Some Came Running

The myth of the consecrated movie theater

Night of the Hunter, Charles Laughton, 1955

The digital guru and blogger Anil Dash has raised hackles in cinephile circles today with a lengthy and rhetorically free-wheeling (to say the least) post called "Sushers: Wrong about movies. Wrong about the world." In this post he expresses a good deal of disapprobation against "regressive resistance to cultural challenges." (One of Dash's most lively rhetorical devices involves unpacking a lot of sophisticated language, which reflects well on his sophistication and vocabulary, but showing an extreme disinterest in what that language might imply against his argument, as in, for instance, what constitutes the difference between a "culture" and a "civilization," or what the difference might be between those entities and a "society" or even, heavens to Betsy, a "civil society." But, you know, if I drag Heideggerean concepts such as "authentic being" versus "inauthentic being" into this argument, we're gonna be here all day, so let's just table the observation for now.) In this case the regressive resistance is to people who want to pay money to go into a movie theater and treat the place like their living room: talk, text, do pretty much anything except engage with what's on screen. OK, Dash is cool if they wanna engage with what's on screen; he expresses almost awed delight, if not exactly pure solidarity, with an ostnsibly adult male who stood up and cheered at a robot's announcement of self-hood during a Transformers picture. Later, Dash sniffs, "When I saw Jiro Dreams of Sushi [sic] in a theater with only a handful of others in the audience, there was considerably less of that kind of dramatic response, but I liked that film very much as well. It’s fine for there to be movies that encourage quiet contemplation, too. If someone had pulled out a phone during the screening, it wouldn’t have bothered me at all. Maybe someone did, and I didn’t notice." It's great for Dash that he's capable of being so, you know, Zen. and I'm not being entirely sarcastic here; by the end of this piece I'll be recommending that you, too, adapt a similar approach. The good news for ME, personally, is that if Jiro Dreams of Sushi is Amil Dash's idea of an ideal quietly contemplative sinematic experience, there's little chance that I'm going to be sharing cinema theater space with the guy anytime soon. 

Back when he was expressing doubts about the viability of home video equipment to reproduce cinematic experiences, Steven Spielberg compared the movie theater to a church, or perhaps a cathedral; I can't find the quote, but I feel pretty solid on it. In the recent book of Henry Jaglom's conversations with the great filmmaker Orson Welles, Welles, who throughout the book makes small jabs at young filmmakers for whom film culture is the only culture, recalls a much less sacrosanct age of moviegoing as it was done in New York City in the 1930s. "In my real moviegoing ays, which were the thirties, you didn't stand in line. You strolled down the street and sallied into the theater at any hour of the day or night. Like you'd go in to have a drink at the bar. Every movie theater was partially empty. We never asked what time the movie began. We used to go after we went to the theater. We'd go to the Paramount where they had a double bill, and see the B-pictures, and go to laugh at bad acting in the Bs. You know, childish, stupid things. [...] We'd leave when we'd realize, "This is where we came in.' Everybody said that. I loved movies for that reason. They didn't cost that much, so if you didn't like one, it was, 'Let's do something else. Go to another movie.' And that's what made it habitual to such an extent that walking out of a movie was what for people now is like turning off the television set." You also see, in the film writing by the French Surrealists, descriptions of how guys like Breton or Eluard would walk in during the middle of a picture, with no idea of what it was, the better to bring on the "derangement of the senses" they were in a Grail-like search for. None of which is the same thing as talking or texting during a movie, but bear with me for a moment. 

I am not a historian so I cannot even begin to pinpoint the time during which the notion of the movie theater as a consecrated space came into being. But given certain cultural signifiers—the movie line confrontation scene in Annie Hall, for instance, and that movie's lead character Alvie Singer's neurotic refusal to enter a theater once the opening credits of a picture have begun—I infer that the art film, the repertory cinema, and the counterculture all had something to do with it. As for the end of the idea of the movie theater as a consecrated space, I could guess that future historians will pinpoint Susan Sontag's 1996 New York Times Magazine piece "The Decay of Cinema" as the green flag in the race to the end of it all. What Sontag experienced as the death of cinephilia has become, for a generation more than once removed from her own, a miniaturization and privatization, as it were, of cinephilia, with the theatrical experience and all its multiform glories and discontents being just one aspect of it. I'm old enough to have experienced both kinds, and while in many respect I prefer the thing that Sontag lamented, I'm not entirely discontent with the other. What one misses, increasingly, is something that may have always been a kind of willed delusion anyway: that in giving over our rapt attention to a screen we were engaging in a form of actual cultural communion rather than merely consuming a product. It's pretty clear from my reading of Dash that in his world, what constitutes culture is ONLY product, and that really is the thing that gives him an airtight case. Ah, materialism.

In his impatience with the "shushers," Dash unpacks what I'll call a fuckload of baggage in order to demonstrate that the moviegoers who believe that they are entitled to expect a modicum of what they understand to be polite behavior don't just not "get" today's groovy plugged-in world, but that they're racist, too. One of his straw men (he never directly quotes anyone) is of the opinion that talking and texting in movie theaters happens "because [those doing it] are of a race/class that does not know how to behave. (These days, people say 'acting ghetto' instead of 'I don’t like black people and their culture', or 'white trash' instead of 'I should be able to tell poor people how to act'.)" Hmm. Allow me to get a little "real" here. I've written more than once about my moviegoing experiences in Paterson, New Jersey in the late '70s, and in Manhattan's Times Square in the '70s and '80s. (Harlan Ellison, too, has some particularly vivid talking-back-to-the-screen anecdotes from his Times Square moviegoing days.) At my beloved Plaza Theater in Paterson, particularly, patrons, most of them African-American, came in during afternoon Kung Fu triple features with their boom boxes on, and left them on; they talked back to the screen with no compunction; some even got into knife fights with each other, halted, called a truce, and sat down and caught a bit of the movie. I didn't object to any of this, and it wasn't because I feared for my safety if I spoke up. It wasn't even because I felt like it would be presumptuous of me to do so because I was a "guest" in "their space." I kept my mouth shut because I understood the tacit social contract governing this theater was an entirely different one than the one that governed, say, Cinema Village, which at that time had a smoking semi-balcony in which My Close Personal Friend Ron Goldberg™ and I could sit and puff madly at our Winstons while staring in silent concentration at Syberberg's Hitler: A Film From Germany or maybe a David Cronenberg triple feature. But as far as the Plaza was concerned, it was not a case of my judging or generalizing with respect to some hostile "they." It was exercising a little amiable common sense.

Dash later gleefully announces, "The most popular film industry in the world by viewers is Bollywood, with twice as many tickets sold in a given year there as in the United States. And the thing is, my people do not give a damn about what’s on the screen." Dash is Indian, you see, that's why he calls them "my people." Goddamn John Wayne had a point about "the hyphen." OK, that's a bad joke (well, I don't actually think it's that bad), but Dash does, while thoroughly uncollegial likely does not lie with respect to what is, for lack of a better term, "cultural difference." Although how you even KNOW there is a baptism scene in The Godfather if it's on screen while you're comparing cricket scores is beyond me. Some multi-tasking I don't get, and also, how does Dash watch a cricket match? But still: Dash's description of an Indian cinema brought to mind the critically reviled Pirates of the Caribbean movies. These pictures do not function as coherent narratives but rather as environments; they in a sense encourage a mildly disinterested consumption. One can text and talk through it without actually "missing" anything. It's designed that way. As are, in a sense, the Transformers movies. Yes, they do contain elements that will satisfy the deeply passionate follower of Optimus Prime (Jesus Horatio Christ), but they are also, not to sound patronizing, eminently ignorable. This is not the future of moviegoing; it is contemporary moviegoing. 

And while we're facing facts...well, I want to say "let's admit," but I hate that kind of writing, so instead I'll say that the lost Golden Age of Cultural Communion was not always all that. Before there were talkers and texters to complain about there were the inappropriate laughers; well I remember a rep screening of Laughton's Night of the Hunter that was all but ruined for me and the other sensitive soul I saw it with when what seemed like at least eighty percent of an admitedly packed house roared with derisive laughter at what my sensitive companion and I took to be one of the film's most touchingly lyrical moments, when the boat piloted by the two kids who are running from Robert Mitchum for their lives floats quietly past a lily pad and frog. Remember how we used to bitch about the insecure folks who signalled their "getting" every obscure cultural reference that showed up in a Godard film subtitle by ostentatiously chortling at it? Yeah, those guys were fun. (See today's excellent Film.com piece by Calum Marsh on "Watching Movies Ironically.")

So,while Dash's I-Am-The-Future triumphalism is hard to stomach, there are many ways in which he is, technologically and sociologically, not wrong. New generations used to get themselves noticed by trying to change the society that they lived in; now they affect a societal change by the way they choose to define experience. I think that Jason Bailey's recent Flavorwire piece, "The Only Way To Solve Movie Theaters' Talking And Texting Problem Is To Give In to It" makes good sense. (And it's not as defeatist as you might gather from its title.)  I mean, let's remember a few things. First, unless you want to engage people directly, which runs the risk of leading to a confrontation that could get physical, you really can't control other peoples' behavior. Second, "rules" only go so far. And if a theater's management cannot make its rules count, you're out of luck. (Look up and memorize the Serenity Prayer, people.) Third, some people really are pretty awful about not caring whether your behavior is bothering them or not. Dash himself ends his post with a taunt to the shushers: " [Y]ou could do that thing where you turn around and glare really fiercely—it seems to be working great!" 

Actually, that brings to mind a story I am not particularly proud to recount, but heck, I'll do it anyway, as it took place an awfully long time ago: 1987 or 88 if I'm  not mistaken. I was with a friend at the very short-lived downtown arm of the Thalia repertory theater, and we were watching a picture. The Thalia was a small house, with terrible sightlines and a low ceiling with visible piping, but what were you gonna do. Some guy a few rows in front of us was chattering to a friend very, very loudly and very very constantly, and I said, "Would you mind keeping it down a little up there?" And the guy shot back, "What if I don't," and I glared, fiercely, and I said, "Maybe I'll break your fucking neck."

He shut up.

And the thing was, the movie was Beyond The fucking Valley Of The Dolls. 

Film restoration in the digital domain: A chat with James White

Maria Falconetti in Carl Theodor Dreyer's The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928). This is how the frame appears in the current Eureka!/Masters of Cinema Blu-ray disc edition of the film. Below, the image before restoration. 

I first heard from James White, the British film restoration maestro, a few years back, around the time the below-mentioned ITV Blu-ray of Powell and Pressburger's Black Narcissus came out in Britain. White and I reconnected around last year's Christmas holidays, just as two very disparate projects in which he had a restoration hand were coming on the scene: the above-depicted version of the Dreyer masterpiece, and Arrow Video's iteration of Lucio Fulci's notorious Zombi, known in Britain as Zombie Flesh Eaters. We figured the time was right to catch up on some of the issues concerning film restoration in the brave and still relatively new but increasingly pervasive world of digital, and thus an e-mail exchange began.  It took some time, but I think the results are informative, and contain news that is both heartening and distressing. If you can, you should read in conjunction with Nick Wrigley's essay "Crimes Against The Grain" in the December 2012 issue of Sight & Sound. Wrigley was one the founders of the Masters of Cinema imprint and worked as a restoration supervisor with White on the Dreyer project. The interview with White follows: 

1) Film restoration seems to have pretty definitively shifted from a photochemical process to a digital and electronic one. When was the tipping point for this, and what does it mean in terms of the economics of film restoration? Not to mention the distribution of restored motion pictures?

It's certainly true that over the past decade or so, film restoration has moved from a largely photochemical process to one relying almost completely on digital technology. When I began working in this field in New York back in the mid-1990s, digital restoration was still in its infancy and most of the major projects such as those being overseen by Photoplay (Napoleon) or Harris & Katz (Spartacus, Vertigo) were being produced almost solely through traditional photochemical processes. These days, however, if someone embarks on a new restoration, they will almost always begin by scanning the best existing film materials and working in digital throughout the entire process. 

My time at the BFI reflects this shift in approach. When I started working there in 2002, film restoration was still very much the preserve of the archive lab, with digital technology having little to no involvement. Restorations from that era represented the best that could have been achieved at the time, but in recent years the BFI has seen fit to revisit many of their key titles using digital tools, having seen the advantages these bring. A title like Blackmail for instance, restored last year by the BFI as part of their silent Hitchcock project, now looks amazingly improved in its digital incarnation in comparison to the prior restoration completed in the 1990s. 

I don’t think there’s been a single tipping point that made this change happen, other than restoration simply mirroring the film industry at large, and its shift to using digital tools for pretty much everything under the sun. The simplest reason though, is that the tools just got better. Most importantly, the software became sympathetic to the needs of archive films and offered solutions to problems that traditional restoration hadn’t ever been able to deal with sufficiently. Issues that had always been difficult to impossible to fix - things like image stability, density issues, deep emulsion scratches, warping, registration issues, deterioration brought on by heat or moisture, and damaged or even missing frames – these could now be improved upon in a way that just couldn't be done by traditional means. 

Having access to these new tools hasn't made the work cheaper, though. If anything, restoring a film has become more expensive simply because audience expectations are so much higher now. Fortunately there are so many more outlets to distribute these titles, so the economics are there to support the work. Mind you, there's definitely a limit to what most distributors can afford. A top-tier restoration like The Red Shoes or Lawrence of Arabia can demonstrate beautifully what digital restoration is capable of - these films now truly take your breath away - but the vast majority of film titles don't enjoy anything near to the restoration budgets these projects had. So while restoring the majority of film titles to a 2K/4K level might be beyond the means of some distributors, restoring a film to a very high standard in HD is often within their means. I should mention that going this route doesn't support a film's archival basis - restricting your end result to HD doesn't create what most archivists would agree is the basis for film preservation - but it does provide distributors with a format suitable for the majority of current release platforms (DCP, Blu-ray/DVD, etc). 

In any case, what's encouraging is the high amount of restoration work currently going on internationally. Rights-holders of film libraries have started to see the value in restoring their titles to make them accessible for HD broadcast and online platforms. DVD/Blu-ray sales have helped create new audiences for archive titles, and the improved presentation quality has made viewers more aware and appreciative of the practice of film restoration on the whole. Back when I started, Criterion was the only company around that devoted time, attention and a decent budget to giving a film the best presentation possible on video, but now in addition to well-established labels like Eureka/Masters of Cinema, the BFI, Milestone and Kino/Lorber, you've got all these new labels like Olive in the US, Second Run in the UK and Edition Filmmuseum in Germany resurrecting lost cinema or rarely-seen classics.  It's the work of companies like these that is really helping to bring new interest in film restoration. I mean, it's great when Casablanca or Singin' In The Rain gets treated to another state-of-the-art restoration, but there now seems to be an actively growing interest in discovering new films and film collections from all corners of the globe. A project like Milestone using Kickstarter to fund a new restoration of Shirley Clarke's Portrait of Jason is a great example of the public taking an active role in film restoration. Likewise for Distribpix's recent restoration of The Opening of Misty Beethoven - that film now looks better than anyone probably ever expected it to!  

2) The tools for film restoration have evolved to the point that the lay viewer is under the impression that it can perform miracles, which to some extent seems objectively true. So let's look at it from the other end of the telescope, as it were, and talk about the things that the tools CAN'T do.

Well, as I said there’s a great amount of things that digital tools can do to repair the issues that have always blighted older film titles that we couldn’t do just a few years ago. That said, it’s important to bear in mind that in the most fundamental sense, no amount of restoration, digital or otherwise, can significantly improve the quality of the image of the film element that it’s sourced from. The issues I’ve mentioned - dirt, scratches, stability, flicker, missing or damaged frames, etc – these can all be improved significantly through the careful application of digital tools. But the basic details within that original image, meaning the film grain, the level of detail, etc – these can only be improved within the parameters of what the original element would allow.

It’s like up-rezing an image from SD to HD. An increase in detail doesn’t happen simply because you’ve added more pixels. Of course one can give the illusion of increased detail or sharpness through digital enhancement, but then it’s no longer the film you’re working with, it’s something else. I work to create the best representation of an old film possible, but that means keeping the results within the historic bounds of what that film would be able to achieve at the time – be it its film grain, the saturation of its colors, the level of its contrast, etc. A film from 1930 shouldn’t look like a film from 1950, and it most definitely shouldn’t resemble a film from 2013. Whatever tools you’re using should be done in service of what the film looked like at the time of release, not some ill-advised notion of what it could look like now. That, for me, is probably the most important thing.

Unrealistic expectations are a common source of frustration for film restorers, as often the best existing film elements simply won’t allow for a "miraculous" result.  The project is only as good as the material it's sourced from, and not all films have been subjected to the same treatment over the years. Often with older titles the original negative has been lost, or is far too damaged to work from. In this case you might be relying on the next best thing, like a second-generation interpositive or fine grain element. But there may be problems with these materials as well. Often restorations have to make use of more than one element, each subjected to vastly different histories, and then it can prove a real challenge to make the overall results consistent. To put it simply, every film is different, and every restoration has its own set of challenges.

One interesting development of late has been the discussion of the differences between what we’re now able to see digitally in comparison to what was visible on a film print. The Wizard of Oz scenario is well-known – in Warner Brothers' new Technicolor restoration you could suddenly see wires holding up the Scarecrow, whereas in all previous releases of the film, they were invisible. Clearly back in 1938 Victor Fleming and his Director of Photography understood enough about the photochemical process that they could expect the wires to be invisible by the time theatrical prints were created in the printing chain, but in working digitally from the first generation elements, the wires are now there, clear as day. Likewise, I've heard it recently remarked that with Vistavision films such as Vertigo we’re now seeing a level of detail on Blu-ray that was never intended for the cinema, as theatrical prints would have been made from separate matrices reduced for printing. So how does one approach situations like these? It’s an interesting dilemma.

3) What are your favorite/favored tools, or the ones you find yourself applying more often? What have you had a hand in developing? 

I can’t claim to have had a personal hand in the development of any specific software tool, but I’m fortunate that I work with such an amazing team of technicians at Deluxe Labs in London, who are always working to find new ways of meeting the numerous challenges this kind of work presents. We’ve worked together on so many projects over the years for the BFI, Eureka and most recently Arrow (Zombie Flesh Eaters) we’ve developed a great rapport together, which is crucial when you're working on archive titles. 

With picture restoration there's a variety of tools at hand that benefit some films more than others. I'm always cautious about any so-called "automated" processes, as it's so easy for these tools to have an unwanted effect on film grain and detail even if applied carefully. So while it takes far longer to do, nothing works better for me than old-fashioned frame-by-frame cleanup, performed manually. It can be incredibly complicated, time-consuming work, but there's just no substitute for treating each individual frame with the utmost care. Full disclosure, though - I don't do any of the hand-on stuff myself anymore. As a restoration supervisor, I oversee all the steps of a project from the initial research and selection of film materials to the reviewing of scans to the full grading of the film to all stages of picture and sound restoration. Whenever possible we'll work with the director or director of photography (if alive and available) and we always work to deliver the highest quality representation of a film's original release within the parameters the budget and time frame allow for.   

4) The two projects that were the springboards for this correspondence were pictures that seem to have almost as wide an aesthetic gulf as a temporal one: Carl Theodor Dreyer's 1928 masterwork The Passion Of Joan Of Arc, which you supervised the Eureka!/Masters Of Cinema Blu-ray version of, and the aforementioned Zombie Flesh Eaters, the notorious 1979 Lucio Fulci horror cult fave. In terms of materials, each one must have presented unique challenges. But there's also a question of properly serving a given film's aesthetic. I understand I'm constructing a bit of a big tent question here but I'm interested in your thoughts on all of these considerations. 

One could hardly choose two more different films than those two, could they? Though I still think they'd make a great double bill! Hey, they both feature heavy doses of pain and suffering, both base the reasons for their violence in religion of one kind or another, and both really know the power of a well-executed close-up. Although it's true that only one of the films features a punch-up between a zombie and a shark...

Anyway, the fundamental criteria for me is always to present the film as close to how it originally appeared in the cinema. That means restoring the film to the highest quality possible but not employing any means to "update" or "improve" the image or the sound in some misguided effort to refashion it to fit in better with modern-day expectations. I want the results of something I restore to appear as a film artifact, not a digital one, which is why I've been using the term "preserving a film's photochemical integrity" lately. 

The Passion of Joan of Arc project grew out of Eureka's interest in releasing the film on Blu-ray and the Danish Film Institute's desire to see Carl Dreyer's original Danish version made available to the public. As far as I'm aware, Gaumont are still planning to restore it themselves, but the version they eventually produce will almost surely be the French version we've all been familiar with for years. So as this stood as the only likely chance to have Dreyer's debut version seen to properly, we wanted to make sure we presented Joan in the best and most accurate representation possible. 

We had the good fortune to be working from the Danish Film Institute's preservation materials, struck directly from a first generation 35mm print discovered in Oslo. This is as literally good as it gets with this film, a film we're amazingly lucky still exists in any form given the problems it faced from the very beginning. For those unfamiliar with the saga this film was put through, the story bears repeating, so I'll crib a bit from a piece written about the restoration for Moviemail last year:

"The trouble began just six months following the film's Copenhagen premiere in 1928 when the original negative was destroyed in a fire and the two original prints created from this element were subsequently lost. A new second negative, incorporating extra footage not featured in the original version, was subsequently cut together by Dreyer but this material swiftly fell victim to misfortune, and was presumed to have perished in a lab fire as well. Although fires like this were fairly commonplace at a time when highly flammable nitrate film stocks were used, the fact that the film had been destroyed on two separate occasions seemed to imply that The Passion of Joan of Arc was destined not to survive in any form.

Over the years that followed, several incomplete prints and material believed to represent the second lost negative re-surfaced; as a result numerous versions of the film have been edited together and screened for international audiences, but Dreyer’s original version remained lost, presumably forever. 

Then in 1981, one of the original prints struck from Dreyer’s first negative was miraculously discovered at a Norwegian psychiatric hospital. The Danish Film Institute (DFI) immediately acquired this material, which came to be known as the "Oslo print" and created a new preservation negative, guaranteeing a secure future for the film and keeping the elements in optimal conditions for years to come. Finally, after over half a century, The Passion of Joan of Arc could finally be seen exactly as Dreyer had originally intended."

Before-and-after restoration images from Joan.

So with all that history facing you, the responsibility you bear to remain faithful to the film and the materials at hand should be always first and foremost on your mind. Given that we had a specific budget and fairly tight schedule to work by, my approach was to do the best job possible but to be wary of not "over-restoring" anything. The entire film required stabilization due to the shrinkage and sprocket wear the print had endured throughout its 80-plus year lifespan. Every join between shots required manually re-setting as there were bumps on literally every cut - a fairly daunting task for a film as creatively and heavily edited as Joan. Density inconsistencies manifested in the form of heavy flickering had to be significantly reduced. There were numerous instances of damaged and missing frames, often requiring new frames to be digitally interpolated, as well as a steady stream of heavy and light scratches throughout. Not all of these issues could be remedied completely, and some problems could only be marginally improved. If you watch the restored version of Joan, the film still exhibits quite a few of these issues, although it's now a fraction of what we started with. The important thing is that none of the work we did compromised the original photochemical look and feel of the film, and the original texture of Joan remains. Fortunately most of the feedback we've received on the Blu-ray has been very positive, so I think on the whole people appreciate this approach, even if the results aren't 100% pristine, which would be a very tall order with any film from this era. 

Zombie Flesh Eaters was quite a bit different, in that it's a film that's been widely available for years, most recently in a fairly decent Blu-ray presentation from Blue Underground. But Arrow felt strongly that the film deserved better, so they decided to fund a new restoration of the film on the basis that we would be granted access to the original Techniscope negatives. A little digging revealed that these elements hadn't been made available for transfer since the film's original print run (contrary to a good deal of misinformation that's been circulating on the web), so we had a good opportunity to correct for some home-video crimes of the past and restore the film to its original release presentation. 

Techniscope was a fairly popular format in Europe throughout the 1960s and 70s - it was essentially a low-budget version of Cinemascope, using two perforations instead of the standard four. After the initial negative is processed and edited, secondary elements (Interpositive, Internegative, etc) are produced by blowing up the image to fill the 4-perf frame. Having worked on another Techniscope project a couple years ago for the BFI (La Vallée, Barbet Schroeder, 1972) I knew that using the negatives provided the ability to capture a good deal more image area in the film frame than any of the other printing elements in the film chain, as the blow-up process would have forced the cropping of all sides of the image in order to fit within the 4-perf frame. So working from 2K scans of these original negatives, I was able to bring the color palette, the grain replication and all the details present on the negative back to its proper place, as well as reveal a good deal more picture area on all sides of the frame for most of the film. None of the work was exceptionally challenging, although the footage from the famed shark-zombie sequence was blighted by a lab fault that proved impossible to do anything but digitally minimize - fortunately this issue has always been a part of the film, as it was printed into every version anyone's ever seen! 

The reviews we've received for Zombie have been overwhelmingly positive - considering how it was represented on VHS here in Britain for so many years, I think people were amazed to see the film looking as good as it did! That said, It shouldn't really surprise anyone familiar with Fulci's work - he's a director with an amazing eye, the camerawork by Sergio Salvati is frequently stunning, and the combined use of locations, colour, and music by Fabio Frizzi make Zombie one of the best films of its kind. That said, it does bring up something interesting in terms of your question about properly serving a given film's aesthetic. Might some viewers actually prefer the rough VHS-era representation they grew up with, complete with faded colour, horrible sound, video snow and tape damage? It certainly makes for a very different viewing experience, but one I suppose that should be treated as just as valid, as it was viewed by so many people, particularly in this country, in exactly this way.  

So in a nutshell, my criterion is to represent the film in as close an approximation to how it originally appeared on screens as possible. More than being just a technical preference though, I view it as a true responsibility that I wish everyone would take very seriously. Which is why I'm disappointed when Gaumont Pathe chooses to apply a headache-inducing level of de-graining to Les Enfants du Paradis. Or when Hammer chooses to replace the original optical effects in The Devil Rides Out with new, "modern-day" digital versions. Or when so many recent restorations of classic films coming out of Italy are digitally sharpened to the point of resembling a Playstation game. Or when Pathe choose to put Le Samorai through so much image processing that each frame of Alain Delon in his raincoat and fedora end up resembling an oil painting more than anything captured on film. These are extreme examples, but there are plenty of others. Given the expense of restoring a film, practices like these should be actively discouraged, as the results will likely be the only means of seeing that particular film title for years to come. Considering the fact that the use of celluloid is quickly vanishing as we speak, and that very soon simply being able to project 35mm will be a thing of the past, it's essential that the tangible, textural look of celluloid is preserved properly and accurately. 

 5) Back in the late 1990s, I was at an event in New York City at which the great cinematographer Jack Cardiff spoke. In the audience was Robert A. Harris, who asked him if the lavender tint on Black Narcissus was deliberate. Cardiff's answer was something like "What lavender tint?" and hence a great error in film preservation/presentation started on its way to being corrected. I believe we first corresponded after the ITV restoration of Narcissus that you were involved in, a project that occurred even after the removal of the lavender. My question is, how important is the input of someone involved in the original work, and in the event that no survivors are around to supply input, what are the research roads you and your team find yourselves most frequently traveling?

Well first I should make it clear that I wasn't part of the restoration team responsible for Black Narcissus, although I was there in the periphery when it was happening. That restoration was produced by the archive team at ITV, with Thelma Schoonmaker and Jack Cardiff supervising throughout the process. I was fortunate enough to be invited to some work-in-progress screenings in which different film stocks were being tested to replicate the original 3-strip Technicolor look of the film. Thinking back, this served as a pretty good illustration at the time of the limitations of modern film stocks and their ability to replicate the look of older formats accurately, and the help that digital, if used with care, could provide in this regard.  I was lucky enough to meet with Jack Cardiff off and on during my years at the BFI, and true gent that he was, he was always happy to answer the numerous questions I was constantly springing on him (and I certainly wasn’t the only one). I've also had the great pleasure of working with Thelma Schoonmaker, most recently on BFI's Blu-ray restoration of what Michael Powell considered his first "true" film, The Edge of the World - an amazing film, if you haven't seen it.

Anyway, there's no real substitute for having the original talent in the suite with you while you're working on these films. Unfortunately when working on older films this just isn't possible a lot of the time, so it's imperative that one has a real understanding of a film's history and the way it's supposed to look and sound. One of the alarming aspects of the expanse of digital technology is that more and more people entering this industry will have had virtually no hands-on film experience. How is one supposed to accurately restore a film if one doesn't understand the photochemical properties of the medium? Small decisions can have an enormous impact on a way of film is represented, and those decisions need to be informed ones.  

I've already mentioned the importance of maintaining the original film grain structure, but grading the image correctly is just as important. From Eastmancolor to 2-strip and 3-strip Technicolor way back to Dufaycolor or the experiments of Friese-Greene, there's been so many ways to interpret color throughout the history of cinema that one needs to be very careful in how those colors are represented in any new restoration.  The temptation to make the colors pop, to over-saturate, to make them much deeper and heavier than they would have looked on an original film print, is one that needs to be kept in check. Working from negatives, especially those that haven't been subjected to much fading over time, gives one a great deal of latitude when grading, and as a consequence the films can be as graded as warm or cool as one likes, so one needs to approach the grading with care. It's the same story with black and white titles. There's a tendency by some people to push the contrast on their black-and-white titles a bit too heavily, in an effort to make the image appear bolder and sharper, thereby giving it a look possibly more dramatic to the modern eye. But going this route is often incorrect, as most film print stocks from earlier years wouldn't have been able to support this look. As a consequence the tones in the grayscale often get lost and the subtleties of the original light and shade are simply "graded out" in favor of heavier contrast. Fortunately, the adoption of HD and Blu-ray have brought improvements to this area, as the higher resolution allows for proper replication of these subtleties. 

My thoughts about audio are pretty much the same, meaning I'm really not in favor of presenting any film in an audio format not from its time. So 5.1 or 7.1 mixes for film originally released in mono I realize it's done as an effort to make young audiences more likely to accept these older films presented in this way, but it's historically irresponsible and about as convincing to the ear as "electronically re-channeled for stereo" was in the 1960s. 

I'll give you an example of the range if choices you can be presented with. A few years ago, I was working on Terence Davies' The Long Day Closes (1992). The grading operator and I had a day to get things ready before Terence Davies and his DP Michael Coulter arrived, so we spent part of that afternoon applying an overall grade to the first couple reels. Right away we could see that the colors held in the negative were so bold and rich, that if we notched up the saturation a bit it looked just like a Douglas Sirk film! So for fun we graded the film as if it were, with bright and lurid primaries on show throughout. Now as anyone who's familiar with the films of Davies knows, he's extremely specific when it comes to color and has often used it in a creative way to evoke specific feelings for the past. So as soon as he and Coulter arrive, the first thing they tell us to do is drain all the color from the image and to start again. As with Distant Voices, Still Lives (1988), Davies and Coulter had applied a bleach-bypass to The Long Day Closes giving it a carefully faded, almost sepia feel throughout. As the material we were working from hadn't been subjected to this lab process (this is traditionally done later on in the printing ) we could have very easily graded the film in any number of ways, including our attempt at 1950s melodrama. Of course we wouldn't have done this as we were well familiar with the film and it's printing history, but one could easily imagine a scenario in which the person restoring the film hasn't done his homework, or doesn't have the filmmakers on hand to show him the way, and you'd wind up with a version of the film that would be completely wrong, both historically and aesthetically. 

That said, there are times when one can be too deferential when working with original talent. I'm talking about those rare occasions when a director has decided this is his opportunity to "fix" an aspect of the film he was never satisfied with, or "update" it in some way to bring into line with his current thinking. The results can often be interesting, but producing some updated version should never be done at the expense of presenting the film as it was originally released. I don't have a problem with Lucas or Friedkin or Coppola re-working their film every so often provided they allow the original films to survive intact. It's when this doesn't happen that I feel there's been an abuse of power, as somebody's personal agenda has created a deliberate distortion of a film's history. I've never subscribed to the idea that the director or any one person "owns" a film - a film belongs to history, and it's our responsibility to ensure that that history is accurately represented.

UPDATE: James White writes in, via email: "To answer Mr Kroll's question in your comments section, how these restorations are archived really comes down to the level at which they're restored. The current industry spec for archiving file-based film work is to store them on LTO5 archive tapes, which, as per good archive practice, should be cloned and the copies stored separately. If a restoration is being produced to the level of 2K/4K result, then the resolution would be high enough to justify producing a new Digital Internegative (DI), which was until recently the source for creating new restoration prints. Truth be told, there's still no better-proven long-term storage medium better than film, but sadly this seems to be happening less and less - a clear consequence of the diminishing need for film prints and the drive to go file-based for as many things as possible. That said, one should take heart that restoring a film anew would never result in the original film elements being discarded. On the contrary, the availability of a new restoration, at whatever level its been produced, would likely mean that the film elements would then be left alone and safely preserved for years to come. "

Martin Scorsese at the time of "GoodFellas"

My friend Brian Koppelman has a piece up at Grantland as part of its "Oscar Travesties" mini-series, called "The Boning of Goodfellas." It treats, of course, what a sham of a mockery of a sham it was that Kevin Costner's more do-gooderish Dances With Wolves swept the Oscars for 1990. While I feel Brian's pain, I can't share his indignation, for a number of reasons. But reading his feisty, funny, and for all that entirely evenhanded piece, I couldn't help recall the very first time I met Martin Scorsese, which was in late 1989, when he was in the very final stages of editing what was then called Good Fellas. 

At the time I was an editor at Video Review magazine, self-advertised on its covers as "The World Authority On Home Entertainment." The book was about to celebrate its tenth anniversary, and I, having worked my way up from editing the magazine's very tech-wonky equipment test reports (I swear I've forgotten more about this technology than most people have ever known), was one of several staffers deputized to fetch prognosticating soundbites and in some cases full essays from luminaries literary, cinematic, and otherwise. (J.G. Ballard: "I look forward to the day when specialty video producers—the equivalent of Sun Records and the like in the music business 20, 30 years ago, and the equivalent of small publishers in the book trade—really can begin to reach out to the public." Paula Abdul: "The big movie musical will return to prominence in this decade, as recording artists take the video music concept one step further.") I had already fielded essays by Paul Slansky and Dave Barry and of course the idea of approaching Martin Scorsese to do one was a no-brainer. I contacted his office and laid out our idea and terms (which were pretty good) and got a guardedly enthusiastic response from Scorsese's then-assistant. Two issues were of concern: Scorsese's schedule, which was tied up in finishing his latest film, and Scorsese's comfort level with respect to sitting down and writing something. Not a problem: I could come up to Scorsese's office with a legal pad and a tape recorder and go over the topics we wanted to cover, I'd draft an essay out of it, he'd dictate changes where necessary, then approve, and there we were. Deal, Scorsese's assistant said. 

It was right before the Christmas holiday when I went up to Scorsese's office, which was then in the Brill Building. The man immediately struck me as, sure, intense, but also warm, friendly, considerate. Not at all intimidating. We talked about the work in progress, and he invoked the old television series The Untouchables, in terms of both the pace and the brutality. The last thing on his mind was Oscars; there was a sense, almost palpable, of his delight that he was trying something really new for him, and also a slight sense of trepidation, as in "what are they gonna make of this?" And of course the work was consuming. "I ran into Paul Schrader in the hall the other day, he's finishing his movie. I said to him, 'It figures I see you here, we're the only two guys who are gonna work through Christmas'," Scorsese said, laughing the slightly nervous laugh he had back then.

We settled in to his private office and got started. He mostly stood and paced, and sometimes took a hit off of his inhaler—his asthma was acting up a little—and I'd just suggest a specific topic and off he would go. It did not take all that much more than an hour, and when we were through, I asked him to sign my copy of the then-new interview book Scorsese on Scorsese, published by Faber. I'm sitting here looking at it now; he inscribed it "To Glenn Kenny/Thanks & appreciation/Martin Scorsese/1989."

The piece came out well, I think. I was more interested in preserving Scorsese's voice than in making it work as an essay, and it shows, but I don't think that's necessarily bad. In subsequent years I would commission and edit other essays by him for Premiere, including his double obit for James Stewart and Robert Mitchum called "The Men Who Knew Too Much;" by this time, his comfort level with respect to prose writing had increased, so our interaction was a more simple matter of request and acknowledgement. 

In any case, the piece called "The Second Screen" has always held a special place for me, and even though it is now an extremely anachronistic look at the technology that has, indeed, transformed cinema and cinephilia, I think it still bears reading. So, without permission, I've inputted it into document form from my old and increasingly raggedy copy of the April 1990 edition of Video Review magazine, and am reproducing it here below the jump. Enjoy. 

A word or two about "The Master" and 70mm

NOT Lawrence of Arabia.

I don't want to make too big a deal of this, as God forbid I should get another scolding from a commenter on account of writing too much about other critics, and also God knows I prefer to contemplate the critic I'm about to cite as little as possible. However. As the topic is becoming what some people like to call "a thing," I have one "thing" to say about it. Writing in the mysterious publication City Arts, Armond White grouses "All that ballyhoo about The Master being shot in 70mm means nothing in the digital cinema age (too many oppressive home-video close-ups waste technology specifically designed to give tactility to what might be lost in distant scope). Praising this shows ignorance about cinematography. Instead, the smart-about-movies crowd should be looking at Paul W.S. Anderson’s aesthetics." As is usual with White and, to be frank, everybody else, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing; the idea that the 70mm "format" was "specifically designed to give tactility to what might be lost in distant scope" sounds real nice and convincing (although copy editors and many other persons of literacy might find the specific use of the word "scope" in this case questionable, but that's Armond) but is not easily definitively provable. The cited "tactility" is obviously a feature of what the higher-resolution 65mm film frame can deliver but good luck with finding a quote from Herman Casler in which the word comes up. "Praising this shows ignorance about cinematography." Okay, Armond, if you say so. There certainly are a lot of film critics who are ignorant about cinematography, not to mention editing, and who judge films solely on what they hear and very rarely what they see, as some of the more vexing notices on Cosmopolis testify. Of course White himself, judging strictly by his copy, has barely a thimbleful of tech knowledge himself. He hates digital, except when one of his pets uses it. In his incredibly puerile "Battle of the Andersons" (anyone who isn't twelve will be no more than momentarily amused by the fact that two directors with similar names and polarized generic characteristics premiered films on the same day, but White's gotta make a thesis out of it) he praises Resident Evil: Retribution director Paul W.S. Anderson because his frame "activates the screen’s fields, planes, and composition quadrants." That happens a lot in Cronenberg and Fincher movies too, but those guys are unclean, because they're cynical. (Incidentally, I rather like Paul W.S. Anderson's movies, just in case you're wondering.)

But I'm losing the plot here and I said I'd be brief. It's true that if you measure the visual scheme of The Master against that of what is considered to be the 70mm film nonpareil—that is, The Sound of Music—oh wait, no, Lawrence of Arabia, or is it 2001: A Space Odyssey?—then The Master is, yes, a little different; not a lot in the way of "sweeping" action, and no one in it plots a raid on Akaba or kills an astronaut. And it's true, in The Master there ARE a lot of closeups. Are they, per White "home-video close-ups?" Hard to say. White evokes the "home-video close-up" as if its an item in the lingua franca. The more you think about the term, the less sense it makes.

But anyway, to complain that 70mm is not appropriate to Anderson's visual scheme is simple arbitrary dogma, nothing more. It makes as much sense as to say Richard Avedon ought not have taken large-format photos of those post-Okies 'cause as subjects they're not majestic enough. Why did they shoot The Buster Keaton Story in VistaVision, anyway? The reason this "matters" (oh dear how I don't like that word) or, to put it more palatably to myself, why it's a topic of particular pertinence at this point in time is because Anderson has chosen to use 70mm at a moment that many are defining as a turning point in the history of motion pictures, that is, in J. Hoberman's phrase (which serves as the title of his new and as always provocative and brilliant book) "film after film." As digital and its discontents seems to coat the world of cinema like some intractable virus (at least in the formulation of some), Anderson's use of 70mm strikes many as a "statement." I don't think it's as extreme a statement as some are taking it. As meticulous as he is, Anderson is a practical man. The Master is being projected digitally in most venues, in a 35mm print in other venues. In interviews he has discussed what attracted him to the format, which is, paraphrased briefly, the beauty of the image it produces. He acknowledges its impractical side. But never does he discuss his use of the format in terms of throwing down, as it were, against the digital tide. He investigated the format, liked what he saw, and took the opportunity to use it. What I think The Master points to from a practical angle in the bigger pictue of things, finally, is the future of celluloid as a kind of specialty format. 

I interviewed the musician Robert Fripp in 1992 about the challenges of getting the catalog of his legendary rock band King Crimson into the digital realm. Fripp is a punishingly intelligent and exacting man, but he, too, is a practical one, and after insisting that the "mechanics of reproducing music" did not interest him "at all" he displayed a staggering command of those mechanics. And at one point he mourned—provisionally—the death of vinyl. "I accept that people with real ears probably would prefer vinyl to CDs. However, if you use vinyl, you've got to have a superb pressing plant, you've got to have superb metal work. And you're not going to get it." Several things have happened since 1992. For one thing, digital reproduction of music has advanced to the point that (and I allow that this is in itself an arguable point but bear with me here) debates over whether analog remains a superior reproduction method tend to rely, invariably and insolubly, on intangibles that rely entirely on subjectivity. The other thing that has happened is that vinyl has improved also. It's such a niche format, what with the 180 gram vinyl and similar concerns, that it is now HIGHLY likely that if you opt for vinyl now you'll be getting something from a superb (albeit small-scale) pressing plant, with superb metal work.  If we're to take the glass-half-full approach with respect to movies, their making and their preservation, we should be able to anticipate a future where the digital realm continues to show improvement, and where celluloid reproduction is accomplished on a consistently high level. I allow that things probably will NOT pan out this way, but what are you going to do. 

Over a decade ago, my friend Harry Allen wrote a piece for Premiere about the various issues of digital technology that, unfortunately and for reasons that had nothing to do with the quality of the piece (it was superb) was never published. I may ask Harry for a copy, and for permission to run it here; I think his prophecies could stir up some interesting discussion.

Aaron Aradillas on "The Phantom Menace" in 3D

My friend Aaron Aradillas wrote the below piece for another website, but due to an editorial mixup, it could not run there. That site's loss is SCR's gain, though, as Aaron generously offered it to this blog. His piece begins below the film still. 

Back in 1997, when the first STAR WARS movies were re-released (when they started be known as the Original Trilogy), the tagline in the ads said, “See it again for the first time.” Beyond being a shrewd marketing ploy, it was also an instance of truth in advertising. While it may be difficult for some to imagine, but there was a time when STAR WARS fandom (and hatred) wasn’t so omnipresent. The time between the release of Return of the Jedi and the re-released Special Editions (1983-1997), the STAR WARS movies were part of the culture, but they were in more or less the right proportion. The expanded universe of books, made-for-TV Ewok movies, commemorative VHS releases were gobbled up by die hard fans, but mostly STAR WARS was something from the past that got passed down from older brother to younger brother. (When, in 1987, Mel Brooks came out with the gentle spoof Spaceballs, the STAR WARS movies were looked at as almost quaint and possibly a little outdated. Who needs STAR WARS when you had Predator?) The “What if” fantasy of Episodes I, II, and III was that—a fantasy. We were all waiting for the next Star Wars, but in the meantime we made due with Tim Burton’s Batman, Spielberg’s Jurassic Park, and Independence Day.

What the box office success of the re-released Special Editions told Hollywood is that the only way to create another global phenomenon is to make a new STAR WARS movie. 1997 was the start of the modern-day fanboy/geek culture that now runs Hollywood. Fanboy culture (Comic-Con, Harry Potter, Twilight, The Hunger Games, The Lord of the Rings, J.J. Abrams, Joss Whedon, Marvel comics, Game of Thrones, The Walking Dead, Glee, Aint-It-Cool-News, Attack of the Show) is a groupthink mentality that claims to be democratic, what with its we-know-what’s-best-because-we’re-fans ethic, but is really pop culture fascism. And it’s the fans’ demand (remember, fan is short for fanatic), that led to Star Wars: Episode I – The Phantom Menace—the most hyped (and possibly most reviled) blockbuster in movie history.

The re-release of The Phantom Menace in a converted 3-D edition allows us to see it again for the first time in the harsh light of disappointment. And what does The Phantom Menace look like? It looks like what it always was; an exceedingly well-made spectacle hampered by the limitations of being an origin story.

(For the record, the 3-D adds more or less nothing to the experience. It’s mostly relegated to background effects. Nothing is thrown at you. And the newly added digital Yoda looks like the old Yoda, except maybe a little brighter and younger.)

The Phantom Menace is like the George W. Bush of STAR WARS movies. If you make your expectations low enough it won’t seem half bad. (Okay, The Phantom Menace isn’t that bad.) With very few exceptions (Superman, Batman Begins) origin stories play like homework. There’s very little drama in seeing characters before they became interesting. This is what doomed the Prequels to be such a letdown. Audiences just wanted to see the key moments of Anakin Skywalker’s story. They really didn’t want to see his childhood. (Basically we all just wanted the last hour of Revenge of the Sith.)

Of the three Prequels The Phantom Menace has the most heavy-lifting to do. It’s storyline involving “trade routes” and “taxation without representation” does not resonate. What does come across (especially after seeing it again in theaters) is just how elegantly detailed George Lucas has made everything. The Phantom Menace kicked off a new era in digital filmmaking. Everything from The Lord of the Rings trilogy to Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow to Sin City to Transformers to 300 to Avatar to The Curious Case of Benjamin Button used digital effects and environments in ways that forever altered how we view space and movement. What’s shocking about The Phantom Menace is just how stately it looks compared to something like, say, Transformers. Lucas, a student of silent movies and cliffhangers, still believes in the action happening within the frame. He doesn’t go for fast cutting and arbitrary jump-cuts. This allows him to do a slow build that, seen today, is kind of refreshing. Believe it or not, The Phantom Menace dares to take its time. You’re allowed to take in the visuals. You aren’t being forced to scan the frame in the hopes of not missing anything before the next edit. The detail of the city-planet Curoscant or the desert vistas of Naboo have a tactile quality that is rare in today’s all-CGI-all-the-time filmmaking.

As Jedi master Qui-Gon Jinn, Liam Neeson proves to be a genius with his line readings. The character is nothing but exposition. Neeson knows this. He also knows the only way to make the character stick in our heads is by underplaying him with just a hint of bemusement at the situations he finds himself in. Neeson’s delivery of the line “There’s always a bigger fish” perfectly illustrates his ability to say a clunker of a line with just enough conviction that he gets a laugh. Ewan McGregor is wonderful as the young Ben Kenobi. He nails Alec Guiness’ dashing quality while suggesting the gravitas that is soon to come. Seeing The Phantom Menace again I admit I didn’t despise Jake Lloyd’s performance as young “Ani” Skywalker as I once did. Granted, he has some awful lines that would trip up the most seasoned actors. (His opening line of “Are you an angel?” is a real groaner. Also, no one should ever utter the word “yippie” unless they’re being ironic.) But he’s very good at getting across the mix of impatience and bratiness that would give the Jedi Council pause in accepting him. When he says, “I’m a person,” he shows just the right amount of anger that tells you this kid is potentially a bad seed.

(Hayden Christensen would take brattiness to near operatic heights in Attack of the Clones and especially Revenge of the Sith.) It’s clear now that the one-and-a-half note acting style that garnered Natalie Portman an Oscar started with her portrayal of Padme Amidala. The only difference is that that acting style is perfectly suited for a square sci-fi fantasy, not a psychological freak-out like Black Swan. And Jar Jar Binks? I’ve never been a hater. (I’m not a lover either.) In fact I’ve always marveled at how well he was integrated into the action. Interestingly, people have always complained about the character, but no one has ever objected to Jar Jar Binks looking unreal. (Granted, Gollum in The Two Towers would take CGI-created characters to a whole new level.)

Like Star Wars (or is it A New Hope?), the first half of The Phantom Menace is creakily paced. It’s all setup. (This may be the rare instance of the majority of a movie is setup within a movie that’s setup for a franchise.) But then the pod race occurs and the movie starts to gain momentum. The pod race remains a marvel of movement, speed, and special effects. It’s like the chariot race in Ben-Hur gone galactic. Seen today, in the wake of countless smash-and-grab chases, there’s something almost old-fashion about the way Lucas allows certain shots to last more than a couple of seconds. The three-pronged finale of space battle, droid battle, and lightsaber duel (echoes of Return of the Jedi) is even better. The cross-cutting between the three sequences is surprisingly precise. The lightsaber duel with Darth Maul (he of the facial makeup that makes him look like a demented Studio 54 dancer), is genuinely exciting. And John Williams’ score, which is rather minimal throughout most of the movie, comes alive with the rousing and foreboding “Duel of the Fates” theme. It’s the lightsaber duel where The Phantom Menace starts to get the blood pumping. We’re startled by both the death of Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan’s genuine flash of anger at the death of his friend. The next two episodes would be better movies overall, but it was moments like Obi-Way striking down Darth Maul that would rekindle a new hope in the STAR WARS universe. The ability to navigate unreasonable expectations and disappointment might be the ultimate trial of any true believer in the Force.

—Aaron Aradillas

 

 

"Nunsense," or, "In the pink," or "Getting to be a habit with me," or, OK I'll stop...

So. I was getting ready to retire the other night, as I've gotten to be a bit of an early-to-bed-and-early-to-rise type of late, and I thought before that I'd check out the comments threads over at the ole blog and see if anything new had come under the transom, and I find that on the thread for "Digital Archery" there's a question from esteemed laser disc and DVD assessor Doug Pratt, and the question is, "What did you think of the pink outlines around the white nun's habits in Black Narcissus?" And my first reaction is a more, erm, Christian variant of "Oy gevalt." My second reaction is "Is that a trick question?" And if not, well, what am I supposed to think of the pink outlines? I'm guessing that I'm not supposed to approve of them. Well, I'm not going to start investigating the issue right now. It'll wait until tomorrow. 

And the next morning I got up and decided, first off, to stop being so paranoid. For heaven's sake. And I got out the standard-definition DVD of the new Criterion edition of Black Narcissus and threw it on the computer. And it did not take me long to find the pink outline of which Mr. Pratt speaks. 

Now understand, that when Pratt or other mavens discuss things such as pink outlines, they don't necessarily mean things that look like force fields that attach themselves to moving objects and so on. No, such observers are detail men. So below, a screen capture in which the discussed pink outline is at its most evident.

For those of you who might be asking "what pink outline?" see the cropped detailing at left. That pink outline. And now that we've established what the pink outline is, we have to ask, well, just what is it? Usually, shimmering halo effects around outlined figures in DVD images are accounted for by overuse or misuse of DNR, for Digital Noise Reduction, the technology that's used to "clean up" perceived film grain, cut down on actual video noise, which is something else entirely, and increase sharpness. Much has been written about how over-cleaning film grain actually reduces detail, and how you end up with a false sharpness, a big bright shiny DVD or Blu-ray image that has less picture information than what these ostensibly increased-definition formats are hyping. 

Those who follow the formats also know that Criterion is hardly a company known for slathering a lot of DNR on its releases, and that it has a "let grain be" policy that's earned the ire of...oh, hell, I'm not even gonna go there. The main point is that, first off, the anomaly is not likely to be the result of DNR because precedent strongly suggests that wouldn't be the case, but more importantly, because the anomaly doesn't look like a DNR artifact. The pink outlining—which, I should point out here, is not a constant problem, as the screen cap some grafs below demonstrates—is more solid, more constant than a DNR halo would be; it doesn't have that maddening shimmery quality. 

My suspicion was that the anomaly was a sort of holdover from the Technicolor process itself, but I could not put my finger on it. So I thought to consult my rebbe on such matters, Robert A. Harris, the film preservation and restoration expert, maestro in both theory and practice. I recall being in the Manhattan theater back in the day, at an event at which the cinematographer Jack Cardiff spoke, and Harris asking if the lavender tint that suffused the print that Criterion had used for its laser disc of Black Narcissus was supposed to be there, and Cardiff saying no, it most certainly wasn't. It seemed to me at that moment new ground was broken in terms of the director-or-cinematographer-approved home incarnation of a film, a welcome development even if it did open a whole new can of worms (see Vittorio Storaro and aspect ratios). I know historically I'm probably off on that. But I insist that the moment got the ball rolling that led to the largely excellent version of Black Narcissus we have today. 

I e-mailed Mr. Harris and asked what he made of the pink thing. And his answer made me say, "Of course." Here is some of what he wrote to me: "First, Black Narcissus, as opposed to The Red Shoes, was composited analogue; presumably going from the original negs to an interpositive...Keep in mind that three-strip Technicolor was not three fully 'direct-to-emulsion' differing exposures, but rather two, with the third exposure, what's called the cyan record (which controls red), being exposed through the base of another record—and ALWAYS SLIGHTLY OUT OF FOCUS!" (Going into even more detail about processes, he points out, "the bi-pack pair were emulsion to emulsion, with the image first exposing the yellow record, and then the cyan, with cyan—always—in slightly soft focus.This would never have been noticed via dye transfer printing, and especially with the optics in use at the time.")

This is why his observation that Black Narcissus was composited analogue is so crucial to the question. Because while digital technology can be a very hurtful thing when used incorrectly, it can also be an incredibly valuable tool to make various fixes. Harris notes: "If one is compositing the records digitally, the cyan (red information) can be slightly sharpened, re-sized, etc., toward a better fit.What we're seeing [with the pink outlines around the habits] may be either that cyan record problem, or just as possible, optical aberrations within either the camera prism system, or the taking optics themselves." Thus, Harris concludes, the new Narcissus could have done with some digital tweaking, as was used by Warner in its recent restoration of Gone With The Wind. "Or," Harris adds, "more to the case, the new Robert Gitt/UCLA/MPI restoration of The Red Shoes," the basis of the new Criterion standard def and Blu-ray editions.

Is my enjoyment of the new Black Narcissus spoiled by these fruits from the tree of knowledge? I can't say it is. What is enhanced, rather, is my appreciation of there almost always being room for improvement in these matters.