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Walter Benjamin (1892-1940)
The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical
Reproduction
IX
For the film, what matters primarily is that
the actor represents himself to the public before the camera, rather than
representing someone else. One of the first to sense the actor's metamorphosis
by this form of testing was Pirandello. Though his remarks on the subject
in his novel Si Gira were limited to the negative aspects of the
question and to the silent film only, this hardly impairs their validity.
For in this respect, the sound film did not change anything essential.
What matters is that the part is acted not for an audience but for a mechanical
contrivance - in the case of the sound film, for two of them. 'The film
actor,' wrote Pirandello, 'feels as if in exile - exiled not only from
the stage but also from himself. With a vague sense of discomfort he feels
inexplicable emptiness: his body loses its corporeality, it evaporates,
it is deprived of reality, life, voice, and the noises caused by his moving
about, in order to be changed into a mute image, flickering an instant
on the screen, then vanishing into silence... The projector will play with
his shadow before the public, and he himself must be content to play before
the camera.' This situation might also be characterized as follows: for
the first time - and this is the effect of the film - man has to operate
with his whole living person, yet forgoing its aura. For aura is tied to
his presence; there can be no replica of it. The aura which, on the stage,
emanates from Macbeth, cannot be separated for the spectators from that
of the actor. However, the singularity of the shot in the studio is that
the camera is substituted for the public. Consequently, the aura that envelops
the actor vanishes, and with it the aura of the figure he portrays.
It is not surprising that it should be a dramatist
such as Pirandello who, in characterizing the film, inadvertently touches
on the very crisis in which we see the theatre. Any thorough study proves
that there is indeed no greater contrast than that of the stage play to
a work of art that is completely subject to or, like the film, founded
in, mechanical reproduction. Experts have long recognized that in the film
'the greatest effects are almost always obtained by 'acting' as little
as possible...' In 1932 Rudolf Arnheim saw 'the latest trend... in treating
the actor as a stage prop chosen for its characteristics and... inserted
at the proper place.' With this idea something else is closely connected.
The stage actor identifies himself with the character of his role. The
film actor very often is denied this opportunity. His creation is by no
means all of a piece; it is composed of many separate performances. Besides
certain fortuitous considerations, such as cost of studio, availability
of fellow players, décor, etc., there are elementary necessities
of equipment that split the actor's work into a series of mountable episodes.
In particular, lighting and its installation require the presentation of
an event that, on the screen, unfolds as a rapid and unified scene, in
a sequence of separate shootings which may take hours at the studio; not
to mention more obvious montage. Thus a jump from the window can be shot
in the studio as a jump from a scaffold, and the ensuing flight, if need
be, can be shot weeks later when outdoor scenes are taken. Far more paradoxical
cases can easily be construed. Let us assume that an actor is supposed
to be startled by a knock at the door. If his reaction is not satisfactory,
the director can resort to an expedient: when the actor happens to be at
the studio again he has a shot fired behind him without his being forewarned
of it. The frightened reaction can be shot now and be cut into the screen
version. Nothing more strikingly shows that art has left the realm of the
'beautiful semblance' which, so far, had been taken to be the only sphere
where art could thrive. |