10

Genre Editing Styles III

► The Horror Film

The horror genre addresses our concerns with the weakness of the flesh. Human mortality and decay occupy the images in this genre. Interestingly, serious directors in this genre often remain engaged to horror for their entire careers, such as Dario Argento, John Carpenter, Wes Craven, and George Romero. These directors have a passionate commitment to the blood and gore that has permeated the modern visions of horror films. More than anything, however, the horror film is devoted to the monster. Whether it is a block-headed behemoth with bolts in his neck or a transient sporting razors on his hands, the horror genre asks us to look at our own monsters by manifesting them on screen in the guise of various personages. The characters of earlier times, Dracula, Werewolf, and Frankenstein, join Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers, and Jigsaw in more recent fare to populate our nightmares with ghastly creatures.

Fear of death, fear of dismemberment, and fear of pain permeate the horror film. The editor in this genre is treated to a host of bizarre and otherworldly images. Various monster shops, of which Rick Baker’s was one of the most prominent for decades, supply the latex masks and quirky appliances that make monsters unique and captivating. Unlike comedies and action films, the horror film can sustain itself on the blood of lesser-known actors. Also, these films can be produced on a very low budget. The grosser, the better, remains the adage of some horror directors, and audiences devour their films along with popcorn and hot dogs while watching late-night reruns.

Because of the horror film’s potentially low-budget status, flexible story structure, and tolerance for one-note performances, it has thrived as the mainstay of the independent film world. Upon its turf resides a fertile ground for young filmmakers, from directors to editors to directors of photography (DPs), to launch their careers. The comparatively small initial investment has made it attractive to investors who at times reap huge returns from films that gain a large, or even cultish, following. The Blair Witch Project (1999) and Paranormal Activity (2007) have grossed millions of dollars despite budgets that linger in the thousands. Horror films also reproduce like viruses. It is not unusual for the initial film to spawn sequels numbering five, six, or even seven. Yet, despite its kinship with low-budget producers, the horror film also attracts studio-size budgets and production value. Film such as The Cabin in the Woods (2012) and Sam Raimi’s Drag Me to Hell (2009) sport more sophisticated story structures, fine acting, and well-honed picture and sound editing.

In terms of editing, the horror genre relies on the jump scare. A sudden motion or a loud sound is nearly guaranteed to startle an audience. Adding a jump cut to catapult the suspended action, usually from a wider shot to a frenetic close-up, heightens the effect. Precede this with creepy music and a good helping of suspense and you are likely to have an audience so on edge that they are ready to bolt for the exits. If the editor and director can further take the audience off its guard, such as in the final moments of Brian de Palma’s Carrie (1976) where the dead girl’s hand juts up out of the cemetery soil and grabs her foe, then the thrills are increased. Drag Me to Hell capitalizes on the jump scare, scattering it liberally throughout the film to the point where it becomes almost numbing. The movie’s sound of the cyclonic force of evil scattering props left and right aids the action.

Blood Suckers

Starting in 1922 with F. W. Murnau’s Nosferatu, a silent movie based on Bram Stoker’s novel Dracula, the vampire has lurked in the dreams and nightmares of filmmakers and their audiences up through the present day with the popular Twilight franchise. The telltale fang marks that first appeared in Nosferatu reappear in Dracula (1931) starring Bela Lugosi, in Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula (1992), in Twilight (2008), and in Let Me In (2010) based on the Swedish cult film Let the Right One In (2008). This iconic image, along with garlic, smoke, crosses, bats, coffins, mirrors, and many others, reflects the realm of the vampire. Recently, the Twilight series has attempted to deconstruct almost all of the popular conventions associated with the vampire, yet the prevailing strength of the genre, rather than being sapped of its energy, has been revitalized. Like the creature itself, the vampire legend appears to be eternal.

Part of the vampire’s attractiveness lies in his duality of a charismatic refinement combined with an animalistic lust for blood, particularly that of virgins. The eroticism, power, and mystery associated with the vampire challenge the decent though repressive mores of civilized society. On the surface, the film The Servant (1963), written by Harold Pinter, is a domestic drama about an upper-class Englishman, Tony (James Fox), who hires a manservant (Dirk Bogarde) to maintain the order of his London flat. Eventually the tables turn and the servant gets the better of Tony, unraveling his respectable existence and figuratively sucking the life out of him. Though rarely identified as a vampire film, The Servant clearly has its roots in that genre. Mindful of this, the filmmakers placed subtle hints throughout the movie, including braids of garlic in the kitchen, mirrors that glimpse partial reflections, smoke, and even crosses formed from masking tape on the new glass windows.

► The Thriller and Mystery

Like the mystery genre, the thriller genre often involves detection of the evildoer who must finally be brought to justice. It deviates from the mystery genre, however, in many ways. In fact, mysteries and thrillers often present antithetical story cycles. Since editing’s primary purpose is to the tell the story most effectively, it is important for the editor or film doctor to understand the distinctions between the genres so as to avoid missteps. For instance, thrillers often demand that the protagonist go mano a mano with the villain at the end. It should be a fight to the death, where the outcome is uncertain. All the hero’s resources must coalesce to take down the evildoer. An editor who is cutting a thriller where this doesn’t occur should, in collaboration with the writer and director, rethink the ending.

Likewise, understanding the difference between the two genres will help in the decision of what to reveal and when. In a mystery it is a good idea to hold back the shot that reveals too much, gives away a clue too soon, or reveals an identity. In a thriller, however, the editor wants to reveal certain items early on. Through a cutaway, for instance, the editor will reveal a killer waiting around the corner as the protagonist wanders down a dark alley. The aim here is to expose information so the audience, in knowing, will feel intense concern for the hero.

When to reveal information through a cut pervades many a thriller editor’s concerns. Again, timing is everything. Show an action or character too soon and it dissipates the momentum; show it too late and you have sacrificed the thrill of the audience’s anticipation. One of the most gripping features of this genre derives from the audience’s close identification with the hero and the ensuing dread that something terrible will befall him or her. If the audience lacks the necessary information, such as location, intent, or abilities of the antagonist, then the tension is diluted.

Where obscuring information is important in a mystery, the need to supply information is tantamount in a thriller. The one essential piece of information that is intentionally left out of the thriller involves the true perpetrator. Sometimes the character we believe to be the villain isn’t, and the one whom we were most comfortable with, even believed we could trust, turns out to be the betrayer. It could be a close friend, a relative, a trusted doctor, or even a priest. In Angels and Demons (2009), one of the stronger aspects of the film is the handsome young camerlengo who, on the surface, appears to save the day. Near the film’s end, he hops on a helicopter and ferries a container of stolen antimatter safely away from the Vatican before its magnetic containment shield shuts down, setting off a devastating explosion. His heroic deed is certain to earn him the position of pope. The audience suspects that one of the older cardinals is to blame for multiple trespasses, since he appears to have an overzealous ambition to be the next pope. Yet, moments before the end, we discover that the charming camerlengo was responsible for stealing the antimatter. He’s the actual villain. In these cases misdirection helps to enhance the story.

The mystery presents a protagonist who starts life generally with more confidence, strength, and know-how than the thriller’s protagonist. The detective fulfills a power fantasy since he enters the story already capable of taking on the challenges before him. The protagonist in a thriller, however, starts out at a disadvantage and must learn the skills required to defeat the antagonist. The mystery’s protagonist is proactive, like Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Adam Dalgliesh, or Sherlock Holmes. The invitation to the audience is to use their brains, follow the clues, and solve the mystery. When it is coupled with the action genre, the mystery creates spy movies such as the James Bond franchise. The hero, searching for the clues to smuggled gold in Goldfinger (1964) or a downed NATO bomber carrying a nuclear payload in Thunderball (1965), must battle vicious adversaries in order to solve the mystery. In recent cross-genre Sherlock Holmes films with Robert Downey Jr., the previously retiring sleuth jumps into the fray with fisticuffs and weaponry.

The protagonist of a thriller is rarely so daring. Rather, he or she has been thrust into a situation for which he is ill-prepared. He is a victim who becomes an unlikely hero. Cary Grant’s character of Roger Thornhill in Hitchcock’s classic thriller North by Northwest (1959) is an innocent bystander whose mistaken identity embroils him in a deadly game of international espionage. He ends up fighting for his life as he’s chased across America by a gang of ruthless spies. Clarice Starling (Jodie Foster) in Silence of the Lambs (1991) is an FBI cadet who’s not prepared for the treacherous manipulations of Dr. Hannibal Lecter (Anthony Hopkins). By enlisting Lecter’s help to find a serial killer, Clarice ends up nearly losing her own life.

Suspense films grip an audience like no other. Even Rope (1948), that experiment in non-editing, sustains because of its suspenseful story. In Rope, Alfred Hitchcock introduces the audience to two killers—upper-class rogues from Ivy League colleges who, for the challenge of it, have constructed what they believe will be the perfect murder. As the story evolves, we discover that one, Brandon, possesses more daring than the other. He is so pompously sure that his scheme will succeed that he has invited the deceased’s parents and fiancée over for dinner. Not only that, but he has moved the dining room tablecloth over to the settee—which houses the dead body—and sets it for dinner. At each turn the story raises the ante, adding greater and greater jeopardy.

A less successful attempt at repeating this experiment, the film Russian Ark (2002), with its tediously long tracking shots and contrived story, reinforces Rope’s masterfulness. Russian Ark, which was shot on high-definition video and has the advantage of no splices, since the filmmakers employed a full-length videocassette, repeats Hitchcock’s experiment in color and with the fluid movement of a Steadicam. Photographed at St. Petersburg’s Hermitage Museum, the film is a production designer’s dream. The lavish sets and costumes, the large cast, and intricate camera moves make it worth viewing. But the meandering story, beginning as a sort of mystery with a disembodied narrator wondering where he is, makes for a less intriguing experience. It is further diluted by lovely but not very dramatic stage and orchestral performances within the confines of the Hermitage. Here, the superiority of suspense over mystery again becomes clear.

► Family Films

The family film is another genre that implies various conventions. Though such films can be formulaic, they must never expose their formula. It is generally easy to identify the ones that are constructed by committees along the lines of various precepts garnered from film schools or story seminars and those that spring from the wringing of the writer’s heart. In art, feeling has precedence over technique, though good technique helps to express feeling in a meaningful way. Rather than building outward from a formula, the filmmaker had best build from the inside and then check the structure against outer conventions.

Family films often highlight conflicts within relationships or over the concept of family. Ideal differs from real, and along the way the audience finds an insight into those issues. Whether we deny family or celebrate family, the fact of our relatedness to people we may or may not choose as friends remains. A film like The Family Man (2000) shows the conflict many young men experience about transitioning from their ego-centered, successful bachelorhood to a world of family and commitments. In this case, Nicholas Cage plays a Wall Street broker with a Ferrari who, by an act of magic, wakes up one morning with a wife and children. One endearing scene finds him walking in on his wife (played by Téa Leoni) in the shower and then guided by the older child into diapering the baby. He continues to insist, “This is not my life,” only to find out at the end that it is the life he needs and ultimately wants.

Characters in these stories often believe they know what they need and are set on achieving it. In the end they rarely accomplish their original goal, but instead they find something else that is more valuable and enduring. As the philosopher Martin Buber once observed, “All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.”³

James Joyce’s term epiphany describes the ah-ha moment that these characters often experience in the third act of the story. Without these transformative moments, the family film, while perhaps entertaining, does not rise to the potential of its genre. In Prancer (1989), the epiphany of the father’s and daughter’s acknowledgements of their love for each other is further reinforced by the physical manifestation of their newly shared faith in each other and in the magic of the season—the reindeer flies!

► The Documentary

The documentary is a genre that most vividly represents the editor’s influence on filmmaking. It has evolved from the early newsreels to travelogues and nature movies to cinéma vérité to reality shows to features like The Cove (2009), Food, Inc. (2008), and An Inconvenient Truth (2006) that confront political and social issues. Initially a collection of field-gathered images linked together through narration, the documentary has grown to include dramatic re-creations, computer-generated visual effects, and surround sound.

There are basically two kinds of documentaries that confront the editor. One is what National Geographic regularly produces. The subject matter, based on a historical, cultural, or scientific topics, has been exhaustively researched. The research eventually renders a script divided into two halves, one representing what will be seen and one representing what will be heard, video and audio, with accompanying timecode. In many cases a re-creation of an event may be portrayed. Visual effects help to explain complex concepts or illustrate what cannot be shown. On the soundtrack, narration intersperses with interview sound bites.

At first the editor may record the voiceover himself, but later it will be replaced by a trained actor or voiceover artist. Footage-wise, the editor is supplied with interviews from experts or those who have experienced a particular event. This is accompanied by B-roll.

In this case the editor proceeds in a fairly circumscribed way. First, he may string together what is known as a radio cut. The radio cut, as the name implies, is an audio portrayal of what comprises the movie, built from the temporary narration and a head bed of interviews or talking heads. Through digital nonlinear editing, the construction of these tracks has become much easier. Where previously producers and editors constructed their cuts from timecode logs, known as paper cuts, the computer allows a graphic representation of the various cuts that can be easily moved around, repositioning them for the best effect. On the timeline the individual video cuts sit directly above the individual audio cuts, and, to a certain extent, it is possible to invoke the old-school paint-by-numbers approach. For every audio cue the editor need merely find an accompanying video clip to illustrate those words. Though the tendency is to ignore this seemingly prosaic approach, the result of not yielding to its time-honored effectiveness generally produces a confusing story.

There are plenty of places to get creative and supply expressionistic or impressionistic images to overlay an abstract concept such as love or beauty. But it is often advisable to show a volcano when the narrator refers to a volcano or to show a three-toed sloth when the interviewee mentions her encounter with such an animal.

Playing With Blocks

Editing a documentary is a bit like playing with blocks. In this case the blocks appear as rectangular chunks of color on the computer’s timeline. They can be expanded, contracted, transposed, and moved around at will to configure the best sequence to tell the story. The drag and drop feature found on some NLE systems makes this kind of shuffling easy. Some editors like to string shots together one after another along a single video track. Others like to stagger the blocks over multiple stacks of video tracks, keeping in mind that only the uppermost ones will be seen (Figure 10.1).

Figure 10.1 The staggered clip method of building a documentary sequence

On video tracks only one shot predominates at a time, unless the editor creates some sort of transparency, such as titles with alpha channels. This is not the case with the audio tracks. Audio tracks are like team builders who include everyone in their game. Audio tracks are inclusive rather than exclusive. Many NLE systems allow the construction of up to 99 audio tracks, though monitoring them may be limited to sixteen tracks at a time.

Documentary editors use video track exclusivity to their advantage. Take, for example, a head bed of interview subjects excitedly chatting about their field of interest. At some point, probably fairly early on, the talking head is going to become tedious to look at. Before that happens, the editor splices in a shot of the snow monkey he is talking about. If you are editing on a single video track, you use the overwrite function to replace the dull talking head with the cute, dynamic shot of the snow monkey. Meanwhile, the audio track remains unchanged, supplying a voiceover narration.

On the other hand, if you use multiple video tracks, you have the option of preserving the entire talking head shot so you can refer back to it by turning off the video tracks above it. If after that you decide that you should have allowed another six frames before going to the snow monkey, you can shift the clip above it six frames later. When you turn all the video tracks back on, you’ll now have the cut you wanted. A lot of editors like this approach. Others find it confusing to have so many clips running on so many tracks, with only some of them showing up when the sequence plays. Presumably, if you have thought about your cut, you probably will not have as much juggling to do. In that case, the editor should follow the mindset of the old-school paper cut editor who calculates everything ahead of time.

While these methods may seem too prescribed to pique the innovative interest of a creative editor, they actually rely heavily on the editor’s skills and artistry. The narration and interviews are only the starting point, and the choice of shots as well as the flow and pacing of the story depend upon the editor. As he proceeds through the material, it will become evident which concepts and images best reinforce the story and which ones are superfluous or confusing. This fuels a sort of dialogue between editor and writer/producer/director where the narration will be reworked to conform to the needs of the cut. This approach is not open ended, however, and depends on production schedules, air dates, and required or contracted running times.

While National Geographic strives for accuracy and employs researchers to maintain its integrity, other documentary filmmakers design their movies to support or refute various political or social agendas with less regard for facts. Their stories and influence become the primary concern. Even the news, it is important to point out, is based on stories. In many cases the events depicted have nothing to do with where we live or people we know. Yet they are captivating as they unfurl insights into the human condition, the lengths some people will go to seek revenge, gain a fortune, or make a name for themselves. National Geographic’s aim is to present a factual and unbiased account of historic or geographic events, while other documentary filmmakers find their purpose in exposing corruption or challenging existing ideas or mores.

A corollary of this approach is exemplified by the documentaries of Ken Burns, who has capitalized on topics dear to the hearts of Americans—baseball, jazz, national parks, the American Civil War and the Vietnam War. His films use massive amounts of still photographs, some of which are animated with zooms or pans, to illustrate the words of prominent and unknown participants of that era. The familiar voices of various celebrities read from historic papers, letters, and books. Because of the effective and pervasive use of his approach, the term Ken Burns Effect has entered the documentary vernacular.

Both the Ken Burns approach and the National Geographic approach require a huge amount of research and preparation. They tend to aim toward a particular audience and venue so the running time and viewer sensibility are figured in. Other types of documentary, notably the feature documentary, issue forth with less restrictions and greater risk. The muckraking documentaries of Michael Moore (Fahrenheit 9/11, Sicko, Capitalism: A Love Story) highlight some more recent achievements in the field, similar in aim to the poetic works of Pare Lorentz and his 1936 film about the environmental mismanagement that led to the Dust Bowl, The Plow That Broke the Plains. Cross-genre documentaries mix humor, horror, or social commentary with questionable reality in such films as Borat (2006), Exit Through the Gift Shop (2010), The Blair Witch Project (1999), and I’m Still Here (2010). These quirky offshoots are variously referred to by such terms as mockumentaries, crockumentaries and prankumentaries.

The Auteur Editor

The world of the feature-length documentary is wide open. In some cases, those who have money and the ambition to become part of the entertainment arena find an entry in this way. Though most documentaries require extensive research, it is possible to mount a film by collecting interviews pertinent to a subject and then shooting accompanying B-roll. Since some of these documentarians are not initially filmmakers but individuals with a passion to be heard, they must rely heavily on the editor to mold their collection of images and words into a coherent and compelling whole. In this realm the editor is given an opportunity to flex his muscles and employ all the skill and creativity at his disposal. The caveat is whether he or she is up to the task. While stringing together interviews and beautifully shot images may at first seem deceptively simple, the requirement to tell a story that will sustain for 90 minutes or two hours is hard to fulfill. It requires a full understanding of structure, pace, rhythm, and character.

When confronted with the initial disorder of unscripted, seemingly random footage, it is important to create careful logs, preferably with transcriptions and timecode. If the logs are inputted into the editing machine, it is possible, using the search function, to type in a key word, such as “toad,” and instantly locate references to the subject and the corresponding timecode. Using the timecode, the editor can jump immediately to the corresponding shot. In the case of projects where the editor must determine some kind of throughline by linking related footage, a starting point can seem daunting. Where does one begin? What images or sound bites does one look for out of 100 or more hours of footage? Since drama demands some sort of conflict or dialectic, a good place to begin is with contrasting images or conflicting opinions. Instantly the audience is thrust into the conversation, compelled to take sides or, at the minimum, wonder at the validity of each side. Challenges beget interest and interest sustains a movie.

The 1982 film Koyaanisqatsi, translated as Life Out of Balance, is a brilliant exposé on the deterioration of the natural environment and the rise of corporate mechanization—all without a word spoken. Its initial slow pace, where one pristine natural image amplifies the one before it, eventually leads to a striking contrast in the accelerated pace and tarnished appearance of overpopulated human society. Here the filmmakers have used comparison and contrast, along with a gradual progression, to build their message. The editor’s pacing, combined with Philip Glass’s score, carries the film to its captivating conclusion.

► Television and Genre

From the tame entertainment of the 1950s, current television has at times exceeded feature films with its audience share and boldness. This could not have happened without the emergence of cable channels, such as Showtime and HBO, whose subscription-based viewership allowed them to go beyond the usual standards and practices of commercial television. In recent years network television has ventured into edgier and more progressive realms spurred on by its need to compete with the popularity of cable shows. In this regard, both cable and network television have gained the freedom to fully explore a variety of genres—from fantasy to police procedurals—that were previously limited in what they could depict. Think of CSI (2000–2015), The Sopranos (1999–2007), and Game of Thrones (2011–). Television editing has advanced commensurately, fostering innovative editing styles to tell these stories.

Unlike feature films, where the editor and director bond is sacrosanct, in network television the role of the director is diminished in deference to the greater control of the editor, writer and producer. Directors in television usually get a mere two days to work with the editor on a half hour show and four days on an hour show. In the feature realm the two may work closely together for months or, in some cases, years crafting the movie.

Films are a marathon while TV is a sprint. This is not to say that feature editors do not work at tireless speeds—they do—but even in today’s fast-paced editing room—where the rate has accelerated greatly due to nonlinear systems—finessing a movie can require months. A feature is a singular document that must stand on its own.

According to television editor Nancy Forner (Law and Order: SVU, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and The Vampire Diaries), the TV editor often becomes a more powerful force than the director.⁴ The editor’s influence is further enhanced by the fact that editors on a television series may have been part of the show for multiple years, know the show’s style, and can divine when a director is or isn’t giving the editor the needed footage. Further, it is common for multiple editors to work on a TV series in order to meet the pressing deadlines.

The consistent look and feel found in most TV series derives, in part, from the tone meeting that precedes each episode. Here the writer, director, and editor review the script and collectively glean the essential elements of genre, character, subtext, plot, visual effects, and so on. Pre-planning is everything. In six weeks from the start of production the show will be finished. Through the process, the show runner—the main writer, as opposed to the other eight writers who might also be developing the show—works with the editor.

An essential aspect of TV editing is the ability to work quickly. “There’s no overthinking in television,” according to Forner. In dialogue scenes, she suggests that the fastest approach is to initially string the words together, then finesse, finding the cutaways and opportunities to speed up or slow down for emotional beats. “It’s like throwing clay on a wheel.”

With action, Forner finds a master shot to show geography, places that into the timeline, “then combs the footage for cool moments,” such as in a fight.⁵ Once the editor has the general assembly down it becomes time to move on to the next scene, returning later to finesse it.

In features, by contrast, an editor may work for days perfecting a single scene, reviewing massive amounts of coverage, thinking out each move as in a chess game while ultimately relying on intuition culled from years of experience. Television editors are constrained by time limits, having to fit into the exact format of a show’s length with, for instance, a 42-minute cutoff, allowing for commercials to fill out the hour. A scene that might first play at five minutes will have to be cut down to 30 seconds.

What television may compromise with its short schedules it can make up for with its emphasis on the editor’s craft and the opportunities to experiment. Breaking rules helps contribute to the style and tone of a show. By taking advantage of the plethora of effects that nonlinear editing systems offer, the editor can add color, contrast, punch-ins, blur, jitter, lens flares, glows, and so on. In this way modern television editors call attention to themselves and the editing art in a way that did not exist in the earlier invisible days of TV editing.