Dialogue is a wonderful thing. Since the advent of the pictures that not only move but talk as well, film has taken a turn undeniably for the better. It is the necessary catalyst to the grumbling bass of John Wayne, Icon of Manhood, and the wit and charm of William Powell, the perfect gentleman. Powell could never have risen from a silent villain, nor Wayne have shot Liberty Valence had not they had the simple gift of being heard. A voice bespeaks more than what the character says- it bespeaks the character.
As with anything that defines a person, that which he does not say is as important as that which he says. More specifically, that which he says without words is essential to any man's nature. The true man of few words is not so much speechless as having a higher form of speech. This idea is a lost art in the modern film, where the only pauses in dialogue are parades for sidearms and chainsaws. Gone is the silent genius of Clint Eastwood's 'Blondie,' who can carry entire scenes without so much as a word. Past are the days of Alfred Hitchcock, who carried from the silent to the spoken films the flair of asyllabic storytelling. That, I believe, is the true mark of an actor, a director, an artist. A role is more than the lines assigned.
Recalling Clint Eastwood's care for a dying son of Dixie, or James Stewart's endearing characters, we see a beauty beyond words, quite simply because it is without words. Whether our beloved Mr. Smith expresses a sudden shift in plot and character with the handling of a hat, or Peter Lorre cows generations with a hair-raising smile, the masters show to be more than speakers- they are walkers, they are lookers, they are doers. In a word, they are actors.
Not to deny the importance of gesture, but, to take one example, chosen at random from a certain author--
ReplyDeleteThe raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here;
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood,
Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, your murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark
To cry, "Hold, hold!"
--Now surely, there is room for talkies when we get to have our blood curdled with such beautifully wicked poetry? (Or do I mean wickedly beautiful poetry?)
Surely there is room for talkies- that's generally the point. Naturally, Clint Eastwood and Jimmy Stewart wouldn't be the same without their unique voices. In all the work I've done with actors, however, I find very often gesture and silent expression is downplayed in favor of lines. Lines are vital, but they are limited by the limits of words. The driving force of gesture in storytelling, and especially portrayal of a character(I hate scenes where you 'hear' a person's thoughts, since they can't figure out how to portray them naturally) is absent in most recent movies, and certainly from amature acting.
ReplyDelete*laughs* Granted. I simply take a (sometimes perverse) delight in seeing both sides of a question!
ReplyDelete~Saturday