WHEN we look at a film, or any piece of visual art, what is it that we see exactly? This may seem like a silly or unimportant question, but let's consider it again with an emphasis on the word visual. Film is primarily a visual art, and while the other pieces such as dialogue, music, and other non-visual pieces are important, they are not its primary manifestation. For example, what is a film if it's shot entirely without light? All you can see is a black screen, but the dialogue is fantastic. Well, it's not really a film, but an audio drama more akin to a radio programme. Likewise is a film consisting of nothing but music, it's a soundtrack, not a film. A film can lack (and has) all these other features, and still be a "film" as long as it consists of some kind of filmed visual narrative. Let's consider the foundation of film for a moment. In its most basic form, film is essentially sets of photographs strung together so that they make a continuous image. While the format of modern film has evolved to a point where the physical mechanics are more complex than that, this is at the core of the art, so in a sense, we may consider photography (and going further back into the past, painting) as the "spiritual ancestors" of film. So, on this note, what makes for an interesting photograph or picture? Would you prefer to look at a flat shot, which only shows a straightforward angle, and no background, or one with lots of different features to consider? Better yet, think about what's more interesting to look at: a whitewashed wall, or a cliff face with the setting sun in the distance? The choice for most of us is the latter. If we would consider a more interesting picture one that has depth, then shouldn't a succession of picture also have that? Why is highlighting the visual quality of a film so important? Or rather, why must it be highlighted? In recent years, especially with the now overwhelming advent of CGI and other computer-generated types of visual effects, it seems like the emphasis of one of the most basic artistic qualities of film are being ignored: things like the importance of scenery and depth of vision. Many films nowadays, if you look beyond the effects and the actors talking, often only make use of one plane of action. Of course, the front plane is usually the one in which the primary action of the film takes place, but it doesn't have to be the only one. To do so, makes the film literally appear to be flat. In real life, we don't confine our "important actions" to a single primary plane, and not "show" the unimportant ones! Yet, this is very often what many films do. In Egypt, this is a plague effecting many films, in particular, action films. Just about every Ahmed El-Saqa film takes place on one plane: the one in which his car is racing in, or the guy he's beating up is in. What this comes off as is essentially a comic book panel using real people with a pseudo-three dimensional quality. Is there ever anything significant happening beyond the primary plane in this year's Al-Dealer (The Dealer)? Or does the background consist entirely of incidental scenery, which just happens to be there? Another recent film from this summer, La Taragu' Wala Istislam: al- Qabda al-Dammiyya (No Retreat, No Surrender: the Bloody Capture) is mostly entertaining, but is also almost entirely fluff. Beyond the film's storytelling flaws, there is a decided lack of depth throughout the vast majority of the film. In fact, almost every time we see something going on outside the primary plane, it is directly and inextricably connected to the plot. For example, there are a few shots of depth, which make use of the interesting décor of Mekky's character's villa early on in the movie, but these shots are pretty much entirely dedicated to reminding us of the one-line ninja hiding in the rafters, preparing to attack the character. If we didn't have these shots, the scene wouldn't make sense. They do not add to the scene, but only support it. Later shots on the speedboat near the end of the movie could easily be giant matte painting for all their depth and lack of interaction with the scenery. It's interesting to contrast this with earlier, classic films. These films, hampered considerably by the technology of the times and the lack of colour or special effects, were forced to rely on the traditional mediums of visual arts. They needed to use depth, scenery, and subtle shades of colour in order to keep the disbelief of the audience suspended ��" the film may have been in black and white, but the depth was much more expansive. For example, in Shadia's classic comedy, `Ifrit Marati (My Wife's Genie, 1968), we are constantly reminded of details, and in fact, many of the details of scenery make their "own jokes". For example, when Shadia comes home after seeing a film about the famous serial killers Raya and Sukina, thinking she is one of them, the film-makers use as much space as possible not only to make the scene more urgent, but as more funny. We see a pot boiling over, a lamp swinging overhead in the background, the use of lighting to heighten the mood, and the nosy maid watching from the kitchen door as her employer re-enacts the movie scenes. In an earlier scene of the film, where Shadia's character believes she is Irma La Douce, one of the reasons why the scene is so funny is because we keep seeing all the astounded reactions from everyone in the scene, not matter if they are in the primary plane, or completely on the sidelines. This makes us feel more like we're not watching Shadia in a movie, but that we're sitting with her as she mortifies all her friends. In another example, there is Du`a al- Karawan (The Nightingale's Ode, 1959), one of the most cinematically masterful examples of Egyptian cinema. In the beginning of the movie, one of the most powerful initial visual cues we receive is the starkness of Amna's (Faten Hamama) environment. The shades are overwhelmingly bright and uniform, reflecting the oppressiveness of her life, but as she is forced to venture into the outside world beyond her childhood home, the shades of the film's backgrounds deepen dramatically, contrasting as a "blooming" of her environment. There are many other such classic movies (though this is not to say all movies from the classic age are either masterpieces or employ such techniques), and to do them justice in explaining their scenic depth would require at least a book. But the amount of films in recent times is woefully small. I know that I often mention last year's Ahky ya Shahrizad (Tell Me a Story, O Scheherazade) as an example of X quality done well in my columns, but that's because it's true. Even in the first couple of shots, we are introduced to Mona Zaki's character's apartment, showing us how it is thematically an extension of herself as a self-assured and confident woman. The story sequence with the woman jailed for killing her unfaithful lover contains several shots of depth, such as scenes with the three sisters in their apartment, standing/sitting/lying in several different planes in one shot. Contrast this with socalled blockbusters like Dokkan Shehata (Shehata's Store, 2009), where even shots we would expect to be deep, like at the huge party at the end of the film, are almost entirely shot as if the characters only exist within a single plane as defined by the film-maker. A film is not merely the collected speeches or sound bites of actors, or their acrobatics, choreographed and recorded. However, this seems to be how many filmmakers nowadays (and hardly just in Egypt) are treating their films. A film, as a piece of art, which tries to depict a narrative in a moving, continuous way, must have depth. Would we want to read a novel consisting entirely of statements and no descriptions? Or look at a photograph of a plate? Or listen to music consisting of only three notes repeated over and over? If the answer is no, then why do we let this
