The Invisible Atmosphere of Design in Film
Introduction
Donald Norman, the author of The Design of Everyday Things, once remarked that “Good design is actually a lot harder to notice than poor design, in part because good designs fit our needs so well that the design is invisible.” (2013: XI) In film, this statement is accentuated by an entire ecosystem of props, sets, lights and color. For design in film to function properly, it must meet the required period, aesthetic, and detail set out by the ambitions of the film. The props that make up these sets change from production to production, and the requirements to create the atmosphere of a film is a subjective art fulfilled by the production designer and graphic designer, among other roles. Some films utilize the set as a narrative itself, mirroring the narrative of the film in the design of the set it takes place in. Additionally, the effect that a designer has on film can push beyond the boundaries of the silver screen and instead directly impact the taste and trends of the public. This essay will set out to discuss how the role of the graphic designer and production designer have lasting implications on how films are made, how their stories communicate with their audience, and the influence these roles have on the general public. This essay will also analyze the works of various graphic designers and production designers, contextualizing their work across decades and movements in order to understand their overall implications.
Background and Context
Before analyzing the works of design in film and their part in narrative and culture, it is important first to establish an understanding of various terms and roles that this essay will discuss. Firstly, to establish a relative understanding of the graphic designer in film, this essay will refer to the definition given by renowned film designer Martin T. Charles, ‘As a graphic designer, I’m called to create that look that you see in everyday life. You walk down the street, there are billboards, bookstores. These things have to be produced. And as a graphic designer, I’m called on to make those things […] anything that needs to tell a story.’ (2016) While researching this topic, limited academic sources were available regarding the specific role of the graphic designer. Thus, connections will be made to the production designer in film, another role belonging to the art department that draws very similar responsibility.
The definition of the production designer will be drawn from Michael Rizzo’s book, The Art Direction Handbook for Film and Television. He states, “the Production Designer delivers the visual concept of a film through the design and construction of physical scenery.” (2018: 3) While the graphic designer is typically responsible for graphic-related pieces such as book covers, materials, and signs, the production designer is in charge of the art department as a whole and deals with the larger picture of a film’s aesthetic. However, depending on the budget of the film, these roles may bleed into one another. On a small budget production, the production designer may very well be responsible for all graphic design on set, and a graphic designer may be brought on to have more of a management role. Regardless, both the graphic designer and production designer have an immediate impact on the general aesthetic, scenery, and prop design of the film. It is imperative to establish a central definition of narrative in order to better understand the roles of these positions. While it has many definitions, this enquiry will define narrative plainly as ‘the study of stories, how they are made and how they are told.’ (D’Arcy, 2018: 117) Moving forward, analysis on the selected works will function in accordance with the definitions established above.
Design as Narrative
In 2020, Annie Atkins sits at the forefront of graphic design in film. Known for working with esteemed director Wes Anderson, Atkins is a designer whose props are often given significant screen time in the finished product. These are known as hero props, or props shown in great detail or for an extended period of time. But despite these props that most audience members may remember, Atkins also discusses the research and time that goes into designs that are hardly seen. While working on The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014), she discusses at length the ideation for menus, luggage tags, key fobs, newspapers, press posters, police reports, among many others.
In order to transport the viewer into the fictional town of Zubrowka, Atkins needed to produce the props that would be shown on screen as well as the props never mentioned in the script: endless papers on desks, an out of focus coat of arms hanging from off a roof, posters hanging in the background of a hallway. In the end, Atkins and her team created a list of over 400 pieces that would need to be designed and manufactured before shooting began. (Atkins, 2020) While some props are in place to further the story, there are endless numbers of props that are built for the sake of designing the atmosphere of the film. This enquiry will refer to these props as background props. Regarding this, Atkins writes, ‘Most of the time, we’re making graphics to blend in seamlessly with the rest of the world that the art department is creating, […] Often, if you see it, there’s something going wrong. It is a bit of a secret world and it doesn’t get a lot of press.’ (Dawood, 2015) Even in cases where hero props are given relatively longer screen time, an endless queue of necessary designs exists for background props that may hardly ever be seen. Background props enable the film to deliver its message to the viewer by immersing them into the setting in which the story unfolds. Together, these props create a seamless, unquestionable environment for the film that would not be possible if not for the ambiance that background props create.
In order to fully immerse the viewer into the ambiance of the world the designers create, the set must be fully equipped with a near endless number of background props. When films require such a high volume of props, oftentimes designers and the art department don’t have the time to fabricate each particular item required for the film. In the production of Fight Club (Fincher, 1999), Property Master Bucky Moore was responsible for retrieving many props that couldn’t be found in prop houses.
To supplement the need for these items without burdening the design team, he set out to find the required props on his own. Moore explains, ‘I’ll go anywhere looking for stuff. I’ll get things in my car from alleys, from antique stores, wherever. I need a lot of tchotchkes, so I will go wherever to find stuff. I’ll pull stuff out of the gutter and then clean it for the actors. I do what it takes to complete the set. We could care less where it comes from, so we look everywhere.’ (Bloch, 2013) Moore’s words indicate that finding a prop that fits the atmosphere of the film, whether created or discovered, is more important than whether it is accurate or how it is acquired. Some sets more than others, such as period pieces or fantasy films, rely on a specific atmosphere and often require props and sets that corroborate the details of the film.
However, realism in film does not mean that props and sets should be untouched or unmodified. In fact, in order to genuinely convince a viewer of the legitimacy of a setting, surfaces and designs must be manipulated and imposed. (Tashiro, 2004) In painting a portrait of the past, many films rely on generalizations of a period rather than accuracy. Poetic accuracy marries the differences between the past and present by stylizing sets to be more relatable to the viewer. (Tashiro, 2004) Here, the goal is not to render a perfectly accurate recreation of a period, but rather to build a world where the viewer can become wholly convinced and immersed throughout the duration of the film. (Tashiro, 2004) William Cameron Menzies was a Production Designer and Art Director that worked on many films of the early 20th century such as Gone with the Wind (1939) and The Dove (1929). He discusses his approach to historical accuracy and stylization, “…in many cases authenticity is sacrificed, and architectural principles violated, all for the sake of the emotional response that is being sought. My own policy has been to be as accurate and authentic as possible. However, in order to forcefully emphasize the locale I frequently exaggerate — I made my English subject more English than it would naturally be, and I over-Russianianize Russia.” (Heisner, 2011: 2)
The first two Laws of Anachronism further validate Menzie’s attitude. They state that no prop can exist in a period film that either precedes or supersedes the time period of the story. (Tashiro, 2004) While the law against items from the future seems quite obvious, a note should be made about items of the past. Few settings in current day contain objects strictly from the current period. Heirlooms, tchotchkes, and other nostalgic items fill many homes. The past leaves its legacy in various forms, and every period will leave traces of the time that came before it. Regardless, period pieces often exist within a temporal bubble, exaggerating common themes and generalizations of the period regardless of accuracy in order to more quickly design an atmosphere for the viewer.
Disregard for pure historical accuracy in exchange for narrative function can, however, come in other forms. An example of this can be found in The Man Who Invented Christmas (2017) in which Charles Dickens is seen reading The Times with a story headline featured on the front page of the paper. This is an issue because The Times didn’t begin showcasing story headlines on the front page until the mid-1900s. Rather, the front page was reserved for small ads. (Atkins, 2020). Despite this, the newspaper was used as a hero prop in order to move the story along more quickly. In this case, the prop is used as a literal narrative device, communicating a message to the viewer that they otherwise would have needed additional dialogue or action to convey.
Faktura in Film
While designing artificial and stylized reality in sets has been a staple in film, it certainly isn’t the rule amongst designers. In the 1920s, Russian film was flourishing in innovation. While pre-revolutionary Russian film sets were characterized as ‘blatantly artificial and fragile’ (Cavendish, 2004: 206), Russian film soon began to reject the notion of staged set design that was popular in the west, opting rather to shoot on location to capture the authenticity of the world that encapsulated true Russian cinema. With that said, the Russians were not the only ones to reject traditional soundstage shooting.
A reflection of this notion would be found just a few decades later in one of the most iconic film movements, “French New Wave.” French New Wave is often recognized for contrasting large scale studio films with small crews and lightweight, portable equipment video and audio equipment, as well as shooting on location versus a sound stage. (Douglas, 2017) However, even the Russian movement of rejecting set design could not reject it completely. The average Russian did not spend every moment of his life outdoors; he also spent time inside homes, offices, and stores. Viktor Shklovskii, a Russian writer and literary theorist, called for film to ‘elucidate a relationship’ (qtd. In Widdis) with the world around it. While Pre-Revolution Russian film held to traditional shooting methods of sound stages and sets, and Russian Revolutionary film rejected traditional methods for creative innovation and authenticity, the “Second Period” of Russian film sought to marry the two by defining authenticity in a new way.
A quintessential filmic term of Russian cinema during the 1920s was faktura. While no single translation exists in english, it can be described as the material aspect of an objects appearance. Emma Widdis describes faktura in film by having ‘described authentic materials (architecture, furniture, objects, costume) and the combination of construction, lighting and camerawork that would convey those materials in their full affective power.’ (2009: 12) Thus, faktura does not represent how truthfully an object is shot but how truthfully it is presented for the viewer. Literal faktura meant that surfaces and textures translated their material to screen, meaning that cotton looked like cotton and silk looked like silk. This honesty in the ‘thinginess of things” (Widdis, 2009) meant that when a person watched a film, they were being presented with the truth of what a true Russian setting looked like. In turn, this relationship enabled filmmakers to convey genuine settings to their viewer without being confined to pure realism. In doing so, filmmakers take part in bridging the gap between man and material to their viewers.
While faktura refers specifically to the materials of an object and its presentation, it metaphorically speaks to a more universal idea. With a second look at The Man who Invented Christmas (2017), the same example can be viewed with a more critical lens. If the newspaper had been historically accurate, and instead had shown the front page of the Times with small ads, the information of that scene would have been communicated in a different way, such as additional dialogue or actions. However, the information was presented as a headline because the team behind the film believed that it was the most effective way to communicate that message to the audience. In that sense, the film is exemplifying a term that essay will define as narrative faktura. Whereas traditional faktura deals with the manipulation of material in order to most accurately represent it on screen, narrative faktura manipulates realism in order to most clearly communicate macro ideas to the viewer. To see this, the filmmaker must ask him or herself: Is the ability to communicate this idea clearly worth the film lacking historical or cultural accuracy?
Whereas traditional faktura deals with the manipulation of material in order to most accurately represent it on screen, narrative faktura manipulates realism in order to most clearly communicate macro ideas to the viewer.
One obvious difference from narrative and traditional faktura is the ease of judging it. Strong traditional faktura can be judged by a single question — does this material accurately represent itself in real life? However, narrative faktura must strike a balance. At what point does creative license for clarity pull back the curtain on a film that requires historical realism? While no objective answer can be granted, this essay will argue that details involving props not central to the plot, just as a newspaper solely being used as a narrative device, can be altered within reason without drawing out disbelief from the viewer. The manifestation of effective narrative faktura comes in the form of the audience not doubting the realism of the film while also understanding the point the film was trying to make.
Continuity and Learning to Read
Continuity is not dispensable in film, but an essential concept that is required and expected by the audience. Continuity is what enables a viewer to watch a series of shots that differentiate from one another and yet understand that the sequence flows together as one scene. The effects of continuity are not simply vain, but crucially practical. In fact, discontinuity in film editing can cause film viewing to be ‘cognitively more challenging.’ (Swenberg, Erikkson, 2017) Thus, by retaining continuity, the film is able to communicate more effectively to the audience. While the script supervisor is charged with the responsibility of keeping detailed logs of each take in order to ensure that details are kept from shot to shot, there are other roles with their own unique responsibilities that tie into the continuity of a shoot. (Miller, 2015)
The designer is one of those many pieces. Things can quickly become difficult for a designer on a film set when continuity needs to be held. Some props may be destroyed during a take and may have been laboriously made by hand. Some directors may call for 50 takes in order to make the scene perfect. In these cases, it isn’t as simple as printing another copy from the office as they are needed. Annie Atkins recalls times where copies, or repeats, of a prop needed to be created on set. She refers to the art department as an assembly line; each person holds the responsibility to rip, shred, tape, paint, or rebuild in order to create repeats for a prop that needs to hold significant wear and tear. (Atkins, 2020). Even background props require core details that prevent the audience from identifying them as copies of a prop. Most audience members would notice an actor picking up an apple and biting into a plum, and few would forgive it as a creative expression. In order to keep the audience attentive and also spare the filmmaker from scrutiny, prop continuity is an essential part of the filmmaking process.
One often overlooked but vital process of filmmaking in the art department is learning to read the script as a designer. When a screenwriter writes a film, he or she isn’t expected to hand deliver a master list of required props to a graphic designer. Rather, a designer is responsible for reading the script and building the world that best accompanies the script. A doctor’s office, for instance, may be full of inspirational yet medically relevant posters, while the receptionist desperately sorts the endless stack of papers that highlights her never ending well of administrative work to catch up on. Each of these elements needs to be designed and manufactured. However, the only indication on the screenplay may be the scene heading, “INT. DOCTOR’S OFFICE”, and a quick remark about the hectic nature of the receptionist. This is common practice for designers in film, as Atkins remarks, ‘Reading through it with a highlighter, we mark any props, set pieces, or dressing that might be the responsibility of the graphics team. Sometimes these things are entirely obvious: a map, a menu, for example; other times, less so. If we read that one character pulls out a handkerchief and dries another character’s eyes, we have to ask whether that handkerchief will need a bespoke pattern[…]’. (Aktins, 2020: 108)
The Set as Narrative
Prestigious films are often credited with the ability to show, not tell, viewers their overall message. This can come through many outlets, such as body language, camera placement, implicit messages of speech, and through graphic and set design. Set as Narrative is a concept explored in detail by Charles and Mirella Affron, who describe it in detail as a ‘a design strategy that calls for one set to be recurrently, insistently and on occasion unfailingly present to the spectators […] a circumscribed set that enjoys a privileged relationship to the narrative. To a greater or lesser degree [the circumscribed set] subsumes the narrative and is subsumed by it.’ (Affron, 1995: 158) Le conseguenze dell’amore (2004) idealizes the basis of the set as narrative by emulating and interacting with the character’s troubles. The film takes place within the walls of an unexceptional hotel of an unnamed Swiss town in which Titta di Girolamo spends the majority of his time idly waiting in the main lobby. A criminal working under the powerful fist of the Mafia, the protagonist is metaphorically imprisoned in the hotel. While other locations of the town are seen in passing, little to no interaction with these places is seen through the protagonist’s eyes. Instead, they are seen as “peripheral, serving to emphasize the centrality of the hotel to Di Girolamo’s existence, defining and de-limiting in its intensity.“ (Small, 2011: 116) The film communicates the domination of the Mafia over its subordinates by confining Titta to the labyrinth of the set. (Small, 2011) To him, the world outside his hotel might as well be an ad in a magazine, a world seen but never experienced. He exists on the whim of the Mafia, who control every aspect of his life. Each week, he delivers a briefcase full of money to a bank. When two mafia members invade his room at the hotel in order to carry out an assassination, they notice that week’s briefcase. They attempt to steal the briefcase and leave the hotel. Knowing the mechanisms of the hotel better than either Mafia member, Titta turns off power to the elevator, forcing them to take the stairs to their car. Titta outmaneuvers them, gaining a positional advantage, as he is able to kill the two mafia members and secure the briefcase. The next day, Titta meets with his Mafia contact and claims to have hidden the briefcase, unwilling to give it back and return to his life of prison. After refusing one final chance to return the briefcase, the film ends with Titta’s murder as he is attached to a large crane and slowly lowered into a large container of wet concrete. In what is one of the only shots of the film not taking place in the hotel, Titta finally finds his freedom — in death.
The role of the hotel proves to be a setting, plot device, and also a metaphor for the character’s status in life. The hotel was not a space that stood passively in the background, but ‘a figure that stands for the narrative itself.’ (Affron, 1995: 158) As the film presses on, Titta’s knowledge of the hotel is actively presented to the audience, constantly advancing the audience’s familiarity of the hotel. This familiarity is a key proponent of the set as narrative. In character development, back stories are developed in order to further humanize and bring depth to a character, so an audience member may draw their own connections to the character. However, in set, familiarity with the set enables the audience to understand how the contiguous space ‘links together and could be navigated or mapped easily by a viewer.’ (D’Arcy, 2018: 126). In turn, the character’s — and audience’s — expertise in the setting becomes a tool through which the story unfolds. In the case of Le conseguenze dell’amore (2004), Titta’s ability to manipulate the hotel’s inner workings in order to have the upper hand on the opposing Mafia members is clearly understood by an audience who has seen the protagonist with a highly developed understanding of the space.
Like the effects of the set, design can also communicate new ideas or reinforce motifs within a film. They can also be used to introduce characters and establish relationships. In The Grand Budapest Hotel, the Mendl’s Box is first introduced as a representation of Agatha’s craftmanship that sweeps a young Zero off his feet and into a deep love for her. Later on, however, it becomes the conduit that enables Zero and Agatha to together break Gustave out of prison. Because the prop itself has an active place in the narrative, it has a vital need of seamlessly fitting the setting without any question from the audience.
This highlights the importance of invisible design — because the value of the prop lies in its role in the narrative, a design that causes concern, doubt, or any sort of attention from the viewer obfuscates the film’s ability to deliver the narrative to its audience. The use of the Mendl’s box illustrates the epitome of a contextualized prop, or a prop that acquires meaning through different contexts in a narrative. (Corrigan, 2012)
Film Design and Public Trends
Up to this point, the majority of the essay has explored the role of the graphic designer and production designer and their implications on the film itself. The breadth of their impact reaches far beyond the screen and roots itself into the viewer. Graphic designers and production designers are a common role in film today, and a short search on the International Movie Database will net thousands of results for these roles in countless films. However, these roles did not always exist in today’s capacity. In fact, until the invention of depth of field in moving photography in addition to panchromatic film, flat backdrops dominated American set design with faintly rendered objects that never made it to the focus of the lens. (Heisner, 2011) When focus could be pulled and pushed, and more objects in frame were rendered accurately due to the panchromatic color spectrum, three dimensional objects now needed to be presented three dimensionally and in great detail.
The response to this innovation came in the form of hiring architects to build grand, cutting edge studio sets. While work was failing for those of the building industry during the Great Depression, many architects moved to film. (Esperdy, 2007) The potential for imagination and innovation in film was undeniably greater than that of full scale building, as the sets were small and with constraints that forced architects to discover new solutions to solve their problems. Furthermore, introducing new architectural advancements to the public had the power to expose Americans, even while suffering from the depression, to a rich world of art and innovation. A member of the American Institute of Architects noted that, “The buildings they depict are not permanent to be sure, but they reach many more people with their message than do many permanent buildings” (Esperdy, 2007: 198). So while the building industry itself was abandoned by many for temporary buildings, architects with public edification in mind had the opportunity to reach more Americans with their work through film distribution.
Some would argue that Art Directors that came from the background of architecture came with conditions that did not suit film form in a positive way. Wilfred Buckland was an architect turned art director who commented in 1924 on the role of other art directors in film. He notes, ‘The majority of art directors have been architects rather than artists. The setting has been made all-important and constructed with no thought of the action to take place in it.’ (qtd in Bordwell). Buckland’s note suggests that art directors caught up with the potential of creating grand sets and scenes sought architectural ambition before the integrity of the setting that a film deserved. This thought process marks a fundamental and repeatedly versed concept in film — that objects in a film are built to serve the script, and not the other way around. Regarding his own sets, Buckland offers an alternative approach to designing, ‘In building our settings around the characters, rather than first constructing our setting and then forcing our players into it, we are substituting for the old method an arrangement which aids and intensifies the movement of the actors — we concentrate the attention on the dramatic interest.’ (qtd in Bordwell) Buckland supposes that his sets encourage the build of a sets’ ambiance in a film — that the set propels the narrative by enabling the viewer to not question the possibility of the story. With proper research, a well designed set both accompanies and furthers the plot, strengthening bonds between the viewer and the players, and brings the audience back in time. (Egan, 2014)
A set can have further repercussions than just the effectiveness of the story. Props and sets can also be used to push the public into a way of thinking, or in a way of wanting. With American architecture moving into the way of film during the Great Depression, magazines were printed with critical analysis of film sets alongside traditional building architecture, establishing authority in the sets of films. The people of America looked to movies to find their exposure to what the world was offering at the time. While some period pieces such as The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928) and The Vagabond King (1930) were released during that era, many films took to create an upscale, modern world. 1925, art director Cedric Gibbons attended the Paris Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Moderne, an event that would shape American set for years to come.
Here, Gibbons was exposed to what was then called, ‘Art Moderne’ (Edwards, 2006), and relied on the interiors he saw so extensively that he was later accused of plagiarizing designs for his sets (Esperdy, 2007). With the public under duress of the depression, films were an opportunity for people to escape and believe in a not-so-far-off reality that they one day might experience. In context, these films featured elite, art deco designs, clubs, hotels, casinos, and lavish lifestyles. Metropolis (1927), Our Dancing Daughters (1928), and Grand Hotel (1932) are three movies that exemplify the fashion, interior, and lifestyle of the Art Deco movement.
The fabulous interiors and grand props and costumes encouraged those among hard times that there was a prize to be had when the hardship was over. (Albrecht, 1986) In response, this art form found its way into magazines and lifestyle ads for the everyday American, who now sought after the Art Deco style for their own lives. (Egan, 2014) In what is referred to as the Golden Age of Cinema, major studios were producing nearly 50 films per year (Esperdy, 2007). With each film that Americans attended, they were exposed to new material, interior design, new fashion, new art. With 80 million people watching movies per week in 1938, (Esperdy, 2007) film had become the prominent form of exposure to culture. Esperdy comments that ‘movie sets had the ability to set trends, arbitrate public taste, and influence and inspire millions of Americans.’ (2007: 198)
Conclusion
As a whole, this essay has set out to contextualize the implications of the graphic designer and related roles in film. The essay established that design can be used as a narrative device through the production of key props such as The Mendl’s Box from The Grand Budapest Hotel, and by also establishing an environment full of graphical objects hardly noticed by the viewer, known as background props. Additionally, an argument was developed for the role of narrative faktura, a concept which discusses the balance between retaining realism in film and communicating large scale ideas with its viewers. An argument was also given to support the concept of set as narrative developed by Charles and Mirella Affron, where the set does not passively exist in the protagonist’s world, but is used to further the plot and interact with its characters. Finally, this essay examined the effects of design on public influence by analyzing the effect the Art Deco movement had on the American public during the Great Depression.
The designer has many responsibilities on set, and the requirements to fulfill their role with excellence are often subjective and unclear from the start. Great designers such as Annie Atkins and Martin T. Charles, however, represent the elite who consistently produce bodies of work that transport the viewer into an unquestionable world in which they can believe for a short length of time. While the graphics many designers render may often go unnoticed, the effects of their work can never be ignored.
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