Of all of our inventions for mass communication,
pictures still speak the most universally understood language.
~Walt Disney
In the history of cinema, particularly since the end of the silent film era, there have arguably been only a few films largely (if not entirely) made with reliance on the use of imagery and sound/music alone. These include Walt Disney's Fantasia (1940), Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), and Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life (2011), to name just a few.
Back in the 1920s, a group of Soviet filmmakers, known as "Kinoks," broke every preconceived rule of film, even in its relative infancy then, and invented (perhaps pioneered) a lot of the techniques that have become commonplace for several filmmakers over the last 90 years. One of these filmmakers, David Kaufman (who went by the name Dziga Vertov, meaning "spinning top"), made a series of features using many of these techniques to examine the status and progress of the Soviet Union throughout the decade, following the Russian Revolution of the early 1900s. He also used these techniques to challenge the status quo of "staged" cinema. These features included 1931's Enthusiasm: Symphony of the Donbass, 1924's Kino-Eye, and 1929's now-highly-revered The Man With A Movie Camera.
Of the many films I recall studying and discussing in the two film courses I took in college years ago, this latter, highly-experimental feature is one of the few that stuck with me the most. At 67 minutes in length and presented in six reels, this collective work of truly-ahead-of-its-time techniques makes the case in presenting cinema as its own unique language and form of communication and expression, in ways that theater and literature cannot express. (I highly recommend this short but fascinating video essay for more insight.)
In fact, there's no specific plot or scenario, nor are there inter-titles or professional actors. Just a day in the life of a city of regular, ordinary, working-class people (shot over the course of three years) in the wake of the Russian Revolution, all "from the excerpt of the diary of a cameraman." Some of these citizens include factory workers, machinists, cobblers, barbers, doctors, nurses, married couples, divorcing couples, children, musicians, and athletes. Themes range from economics to class, illness, injury, death, birth (briefly shown, ditto some images of nudity, but not sexual or gratuitous), life, and even the mundane.
This may be documentary footage, but what's revolutionary (and ultimately universal) here is the way it is edited together and shown for the audience. The camera, by its very nature, is a device that acts not only for the cameraman (perhaps the one central figure here), but also for the audience, in witnessing objective imagery, no matter which angle or area it's shot from. The way that that footage is put together, on the other hand, is what makes it subjective, and therefore, cinematic. Many of the aforementioned techniques used here include slow-motion, fast-motion, reverse-motion, dissolves, quick jump cuts (late film critic Roger Ebert calculated the average shot length at 2.3 seconds), split-screen, stop-motion, and even a sense of fourth wall breaking.
I find it fascinating and amusing that one segment in the film shows the role of the editor, reviewing and reassembling film strips, and even freeze-framing certain shots of some of the aforementioned citizens. Even more fascinating is how this fourth wall notion plays at the feature's prologue. We're shown the inside of a movie theater. The projectionist gets ready, as does the orchestra (silent films had accompanied music playing in the movie houses they were shown in back in the day). The audience comes in. The house lights go out. The feature begins. The audience represents us, viewing something new. The screen (and therefore the camera eye and cameraman) represents what we see (hence, the "kino-eye," as pictures above), and the film itself represents the subjective experience.
This is truly one of the most influential films I have ever seen, and most certainly remains a benchmark in the history of motion pictures. All of the above elements combined have made it an enduring and universal standout of the silent film era and the post-silent era, even after 90 years. It's bold, original, dynamic, rhythmic, and incredibly daring. It's no wonder then that Sight and Sound named it the greatest documentary feature of all time, as well as the eighth greatest film of all time. The Man With A Movie Camera is a symphony of moving pictures and true cinematic expression.
In fact, there's no specific plot or scenario, nor are there inter-titles or professional actors. Just a day in the life of a city of regular, ordinary, working-class people (shot over the course of three years) in the wake of the Russian Revolution, all "from the excerpt of the diary of a cameraman." Some of these citizens include factory workers, machinists, cobblers, barbers, doctors, nurses, married couples, divorcing couples, children, musicians, and athletes. Themes range from economics to class, illness, injury, death, birth (briefly shown, ditto some images of nudity, but not sexual or gratuitous), life, and even the mundane.
This may be documentary footage, but what's revolutionary (and ultimately universal) here is the way it is edited together and shown for the audience. The camera, by its very nature, is a device that acts not only for the cameraman (perhaps the one central figure here), but also for the audience, in witnessing objective imagery, no matter which angle or area it's shot from. The way that that footage is put together, on the other hand, is what makes it subjective, and therefore, cinematic. Many of the aforementioned techniques used here include slow-motion, fast-motion, reverse-motion, dissolves, quick jump cuts (late film critic Roger Ebert calculated the average shot length at 2.3 seconds), split-screen, stop-motion, and even a sense of fourth wall breaking.
I find it fascinating and amusing that one segment in the film shows the role of the editor, reviewing and reassembling film strips, and even freeze-framing certain shots of some of the aforementioned citizens. Even more fascinating is how this fourth wall notion plays at the feature's prologue. We're shown the inside of a movie theater. The projectionist gets ready, as does the orchestra (silent films had accompanied music playing in the movie houses they were shown in back in the day). The audience comes in. The house lights go out. The feature begins. The audience represents us, viewing something new. The screen (and therefore the camera eye and cameraman) represents what we see (hence, the "kino-eye," as pictures above), and the film itself represents the subjective experience.
This is truly one of the most influential films I have ever seen, and most certainly remains a benchmark in the history of motion pictures. All of the above elements combined have made it an enduring and universal standout of the silent film era and the post-silent era, even after 90 years. It's bold, original, dynamic, rhythmic, and incredibly daring. It's no wonder then that Sight and Sound named it the greatest documentary feature of all time, as well as the eighth greatest film of all time. The Man With A Movie Camera is a symphony of moving pictures and true cinematic expression.
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