Visual Communication

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1 FILM LANGUAGE AS A SYSTEM OF VISUAL COMMUNICATION Across the open door of my office, I can see the editing equipment we have been using for several weeks in putting together our last film. From my desk I can partially see the small screen of the editing machine. Now it is only a white rectangular spot—lifeless, just a piece of coated glass. On a sudden impulse I rise and walk into that room. I stop at the door and survey it in a way I have never done before. The objects are familiar^-the cans of film, the bins full of strips of celluloid, the scissors, the splicing machine. On small hooks hang numerous strips of film, some of only a few frames length, other of countless feet unreeling loosely into the bins. I select one of the strips of film at random and thread it into the moviola. 1 pull some switches and the strip of film starts to move. On the small screen suddenly an image appears. We are inside a church, large, modern, ascetic. A girl, young and innocent, walks towards us. We follow her until another figure appears on the screen. It is an actor dressed in a dark spacesuit and wearing a strange and brilliant helmet. We only catch a glimpse of the lone glass eye on the projecting front of his helmet and there the shot ends. The small screen becomes blank again with only a flickering light shining beneath the glass. What I have seen is just a fragment of a photographed reality. A reality that was carefully arranged and rehearsed in front of a movie camera. A similar process was registered on the other strips of film. Here, reality is broken down into little frames and here in the cutting room I stand, thinking about this aspect of my craft. Those pieces of film were selected by me, recorded on film by a photographer, immersed in chemicals in a laboratory until the images were clearly visible and fixed on the celluloid base. And 1

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Visual Communication

Transcript of Visual Communication

Page 1: Visual Communication

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FILM LANGUAGE AS A SYSTEM OF VISUAL COMMUNICATION

Across the open door o f my office, I can see the editing equipm ent

we have been using for several weeks in putting together our last

film. From my desk I can partially see the small screen o f the

editing machine. N ow it is only a white rectangular spo t—lifeless,

just a piece o f coated glass. On a sudden impulse I rise and walk

into that room . I stop a t the door and survey it in a way I have

never done before. The objects are fam iliar^-the cans o f film, the

bins full o f strips o f celluloid, the scissors, the splicing machine.

On small hooks hang num erous strips o f film, some o f only a

few frames length, o ther o f countless feet unreeling loosely into the

bins.

I select one o f the strips o f film a t random and thread it into

the moviola. 1 pull some switches and the strip o f film starts to

move. On the small screen suddenly an image appears. We are

inside a church, large, m odern, ascetic. A girl, young and innocent,

walks tow ards us. We follow her until another figure appears on

the screen. It is an actor dressed in a dark spacesuit and wearing

a strange and brilliant helmet. We only catch a glimpse o f the

lone glass eye on the projecting front o f his helmet and there the

shot ends. The small screen becomes blank again with only a

flickering light shining beneath the glass.

W hat I have seen is ju s t a fragm ent o f a photographed

reality. A reality that was carefully arranged and rehearsed in front

o f a movie camera. A sim ilar process was registered on the other

strips o f film. Here, reality is broken down into little frames and

here in the cutting room I stand, thinking abou t this aspect o f my

craft.

Those pieces o f film were selected by me, recorded on film by a

photographer, immersed in chemicals in a laboratory until the

images were clearly visible and fixed on the celluloid base. And

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