Animation Notes.

While animation might be the most open of time-based media forms, I also found it to be the most challenging. I found it to be this way because of both the freedom I was afforded and my incapability with using Flash.

It is an exciting form, for sure, because I could blend real life photographs with animated vector-based figures that I created. This allowed for a larger canvas for me to work from to express certain ideas and depict certain images I would not be able to in a basic straight-up filmmaking assignment (like the last one we did).

I believe that my project was too ambitious for its own good, and I was not able to achieve everything I wanted to. Using and adapting the imagery and tone from a poem was incredibly difficult, and I surely did not want to misrepresent one of my favorite literary artists of the twentieth century.

All of this ambition was crushed under my inability to use Flash, or moreover my poor ability with using Flash. Unfortunately I found Professor Miranda’s lectures a bit confusing and too fast-paced for a beginner of Flash (like me). He is obviously very skilled at using it, and it clearly showed, but I found it hard to follow at times and I also found the project he was working on too complicated compared to the ones we would be making in our labs.

I have always appreciated all kinds of animation, and working on this project has increased my admiration for animation makers. As a filmmaker (or at least a filmmaker in my head), I see animation as a valid standalone art and also as an art that I would think of using in a project one day (after much mastery of Flash and other animation programs, obviously).

Production Notes.

What it means to make a film is different for every filmmaker. I am not so sure that I consider myself a filmmaker, as I find it disagreeable. I do not make films.

Everything is out there for the taking. The hardest part is choosing what you want to use. The fact that we chose to make a conceptual piece rather than a narrative was advantageous in certain aspects. It was an easy recovery when we lost our footage because we could stay within the confines of our0 concept without having to tiredly re-shoot what we shot the first day. Unfortunately (or fortunately for some), it might appear our film is particularly elusive and nonsensical. This stems from me not creating it with any particular audience in mind, which I have had trouble with all throughout my high school and college careers.

I feel like our film is quite funny, but it might only be funny to us. I feel like I have recently had trouble with judgement, which is what it comes down to in the world we live in today. For most, it is either – this film was “good” or this film was “bad”. I actively seek out film criticism while most of the rest of the world reads superlative-heavy reviews.

I think that the filming process would be much easier if I could fly – this would make a lot of shots that I would like to see much easier to capture and less dangerous.

I am not very fond of the question about what I would do differently if offered the chance. Filmmaking is a continual process of rethinking and reorganizing for me. I think I might have made our concept a little sturdier, possibly simpler so that the filming would have been more manageable.

I am particularly happy with the way the shot of me walking towards the camera on the 8^th floor east balcony came out. I am not quite sure how it happened, but somehow the speed level increased in certain frames and I think it is quite fitting. I am also fond of the framing and think Elizabeth did a first-class job with most of the camerawork.

Analyzing the Editing in the Opening Sequence of 8½.

The sequence I have chosen to analyze for this blog entry on editing is from the 1963 Federico Fellini film 8½. I will begin by describing the cuts throughout.

Opening the film is a title card introducing the producer, the title of the film, and the film's director. That cuts to a tracking shot of a car in traffic, and then another cut to a shot from above the cars to show the congestion (this shot tracks them from right to left). At the end of that shot, there is a cut to the back of the main character, Guido's, head. The camera then moves to the left and shows the two people in the car sitting next to him. The camera comes back to Guido in his own car as he begins wiping the inside of his windshield. Smoke begins to fill the car. Guido plays with the buttons in the car and desperately tries to escape. There is another cut to a shot of people hanging out of a bus and people stuck in their cars. They seem to be frozen in time. The film then cuts to another shot, this time from outside the car, of Guido trying to get out. The camera pans to a man who is staring at Guido from another car. After we see Guido pounding at the window, the shot cuts to a man touching a woman's arm in another car. The camera then pans to more cars waiting in traffic and then finally comes back upon Guido's smoke-filled car. The shot then cuts to Guido finally making it out of the car through the window. He climbs atop the car. Then the shot cuts to another shot of a man in a different car watching him intently. The camera zooms out and we see the bus and then Guido somehow floating atop the cars, out of the traffic. The shot then cuts to his legs and tilts upwards to show his entire backside, his coat waving the wind, and him slowly raising his arms towards the sky. Then there is a cut (fade-in) to Guido flying through the sky, then another to just the clouds. As the camera glides through the clouds, it is ambiguous of whether there is another cut or if the camera just happens upon a structure of some sort. Then there is a solid cut to a man atop a horse that is galloping on a beach. We see a man in a white shirt tugging a rope. The shot then cuts to another shot of a leg with a rope wrapped around it, and we can see the man in the white shirt and the man on the horse on the ground in the background. The scene then cuts again to the man in the white shirt running around the beach tugging on the rope, and then again to the foot with the rope (which the man is trying to get off). The sequence then cuts again to the man who was on the horse holding papers, then to the body of the man whose foot was tied to the rope being tugged down and falling into the ocean.

Leo Cattozzo edited 8½, among other Fellini features including La strada, Nights of Cabiria, and La Dolce Vita (in all of these he is credited as Leo Catozzo). The shots in this beautiful dream sequence shows that Cattozzo is a master organizer. He shows how people are constantly watching Guido by seamlessly inserting shots of people from other cars watching him. When the camera surveys the traffic, Cattozzo cuts to the back of Guido's head to show that this is his perception of the traffic jam. The editing in this sequence allows the shots to last long enough for the viewer to understand what is happening in the scene and actually feel it while it is happening. The sequencing of the shots is coherent, and it is obvious that it is a dream sequence once Guido gets out of the car and starts gliding out of the congestion.

As I have previously stated, the editing is seamless insofar that a viewer would never be taken out of the experience of the film. At no point would the audience challenge the fact that they are watching a film because it is so involving and fluid. Cattozzo makes edits where edits are necessary, to show Guido's mounting dread, his escape, and his eventual wake up. The opening dream sequence of 8½ is a curious beast - it is solid piece of film, as evident from Fellini's direction and Cattozzo's editing, but it is open to interpretation. It will always be one of the most beautiful sequences I have ever seen.

The World I Hear (in Here and Over There).

Voices are the predominant sound that my ears pick up on my daily treks to New York. Only second to voices would be the loud screech of an oncoming train while I await the shuttle at Times Square to Grand Central and thereafter the 6 train to the 68th Street - Hunter College stop. These two sources of sound frequently merge, especially when I'm on the train. I do have to admit, though, I usually hear them in a hushed frequency because of the music I turn all the way up. I do this, in part, to escape from hearing the unintelligible conversations people have on the train, or anywhere really.

There is such a sense of vibrancy when I somehow energize and run through Times Square to Port Authority on my way home from school. The soundscapes that I experience in this rush of sorts, although completely unnecessary, is one of kinetic music, beeping horns, and yelling voices. It is such an extraordinary affair, as if I am transcending everyone surrounding me and I am capable of anything.

Hunter's proximity to Central Park is advantageous to students who would like to escape the loud voices, beeping horns, and subway car howls. I oftentimes find myself wandering there alone, when I do not even have enough time between classes to stay for more than fifteen minutes. Of course, there's the initial assault of tourists gazing and pontificating about how lovely everything is, but after overcoming that one can reach some sort of solitudinous state of being. With only the birds chirping, and the faraway cries of human speech, it is quite possible to achieve a higher level of consciousness, akin to running through the cacophony of Times Square.

class evaluation: MEDP/FILMP 150, Media & Film in a Digital Age.

Coming into MEDP/FILMP 150 with only the title of the class, "Media and Film in a Digital Age", in mind, I was unsure of what to expect. Throughout the year I learned everything from film composition to basic HTML from two very informed lecturers. The idea of having a lab for a Media and Film class sounds strange to the ear, but it actually makes a lot of sense. Media and Film are both interactive mediums that demand hands-on experience, and that is what I got from the lab - everything from taking still photography to setting up lighting.

The first few lectures focused on film and were taught by Gustavo Mercado. He had everyone in the lecture constantly engaged in the material, and although I felt that I knew much of the material already, he had a way of making it interesting. The majority of the media lectures were taught by Martin Lucas, who also works in documentary filmmaking. He was engaging, for the most part, and always had his own cute little anecdotes to add to the lecture. Although he was not always successful in presenting difficult ideas or concepts in a more straightforward manner, he tried his hardest and his effort was commendable.

Sam Stalling, my section leader, was adept in her field of Film and Media Studies and assisted students when in need of help. She personally helped me a lot in Photoshop, and I thank her dearly for that.

Coming out of MEDP/FILMP 150 I know much more about Media than I did prior. I believe I will be majoring in Film Studies, so the first quarter of the course lectures will show to have helped me in the long run. All in all, I found this course to be enjoyable for the most part and look forward to the next step in my collegiate career.

design I like.

The idea of not judging a book by its cover, and other such extraneous analogies, is just a fallacy of logic. It is untrue for the majority of readers, even if they refuse to admit it. The cover is more of a draw than the words on the last page, or even the first, when first laying hands on a bound stack of pages.

House of Leaves was published in 2000 by American imprint Pantheon Books. It is, like I have previously mentioned, a labyrinthine work of epic postmodern construction and meaning. Not only a satire on academic criticism, it is also a love story, albeit an unconventional one at that. It is commonly grouped with the horror novels in bookstores, and although it is a piece that is infused with supernatural elements and is ultimately one of the most haunting works I have ever read, it is certainly not a horror novel.

The cover is not the only place of photographic visual stimulation within House of Leaves, but it will be my focus for purpose of this blog entry.

The composition of the cover is completely balanced, drawing the viewers' eyesight straight down the middle. If the reader decides to work through this cover (the 2nd edition paperback one for full disclosure) top to bottom, then they will receive the fact that it is a "National Bestseller" first and then a "Novel" last. The title of the novel and the author's name are centered and in the middle of the composition. From this vantage point, the cover design nails its primary textual function of presenting the reader with the name of the work, the name of the author, and what type of work it is (in addition to how it has sold since it has been first published).

After reading a few pages of the novel, the reader will notice that the word "house" is always printed in the color blue. The cover is no different, and the meaning, although possibly having a multitudinous quality, can only be attained by reading the book (or researching it). This could be a draw for potential readers, as could the intricate puzzle in the background. The compass in the middle is also a recurring motif throughout the novel whose meaning, like that of the color of the word "house", can only be attained by reading or researching the novel.

I like to think of House of Leaves not only as a novel, but an experience, and a pretty shattering one at that. It is too bad that the cover does not hint at the unconventional typography contained within the following pages, but I have assured myself that it is pretty hard to only look at the cover and not open it up (not to mention the ridiculous size of it is an intrigue in itself).

What I See: In the Mood for Love (2000).

After Wong Kar-wai endured an expensive shoot for his 1997 film Happy Together, he intended to make his next feature on a low budget, short shoot similar to his 1994 crossover, art house hit Chungking Express. The two year production that ensued was physically and economically straining for the Hong Kong based filmmaker, but his efforts were not in vain – In the Mood for Love was warmly received at the Cannes Film Festival, being nominated for the prestigious Palme d’Or and winning Best Actor for Tony Leung Chiu-wai’s performance and the Technical Grand Prize for the work of Christopher Doyle, Lee Ping-bing and William Chang. The film essentially tells the story of a doomed love between a man, Chow Mo-wan, and a woman, So Lai-zhen, who believe that their spouses are cheating on them with each other. Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung previously starred in Wong’s Days of Being Wild (1990), while 2046 (2004) is considered a slight follow up to both Days of Being Wild and In the Mood for Love, with Tony Leung’s Chow Mo-wan returning as a womanizer and Maggie Cheung appearing in a flashback.

The mise en scène is densely packed; the colors, lighting, costumes, and art direction all equally contribute to the atmosphere Wong intends to create and on what the film is founded. Plot is of little importance, as the film exists and succeeds solely as a nostalgic mood and character piece.

Aside from the role playing scene and the finale (which was shot at Angkor Wat in Cambodia and makes the film more universally grounded and also provides a specific historical time in which the action takes place), there is a scene near the beginning that emphasizes the visual poetry of Wong Kar Wai’s craft.

So Lai-zhen enters a medium, eye level shot in a hallway in the apartment complex. She brings her fingers up to the doorbell with downcast eyes; her black and white dress, earrings and stylish hair adding to her exuberant, downplayed beauty. The doorbell rings; she waits.

She asks if Mr. Koo is in. Chow asks if she forgot to buy the paper again and she admits to this as Chow invites her in claiming that he might be able to find it for her. Maggie Cheung’s acting here is exceptional; she nails the pent-up emotions of So Lai-zhen in a pensive, careful manner. Body language is key, along with the inflections in her face and her eyes. The scene then cuts to a shot of a mirror completely taking up the screen – Mrs. Lai-zhen is seen on the left in the first shot.

The mirror acts as a recurring motif, it operates as a catalyst for the viewer to ponder how So Lai-zhen thinks of herself and her image, how Chow Mo-wan thinks of her and her image, and how society views her and her image (and vice-versa when Chow Mo-wan is seen in the mirror and both of them are seen together in the mirror). The destructive quality of the image in society to the individual prevails throughout the film, with the persistent mirror making So Lai-zhen and Chow Mo-wan’s romance more doomed as time passes. Chow Mo-wan eventually enters the mirror shot, obstructing the viewer from seeing So Lai-zhen completely. He is wearing work clothes. The scene then cuts to an over-the-shoulder shot of Chow smiling at Mrs. Lai-zhen as they speak of their mutual appreciation of serials.

Wong then cuts again to an over-the-shoulder shot of So smiling at Chow. The scene then cuts for a few seconds again to an over-the-shoulder shot of Chow smiling at So. The next shot presents So Lai-zhen and Chow Mo-wan in half the screen, as a wall takes up the right half. The scene ends with a high angle shot of So Lai-zhen leaving and Chow Mo-wan closing the door behind her.

The mise en scène highlights the period costumes, the frame in which the actions takes place (with very little, if any, camera movement) and the acting adding characterization to the protagonists. Normal lenses are used for these shots, while Wong sometimes focuses on the foreground or utilizes selective focus with a deep depth of field.

As Chow Mo-wan closes the door on that scene, So Lai-zhen enters the frame in a similar way as the first shot of the last scene. She is now dressed in a more, sprightly green and white dress. The door is open, so she knocks instead of ringing the doorbell. She encounters a woman who says Chow has had a quarrel with his wife. So gives her the serials to give back to Chow in another mirror shot that seems somewhat more blurry and indistinct than the last. The woman puts the serials on a table and then the scene cuts to a shot of the serials on the table right next to a clock. Wong also accentuates clocks and time, as they act as a motif for the passage of time and the effect it has on the individual. The scene then ends with a dissolve to black.

The next scene presents a back and forth between Chow Mo-wan and his wife, whose face the viewer never sees. The first shot is from behind an oval in a wall, the viewer can see a rack of magazines and a telephone.

Chow Mo-wan’s wife is heard, but not seen. The scene then cuts to a shot of her, again through an oval in a wall, and the viewer sees her hair and head from behind.

Wong cuts again to Chow at his wife’s workplace, same as the first shot but he is actually in it (in the oval). His wife’s co-worker says she has left already (he is also not seen on screen). The scene then cuts again to Chow standing against a wall in a suit on the left in the foreground in a medium, eye level shot. There is an empty alley in the background on the right where light plays with dark, which is used to great effect as Chow just stares blankly at nothing. The focus is on the foreground and there is a shallow depth of field in this shot.

The next scene is probably the scene in which the film is most famous – So Lai-zhen shot in slow motion, bringing her canteen to the Noodle Bar.

The scene begins with a shot of So’s bottom half and hand carrying her light blue noodle canteen. Michael Galasso’s non-diegetic, string-heavy score begins to add to the mood of the scene. The camera pans to the left and tilts downward to show So Lai-zhen walking down a dark staircase. The sequence then cuts to her in the midground in a medium, eye level shot of her waiting for her noodles and patting her hear dry. The score really begins to pick up and capture the numbness of So Lai-zhen as she pays for her noodles and the camera tilts upward to show her walking up the staircase to leave. Maggie Cheung perfectly captures the blank look and feel of So Lai-zhen’s character as the shot switches to her coming up the staircase and walking away under a white light and a gray wall. The camera stays static on the gray wall and bright, white light as Chow Mo-wan enters the frame from the left and goes down the stairs to the noodle bar.

Unlike So Lai-zhen, Chow actually eats at the noodle bar instead of bringing his food home and eating it alone – although this doesn’t make it any less lonely for him. Tony Leung understands the essence of Chow’s character, and channels it through emotive, blank stares.

The next shot is of So Lai-zhen walking up the staircase (in a sultry, green dress) with her canteen as Chow Mo-wan is coming down.

They exchange reserved glances and Chow utters a “Hello!” The camera then cuts to a high angle shot of So Lai-zhen coming up the stairs and the scene ends with her passing under a bright white light.

Wong Kar Wai is considered one of contemporary cinema’s most hip international filmmakers. Consistently enlisting Christopher Doyle as his Cinematographer and frequently teaming up with Tony Leung, he has covered a spectrum of genres from the martial arts epic to the romantic melodrama to the science fiction romance. In the Mood for Love is a crowning achievement of mood and style that shows more than plot could ever tell.

[all screenshots taken on VLC media player from privately owned Criterion disc]