15

Cardiac Unit

► Pace and Rhythm: The Editor’s Unique Tools

Like a patient hooked up to a cardiac monitor, a film can display an energetic and lively pace or it can flat-line. When that happens, the momentum dies and the rhythm falters. The film becomes a chore to watch. Through the use of shot selection, length, and juxtaposition, the editor pumps life back into the film. The power of rhythm and pace, that visual music that resonates on a deeply primal level, exerts such enormous influence that it is sometimes possible to overcome lapses in other areas, including story, through the creative and determined application of these qualities.

The dynamic 1983 film Flashdance entered life with a deluge of damning reviews, with Variety leading the way by calling it “virtually plotless, exceedingly thin on characterization, and sociologically laughable.”¹ Critic Roger Ebert even went so far as to suggest that its naturally talented star, Jennifer Beal, find “an agent with a natural talent for turning down scripts.”² Yet the movie overcame its negligible story by force of the editor’s art. For its time, the film’s pace was dynamic, the rhythm infectious, and the images compelling. Appearing only two years after the launch of a new cable channel known as MTV, Flashdance alerted audiences and critics to a fresh era in filmmaking. It defied conventional genres. If it was a love story, where was the plot? If it was a musical, why didn’t the characters sing? Despite the fact that many reviewers criticized it for its banal and sparsely developed plot, all had to acknowledge the film’s overwhelming success with audiences. By the end of the 1980s the film had become one of the most profitable motion pictures of the decade.

In this film, editing to the visual rhythms of dance wedded to the exciting tempo of music contributed to an expansion of the postproduction art. Flashdance was nominated for the Academy Award in film editing and, though those awards sometimes ignore the year’s best achievements, it became a barometer of films to come.

Visual Music

At the 1997 Academy Awards show, the presenters sought to illustrate the power of editing by equating it to dance, inviting Michael Flatley’s Lord of the Dance troupe to stomp out the filmic rhythm to music. In fact, editing styles are often referred to with musical terms, such as staccato or upbeat, because editing presides over the film’s rhythm. In an L.A. Times article, director Arthur Penn, referring to his collaboration with editor Dede Allen on Bonnie and Clyde, commented, “What we essentially were doing was developing a rhythm for the film so that it had the complexity of music.”³

One of the finest compliments a composer can pay to an editor is that his cuts are easy to write music to, implying that the film’s pace and rhythm follow a definite and compelling pattern. The cuts flow with a music-like melody, and their tempo develops in a cohesive manner.

A revealing tribute to the music of editorial rhythm occurs in the French film Delicatessen (1991). Here, a series of associative cuts, growing shorter in duration and tighter in angle, build to a literal orgasmic climax. The action takes place in a bizarre tenement-like apartment building. In this scene, the main character, an unemployed clown (Dominique Pinon) applies a paint roller to the ceiling, then pauses and removes his suspenders. CUT TO:

• ► TIGHT 2-SHOT a man and woman, kissing and necking, tip out of frame
• ► MS the bedsprings give under their weight
• ► WS the painter, tethered from the wall by his suspenders, paints the ceiling
• ► PAN of bedsprings shifting up and down, PAN to open shaft
• ► PULL BACK from vent in another apartment: The rhythmic sound of bedsprings meets up with a MS of a young woman playing a cello in her apartment, the bow drawing back and forth in rhythm to the creaking bedsprings (Figure 15.1)
• ► CU bedsprings
• ► MWS a woman swatting a dusty rug slung over the banister, in rhythm
• ► MW 2-SHOT in another apartment a young man pumps up his bike tire, while an older woman watches television; the pump’s sound joins the rhythm of the bedsprings
• ► CU the bow crosses the cello strings, back and forth
• ► TIGHT PAN the bedsprings
• ► MS the woman beats the rug
• ► CU the beating tool
• ► CU a metronome moves in sync with the rhythm
• ► MCU hands pull and push on the pump’s handle
• ► MWS the painter thrusts the roller back and forth across the ceiling
• ► MS a toymaker in another room drills holes in a toy noise box
• ► MS the toymaker’s partner strikes a tuning fork, moos to the tone, turns the box so it moos, huffs, and then repeats the actions in rhythm with the other tenants’ actions
• ► CU the bedsprings bounce wildly
• ► ALT. CU the springs continue to bounce; at this point the pace of the cutting increases
• ► MS the painter with his roller
• ► ALT. ANGLE the roller thrusts head-on toward the camera
• ► MCU the old lady quickly knits
• ► MCU the young woman plays the cello
• ► MCU the woman beats the rug
• ► MCU the toymaker cranks down the drill press
• ► MCU hands continue to pump
• ► MCU bedsprings move faster and faster
• ► ECU the metronome swings faster, the camera whipping back and forth with its movement
• ► MWS the rug woman pounds faster
• ► MWS the bicycle man pumps faster and faster
• ► CU the bow sweeps back and forth across the cello’s strings
• ► ECU the beater smacks out the dust
• ► ZOOM IN AND OUT the painter with the roller
• ► ECU a bedspring
• ► MCU musician with bow
• ► ECU bedspring
• ► ECU the man’s climaxing face, eyes rolling into his head
• ► ECU the bike tire pops
• ► MS the cello string snaps
• ► MS the painter falls with his roller
• ► ECU lover man’s eyes closed, he grunts; CUT TO black.

Figure 15.1Delicatessen (1991)

Copyright © Buena Vista Home Entertainment. Photo credit: Buena Vista Home Entertainment/Photofest.

Through the use of cutting and sound, a strong rhythm permeates the scene. It builds to a thrilling and amusing crescendo, mirroring the impassioned lovers and their proximity to the other tenants in the apartment building.

Pick Up the Pace

In the case of pace and rhythm, pace, the more straightforward of the pair, simply refers to rate of movement. Though the length of a cut contributes to the film’s perceived pace, even greater significance lies in the information that the cut must convey. This movement is propelled by the on-camera action occurring within the frame, such as a yellow Ferrari whipping by at 100 miles an hour or the slow descent of a diver into an abyss. This, coupled with the rapid or slow succession of cuts, influences pace.

In terms of the action within the frame, a variety of factors come into play. Tighter shots tend to contain a limited amount of information, which the audience can immediately grasp due to the close proximity of the image. For this reason cuts containing close-ups require less screen time. Wide shots, by their nature, generally contain more information within a frame and will play longer if the audience needs to absorb the action.

In the service of rhythm, however, a quick wide shot can also be effective, as when it serves simply to break the repetitive succession of tighter shots, as in a dialogue scene. Here, jumping back for a moment allows the audience a breather from the cramped surroundings of the close and medium coverage. It also gives a chance to relocate the actors within the frame without introducing additional information that would require the shot to linger longer.

The Power of Pace

Nonlinear storytelling—not to be confused with the technical concept of nonlinear editing—has shadowed traditional narrative since the earliest days of filmmaking. In many cases, nonlinear storytelling better reflects actual life since events rarely play out in a tidy, straightforward manner. Even within linear stories the incorporation of subplots helps break the artificial consistency of a single storyline. Film’s inclination to defy the Aristotelian conventions of time and place, as well as the basic three-act structure of a beginning, middle, and end, resides in its ability to warp time and space. Godard’s comment that movies should have a beginning, middle, and end but not necessarily in that order reflects the nonlinear approach. The Brothers Quay’s stop-motion animation film based on the brilliant novella by Bruno Schulz, Street of Crocodiles (1986), achieves feeling and interest despite its seeming lack of story. A fascination with the shapes, sounds, and textures of crafted materials juxtaposed with animal flesh engenders a visceral eroticism and alienation despite the absence of a traditional character’s desire.

Forms that rely heaviest on the editor’s art, such as the documentary, often succeed by uniting conflicting images to generate dramatic interest. This, coupled with an energetic pace, can sustain a nonlinear structure over the course of a full-length feature. Think of it as a railroad handcar where the opposing forces of the seesaw motion drive the vehicle swiftly forward. Nonlinearity reflects the mind’s rapid association of images that propel our actions—often beyond our conscious awareness. Films that splinter the narrative in various ways, including City of God (2002), Memento (2000), Crash (2004), and Inception (2010), achieve vibrancy through well-paced editing. The negative opinion that some viewers hold of nonlinear films often derives from a lack of clarity and onward flow. These films become a burden, like a mind obsessing over a problem. David Lynch’s rich three-hour meditation on art and filmmaking, Inland Empire (2006), found favor with some audiences but wore out many due to a leisurely pace, despite its compelling characters and surrealistic imagery.

Films like Groundhog Day (1993), Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (2004), and 50 First Dates (2004) require repetition in order to tell their stories. These also benefit from active pacing and the editor’s ability to truncate action so as to overcome the potential tediousness of recurring situations.

Anticipation

Part of what sustains the viewer’s interest is his inability to know what will happen next. But he can always guess. Well-constructed films give just enough information so the audience can build, from their own experience and the experiences within the film, an expectation of the outcome. This anticipation in the face of the unknown maintains attention—especially if the anticipated consequence is a horrible one.

Shot length allows the editor to increase interest or heighten tension. When Tim Curry, in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, refers to “ann-tii-cii-paa-tion” his amusing and prolonged pronunciation characterizes the essence of suspense. Extending a shot’s length can, when judiciously applied, provide the needed tease that keeps an audience on the edge of their seats. The answer to their concern of what will happen next is postponed again and again until, in the hands of a skillful editor, the wait becomes excruciating. The trick lies in determining how long a shot can play and still maintain suspense before the wait becomes too lengthy and the audience gives up on the shot, overcome by boredom or frustration. Ultimately, it’s all showmanship and whether through sleight-of-hand or a psychological striptease the audience’s anticipation level should rise with each cut.

The pod rescue of the expulsed astronaut in 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) is an example of effective use of extended pacing to heighten tension while reinforcing a sense of reality. In watching the action one can imagine how the sudden introduction of too quick of a cut would shatter the scene’s overall rhythm. While the astronaut, Dave, attempts to retrieve his dead comrade with the pod’s robotic arm, the scene develops slowly and without words. Yet the tension is far from leisurely, for the audience has seen something that Dave is yet to discover: the termination of his comrades’ life support systems by the recalcitrant computer, HAL. When Dave, having finally captured the man’s body, orders HAL to open the pod-bay door so he may safely reenter the ship, the machine refuses. We are left to wonder what will happen next. How will Dave save himself and the expedition? Dave realizes that his only recourse resides in docking his pod against the mother ship and blowing open the emergency hatch so he may reenter the ship. This shift in tone and pacing effectively raises the tension as Dave realizes HAL’s evil intent. This action contrasts with the scene’s previously unhurried, yet suspenseful pace when Dave was still innocent of the machine’s plans. The ensuing scene, inundated with flashing lights and intrusive, loud warning sounds, overcomes the silence of space to produce anxiety commensurate with the astronaut’s life-or-death situation.

A more recent and deeply disturbing use of uninterrupted shot length occurs during the lynching of Solomon Northup (Chiwetel Ejiofor) in 12 Years a Slave (2013), the story of a free black man sold into slavery in the pre–Civil War South. Here, the audience is confronted by an extended shot of Northup hanging by his neck from a tree, his toes barely touching the ground, suspended between life and death in real time (Figure 15.2). We know it is real time because there are no cuts to relieve the audience’s sense of horror and discomfort. For a minute and a half the man balances above the ground while other slaves, fearing for their lives, try to ignore him, performing their chores in the background. This is the power of an uninterrupted take.

Figure 15.2 12 Years a Slave (2013)

Photo courtesy of Fox Searchlight Pictures

The rapid-fire cuts that charge through action films such as Crank (2006) show the effectiveness of short, quick images in raising an audience’s pulse. In Crank’s case the audience’s elevated heart rate reflects the on-screen character’s need to avoid death by maintaining a rapid pulse. Crank was preceded years before by Speed (1994), a fast-paced movie that established the premise of maintaining a particular velocity, in this case a bus traveling at 50 miles per hour, in order to avoid being blown to pieces if the speedometer were to dip below that speed. It supplied an excellent rationale to send the audience on a joyride of fast cutting. By today’s standards, however, this wonderful, fast-paced film can appear dated in terms of action editing.

On the other hand, if the audience becomes comfortable with a particular pace or is able to anticipate the next shot or action, the perceived tempo will slow and their interest will wane. Watching a movie is a constant education in the new. As long as we’re learning something, we’re captivated and the time moves quickly.

Overstated

Another primary mistake occurs when an editor allows the information to loop back on itself. The pace slows because information is repeated. This redundancy is the opposite of the ellipsis, which catapults action forward through jump cuts, dissolves, and other shortcut devices.

Action films and documentaries, especially in their early stages, fall prey to this oversight. In these genres, the story is often told in images chosen from a wide variety of angles rather than through dialogue. Because the story map is not as clearly drawn as in a dialogue scene, the actions may linger longer than they need to. Or they may repeat. In the case of documentaries, a point of information might carelessly recur again and again. The editor must decide between reinforcing a point and its overstatement.

► The Heart of the Matter

While today’s young editors, having grown up with music videos, TV commercials, and video games, may possess a greater sense of pacing than their predecessors, they often pale when it comes to questions of story and character. For many of them, the adrenaline-infused sprint of an action sequence or the quick, varied shots of a dance number hold greater interest than the trials and tribulations of the human heart, which are the territory of the story. At times this reverence for fast pacing hides deficiencies in story or character development, patching up malnourished structure or performance. Particularly in comedies, musicals, and action films, maintaining a good pace encourages the audience to ignore lesser jokes, abandon logical concerns, and forgive embarrassing performances.

But adrenaline alone doesn’t make a movie. Student editors today, with their greater command of pacing than the novices of the past, tend to miss out on the other half of the equation, which is rhythm. Rhythm directly relates to the development of story and character, since these are a matter of the heart.

While pacing can be equated to tempo or the rate of movement, rhythm posits something harder to establish: a pattern of images that is consistent with the movie’s content.

Rhythm Is Life

Because rhythm harks back to the most archaic, ecstatic rituals involving dance and music pounded out on ancient drums, it produces a strong influence on an audience. Mirroring the very basis of life itself—those diurnal cycles within the body controlled by fluctuations in serotonin levels, the pattern of the seasons, the ebb and flow of the sea, the systolic and diastolic beating of the heart, and ultimately the cycle of life and death—filmic rhythm dives beneath the surface of our rational minds, deep into the inner world of emotions.

While pacing can be fast, slow, or somewhere in between, rhythm is characterized by a pattern of strong and weak forces. This is accomplished by varying the choice of shots, the length of shots, and the placement of shots—again, the Editing Triangle. When the rhythm is off, it becomes obvious. Though most audiences could not delineate what’s bothering them about a scene or a movie in those terms, the fact that it has somehow broken away from the natural order upsets their equilibrium. Consider this popular lampoon of a nursery rhyme: “Roses are red / violets are blue / you may think this will rhyme / but it won’t.” How disconcerting. We’re following a particular flow and then the flow is disrupted. Unless done for effect, this becomes an awkward way to tell a story.

But how does the editor come to terms with the enticing and all-encompassing concept of rhythm? How does he determine the scene’s rhythm? How does he take its pulse to know what it requires?

The answer to that is, in a sense, the revelation of one’s style, the moment when the beginning editor transitions, as if through a rite of passage, from a novice to a master. Having accomplished an inner understanding of pace and rhythm, the editor discovers a sense of personal style. Even though rhythms vary from film to film, the editor brings with her a unique perspective.

Elements in a scene issue forth with greater or lesser energy. The selection of these shots and the order of their occurrence helps determine a scene’s rhythm. In many cases the actors will supply the rhythm within a scene. Their emotional response to the story’s action informs their readings and body language. Initially, this guides the editor in selection and length of shots. In dialogue scenes, the line readings supply clues as to when and where to cut. In some cases, however, the actors’ performances may be too rushed or too leisurely. At that point it becomes the editor’s responsibility to put some air between the lines, supplying a much needed pause or, conversely, accelerate the performance by trimming out pauses, or physical business. Since all scenes contain beats, moments where the scene shifts gears, actors and directors work in terms of these beats. Editors should too. The beats help inform the rhythm of a scene. And rhythm, that very human yet elusive phenomenon, engenders emotion.

Influenced by character interactions that occur within the scene, the original emotions and direction of the scene evolve until a new effect is arrived at by the scene’s conclusion. Like the overall story, the story within each scene begins with a particular purpose. As one character confronts another, circumstances change. The moments in a scene where a character’s intent switches or transforms based on new experiences are the beats.

The Graduate

The seduction scene in Mike Nichols’s classic film The Graduate (1967) stands on its own as a superbly crafted sequence that plays like a self-contained movie. The scene opens with Benjamin Braddock (Dustin Hoffman) driving up to the opulent home of his father’s partner (Murray Hamilton) with Mrs. Robinson (Anne Bancroft) in tow. The sequence concludes with Benjamin returning to his vehicle while Mr. and Mrs. Robinson look on from their well-lit porch. Between the beginning and end of the sequence, a series of significant beats propels the story forward and anticipates a decision that Ben will make two scenes later.

Here are the main beats:

• ► As a favor, unsuspecting Benjamin drives Mrs. Robinson home. It becomes the last time he is literally and figuratively in the driver’s seat in this sequence.
• ► Mrs. Robinson convinces Ben to come inside her home. Ben resists but agrees, falling under her influence.
• ► Ben tries to leave. Mrs. Robinson offers Ben a drink. Ben declines, but she forces it into his hand, increasing her authority over him.
• ► Ben suspects he is being seduced, apologizes for saying so, and tries to leave.
• ► Mrs. Robinson stops him and offers to show him her daughter’s portrait, which Ben innocently interprets as an opportunity to change the subject. Mrs. Robinson has succeeded in taking him to the next level of her control.
• ► In Elaine’s bedroom Mrs. Robinson begins to undress, tossing her bracelet on the fresh covers, as if throwing down a gauntlet. The challenge is unmistakable.
• ► Ben tries again to leave. Mrs. Robinson convinces him to stay. His resolve weakens further. Her control over him increases. In his body language, he continues to step toward her as he insists on leaving.
• ► Almost free, Ben heads for the front door, but Mrs. Robinson insists he bring her purse upstairs. Her tone has changed from seductive to commanding. He obeys.
• ► Naked, Mrs. Robinson corners Ben in the room and closes the door. In flash cuts he glimpses her naked form. He knows it’s wrong, but he can’t help but look and be aroused.
• ► Mr. Robinson arrives home. Terrified, Ben tries to save himself by running downstairs to pretend that nothing has happened.
• ► Mr. Robinson greets Ben and offers him a whiskey. When Ben requests bourbon, Mr. Robinson reinforces his disregard for and authority over the young man by giving him the whiskey. Ben tries to remain calm. Mr. Robinson suggests Ben sow some wild oats.
• ► Mrs. Robinson appears. Ben jumps up. When she tells him, “Don’t get up,” he drops back into his seat like a trained dog. Her hold on him is complete.

Through the use of well-conceived photography, production design, and editing, this multifaceted sequence evolves into a highly compelling experience. The camera’s dominant and submissive angles, the shadowy downstairs contrasted with the well-lit upstairs, reinforce the feelings of control and subjugation. Sets and props, everything from an altar-like bar with its phallic drink dispensers and cigarette lighters to the virginal white room of the daughter Elaine, support the scene’s action. Even Elaine’s wall displays a large R for Robinson rather than the appropriate E. The audience is introduced to a controlling, disassociated couple of high-class alcoholics who will meet their psychological demise as a response to their transgressions. The shots that compose this sequence work so well that it is hard to believe that any other coverage existed. Yet there were nearly three times as many setups as were used by the editor.

Finding the Flow

Because rhythm is so compelling, it is imperative to find a particular flow that directs the cutting. Just as music guides the cuts in a music video, the interplay of dialogue influences the rhythm of a narrative scene.

One of the clearest guides to rhythm is an actor’s performance. Well-trained actors create a discernible rhythm that the editor can follow as a guide in determining dialogue length and character reactions. Added to this, some actors, including some of the best in the business, change their performance from take to take, so it is the editor’s job to ascertain the best rhythm and support it.

The length of a cut also affects the rhythm when shots of varying lengths are joined together. At times the repetition of identical shot lengths will reinforce a scene’s rhythm as much as a pattern of longer and shorter cuts. In a documentary montage composed of static photos set to music, it often works to measure each to identical length (see Case Study, page 101). Again, it helps to think in terms of music. This is evident in the Rule of Three sequence (see Chapter 2), where a series of three shots reinforce a particular meaning. A writer, when listing qualities or instances, generally selects three items as opposed to two or four. Shakespeare took advantage of this pattern and forced his villains to break from it in their speech, making them appear vulgar or corrupt. The editor also takes advantage of this rhythm to communicate meaning.

The staccato bang bang bang of three shots measured out to equal length can produce an effective and precise visual rhythm. We see this in establishing shots that strive to give a wider sense of place than a single shot would supply. A wide shot of Iguaçu Falls looking east, joined to a wide shot of the falls looking west, joined to a low-angle shot of the falls can give a better sense of their vastness than a single wide shot. An explosion viewed from three angles looks much larger than an explosion that erupts in one angle.

Variety is one of the overriding features of good rhythm. It breaks the monotony of close-up, close-up, close-up, and initiates a pattern. As in music, rhythm also forms an agreeable melody. In other words, the pattern and length of shots contribute to a pleasing flow. If the flow is interrupted, a disturbance is introduced, as in horror films where a predictable pattern of shots is suddenly interrupted by an inconsistent move, such as a jump cut with a loud sound.

At other times the rhythm reinforces jeopardy and excitement as in the lobby scene from The Matrix (1999), where the viewer is showered with nearly as many images as there are pieces of shrapnel flying off the decimated walls and pillars. Even within this intensely dynamic action scene, the editor, Zach Staenberg, found moments to vary the pace to produce a compelling, mellifluous rhythm, exhibited in the extended cut to a slow-motion twirl by Trinity (Carrie-Anne Moss) or the leisurely bookends to the scene beginning with the amusing moment where Neo (Keanu Reeves) enters the metal detector. Here the guard asks if he is carrying anything metal, whereupon Neo exposes the arsenal beneath his cloak, igniting the firefight. The scene ends as placidly as it began with the two heroes, Neo and Trinity, stepping into the elevator and a final punctuation of the last tile tumbling from its place and onto the floor.

The Battleship Eisenstein

Eisenstein’s theories of montage and the use of juxtaposition informed his cross-cutting and energetic tempo in films like The Battleship Potemkin (1925). The prominence of his theories has been challenged, however, by some modern Russian filmmakers, particularly Andrei Tarkovsky. Tarkovsky resisted the theory of montage, giving precedence to the individual shot over the juxtaposition of multiple, uninflected ones. In films like Stalker (1979), indelible images are burned into the viewer’s consciousness through their sustained appearance on screen. Where Eisenstein led the way with shots that flickered like embers on a breeze, illuminating the screen for mere seconds at a time, Tarkovsky’s images can loiter for well over a minute, pawing at the earth but grounding us in their meaning. For some audiences this excessive lingering becomes intolerable. Others, however, find themselves immersed into a vastness of space and time that produces a sort of meditative state. In Tarkovsky’s world, as quoted in LaValley and Scherr’s book Eisenstein at 100: A Reconsideration, “editing has to do with stretches of time, and the degree of intensity with which these exist, as recorded by the camera.”⁴ Speaking of his fellow countryman and former teacher during lectures at the VGIK, or All-Union State Institute of Film in Russia, Tarkovsky concluded:

Tarkovsky believed that, in spite of the rapid cutting, the audience was “dogged by the feeling that what is happening on the screen is sluggish and unnatural. This is because no time-truth exists in the separate frames.” In Stalker, a sustained wide shot reinforces the sense of desolation that the hero and his charges experience while in the strange, metaphysical realm of The Zone. To Tarkovsky’s credit he interrupts one particularly long but exquisite, extreme wide shot in this otherworldly realm with the very worldly ringing of a telephone which his isolated hero feels compelled to answer.

► The Intercut

The key to effective rhythm resides in the process of intercutting. The efficient use of intercutting helps provide the audience’s emotional response to the action on screen. It also moves the action along in a compelling way. It is the editor’s most valuable tool.

Intercutting supplies a much needed variation in pattern and therefore audience response. Just as juxtaposition of images creates meaning within a scene, the juxtaposition of scenes creates meaning within the movie. Like shot-to-shot juxtaposition, the intercutting of scenes blends best when a long scene is truncated and the remaining action placed following another scene.

By intercutting scenes (see the next two Case Studies) the movie’s rhythm and pacing improve drastically. The challenge presented to one who decides to break a scene into various parts and intersperse those parts with other scenes is to create the transitions that make it feel as if that’s the way it was intended all along.

► Scene-to-Scene Transitions

An important aspect of creating and maintaining rhythm involves supplying satisfying transitions. How the film story moves from scene to scene, place to place, character to character determines whether the overall rhythm will be smooth and logical or coarse and disjointed. Some of the flaws that occur at this stage involve confusion, disorientation, and fragmentation. Good transitions carry the audience along with them, clarifying where we are and giving a hint of where we’re going. They pull us into the next scene. And, in this case, into the next chapter.