcock on Hitchcock, ed. by Sidney Gottlieb (USA: University of California Press, 1995), pp. 303 – 314,
(p. 310).
92
Millerson, Gerald, Lighting for Television and Film, 3rd ed. (Oxford: Focal Press, 1991)
Mulvey, Laura, Visual and Other Pleasures (London: Macmillan Press Ltd, 1989)
Pomerance, Murray, An Eye for Hitchcock (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press,
2004)
Wood, Robin, Hitchcock’s Films Revisited (London: Faber and Faber, 1989)
Filmography
Marnie, dir. by Alfred Hitchcock (Universal Pictures, 1964)
Rear Window, dir. by Alfred Hitchcock (Paramount Pictures, 1954)
The Birds, dir. by Alfred Hitchcock (Universal Pictures, 1963)
93
94
Robert Richardson: Lighting and Composition in
the Scorsese Collaborations
Casino (1995), Bringing Out The Dead (1999) and The Aviator (2004)
ALICE WYBREW
Cinematographer Robert Richardson has collaborated with director Martin Scorsese on

five projects to date: Casino (1995), Bringing Out The Dead (1999), The Aviator (2004),
Shine A Light (2008) and Shutter Island (2010). However, it will be the duo’s first three
collaborations that will form the basis for analysis in this essay, where I will argue that
Richardson’s use of his trademark ‘hotspotting’ and his carefully arranged shot
compositions give him a unique style that can be seen across all three films. Both his
use of lighting and his shot compositions unify three very different narrative stories
and work as a kind of fingerprint for the cinematographer.
When referring to the strong overhead blasts of light Richardson often inflicts on his
actors, overexposing them by several stops, he comments ‘I like the actors, consciously
or subconsciously, to be involved in the progress of the light on their own faces, or
those of their associates’ (Rudolph 1999:34). As such, Richardson is careful to keep his
lighting consistent, and as we shall see from analysis of specific sequences in the
aforementioned films, this consistency provides a structure to each film as a whole. It
will be demonstrated how Richardson’s prominent lighting style can serve to
accentuate and enhance the unfolding narratives, articulating the feelings of the
characters and setting the mood of a scene.
Shot in Super 35 so the film wouldn’t have to be panned and scanned, Casino marked
the first time the cinematographer had worked in this format. Shooting at lighting
levels of between 2.8 and 4, Richardson focused on not creating ‘too much depth of
field’ (Pizzello 1995:40). Consequently this caused the worry that some areas of the
frame could fall off into pitch black, but it is the cinematographer’s delicate balance of
light and dark that makes Casino’s cinematography so startling.
Scorsese has made no secret of the fact that Casino’s style was greatly influenced by
film noir, and I believe that Richardson’s use of stark top lighting and noirish shadow
can be seen to help unify both characters and settings throughout the film.
The steep back lights so favoured by Richardson dominate the film, both exposing and
isolating the characters while also connecting them to their origins. This technique
unites the film as a whole, since, even in the ‘back home’ settings where the illegitimate
goings on are emphasised by the chiascuro lighting, the characters are still as starkly
top lit as they are when in Las Vegas. The difference is that in the casino settings rarely
anything is cast in shadow, everything is laid bare and in deep focus, as this is the
place where Ace (Robert De Niro) has to appear legitimate and cannot hide himself.
Yet the back lighting that shines off his shoulders and head is ever present, increasing
and decreasing depending on the scenario in which he is placed. When Ace identifies a
cheat in the Tangiers and calls for back up, the steep back lighting is present but soft,
while the man positioned to his left is lit neutrally, emphasising Ace’s position of
power and drawing the audience’s attention to him by singling him out. When he
95
speaks with the second cheat in the back room the top light is angled even more
steeply, the overexposure making it almost blinding, lighting his head and hands
extremely brightly while keeping his face in soft shadow (see fig 1). This style matches
the stark light and shadow combination of the ‘back home’ scenes, positing Ace as
more at home in this situation than he is out on the casino floor (see fig 2). In support
of this, the lighting tends to be more contrasted when there are scenes of violence or
the bosses are in the frame. Such a technique also gives Robert De Niro’s character an
almost angelic look, as Gavin Smith noted it ‘reasserts a God-like metaphysical
perspective’ (Smith 1996:60).
Fig 1. Fig 2.
Whilst this lighting directly links Ace’s history (‘back home’ settings) with his present
(Las Vegas) its use within particular scenarios also ties spaces together. For instance,
the composition of the wedding reception shot is laid out in a similar fashion to the
casino floor, positioning the circular dining tables like the gambling tables with
bulbous lights hanging from the ceiling and reflecting off mirrors onto the tables
below. A candle on each table lights them individually like those on the casino floor
(see Fig 3). Richardson notes how ‘we enhanced the lighting over the (casino) tables by
adding 50 percent more bulbs’ (Pizzello 1995:39), stressing the desire for strong,
dramatic lighting. Both the composition and lighting unify the spaces, whilst also
pointing to the gamble Ace is taking in marrying Ginger (Sharon Stone) along with his
inability to escape the world he is now so immersed in.
Richardson frequently utilises lighting in Casino to emphasise the characters cigarette

smoke (see Fig 4). By doing so, it creates the suggestion that the characters themselves
are on fire and it is only a matter of time until they go up in flames. As Smith notes of
the scene where Nicky (Joe Pesci) stabs a man to death in a bar, the ‘horizontal shafts
of white light all but skewer the characters, and cigarette smoke rises in the foreground
as if these men are already smoldering in hellfire’ (Smith 1996:60).
Fig 3. Fig 4.
This expressive style of lighting gives Casino a harsher, rougher look than many other
casino movies of today which opt for a smoother, glossier and more glamorous look.
The skilled lighting combinations used here highlight the glitz and glamour of the
characters roller-coaster lifestyle by emphasising the bright colours in and around the
casino, yet the strong top lights and the varied use of focus in scenes such as the one
just described keep the film feeling realistic and coarse.
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In addition (and contrast) to the film noir look of Casino many of the shots contributed
to what Scorsese calls ‘a kind of hallucinatory effect’ (Pizzello 1995:39). Indeed the
lighting, framing, colours and composition of many of the shots in the film enhance
this claim.
The frequent use of mirrors and reflective surfaces distort the images and accentuate
the falsity and materialism of the setting while the bold, sometimes ridiculously bright
colours of both Ginger and Ace’s costumes are reminiscent of the psychedelic 60’s
fashion. The sporadic use of canted frames is often sudden, jarring the viewer and
unsettling the comfortable viewing position previously established. One of the more
pivotal uses of such a frame comes when Ace returns home to find Ginger crying in
bed. The streaks of light and shadow that penetrate the room add depth to the space
whilst emphasising the distance extending between the couple (as they grow further
apart the lighting in their home becomes increasingly contrasted). As Ace tries to
convince Ginger to get help, the camera gradually turns until it is on a vertical axis,
filming the couple as if they are standing when they are in fact lying on the bed (see
Fig 5). This scene is ‘marked off from the rest of the film by its baroque, burnished
visual style and canted frames’ (Smith 1996:61) and is a technique Richardson is to use
again in Bringing Out The Dead (see Fig 8).
Fig 5. Fig 6.
The abundance of garish light and colour inherent to the Las Vegas setting naturally
reinforces this hallucinatory experience, yet it’s Richardson use of these lights in one
particular instance that makes the most impact and has been identified as being
‘composed so that they [Nicky and Ace] resemble astronauts in a capsule’ (Ibid). As the
pair drive down the Strip, the multicoloured Vegas lights streak across the windscreen,
fracturing the depth of the shot and splitting the frame. Notably the lights are arranged
to cross only Ace’s side of the screen and not Nicky’s, hiding Ace from the viewer and
separating the characters in a forecast of what is to come (See Fig 6).
Creating a ‘hallucinatory effect’ was also a primary concern on Scorsese and

Richardson’s next collaboration Bringing Out the Dead (1999). Telling the story of Frank
Pierce (Nicolas Cage), a night time Emergency Medical Technician (EMT) who is
becoming increasingly unstable in his high pressured job, lighting was of primary
importance in projecting both the characters loss of control and desire for stability.
Scorsese admitted that ‘capturing the hallucinatory quality of these visions, and how
they shape Frank Pierce’s experiences, seemed like a perfect job for Bob’ (Rudolph
1999:31). As a whole, the film has a much rawer look than Casino, designed specifically
to match the harsh, gritty subject around which the story is based. Much of the
photographic research conducted by the production designer Danti Ferreti focused on
97
black and white imagery and as a result the film took on a monochromatic, desaturated
style. To achieve this look, Richardson opted for the process of skip-bleaching, which
would retain more of the silver in the image and thereby desaturate the colours and
encourage deeper blacks. He commented that ‘part of the point of the bleach-bypass
was to over-whelm the red and yellow tones...we were trying to move the whole film
to a cooler black-and-white feel’ (Rudolph 1999:32).
The two spaces that dominate the film are the inside of Pierce’s ambulance and the
interior of the emergency room. All the expressive lighting techniques and camera
movements are utilised when Pierce is on the road, linking his job with his mental
instability. Canted frames, handheld cameras and streaking lights dominate Pierce’s
working hours, whilst the neutral colours and steady camera movements of the
internal hospital scenes violently contrast this. The intense and seemingly random
lights that intrude upon the interior of the vehicle from outside were arranged as such
by Richardson who comments ‘we’d go from front light to side light, simulate passing
street lamps, and occasionally approximate the look of the actors being hit with car
headlights’ (Rudolph 1999:33). In conjunction with the protagonist’s increasingly
unstable lifestyle the camera angles and lighting become gradually more extreme with
over-cranking and fast cutting becoming ever more frequent. In one scene towards the
end Pierce begins seeing the face of a girl he was unable to save in the faces of every
passer-by. To increase the hallucinatory nature of this scene, Richardson raised the
light level of the building behind the characters by 1.5 stops and used Dino lights on
dimmers to accentuate the look (see Fig 7).
Fig 7. Fig 8.
The use of Richardson’s strong top lighting is utilised to greater effect here than in
Casino as a result of the bleach bypass. Often used for exterior shots as well as interiors,
Maxi-Brutes were hung from Condors in the air, to create an intensely strong effect.
One early scene where Pierce is struggling to save a man’s life utilises this hot
overhead light in a similar way to that of Casino. While the EMT’s work fast and
efficiently, an intense high angled light shines down on the body and highlights
Larry’s (John Goodman) shoulders. Richardson was interested in the ‘ethereal’ quality
of the light in this instance and as such it mimics the angelic nature and position of
power the medics have over the dying man here, in a similar way to how Ace held
power over the cheater’s life in Casino (see Fig 9 and 10). Although one is inflicting
violence and the other attempting to save a life, the ‘God-like’ imagery is made
manifest in both instances through this lighting technique.
Fig 9. Fig 10.
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The lighting style in Bringing Out the Dead also shares likenesses with Casino in its
noirish qualities. The light is used here to both expose objects and create deep shadow,
a shadow emphasised by the skip-bleaching process. The use of such extreme lighting
and saturated colours often create a sense of claustrophobia within the frame that is
accentuated by Richardson’s use of an anamorphic lense. This 2.35:1 widescreen format
allows for a greater frame width, and in many scenes contributes to a feeling of either
confinement or isolation as a result. When in the ambulance, the widescreen
accentuates the distance between Pierce and his co-worker, a feeling emphasised by the
symmetrical composition of the shot which presents a void between the characters (see
Fig 11). The shot-reverse-shots used for many of the following conversational
sequences within the ambulance are filmed constantly as close ups, gradually
decreasing the sense of space within the vehicle by denying the viewer sight of the
characters surroundings. Since the background of these close ups comprise of the
characters reflection and the light spattered darkness beyond the window, this
restricted atmosphere is doubly enhanced. In another instance, as Pierce chases after
the mentally unstable Noel, the oppressive nature of his surroundings are emphasised
by the walls on either side of him, the steep back light utilised and the symmetrical
composition of the shot, all of which achieve a greater effect due to the wide lense
width (see Fig 12).
Fig 11. Fig 12.
For one of Richardson and Scorsese’s more recent collaborations, the cinematography
was particularly challenging. Documenting the life of Howard Hughes in The Aviator,
Scorsese wanted to give the film the same look as it would’ve had had it been filmed
back in the late 1920’s. Shooting on 3 perf Super 35mm film and using Primo lenses,
Richardson used an LUT to apply a two and three-colour look to the camera negative
at post production. Scorsese not only wanted the colour progression to mirror the
technological advances of the film industry at the time, but he wanted it to mirror ‘the
characters’ emotional evolution’ as well (Pavlus 2005:48). Much of the colour in the
film is brought out by the lighting, and the style of the lighting itself contributes
towards establishing the characters emotional state.
For most of the lighting in The Aviator Richardson relied on hard units in order to
recreate the ‘feel and the sharpness of color and shadow’ (Pavlus 2005:41) that was
evident in films of the period. This use of sharp colour meant that in many instances
the arrangement of light and shadow mimicked the noirish style seen in Casino and
more overtly in Bringing Out the Dead. In one instance where Howard (Leonardo
DiCaprio) argues with Katherine (Kate Beckinsale), he retreats to his study and is lit in
a very similar to way to how Gordon Willis lit The Godfather (1972), using the windows
to project strong patches of light in a dimly lit room (see Fig 13). Howard is again top
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and side lit with a strong white light, throwing areas of his face and body into shadow
and suggesting the unstable transition he is undergoing.
Fig 13. Fig 14.
A popular lighting technique adopted by Richardson in The Aviator was the use of dual
side-keys which create a shadow down the centre of the subject’s face. Lit from either
side and angled from behind, this technique is used in the very opening scene showing
Hughes as a boy being bathed by his mother (see fig 15). A later scene utilises this
same lighting set up but with a stronger, less diffused light and with the addition of a
top back light (see fig 16). This scene depicts Hughes interviewing a young girl and
both the narrative action and lighting draw parallels with the earlier scene. The
progression in the strength and angle of the lighting mirrors Hughes’ growth into a
man, having lost the comfortable, trusting environment he grew up in and now
surrounded by the harsh realities of the world, suggested through the stronger, colder
lighting. The shadow that hides his face in these instances (and many others) separates
him from the other characters who are rarely lit in this way.
Fig 15. Fig 16.
Richardson often overexposed shots to give the light a harsher effect and demonstrate
Hughes’ disorientation and lack of stability. This is particularly evident early in the
film where Hughes enters the theatre. For this scene the film was about 11 stops
overexposed which created an excessive burnout. Later, when Hughes is giving
evidence in trial the lighting panels were also brought to a high level of overexposure
to emphasise the effect they were having on Hughes stability. As Richardson has
clarified ‘There’s a definite correlation between Howard’s mental breakup and the
style of [lighting]’ (Pavlus 2005:42).
Although they considered shooting the film in 1:33 format, both the Scorsese and
Richardson thought that the ‘visual movement of the film lent itself strongly to
widescreen’ (Pavlus 2005:40) and so opted for 1:85. Although Richardson focused on
centre framing for the film, he did not try to emulate the ‘choreography of period-style
camera moves’ (Ibid). Because of this, The Aviator shares cinematographic similarities
with the previous two films, utilising the widescreen to great effect.
100
As in Bringing Out The Dead Richardson uses frame width here to emphasise space in
both extremes. Often his symmetrical compositions trap the subjects, whereas at other
times the high or low angled shots highlight the expanse surrounding the characters
(see fig 14). The symmetrical, enclosing compositions become more and more frequent
as the film progresses, mirroring Howard’s mental decline and seclusion. This
arrangement also serves to link opposing characters, as the symmetrical set ups that so
frequently frame Howard are also used to present other characters like Juan Trippe
(Alec Baldwin), the president of Pan American Airlines, familiarising the two
characters through their love of business, airlines and organisation (see figs 17 and 18).
Fig 17. Fig 18.
Richardson’s style can also be seen in these films through the use of other
cinematographic techniques such as fast tracking shots, rapid cutting, overhead crane
shots, and a varied use of focus. What has been demonstrated here however, is that
despite working with one of the most meticulous directors in the industry,
Richardson’s approach is still very much his own and this individuality can be seen in
his work across the board. Although the three films studied here each have their own
distinct overall ‘looks’, Richardson’s cinematography works in each case to accentuate
character mood and articulate the story whilst also establishing a sense of
verisimilitude in the settings. His use of skip-bleaching in Bringing Out the Dead, LUT
colour process in The Aviator and filming on Super 35 to encompass both the standard
and widescreen ratios in Casino shows also that his style is not restricted to any one
format. This versatility, combined with his creative and distinctive lighting techniques
have led him to become one of the leading cinematographers of today, bringing his
own style to every film he works on whilst ensuring they all achieve the individual
‘look’ appropriate to their narratives.
Bibliography
John Pavlus, ‘High Life’, American Cinematographer, v86 n1, (2005), 38-53.
Stephen Pizzello ‘Ace In The Hole’, American Cinematographer, v76 n11, (1995), 34-46.
Eric Rudolph, ‘Urban Gothic’, American Cinematographer, v80 n11, (1999), 30-41.
Gavin Smith, ‘Two Thousand Light Years from Home: Scorsese’s big Casino’, Film
Comment, v32 n1 (1996), 59-63.
101
102
Blurring the Boundaries of Reality: The Subjective
Cinematography of Matthew Libatique
Pi (1998), Requiem for a Dream (2000) and The Fountain (2006)
SARAH BENTLEY
Libatique and Aronofsky: The Makings of a Marriage

American cinematographer Matthew Libatique has offered his expertise across a broad
corpus not limited to feature films but spanning also both music videos and shorts. His
collaboration with director Darren Aronofsky in 1991 for the short Fortune Cookie
marked the beginning of an exceptional working relationship between the two that for
the following nineteen years (to date) has seen Libatique adopt the role of
cinematographer for all bar one of Aronofsky’s productions147. One does not have to
brood deeply to consider the importance of the relationship between cinematographer
and director. Indeed Kris Malkiewicz notes how ‘the cinematographer embraces the
director’s vision and uses his visual talent and technical knowledge to capture the
director’s inner thoughts and put them on screen.148’ As the force behind the film the
cinematographer must therefore connect deeply with the director in order to
effectively interpret and transform their visions onto screen. Thus Cesar Charlone may
not exaggerate in claiming the bond between cinematographer and director to be a
‘stronger relationship than a marriage.’149
It is the relationship between Libatique and Aronofsky that I aim to explore

throughout this essay. Using their three most celebrated features as a focus: Pi (1998),
Requiem for a Dream (2000) and The Fountain (2006), I wish to locate the consistencies of
aesthetics and style across these films that appear as a result of the continually
deepening relationship between cinematographer and director. It is perceived that
verisimilitude remains a significant, if not fundamental goal for many
cinematographers, but what is to be said about those whose aesthetic goals may not lie
in creating this convincing sense of realism? Working across boundaries confined to
the domain of realism, Libatique can be considered alongside those perceived as
daring and controversial in their attempts to utilise lighting for greater effect as a
means of enhancing somewhat anti-naturalistically certain aspects of a narrative. Such
a tendency of style acts in harmony with Aronofsky’s too arguably daring subject
matter, and hence I wish to locate the aspects of Libatique’s cinematography that
express and emphasise the director’s controversial narratives.
Pi: Contrast, Grain and Subjectivity

Pi stars Sean Gullette as Max Cohen, a paranoid mathematician and number theorist
who considers everything in nature to be understood through numbers. Max spends
the duration of the narrative searching for a key 216 digit number that he believes can
147 The Wrestler (2008) is Aronofsky’s only film featuring Maryse Alberti as
cinematographer.
148 Kris Malkiewicz, Film Lighting: Talks with Hollywood’s Cinematographers and
Gaffers (New York: Fireside, 1986), p. 2.

149 Cesar Charlone, ‘Cinematography: Talking Shop’, Sight + Sound, April 2009, 18-
24 (p. 21).
103
be used to make predictions in the stock market. Plagued with severe migraines,
attacks of anxiety and paranoia, Max is driven to the brink of insanity, and as the film
progresses it becomes difficult for the spectator to separate what is real and what is
actually a product of the character’s hallucinations. Pi is shot on 16mm black-and-
white reversal film. Libatique claims that Aronofsky’s decision to shoot as such was for
both aesthetic and budgetary reasons, stating ‘(Aronofsky) wanted the most contrasty
black-and-white possible, with really white whites and really black blacks.’150 Thus the
reversal film was chosen for its resulting grainy, abstract quality (Image I151). One can
draw out the stark contrasts between the blacks and whites, the reversal film helping to
achieve a distinct ‘noir’ element to the overall aesthetics of the film. In deliberately
using such an abstract film stock, Libatique exploits the technical aspects of Pi for an
expressive, subjective effect. The sharp contrasts depict the extremities in Max’s
mentality from his crippling migraines to paranoia, anxiety and brinks of genius. The
abstract film stock acts immediately as a representation of Max’s abstract and fragile
mind.
To remain with the notion of subjectivity, Libatique states that the visual language of Pi
was wholly constructed around this strategy. He claims ‘Matty (Aronofsky) and I
decided that we would only shoot over Max’s shoulder, and never over another
character’s.152’ This subjective camerawork is maintained through Libatique’s
consistent framing of Max from a distinct profile angle. Macro lenses were too used, as
Libatique recalls, to ‘focus on the mathematician’s gaze and what he was looking
at...(showing) the details of the universe as much as possible, like what was at his
fingertips.153’ Thus the intense close-ups achieved by the lenses along with the precise
framing of Max works to distinctly heighten the subjectivity of Pi. The film is
consistently positioned from Max’s perspective, forever revealing things from his
point-of-view and never aligning the gaze from another character.
Libatique describes Max as a ‘renegade mathematician who has retreated from the
world...a modern day Dr. Frankenstein154’. In order to strengthen the characterisation
of Max as a tortured genius, Libatique employed his cinematography in compliance to
the narrative by developing its expressive and subjective quality. As Max comes closer
to his ultimate goal, his mentality becoming more fragile and fractured, the film too
becomes progressively darker. Towards the end of the narrative, there is barely any
light in the room but just shapes of what has been shown before (Image II). For such
sequences, Libatique reveals how he manipulated the camera to expose Max’s face at
key:
With the reversal, I was really playing with the latitude of the
Tri-X. If I wanted his face to be hot, I just exposed it to favour
the high end, but if I wanted it down, I’d expose it at key. I also
rated the film at 400 and pushed it to a stop. That approach did
150 Matthew Libatique, quoted in Stephen Pizzello, ‘Sundance ’98 – A Prospector’s Paradise’, American
Cinematographer, April 1998, 100-113 (p. 101).
151 Images located in Appendix II.
152 Mathew Libatique, quoted in Pizzello (1998), p. 102.
153 Ibid., p. 102.
154 Ibid., p. 102.
104
give us more grain, but neither Darren nor I were afraid of
that.155
The increased contrast and grain achieved by rating and pushing the Tri-X film works
to express the deterioration of Max’s mental state. Regarding Image II, taken from a
scene where Max is destroying his apartment in an attack of rage and despair, the
increased grain and darkness as a result of manipulating the stock shrouds the film in
abstract, expressive shadows representing the intensity of his migraines, paranoia and
anxiety. Libatique thus utilises the cinematography to illustrate the closing of Max’s
mind as he falls further into isolation, distancing himself from the world around him.
Especially for the film, a rig was created involving a Bogen tripod attached to a weight
belt holding a Blox camera with a 10mm lens. The rig (affectionately named the
‘Snorricam’ after its inventors: the Snorri brothers) was then attached to the actor, the
camera centrally framing his head in medium close-up as the background moves
beyond him (Image III). Achieved is an excessively distorted perspective that both
Libatique and Aronofsky believed bought the spectator into the character’s mindset156.
In a sequence where Max is travelling down a street, the scene cuts between shots of
Max framed by the Snorricam, and point-of-view shots of the street as his walks. For
the former, Libatique overcranked the camera in contrast to the latter which were shot
at twelve frames-per-second. As a result achieved is the crosscutting between over and
undercranking, slow and fast motion, distorting the reality of the film to again play to
its subjective approach. Working in harmony to this distortion is the featuring of bright
sunlight reflecting off of buildings and onto Max’s face (Image IV). The stark lighting
acts in contrast to the shadows enveloping the character’s face to represent the
extremities of Max’s mind as well as enhance the distinction of the blacks and whites
achieved by the film stock. Libatique recalls this specific sequence claiming such a
technique was used to ‘emphasise the fact that he wasn’t relating to the world at
all...that rig gave us the ultimate in subjectivity.’157 Again one can clearly perceive
Libatique’s deliberate manipulation of the cinematography of Pi for dramatic,
expressive effect. He disregards the necessity for verisimilitude instead positioning his
focus to achieving an almost anti-naturalistic, highly stylised and abstract aesthetic.
Requiem for a Dream: Addiction Through a Lens

Not limited to Pi, the Snorricam features prominently in Libatique and Aronofsky’s
second collaborated feature. Requiem for a Dream explores the subject of addiction: its
highs, lows and tragic inevitability. Weaving together four individual narratives for a
highly explosive and shockingly affective portrayal, such a plot adopted by Requiem is
evidently subjective. As the addictions suffered by the characters are rooted in their
mentality, Libatique ensures his cinematography is employed to compliment the
subject matter.
In Requiem Libatique claims the rig was used ‘for defining moments in each character’s
arc – when life has definitely taken a turn for the worse and there’s no going back.’ 158
155 Ibid., p. 102.

156 Ibid., p. 102.
157 Ibid., p. 102.
158 Matthew Libatique, quoted in Stephen Pizzello, ‘Downward Spiral’, American Cinematographer, October
2000, 50-61, (p. 60).
105
Regarding Image V, taken in the aftermath of Tyrone’s (Marlon Wayans) involvement
in a shooting, the Snorricam distinctly captures his fear and panic as a result of the
horror. Combined with low-key lighting cascading deep shadows across the
character’s body, the deformation of the medium close-up shot achieved by the rig as
the distorted background travels beyond Tyrone lends the scene its expressionistic,
subjective feel analogous to that sought throughout Pi. Also similar to Pi is the
incorporation of point-of-view shots. The handheld camera jerks violently as Tyrone
runs, effectively documenting his desperate attempts to escape down the narrow
alleyway to the increasing sounds of sirens. Edited together with the Snorricam, such
framing, lighting and camerawork emphasises the character’s mental demise; he is
racked with sheer panic and fear, his mind shrouded in the distorted shadows of his
addiction to heroin.
A difference one observes when comparing the cinematography across both films is
Requiem’s use of colour, though Libatique stresses its incorporation was ‘in a way that
wasn’t overly complicated or distracting.’159 Working correspondingly to Pi, whose
black-and-white colouring enables the simple and specific visual language to go hand-
in-hand with the narrative160, a simplified palette was thus utilised along with
colourtemperatures to create a monochromatic tone. Shot mainly through a Panavision
Gold II with Ultra Speed MK II lenses utilising both Kodak 100 ASA EXR5248 and Fuji
500ASA Super-F 8572 stocks161, Libatique’s aim was to create a timeless quality to the
film. Aronofsky himself claims ‘we strove for the timeless feel of a fable because we
wanted to show that addiction is a human story that can happen at any time or in any
era.’162 The monochromatic aesthetic achieved by Libatique’s choices in camera and
stock enables Requiem to attain this specific quality. Such an effect represents the bleak
reality of addiction: its monotony, eternal suffering and angst.
For Libatique, the central aim of the cinematography for Requiem was to portray the
transition between seasons. Ever playing to the notion of subjectivity, Aronofsky
desired the season’s aesthetics to acquire a representational quality:
Matty (Libatique) and I came up with an approach of ‘magical

realism’ that eventually moves into ‘artificial naturalism’...We
wanted summer to have a magical but realistic feel, where
everything was very warm, but we wanted the end of the
story to have an artificial feeling with ugly light.163
The ‘magical realism’ of summer was achieved through the Kodak 48 stock. Used in
conjunction with coral filters, stimulated is the hardness of light found in the heart of
summer (Image VI). Applying the cinematography to the narrative, the warm, bright
lighting represents the highs of the character’s addictions. It is a time of hope and
prosperity. Focussing upon Libatique’s representation of winter, however, technical
steps were taken to ensure the sequence maintained its progressively expressive
quality. To mark the transition, the cinematographer removed all diffusion, pushing
159 Ibid., p. 51.

160 Ibid., p. 51.
161 Sourced from Pizzello (2000), pp. 50-61.
162 Darren Aronofsky, quoted in Pizzello (2000), p. 52.
163 Ibid., p. 52.
106
and rating the Fuji stock one stop at 1,000 ASA. He claims the resulting added grain
enabled the images to ‘become harder and more contrasty.164’ To illustrate, the winter
segment opens with a motion-control sequence of Sara (Ellen Burstyn) walking down a
street. Shot with a Milo motion-control rig the camera frames Sara from a skewed high
angle, tracking her as she walks. Different plates of additional people walking at one
frame-per-second were composited with Sara’s in post-production165 (Image VII). The
resulting distorted sequence of the character walking in apparent slow motion as
others rush past in a blur works in harmony to the monochromatic, grainy aesthetic
quality of the stock producing a highly subjective and expressive feel to the film and its
portrayal of winter. Analogous the sequence analysed in Pi where the combining of
under and overcranking (though not composited in the same shot) heightens such an
effect, here the cinematography too represents the mental state of the character. The
distorted angle of the framing emphasises Sara’s warped mentality as a result of her
addictions, the grained image documenting its rapid demise. Like Max, walking
disharmoniously to those around her, the camerawork and cinematography effective
articulates Sara’s separation from the world and the closing of her mind.
Throughout Requiem one can clearly decipher the cinematographic representation of

seasonal transition maintaining an expressive, representational quality. From the hard,
garish lighting of summer to the grained, monochromatic winter, illustrated is the
mental demise from the euphoric highs of addiction to its inevitable tragic end. As
with Pi, Libatique dismisses the need for realism, pushing his cinematography to
consistently acquire a heightened sense of subjectivity. Though dissimilar in its
incorporation of colour, Requiem’s resemblances to Pi are unparalleled, marking the
continued deep working relationship between Libatique and Aronofsky as one of
significant regard.
The Fountain: Ignorance to Knowledge; Darkness to Light

Ever progressing out of their comfort zone, Aronofsky and Libatique’s third
collaborated feature The Fountain is their first to fully embrace the power of colour for
expressive effect. Spanning over one thousand years and three parallel narratives, The
Fountain stars Hugh Jackman as Tommy, a research oncologist striving to achieve the
reversing of brain tumours in order to save his dying wife Izzi (Rachel Weisz). A
narrative thematically travelling from darkness to lightness, Libatique employed his
cinematographic skills in colour and lighting for symbolic compliance.
Tommy is first introduced to the spectator shrouded in darkness and shadow. Framed
face-on in medium close-up, the dark of his hair is matched to his dark attire and
unidentifiable surroundings (Image VIII). The only visible light sources: two flaming
torches positioned behind the character, cast shadows across Tommy’s face which is
angled down as if pensive in melancholy thought. The darkness of Tommy as
presented by the lighting is maintained throughout the first third of the film,
establishing his character, as Libatique states, as a ‘silhouette of a man’166. To analyse
such cinematography in accordance to the narrative, Tommy’s literally dark presence
164 Matthew Libatique, quoted in Pizzello (2000), p. 56.

165 Ibid., p. 56.
166 Matthew Libatique, quoted in John Calhoun, ‘Eternal Love’, American Cinematographer, November 2006,
50-62, (p. 54).
107
establishes the dark ignorance of his mind. Seeking eternal life with his love, Tommy is
unable to accept his wife’s impending death, a fate she herself claims not to fear. His
ignorance of this acceptance, and hence an ignorance of the world’s natural processes,
is thus represented through the cinematography. Acquiring then a subjective quality,
The Fountain follows in the footsteps of Pi and Requiem to expressively represent the
mentality of its characters.
In comparison to Tommy’s ignorance, Izzi is a character of truth and morality; she is

accepting of her tragic fate. Her figure is presented in an array of light. First framed in
close-up, her skin is lit by layers of Lee 013 Straw Tint filters167. Warming the lights,
achieved is an ambient illuminating effect upon the characters features (Image IX). The
resulting ‘holy glow’ exerted onto Izzi is accordingly representative of her character.
Wise and moral, the literal lightness of her figure subjectively expresses the lightness
and truth of her mind. For Tommy, in order to relieve his ignorance he must then
adopt Izzi’s acceptance and thus travel out of both his mental and physical darkness
and into a world of light.
As a narrative documenting such a transition from ignorance to knowledge,

Libatique’s cinematography is utilised to great expressive effect. A poignant scene to
note is in the anticipation of Izzi’s death. Realising he is about to lose his wife just as
his sought cure is discovered, Tommy rushes down a hospital passageway towards her
room. The passageway features a light at its end that was diffused and filtered by walls
of glass 168(Image X), articulating the ‘light at the end of the tunnel’, the light and
subsequent goal being Izzi: Tommy’s route to truth and morality. Entering Izzi’s room
as she dies (a room itself bathed in white light), Tommy throws himself against a
window, the blinds crashing to the floor, light penetrating the space (Image XI). Tommy
thus literally moves from darkness into light, the reality of his wife’s death he is now
forced to mentally accept beautifully expressed through the stark light enveloping his
figure. The light can then be seen as symbolically representative of Izzi’s soul: in
leaving her body its truth and morality is transferred onto Tommy. It is an articulation
of his mental transformation that is now enriched with the knowledge required to
proceed in life. Libatique’s cinematography is then subjective. Though successfully
articulating the thematic movement from darkness to light, the lighting too becomes an
expression of mentality, illustrating Tommy’s mental transformation from ignorance to
knowledge. One can then continue to draw comparisons in cinematographic effect
across Libatique’s work with Aronofsky. Progressions and developments are clearly
evident, however what remains consistent is the attempt to create an expressive and
subjective piece of cinema.
Expression and Subjectivity: The Libatique and Aronofsky Show

When one analyses the work of a cinematographer, it is astounding to uncover the
exhaustive efforts and talents exerted into a production in order to aesthetically create
something that to the naked eye may well proceed unnoticed. For Libatique, however
one is inclined to agree that the cinematography employed throughout his
collaborations with Aronofsky intend to be anything but overlooked. From the black-
167Sourced from Calhoun, p. 58.

168James Chinlund, quoted in Death and Rebirth: Inside The Fountain, dir. by Niko Tavernise (Antwrangler
Films, 2007).
108
and-white contrasts of Pi, through the monochromatic tones of Requiem for a Dream,
and culminating with the stark colouring of The Fountain, Libatique maintains an
aesthetic quality that screams expression. Though the three films clearly document a
progression of the relationship between director and cinematographer, growing in
depth and confidence in moving from black-and-white to colour, what remains
consistent is the cinematography’s subjective quality. As an articulation of thematic
expression, colour and light for Libatique is forever a symbolic representation of the
mind. Whether documenting the demise of mentality through grain and contrasts, or
illustrating the progression of knowledge and enlightenment though rich colouring,
the cinematography employed by Libatique strives for an affective and emotive
response. Such an abstract use of cinematography may work across the boundaries of
what one has come to understand as ‘Classical Narrative Filmmaking169’ and the
ultimate goal for verisimilitude, but through its anti-naturalism, Libatique pushes his
lighting, framing and camerawork to hold the spectator through its subjective appeal.
In pulling the audience into the mind and mentality of the characters, Libatique and
Aronofsky’s collaborated features are affective and powerful; a quality achieved only
through the deep relationship they have maintained and one we may hope to see
transferred onto future projects.
Bibliography
Bordwell, David & Thompson, Kristin, Film Art: An Introduction (7th ed) (New York:
McGraw Hill, 2004)
Calhoun, John, ‘Eternal Love’, American Cinematographer, November 2006, pp. 50-62
Charlone, Cesar, ‘Cinematography: Talking Shop’, Sight + Sound, April 2009, pp. 18 –
24. (p. 21)
Epstein, Daniel Robert, ‘Interview with Libatique on The Fountain’, online.
<www.ugo.com/channels/filmtv/features/thefountain/default.asp> [accessed 13
March 2010]
Ettedgui, Peter, Cinematography: Screencraft (Switzerland: Rotovision SA, 1998)
Lawrenson, Edward & Danny Leigh, ‘Feeling Needled’, Sight & Sound, December 2000,
pp. 26-28
Malkiewicz, Kris, ‘Film Lighting: Talks with Hollywood’s Cinematographer’s and

Gaffers’ (New York: Fireside, 1986)
Pizzello, Stepher, ‘Sundance ’98: A Prospector’s Paradise’, American Cinematographer,

April 1998, pp. 100-113
--------, ‘Downward Spiral’, American Cinematographer, October 2000, pp. 50-61
Wheeler, Paul, Practical Cinematography (USA: Focal Press, 2005 2nd Ed)
169David Bordwell & Kristin Thompson, Film Art: An Introduction, (New York: McGraw Hill, 2004), (pp.
89-91).
109
Filmography
Death and Rebirth: Inside The Fountain, dir. by Niko Tavernise (Antwrangler Films, 2007)
The Fountain, dir. by Darren Aronofsky (Warner Brothers, 2006)
Pi, dir. by Darren Aronofsky (20th Century Fox, 1998)
Requiem for a Dream, dir. by Darren Aronofsky (Momentum Picture, 2000)
Appendix I
Full Filmography for Matthew Libatique (Cinematography)
Shorts
Fortune Cookie, dir. by Darren Aronofsky (1991, American Film Institute)

Protazoa, dir. by Darren Aronofsky (1993)
The Bedroom, dir. by David Crabtree (1994)
Redneck, dir. by Shane Kuhn (1995, Chicken Productions)
Features
Til Death Do Us Part, dir. by Phil Leirness (1995, Soloman International Pictures)
Grinders, dir. by Gary Ellenburg (1996, Itchy Yellow House)
Pi, dir. by Darren Aronofsky (1998, Harvest Filmworks)
The Party Crashers, dir. by Phil Leirness (1998, Cinema Arts Entertainment)
Saturn, dir. by Rob Schmidt (1999, Plantain Films)
Requiem for a Dream, dir. by Darren Aronofsky (2000, Artisan Entertainment)
Tigerland, dir. by Joel Schumacher (2000, Haft Entertainment)
Josie and the Pussycats, dir. by Harry Elfont & Deborah Kaplan (2001, Universal
Pictures)
Abandon, dir. by Stephen Gaghan (2002, Paramount Pictures)
Phone Booth, dir. by Joel Schumacher (2002, Fox 2000 Pictures)
Gothika, dir. by Mathieu Kassovitz (2003, Columbia Pictures Corporation)
Never Die Alone, dir. by Ernest R. Dickerson (2004, Bloodline Films)
She Hate Me, dir. by Spike Lee (2004, 40 Acres & A Mule Filmworks)
Everything is Illuminated, dir. by Liev Schreiber (2005, Warner Independent Pictures)
Inside Man, dir. by Spike Lee (2006, Universal Pictures)
The Fountain, dir. by Darren Aronofsky (2006, Warner Bros. Pictures)
110
The Number 23, dir. by Joel Schumacher (2007, New Line Cinema)
Iron Man, dir. by Jon Favreau (2008, Paramount Pictures)
Miracle at St. Anna, dir. by Spike Lee (2008, 40 Acres & A Mule Filmworks)
My Own Love Song, dir. by Olivier Dahan (2010, Légende Films)
Iron Man 2, dir. by Jon Favreau (2010, Paramount Pictures)
Black Swan, dir. by Darren Aronofsky (2010, Cross Creek Pictures)
Full Filmography for Darren Aronofsky (Director)
Shorts
Supermarket Sweep, (1991)
Fortune Cookie, (1991, American Film Institute)
Protazoa, (1993)
Features
Pi, (1998, Harvest Filmworks)
Requiem for a Dream, (2000, Artisan Entertainment)
The Fountain, (2006, Warner Bros. Pictures)
The Wrestler, (2008, Wild Bunch)
Black Swan, (2010, Cross Creek Pictures)
111
Images: Pi
112
Requiem for a dream
113
The Fountain
114
César Charlone
City of God (2002), The Constant Gardener (2005) and Blindness (2008)
GUILHERME PERDIGÃO MURTA
Introduction
Uruguayan cinematographer César Charlone has been collaborating with the films of
Brazilian director Fernando Meirelles since 2002. Their first partnership was the
internationally acclaimed City of God (2002), followed by The Constant Gardener (2005)
and Blindness (2008). This essay will investigate the contribution of Charlone as director
of photography to Meirelles’ successful storytelling.
The aforementioned films have poignant visual styles and marked shifts in light,
camera movement and framing as their plots progress, all of which, in turn, will be
examined here as far as possible within the scope of the essay. Furthermore, the
similarities between them (chiefly the naturalistic photography in City of God and The
Constant Gardener) as well as what differentiates them (Blindness’ allegorical aspect in
opposition to the other films’ strong realistic approach) shall also be explored. The use
of post-production digital alteration of images figures prominently in Charlone’s work,
ergo its relevance for the purpose of this paper. The cinematographer’s working
method will, in turn, be commented upon, and when appropriate a sequence analysis
will clarify the use of specific techniques.
In addition to this essay, an appendix has been attached: an independently conducted

interview with César Charlone. While the conversation raises interesting points and
reveals original unpublished opinions of the cinematographer, several of the topics
broached are tangential to the purposes of this essay for they fall outside of its scope.
City of God
When Charlone and Meirelles made their first film together, they translated to the big
screen a partnership that had been going on for fifteen years in television
advertisement. They had produced together some of Brazil’s most successful
commercials of the 1990’s. When Meirelles decided to direct City of God, as he explains
himself in Else Vieira’s book (i.) on the making of the film, he knew he wanted a team
of trusted professionals to be involved. Meirelles had a remarkable visual style in mind
for the film, in line with its contents. The challenge proposed to Charlone was, then, to
create a set of lighting and framing that made a strong statement, which the
cinematographer achieved partly by choosing the most appropriate cameras, film stock
and developing process, all of which were decided after a number of tests. 40 percent
of the film was shot in 35mm and the remainder in Super 16mm. ‘We tended to use
35mm on the wide shots, when we wanted the ratio and the range, and then go tight
with 16mm.’(ii), says Charlone. All of the footage was scanned into digital realm and,
subsequently, the process that made the defining difference to the film’s
cinematography started: colour correction.
City of God is divided into three decades, each one with a different image aspect. These
changes will be, in turn, analysed in their particularities. What they all have in
common is the fact that their looks are a result of a conflation of set design, costume
and lighting on set, and most importantly, colour correction in post production. One
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should never neglect the importance of digital intermediation in thisor in any other of
Charlone’s works. The cinematographer spent nine weeks grading the film – more time
than that dedicated to the shooting itself, just eight weeks.
Although the use of brightness and darkness to signify respectively prosperity and war
is not revolutionary in any way, Charlone presents a very original point of view
regarding the Brazilian favela (slum). The digital saturation of colours to portray an
environment of extreme poverty was controversial at the time of the film’s release,
contributing to its labeling as a piece of ‘cosmetic of the hunger’1. Albeit polemic, the
visual style of the film is a nonetheless original way of exploring images of social
deprivation. The form has since been revisited by Charlone himself in The Constant
Gardener (see below) and more recently by Anthony Dod Mantle, who was honoured
with an Academy Award in 2009 after using a similar cinematography technique to
portray a poor but extremely colourful India in Danny Boyle’s Slumdog Millionaire
(2008). The pattern followed by Mantle in Slumdog embodies the same basic principle
that guided the palette in City of God: in both films, saturation and brightness reach
their peaks when referring to an escapist – albeit sad, violent and poor – past of the
characters. The suggestion is that the excessive colour is a product of vivid memories
of their narrators. Jean Oppenheimmer corroborates this idea in American
Cinematographer when writing about the middle part of City of God: ‘The myriad of
colours suggests that this is a happy time for the kids’(iii.)
But before the ‘happy time’ hyper-bright central segment of the film, there is the 60’s
with its yellow tones and steady camera. When City of God begins, the characters are in
what Lúcia Nagib (iv.) referred to as ‘the Golden Age’ of the favela: there is no drug
traffic and crime is incipient. The images on the screen are, thus, also golden. The dusty
streets and natural sunlight work in tune with the hot palette of costume and set.
In the article The Aesthetics of Violence in Brazilian Film (in City of God in Several Voices:
Brazilian Social Cinema in Action, pp 82-92.), Professor Ivana Bentes compares and
contrasts the depiction of the favelas in City of God to Glauber Rocha’s Cinema Novo
1960’s manifesto Aesthetics of Hunger. Bentes’ argues that whereas the latter constructs a
cinematic image with shocking realism to depict social problems, Fernando Meirelles’
film inverts this concept by applying a ‘colourful make-up’ (hence,the term Cosmetic of
Hunger) in order to hide the social inequalities with beautifully shot and edited images.
Because this period’s stability stands in opposition to the chaos brought in by drug
dealing, the camera in this segment is mostly static. Wide angle lenses are used, as
Charlone explains, ‘because in this section of the film the city itself is the main
character and we wanted to show the geography.’ (v.) The yellow look evokes an
American Western genre inspiration, which becomes quite obvious in the scene where
a gang of robbers uses kerchiefs to cover their faces in a similar manner to Western
villains. The idea of City of God as a dusty village without law makes the Western
choice appropriate, particularly when taking into account that in the very first chapter
of Paulo Lins’ novel, on which the film is based, the neighbourhood in its early days is
described as ‘one big farm. (vi.)
When the action moves on to the following decade, there is a shift in colour. Little
changes in terms of lighting, since Charlone kept the same style throughout the
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shooting, using a minimum of artificial lights. When such artificial sources were
required, he would disguise lights as practicals and let them be part of the frame, as in
the ‘The story of the apartment’ sequence with Par cans looking like lamps. Beyond the
desired naturalistic look, the reason leading Charlone to limit the number of lights
wasthe fact of working with non-professional actors who may have been distracted
and had their improvisation on set limited by light positioning. Due to post
production, the film’s look in the 70’s gains a distinguished tone. Saturated colours
dominate the screen. A trembling handheld camera alternates with elaborate planned
sequences, such as the 360º shot of Rocket in between policemen and drug traffickers.
André Gatti called this mix of languages the ‘non-photography’, believing that, when
scenes took the documentary-like form, ‘the camera itself was allowed to suggest the
framing and even the light (or maybe the ‘non-light’)’. On the other hand, as Gatti
again points out, Meirelles and Charlone have moments of slipping back into (or rather
taking advantage of) their commercial background ‘when plans of highly creative
elaboration are found, with a certain flavour of an advertising film’.(vii.)
For the last part of the film, when there is a war between drug traffickers, the images
suggest absolute chaos. Most of the sequences take place at night, which consequently
made it more difficult for Charlone to maintain the level of naturalism. For the external
shots, large kits of 2.5Ks and 4Ks were placed on top of buildings, providing a diffuse
and indirect light. The camera work for this part is much more documentary-like than
elaborate. Most of the shots are hand held and some are even shaky and out of focus
‘not to be stylish, but because César would be in a room with seven or eight people,
panning and zooming from speaker to speaker or capturing reaction shots.’ (viii.) At
this point, a shift in the narrative also marks a difference in cinematography: as
Knockout Ned (Seu Jorge) becomes a new hope to control Li’l Zé’s (Leandro Firmino
da Hora) excesses, daylight once again comes in. But only for a short time: as war sets
in, unstable plans and dark shots dominate the screen one more time. I would argue
that the contribution of this film’s cinematography to contemporary cinema is
unquestionable. Not only because of its aforementioned followers, but mostly because
as a breakthrough attempt of mixing ‘elements of Italian neo-realism with today’s
sophisticated filmmaking techniques’ (ix.) allying realism and aesthetics in new and
innovative ways.
The Constant Gardener

The next partnership between Meirelles and Charlone would be 2005’s The Constant
Gardener. The visual aspect of the film derives in part from the team’s previous
experience in City of God. The story, as in John le Carré’s novel on which it is based, is
partly set in the exotic African landscape. The similarities between Brazilian and
Kenyan tropical sunlight enabled Charlone to reprise some of the techniques used in
his previous film. Naturalistic light and saturation of colours thus give the tone of the
African segment. The rest of the film, set in London, is partly artificially lit and bestows
a washed-out image quality, enhancing the idea of a strong contrast between the two
realities.
Nevertheless, the film as a whole opts for a naturalistic look, given that ‘Charlone
never used filters and rarely gelled the lights’ (x.) The different palettes were achieved
by digital intermediation, obviously reinforcing previous efforts of lighting, costume
and set design. César Charlone assumes with The Constant Gardener his position as a
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cinematographer who plans his work counting in great part on post production.
Photography as conceived on this film takes into account that all the information
captured on the negative can, and ultimately will, be modified. The exposure indexes
for the chosen films – namely Eastman EXR50D 7245/5245, Kodak Vision
250D7246/5246 and Vision 2 500T 7218/5218 – were not decided based on the
manufacturers’ recommendation, but on what would result in less noise after the
scanning process. The narrative alternates past and present several times and
flashbacks have a different image quality. Some of the intimate moments between
Tessa (Rachel Weisz) and Justin Quayle (Ralph Fiennes) are presented with an
overexposed background that evokes a dreamy atmosphere, other recollections are
portrayed as extreme close-ups of parts of the characters’ bodies or of specific props, in
a suggestion that memory clings to details.
The camera work is mostly handheld. As the story unfolds, and Justin gets closer to the
truths that destabilise his beliefs, the camera becomes ever-more trembling. As he
dives deeper into his wife’s investigations, the more the images of preset time become
darker and darker – and, by contrast, the flashbacks seem to get brighter.
Handheld camera to represent POV shots is taken to an extreme in The Constant

Gardener, in what Charlone called an ‘honest POV shot’ (xi.) The cinematographer
asked actor Ralph Fiennes to hold the camera himself when shooting the scene in
which his character recognises his dead wife’s body at the morgue. More attentive
viewers will perceive the intentional shaky image and altered breath of the camera
holder. Not disputing Charlone’s methods, I would argue that the use of Fiennes as a
cameraman does not add to the scene any dramatic depth that could not be achieved
by any other camera operator. Although the POV shot is, indeed, supposed to emulate
what is captured by the eyes of the character, reaching such effect is the
cinematographer’s job. While anundoubtedly interesting and valid experiment, there is
arguably no merit in repeating the exercise as the technique has limited potential for
development. One could claim that The Constant Gardener is a film about the main
character’s shift in his perception of the world; hence so many scenes from his point of
view try to use different techniques.
Furthermore, another creative variant of the standard POV shot is also exercised
throughout the film: the ‘webcam shot’. Most of the scenes involving the computer’s
camera also relate to Justin’s point of view, reinforcing the previously mentioned idea.
These sequences, such the one in which Tessa is having a bath, capture moments of
privacy between the couple. The use of a webcam enhances the intimacy of such scenes
by creating a diegetic camera work that leads the audience to believe that, at that
moment, the cameraman is indeed Ralph Fiennes’ character. The idea of a film crew
behind such cropped framings and low quality images vanishes with the amateurism
of the shots, but a feeling of warmth and cosiness is achieved. The composition is
interesting, especially when the webcam becomes a frame within the frame, dividing
screen space with the ‘reality’. In other moments, the webcam suggests the
unattainable quality of Tessa’s investigations. The character is constantly
communicating with her sources via webcam, that being the only way the viewer, like
Tessa, has access to those people. They remain dislocated from her reality and the use
of the computer camera enhances this distance. The Constant Gardener has very specific
colour palettes to signify its main characters. In all of Tessa’s scenes, she is portrayed in
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warm colours and surrounded by a soft light, whereas Justin’s palette is full of grey
and his scenes have neutral lighting. Justin’s portrayal changes according to the
development of the plot: ‘As Justin gets closer to her world, his neutral attire
transitions to warmer colours. By the end, he is wearing a pink shirt on a pink beach,
surrounded by pink flamingos.’ (xii.)
The final twenty minutes of the film, set in a countryside village in the interior of
Kenya indeed show how much Justin indeed became immersed in the African reality.
Bright tones of red, yellow and blue, present in early portrayals of a similar landscape,
now vanish leaving the screen to be flooded by pure earthy tones. As the character
approaches the end of his journey, images appear to have been bathed in a shade of
yellow, in an effect than can be compared to the previously cited ‘Golden Age’ of City
of God. But whereas in the latter film the gold-ish palette is placed in the beginning to
depict an era of purity before the characters were corrupted, in The Constant Gardener it
renders Justin’s opposite path: from neutrality to a newfound purity. Conclusively, the
film’s cinematography – albeit partly derived from his previous film’s successful
exercises – remains innovative for its use of colour opposition and especially for its
interesting new proposed techniques.
Blindness
The most recent cooperation between Fernando Meirelles and César Charlone is
Blindness. The challenge of photographing it would not only concern bestowing a
memorable look on the film. Therein would lie a deeper question, namely how does
one create images that evoke sightlessness? How to give a visual style to a story about
no vision? Charlone’s answers to those questions come in the form of bleached and
overexposed scenes constructed both on set and in post production. In this film
Charlone kept his philosophy of thinking of cinematography as something planned in
advance but only finally achieved after the grading process.
In Blindness, a strongly bleached image suggests the loss of sight. Incidentally, José
Saramago’s book on which the film is based describes the visions of the ones
contaminated with the ‘white sickness’ (name of the characters’ condition) as the
impression of being ‘swimming in a sea of milk’. This was the direct and obvious
inspiration Charlone used to flood the screen with bright white tones, as opposed to
the general idea of blindness as complete darkness.
As has been pointed out in an American Cinematographer (xiii.) article, the film starts
with a neutral palette that becomes whiter and whiter as people start losing their sense.
After a few minutes of film the viewer is already immersed in the ‘sea of milk’, an
effect created by a flat white artificial illumination enhanced by colour correction.
In this apocalyptic fable, most of the story happens in a quarantined colony for infected
people and that is where pastel tones in bright overexposed images take control of the
screen. One of the few images of the film to use warm colours creates an interesting
opposition: When Doctor (Mark Ruffalo) and Doctor’s Wife (Julianne Moore) are
leaving their house to go to the colony, the camera shows a close up of a wooden table
with oranges on top. This scenes marks a farewell of the characters to the real world
with its hot colours and their entering into the bleached environment of the colony.
More than half of the film takes place in the colony, but Charlone dodges the
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limitations imposed by the use of one location only by using varied angles, framings
and backgrounds. There is a feeling of cohesion to the entire set, product of a well
researched work of art direction and set design, especially in terms of colours and
textures. Creative images used to reinforce the atmosphere of sightlessness are
achieved by the use of transparent surfaces and different types of glasses positioned in
between the camera and the action, most of the times as part of the set. The role of
these pieces of glass are one of creating a feeling of disorientation, tricking the
spectator’s eyes, inscenes such as when Doctor’s Wife enters the colony for the first
time and is seen reflected several times in a set of glasses. The viewer doesn’t know
where she really is – and at this point in the narrative, neither does she.
Blindness, despite having well researched and carefully planned framings, also
encompasses, at times, a cinematography based on spontaneity. Charlone states (xiv.)
there was a concern shared by him and Fernando Meirelles on the aforementioned
creation of a feeling of disorientation. To achieve such, one of the strategies consisted
on positioning an extra camera on the set. Cameras A and B would, in Charlone’s
words, ‘guarantee the job was done’ by being placed according to the planned framing.
Camera C would be placed in a random location on the set, without concerns of what
imagewould be framed as the actors moved around. Most of the times, the experience
did not provide results that were good enough to be part of the final cut. But in a few
cases the strategy works, as in the scene where the King of Ward Three (Gael Garcia
Gernal) sings I Just Called to Say I Love You. Having an extra camera rolling just for the
sake of an exercise is expensive but Charlone felt the idea was interesting and knew it
wouldn’t exceed his budget.
The visual language created for Blindness has given a film a distinguished look. It is in
great part César Charlone’s work that makes successful the adaptation of a Nobel Prize
Winner’s book to screen. Not disputing the merits of screenplay or direction, the tone
of the film is given by its light and colour. One could argue that the excess of fade to
white added in editing might weaken the cinematography, for its repeated use
trivializes the effect of whiteness, so carefully planned by cinematography. Overall, the
use of light and its conflation with costume and most of all set design stands out in the
film.
CONCLUSION
Arguably, this essay has demonstrated the merits of César Charlone’s contribution to
the development of Latin American film industry. As an Uruguayan who made his
career in Brazil, the cinematographer has been incontestably co-responsible for the
visibility of an ever-growing business, as commercial and critical success and Academy
Award nominated professional. Charlone’s construction of environments as distinct as
Brazilian favelas or British High Comissions rely as much on his knowledge of classical
cinematography (standard framing, balanced light) as it does experimentation (odd
camera positioning and use of post production effects). Charlone’s techniques are
unquestionably innovative, even when they prove not to be as effective as expected.
The intelligent use of digital intermediation makes this cinematographer one who is
indeed not only prepared but looking forward to the future of his craft.
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Appendix : Interview with César Charlone
The following transcription consists of a telephone conversation held on 16 April 2009
between Guilherme Murta, author of this essay, and César Charlone, whose oeuvre is
the object of study. The cinematographer presented himself as an available and
approachable person via e-mail. He agreed to comment on a few of the essay topics
and talk about his work on the telephone. The questions and answers transcribed here
were not edited. Nevertheless, some entire questions and answers were removed from
the final transcription for their contents were not relevant for the purpose of this
appendix. The recording of this conversation is available upon request. A good level
for Portuguese is required for understanding. The eight following pages contain the
forty five minutes of this conversation with questions are marked Q and answers A.
Q – Well, I’m finishing my MA in Film Studies, and one of the requirements of my

course is to write an essay on Cinematography. Each student is allowed to pick their
own director, provided, first, they prove their choice is relevant enough to be studied,
and second, there is enough published material on this person’s work. Then you are
granted permission to proceed and that’s where I find myself now. I am almost
finishing my essay, have structured all my text, but before I finish I would like to
consult you to check if I am following the right path, and also to have my mind cleared
about a few issues, because you obviously can talk better than me about your own
work.
A – Great, let’s go.
Q – Well, for my essay, since I need to focus on some specific aspect, I chose to talk
about your three films in collaboration with Fernando Meirelles: City of God, The
Constant Gardener and Blindness. One of the main ideas behind the essay is the
opposition of the naturalistic cinematography in the two first ones to a totally artificial
lighting in the latter. Is this a correct idea?
A – It’s more than correct. To be honest, Blindness is a totally allegorical film. This
allegory aspect allowed us to have absolute freedom in the creation of the image. In the
others, the concern was to be as real as possible.
Q – Does Blindness represent a bigger challenge for being a film about sightlessness?
How does one create images to express the lack of image? Was it a doubt at any point?
A – Well, it’s actually a film about sight. About the privilege we have of being able to
see. So, indeed our goal was to emphasise the sense of sight, to draw attention the
conscience of seeing. To favour the narrative, we did some ‘technically wrong ‘ things
on purpose.
Q – The extras of the Blindness DVD include an interesting making-of the film, in
which you appear showing the three cameras you positioned for every shot. There was
the official camera and one that is probably what you are referring to as ‘technically
wrong`, that was that camera that was positioned just to capture a possible movement
or character that could by chance get into the frame. Do you know what I am talking
about?
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A – Sure I do. What happened was that sometimes even the official camera, that we
call the A Camera, would frame something perfectly but we would ask the actor to
look to a different angle in order to confuse the viewer. As for the B Camera, it would
be there with the purpose of capturing any unpredictable happening, any finding.
Q – And where did you get the idea of setting a camera just to get the unpredictable?
Was there any reason for it?
A – Look, there was not much planning about it. We had a generous budget, so
another camera was brought in to help us gain time. Then you plan a sequence and we
say “let’s frame it from here”, and then it’s time to roll. “But what about the other
camera?” “Oh, the other you put... put anywhere and let’s see what happens”. And
that was it. But we always had the A camera to guarantee we had what we wanted to
show. It [the B Camera] meant some liberty. With an advantage: if we had done, let’s
say our ‘homework’ with the A Camera, then with B we could do whatever we
wanted: lose focus, crop framings. It was liberty.
Q – Right. So, going back a few years in time, back to City of God, your choice of a
naturalistic cinematography was because you thought this is what went well with the
story and the ambience? What was the process to find it?
A – It goes well with the story, that’s what it is. We want to convince the spectator that
that is happening, that that is real, that that is. So as much as we can cling to this truth,
the more convincing the image and the actor, the more spectators will say “wow, it
looks like I was there” .
Q – In your work in general the cinematography has this concern about being
naturalistic but at the same time there is a strong post-production work of colour
correction and so on, which differs from the naturalistic idea of capturing things as
they are. How do you ally these two things, of from one side trying to be as faithful to
reality as possible, and from the other modifying every frame in post-production?
A – Look, post production is at the service of what we [the cinematographers] want.

So, the naturalism registered on negative is a flat, a plain image. There is not much
feeling or excitement to it. So, what I do in post-production is try and strengthen them.
For instance, in the case of City of God, I wanted the first phase to be brown-ish, with
sepia tones. Without moving away from naturalism, I did it in post-production. In the
middle section, that is more psychedelic, I enhanced the colours. But you don’t see any
colours there that you go “no, this is fake”. It is just a reinforcement of ideas. Post-
production, for me, is a fundamental tool, a creation tool. My beginnings as a
photographer were with still photography, and I would do a lot of black and white
laboratory work. And I loved experimenting with manipulating the images. One could
not say that [Brazilian still photographer] Sebastiao Salgado is not a naturalistic
photographer. Nevertheless, his work undergoes monumental works of post-
production. There are people manipulating his images, changing the light, burning
areas just to reinforce determined idea. So, post-production is there to help me. If I
choose a naturalistic cinematography, post-production will help me achieve this
naturalism.
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Q – There is something I am pointing out at moments on my essay, that is the fact that
you are a cinematographer that already thinks cinematography in great part counting
on the post-production tools. Is that indeed how you work? As you plan a sequence,
are you already taking into account what you are doing with this scene once you get to
digital intermediation?
A – I work for post production. There is a classical example I always mention that is a
sequence from City of God, when we painted the actors’ skins red so that it would be
easier to achieve the effect I wanted. I could have used lights, but decided to use post. I
use post production as my light, as possibility of creation. I joke that Storaro says that
thing of “painting with light” and I say I do “painting with the mouse”. By the way,
yesterday I was having a conversation with a fellow cinematographer and I was telling
him about how much I would like to study post-production illumination. Have you
seen [Pixar’s animation]Wall-E? I reckon that is a wonderful work of cinematography.
One of the most beautiful I have seen last year.
Q – Do you think it was underappreciated?
A – Exactly. Because It’s a cinematography created by someone using solely a mouse.

No lamps, post production only. I would love to learn it better.
Q – And do you believe this is a path for cinematography to follow? That

cinematography is something in which more and more will ‘happen’ during post-
production?
A – Most certainly. The argument I like to use is that if you do it like this, you are not
bothering the actors. You let them free to interpret, to do their job properly, and just
afterwards, when you are relaxed, with the air conditioning on, seated on a
comfortable chair, just then you create your art. Then you can do rehearsals, undo it
the next day, “no, this is tacky, this is too much”. Because on set you can not keep
annoying the actor with all your small things. Let them play the roles at their best, then
you start your work.
Q – Speaking of working with the actors, from City of God to The Constant Gardener, you
went from working with non-actors to working with Hollywood stars. In terms of
cinematography, what did this change for you? I mean in terms of these concerns of
not bothering the actors too much and so on. Was there a big difference between the
two of them?
A – Not really, because I think we learnt with City of God something we applied to the
next one. If we had made Gardener without having done City, I would certainly annoy
the actors more. Because doing City of God I realised there was a lot I could correct
using digital intermediation, and this enabled me to set the actors free. When the
second film came, the actors were surprised and they would comment that we
[director and cinematographer] would leave them too at ease, that there were no
marks. Because honestly every time I would not be completely satisfied with a take, I
would know I could correct it later.
Q – One of the articles I am using for my essay is an interview of yours published on
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the American Cinematographer, saying that you could not make a man like Leandro
Firmino da Hora [Li’l Ze], who was not a professional actor, work to the top of his
anger for a scene and then keep asking him to change positions, to hit the marks.
A – Exactly. Because their work was of improvisation and of feeling that set as close to
their reality as possible. They were not actors, they did not have the technique to
imagine themselves in a determined place. The proof of that is that we shot most of the
interiors in studio, in built sets. But I asked the art director to build the sets as fixed as
possible, so that I wouldn’t be tempted to remove walls to frame better. The ceiling
was fixed, so I had to hide lights behind columns. I didn’t want to remove the ceiling to
avoid that actors would feel they were in a studio.
Q – Still on City of God, the shots on location were not made in that neighborhood, but
in other sometimes dangerous communities in Rio.
A – And very similar as well. We filmed at Cidade Alta, that was built by the same
company who did Cidade de Deus. We decided it could be made there because of the
similar architecture and so on.
Q – And how did it influence your work, the location shots of City of God? Where you
concerned about naturalism then, as in trying not to interfere much?
A – In some external shots it was impossible not to use illumination. Then we would
put the lights there, but try to position then as far as possible, especially to allow the
cameras to move 360°, so that we wouldn’t have to worry at every plan if the tripod
was on frame, if something was showing. We tried to make it look like as real as
possible. To make the actors as at ease as possible.
Q – Now moving forward, to The Constant Gardener. It looks to me, and this is one of
the points I make in my essay, that there is a clear opposition in cinematography
between the natural light in Kenya and the artificial one in Europe, or in the cold
environments frequented by Justin, Ralph Fiennes’ character. What was the thought
behind associating a hot palette with Africa and a cold one with Europe?
A – I would go further than this. Justin is the gardener, right? And we naturally
associate the business world to fluorescent lighting, those green-ish lights. Then, Justin
was like green. His world is green, so in post production I added a lot of green to low
lights, to create this cold green thing. And the opposite of green in cinematography is
red. And Rachel [Weisz’ character Tessa] brings this world a bit closer to him. So Rachel
is red for him. So the first time Rachel appears in Africa she is wearing a big radical red
shirt, and Justin, when he dies, he is wearing a pink shirt in a red-ish desert. He dies in
her world. We played upon this notion of Africa as warmer and redder, earthy. Even
the colour of people’s skins, like red and like brown, brought these hot tones.
Q – And the cinematography of City of God, or what you learnt during post production
for that one, was influential for this work?
A – Well, I had learned a few things about favelas, about this universe. It was, to be
honest, the completion of a work I had started years before, because my previous film
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had also been shot in a favela, where I, inverted commas, learned to film in favelas,
realised its richness in terms of visual information. So, yes, The Constant Gardener was a
way of keeping on learning this.
Q – And if there was something that you could say you learned about filming in
favelas, what would you say it is? What is it the most important thing for a
cinematographer to bear in mind for a favela shooting? Or are these completely
different things from one film to the other and you can’t compare them?
A – I would not like to put the favela as such a sui generis thing. I never filmed in
Venice, for instance, but I believe filming there, in the streets, the actual streets, not the
canals, makes me thing of a favela. It’s all very labyrinthine, very narrow, very tortuous.
And I can think of other European little towns that are labyrinthine as well. I think
they are alike. There is no such thing as filming in favela. It’s about filming in cities.
Q – There was a trick you used in The Constant Gardener that you called an ‘honest POV
shot’, that was when the actor himself held the camera. It was when Ralph Fiennes’
character goes to a morgue to identify his wife’s body.
A – He did others that didn’t make it to the final cut. I thought it was fair, since I had
such a light, easy to use camera, I gave it to him to see how, he, as an actor, would see
all that.
Q – And he liked the idea?
A – He loved it. He had a lot of fun.
Q – Is this something you would repeat in another film or was it a one-off experience
that related to that film only?
A – No, I would do it again. Some time ago I was invited to direct a theatre play and I
wanted to put a webcam on top of each actor’s head, like those doctor lights, so that
the actor would frame the person he is talking to and the spectator would see that. To
be honest, the stories we tell are about people conversing: how I see you and how you
see me. So I think it’s interesting for the actors, because we are telling the story of these
actors. The cinematography is ideally the story of these actors, so if they can help the
filming, I think it adds something else.
Q – You mentioned the use of webcams. In The Constant Gardener, there is more than
one scene that is experienced by the spectator with a feeling of intimacy because they
are webcam images captured by him or her. Was this idea something that came for the
script or a touch of cinematography?
A – I believe it was in the script.
Q – And how did you work with these images?
A – We captured them and they were later used in the editing.
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Q – But they were webcam images themselves, not images you altered to look like they
had been generated by a low quality camera?
A – No, they are webcam images. To be honest, I remember there is one when she is in
the bathtub and another when she is talking to a friend, but this one just appears
framed within the computer screen.
Q – Again on Blindness, I’ve read about how you achieved the ‘sea of milk’ effect. [To
create a white texture, Charlone went into a dark room and placed a tray containing milk, water
and white paint in front of a laptop. He played the images on the laptop screen and filmed the
reflection on the tray] Where did this idea come from?
A – It comes from Saramago [José Saramago, author of the book in which the film is based]
himself, he is the one who said ‘sea of milk’. So you imagine the sea of milk, but how to
film it? Filming some milk? But the milk was too boring, too white. Let’s mix and it
shake it a bit to create a wave. And then you think ‘What does this sea of milk mean?’ I
wondered if you would in fact see the whiteness or if in the absence of images you
would project inner images. That’s how this trip began. I thought I would take some of
the character’s reminiscences and project them into the milk. But how to do it? Instead
of projecting I thought I’d reflect them. Then I started to play and experiment.
Q – And in general would you say your creative process is usually like this? You play
around, experience and at some point you achieve the results?
A – Totally. I trip, I think a lot, nowadays you can play on your laptop. You put the
images there and you alter them. You can do and undo things. Today is pretty easy,
with a mobile phone or a simple camera, you can do it all immediately, there is no
developing process, it’s all about the moment.
Q – Blindness is a film that is set mostly in the same location. Is it a challenge for a
cinematographer, to find different interesting ways of showing that same place?
A – This is a major challenge. When you have a repeated location, you don’t want to
bore the spectator, on the other hand you don’t want it to be too cocky. You have to
find resources to alter the space and signify different moments.
Q – And what resources did you use in Blindness for instance?
A – There was the element of day and night, the different spaces. Ward One was very
different from Ward Three, where the more diabolic blind people were. Then we made
it more aggressive, looking more like hell. You try and have different readings of
things in an attempt of creating variety.
Q – In general, how do you work together with costume design, set design and art
direction for a coherent final result? Is there a previous collective study?
A – Look, I will give you an answer that will clear things up for you. In Blindness we
had a good budget, so I was hired for two months of pre-production, which is a luxury
because it is usually never more than a month for pre-production. As they offered me
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eight weeks and the film would start shooting in August, I would start working in
June. Then I proposed to the producers that they would pay me for those eight weeks
but I would start working in January. Then I would switch between the research with
other commitments with TV commercials that I had to do. So what I am saying is that
this work of pre-production needs to come six months before the film. So that I can
work together with art director, costume and make up. Otherwise we get to the day of
shooting, everything is ready and you can’t change anything. We have made an
intense previous research work on the white element. I had many meetings with Tulé
[Peake, art director], with Renée [April], that is the costume designer, so that we could
have a basis to work on. It is extremely important [to develop] collective work. Imagine
if I had worked on that washed out light and Renée had created delicate and smooth
clothes for the characters? It wouldn’t work! So in January I showed her the tests I had
been
making and soon afterwards we made costume tests. I altered the colours of the clothes
on Photoshop so that me and her would know how much I could overexpose.
Q – The idea of the constant overexposure also comes from Saramago’s suggestion of
the sea of milk?
A – Exactly. Because we were working on the white blindness, we opted for a white
cinematography. This added to the fact that Fernando [Meirelles] wanted us, since this
is a catastrophe film, to distance ourselves from those B movies with green tones.
Q – A last thing I would like to ask is about the influence of painting to your
photography. I remember having read about the influence of Di Cavalcanti in the
cinematography of City of God. The representation of the black skin as a reflective skin
was a beautiful effect painted by Di Cavalcanti and you tried to emulate it on City of
God. Furthermore, in Blindness there is a scene in which the women are washing the
body of the dead one, and I’ve seen you refer to this scene as a ‘Rembrandt’.
A – We receive in our daily life, I’m talking to you now and there is a TV in front of
me, we are constantly receiving visual information. And one of the finest forms of
visual information is painting. There are centuries and centuries of painting techniques
for us to see, up until now. And these days there is more. Not only painting but also
photography, photography books of photographers I honestly admire. For City of God,
for instance, I would say [Brazilian photographer] Miguel Rio Branco was definitely more
influential than any painter. I almost copied him. We are always referencing ourselves.
I always say we don’t create, we copy. One might part from a copy to put their extra
touch and make another thing. Every time I am up to start a new work, I skim through
all my books and magazines to find inspiration.
Q – Even if it is the case of doing what you are calling ‘copying’, you would need a lot
of sensibility to know what to copy, how it applies to your work and how is the
original influencing your creativity.
A – This is the process of getting familiar with the oeuvre. So you read the book, you
think about the theme… Then you process it all in your head, even if in an irrational
way, you get used to that universe. Let’s say your film is about… Butchers. You
startliving in the world of butchers. You read books about butchers, about the ‘meat
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world’, than you start stepping in that universe. Then when you start recreating, you
are surrounded by that universe and those images, then you produce. But it is a lot of
information you absorb in order to understand what you are trying to create.
Somethingcurious that happened during the process of City of God [was that] I always
take with me a few books to skim and today I take DVDs, but back then it was VHS. I
call it a rest for the mind. You spend twelve hours on set creating images and it looks
like your inner image database empties itself, so you have to recharge it. Just like we
put all batteries to charge after filming, the mind also needs to be recharged. So in City
of God I had a series of films I had taken. One was a clear reference for me, Once Upon a
Time in America, by Sergio Leone, which I love, but I had many others, like Barry
Lyndon. And I don’t know why I got used to coming back from the set and watching
Barry Lyndon. And there is nothing more opposed to City of God than Barry Lyndon, that
is so green and smooth. But I think I wanted the opposite precisely to rest my mind. So
every night I would go back to my hotel room, have dinner and put Barry Lyndon on to
recharge the batteries. So it is this thing of absorbing images to balance yourself. Since I
had all that heavy imagery from City of God – and not only filming, but living that
thing. So I would come home to put on something completely different.
Q – As a cinematographer, what pleases you the most? Working on a low budget

production where cinematography can’t have much interference and must be
naturalistic or a highly elaborate post-production based cinematography?
A – Look, for the pleasure is the same. If you feel the story is flowing, that
cinematography is reinforcing the dramatic movements of the story, than you enjoy.
You enjoy being able to help the storytelling.
Q – Is there such thing as ‘simple cinematography’ or does it always have to be a

complicated process?
A – There is simple cinematography. There are directors… Because cinematography is

very much linked to direction as well. You take, for instance, the universe of the Coen
Brothers, Ethan and Joel, there is no film of them that is visually monotone, They
always propose something interesting in terms of cinematography. Italian cinema,
because of the importance that painting and visual art have in Italian culture, you take
Fellini or Visconti, they always make visually stunning films. Opposed, for instance, to
French cinema, which is more about the dialogue of words than of images. Certainly
there are good simple and elaborate kinds of cinematography.
Q – And the important thing is that they are at the service of the narrative, right?
A – Sure. A cinematography as the one in Blindness would not be suitable in a film like
The Pope´s Toilet [low budget Uruguayan film directed by Charlone that uses extremely
naturalistic cinematography].
Q – Being nominated for an Oscar, does it mean something other than a massage to
your ego, does that change anything or is it all Hollywood politics?
A – It changes your career. I passed from doing a little third world low budget cinema
to working with very knowledgeable people. The CV of my technicians in Blindness
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made me blush. I got ten feature films and the youngest operator had twenty three. So
you work with great people, it means your career changed. It was not exactly the
Oscar, it was the trajectory City of God had.
Q – It was the repercussion of the work.
A – Exactly. Being able to become friends with Michael Winterbottom, Michael Mann
having called me to contribute with him [as camera man and assistant cinematographer in
Man on Fire], it is all great! It was luck.
Q – More than luck, it was a very well made piece of work.
A – That’s what I mean, it happened. I was almost quitting cinematography. How

Angels Are Born had been a frustration to me. I was bored and said I would only do
commercials, guarantee a good education for my kids. And then City happened. And
what happened was this process in Latin American of blossoming of a cinema, that is
very strong these days. The ball is in our court now.
Q – I hope it stays there for a long time.
A – It will. There will be time enough for you to come back, do your films and it’ll all
happen, you’ll see.
Q – I hope so. Charlone, thanks very much.
A – Thank you and good night.
References
i. VIEIRA, Else. City of God in Several Voices: Brazilian Social Cinema in Action p.13
ii. OPPENHEIMER, Jean. Boys from Brazil in American Cinematographer. February 2003
p. 86
iii. Ibid, p.84.
iv. NAGIB, Lucia. Talking Bullets: The Language of Violence in City of God in City of God in
Several
Voices: Brazilian Social Cinema in Action p. 39
v. OPPENHEIMER, Jean. Boys from Brazil in American Cinematographer. February 2003

p. 84.
vi. NAGIB, Lucia. Talking Bullets: The Language of Violence in City of God in City of God in
Several
Voices: Brazilian Social Cinema in Action. p. 33.
vii. GATTI, Andre. City of God: A Landmark in Brazilian Film Language in City o f God in
Several
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Voices: Brazilian Social Cinema in Action. p. 49
viii. OPPENHEIMER, Jean. Boys from Brazil in American Cinematographer. February

2003 pp 84-85.
ix. Ibid, p.82.
x. OPPENHEIMER, Jean. Production Slate: Deadly Dealings in Africa in American

Cinematographer. October 2005. p 24.
xi. Ibid, p. 24.
xii. Ibid, p.24.
xiii. OPPENHEIMER, Jean. A Frightening Fable in American Cinematographer. September

2008. pp 44-53.
xiv. Ibid, p. 50.
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Teaching Materials
The Purpose and Intent of Cinematography

Imagine what a film would be like without the technical and aesthetic control of the
cinematographer. It would be an indecipherable, chaotic mess. There would be no reality
and no story. So what does a cinematographer aim to do?
What does a cinematographer aim to do?
1. To create verisimilitude (the quality of appearing to be true)

Through a range of visual clues photographic images create a sense of reality.
Lighting offers a source for the image that is evidenced through appearance
and shadow. Lighting and framing create depth and space. The quality and
position of the light that forms the image creates time and location.
In a simple formula: The position of the light + it’s quality (soft, diffuse, warm,
cold) + composition = verisimilitude or realism.
The cinematographer aims to control and produce realistic images through the
choice of location and shooting time, the choice of lighting, its position, the
framing of the scene and the technical control of the camera; focus, exposure,
depth of field, colour temperature.
While there is a very widespread assumption that photographic images are
inherently ‘realistic’ they do not in fact reproduce ‘what the eye sees’ and this
limitation is overcome by the control of cinematography primarily by an
understanding of the relationship between light and the image gathering
medium; film or video.
All two-dimensional images that offer a representation of three-dimensional
space are an illusion and this is achieved because of the spectator’s unconscious
relationship to the image. (In the cinema the spectator is looking at white screen
with patches of differing tones, colour and brightness, and this is - through a
range of primarily unconscious judgements - experienced as ‘realistic’) This
contract, the illusion of realism is not fixed or universal. Each person has their
own eye (we differ in perception of colour, depth, space, and in perceptual
psychology and we each have a history of seeing in term of reality and in terms
of images) Realism in photography is very much dependent on the history and
technology of representation, first of drawing, carving, tapestry stained glass,
etching and painting, then photography and cinematography. Styles and
aesthetics in film have developed from monochromatic B&W stock, into colour
and then into analogue video and now digital. To achieve and maintain the
illusion of realism in film a cinematographer negotiates a relationship between
this development history and the expectations and judgment of the audience. It
is not a simple and linear relationship. The reality of the fiction film is
mediated; It may claim to represent ‘the present’ and therefore need to be seen
as stylistically ‘modern’, but what is ‘modern’ might be created through
reference to formalist composition (a style within Modernism) or by reference
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to representational practices in documentary, photography and television,
which are in turn determined by history, convention and practice.
If it is often the case to a spectator that a film is clearly realistic, so that its
cinematography appears to be obvious, and therefore in no need of comment or
scrutiny, it will, in fact, have been carefully controlled, both technically and
aesthetically to achieve its realism and this can be critically studied and
understood through close analysis.
2. To continue and develop forms and styles of representation using

technology, techniques and stylistic practices from both within and outside
of cinema
A cinematographer can develop their approach to cinematography in a number
of ways. They can be ‘part of the system’ and therefore accept the practices and
technique of a particular era as normative and correct. This is most clearly seen
in the Hollywood studio era, where there was a long period of stabilised
production. However, technology and production practices change and
therefore what is normative and realistic will alter. In these circumstances some
cinematographers will use the new technology, cameras and lighting, to
develop and redefine styles of representation. Given that cinematography has
had over one hundred years of development it is now possible for a
cinematographer to weave together the way in which they create images
between contemporary and period aesthetics.
Films claim to visually reproduce the present, the past, and even a time that has
never been seen; the future. This is an aesthetic and technical challenge. We
know the past from images made in the past, but these image are based on
normative conventions that have been superseded by other technology and
conventions. So, for a cinematographer to formulate ‘the past’ they have to mix
the old and the new without this selection and mixing appearing to be artificial,
quaint or out of date. What the future or the fabulous or the other-worldly will
look like has been depicted for centuries, so oddly, to create the future a
cinematographer needs to rely on past artifices without this being over-
apparent.
What has emerged from the history of images gives the cinematographer a
pallet of styles which allows for an individual film to be created by following
present tastes - which are fickle – established generic styles, and aesthetic
influences from film, photography, drama, video, painting, fashion and a range
of other visual mediums. This potential for expression and fluidity also has the
risk of creating a hodgepodge of choices for a cinematographer which is
unconvincing in terms of verisimilitude and is therefore a failure. There is a
tension for the cinematographer between what is established and what is new.
What will be accepted by an audience and what will be rejected because it is
outmode, distasteful and therefore unrealistic.
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3. To utilise lenses, lighting, framing, and camera movement to enhance and
articulate a particular story
While one clear aim of the cinematographer is to create an accepted ‘realism’,
which is an overall goal for a film, there is a desire to use cinematography to
define locations and characters expressively to suit the story. Therefore within a
film these features may be coded by lens, by framing, by camera movement, by
lighting and this may be static or change and develop. As with verisimilitude
the way in which the audience are persuaded to accept the naturalness and
reality of what they are seeing has to be accepted primarily unconsciously. The
photographer wants to make the location and the characters believable in
general sense and also specific to the story and there is a tension between these
aims. If the lighting and camera control becomes to schematic or symbolic the
contract of verisimilitude between audience and film will be broken.
When the work of a cinematographer is seen as ‘daring’ or ‘controversial’ or

‘new’ this reflects that they are working across of previously defined
boundaries, which have limited the domain of realism. This can result in a
number of effects and changes: the acceptance of personal or auteurist style, a
specific type of style, a significant development and change in the norms of
realist representation.
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134
Cinematography and Videography
Essential principals
Every scene in every drama is set in a specific place at a

specific time. So, in lighting drama representing place and
time is the first principal.
The aim of cinematography and videography is to control the technical

elements of image making, to aesthetically structure an image, to stylistically
structure a production and in controlling these elements support and enhance
the story that is being told. Framing, camera movement, the staging of action,
and the control of the lighting are the tools of the cinematographer. In terms of
lighting the primary controls are:
Colour Temperature
Visually perceived as the quality of light in your surroundings or the quality of
an image. We can perceive our surroundings or an image as
warm/yellow/amber or cold/blue/grey. Often we do not consciously note
colour temperature and this makes its use a very effective tool for image-
makers to create moods and feeling and to code a story so that is it has greater
dramatic clarity
Colour temperature is measured in degrees Kelvin: It reverses our common-

sense view of light and warmth. An overcast day is approximately 7000k a high
CT) but is usually perceived as cold, however a candle burns at 1500k which is
usually perceived as a warm light but it is in fact far colder in terms of Kelvin
than an overcast day. If one remembers Bunsen burners at school, then Kelvin
makes sense. The flame burns warmly orange/red until the porthole on the
Bunsen burner is opened and then a blue cone forms that is at a hotter
temperature as it gets energy from the additional oxygen. The blue flame is the
higher temperature in terms of degrees Kelvin.
Approximate colour temperatures:
Candlelight 1500k
Sunrise/sunset 3200k
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Tungsten lamp and tungsten balanced film 3400k
Partly cloudy daylight/Daylight balanced film 5200k
Sunny daylight 5500k
Overcast sky 7000k
Blue sky 10000k
Photographers, cinematographers and videographers use colour temperature,

which changes throughout the day to create a sense of time and place. This
work in controlling the look and feel of a film is done in conjunction with
production designers and wardrobe designers who with the director of
photography (DoP) choose the colours for costumes and sets.
White Balance is an aspect of colour temperature. In video the white balance

sets the colour temperature of the camera. This may be set to match the lighting
sources in the surrounding environment or shifted up or down for aesthetic
effect. It can produce an image that is warm, cold, or neutral in terms of its
visual appearance.
Reference source: http://www.schorsch.com/kbase/glossary/cct.html
Contrast Range
The terminology that is in common use in relation to contrast range is: flat, high
contrast, low contrast, and ‘contrasty’. These terms are familiar to those using
television sets or computer monitors.
The terminology that relates to contrast range in photography, cinematography

and videography is:
High Key
Low Key
Full Range
Full Scale
Over Scaled
Under Scaled
Highlights
Mid-tones
Shadow
Tonal Range
Greyscale
There are three aspects of contrast range that are of interest to photographers:
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The contrast range of the subject to be recorded
The contrast range of the human eye
The contrast range of the recording medium
The contrast range of the image
The contrast range of the subject to be recorded

Contrast range is a relationship in terms of light between the brightest and
darkest part of a scene. On a bright sunny day the contrast range between light
and shade can be more than 1:1000.
The contrast range of the human eye

The human eye can cope with a very wide range of contrast. When a scene is
very bright with very high contrast people begin squinting, because the iris of
they eye and the receptors in the retina cannot cope with light entering it. In
very low light when there is very low contrast it can become difficult to
distinguish between objects as their outline becomes visually unclear.
The contrast range of the recording medium

While natural light can offer a very high contrast range and the human eye can
cope with most situations the contrast range of both film and video is nowhere
near as large. This limitation in film offers a technical challenge when it comes
to producing images that appear ‘realistic’ but is also offers an opportunity to
use contrast range as an expressive tool for creating a sense of time and place.
Video has a contrast range of about 1:50.
The contrast range of the image

If the contrast range of a subject matches the contrast range of the recording
medium then a correct exposure will reproduce the highlights, mid-tones and
shadow with accuracy (full scaled) If the contrast range of scene falls below the
contrast range of the recording medium (under scaled) the resulting image will
appear flat, in fact flatter than it appeared to the eye because unlike the eye the
recording medium cannot effectively record such a sort range of contrast.
In a film studio the contrast range of the lighting can be controlled, but shooting
on location is where a high contrast range (over scaled) can become a problem,
because it is too high. In this situation there are a number of ways to control the
contrast range. Firstly, to reduce the contrast range to technically acceptable
limits:
 Diffuse the natural light so that it become softer and produces a lower
contrast range
 Increase the lighting in the shadow areas of the scene to reduce the
overall contrast using lights or reflectors
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 Shoot at a location during a time of day when the contrast range is
suitable for filming.
 Shoot at a location where the contrast range will not cause any unwanted
technical problems
The other option is to shoot with the over scaled subject and either produce an
over scaled, ‘burnt out’ image, or reduce overall exposure so that the highlights,
the brightest area of the scene and the picture are not severely burnt out. This
second option will however distort the appearance of an image and produce an
image that may well appear ‘odd’ because its tonal range does not match the
common perception of such a scene. It is important to note however that an
over scaled scene is not necessarily a problem as it can in fact be the kind of
image that suits the story being told and the style of story telling. Historically,
in photojournalism, television news and documentary filming the choice of
location and lighting are not always under the control of those making the
images and so the results can often be burnt out or flat. But these technical
‘faults’ can then be used as creative elements in designing the look of a film,
because an audience is unconsciously familiar with over scaled or low contrast
images and the sense that they may be more ‘realistic’ than glossier studio
produced images. The main use of over scaling in fiction films is to have the
lighting coming through windows ‘burnt out’, which creates a sense of light
from the outside illuminating scene.
Reference source: http://www.urbanfox.tv/workbooks/anycam/contrast.htm
Exposure
When taking a photograph three factors impact upon the brightness or
darkness of the final image:
 The brightness of the scene
 The sensitivity of the recording medium – film stock or CCD
 The exposure that the recording medium receives
Exposure is the relationship between the size of the opening to the light in the
lens, aperture/iris/f-stop, and the length of time that the recording medium is
exposed for (shutter speed).
Shutter Speed
The higher the shutter speed the less light enters the lens because the time that
the recording medium is exposed for is shorter. Shutter speed is nearly always
set in fractions of a second. A single setting increase in shutter speed halves the
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light entering the lens (1/125 to 1/250). A single setting increase in shutter
speed double the light entering the lens (1/500 to 1/250)
The Iris/F stops

The iris is a feature on a lens that adjusts the amount of light passing through it.
The aperture of a lens iris is measured in F-stops. Opening the iris by one stop
doubles the light (F5.6 to F4.0). Closing the lens by one stop halves the light
(F11 to F16). F-stop numbers run as follows:
F0 F1 F1.4 1.8 F2.0 F2.8 F3.5 F4.0 F5.6 F8.0 F11 F16
Reference source: http://www.theledlight.com/lumens.html
18% Grey and Tonal Range

In photography working with and understanding exposure and contrast range
is based on the use of the standardised 18% grey scale card and an
understanding of tonal range.
The calibration for photographic exposure is based on a standardised 18% grey

card. A handheld light meter or the light meter in a camera reading off an 18%
grey card will accurately reproduce that tone in the resulting image. However,
a light meter reading off a white piece of paper will reproduce a grey image.
This is because the light meter is calibrated to the grey scale. To set the exposure
for a scene a photographer can use a light meter reading off a 18% grey card, or
with a luminance cone on the light meter which acts as an 18% grey or use an
object in the scene which has an 18% grey reflectance or estimate that the
overall tonal range of a scene is 18% grey. Setting the F stop and shutter of a
camera using this method will result in the correct exposure for objects in the
scene which are 18% grey and therefore for the whole scene.
An understanding of the use of 18% grey in photography can be used to make a

reading of contrast range. If an exposure was taken of a grey scale card and a
number of exposures made of the card closing down the lens and opening up
the lens using a stop at a time a tone scale would be produced. The tonal scale
would run from black through a range of greys to white. The number of F-stops
between the exposure when the image of the card is burnt out and the exposure
on the card renders it completely black would represent the contrast range of
the recording medium. When metering a scene it is then possible to take a range
of readings of highlights and shadows and determine the F-stop range of the
scene. If this exceeds the contrast range of the recording medium then the scene
is over scaled.
It is often the case that a photographer will want to set their exposure so that
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the tones of 18% grey are represented as 18% grey, but often a photographer
will want to shift the exposure either up or down. An image that shifts the
exposure so that tones lighter than 18% grey dominate that scene is a high key
image. An image that shifts the exposure down so that tones below 18% grey
dominate is a low key image. As with all the other aspects of photography the
choice of exposure has a creative as well as a technical element.
Colour Correction
Colour correction can be used to shift colour temperature, exposure and colour
saturation. While colour correction is a post-production process it is the final
method for controlling the images within a production. Until a few years ago
productions shot on film had their colour corrections done through a chemical
process whereby ‘answer printing’ and ‘timings’ where undertaken in a film
lab. Now that an entire film can be digitised the colour correction can be done
digitally allowing a great deal more latitude for change.
Reference source: http://www.aeimages.com/learn/color-correction.html
Creative Lighting for Drama Production

Every scene in a film takes place in a particular place and a particular time. The
lighting of a shot must reflect that if it is convince an audience. If time and place
is the first challenge of cinematography and videography, the second is to
structure the look of a film so that it supports the structure of the story and its
themes. Reality will feed into the overall style for a film and the history of film
and photography will feed into the style of a film, because most people have
seen so many photographic images and watched so many television
programmes. To develop your knowledge of cinematography you need to:
Study light in the real world

Study film and photographic images
Study and be able to put into practice photographic technique
Practice and hone photographic skills
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Technology and Technique: Cinematography in the Fiction Film
Tutor: Eugene Doyen Email: e.doyen@qmul.ac.uk
Assessment:
The assessment for this component of the core course is a 3000 word essay
Essay Deadline: Core course final essay deadline.
Essay title: Analyse the work of a cinematographer in relation to their

technique and approach to specific scenes in at least three of their films. (For
this essay title the choice of cinematographer will be from a selection listed by
the tutor or as agreed between the tutor and the student after discussion. A
student will need to receive written permission before embarking on their
essay. This is to ensure that there is suitable research material to undertake the
essay.)
This element of the core course will have screenings and seminars. It will also
include three independent informal assignments:
A practical photographic project

The preparation of a presentation to explain and define a specific aspect of
photographic technique
The preparation of a presentation to evidence research on a specific
cinematographer
Details and briefs for these assignments will be given out at the first seminar in
week eight.
Week 8/Friday 5th Mary

11.00am to 1.00pm Introduction and Screening: Visions of Light: The Art of
Cinematography (92 mins)
2.00pm to 4.00pm Seminar: A Timeline for the Development of

Cinematography. The screening of Visions of Light provides a range of
interesting insights into the history of cinematography and its practitioners. For
the seminar related to this screening we will be developing of timeline for the
development on cinematography relating to three factors:
 Key technological developments in cinematography

 The influences of production practices and production systems on
cinematography
 Key cultural and aesthetic influences on cinematography
141
Week 9/Friday 12th March
11.00am to 1.00pm The Aesthetic Strategies of the Cinematographer Vittorio
Storaro. Introduction and screening of Vittorio Storaro: Writing With Light (52
minutes)
2.00pm to 4.00pm Screening: The Conformist (111 minutes)

11.00am to 1.00pm Introduction to the work of Roger Deakins and screening:
Fargo (98 minutes)
2.00pm to 4.00pm Seminar: Discussion of student essays on the

cinematography of Vittorio Storaro and Roger Deakins. First set of
presentations on definitions of terminology

11.00am to 1.00pm Second and final set of presentations on definitions of
terminology
2.00pm to 4.00pm Presentation of photographic work, student
papers/presentations on cinematographers.
142
143

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Masters Essays on Cinematography

Twelve essays on the aesthetics and practice in cinematography

Eugene Doyen: Editor

FOR EDUCATION USE ONLY – ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Jack Cardiff and Technicolor RASHPAL SAINI 7

John Alton and the Stylistics of Film Noir OLIVER DAVIS 17

Sven Nykvist: Visions of Light VINET CAMPBELL 27

Interior Visions: the films of Dion Beebe JAMES HAY 37

Roger Deakins and the Period Film NEIL CALLOWAY 51

Conflicts in Light: Vittorio Storaro ALISSA TIMOSHKINA 61

Colour Contrast and the Films of Darius Khondji BASAK YAZAR 69

Cinematography and Story: Roger Deakins and the

Robert Burks and the Objectification of the Hitchcock Blonde

Robert Richardson: Lighting and Composition in

Blurring the Boundaries of Reality: The Subjective Cinematography

The Cinematography of César Charlone in the films of Fernando

Essay Texts and Images

Jack Cardiff’s pioneering cinematography introduced colour into British cinema.

No. 7 (July 1947), pp. 236 – 37 and 263 (p. 237).

11 Petrie, British Cinematographer, p. 43.

BBC 2 on 6 November 1999.

http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/18/533.htm [accessed 16 April 2009].

18 Powell, A Life, p. 652.

1949), pp. 82-83 and 99-100 (p. 100).

Christie, Ian, A Matter of Life and Death (London: BFI, 2000).

Petrie, Duncan, The British Cinematographer (London: BFI, 1996).

Powell, Michael, A Life in Movies: An Autobiography (London: Methuen, 1986).

Street, Sarah, Black Narcissus (London/New York: I.B Tauris, 2005).

Articles in Journals and Magazines

“Black Narcissus” Colour Masterpiece’ American Cinematographer, Vol. 28, No. 12

Blanshard, Richard, Behind the Camera (British Broadcast Corporation, 1999).

Lemon, David, A Profile of the Red Shoes (Carlton Films, 2000).

McCall, Craig, The Colour Merchant (Modus Operandi Films, 1998).

Painting with Light (Modus Operandi Films, 2007).

Composition and Mirrors

Deep Focus Photography and Fog

Darkness and Night-for-Night Shooting

Contrast and Low-Key Lighting

In his swift lighting designs, he would establish a shot with only

Georgakas, Dan, ‘The Beloved Bs’, Cinéastev23.n4 (July 1998) pp.54-55

Sven Nykvist’s argues that light functions as a filmic language, a means of

It is important to be straight unto the script, to help the audience

Cinematographer (October 1962) at ‘bergmanorama: the magic works of Ingmar

75 Ettedgui, Cinematography, p.38.

76 Today’s Cinema, n9932, (17 Aug 1971) p.4-5.

Bergman, Ingmar, The Magic Lantern: An Autobiography by Ingmar Bergman, trans. By

Ettedgui, Peter, Cinematography, (East Sussex: RotoVision, 1998)

Films and Filming, 9, 4, (1 Jan 1963), 47

Monthly Film Bulletin, 28, 330, (1 Jul 1961), 92

Monthly Film Bulletin, 30, 353, (1 Jun 1963), p.79

On Location, 7, 7, (1 Nov 1983), 74-76, (76)

‘Ingmar Bergman’ at ‘Strictly Film School’

Nykvist, Sven, ‘Photographing the Films of Ingmar Bergman’, American

Schneider, Dan, ‘Hour of the Wolf’ at ‘The Alternative Film Guide’

Thomas, Gordon, Bright Lights Film Journal, Issue 53 (2006), at ‘BrightLightsFilm’

‘Unbearable Lightness: Sven Nykvist’, Film Comment, 25 (September-October 1989), 52-

Fanny and Alexander. Ingmar Bergman. Sandrew Pictures. 1982.

Hour of the Wolf. Ingmar Bergman. Lopert Pictures Corporation, 1968.

The Virgin Spring. Ingmar Bergman. Janus Films. 1960.

Through A Glass Darkly. Ingmar Bergman. Janus Films. 1962.

The Silence. Ingmar Bergman. Janus Films. 1964.

Winter Light. Ingmar Bergman. Janus Films. 1963.

In a still relatively young career, cinematographer Dion Beebe has displayed a