pickledelephant:

Stanley Kubrick while making The Shining

3,151 notes

andrewinfante:

John Ford on set of The Searchers

1,171 notes

thefilmfatale:

THE MOTION PICTURE CAMERA: PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE

Check out this wonderful video tribute chronicling the evolution of the movie camera.

98 notes

auteurstearoom:

Director Ingmar Bergman talks with Victor Sjöström during the making of Wild Strawberries

auteurstearoom:

Director Ingmar Bergman talks with Victor Sjöström during the making of Wild Strawberries

376 notes

Behind the scenes of The Godfather x

(Source: martinscorsaucy)

2,035 notes

criterioncollection:

“There used to be just one way. There was one way you could do things. There were people who protected it like a copyright, a secret cult only for the initiated. That’s why I don’t regret making Breathless and blowing that all apart.”
Jean-Luc Godard’s New Wave masterpiece premiered in Paris on this date in 1960.

criterioncollection:

“There used to be just one way. There was one way you could do things. There were people who protected it like a copyright, a secret cult only for the initiated. That’s why I don’t regret making Breathless and blowing that all apart.”

Jean-Luc Godard’s New Wave masterpiece premiered in Paris on this date in 1960.

603 notes

starwars:

Take a look at some of the complicated, time-consuming work that went into the Original Trilogy’s special effects.

297 notes

cinephilearchive:

I know what I’ll be reading today: Rudy Wurlitzerl’s screenplay for Sam Peckinpah’s ‘Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid,’ the wildest western ever made [pdf]. (NOTE: For educational purposes only.) Thanks to Ambrose Chapel and the great folks at Write to Reel.

“Sam was drunk, of course,” recalls Kris Kristofferson, who plays Billy. “By the end of the day that bottle had taken over. I’ll never forget Bob Dylan turnin’ and lookin’ at me like, ‘What the hell have you gotten me into?’” Dylan wrote the songs for the movie, including ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.’ He also has a small role as the mysterious printer’s assistant named Alias, who joins up with Billy and his gang. Rita Coolidge, Kristofferson’s girlfriend at the time, plays a Mexican woman whom Billy/Kristofferson makes sulfurous love to just before he’s gunned down by Pat Garrett (played by James Coburn), his erstwhile friend and mentor.

Peckinpah would start drinking on the set first thing each morning, and by the afternoon he would be loaded and walking around firing a revolver into the air. At night he’d lie in bed shooting at his reflection in the mirror, a drunken outburst that made its way into the movie when, after killing Billy, Garrett, in a bout of self-hatred and disgust, shoots to pieces his own reflection in a mirror. At one point, “I had to take a pistol away from Sam,” says Kristofferson. “He was worrying some people.” —How Kris Kristofferson, Bob Dylan, and a drunken Sam Peckinpah reinvented Billy the Kid 40 years ago

“He was a great, innovative craftsman of film, but his sensibility was unique, inimitable. Action filmmakers can use an impersonal, impeccably directed movie like ‘The Getaway’ as a textbook. But whatever it was that possessed Peckinpah on the morning he dreamed up The Wild Bunch’s majestic walk is fundamentally unteachable. And it’s probably safe to say that no one will ever again make—or feel the impulse to attempt—a movie like his last Western, ‘Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid’ (1973). In telling the well-known story of the lawman Garrett’s pursuit of his old friend Billy, Peckinpah slows the narrative to a fatalistic mosey—sleepwalk set to the tempo of faintly jingling spurs. The movie is, in its way, as daring as ‘The Wild Bunch’: There’s a lot of dying here, but in ‘Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid,’ the deaths come one at a time, with mournful regularity. It’s the only one of Peckinpah’s films in which the director himself appears on screen: He plays a coffin maker.” —Terrence Rafferty, Son of the West

Tell us about Sam Peckinpah.Sam Peckinpah was a genius for four hours a day. The rest of that time he was drunk. He called himself “a working alcoholic,” but he was much more than that. I think the alcohol sort of quelled all the influences that were going on around him so he could really focus on what he was doing with the film. He would shoot with three cameras and just… do it. You never talked with Sam about things like motivation. I asked him one time, when we were doing ‘Major Dundee.’ I said “Sam, what is it that makes my character tick?” And he thought about it for a minute and finally said “Drier. Dry. He doesn’t give a shit.” And that’s who that character was! And that’s how I played him… It was really sad what happened to that picture. The studio took it away from him and re-cut it. We had a great knife fight in that picture, between Mario Adorf and myself. And it was a viscous fucking knife fight. While we were shooting it, people were yelling for us to stop! That’s how real it looked. It was a terrific piece of action, and it was cut from the film… the night it premiered at the Paramount theater, Sam saw the studio’s cut and was just devastated. His hands were shaking. He had half a pint of whiskey and dropped it. It smashed on the floor. And my wife at the time said “Sam, it’s okay, it’s only a movie.”
When you look at Major Dundee, it’s sort of like looking at the U.S. cut of Pat Garrett, which was also severely compromised by the studio. You can see there’s a masterpiece in there somewhere.I agree, but what they call the “director’s cut” of Pat Garrett is actually just the television cut. Sam had the only true cut that he made, and that’s up in his archives in Sonoma. When he finished cutting Pat Garrett, it was taken away from him. This was Jim Aubrey at MGM and he was more interested in getting his hotel ready than he was in film. I think he really despised anybody who displayed artistry. He really like digging into them. When we started shooting Pat Garrett, I just finished shooting a film with Blake Edwards called ‘The Carey Treatment’ (1973) that Aubrey also took away and re-cut. And I said to Sam “This guy’s crazy! He could do this film all sorts of harm.” Sam said “Don’t worry about a thing, Jim. I just bought one share of stock in MGM, and if they mess with me, goddammit, I’ll sue their asses!” (laughs) “One share of stock, Sam?! What’s that gonna do?!” “You’ll see.” (laughs)

I heard a story that Peckinpah got drunk during the shoot and didn’t want to kill Billy! True?Yeah, but he wasn’t that drunk. We were sitting in his trailer and he said “Goddammit! Why do we have to kill him?” “Well Sam, that’s the way it happened.” “Well, why can’t we make it un-happen?” “Sam we can’t do it.” (beat) “Why… not?!” (laughs) I think he saw a lot of himself in the character of Billy… We found out halfway through the shoot that most of the masters we had shot were out of focus. We were using five or six cameras at once and we didn’t have a camera mechanic because MGM wouldn’t pay for one! So we used different lenses, different set-ups, and still, it’s all out of focus. Finally the camera mechanic is sent out. It turns out the flange in the camera was off by one one thousandth of an inch, or some damn thing. So we tell Aubrey that we have to re-shoot all these masters. He says “You’re not gonna re-shoot anything. The audience isn’t gonna know the fuckin’ difference!” Can you imagine?! It was just mind-blowing! So what we did was, we stole all those shots when the brass didn’t know we were shooting and got it all! So now this really pissed them off, because now we had some real film on our hands! (laughs) So Sam had his cut previewed, and at the same time, Aubrey had his guys cutting their film. So all the editors got together and gave Sam a cut of his film, but without a soundtrack. He didn’t get that back until he cut it for television. But there’s only about five minutes missing from that cut he originally made. —James Coburn: The Hollywood Interview
Recommended Listening: Audio Interview with Sam Peckinpah
In memory of Sam Peckinpah (February 21, 1925 — December 28, 1984).



Mama, put my guns in the ground I can’t shoot them anymore

cinephilearchive:

I know what I’ll be reading today: Rudy Wurlitzerl’s screenplay for Sam Peckinpah’s ‘Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid,’ the wildest western ever made [pdf]. (NOTE: For educational purposes only.) Thanks to Ambrose Chapel and the great folks at Write to Reel.

“Sam was drunk, of course,” recalls Kris Kristofferson, who plays Billy. “By the end of the day that bottle had taken over. I’ll never forget Bob Dylan turnin’ and lookin’ at me like, ‘What the hell have you gotten me into?’” Dylan wrote the songs for the movie, including ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.’ He also has a small role as the mysterious printer’s assistant named Alias, who joins up with Billy and his gang. Rita Coolidge, Kristofferson’s girlfriend at the time, plays a Mexican woman whom Billy/Kristofferson makes sulfurous love to just before he’s gunned down by Pat Garrett (played by James Coburn), his erstwhile friend and mentor.

Peckinpah would start drinking on the set first thing each morning, and by the afternoon he would be loaded and walking around firing a revolver into the air. At night he’d lie in bed shooting at his reflection in the mirror, a drunken outburst that made its way into the movie when, after killing Billy, Garrett, in a bout of self-hatred and disgust, shoots to pieces his own reflection in a mirror. At one point, “I had to take a pistol away from Sam,” says Kristofferson. “He was worrying some people.” —How Kris Kristofferson, Bob Dylan, and a drunken Sam Peckinpah reinvented Billy the Kid 40 years ago

“He was a great, innovative craftsman of film, but his sensibility was unique, inimitable. Action filmmakers can use an impersonal, impeccably directed movie like ‘The Getaway’ as a textbook. But whatever it was that possessed Peckinpah on the morning he dreamed up The Wild Bunch’s majestic walk is fundamentally unteachable. And it’s probably safe to say that no one will ever again make—or feel the impulse to attempt—a movie like his last Western, ‘Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid’ (1973). In telling the well-known story of the lawman Garrett’s pursuit of his old friend Billy, Peckinpah slows the narrative to a fatalistic mosey—sleepwalk set to the tempo of faintly jingling spurs. The movie is, in its way, as daring as ‘The Wild Bunch’: There’s a lot of dying here, but in ‘Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid,’ the deaths come one at a time, with mournful regularity. It’s the only one of Peckinpah’s films in which the director himself appears on screen: He plays a coffin maker.” —Terrence Rafferty, Son of the West

Tell us about Sam Peckinpah.
Sam Peckinpah was a genius for four hours a day. The rest of that time he was drunk. He called himself “a working alcoholic,” but he was much more than that. I think the alcohol sort of quelled all the influences that were going on around him so he could really focus on what he was doing with the film. He would shoot with three cameras and just… do it. You never talked with Sam about things like motivation. I asked him one time, when we were doing ‘Major Dundee.’ I said “Sam, what is it that makes my character tick?” And he thought about it for a minute and finally said “Drier. Dry. He doesn’t give a shit.” And that’s who that character was! And that’s how I played him… It was really sad what happened to that picture. The studio took it away from him and re-cut it. We had a great knife fight in that picture, between Mario Adorf and myself. And it was a viscous fucking knife fight. While we were shooting it, people were yelling for us to stop! That’s how real it looked. It was a terrific piece of action, and it was cut from the film… the night it premiered at the Paramount theater, Sam saw the studio’s cut and was just devastated. His hands were shaking. He had half a pint of whiskey and dropped it. It smashed on the floor. And my wife at the time said “Sam, it’s okay, it’s only a movie.”

When you look at Major Dundee, it’s sort of like looking at the U.S. cut of Pat Garrett, which was also severely compromised by the studio. You can see there’s a masterpiece in there somewhere.
I agree, but what they call the “director’s cut” of Pat Garrett is actually just the television cut. Sam had the only true cut that he made, and that’s up in his archives in Sonoma. When he finished cutting Pat Garrett, it was taken away from him. This was Jim Aubrey at MGM and he was more interested in getting his hotel ready than he was in film. I think he really despised anybody who displayed artistry. He really like digging into them. When we started shooting Pat Garrett, I just finished shooting a film with Blake Edwards called ‘The Carey Treatment’ (1973) that Aubrey also took away and re-cut. And I said to Sam “This guy’s crazy! He could do this film all sorts of harm.” Sam said “Don’t worry about a thing, Jim. I just bought one share of stock in MGM, and if they mess with me, goddammit, I’ll sue their asses!” (laughs) “One share of stock, Sam?! What’s that gonna do?!” “You’ll see.” (laughs)

I heard a story that Peckinpah got drunk during the shoot and didn’t want to kill Billy! True?
Yeah, but he wasn’t that drunk. We were sitting in his trailer and he said “Goddammit! Why do we have to kill him?” “Well Sam, that’s the way it happened.” “Well, why can’t we make it un-happen?” “Sam we can’t do it.” (beat) “Why… not?!” (laughs) I think he saw a lot of himself in the character of Billy… We found out halfway through the shoot that most of the masters we had shot were out of focus. We were using five or six cameras at once and we didn’t have a camera mechanic because MGM wouldn’t pay for one! So we used different lenses, different set-ups, and still, it’s all out of focus. Finally the camera mechanic is sent out. It turns out the flange in the camera was off by one one thousandth of an inch, or some damn thing. So we tell Aubrey that we have to re-shoot all these masters. He says “You’re not gonna re-shoot anything. The audience isn’t gonna know the fuckin’ difference!” Can you imagine?! It was just mind-blowing! So what we did was, we stole all those shots when the brass didn’t know we were shooting and got it all! So now this really pissed them off, because now we had some real film on our hands! (laughs) So Sam had his cut previewed, and at the same time, Aubrey had his guys cutting their film. So all the editors got together and gave Sam a cut of his film, but without a soundtrack. He didn’t get that back until he cut it for television. But there’s only about five minutes missing from that cut he originally made. —James Coburn: The Hollywood Interview

Recommended Listening: Audio Interview with Sam Peckinpah

In memory of Sam Peckinpah (February 21, 1925 — December 28, 1984).

Mamaput my guns in the ground
I can’t shoot them anymore

68 notes

heidisaman:

"Godard told the story of when he and Jean-Pierre Gorin, working together sometime in the early nineteen-seventies, attempted an experiment: to imitate a single shot from Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin. He explained that they didn’t manage to do it—that the framing and the angle completely escaped them. I’m not surprised—in exactly the same way as I doubt whether Eisenstein, had he lived longer, could have copied perfectly a shot of Godard’s. The camera operator’s own gestures, the particular equipment that’s available, and—yes—the very carriage of the actor being filmed all determine the nature of a shot.
There’s no such thing as a pure angle or composition, any more than there is such a thing as a pure performance; the life of the creators are embodied in all the actions that bring a movie into being. And those habits of body are no mere accidents of upbringing but the very essence of a zeitgeist, of the spirit of the time as it manifests itself. The angles have been lost for the same reason that people move differently; people move differently because of differences in the way that people are raised and educated and influenced, because of differences in thought and feeling, in essential self-image.
— Richard Brody on why it’s impossible to re-create a film shot by shot
Still from Battleship Potemkin (1925, dir. Sergei Eisenstein)

heidisaman:

"Godard told the story of when he and Jean-Pierre Gorin, working together sometime in the early nineteen-seventies, attempted an experiment: to imitate a single shot from Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin. He explained that they didn’t manage to do it—that the framing and the angle completely escaped them. I’m not surprised—in exactly the same way as I doubt whether Eisenstein, had he lived longer, could have copied perfectly a shot of Godard’s. The camera operator’s own gestures, the particular equipment that’s available, and—yes—the very carriage of the actor being filmed all determine the nature of a shot.

There’s no such thing as a pure angle or composition, any more than there is such a thing as a pure performance; the life of the creators are embodied in all the actions that bring a movie into being. And those habits of body are no mere accidents of upbringing but the very essence of a zeitgeist, of the spirit of the time as it manifests itself. The angles have been lost for the same reason that people move differently; people move differently because of differences in the way that people are raised and educated and influenced, because of differences in thought and feeling, in essential self-image.

— Richard Brody on why it’s impossible to re-create a film shot by shot

Still from Battleship Potemkin (1925, dir. Sergei Eisenstein)

203 notes

wandrlust:

Vittorio de Sica and Enzo Staiola filming Bicycle Thieves (1948)

wandrlust:

Vittorio de Sica and Enzo Staiola filming Bicycle Thieves (1948)

430 notes

pickledelephant:

Stanley Kubrick while making The Shining

3,151 notes

cinephilearchive:

What you should know about Roger Deakins: a panoply of eccentric biographical data re: the cinephile’s cinematographer by Sarah Ball. This article originally appeared at Vanity Fair.
He is the snowy Beatles mop behind the lens of an award-winning list—‘Fargo,’ ‘The Shawshank Redemption,’ ‘No Country for Old Men,’ ‘A Beautiful Mind’—and has worked with moviedom’s greats: Sam Mendes, Martin Scorsese, Ron Howard, Edward Zwick, and, in a near-25-year partnership, the Coen brothers. Joel and Ethan have collaborated with the Devon-born Deakins on 11 of their films, more than half their oeuvre, beginning with 1991’s acclaimed ‘Barton Fink.’ But even with Deakins’s trophy collection—three BAFTAs, his field’s highest lifetime-achievement award, the first C.B.E. ever given to a cinematographer—he has not yet won an Academy Award, despite 10 previous nominations, including two in 2008, for ‘No Country for Old Men’ and ‘The Assassination of Jesse James’ by the Coward Robert Ford. This year, he earned an 11th nod, for ‘Prisoners.’ Here, the constellation of the man in his own, gently Zen reflections.

HE HAS a genteel, finely boned face, bearing a resemblance to a younger Dick Van Dyke, but he wears a rancher’s uniform every single day: blue jeans, a white shirt, and a pair of genuine farmhand boots bought in rural Mississippi while filming ‘O Brother, Where Art Thou?’ He has half a dozen pairs now and wears them in freezing weather and in the Australian summer, snow or sand, “even when I’m out on my boat fishing.”
HIS BELT buckle, adorned with Persian scrollwork and in the service of hoisting his jeans for 40 straight years, “was brought back by a drug dealer from Afghanistan.” This is all he offers on the matter.

HE IS abidingly comfortable with silence.
HE IS given to pocketing unusual rocks but declares a general dislike of “things.”
HE FEARS living too far from the ocean. He and his wife, James, toggle between a Santa Monica home (mostly) and a little apartment (sometimes) on the top floor of an old house on the Devon coast.

HE IS the occasional target of Coen pranks. He and James once left a thank-you gift for Joel and his wife, Frances McDormand—a card and a lovely art book, all wrapped up. Ethan surreptitiously intercepted it, swapping in a used porn paperback. The card, he left as it was: “We thought you would like this!” It would be a few awkward encounters before the truth was revealed.

O.K., ONE more Coen prank: the pair once decreed on a day’s call sheet that everyone come to the set dressed in the Deakins uniform—the jeans, white shirt, and boots. Roger, deep in his work, failed to notice until day’s end that the entire crew matched him.

HE CUTS his own hair.
HIS FIRST brush with fame was as a little boy, when he made the local paper for catching a very large bass.
HE RUNS between 6 and 10 miles at a time, always outdoors, and mostly by water.

HE STARTED out as a still photographer, shooting farmers in North Devon before film school, after which Africa-documentary-making took him, circuitously, to Hollywood. His three Leica still cameras (the M8, the M9, and a special black-and-white) remain among his most treasured possessions.

HE IS known for naturalism and light in film, and he brings his work home. When he and an architect were first mapping out his California house, he obsessed over the location and light-imbuing properties of every single window, chasing the shadowy daylight feeling of an Edwardian London apartment. Construction started while he was away shooting in Canada, so James would send him home movies of the progress. “She got annoyed because I started criticizing her on the camera operating,” he says. “People pan too much!”
HE HAS a rich, booming, quarter-note laugh, wherein each Ha! hangs for a savoring beat.

HE RESERVES skepticism for weather apps. On set, “yesterday about five people all had their sort of radar—all with different weather apps out—and every one had a different answer to what was going to happen.” He amusedly pines for a simpler method, like his grandfather’s: hanging seaweed outside the back door. If it becomes damp and pliant, brace for rain.
THE TRUE north of his humor sensibilities is Monty Python. His father, a building contractor, worked for a time on a hotel in the English holiday town of Torquay, where John Cleese and the Pythons once bunked while filming. It later became the basis for Fawlty Towers: “The guy my dad was working for was just like [Basil Fawlty],” he says. “Ha! Ha! Ha!”
AND OF elusive awards, his only ambition is “to express myself” on movies he can’t even imagine yet. “It sounds pretentious,” he says, “but it’s day-to-day life”—not things on a mantel—that “gives your existence meaning.” Actually, it doesn’t sound pretentious at all.

Roger Deakins in Cinematographer Style: “Lenses are really important to me,” after which we get an in-depth discussion on working with the Coen Brothers and how to shoot with the audience in mind. A great conversationalist, how can one not listen to this man speak about film?

For more film related items throughout the day, follow Cinephilia & Beyond on Twitter. Get Cinephilia & Beyond in your inbox by signing in. You can also follow our RSS feed. Please use our Google Custom Search for better results. If you enjoy Cinephilia & Beyond, please consider making a small donation to keep it going:

//

cinephilearchive:

What you should know about Roger Deakins: a panoply of eccentric biographical data re: the cinephile’s cinematographer by Sarah Ball. This article originally appeared at Vanity Fair.

He is the snowy Beatles mop behind the lens of an award-winning list—‘Fargo,’ ‘The Shawshank Redemption,’ ‘No Country for Old Men,’ ‘A Beautiful Mind’—and has worked with moviedom’s greats: Sam Mendes, Martin Scorsese, Ron Howard, Edward Zwick, and, in a near-25-year partnership, the Coen brothers. Joel and Ethan have collaborated with the Devon-born Deakins on 11 of their films, more than half their oeuvre, beginning with 1991’s acclaimed ‘Barton Fink.’ But even with Deakins’s trophy collection—three BAFTAs, his field’s highest lifetime-achievement award, the first C.B.E. ever given to a cinematographer—he has not yet won an Academy Award, despite 10 previous nominations, including two in 2008, for ‘No Country for Old Men’ and ‘The Assassination of Jesse James’ by the Coward Robert Ford. This year, he earned an 11th nod, for ‘Prisoners.’ Here, the constellation of the man in his own, gently Zen reflections.

  • HE HAS a genteel, finely boned face, bearing a resemblance to a younger Dick Van Dyke, but he wears a rancher’s uniform every single day: blue jeans, a white shirt, and a pair of genuine farmhand boots bought in rural Mississippi while filming ‘O Brother, Where Art Thou?’ He has half a dozen pairs now and wears them in freezing weather and in the Australian summer, snow or sand, “even when I’m out on my boat fishing.”
  • HIS BELT buckle, adorned with Persian scrollwork and in the service of hoisting his jeans for 40 straight years, “was brought back by a drug dealer from Afghanistan.” This is all he offers on the matter.

  • HE IS abidingly comfortable with silence.
  • HE IS given to pocketing unusual rocks but declares a general dislike of “things.”
  • HE FEARS living too far from the ocean. He and his wife, James, toggle between a Santa Monica home (mostly) and a little apartment (sometimes) on the top floor of an old house on the Devon coast.

  • HE IS the occasional target of Coen pranks. He and James once left a thank-you gift for Joel and his wife, Frances McDormand—a card and a lovely art book, all wrapped up. Ethan surreptitiously intercepted it, swapping in a used porn paperback. The card, he left as it was: “We thought you would like this!” It would be a few awkward encounters before the truth was revealed.

  • O.K., ONE more Coen prank: the pair once decreed on a day’s call sheet that everyone come to the set dressed in the Deakins uniform—the jeans, white shirt, and boots. Roger, deep in his work, failed to notice until day’s end that the entire crew matched him.

  • HE CUTS his own hair.
  • HIS FIRST brush with fame was as a little boy, when he made the local paper for catching a very large bass.
  • HE RUNS between 6 and 10 miles at a time, always outdoors, and mostly by water.

  • HE STARTED out as a still photographer, shooting farmers in North Devon before film school, after which Africa-documentary-making took him, circuitously, to Hollywood. His three Leica still cameras (the M8, the M9, and a special black-and-white) remain among his most treasured possessions.

  • HE IS known for naturalism and light in film, and he brings his work home. When he and an architect were first mapping out his California house, he obsessed over the location and light-imbuing properties of every single window, chasing the shadowy daylight feeling of an Edwardian London apartment. Construction started while he was away shooting in Canada, so James would send him home movies of the progress. “She got annoyed because I started criticizing her on the camera operating,” he says. “People pan too much!”
  • HE HAS a rich, booming, quarter-note laugh, wherein each Ha! hangs for a savoring beat.

  • HE RESERVES skepticism for weather apps. On set, “yesterday about five people all had their sort of radar—all with different weather apps out—and every one had a different answer to what was going to happen.” He amusedly pines for a simpler method, like his grandfather’s: hanging seaweed outside the back door. If it becomes damp and pliant, brace for rain.
  • THE TRUE north of his humor sensibilities is Monty Python. His father, a building contractor, worked for a time on a hotel in the English holiday town of Torquay, where John Cleese and the Pythons once bunked while filming. It later became the basis for Fawlty Towers: “The guy my dad was working for was just like [Basil Fawlty],” he says. “Ha! Ha! Ha!”
  • AND OF elusive awards, his only ambition is “to express myself” on movies he can’t even imagine yet. “It sounds pretentious,” he says, “but it’s day-to-day life”—not things on a mantel—that “gives your existence meaning.” Actually, it doesn’t sound pretentious at all.

Roger Deakins in Cinematographer Style: “Lenses are really important to me,” after which we get an in-depth discussion on working with the Coen Brothers and how to shoot with the audience in mind. A great conversationalist, how can one not listen to this man speak about film?

For more film related items throughout the day, follow Cinephilia & Beyond on Twitter. Get Cinephilia & Beyond in your inbox by signing in. You can also follow our RSS feed. Please use our Google Custom Search for better results. If you enjoy Cinephilia & Beyond, please consider making a small donation to keep it going:

225 notes

cinephilearchive:

Cinematographers — or ‘directors of photography’, if you’re not into the whole brevity thing — have been the unsung heroes of cinema since the year dot. If the writer is a movie’s synapses and the director is its heart, the DP is the eyes. Manipulating light, depth and perspective to elevate even the most simple stories into things of beauty, they are often filmmaking’s unsung heroes. Gregg Toland, Freddie Young, Jack Cardiff, Vittorio Storaro, Conrad Hall, Jordan Cronenweth, Christopher Doyle, Roger Deakins… the roll call of greats is glorious. To celebrate their achievements and demystify their work, Empire’s Film Studies 101 asked 21 of cinema’s top DPs to pick a moment in the history of the art that has inspired and moved them. Empire is proud to share their selections with you. —Top cinematographers reveal their favourite movie moments: 21 DPs pick the shots that inspire them

Required viewing: 110 of the world’s top cinematographers discuss the art of how and why films look the way they do. Cinematographer Style is about the Art and Craft of Cinematography. It is about how everything, from life experiences to technology, influences and shapes an individual’s visual style. Because of the powerful impact that the visual style of a movie can have, this documentary may offer contemporaries valuable insights into the dramatic choices Cinematographers make. And, it is expected that the material will have significant historic value as well.

For more film related items throughout the day, follow Cinephilia & Beyond on Twitter. Get Cinephilia & Beyond in your inbox by signing in. You can also follow our RSS feed. Please use our Google Custom Search for better results. If you enjoy Cinephilia & Beyond, please consider making a small donation to keep it going:

254 notes


"It’s the doing that’s the important thing. I equate film-making with sandcastles. You get a bunch of mates together and go down to the beach and build a great sandcastle. You sit back and have a beer, the tide comes in, and in twenty minutes it’s just smooth sand. That structure you made is in everybody’s memories, and that’s it. You all start walking home, and someone says ‘Are you going to come back next Saturday and build another one?’ And another guy says, ‘Well, OK, but I’ll do moats this time, not turrets!’ But that, for me, is the real joy of it all, that it’s just fun, and nothing else… If I look back at all my work, it all seems like yesterday. I can’t imagine how all this time got away. All of it is basically the same; none of it comes from any brilliance. It comes from enthusiasm, a little bit of ego and tenacity. It’s been such a gift to do any of this."
Robert AltmanFebruary 20, 1925 — November 20, 2006

"It’s the doing that’s the important thing. I equate film-making with sandcastles. You get a bunch of mates together and go down to the beach and build a great sandcastle. You sit back and have a beer, the tide comes in, and in twenty minutes it’s just smooth sand. That structure you made is in everybody’s memories, and that’s it. You all start walking home, and someone says ‘Are you going to come back next Saturday and build another one?’ And another guy says, ‘Well, OK, but I’ll do moats this time, not turrets!’ But that, for me, is the real joy of it all, that it’s just fun, and nothing else… If I look back at all my work, it all seems like yesterday. I can’t imagine how all this time got away. All of it is basically the same; none of it comes from any brilliance. It comes from enthusiasm, a little bit of ego and tenacity. It’s been such a gift to do any of this."

Robert Altman
February 20, 1925 — November 20, 2006

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welcometomagicalmysterytour:

The Art Of Close-up 

featuring Edgar Wright 

306 notes