Film Is An Art

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Thomson-Jones, Katherine. "Film as an Art." Aesthetics and Film.

London: Continuum,
2008. 1–15. Bloomsbury Aesthetics. Bloomsbury Collections. Web. 12 Mar. 2020. <http://
dx.doi.org/10.5040/9781472545336.ch-001>.

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Copyright © Katherine Thomson-Jones 2008. All rights reserved. Further reproduction or


distribution is prohibited without prior permission in writing from the publishers.
CHAPTER 1

FILM AS AN ART

Is film an art? Before we can answer this question, we need to be clear


on what we mean by ‘film’. The term ‘film’ is ambiguous; it refers both
to an art form that employs a variety of physical media – celluloid, video
and digital formats, for example – and also to the traditional medium of
the art form – the projected film strip that results from the complex tech-
nical processes of filming and editing. Sometimes ‘film’ is also used to
refer to the art form specifically when it employs the traditional film
medium. Classical film theorists use the term in this way simply because
at the time they were writing, the film medium was the only medium of
the art form. Despite this ambiguity, however, there is good reason to
hold onto the term ‘film’. Most importantly, the term is still widely used
by ordinary film-goers, film critics and film theorists, and it covers
instances of the art form in every filmmaking tradition, viewed in any
setting. Thus in this book, we will keep the term ‘film’ but use it care-
fully by marking a three-way distinction between film the art form, film
the medium, and ‘photographically-based’ film – the art form in its
traditional medium. We will also follow common usage in keeping the
term ‘cinematic’ to describe a film, an aspect of a film or a mode of
engagement with a film that is defined by or relies upon distinctive or
unique features of film media.
So how should we understand our original question? – Is film an art?
If we are referring to an established art form, then our question is trivial
at best. In fact, however, the first answer to this question established the
possibility of using the term ‘film’ to refer to a medium-specific art form.
In the early days of film, first-generation classical film theorists were
interested in the artistic possibilities inherent in traditional filmmaking
processes, particularly in cinematography. Insofar as cinematography
produces a recording on a celluloid strip to be run through a projector,
classical film theorists were thinking about the artistic possibilities of
the film medium. But not surprisingly, the way they established that film
can be art is by scrutinizing the results of using the medium – the films

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AESTHETICS AND FILM

projected onto a screen for an audience. It was because early film


theorists glimpsed artistry on the screen that they decided that the prod-
uct of cinematography, editing and celluloid projection could be art.
Nowadays, of course, ‘film’ still refers to an art form but not to a medium-
specific one. As we shall see, this raises the question of how to uphold
the status of an art form which was originally justified in terms of a par-
ticular medium when that art form has moved beyond its traditional
medium. Before we consider this question, however, let’s examine the
original justification – how film first became art.
To answer our starting question, we might begin by pointing out
the existence of cinematic masterpieces like New World (2006) or The
Seven Samurai (1954). But does this show that (photographically-based)
film per se is an art? It all depends on what makes such films master-
pieces – whether it is their inherently cinematic qualities or whether it is
qualities derived from other, established art forms – for example, their
dramatic qualities or their painterly qualities of composition. The real
question, then, is whether film is an art form in its own right and the
answer to this question will depend on whether what makes a film a film
can also be what makes it art.
Today most film-goers assume without question that film media can
serve artistic purposes. When film first emerged, however, as a mechani-
cal innovation in recording, there was no such assumption. If anything,
in fact, there was an opposing assumption that film is merely a recording
device devoid of artistic interest. This meant that early filmmakers and
film theorists first had to legitimate their practices before they could
secure a receptive audience. Rudolph Arnheim, one of the most promi-
nent early film theorists, was well aware of how much he had to prove for
the sake of an emerging art form. Both the 1933 and the 1957 versions of
his treatise on the art of silent film provide a detailed catalogue of all
the creative and expressive possibilities inherent in the filmmaking
process. Essentially, Arnheim accepts the assumption that mere mechan-
ical recording cannot be art and then argues that film art begins where
mechanical recording ends. The result is an authoritative articulation of
the anti-realist principles of silent filmmaking.1
We see these principles applied in different ways in each of the major
silent film movements. In Soviet montage films like Sergei Eisenstein’s
Battleship Potemkin (1925), editing is used to break up, rearrange and
change the meaning of the recording. In German expressionist films
like The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920), highly stylized sets, acting and
narration are emphasized with incongruous camerawork and lighting.

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FILM AS AN ART

Even the films of Charlie Chaplin with their use of visual tricks embody
principles for establishing a break with reality and the creation of some-
thing entirely new.
But what of the assumption that film cannot be art if it is mere mechan-
ical recording? Behind this assumption is the following line of thought:
When a film is made, however much thought and creativity go into
writing the script, constructing a scene and rehearsing the actors, once
the camera is rolling, that’s it: the next crucial stage is beyond the cre-
ative control of the filmmakers. Of course the cinematographer can
creatively control the angle, direction and distance of the camera, and the
editor can creatively control the order and rhythm of images in the final
cut. But no one can creatively control the content of those images – if the
camera mechanically records a tree, then you end up with an image of
just that tree, just as it looked at the moment of recording. It is this lack
of artistic control at the crucial and distinctively photographic moment of
the filmmaking process that allegedly prevents photographically-based
film from being an art form.
It is undoubtedly true that film is separated from traditional arts like
painting and drama by the mechanical nature of its recording process.
The further question is whether mechanical recording rules out artistry.
Actually, there are really two questions here: the question of whether
there can be artistry despite mechanical recording and the question of
whether there can be artistry in mechanical recording itself. Early film
theorists like Arnheim only considered the first of these two questions.
The second question is taken up by the first generation of sound film
theorists. Among them is the great André Bazin who we meet in the next
chapter on realism, and who locates the power of film in the immediacy
and accessibility of its recorded imagery.
By the time we get to the second chapter we shall be able to appreciate
that Bazin’s work is made possible by the prior work of silent film theo-
rists in legitimizing filmmaking and film study. In particular, Arnheim’s
work is historically important for establishing a certain theoretical
approach to film, one involving close analysis of everything that makes
film a unique artistic medium. Since we are interested, not just in con-
firming the art status of photographically-based film, but confirming its
independent art status, this kind of medium-specific analysis is extremely
useful. It is not, however, the only valid theoretical approach to film
given that there are many continuities between film and other art forms.
We will become particularly aware of these continuities when we discuss
authorship and narration in Chapters 3 and 5, respectively.

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AESTHETICS AND FILM

Without medium-specific analysis, however, we might be stuck at the


view that individual films can be art when they successfully record art
but film per se cannot be art. On this view, film is not an independent art
form because the filming process does not contribute to the artistic value
of the final product. This brings our attention to the fact that film theo-
rists who want to defend the art status of film are up against two distinct
arguments, both of which involve the assumption that film cannot be
art if it is mere mechanical recording. On the first view, film is treated as
the mechanical recording of real life; on the second view, film is treated
as the mechanical recording of the established art of drama and is thus
‘canned theatre’. While Arnheim responds to the first view, contempo-
rary philosophers of film have tended to focus on the second view. This
is partly because the canned-theatre argument has been revisited by the
contemporary philosopher, Roger Scruton.
In his much-discussed essay, ‘Photography and Representation’, Scruton
argues that films are just photographs of more or less artistically valuable
dramatic representations.2 Films cannot be artistic representations them-
selves because photographs are not the kind of thing that can represent:
Their mechanical production blocks any artistic interpretation of what
is being photographed. The debate concerning the art status of film is
thus not merely of historical interest. Scruton’s contemporary challenge
reminds us that a proper understanding of film requires an examination
of the grounds for assuming, as most of us do, that film is an art. In other
words, Scruton reminds us that as philosophers we are committed to
uncovering and testing the most basic beliefs that inform our practices as
filmviewers, filmcritics and filmmakers.

SCRUTON: AGAINST FILM AS AN ART

Scruton’s refutation of film as an art form has three steps: First, he


assumes that the film medium is an inherently photographic medium.
Then he creates an argument against the possibility of photographs being
representational art. And finally, he extends this argument to film.
In order to assess Scruton’s argument against film art, therefore, we need
to assess his argument against photographic art; that is, unless we discover
that Scruton’s argument against photographic art cannot legitimately be
extended to film. A photograph that has not been manipulated in any way
records the appearance of its subject. But, Scruton insists, this does not

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FILM AS AN ART

mean that the photograph represents its subject. A painting of the very
same subject, on the other hand, does represent its subject. What’s the
difference?
To answer this question, we need to understand how Scruton’s account
of representation focuses on the relation, established in its production,
between an image and its subject. This relation determines the kind of
interest we can take in the image – whether aesthetic or merely instru-
mental. To take an aesthetic interest in a representational work of art is to
take an interest in how the work represents its subject. Scruton claims
that photographs fail to inspire this kind of interest; instead they only
inspire interest in what is represented, namely the subject itself. The pho-
tograph is therefore dispensable as a means to satisfy our curiosity about
the subject. What makes the difference here is the way an image is pro-
duced – whether through mechanical recording or through the intentional,
interpretive activity of a representational artist.
According to Scruton, a painting like the Mona Lisa is representa-
tional because it shows us how the artist saw the subject. The style of the
painting manifests da Vinci’s decisions about how to paint his subject
and makes the painting interesting whether or not the subject is also
interesting. Moreover, given that the painting is the product of artistic
intentions, the subject need not even have existed. Compare this to an
imaginary case of a photograph showing a woman dressed and made-up
to look like the subject of the Mona Lisa. Clearly this is neither a photo-
graph of a Renaissance gentlewoman nor a photograph of a non-existent
woman in the mind’s eye of the photographer. The photograph cannot be
either because the subject has to exist and be in front of the camera to be
photographed. It is not up to the photographer to create the subject and,
as a result, it is not up to the photographer to decide how the subject is
going to look in the photograph. Since the camera simply records how an
actual subject actually looked at a certain moment in time, the resulting
image has no aesthetic interest as an artist’s interpretation.
When we look at a painting, knowing that it is the product of inten-
tional activity, we assume that its perceptible details were chosen as part
of the style of the work and thus have meaning. In contrast, when we
look at a photograph, we assume that its details were not chosen. In fact,
if it is a true photograph, those details could not have been chosen: they
are just the result of the camera automatically recording all the details of
the subject itself. Scruton insists that it is precisely this alleged lack
of control over detail on the part of the photographer that prevents her

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AESTHETICS AND FILM

product from being representational art. Moreover, it is the same lack of


control in recording that prevents films from being representational art.
This is the point at which Scruton extends his argument from photogra-
phy to film:

A film is a photograph of a dramatic representation; it is not, because


it cannot be, a photographic representation. It follows that if there is
such a thing as a cinematic masterpiece it will be so because – like
Wild Strawberries and Le règle du jeu – it is in the first place a
dramatic masterpiece.3

Scruton goes further to suggest that it is not just that the film-recording
process is neutral in terms of its contribution to the dramatic success of
the final work, but that it actually makes a negative contribution: Again
due to a lack of control over the detail in film images, it is going to be
harder for a film audience to know how to interpret a recorded dramatic
scene than for a theatre audience to know how to interpret an analogous
scene on stage. Let’s say that we have a film scene and a stage scene of a
battle. Since the camera records everything in the scene – every splatter
of mud, every glint of steel – the film audience can be overwhelmed with
and distracted by a plethora of unorganized detail. In contrast, since the
staging of a battle in a play is stylized to allow for the foregrounding of
certain features of the landscape and certain actions, the theatre audience
is properly drawn to the dramatic locus of the scene.

RESPONDING TO SCRUTON

According to Scruton, since a photograph records rather than represents


its subject, it cannot support an aesthetic interest in how its subject is
shown. All it can support is an interest in the subject itself. A film is just
a series of photographs and thus also fails to represent. We cannot take
an aesthetic interest in how something is shown on film because how that
thing is shown is merely the result of a mechanical recording process and
not the result of creative artistic choices.
Given this line of argument, there are at least two strategies for
responding to Scruton’s claim against film:

1. Accept that Scruton’s argument against photography automatically


extends to film and then show that there are some photographs in
which we can take an aesthetic interest and which thereby qualify as
art in their own right.

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FILM AS AN ART

2. Leave unquestioned Scruton’s argument against photography and


instead question its extension to film.

The defence of photographic art involved in the first strategy is con-


vincingly made by William King in the appropriately titled, ‘Scruton and
Reasons for Looking at Photographs’.4 The second strategy involves
pointing to ways in which film is unlike photography, ways that suggest
the requisite creative control for representation. The most significant
way in which film is unlike photography is of course in being a sequence
of images that are combined in any way that the film artist wants through
editing.5 There are, however, a whole range of devices and conventions
that are distinctive to film and that can serve artistic purposes. These are
helpfully catalogued for us by Arnheim.
Before we turn back to Arnheim, however, let’s consider King’s
response to Scruton. Remember that Scruton takes it as evidence of the
inability of photographs to represent that the only reason we can have
for looking at them is to satisfy our curiosity about their subjects. This
way of thinking about photographs, King responds, can only be a result
of a lack of awareness or appreciation of the range of photographic tech-
niques and the consequent range of possibilities for artistic intervention
in the photographic process. If Scruton had actually considered real
examples of photographs and the way people talk about them, he would
have realized that there are many kinds of reason for looking at a photo-
graph. As well as curiosity about the subject, there are reasons having to
do with the evocative power of the image, its formal properties, and its
history of production. Most importantly, however, reasons for looking
at non-abstract ‘art photography’ invariably include an interest in the
manner of representation.
King gives us three compelling examples of photographs which
involve artistic interpretation: William Klein’s ‘Entrance to Beach, Ostia,
Italy, 1956’, Ansel Adams’s ‘Moon and Half Dome’, and Ralph Gibson’s
‘The Priest’. In each case, the photographer has effected an aesthetic
transformation of his subject such that the photograph has qualities that
the subject does not have. Moreover, this is done solely by photographic
means, including the use of different lenses and development methods.
Thus Klein distances and renders enigmatic an otherwise slightly threat-
ening group of young men by imposing a grainy ‘photographic’ texture
on the image. Adams lends a quality of unreality to a moon-lit landscape
by making objects appear larger and closer than normal. And Gibson
formalizes a human subject by framing only the very bottom of the
priest’s face and the top of his vestments in smooth, sharp contrast.6
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AESTHETICS AND FILM

With these examples, King implies that due to the complexity of the
photographic method, the photographer has just as many options for
presenting her subject as the painter. If photography can be art and film
is essentially photographic, then surely film can be art too. This is not
enough to show that film is its own art form, however. We need a sense
of the differences between the artistic resources of photography and film,
something that Arnheim indirectly supplies. But Arnheim only takes us
so far in accounting for the artistic claims of film. It is up to contempo-
rary scholars to complete the account by suggesting that film offers
more creative possibilities than almost any other art form, including
painting and drama.

ARNHEIM: THE LIMITATIONS OF FILM MAKE IT AN ART

Arnheim’s argument for photographically-based film as an art form has


two stages. First he catalogues all the medium-specific ways in which the
film image is different from perceived reality. Then he illustrates all the
ways in which these peculiarities of the film medium can be exploited for
artistic effect. Since Arnheim is working under the assumption that art
ought to be expressive, he urges filmmakers to use all aspects of the film
medium – from camera angles to editing – as expressively as possible.
As a result, what we end up with is a handbook of film techniques for
expression and the creation of meaning.
Arnheim is certainly not alone in thinking that film is an expressive
medium. What is distinctive about his view, besides its technical detail,
is the key assumption about the source of expression in film. According
to Arnheim, expression is possible when a film fails to record something
accurately. It is precisely in the limitations of film as a mechanical record-
ing device that possibilities for artistic interpretation emerge. It might
seem strange to want to affirm the art status of film in such a negative
way, and indeed, as we shall see, there are limits to Arnheim’s approach.
In focusing on the ways in which we fail to experience a film as real life,
Arnheim misses all the ways in which we experience a film as more
than real life. We’ll come to this idea later, however. First let’s see how
Arnheim responds to the claim that film cannot be art because it is mere
mechanical recording.
According to Arnheim, we see that film fails to record accurately in
all the discrepancies between perceived reality and the film image.

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FILM AS AN ART

These include: (1) a discrepancy in perceived depth; (2) a discrepancy in


the perceived size and shape of objects; (3) a discrepancy in the limits on
our range of view; and, (4) a discrepancy in the experience of the flow of
space and time.
The first discrepancy in perceived depth is the result of recording and
then projecting three-dimensional, real-life events (or performances)
onto the flat surfaces of film stock and screen. With the subsequent loss
of depth, the film image is experienced as something in between two
and three dimensions. Take the example of an aerial shot of two passing
trains. In the three-dimensional world represented on screen, the viewer
sees one train moving away from her and one towards her. But on the flat
screen she can also see the trains as moving towards the upper and lower
edges of the frame.7 Moreover, this second impression modifies the first
so that even in three dimensions there is a significant loss of perceived
depth. This is one way, according to Arnheim, in which ‘film is most
satisfactorily denuded of its realism’.8
With the loss of depth comes the loss of what Arnheim calls ‘constan-
cies of size and shape’ in our perceptual experience. In real life we
perceive an object moving away or towards us as remaining constant in
size even though the image of the object on our retina changes in size.
When we watch a film, on the other hand, an object moving towards the
camera appears to grow larger and one moving away from the camera
appears to grow smaller. Similarly with shape: in real life we perceive a
rectangular table as rectangular even though the image on our retina is
wider at the front than at the back. In a film, however, a rectangular table,
particularly one close to the camera, may appear wider at the front than
at the back.9 Of course Arnheim is not saying that you are unable to see
the rectangular table as rectangular on screen, just that this way of seeing
is not automatic.
While the limits of the flat screen contribute to a loss of perceived
depth in film, they also contribute to the loss of the full range of vision
that we have in everyday life. By moving our eyes and turning our heads,
we can see a continuous panorama of our surroundings. But when we
watch a film we cannot turn our heads to see beyond the frame. In this
way, Arnheim thinks we are reminded once again of the limitations of the
filmrecording medium.10
Perhaps the most profound discrepancy, however, between perceived
reality and the film image is a function of editing. In real life, we cannot
jump instantly to 5 minutes later or to 5 miles away. We have to pass
through all 5 minutes and cross all 5 miles. Not so in film. A scene at one

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AESTHETICS AND FILM

time and place may be immediately followed by a scene at a totally


different time and place. Arnheim suggests that it is the pictorial quality
of film that prevents the juxtaposition of scenes and shots from disturb-
ing or confusing the viewer: ‘One looks at [the juxtaposed scenes and
shots] as calmly as one would at a collection of picture postcards’.11
Once Arnheim has listed these and other discrepancies between per-
ceived reality and the film image, he moves onto the second stage of his
argument. At this stage, he uses a wide variety of examples to show how
the film artist can exploit the failings of film as a mechanical recording
device. Behind this project is a particular theory of art, one that can be
questioned independently of Arnheim’s film analysis. Ultimately, whether
Arnheim can succeed in defending the art status of film is going to depend
less on his brilliant catalogue of expressive film techniques and more on
the acceptability of his criteria for art status.
According to Arnheim, art ought to be expressive in order to serve a
definite purpose: By highlighting and consequently drawing our atten-
tion to those qualities of things that we would miss in a mechanical
recording, expressive art helps us to understand the true nature of things
and what they have in common. Now we can begin to see why Arnheim
spends so much time listing the failings of film as a recording device. If
film were entirely successful in recording exactly how things look,
then, as Scruton suggested, film would just give us what everyday expe-
rience gives us; namely, an undifferentiated, pragmatic, quantitative view
of the world. It is only when film fails to record accurately that expres-
sive patterns can emerge. The world is interpreted for us on film and
given meaning.12 Thus Arnheim urges the film artist not to accept ‘shape-
less reproduction’, but to ‘stress the peculiarities of his medium’ in a way
that ‘the objects represented should not thereby be destroyed but rather
strengthened, concentrated, interpreted’.13
For each of the discrepancies between the film image and perceived
reality, Arnheim provides various examples of their expressive potential.
Take the loss of depth in the film image and the resulting loss of con-
stancy in the perceived size and shape of objects on screen: Arnheim
suggests low-angle shots gain their expressive power as a result of these
discrepancies. A close-up, low-angle shot of a police officer communi-
cates forcefulness because the police officer appears to tower above us
with a huge body and a small head.14 This distortion that makes the shot
expressive is due entirely to the flattening out of the image and our literal
interpretation of its distorted proportions. Moreover, the same conditions
of distortion can be used to suggest the relative importance of characters

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FILM AS AN ART

on screen. If one character is significantly closer to the camera than


another, the first character appears to dwarf the second, both physically
and psychically.15
The viewer’s loss of an unlimited view due to the framing of the shot
has many expressive functions, one of which is the creation of suspense.
For example, it is a convention in horror films to show a monster’s next
victim on screen and leave, at least temporarily, the monster off screen.
The frame prevents the viewer from doing what he would normally do;
namely, turning his head to get a look at what is making the victim
scream. Instead the viewer must imagine the horrors faced by the victim
while anxiously awaiting the revelation of the monster.16
The final discrepancy mentioned above concerning the continuity of
space and time is perhaps the one richest in expressive potential. As we
have seen, Arnheim points to the way editing, as an essential component
of the film medium, subverts mechanical recording by changing the way
we perceive the passage of time and the unity of space. Through editing,
messages can be conveyed, associations and oppositions created. Rapid
cutting can give a sense of frenetic activity or confusion; slow cutting
can give a sense of lingering nostalgia. Once one considers both the
expressive potential of individual shots and the expressive potential of
their combination, the artistic possibilities are practically limitless.17
Arnheim’s work provides a fascinating account of the technical means
to expression in silent film. It has its problems, however. Although we
have not explored this here, Arnheim’s arguments for why art should be
expressive, what purpose artistic expression serves, and what it is for
works of art to be expressive are plagued by ambiguity and inconsis-
tency.18 More relevant for us, however, is the restrictedness of his strategy
for defending the art status of film. As we have seen, Arnheim locates the
expressive potential of the film medium in discrepancies between the
film image and perceived reality. This means that innovations for achi-
eving greater realism in film merely reduce the chances of making film
art. One such innovation is, of course, sound, which Arnheim flatly con-
demns. In fact, for several decades after the transition from silent to
sound film, Arnheim continued to insist on the degeneracy of sound
film. To think the opposite, that the introduction of sound is an improve-
ment, ‘is just as senseless as if the invention of three-dimensional oil
painting were hailed as an advance on the hitherto known principles of
painting’.19
Clearly something has gone wrong if Arnheim’s approach requires us
to denounce every sound film as artistically compromised. The historical

11
AESTHETICS AND FILM

explanation is of course that Arnheim was working against the assump-


tion that film cannot be art because it is mere mechanical recording. Thus
what he needed to emphasize were all the ways in which film fails to
accurately reproduce reality. But to think only in terms of the limitations
of film as a recording device is to miss the extra capacities of film as a
representational art form. Instead of thinking of the introduction of sound
as taking away from the expressive potential of the film medium, one can
think of it as adding to the resources of the film-maker; giving her even
more choices for how to tell a story, convey meaning and evoke emo-
tions. Thinking about the sheer diversity of artistic resources available to
the film-maker has led some contemporary philosophers to propose
different kinds of argument for the independent art status of film. One
such argument is made by Alexander Sesonske in a series of articles that
focus on our unique experience of film.20 There is much to remind us of
Arnheim in Sesonske’s work but whereas Arnheim distinguished film art
technically, Sesonske distinguishes film art formally.

A CONTEMPORARY VIEW:
THE EXTRA CAPACITIES OF FILM MAKE IT AN ART

By the time that Sesonske is writing about film in the 1970s and 80s, the
artistic possibilities of the medium have been widely acknowledged such
that there is little danger of film being dismissed as mere mechanical
recording. However, since new film media are also available by this time,
questions arise about the advisability of relying on medium-specific
arguments for film art. This could explain why Sesonke’s account is
formally rather than technically based – whether a film is shown on video
or celluloid, many of its formal qualities will be the same. Moreover, film
may no longer be dismissed as mere mechanical recording but that does
not mean it has secured independent art status. In fact, as Sesonske
describes, the tendency among filmmakers, film critics and film viewers
is always to think of film in terms of some other established art form – for
example, as visual poetry or recorded drama. The task for Sesonske is
thus to find a way to understand and appreciate film on its own terms – in
other words, to create an aesthetics of film. But where to begin?
The first step, according to Sesonske, in creating the aesthetics of any
art form is an articulation of the range of formal possibilities inherent in
the medium (or, perhaps, media).21 Thus we can say that the defining
formal dimensions of film are space, time and motion. Sound is important

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FILM AS AN ART

but not essential, since a film can be complete without sound. Film shares
space with painting, sculpture and architecture, time with music, and
motion with dance. You might think that film shares all its formal catego-
ries with drama. But space, time and motion are only integral to dramatic
performance and not to the dramatic work itself, which is defined in
terms of character and action.22 Despite this distinction, however, the
formal overlap between film and practically every other art form partly
explains the tendency to think of it as a derivative art. But Sesonske
insists that this is the wrong way of thinking. For every art form that has
a formal category in common with another art form there are a unique
range of formal possibilities within that category. Thus what film can
do with space, time, and motion – how it represents them for us to expe-
rience23 – is completely new. According to Sesonske, ‘[w]hen we view a
film our experience of space, time, and motion differs from any other
context of our lives’.24
Sesonske continues by arguing that the space and time we experi-
ence in film have a unique duality. Like the space of paintings, film
space has a two-dimensional surface (of moving colours and forms) and
a three-dimensional represented depth. But unlike painting-space the
three-dimensional space of film is an ‘action-space’ in which motion can
occur. This action-space is discontinuous both with real-life ‘natural’
space and with itself. We can have the sense of moving through a film’s
action-space while remaining in our seats in the Cinema. And both our-
selves and the characters (though not usually in the fiction) can jump
instantaneously from one location to another.
As well, however, we can jump from one point of time to another,
thus indicating the parallel discontinuity of filmtime. While there is a
particular length of time it takes to watch a film, there is also a particular
length of time in which the events depicted on screen occur. The ‘dra-
matic time’ of represented events is more highly controlled than in any
other art form, including literature: A prehistoric scene in a film can be
immediately followed by a contemporary scene, or a segment of time in
a continuous event can simply be cut out. This control is such that we
may even experience a change in the form of time. For example, a freeze
frame may be experienced, not merely as interrupted motion, but as
though, in the world of the film, time itself has stopped.25
Despite these peculiarities, space and time in film do not feel that
different to us. We may feel like we have seen an entire event even when
only its highlights are shown on screen and, as Arnheim points out, we
accept jumps in location as calmly as though we were turning the pages

13
AESTHETICS AND FILM

of a picture book. Indeed, it is often the sign of a good film that we fail
to notice its unique treatment of space and time. Motion in film, however,
is a different matter. Sesonske thinks that the way that motion in film
is framed, edited and highlighted by camera angulation is hard to miss.
The frame created by the screen gives motion a direction and magnitude
that it lacks in real life; editing can give motion a new and aesthetically
significant rhythm; and, camerawork can lend expressive force to even
the tiniest movement. Moreover, given the discontinuity of film space,
our relation to perceived motion in film has tremendous range: One
moment we can see a movement on the distant horizon and in the next
moment we can be engulfed and swept along by it through the world of
the film.26 If we think of a film like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
(2000) with its swooping camerawork, it is easy to appreciate Sesonske’s
point here.
Thus Sesonske concludes with the following remark:

In each of these formal categories, space, time, and motion, the


modes that can be realized in cinema are unique to cinema. And
though it is sometimes suggested that cinema must be inferior as an
art because of its dependence on mechanical devices, we might note
here that the creative possibilities in film are at least as great as in
any art. As in literature, the whole of the world of the work is to be
created, not only the characters and their actions but the very forms
of space and time in which they act.27

CONCLUSIONS

The challenge in this chapter has been to show that despite what Seson-
ske describes as a ‘dependence on mechanical devices,’ film counts as an
art form in its own right. It is not enough to show that film can incorpo-
rate aspects of traditional art forms, aspects like dramatization and
painterly composition. Rather, it must be shown that film has its own
methods for creating a world on screen for the viewer to enter in imagi-
nation.
Here is what we have covered in this chapter:

1. Scruton’s sophisticated version of the ‘canned-theatre’ argument


against film as an art form.
2. Two kinds of response to this argument; one which starts with King’s
defence of the art status of photography as the basis of film, and one

14
FILM AS AN ART

which draws upon Arnheim’s detailed account of creative uses of the


film medium.
3. Sesonske’s further argument for film as an art form in terms of the
formal possibilities inherent in its media.

Sesonke’s argument shows us that we do not need to limit our atten-


tion to the traditional medium of film in order to uphold the art status of
film. It is also worth noting that skeptical arguments like Scruton’s which
assume that film is at best a photograph of a dramatic representation can-
not even get off the ground with films involving computer-generated
imagery (CGI). When filmmakers employ CGI, they are not recording
anything but instead doing something akin to painting. Indeed, CGI
is most commonly used to depict scenes and entities that could not
be recorded simply because they are fantastical or at least wholly fic-
tional – for example, Aslan in Narnia or Gollum in Middle Earth. Even
though CGI is usually used to create the illusion of reality – as though
Aslan is part of the ‘real’ world caught on film, it still gives the film-
maker complete freedom over what to represent and how to represent it.
Presumably, then, we can take an aesthetic interest in CGI. The skeptic
might want to claim that films involving CGI are not really films. But
since ordinary viewers and critics consider them to be films, this move
reduces the skeptic’s argument to an anachronistic and mainly verbal
dispute about an early phase of filmmaking.28

15

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