Automatic Cinematic
Most film essays are written with the unspoken knowledge that the author really believes something, and he or she is going to do their best to convince you, to make you come to their side. However, today I want to talk about a subject in which I'm simply agnostic. I just don't know. Today, I'm not interested in the blog as a mouthpiece; I'm interested in it as a conversation-starter.
So today I'm posing this: just what makes a film "cinematic" and what do we mean when we use the term? When we accuse a film of not being cinematic enough, what exactly are we saying are its shortcomings? Lately, I've been thinking a lot about why some stories are told in certain ways. What makes some stories right for film? It can't just be the dialogue-to-action ratio. I've seen some films that were dialogue-driven that were sumptuously cinematic, while I have seen action-heavy films that were decidedly not.
So just what does the term "cinematic" mean? I'm going to look at two film projects today to see if I can start inching toward a conclusion.
Krzysztof Kieslowski's Dekalog is a 1989 Polish television drama series where every one of its ten hours explores a different ethical or moral issue (sorry, Netflix... if there is any series that truly blurs the line between film and television, it's this one). Some call it a television series, some call it a ten-hour film, others call it by the much looser and vaguer term, "film cycle." Each installment centers around one of the Ten Commandments, though it approaches them at much different angles than you might be expecting.
One of the reasons I believe Dekalog is cinematic, despite having only appeared infrequently in cinemas, is that the film is paced as a film. It watches and takes its time. When the characters speak, what they are saying is really only half of the story; rather, it is the look on their face and the emotional weight they are carrying that is conveying the other half. Compare that to many television series and many more bad films. How often do we get to an extreme close-up where we afforded the space to read subtext?
Likewise, one of my favorite directors, Richard Linklater, has long been obsessed with watching people talk. His films are (mostly) straightforward visually, not interested in the visual flair of a Martin Scorsese or a Spike Lee film. If those films' cameras are active participants in the story, than Richard Linklater's films are windows. They rather watch.
Linklater's greatest accomplishment, the Before trilogy (Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, and Before Midnight) mostly consists of conversation. They talk about love, of aging, of dreams deferred. But what strikes me when I watch the trilogy is that, for all this talking, the film remain inherently cinematic. There is a scene toward the end of Before Sunset where the two central characters are riding in the back of a van. Jessie (Ethan Hawke) is looking out the window, talking about his dissolving marriage. As he speaks, Celine (Julie Delpy) reaches out to him, trying to brush the back of his head with her hand. However, she stops just shy, turns away, and Jessie remains unaware of this moment of near-intimacy. It's a small moment, not projected ahead of time and never commented upon afterwards. However, it speaks volumes without a word. It's a small scene, but it's undoubtedly what I would consider cinematic.
If cinema means anything to me, it is the faith to allow an the audience member the space to fill in the gaps themselves. The cuts are not what make a film cinematic (though they certainly can help heighten an emotion). It's what is in the space between.
