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Cinema’s ability to defy ordinary limits of time and space means that a film’s structure can be as complex as an architectural space, with various angles of entry and points of view, hidden rooms, and twisting, turning passageways. Some films are labyrinths in which the viewer searches for resolution, a way out, while other films are like big, empty rooms in which everything is visible. The viewer enters through the front door, looks and listens for a while, and then exits through the back door, often promptly forgetting whatever he or she has experienced. Rhythm, what some filmmakers refer to as a film’s music, greatly influences a film’s structure, and vice versa. Rhythm gives flow to a film that can carry the viewer throughout, even when the film’s structure is labyrinthine, dispensing with exposition and neat resolutions and creating an apparent discontinuity in order to invite viewers to enter the film and fill in from their own experiences whatever is “missing.” Together, structure and rhythm contribute to a film’s meaning, emotion, and fluidity. A film’s structure and rhythm can be written into the script and/or come from many elements within shots—machinery, animals, the movement and language of humans, passing shadows, light flashing through objects, and diegetic music, that is, music present in the scene, such as when a character listens to a car radio. A film can also draw rhythms from nondiegetic music on the sound track or from the natural tempos of the culture in which the film is set. Of course, a film’s rhythms often emerge from the continuity (or discontinuity) of the scenes and sequences that constitute the story. The rushes, the daily shots, are usually out of 4 79 Cinematic Rhythm and Structure CINEMA TODAY 80 sequence due to shooting schedules organized by location rather than by story sequence, although some filmmakers prefer shooting in sequence so that cast and crew can develop a keener sense of the story. In any case, the film often takes on a certain rhythm from the continuity (or discontinuity, if that is the desired effect) and the lengths of various shots as the filmmaker works with the rushes during the edit. Most filmmakers agree that, as a powerful yet ineffable cinematic element, rhythm is more a matter of instinct than intellect, so a filmmaker often finds his or her way to a film’s rhythms intuitively. Some contemporary movies are influenced by the kinetic pace and busy structures of music videos and television commercials, with their short takes and many sharp edits. Shooting commercials and music videos teaches filmmakers and viewers a kind of cinematic shorthand—how to say something quickly and vividly and sell a product or a story in fifteen seconds or so—an experience that can sharpen directors and audiences. However, when that style is used in a limited way—for example, just to tell the story and ensure audience attention—the result is a superficial film that might as well be a commercial advertisement. The filmmakers here rely on the more subtle agency of a film’s rhythms, knowing that if the rhythms of a film coalesce and work with its entire expressive complex, viewers can be launched straight into the messy life of a film’s subject and become involved, even if they enter in the middle of the narrative or if they are confronted with the element of unreality in a fantasy film. They will follow along, again injecting personal experiences that echo the filmic experience in order to help themselves identify more with the characters. Finding a film’s true rhythms is so crucial that, for many filmmakers, it really means that they’ve arrived at the final edit. Lance Hammer Everything about Ballast (2008) was subservient to conveying accurately the feeling of being in the Delta. The pace of the Deep South is different from the pace in cities. The rhythms are slow and people have time, so I wanted the rhythms of the editing to reflect that. It’s funny because there is a lot of jump-cutting in Ballast, but I was trying to make that seem not frenetic, so the jump cuts occur within an entire piece that is languid. Breaking the Waves (Lars von Trier, 1996) changed my life because I realized what is allowable in film language, what people would accept, [3.145.60.149] Project MUSE (2024-04-19 19:23 GMT...

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