The Art of the Cinematographer Read online

  As with every great film, THE LAST LAUGH was the result of a collaboration of artists. The producer was Erich Pommer, who distinguished himself early in his career as a creative administrator, and who cared as much for aesthetic values as he did for the business of making a movie. The director was Murnau, one of the most visually oriented of all directors, who knew the full potential of the film medium. The scenarist was Carl Mayer, whom Freund called “the only 100 percent screenwriter I’ve ever known.” And the star of the film was Emil Jannings, an outstanding actor who amassed a gallery of unforgettable performances over the years.

  A production still from METROPOLIS, with Freund, wearing a white overcoat, barely visible in the upper right-hand corner. The actor at the lower left is Rudolf Klein-Rogge.

  Like his colleagues, Freund was not a flash-in-the-pan, and THE LAST LAUGH was but one of his notable achievements. He went on to photograph VARIETY (1925), another classic, directed by E. A. Dupont, again a basically simple story of human relations set against the backdrop of a circus. First-person photography, moving camera, dramatic lighting, and meticulous composition were once again used to their full advantage, with such famous scenes as the one where Freund mounted his camera on a trapeze. With director Fritz Lang, Freund helped make METROPOLIS (1926) a filmmaking landmark. This futuristic film, made on a tremendous scale, involved more special effects than any of Freund’s previous endeavors; needless to say, they were carried off beautifully.

  After a dazzling decade in Germany, highlighted by many technical achievements, Freund was brought to America, first as a cameraman and then as director. In the former capacity his early talkie work in the 1930s included such notable films as DRACULA, John Ford’s AIR MAIL, and the dazzling James Whale melodrama THE KISS BEFORE THE MIRROR. As director, Freund distinguished himself with THE MUMMY, one of the all-time great horror films, and MAD LOVE, a remake of the German classic THE HANDS OF ORLAC which, although largely ignored, ranks alongside the accepted horror classics of the 1930s. In 1936, he returned to cinematography, and was put under contract by MGM, where he photographed CAMILLE, with Greta Garbo, THE GOOD EARTH, a brilliantly detailed production which won Freund an Academy Award, and BLOSSOMS IN THE DUST, a fine example of three-color Technicolor at the height of its powers.

  Freund, at the left, filming THE GOOD EARTH (1937), for which he won an Academy Award. Director Sidney Franklin is seated in front of the camera; the actors are Charley Grapewin and Paul Muni. Note the spotlight positioned outside the window to produce a back-lighting effect.

  After prolific work at MGM, Universal, and Warner Brothers into the early 1950s, Freund was one of the first major cameramen to venture into the field of television. He was director of photography for I LOVE LUCY, and subsequently supervised the filming of all shows at the Desilu studio. His approach to television filming is one of the factors that keeps I LOVE LUCY a fresh experience even in the 1970s.

  By 1959 Freund was tired of television work, and he retired from cinematography, although his interest in the art and science of photography was as keen in his final years as it was when he first entered the field. He died in 1970 at the age of eighty; his contribution to the film art cannot be exaggerated.

  In Hollywood, cinematography was at its zenith in the 1920s. Typical examples of outstanding work were seen in WHITE GOLD (Lucien Andriot), THE SON OF THE SHEIK (George Barnes), THE PONY EXPRESS (Karl Brown), THE GREAT K & A TRAIN ROBBERY (one of scores of Westerns shot by Dan Clark), FLESH AND THE DEVIL (William Daniels), WHITE SHADOWS IN THE SOUTH SEAS (Clyde DeVinna), THE THIEF OF BAGDAD (Arthur Edeson), ORCHIDS AND ERMINE (George Folsey), UNDERWORLD (Bert Glennon), DON JUAN (Byron Haskins), THE KING OF KINGS (J. Peverell Marley), THE MERRY WIDOW (Oliver T. Marsh), WHAT PRICE GLORY (Barney McGill), THE VOLGA BOATMAN (Arthur Miller and J. Peverell Marley) THE WEDDING MARCH (Ben Reynolds and Hal Mohr), SEVENTH HEAVEN (Ernest Palmer), WINGS (Harry Perry), SUNRISE (Charles Rosher and Karl Struss), THE DOCKS OF NEW YORK (Hal Rosson), LA BOHÈME (Hendrik Sartov), THREE BAD MEN (George Schneiderman), THE PATSY (John Seitz), SPARROWS (Karl Struss, Charles Rosher, and Hal Mohr), THE MAN WHO LAUGHS (Gilbert Warrenton), plus untold other films shot by other leading cameramen of the day, such as Edward Cronjager, Lee Garmes, Harry Fishbeck, Ray June, and Alvin Wyckoff.

  One reason for this pinnacle of pictorial beauty in Hollywood films was the European boom during the 1920s. Many home-grown filmmakers were put to shame by such imports as Karl Freund’s German films, and other examples of European cinema. Hollywood’s first reaction was to hire as many of the foreign filmmakers as possible, and indeed, there was a mass exodus to Hollywood in the late 1920s, including the aforementioned Freund, Murnau, Lubitsch, Alexander Korda, etc. But in addition to having these masters in America to produce new pictures, the foreign invasion spurred many domestic filmmakers (often by “request” of studio heads) to improve their own product, imbue it with the continental touch that audiences seemed to be enjoying so much. The competitive spirit asserted itself and was in large part responsible for Hollywood’s own pictorial golden age.

  Then came sound. It is difficult to envision the mass hysteria that Hollywood experienced when the success of Al Jolson in THE JAZZ SINGER made it clear that if the studios wanted to stay in business, they would have to make talkies. It was almost as if the movies were being reborn from the audience’s point of view, for over the next two years, seemingly all previous criteria for judging or enjoying a movie went out the window. All that mattered was sound.

  And so it was, for the most part, with cameramen. From the relaxed camaraderie that the best cameramen enjoyed on the set with top directors at the major studios, the “sound stage” became a hotbed of tension, with everyone trying to prove himself capable in the new medium. Directors, stars, and writers who were enjoying tremendous success in silent films suddenly found their heads on the chopping block. Even cameramen suffered, the most famous case being that of James Wong Howe, who chose this inopportune time to take a vacation to the Orient. He had been very successful in silents, but upon his return he couldn’t get a job. Studios insisted that he didn’t know talkie technique, and therefore wouldn’t hire him. It took several years for Howe to regain this lost ground.

  Hal Mohr’s interview in this book best captures the situation the cameraman faced in the early talkie era. But while it is true that sound technicians were most despotic during this time, one should not fall for the legend that every early talkie was filmed like a stage play, with a stationary camera and stilted, awkward techniques. Some filmmakers did understand sound and realized immediately that it was merely an addition to the medium they had already mastered.

  An elaborate set-up for an apparently simple scene in GOLDEN BOY (1939) with William Holden, Adolphe Menjou, and Barbara Stanwyck. Director Rouben Mamoulian is standing to the left of the camera, and Freund is signaling to his crew from in front of the spotlight.

  One need only go to the field of comedy, again, for an easy example. Laurel and Hardy, the consummate clowns of the late 1920s, had a few awkward efforts at the outset of sound, but by June of 1929 they showed, in MEN O’WAR, how easily they could adapt to talking pictures, without sacrificing cinematic know-how or eliminating visual humor.

  SUNNY SIDE UP (1929), directed by David Butler and photographed by Ernest Palmer and John Schmitz, opens with a five-minute crane shot that examines every square inch of a tenement block, roaming up and down the street, into windows and along the sidewalk. WOMAN TRAP (1929), directed by William Wellman and photographed by Henry Gerrard, features an impressive tracking shot down a hospital corridor, during which the microphone picks up snatches of conversations as it passes people in the doorways. THE BIG TRAIL (1930), directed by Raoul Walsh and photographed by Arthur Edeson, is one of the best outdoor epics ever filmed, and, but for one obvious glass shot representing a sunset, the photography is sparkling.

  One device used in early talkies that makes for great annoyance today was the use of silent footage whenever pos
sible. Sometimes the simplest scenes would be shot silent, in order to save time, money, and trouble in setting up sound equipment. One almost wonders if a microphone was present more than a few days when Roland West directed his famous film ALIBI (1929), photographed by Ray June. Presumably, 1929 audiences didn’t notice that most of the sound was post-dubbed, and that much of the action took place in long-shot in order to enable this process to go “unnoticed.” But today it is disconcerting to watch important scenes, such as those in the speakeasy, and see the obvious lack of care in matching the sound to the previously filmed action.

  On the other hand, some early talkies used silent footage so deftly one hardly notices it. An example is the musical SWEETIE (1929), directed by Frank Tuttle and photographed by Alfred Gilks. This breezy little musical takes place on a college campus, and most of the exterior establishing shots are silent (one sure way to tell, of course, is that the action is much faster in silent footage, it having been shot slower than sound-film speed). But these shots are shown so briefly, and overdubbed so well, that they blend into the talkie footage perfectly.

  Shooting the first “all-talking” feature film, LIGHTS OF NEW YORK (1928).

  Rehearsing a shot for MGM’s BROADWAY MELODY (1929): note the hanging microphones. Star Charles King is between the musicians, gazing at director Harry Beaumont. James Gleason, co-author of the dialogue, is leaning on the piano, which is being played by composer Nacio Herb Brown. The actor with his thumbs under his vest is Jed Prouty.

  Many filmmakers did not learn, however. Some films were shot like stage plays (with acting to match), and some directors continued to use silent footage well into the 1930s. One of the key scenes in William Dieterle’s excellent THE LAST FLIGHT (1931), in which Johnny Mack Brown is killed during a bullfight, is rendered ludicrous by the obvious insertion of silent footage—moving so fast that the scene seems more comical than tragic.

  It is nothing short of tragic that Hollywood lost the very brilliance it had sought to achieve for so long in one fell swoop. A handful of creative artists continued to shine during the transitional period of the talkies, but not until the early 1930s did the cameraman regain his former stature, and begin to take up where he had left off in 1929.

  One filmmaking artist who first came to prominence at the beginning of the decade was Slavko Vorkapich, whose first film of note was THE LIFE AND DEATH OF A HOLLYWOOD EXTRA (1928), described by the Museum of Modern Art as one of the first American expressionist films. Written and directed by Robert Florey, with close-ups by Gregg Toland, it was designed, photographed, and edited by Vorkapich. The whole film was made for $99 in Florey’s kitchen, Toland’s garage, and other such exotic locales. It remains an avant-garde classic today, and it is safe to conjecture that its reception was the springboard for Vorkapich’s unusual career.

  Born in Yugoslavia in 1898, he was educated in Budapest and Belgrade. As a young man he traveled to Paris, and then New York, where he worked as a commercial artist. He moved again, to the West Coast, and in 1922 secured a job designing the sets for Rex Ingram’s THE PRISONER OF ZENDA. From that time on he remained in Hollywood, making portraits, short subjects, and doing special work for Paramount. In 1930 he signed a contract with RKO, where he stayed for four years, making the credit line “Montage effects by Slavko Vorkapich” a familiar slogan to astute film-goers.

  One of Vorkapich’s earliest film assignments was a very ordinary soap opera called NO OTHER WOMAN (1933), starring Irene Dunne and Charles Bickford. What placed it out of the ordinary was Vorkapich’s work: a surreal composite of newspaper headlines when Bickford is sent to prison, an impressionistic sequence depicting his two years in prison within a minute’s time, etc. Elements of the avant-garde, filmed with a great sense of pictorial beauty, hallmarked Vorkapich’s montage work.

  A Vitaphone sound stage of the early 1930s, complete with soundproof “ice boxes” for the cameras.

  In 1934 he produced one of his most brilliant pieces of film, the prologue to Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur’s CRIME WITHOUT PASSION. Hecht wrote, years later, “There was also a brooding fellow named Vorkapich [on the film] whom we had hired through a misunderstanding. We had thought he was a movie cutter. It developed he was a montage expert. Not wanting to waste Vorky’s talents and paychecks, Charlie and I wrote a montage prologue for our movie. Vorky put together four handsome minutes of Furies flying through the canyons of New York.” It is an eye-popping opening for the film.

  By the late-1930s, Vorkapich was on call quite often at MGM. His opening sequence for THE SHOPWORN ANGEL (1938) summarizes the varied aspects of World War One—almost a mini-documentary—within a few short minutes. His impressionistic depiction of love, introduced by Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald’s spree at an ethereally lovely springtime fair in MAYTIME (1937), is one of the most beautiful sequences ever filmed, framed by a large bouquet of white flowers against a stark black background, with an invisible hand tying them up with a ribbon.

  Vorkapich continued to free-lance, as well as to make his own experimental films, for many years. During World War Two he directed a number of short subjects. He also pioneered another field, that of film instruction, at the University of Southern California, and later at the Museum of Modern Art. One of his students was Conrad Hall, who talks about Vorkapich’s influence in his interview in this book.

  Several other men chose another specialty during the 1930s: process-screen work, or as it is sometimes called, rear projection. In the early days of filmmaking, virtually all special effects were done in the camera with special mattes, multiple exposure, and other tricks of the trade. By the 1920s, the “matte shot,” in which a character is superimposed against another background by special work in the laboratory, came into use. The device was used sparingly, however; most filmmakers preferred to keep their films as realistic as possible (a notable exception was Cecil B. DeMille, who used matte shots as early as 1922 in MANSLAUGHTER, and later became one of the prime culprits when it came to bad optical effects). In the early 1930s, however, another device was introduced: the process screen. This enables a character to stand in front of a screen on a sound stage and appear to be anywhere in the world—with the background projected on the screen behind him. This observer does not pretend to understand the technical workings of this device, but one thing is certain: there is good process work, and there is bad. When it is good, it serves a definite function, saving a filmmaker the trouble and expense of going out on location with an entire company. When it is bad, it betrays the essence of the motion picture and is a discredit to the filmmakers who expect their audience to believe the story they are telling.

  Lionel Barrymore and John Arnold with Arnold’s patented soundproof camera, which Barrymore used when he directed MADAME X and THE UNHOLY NIGHT at MGM in 1929.

  The telltale signs of process work are easy to spot: the background is not as brightly lit as the characters in the foreground. The background may be grainy or fuzzy. The proportions of the characters in the foreground may not match that of the objects in the background. Fox’s Will Rogers vehicle MR. SKITCH (1933) was supposed to have Rogers and family traveling west, yet it was clear they never stepped out of the studio to make the film. This is true of many pictures, but one becomes painfully aware of the phoniness when Rogers and Charles Starrett, the leading man, are supposed to be walking through Grand Canyon National Park. They are walking on a treadmill, well-lit, sharply focused in the foreground, as the sights of Grand Canyon, in gray contrast, pass behind them, out of proportion and just a little too fast. Rogers’ STATE FAIR (1933) also had a lot of process work, but cameraman Hal Mohr explains in his interview how they tried to work around it. For a good example of process work, see THE CLOCK (1945), another example of a film shot entirely in a studio, even though it takes place in New York City.

  The master of process-screen photography is Farciot Edouart. A career choice came rather naturally to the young man born in California; his father was a portrait photographer, and th
e youngster was exposed to the magic of photography early in life. In 1915, he became an assistant cameraman at Realart Studios in Hollywood. When the United States joined World War One, he enlisted in the Signal Corps, but through red tape was not assigned for photographic work. Instead, he ended up taking the Corps’ cinematography course at Columbia University. He was so good that after graduation he was asked to stay on as an instructor. After a stint as teacher, he went on to Europe for active duty, both during and after the war. By 1921, he was settled again in Hollywood. He joined Paramount Pictures, where he spent most of his career. At first he made “glass shots,” paintings of set extensions on optical glass which, when positioned in front of a camera, would make the set seem like more than it was. From there he progressed to the complicated “blue-backing” process. This was essentially the matte-work system of the 1920s, an incredibly exacting method of placing actors in a studio against an artificial background and making it look real. But it was Edouart’s training ground, and when in 1930 the process screen was introduced, he adopted it immediately, and became one of its chief practitioners in Hollywood (his closest peer was Vernon L. Walker, another fine technician whose home base was RKO). Edouart’s official title was Head of Paramount’s Transparency Department. The more general title of Special Photographic Effects went to Gordon L. Jennings, whose equally outstanding work encompassed miniatures and other such production details.