Long takes and calculated decluttering
The tension in making a scene feel real, but not "too real."
In 2006 and 2014, John took a look at two different ways viewers compare what they see on film to the real world. One was a reminder not to compare your home to the homes of fictional characters, the other about a strategy for firmly placing a character within their environment.
I had the pleasure of hosting a Q&A with Alfonso Cuarón for Film Independent, part of a five-week series. I looked at it as an opportunity to get all my questions answered from a longtime talent crush — and if people wanted to listen in, swell.
Between clips, we talked about music and color and collaboration. I also wanted to know about Cuarón’s lengthy, technically-sophisticated shots.
Even before Gravity, Cuarón was known for very long takes. Children of Men has a stunning car sequence that plays like one continuous moment, and a wide shot with Michael Caine that continues for quite a long scene.
But it’s not showing off, and it’s not just because he has access to great technology and master technicians. Watching clips from the much more down-and-dirty Y Tu Mamá También, it’s clear that Cuarón loves these uncut scenes regardless of the genre or budget level.
So I asked him why.
His answer spoke to the relationship of the character and the environment. It was a revelation for me. I suspect the audience could see the lightbulb over my head.
So what I’m about to say isn’t quite what Cuarón said, but my reaction to what he said.
Foreground and background
In film, whenever you cut, the audience has to re-establish where the character is in relationship to the environment. Sometimes you’re cutting to a new location, a new scene, so that re-establishing is significant. But even if you’re just cutting within a scene, the character’s relationship to the background is different. There’s a (subconscious) process of figuring out where Kathy is in the space, and her relationship to it.
It’s unnatural — in real-life, things aren’t jumping around — but audiences have gotten really good at handling it. We’re all sophisticated viewers now, so many of the old rules about cutting are less crucial than they used to be. We can cut fast. We can jump cut. We can cross the line. Aggressive cuts have given us some of the most thrilling sequences in cinema.
Cutting is a powerful tool. But it has a cost, too.
Think of it from the audience’s perspective: each cut requires us to find our character against the background. It’s not a huge burden, but it’s work. If there’s a lot of cutting, we prioritize the character and start paying less attention to the background. We don’t explore the setting because we’re worried we’re going to miss what the characters are doing. The Who is almost always more important than the Where.
But in a long take, we can shift our focus from the character to the background and back again. We can notice things we otherwise wouldn’t. Scenes shot in long takes feel “more real” not just because of the continuity of time and performance, but also because we have the time to really invest in the backgrounds.
In the case of Gravity, most of those backgrounds are completely computer-generated, which is testament to just how good Cuarón’s work is. Space in Gravity feels so real in part because we get to see it in such long stretches. And because it feels so real, we invest even more deeply in Bullock’s performance and the reality of her predicament. We believe that she — and we — are really there. The long takes are a huge part of why.
Most of us won’t be making movies in space, but it’s a lesson I’ll be taking with me. I love the power of a cut, but I’ll always ask what could be gained by not cutting.
Movies look nothing like reality
While at Austin, I caught a screening of Susannah Grant’s movie Catch and Release. Since I sorta-know and definitely admire half the people in it (Jennifer Garner, Tim Olyphant, Kevin Smith), not to mention producer Jenno Topping, I’m hardly an unbiased viewer. So I’ll leave the reviews to more neutral eyes.
But what I do feel justified discussing is the movie’s setting: Boulder, Colorado. My home town.
My very first script was set in Boulder, so I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how it would look on film. Watching Catch and Release, I saw many of my chosen locations (The Hill, the Pearl Street Mall, various Flatirons) yet felt almost no recognition that this was actually Boulder.
It’s not the film’s fault. It’s just that movies look nothing like reality.
For instance, a scene set at the Pearl Street Mall is shot in mostly mediums and close-ups. Without a big wide establishing shot, you don’t get a sense of a street that’s been converted to a pedestrian mall. Of course, the movie doesn’t need the wide shot. The scene would probably be worse for its inclusion. It’s only Boulderites who miss the sense of geography.
If it sounds like I’m complaining, I’m not. The movie is a postcard and valentine for Boulder, and its brand of earnest happiness and liberal optimism. Characters attend the opening of a “peace garden” without a trace of snarkiness to be found — and this in a movie featuring Kevin Smith.
Yes, much of the movie was shot on soundstages and locations far from Boulder. But it wasn’t the geographic differences that hurt the verisimilitude; it was the movie magic. In real life, the sun doesn’t dapple, clutter isn’t charming, and a wall painted “Tampax blue” wouldn’t merit discussion.
I have first-hand experience with the disorienting effects of movie magic, since a portion of The Movie I just directed was shot at my own house. For the last four months, I’ve been staring at footage of my kitchen, yet I barely connect it as being the same place I eat breakfast every morning.
Light, film and lenses change the colors and geometry of the room. The camera watches from places a human wouldn’t, constant and undistracted.
After a friends-and-family of The Movie, I got word back from a friend who lamented that her own house seemed less grown-up after seeing mine on film. She’s overlooking the fact we packed up all the baby toys, the dog beds, the stacks of unread mail, and the dishes in the sink. My house looks grown-up the same way houses in magazine shoots look: perfect, because no one has to live there.
In every scene, in every shot, there are lights and flags and twenty crew members just off the edge of frame, all working really hard to make it look nothing like reality.
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🗣 Have ideas for future topics (or just want to say hello)? Reach out to Chris via email at inneresting@johnaugust.com, Mastodon @ccsont@mastodon.art, or Threads @ccsont@threads.net