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One. Canadian filmmaker Michael Snow has a short film titled Sshtoorrty (the title has no direct translation; it is a blend of the two words short and story). A story as short as 100 seconds (even less), which is looped 18 times from the beginning. With each completion of the story, everything we have seen is repeated anew, identically and without any alteration, again and again and again…
The doorbell rings. The woman/hostess opens the door and exchanges pleasantries with the man/guest. The guest has brought a gift for the woman and her husband: an abstract painting, simple, with a vertical composition (or horizontal: as the guest says, it can be hung from either orientation) of amber, blue, and deep orange tones. The male guest hangs the painting on the wall, after which a brief argument ensues between him and the host. The guest leaves the house, and the woman escorts him to the door. A point that must be mentioned right here is that what we observe on the monitor is actually two superimposed images—one with lower clarity and the other with higher clarity—both displayed simultaneously.
One image is the film whose plot was just described, and the other image is this exact same narrative with a minor shift in the plot: the second narrative begins at the moment/time when the guest is in the process of hanging the painting on the wall (the film starts halfway through).
Now, since the story takes place in two locations (one at the entrance/exit door, and the other in the room where the painting is hung on the wall and where the host is present), with each pan of the camera between these two adjoining locations, and given the static nature of the other shot occurring with a delay, we are confronted simultaneously with a static shot and a moving shot (and pair this with the movement/lack of movement of the actors across the two different images).
Not much of a groundbreaking idea, is it? Snow’s film is also boring. There is no reason why such a commonplace event—so brief and devoid of embellishment—should be displayed for us 18 times from scratch. I myself cut the film off halfway through. Hours later, out of curiosity—and because it occurred to me that the painting inside the film bore a slight resemblance to the works of Mark Rothko (though it was merely a resemblance)—I took another look at the film: Did the film’s key lie in that painting and whatever history it might carry? No… that wasn’t it. Another look. I scrubbed back and forth a bit in the player to perhaps find something overlooked… until… yes! I found it! The mise-en-scène!

Snow sought to design the mise-en-scène of his film to match the painting within the film (using the exact same color composition). The color of the wardrobe, the color of the walls, the house furnishings… and well, considering the technique of superimposing two images where every object/character shifts with the camera movement… it seems one could say Sshtoorrty is a moving abstract painting, in the precise sense of the term.
Two. All of us have had such experiences, and we have seen no small number of films that, each for its own specific reason, have attempted to be about painting or painters. Or even films that, for merely a few brief minutes (and not throughout their entire duration), are interested in bringing their cinematic frame close to a canvas-like frame: something beyond delivering a visually pleasing, non-photographic image [1]. Here we are dealing with materialities, with moving away from the architectural aspect of cinema and accepting that cinema is a medium capable of entering a forest, climbing mountains, and stepping into a lost cabin that until recently was hidden from our view, touching its dust-laden objects one by one [2].
We have seen films that attempted to be this way, standing aloof from the concept of dimension from the perspective a structure ought to possess—or at least evoking such a state, if only for a fleeting moment. Like Sshtoorrty, where if you look closely, the image is flat and lacks much depth of field, as if the filmmaker, like a painter, attempted to extract his artwork from its physical body.
We have also seen films that attempted to recreate a specific painting verbatim. Like Peter Greenaway’s Nightwatching, which, apart from its overall visual style and resemblance to Rembrandt’s paintings (the lights and shadows, the sets and figures), recreates the Dutch painter’s The Night Watch verbatim with its actors in one scene. Or Eve Sussman’s short film 89 Seconds at Alcázar, which attempts to do solely this one thing throughout its 2-minute runtime: recreate Diego Velázquez’s famous painting Las Meninas.
Examples are numerous [3]. The act of painting—seeing/imagining and creating a world out of nothing [4]—is the very thing filmmakers have continuously been searching for; painters are the spiritual fathers of filmmakers, and had the camera been invented in earlier centuries, perhaps even their actual fathers. In any cinematographer’s workshop you attend, you are urged to look at paintings extensively. Every screenwriter advises their students to read paintings properly, and even rewrite them if possible. It is not surprising, but one can imagine that if triptych paintings [5] had gained greater prevalence in recent decades, editors too would not have been left deprived of the ideas embedded within a canvas.
Yet, upon a little investigation, one comes to realize that filmmakers have generally possessed a rather improper understanding of the medium in which they create (cinema) and the medium from which they have drawn ideas (painting); as though their juxtaposition with the world of painters stemmed more from curiosity, or sometimes from the thrill of executing a novel idea as quickly as possible (borrowed from any medium, without sufficient knowledge). Unfortunately, what has been evident over these decades is that filmmakers have rarely managed to properly appear in their films not merely as directors, but as theorists who know precisely what they are doing… Take, for instance, the film/animation that recently shone at festivals and created quite a stir: Loving Vincent. A work where every scene is painted in the style of Van Gogh’s artwork, recreating several of the Dutch painter’s works verbatim. An idea that seems interesting at first, but unfortunately fades upon viewing—both because the recreations carry no strong narrative logic (Why does Dr. Gachet rest his hand under his chin? The screenwriter attempts to create a dramatic justification for this act, but fails helplessly) and because the movement within it is by no means as mesmerizing as the stillness of Van Gogh’s works, failing to surpass it. By the end of the film, we remember how much—intensely—we love Van Gogh’s works when they do not move! Does moving and stitching paintings together (creating a narrative), or having sound and musical accompaniment, make Van Gogh’s world grander or more impactful? Do Van Gogh’s paintings suffer from the absence of these elements at all?
Or another flaw that can be raised regarding the incomplete understanding of these two mediums (on the part of filmmakers) is the role of color in cinema, particularly in black-and-white works. At roughly minutes 17–18 of George Cukor’s film Gaslight, the story’s elderly neighbor points out her house window to Ingrid Bergman, stating her house is the one with the pink curtains. Strange, isn’t it? What need was there for the filmmaker to distract the audience and make them conscious of watching a black-and-white film (when the pink of the curtains is imperceptible)? Why has the filmmaker made us aware of this absence and its invalidity? Couldn’t the old neighbor have said her house was the one with pleated curtains? Or the one with no curtains at all(?)… Or somewhere in John Ford’s film Young Mr. Lincoln, at roughly minutes 9–10, Pauline Moore points to her hair and remarks that many people do not like its red color, to which Henry Fonda replies that no, that isn’t so, and he likes the color… and again the viewer feels a sense of deficiency from the absence of color. Well, couldn’t a more recognizable quality—for the audience—have been used to describe the hair? Curly hair, for example… Must cinema necessarily exploit the painterly quality it can possess (and can also choose not to), particularly at times when it lacks the power and capacity to utilize it?
Stating this does not mean the author considers painting a higher art form than cinema, believing cinema cannot measure up to it; no. The point is that if we treat mise-en-scène as the common ground between these two mediums and set aside their other characteristics, we will realize that many of these comparisons in the realm of staging (and the idea a filmmaker can take from a painting, or a painter from a film) lead nowhere, when painting is fundamentally the presentation of an enigmatic and vague concept to us (even in its most patterned/recognizable form), whereas cinema fundamentally explains itself with every movement (a character walks, therefore: a living being, not paralyzed, intending to perform an action, the ground beneath their feet is solid…). If movement/time is stripped from cinema, what remains cannot be called cinema. And if a painting is set into motion, it drifts away from that which previously endowed it with beauty—and meaning.
Three. A single frame of a film, even with the minimal movement, precisely because it is inherently the frame of a film and what we call cinema, can only establish a metaphorical connection with an art form like painting; insisting on an exact word-for-word correspondence between the two is fundamentally a meaningless, futile, and unnecessary effort—and result. For the continuation of this cinematic discussion, it would not hurt to briefly and ideally examine the mise-en-scène of a painting (for example) to arrive at a deeper understanding of this. The author’s choice is Repin’s Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks, setting aside its historical and artistic background—the very way I generally analyze the mise-en-scène within a film for myself. I hope that through apt references, we can subsequently transition to another facet of the confrontation between these two arts—cinema and painting.

– First, identify the blue sections of the painting.
Then white.
Red.
And yellow.
Now, take a careful look (from the perspective of which color is adjacent to which) at the garments and the objects hanging from them (do not take this method of observation lightly; even if you spend a whole week on it and read the rest of the text next week).
– Observe the man dressed in black sitting in the center. His hairstyle differs from the rest; likely a sign of his literacy (the others hardly seem literate). Another man is positioned to his left, who also shares a hairstyle and clothing color similar to the black-clad man in the center.
– The faces overall are all ruffians and scoundrels. Though the military man wearing navy blue seems not quite in cahoots with the rest. His mustache differs from the others too, as do his gaze and smile. He is more of a politician. The man next to him (stroking his mustache) also appears to be intelligent. These two stand together.
– Attention is directed toward that which is being written (the way the crowd gathers conveys this to us), yet no one looks at the writing (because no one is literate).
– Pay attention to the expressions of the faces and their differences from one another (each face—though small—possesses its own distinct character). Ultimately, doesn’t it seem that they all resemble one another? (Genetic and geographical resemblance).
– Have you found the man missing one of his teeth? Do you see that the hand of the man to his right rests on his left shoulder? His cuff is lapis blue—unlike his other hand whose cuff is mustard-colored, and torn; his garment is also red! These two appear poorer (though given the mischievous tone derived from the picture: perhaps they have money and simply choose not to spend it!). The man to their right also has muddy sleeves. And beside him stands another man (in white clothing) who, if you look closely, gazes with resentment and hatred at the fat man in front of him, as though the fat man had usurped his rights.
Overall, it can be said that those situated further back in the image are financially weaker compared to those in the foreground wearing more showy attire (except for the old man sitting around the table with a dark face and a broken ear, who is likely an old servant of one of these very masters).
– Look at the woman slumped in a corner with her withered, affliction-ridden hand. Another sign of the masterly demeanor of these individuals acting like beggars.
– Have you found the dog lying on the ground? For a long time, I thought that dog was asleep; but upon viewing a higher-resolution version of the painting and zooming in further, I realized no, it is awake, and in fact casting a fierce glare at someone! Who do you think it is so enraged by?
– In the background: riders, the open blue sky, and a large tent. A battlefield is here.
Does viewing this scene/painting evoke a particular feeling in you? Repin froze a moment, and I believe through the mise-en-scène he arranged, he managed to usher us into his world with flawless subtlety. In cinema, however, this is not the case; for filmmakers have always attempted, with the aid of several moments/shots and editing them together, to convey the intended emotion to the audience, as this grants them greater initiative. On the other hand, however—naturally—this diminishes the quality of each individual frame and the meticulousness one can display in staging. Therefore, pressing the stop/pause button on our end (for such concentration on a single moment) will never yield a result as precise and calculated as Repin’s.
An example is a fragment from Vladimir Bortko’s film Taras Bulba, which in one sequence attempts to cinematicize this very painting by Repin: almost nothing is clear! A dense pack of ruffians (in brown and red), their laughter and open mouths, and the smoke from their pipes are the most prominent elements catching the viewer’s eye. Without considering Repin’s work, of course, the atmosphere of the sequence in question is suitable, fitting, and generally thematic; since the exaggeration of these few elements creates a pleasant, well-balanced mood, and the rapid pace of shot transitions leads to the formation of a certain rhythm. But if every frame were paused… you would only need to recall Repin! The film appears childish! And the effort the filmmaker failed to make for a more precise design of his mise-en-scène; yet on the other hand, with the aid of other cinematic elements (close-ups, camera pans, …), he created his mental atmosphere, and his work was engaging enough to draw us into it.
Expansiveness in cinema has added something to it and taken something away from it. Repin’s painting, were it larger, would require more time to be viewed properly; and if the museum guard warned us that visiting hours were ending and forced us to leave the hall, the possibility of comprehending it—given our limited time—would be nearly impossible. In cinema, when a story is narrated (and is continuously moving forward [like the museum guard’s warning]), it engages our attention so deeply that we might not notice many other elements present in the scene at all; such as the color of the sky, the sound of a bell that might be heard in the distance, the twitch of an actor’s eyelid… This expansiveness is caused by that very movement—whether the material movement of actors or objects, or the immaterial movement of the narrative or music (or whatever else…). And the faster the speed of this movement, the lesser our degree of precision and reflection becomes (the difference existing between a 1990s American action film versus a 1970s European political film).
Movement is the very factor keeping us at a distance from the pure existence an image can carry with it. And in this respect, it can be said that in the use a filmmaker can make of the concept of painting, or a painting specifically, as a frozen medium, the task has always grown difficult—and the larger and more movement-filled the film, the harder the task. It is for this reason that primary success in this realm over these decades has been achieved by the outputs of experimental cinema: a cinema whose primary roots trace back to an era when what was displayed was not yet called film, to an era before Griffith. The era of figures like William Heise, William Kennedy Dickson, Max Skladanowsky, the Lumières… individuals whom history calls inventors rather than filmmakers. In their bare works, nothing was present; their cinema was considered stripped down: in one film, we merely had to sit and watch a road; in another, merely watch a narrow beam of light, and nothing more.
Displaying (and not even, more precisely: focusing) in experimental cinema (with its initial approach, both in its technical limitations and in the objective it pursued: where we ask ourselves anew, what is cinema?) has always dealt with omissions: for instance, to make the color red stand out, they omitted other colors to focus the audience’s attention more closely on what they intended; do you remember how intensely colorful Georges Méliès’s works were? While in reality there was no color in them at all!
The omission of multiple elements and the focus on a specific element, coupled on the other hand with the high sensitivity of experimental filmmakers toward every frame (since they made short films composed of a few brief shots), established a deep bond between the history of this cinema and the art of painting. The proximity and vast shared boundary between these two realms—to the extent that we see merely a decade or two after the invention of the movie camera, filmmakers begin creating films like abstract paintings (with the help of light, color, lines, human figures, objects…)—caused filmmakers, through greater practice (from the silent era onward), to reach a higher understanding of these two mediums. An example of this is seen in works that, utilizing cinematic concepts and tools, engaged in creating cinematic paintings, directing our attention to the painting itself by omitting other elements. Now, what cinematic painting actually means is a difficult question that this lengthy essay attempts, in a few short lines and by citing a few examples out of many, to offer hints toward.
Have you ever seen the works of Stan Brakhage? They are difficult to analyze… abstraction, and the manner in which abstract nature is set into motion, are authentic characteristics in his cinema. The point is that in his films, shots move at high speed (in a film of his, one might spend every single second watching 8 or 9 images), and movement is precisely what belongs to cinema, not to painting. Brakhage’s films become similar to painting by moving, not by remaining static; thus, his films can be considered—and even proven to be—a vast painted canvas.
Or the works of someone like Kurt Kren; a filmmaker who, with the help of his marvelous color and movement effects, apart from reaching a specific aesthetic he intended, manipulated the very concept of time. This manipulation—each film in its own right and with its own specific explanation—is an innovation that occurred within cinema. Paintings either possess time and transport us to a specific historical era, or they are timeless; both of which are comprehensible to the audience of a painting. In cinema, however, we sometimes encounter films in which the concept of time is entirely disrupted. Kren’s works are like this; and yet—through this—they evoke the art of painting.
And a small reference: Bill Morrison, speaking of whom is worthy of a large book. The present-day genius of American cinema, whose paintbrush is the history of cinema; his canvas: non-existence, and then existence.
The works of these filmmakers (for instance) may have a smaller audience, and may not be as grand/expensive as the vast array of cinematic works, but they are undoubtedly more important works, and within intertextual definitions of mediums: more correct works. And incidentally, it is the work of these filmmakers that provides modern painters with more powerful and fundamental ideas (though less correct works can also offer ideas to a painter, and indeed anything can offer an idea to any artist). Furthermore, let us accept that if a painting wishes to draw ideas from something that is itself naively executing older ideas from an older painting, it will undoubtedly fall behind itself. It is natural that a film anchored upon the pure foundations and concepts of its own personal world—namely, cinema—possesses greater potential for discovery and is more deserving of examination, and subsequently, utilization.
Four. As a final point, however, it must be added that painters have rarely been seen displaying prominent creativity in recent years (whether with the aid of cinema or without it); as though they have slowly drifted toward their true selves… Why? Well, a major portion of it stems from their innovative blends with visual arts and the bond these two are striving to create with one another. Thus, it seems the painting of recent years, if it has provided a set of novel thematic and structural ideas, has generally done so in the realm of execution… and naturally in the section of performance: to theater practitioners; which is, of course, a subject for another discussion.

Footnotes:
[1] Beyond added visual beauty, when we speak of a photographic frame in cinema, we connect in a way to the documentary aspect that a photograph always carries with it: accepting what we see and believing in its reality; unlike painting, which is born of imagination and cannot be cited as evidence.
[2] Like visiting an ancient artifact where viewing its picture alone yields an incomplete understanding for us: it is our presence that endows that artifact with volume, weight, and scale.
[3] The capacity of this text is such that one could say nothing and merely show pictures! For my own peace of mind, I have tried as much as possible not to cite examples so as not to wrestle with myself later over why I mentioned this and left out that. The few examples cited do not mean they are the only worthy examples available within the scope of our discussion; certainly not. Rather, they represent some of my personal favorite references and a portion of the author’s taste. Apologies if they do not align with your criteria.
[4] This, of course, is subject to detailed debate: “creating a world out of nothing.” Really?
[5] Triptych.