Visual Storytelling

Visuals are, in my opinion, the most important aspect of film-making, important in the sense that effective visuals are essential in order to tell an effective story. The mise en scene of a film, defined as “everything within the frame”, relies heavily upon the notion of visual storytelling that transcends dialogue, sound and music. According to the lectures of last semester, visual storytelling consists of colour, costume, props and sets, composition, lighting and framing creating a tangible representation of the written/imagined ideas. i.e. script. These characteristics all combine to emphasise a viewer’s perception and experience of a film, as well as build upon the dialogue, sound and music foundations.

 

One aspect of visual storytelling in film I am particularly fond of is framing. This includes paying attention to the borders of the image (consideration of what is included within these borders, and what is excluded), the angle existing within the shot (whether it be straight, high or low angles, or canted framing. a.k.a. dutch tilt), the level of the framing (such as horizontal, ground or height/aerial levels), camera distance (such as long shots, wide shots, medium shots and close-up), focal length (wide-angled lens, normal lens, telephoto lens, etc.) and depth of field (that is the range of distances before the lens within which objects are in focus). The manner that a film is framed significantly influences how the audience perceives the physical environment and the characters within it. In this essay, I will looking closely at how framing is used to generate meaning and develop themes within a film, and considering that my particular focus in the noir short film assessment was on telling the story through visuals and appropriate framing, I thought it fitting to use examples of framing, shots that were designed by myself, drawn directly from my short film, The Man Who Stole The World” (2008). 

 

The synopsis of this scene is that a photographer witnesses a murder, and on account of his foolishness, is drawn into the situation and is pursued by the murderer. The photographer demeanor is that his life depends upon escaping the murderer, during which his power status deteriorates in contrast to that of the murderer’s, and as such is reflected in the specific framing of the following chosen shots. In essence, the goal of the cinematography and composition of this scene was to emphasise the power struggle through many of the framing techniques listed above.

 

This first example, shot in black and white, details the photographer as he prowls the murder scene shortly before being caught. The use of a spotlight shows the setting (inside an alley), as well as casting the shadow of the photographer onto the wall in the background, in a sense, joining him to the location. He inhabits the setting, yet does not engage with it. He is isolated and mysterious, yet many things can be assumed through what is shown in this shot. The border of the frame has been cut as such to reflect the protagonist’s detachment from the situation he is witnessing. i.e. the murder. The camera hovers at a medium shot at a forty-five degree angle, giving the viewer the sense that the photographer control is neutral at this point in the scene, building upon the idea that he is detached from the situation, yet joined to the location by his shadow.

 

 

This second shot uses framing and harsh, contrasted black and white in order to evoke the dominance of power of the murderer. This low angle, point-of-view shot looks upwards towards the silhouette of the murderer, portraying the murderer as threatening an more powerful than the photographer. The use of the point-of-view technique allows the viewer to take the position of the photographer, who at this point maintains the less powerful role. Further, the centering of the subject in the centre of the shot draws the eyeline of the viewer to a point of focus, that is, of the colossal form of the murder. This creates a certain emotion and mood of fear for the audience who can feel the danger of this character. Also, by using selective lighting within the frame, it creates only a silhouette of the murderer, which emphasises the anonymity and mystery of this character, but also the lack of emotion this character posesses. Finally, the borders of the frame have been placed as such to include what appears to the view to be some sort of weapon. This further highlights the danger of this character.

 

 

The final example shows the power relationship shift once again. The control of the setting now lies with the photographer, who knows where the murder is, when the murderer is oblivious to his location. This is stressed by use of focal length and depth of field. The photographer stands large and in focus in a close-up showing that he is the focal point. However, his figure is not centered, but off to the right of the screen, as it becomes apparent that focus is shared between both the photographer in the foreground and the murderer in the background. Yet the murder’s figure is slightly out of focus and assumes a smaller role due to his size on the screen. Selective lighting further exposes the two focal points on both characters.

This visual aspect of mise en scene is extremely important to the story-telling process of film, transcending areas such as sound, dialogue and music. The utilisation of framing creates multiple layers of meaning within settings and characters that cannot be expressed by the other aspects listed above.

 

Where are you Pine?

I have continued my research on Pine for quite a few weeks to no avail. I searched databases for criminal records and public record sites, but could find no further information on Pine, nor anyone who knew of or about him. I felt such a connection to this person, a man who came from the wrong side of the tracks, who endured the worst living conditions in the harshest city environment. He collected things much like I do, and even expressed a liking for Margaret Olley, one of my favourite Australian artists, but unlike me was not fortunate enough to own his own Olley painting. I pray that he is still living or if not, that he didn’t suffer too long behind bars, and had at least one more chance to see the outside world. It’s a story that makes you stop taking life for granted, and appreciate it while you are here. I hope you still check out his poems and sketches he wrote in gaol. This may be my final post, and I am very saddened that I’ve been unable to shed light on the remainder of this man’s life. For now I sit and look out onto the gleaming water in the cove an think about Pinewood Fresh II.

 

 

 

Farewell for now…

Introduction

Hello my friends,

 

I apologise for my lack of computer expertise, I am new to all this business. I have only recently begun taking lessons from a good friend of mine, Judy Moore, in order to help stimulate my weakening mind. She has been a nurse at this hospital for many many years. So if you wish to contact me or comment on my writings, please be kind.

 

I am a collector of things, I have been as long as I can remember. If I see something I want, I will do my best to obtain it, and the less I pay the better. I’m always after a bargain, and as result I frequent auction houses on a weekly basis in search of my own slice of treasure. And so, it was ironic that on this past Tuesday, I acquired a large chest for $150, from the Raffan & Kelaher auction house in Leichhardt. It is a late Victorian walnut sea chest with brass handles and corner plates, and read Fresh on the top, perhaps a previous owner.

 

I asked some nice young men to help me load it into my car, and once home, Judy helped me take the chest up to my room. It is heavier than it looks. Little did I know what it contained inside.

 

When I finally got it home, I opened the lid of the chest to see why it was so heavy. There was a strong but familiar musk that oozed from the chest, which reminded me of ages past. Inside it was filled with old clothing, photographs, newspapers and books that looked like journals. I picked up a suit jacket from the chest. It was extremely dusty and dry to touch. It was well used and still had some spare change in the pockets. I put it aside and picked up one of the journals. I sat back in my armchair and read the first few pages. It occurred to me that objects contained within the case were the possessions of one man, Pineford Fresh II.

 

 

As I plowed further through the contents I became increasingly engrossed in this man’s story, so I decided that I will post his entries online while I read, because I think you might find it both interesting, amusing and saddening at the same time. The journals date from 1935 to 1957, which I have summarized in a brief biography page. This can be viewed in the biography link the right side of this page, I suggest you read this beforehand. In late 1957 though the journals suddenly stop, and in the chest there exists no further information on Pine. So, for this reason I am posting this information in order to find out if anyone out there knows, or have heard of what ultimately happened to Pineford Fresh II. If I receive no responses of leads from this blog, I will take it upon myself to search for further information.

 

For the purposes of this exercise I will begin posting the entries from 1957 the day he was released from the Darlinghurst Gaol for the sixth time.

The Crime and the Capture

 

 

 

 

I’m writing this in haste as I believe that any moment now I will be taken away and put back behind bars. I want it to be known that I did get my hands on the painting, and that at this moment my hands are still on it, and it will take a strong person to pry it from me. At about 6pm this afternoon I took my chances on an empty house, and broke into McMahon’s back door shortly after I shut off the power at the fuse.

 

 

 

 

 

I headed for the main sitting room, and sure enough the Margaret Olley painting hung proudly on the wall. I couldn’t help but gaze for a moment at the beauty of it, and perhaps that was my downfall.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yet again I was interrupted, this time by the front door opening. I didn’t have time to see who it was as I moved through the house at a high speed. This is when I saw Mrs McMahon approaching the back door from the backyard. So, yet again, I trapped myself in a place where it is inevitable that I will be discovered, this time in the bathroom. I’ll be facing a long stint over this one.

 

 

 

Sweatin’

 

 

So, here I am, stuck inside a scorching hot garage, underneath a dust-covered Holden that is dripping oil onto my pants. I lie in wait until I have the opportunity to get inside McMahon’s house. Every so often I peer through the garage window towards the back door of the house to check the comings and goings. I was nearly caught earlier. McMahon’s house is in the fairly wealthy Italian immigrant friendly suburb of Haberfield.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I asked my good friend Frank if he could get me some Italian connections to keep watch and cover me, but the slimeball he set me up with chickened out, and I was nearly sprung. I was making my way around the house trying to locate the painting through the windows. However, as one of these early Federation homes, the windows are primarily stained glass so I wasn’t able to accurately identify the position of the painting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In an attempt to get see clearer through the stain glass, I had to press my face close up to the glass, and nearly broke the window. Furthermore, as I tried to get a better look out the backyard, McMahon’s wife arrived home and I had to scurry into the garage where I’m pretty much cornered. I may have to say the night in here and plan to break in tomorrow. I have a pretty good idea where the painting is though, I think it is hanging on the large wall in the sitting room adjacent to the fireplace. As the sun sets behind the houses in the distance my confidence is high and my is towards tomorrow, for tomorrow a truly great criminal will return to what he does best.

 

 

 

In the air tonight

 

 

 

 

I’m back on the streets, but I think I have a solution. Word is that local council member Jim McMahon, the man responsible for tearing down my home, has just made a recent purchase, a 1948 Margaret Olley painting, his pride and joy. This is very interesting and I may have to latch onto this opportunity. More on this later.

If I Only had a Brain

 

 

 

 

 

Today I made a pilgrimage to the Rozelle mental facility overlooking Iron Cove. I had heard on the street that this is where they sent my father after he lost his mind in gaol. They say he killed a fellow inmate and took a guard hostage back in ’43, using a metal shank he fashioned during workshop. Took five guys to hold him down apparently, he was so overcome with rage his head almost exploded. Sounds like it runs in the family. The view from the asylum was pleasant, yet hardly a reflection of what goes on within the walls. I asked a young nurse, her name was Ms Moore, where I could find Pinewood Snr., a request she answered by leading me down towards the lower gardens of the compound. There sat a disheveled, old man on one of those long wooden benches overlooking the cove. He had no hair, wore a ratty dressing gown and was starring blankly into space as if he weren’t even noticing the beauty that lay before his eyes. This was not the huge menacing presence I had envisioned, or better yet, believed as a child. He was frail and harmless. I sat down to talk with him but I was not able to get a response, I wasn’t worried, I’m used to it by now. However, it soon occurred to me that there was a large scar extending from his right ear up to the crown of his head, and down to the back of his skull. They’ve taken some of his brain. How could they do this to anyone, even criminals like my father. It left me wondering if he knew he had a son at all anymore.  

 

 

 

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I could while away the hours, conferrin’ with the flowers
Consultin’ with the rain.
And my head I’d be scratchin’ while
my thoughts were busy hatchin’
If I only had a brain.
I’d unravel every riddle for any individ’le,
In trouble or in pain.
With the thoughts you’ll be thinkin’
you could be another Lincoln
If you only had a brain.
Oh, I could tell you why The ocean’s near the shore.
I could think of things I never thunk before.
And then I’d sit, and think some more.
I would not be just a nothin’ my head all full of stuffin’
My heart all full of pain.
I would dance and be merry, life would be a ding-a-derry,
If I only had a brain.

Down on the Street

 

Last night I slept in an alley behind the Motor Inn in Elizabeth Street. It was extremely unpleasant; a slap in the face for someone as important as myself. It rained all night, and the piles of rubbish exuded a stench of rotten meat, complimented with dozens and dozens of rats. I tried to stay awake for as long as possible to ward off the vermin, so I am really, really tired. However, I will not let this impede my efforts to get my revenge. I made my way down to Martin’s Breakfast Café on George Street to see if I could score some free food, when I ran into Elijah, my good friend and mentor from the circus. I hadn’t seen his since I left the circus and I could barely recognize him as his hair was now grey and he had a long flowing beard. He had chosen not to continue in the circus business and had since become a Rabbi. I told him about my problem in hope that he would have advice or perhaps a solution, as he had provided me so many times in the past. He suggested that I don’t lash out and do something irrational, landing me back behind bars again, but instead seek out my real father, whose absence has apparently had a major effect on my current lifestyle. He also offered me his home as a guest to stay in the meantime, an offer which I have accepted and am grateful for. I will take Elijah’s advice, even if I do not believe it will be useful, because he is a good man and loyal friend.

Rage

 

 

I am furious!!! The government has quite a nerve, they don’t seem to know who they are messing with. While I was incarcerated they thought it would be appropriate to destroy my property. They brought in the bulldozers and now there is nothing left. Where am I gonna live now? I’m am gonna have my revenge over this you watch.

  

The Day Before the Storm

For those who know me there is no need for an introduction, for those who know of me, the same applies. For those who haven’t heard of me by now, and there are very few of you out there, I might add, I am Pine Fresh, the greatest criminal mastermind of our time. My contemporaries know me by the name Juicebox, the fastest hands in the East. I have been a significant player in Sydney’s underground crime syndicate for the past 30 years and have been part of some of the city’s greatest criminal activities.

 

I have extremely influential associates in the underworld such as Frank Dolmio III, grandnephew of the great Henry Madren Leggo, who was notorious for being both a neighbour of Al Capone, as well as the Godfather of Leggo’s pasta sauce. I do hard crime and the few times I have been caught, I have done hard time. My last venture to the hole even made front page news.

 

This is my sixth time in this fine institution, it has been thirteen months, by no means my longest stay. These walls can’t hold me for long anymore, four by six feet doesn’t reflect the vast empire I am involved with on the outside. I am free tomorrow, which means I can return to my estate, and also to criminality. My guess is that the underworld has suffered without me as usual.