Creating Meaning

V for Vendetta: Shot by Shot Analysis

The 2005 movie V for Vendetta, directed by James McTeigue, follows the story of a young woman, Evey Hammond (Natalie Portman), living in a near-futuristic England. Her mundane day to day life at a government-controlled news station is turned upside-down when she becomes unexpectedly entwined in a rouge “freedom fighter’s” (IMDB) conquest against England’s totalitarian government. The mysterious vigilante, known only as “V” (Hugo Weaving), wears a Guy Fawkes mask in celebration of the man who, in 1605, attempted to blow up British Parliament. Much like the man whose face he wears, V plans to blow up Parliament as an act of liberation for the people of his country.

One of the most compelling scenes in this film is a montage the accounts the findings and predictions of Inspector Eric Finch (Stephen Rea), the lead investigator tracking V. Below is the montage in its entirety (for a bit of fun as well as context).

The focus of this close analysis will be only on a short segment of this montage (as clearly, there is a lot to cover here). For a bit of background information, the narrator is Inspector Finch; Chancellor Sutler (John Hurt) is the totalitarian ruler of England, and the masked man is V. This montage comes at a part of the story in which all of V’s planning and efforts for his explosive coup d’état are coming together; Finch is beginning to see the enormity of V’s actions, and unstoppable inertia of chaos which he has created. In my close analysis of this scene, I will look at the fusion of diegetic and nondiegetic sounds, as well as cinematic techniques such as shot-reverse-shots, focus changes, and use of slow motion to reveal how V, as a singular, in-control driving force, is able to spread his well planned chaos. I will also explore how the extended metaphor between V’s dominoes and the riots shown within the clip is created, and why it is so effective for the movie’s discourse.

The scene of interest is made up of ten shots (labeled for convenience) and takes place in the full movie beginning at 1:42:57. Here is a quick description of each shot:

Shot 1: Inspector Finch talking to the right of the camera

Shot 2: Army men in full uniform with guns marching

Shot 3: Back to Finch

Shot 4: V’s glove with finger pulled back

Shot 5: Finch again

Shot 6: V releasing finger; dominoes falling, riot progressing

Shot 7: Final dominoes falling

Shot 8: Close up on V’s mask

Shot 9: V walking in slow motion

Shot 10: V picking up domino and examining it

A key aspect of this scene is its use of sound, which helps to create meaning between two seemingly unrelated events: riots and falling dominos. In film, there are two types of sound (at least, two types in which we are currently interested). They are diegetic sounds: sounds whose origin is clear and present on screen, and nondiegetic sounds: sounds whose origin is either not specified or not present on screen. Both types of sound can be used to characterize a person or object. Take for example shots 2, 4 and 6. In shot 2 we see Chancellor Sutler’s army men marching. The use of multiple camera angles focusing on the men’s succinct movements as well as their loaded guns creates a sense of power among the men. At the end of the shot, we see the men cock their guns and hear the accompanying diegetic sound. In parallel, we hear the long, over-exaggerated diegetic sound of V pulling back his gloved finger, which, when viewed in relation to Shot 2, sounds almost like the cocking of a weapon. These related sounds highlight the power of both of the shot’s subjects. In Shot 2, we never see the men fire, as if perhaps they do not hold the power to carry out destructive action without first being given orders. On the other hand, in Shot 6 we see V “pull the trigger” as it were, releasing his finger and setting the dominos in motion. The sound produced by the dominos as they collide with each other sound considerably like bullets being fired. In these three shots diegetic sounds help to create the sense that V has the power of an army, but the initiative to act on his own will.

As mentioned above, film usually contains both diegetic and nondiegetic sounds. Typically, there is a distinction drawn between the two types of sound; however, the distinction can be blurred to create meaning and significance between two events. In Shot 6 we can see a lot of interplay between diegetic and nondiegetic sounds. Starting at 0:16 the sound of falling dominos begins to elevate in volume until around 0:20, where the sound has become chaotic and overwhelming. It is at this point that the sound of a mob’s angry cries begins to fade in. There is a quick cut to a shot of a riot, whose sound matches the cries heard seconds earlier. Similar sound fades between shots occur throughout the entirety of Shot 6, including the presence of what sounds like the marching footsteps heard in Shot 2 as the dominos fall at around 0:24. The fusion of diegetic and nondiegetic sounds reaches a peak at around 0:29 where the sound of the dominos falling is almost completely drowned out by what could be interpreted as either machine gun shots or a helicopter’s propeller. This type of connection built between two cuts by use of continuous sound is referred to as a sound bridge. Sound bridges are typically used to create continuity between two related shots, such as in a shot-reverse-shot sequence, or between establishing shots and close-ups. In this film, however, the sound bridge is used to create continuity between cuts which are neither continuous in space nor necessarily in time. Instead, the sound bridge serves to create a symbolic connection in the audience’s mind between the cascade of dominos set off by V, and riots taking place on the streets.

In analyzing this scene, it is important to recognize who or what is the most significant subject. The main focus is not on Finch, who is narrating; rather it is on V, who sets the dominos in motion. The sound of the dominos links to the sound of the riots. The audience begins to associate the spreading cascade of dominos with the escalating violence as a result of their inability to distinguish diegetic from nondiegetic sounds. This is the effect that is created by the scene. What is more important, though, is the meaning that is created within the scene. V is the one who sets the dominos in motion; therefore, the audience concludes it is he who has set the chaos in motion, presenting him as a powerful entity.

From here on out I will focus more on the cinematographic aspects of the film and how they strengthen the connection between V and idea of power that he holds. Shots 1-4 consist of a sort of shot-reverse-shot sequence between the narrator and the events that he describes. In general, a shot-reverse-shot is used to create continuity between shots as well as define and build narrative space; it is, however, used in a slightly different way during this sequence. In Shot 1, Inspector Finch is established as the scene’s narrative voice. He explains that “Sutler will be forced to do the only thing that he knows how to do”, and accordingly, the next shot is of armed men marching. Shot 3 is again of Finch, speaking about V’s next actions, and in Shot 4 we see V’s glove as he prepares to strike the first domino. In this case, the less traditional shot-reverse-shot creates a connection between V and the army men, using Finch as a bridge between the two ideas. In addition, Finch’s juxtaposition between each shot confers a sort of temporal (though not concrete) continuity between the two events he is describing. This allows the audience to accept that the two seemingly unconnected events on screen are actually interrelated.

The cinematography of the domino scene is particularly crucial for both character development and helping to establish the metaphoric use of the dominos. At the beginning of Shot 6 we see the use of slow motion. The speed of V’s finger hitting the first few dominos is slowed considerably, allowing the audience to see each individual collision. The effect created is meant to parallel V’s actions: his first action seems almost insignificant, but as the dominos continue to spread and fall and the film returns to its normal speed, it seems like the dominos are falling at an incredible and unstoppable rate. Since the connection between the dominos and the riots has already been established (through sound and consistent cuts back and forth between the two), it becomes clear that the spreading fall of the obj, in actuality, symbolic of the unstoppable chaos set in motion by one single man, one small domino.

The rest of this scene helps to establish V’s character and strength. The domino scene ends with the collapse of the final pieces, leaving one standing alone (Shot 7). At the start of the shot, the camera is focused on the foreground, the last standing domino. This little piece of wood is the subject of the shot, and the result of all the events that have preceded it, framing it as an object of certain gravity. The focus then shifts to V in the background. The effect is that a bond is created between the two; as the domino was the product of so many events before it, and cause of so much to come, so is V. Setting V as the subject of focus further motivates the audience to view him as a character that stands alone, yet nonetheless has an incredible amount of power. There is a discontinuous cut between Shots 8 and 9. At the end of V’s close-up in Shot 8 he begins to stand up. After the cut leading to Shot 9, V is already walking, creating a slight gap in temporal continuity. V’s jumpy movements give him a sort of superhuman quality in that it makes it seem that he does not have to obey regular laws of movement. In addition, his walk to pick up the standing domino is filmed in slow motion, signifying that while he is in control of the events he has put into motion, he is also so organized and confident that he can proceed with his plan at his own pace.

In a short essay entitle Story/Discourse, Christian Metz explores different aspects of film’s discourse. Discourse, as he describes it, is “the act of telling, the material practice of making meaning”. Essentially, discourse is how a movie says what it says. Metz argues that the best form of discourse hides the film’s enunciator and forces the audience to discover meaning on its own. The scene discussed during this shot by shot analysis does just that. By disguising V’s power and forcing the audience to reveal it for themselves, the film is able to create a more meaningful viewing experience. The means to this end was the inclusion of the domino scene, which on the surface signifies very little. However, once analyzed carefully, it becomes clear that the use of sound and various cinematic techniques within the scene help to create a connection between the dominos, the riots, and V’s power as an initiator of the ensuing chaos.

Propaganda and the 2-Way Reflection

There were just so many things that bothered me above Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will (1935) that I can’t really decide where to begin. I’ll start by saying that Riefenstahl’s cinematic technique is nothing short of astounding. Her camera angles, subtle juxtapositions, lens choices, and editing decisions make the film aesthetically pleasing, and, for film buffs, interesting to watch (on a technical level). That being said, it was still full of nauseating Nazi propaganda, and my lord, one of the most horrendously dull films I’ve ever sat through. Really. I’ll be honest and say that I dozed off during an extended marching scene and was not overly surprised when I woke up fifteen minutes later only to find more angry Nazi’s marching as a deceivingly tall Hitler, with a bad comb-over and uncomfortably thin mustache, saluted his beloved S.S. men.

(Someone else engrossed in Triumph of the Will)

The only thing that really caught my interest about this film actually took place before it even began. This movie is widely considered one of the most influential pieces of propaganda ever created. (I’m assuming the German’s in the mid 1930’s felt a bit more excited by the film than I did.) During the opening commentary and discussion of this film screening, the question was posed: “can a movie really be that dangerous?” For some reason this really struck me. I mean, come on, film is film, it’s only a movie. We’re just watching a bunch of glorified pictures being spat back at us at 24 frames per second. And yet, it was films like these that allowed a minority group of Nazi’s to take popular control of an otherwise sane country. These films made people believe that not only was it acceptable to exterminate an entire race of people, but that such actions were justified. It blows my mind.

In his essay entitled Questions of Genre, Steve Neale talks about different genres and their associated verisimilitudes (essentially, conventions and situations that can seem plausible or truthful in certain genres and not in others). He says that films must typically abide by two forms of verisimilitude: generic verisimilitude and broader social or cultural verisimilitude.

(See verisimilitude in the wiki page: https://courses.duke.edu/webapps/lobj-wiki-bb_bb60/wiki/ENGLISH101A.01-F2009/course/Verisimilitude)

The relevant of the two right now is social/cultural verisimilitude, which is the level of truthfulness that is determined by social norms. What I took from this part of Neale’s article is that film is a reflection of society, and, for the most part, what we see on screen is a product of we do as a society. This is the case in quite a few films. Take V for Vendetta (2005, James McTeigue) for example: the character of Chancellor Adam Sutler (John Hurt) and the movie’s plot in general were a reflection of the uncertainly and consequences of 9/11 and the Patriot Act. (Many believe the Chancellor’s character was shaped to loosely resemble President Bush.) Even the protagonist, V (Hugo Weaving), was a representation of the American people’s desire to regain the power they felt they lost.

It was for this reason that I was so surprised by Triumph of the Will; it had a reflection that was the opposite of what I had previously seen. The movie screen now had its own set of standards and ideals and it was the people changed their beliefs to better match those on screen. The movie screen and the audience were no longer one-way reflections; rather they both molded and shaped the other. With this in mind, I want to return to my original question: can a film really be dangerous? If we reach a point as a society when what we see and hear becomes so prevalent that it drowns out what we think, then yes, a film can be dangerous. Triumph represented such a time and such a movie. But is film any different from books or the media? Can’t any other opinion repeated over and over seep into our minds to the point that we call them our own? Let me know what you think.

Behind Every Hitchcock Man...

Last Wednesday, during our group discussion we wrapped up talking about Laura Mulvey’s article, Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema. In this oddly entertaining piece (let’s face it Freud and feminism always make a great combination), Mulvey argues that women in cinema serve only as scopophilic entities, objects from which men gain sexual stimulation through sight. Aside from this, the cinematic women, Mulvey claims, “[have] not the slightest importance” (203). Our T.A., Jim, asked us at the end of the discussion what our final thoughts were on this Freudian-feminist author, to which I responded, She’s nuts as hell. Care to qualify that? Jim responded lightheartedly. I laughed: at the time, I couldn’t.

And I still can’t. It was true; at the time I thought she was crazy. Women don’t just represent male desires. What about Angelina Jolie in Wanted (2008, Timur Bekmambetov), Uma Thurman in Kill Bill (2003, Quentin Tarantino), or Natalie Portman in V for Vendetta (2005, James McTeigue)? Each is sexy, smart, independent, and kicks ass! They are attractive, yes, but they are also strong-willed and capable. I thought Mulvey must have been at least a little bit full of it.

Then it hit me: times have

changed… a lot. The films Mulvey discussed were Alfred Hitchcock classics such as Rear Window (1954) and Vertigo (1958). Looking at these, Mulvey is completely justified in her views.

Each of the films opens with the leading male in some state of physical emasculation. In Rear Window, we meet Jeffries (James Stewart) in a full lower-body cast, unable to walk or perform his previously adventurous job as a photographer. His accident has left him feeling powerless and dependent on his nurse caretaker, Stella (Thelma Ritter). Similarly, we find Scottie (also James Stewart) in a back brace, suffering from vertigo, unable to continue his job as a policeman—a job which traditionally represents power and strength. In both cases, the leading man is not feeling his manliest. But never fear: this is where the women come in.

Each of James Stewart’s characters has a female counterpart. In Rear Window, his partner in crime is the lovely Lisa Freemont (Grace Kelly). Jeffries, confined to his chair, has been driven to watch out his rear window, following the lives of his neighbors for entertainment. Lisa is his “love interest”, though this term is used very loosely in the film’s opening. Jefferies initially shows very little response to Lisa’s sexual advances, and instead focuses on the lives he is watching. The point at which Jeffries finally begins to pay attention to her is when she becomes involved in his scheme to investigate his potentially murderous neighbor. This increase in his interest coincides with Lisa’s transition from the traditional “passive role” (as Mulvey calls it) that women play to a more active one. However, her actions are not depicted as her own. She is not a free-acting female out to corner crime single-handedly. On the contrary, Hitchcock films the investigation scenes in such a way that it appears that Lisa is just a puppet for Jeffries. She is following his every wish and whim, as Jeffries watches her through binoculars, and as such, becomes not a person, but rather a tool through which Jeffries can regain his masculinity.

In Vertigo the use of women as tools for men is even more apparent. After watching his love interest, Madeline Ester (Kim Novak) hurl herself off of a church steeple, Scottie becomes transfixed on Judy Barton (Kim Novak), a woman who looks mysteriously like the suicidal blonde. Judy becomes so much of a moldable tool for Scottie’s pleasure that she actually allows him to dress her, change her hair and even her mannerisms in order to better suite his desires. Scottie does this in order to be able to recreate the circumstances under which Madeline died, but this time, overcome his acrophobia and save the girl he has built in his love’s image, thus saving and preserving his lost masculinity. In this case, Judy plays no greater role than to fulfill Scottie’s fantasy as the “perfect image of female beauty and mystery” (207).

In each of these films, the main women characters contribute little to the movie in terms of independence and ability to move the plot forward by their own will. Instead, they allow the leading men to realize their full, masculine abilities, while looking exceptionally good (which, let’s be honest, is apparently pretty important to Hitchcock). So while I really wanted to continue on thinking that Laura Mulvey was way off in claiming that women in cinema are only present for male entertainment, I have to say that she is right, at least with respect to the films of her time.

But what about today? Are the beautiful women on screens really here just for the sexual male gaze, or have we as a society progressed to a point where women can be both beautiful and meaningful? Let me know what you think.

Film Review: Inglorious Basterds

To be honest, I have never really been a fan of WWII action films. For me, the genre seems just a little too played out. Once I’ve seen one brave soldier save a fellow soldier from an enemy camp, running toward a helicopter as explosions go off in the background, I’ve seen them all.

Thankfully, this could not be any less true for the new movie, Inglorious Basterds (2009), written and directed by Quentin Tarantino. The film takes place in Nazi occupied France in 1944 and follows two parallel plotlines, each independently fighting for the same outcome (though completely unbeknownst to each other). The first plotline follows Emmanuelle Mimieux (Mélanie Laurent), who as a teenager (when she went by her real name, Shosanna) narrowly escaped death when the rest of her family was shot by Nazis while in hiding. Three years after the incident, we find Emmanuelle living in Paris as the proprietor of a local cinema. How she got here is never explained, but trust me, when the plot starts, we don’t really care.

One day, as the young woman is outside of her theater, a German war hero (Daniel Brühl), who has recently made a movie about his heroic victory in a battle against the Russians, requests that the premier of his movie be shown at her cinema. Knowing that many important Nazis, including Hitler himself, will be in attendance, the young woman decides she will exact revenge by burning down the cinema, taking the Nazis inside along with it.

At the same time the film follows a group of Jewish-American soldiers led by Lt. Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt). The group’s sole business, as Raine puts it, is killing Nazis. And killing Nazis is what they do best. When word reaches the group of Hitler’s appearance at the film premier, they too decide that they will infiltrate and blow up the cinema. What is great about these two plots is how unknowingly-intertwined the two are and how the film plays off of this.

One of the biggest breaths of fresh air this movie offers to an otherwise stale genre is how the conflict presented is not completely one-sided. We of course show very little sympathy for the Nazis, this is a given. Yet, they are still portrayed at times as brave in the face of danger and seem to be fighting for a cause they believe in. (The exception is Hitler (Martin Wuttke), who is entirely too funny to be taken seriously.) The would-be protagonists of the story, the Basterds, are hardly better than the Nazis. They are a brutal bunch who almost never take prisoners and who bludgeon, beat, stab, shoot, and scalp every Nazi they encounter. Tarantino’s direction style (like in many of his movies) ensures that the camera never shies away from the violence onscreen. The effect of the gore, such as the frequent scalping that takes place, is to show the irony that the Basterds, who seek revenge against the Nazis’ heinous violence, are often just as violent. In the shot where Lt. Raine is introduced Tarantino even goes as far to fit the frame around Pitt’s face in such a way that his hat and hair resemble Hitler’s classic comb-over and his mustache appears thin beneath his nose. At the same time, however, we find ourselves rooting for them none the less.

In addition to the interesting take on the protagonists, the film also has a lot of great actors going for it. I was particularly impressed by Mélanie Laurent, whose facial expressions are captured perfectly by Tarantino; and by Christoph Waltz, who plays the movie’s intelligent and ruthless villain all too well. Brad Pitt, B.J. Novak, Eli Roth, and Omar Doom (all Basterds) provide a lot of comical entertainment throughout the film, which truly is hilarious at times.

Tarantino, overall, did a great job with this film. The cinematography was very interesting to watch. His use of rotating camera angles and low lighting at times of stress helps the audience to share the unease that the characters on film feel. He pays a lot of attention to expressions—at times letting characters who are involved in a conversation remain mostly cut out of the shot in order to emphasize the reactions of third party observers. He also does a tremendous job with color motifs throughout the film. The use of red is particularly strong in scene in which Emmanuelle stands in front of a window in her red dress, with matching lips and nails, as the red Nazi flag sways in the background. In the scene, the power that the Nazi flag holds as a symbol is transferred to the Jewish girl who plans to overthrow those who nearly killed her. This may be one of my favorite scenes in the movie, just based on how beautiful it is.

The last thing I want to mention is the score. It sounded like music typical of the 40’s and 50’s, but with a Western twist. These scores, which are reminiscent of scenes from Tarantino’s earlier films Kill Bill Volumes 1 and 2 (2003, 2004), are successful in transforming what could be a typical war movie into the more devil-may-care, Nazi-killing thriller that is Inglorious Basterds.

The movie, like most, does have some down falls. There are a few scenes that are too long, and although they aid in character development, they ultimately fail to move the plot and keep the audience interested. Tarantino also used a narrative to introduce characters and past events at the start of the movie, which was fun and interesting to watch, but let it die off toward the end. Overall, however, the movie is very well done and excellently entertaining. It is as crazy as its director, to be sure. The ending is sure not to disappoint, and the performances put on in four different languages is sure to impress most audiences. This is a movie definitely worth seeing, if not for the cinematography, acting, and plot, at least for the B.A. action.

Our Job

While watching movies, we focus primarily on the actors on screen or the theatrical moves of the director while trying to enjoy and understand the film. We often forget, however, that we the audience play an equally important role in the movie experience. In his essay on Classic Hollywood Cinema, David Bordwell asserts that “classical narration… depends up on the notion of the invisible observer” (Bordwell 24), the people behind the camera.

So what is it we as the silent observers are expected to do to make the movie-going experience all that it is meant to be? Bordwell proposes that our role is to “come to classical films very well prepared” (28), ready to read the emotions of characters, follow the logical flow of events, and of course, interpret the unfolding film in order to understand what is going on. When I first read this I couldn’t imagine a more obvious statement. How could we possibly watch movies and not understand what’s being spoon fed to us (as is often the case in Classic Hollywood Cinema)?

Then I saw this re-cut of the movie “Sleepless in Seattle” (Nora Ephron, 1993) in which some clever editors took clips from a classic romantic comedy and made it into a trailer for Sleepless in Seattle, the horror movie. Check it out.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frUPnZMxr08

So what is it that makes us root for Annie (Meg Ryan) as she, in a manner that could easily be interpreted as eerily creepy (as seen above), seeks out the man she heard on a radio program across the country? In my opinion, it is a combination of good direction and our deeply ingrained understanding of the romantic comedy plot structure that lets us empathize for Annie.

Annie (Meg Ryan) watching Sam (Tom Hanks) from afar, but not in a creepy way

Certain directional moves are made throughout the movie that help to build a connection between Sam Baldwin (Tom Hanks) and Annie. There is the obvious sync in words and actions that we see splattered throughout the movie, such as finishing sentences the same way during radio talkshow scene. There is also the less obvious use of eye line matches made between Annie and Sam which help to close the distance between the two. The shots are laced together in such a way that it seems like the two could be standing right across from each other, eye to eye, talking to one another, when in reality, thousands of miles separate them and neither has exchanged words directly with the other.

Musical score also plays a big role in dulling down the creepiness and amplifying the “oh that’s cute” factor. The re-cut trailer uses dark, ominous music during the scene where Annie watches Sam and his son play on the beach. This leads the audience to suspect evil intentions. On the other hand, the original movie keeps the music both upbeat, and at time emotional, to convey a sense of deep connection between the characters and what they feel for one another.

Perhaps the most important contributing factor, however, is our base knowledge of Classic Hollywood Cinema. This entails us “recognizing the recurrence of a star’s persona from film to film and recognizing generic conventions” (Bordwell, 29) associated with the film’s genre. In this case, we know that Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks excel at playing sappy romantics (“You’ve Got Mail” 1998) and anyone who has seen one romantic comedy has seen them all. Everyone ends the same. (I’ll give you a hint: they end up together, despite those setbacks). It’s these preconceptions that prevent us as an audience, the invisible observer, to suspect nothing but good intentions from Annie.

In film, it is the director and actors’ job to give guiding cues to the audience, but it is the audience’s job to interpret for themselves what he or she seeing, to insert their own ideas and feelings into the movie to make the film experience a more involved one.

For anyone responding to this, feel free to think about these questions:

How much do our previous conceptions play into our movie going experience?

It is possible for a director to lead us too heavily and not let us think and interpret for ourselves?

Talking Through the Camera

An important divergence between the world of film and the world literature is the use of narrative voice. Its purpose in literature is pretty straight forward: to allow the readers to hear, see, and experience the events unfolding throughout the pages, including the thoughts and emotions of the characters. Narration in film, however, plays a slightly less defined role. Generally speaking, narration in film has not been necessary, as the sound and sights of the film as well as the subtleties of the actor’s movements and expressions accomplish what narration seeks to make clear. There are times, though, when great acting, visuals, and sounds aren’t enough and can’t convey the whole picture that the author or director hopes to get across. Take for example a quote from Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged:

“She felt no anger toward anyone on earth. The things she had endured had now receded into some outer fog, like pain that still exists but has no power to hurt. Those things could not stand in the face of this moment’s reality, the meaning of this day was as brilliantly, violently clear as the splashes of sun on the silver engine, all men had to perceive it now, no one could doubt it and she had no one to hate.” (Rand, Atlas Shrugged)

For me, it is hard to imagine any actor or director of any skill level being able to fully capture the emotion felt by Dagny Taggart at this point in the novel, nor the full gravity of the situation, nor do so quite so poetically. This is where I feel narration can be an excellent tool to film; it allows the audience to fully appreciate the things that cannot be said other than in words.

I’d like to make a distinction before I go on. Narration’s role in film should never be to say the things that the audience can pick up from an actor or the brilliant moves of a director. Narration of this type is somewhat of a cop-out, allowing an easier (and often times more boring) way of getting a point across. Truly good narration should be a supplement to action and direction, not a substitute. It should provide a further sense of what is going on behind and beneath the scene on screen.

The French Film Amélie (Jean-Pierre Jeunet, 2001) makes good use of narration. In this case, the narrative voice is used to further the quirkiness of Amélie’s (Audrey Tautou) character and world. It is delivered in such a way as to mirror the child-like perceptions and mannerisms of the main character. For example, in a scene where the narrator speaks of a fictional man standing in a cellar window whispering witty insults for her to use against the mean-spirited vegetable vendor, narration is used. The narrator doesn’t come out and say, the man in the window is really just in Amélie’s childish imagination, but the way in which he presents the situation allows the audience to deduce as much. In a sense, he is building Amélie’s character. This is precisely the way in which narration should be used—to give the viewer a better sense of a character or situation and clarify aspects of the world being shown.

Walter Benjamin, in his essay The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, claims that the essence of art in the aura it creates. Good film narration, I believe, adds to this aura. When used correctly, it provides an added layer of depth that cannot be reached by acting or direction alone. It allows its audience to gather emotions nuances that were previously available only in novels and text. For this reason, I feel that narration in film can be a huge asset, that is, when it’s done right.