Cinematic Editing - a viewer’s guide

In our previous discussions, we delved into the intricate aspects of staging and camera movement, examining how these elements contribute to the overall narrative and visual storytelling in film. Now, we are embarking on an exploration of the fascinating realm of editing, a crucial component that plays a pivotal role in shaping the viewer’s experience. It is essential to remember our core premise: all three techniques—staging, camera movement, and editing—work in concert to create cinematic motion. Each technique offers a unique approach to generating movement in film, and understanding their interplay is vital for any aspiring filmmaker or film enthusiast.

Staging and camera work generate movement within a single shot, maintaining a sense of perceptual continuity that keeps the viewer engaged in the unfolding action. For example, a well-choreographed scene with actors moving fluidly within the frame can create a dynamic visual experience that draws the audience into the story. The camera’s movement—whether it be a slow pan, a dramatic tilt, or a swift tracking shot—has its perceptual basis in our own bodily experience. This experiential reference will ground the cinematic viewing, allowing the viewer to feel as though they are part of the action. This seamless flow is essential for immersing the audience in the film’s world, making them feel connected to the characters and their journeys.

Editing, in contrast, stands apart from the other techniques due to its distinctive ability to create discontinuity between shots. This discontinuity introduces a perceptual break, a deliberate jump from one distinct image to another, which can evoke a range of emotions and reactions from the audience. A sudden cut from a serene landscape to a chaotic urban scene can create a jarring effect that forces our cognition to reload. And we strive to make sense of the cut: is this 30 minutes later, or 30 years later? or before? Editing allows filmmakers to manipulate time and space, guiding the audience’s perception and understanding of the narrative in ways that staging and camera work alone cannot achieve.

Today, we are taking the continuity we perceive across the thousands of cuts in a film for granted–and they are all straight cuts. However, achieving this natural flow in editing requires careful consideration and deliberate craftsmanship. This is why we refer to the successful execution of editing as “continuity editing.” It involves a series of techniques designed to ensure that the transition between shots feels smooth and coherent, allowing the audience to follow the narrative without distraction.

There are many techniques you can learn to build this continuity, ensuring that the viewer’s experience remains fluid and engaging. However, I’d like to take a different approach here. Unlike many editing resources that focus solely on practical methods, I prefer to maintain a critical stance toward “things we do”. My question is not “here is what we do” but always “why we do what we do” or “how do we come to do what we do”. When discussing editing, it’s particularly valuable to consider the audience’s perspective. Rather than seeing editing as merely a filmmaker’s tool, I’m intrigued by how viewers actually experience our work. To truly understand the magic of editing, we need to ask ourselves this essential question:

What does the audience truly perceive as “editing”?

Hold that thought and let us briefly review the history of editing.

The Magic of Film Editing: A Journey Through Time

In cinema’s earliest days, a Lumière or Edison film featured no editing at all—just a continuous recording of whatever unfolded before the camera. Nothing was wrong or missing–this was and still is a valid approach to cinematic works. While multiple short films might have been screened back-to-back, neither filmmakers nor audiences considered this connection as editing. It simply wasn’t part of their creative intention.

Notice how the gardener has to drag the boy back to the center of the scene, instead of cutting to a different shot or moving the camera.

Soon enough, editing was discovered by accident—and what a wonderful accident it was! As the story goes, a cameraman (some say it was the pioneering Georges Méliès) accidentally left used film in his camera before shooting something new. Upon viewing the results, he was amazed to find the two shots connected in a seemingly magical way. Previously working as a magician, Méliès went on to build his entire career by exploring this cinematic sorcery.

Though editing techniques were now known, their application remained rather basic, as filmmakers were still learning the grammar of this new visual language. This partly explains why staged scenes dominated European cinema until the 1910s.

The 1920s brought another breakthrough when Soviet filmmakers, facing film shortages, began studying cinema by taking apart existing films and reassembling them in different ways. This experimentation led to the famous Kuleshov effect—a second discovery of editing’s magic, though more subtle than the first.

Inspired by Kuleshov’s findings, several influential Soviet filmmakers, Eisenstein, Pudovkin, Vertov, developed comprehensive theories about editing, which they called MONTAGE. These visionaries, now known as the Soviet Montage School, created films that demonstrated their revolutionary theories in action.

The famous Odessa Step scene in Battleship Potemkin

Meanwhile, Hollywood was establishing its own approach—continuity editing—making editing an essential component of the filmmaking process.

By the 1930s, these early innovations had been fully absorbed into cinema’s creative toolkit, becoming standard knowledge for filmmakers worldwide. Though occasional innovations still emerged (particularly in the 1960s), editing techniques generally intensified throughout the latter half of the 20th century, enriching our cinematic experiences in countless ways.

Editing and Medium Specificity

Russian filmmaker and theorist Pudovkin famously said:

The film is not shot, but built, built up from the separate strips of celluloid that are its raw material.

To the film director each shot of the finished film subserves the same purpose as the word to the poet. Hesitating, selecting, rejecting, and taking up again, he stands before the separate takes, and only by conscious artistic composition at this stage are gradually pieced together the phrases of editing, incidents and sequences, from which emerges, step by step, the finished creation, the film.

Following this logic, the Soviet school of filmmakers claims:

The foundation of film art is editing.

Now, editing is certainly very important, but to claim it as the foundation of film art is, strictly speaking, a flawed statement. After all, how can we declare something the foundation of film art if we can point to artistic films that completely do without it? Take “Russian Ark” (a Russian film about Russian art made by a Russian filmmaker, no less)—isn’t that still art?

In a broad sense, as long as you have more than one shot, you must edit your film. However, this isn’t what Pudovkin meant. He and many of his contemporaries truly believed in the transformative power of editing because it allowed them to break from previous traditions and establish their art form: the school of montage.

The art of editing flourished in the silent era, and at one point, it seemed that a tangible language of cinema was emerging. This language is undoubtedly attributable to montage as its syntax, which is how the Russian school used the term differently than we do today. In contemporary language, people use “montage” to refer to a sequence of highly condensed chronological events—something that has almost nothing in common with what the Russians meant by the term.

In discussions about film theory, we often hear a term called “medium specificity”. Medium specificity refers to the unique characteristics and capabilities of a particular medium (such as painting, film, literature, etc.) that distinguish it from other forms of expression. This concept emphasizes that each medium has its own intrinsic properties that shape how messages are conveyed and experienced. For example,

• Film: Utilizes motion, sound, and editing techniques that are not available in static art forms like painting.
• Literature: Relies on language, narrative structure, and literary devices that are unique to written texts.

Once we’ve pinpointed what makes a medium unique, it makes sense to channel our creative energy in that direction—after all, that’s where the magic happens! Take film, for instance. While movies certainly use language and storytelling techniques, these elements shouldn’t be the main source of their impact. Picture this: a film that’s just a blank screen with someone reading literature aloud. Sure, technically we might still call it a “film,” but it wouldn’t exactly showcase what makes cinema special, would it?

Editor vs. Viewer

Watching a film on an editing table is an entirely different experience from the one that unfolds in the darkened ambiance of a movie theater. When seated at an editing table, a film editor is immersed in a world of choices and decisions that shape the final product. These choices can be monumental, such as determining where to place a particular shot within the narrative arc of the film, or they can be more nuanced, like deciding whether to add a few frames more or less to a scene. Each decision, whether large or small, carries significant weight and can dramatically alter the viewer’s perception and emotional response to the story being told. These choices represent paradigmatic dimensions of editing, where the editor navigates through a myriad of possibilities, weighing the impact of each option against the overall vision for the film.

In stark contrast, the experience of a viewer in a theater is fundamentally different. As an audience member, we are primarily aware of the syntagmatic dimension of the film, which refers to the sequence and arrangement of shots as they unfold on the screen. We are passive recipients of the editor’s choices, unable to influence the flow of the narrative in any way. We cannot extend or shorten the length of a shot; we cannot reposition a scene to better suit our understanding or enjoyment. Instead, we surrender ourselves to the film as it is presented, absorbing the story and its emotional beats as they come. This lack of agency means that we often take the film’s structure and pacing for granted, allowing ourselves to be swept away by the unfolding drama without considering the intricate craftsmanship that went into its creation.

When you are working as a film editor, time emerges as a crucial element. The duration of each shot is prominently displayed on the editing timeline, allowing editors to see at a glance how long each segment lasts. This visual representation not only highlights the length of individual shots but also makes the frequency of cuts strikingly apparent. As editors scrutinize the timeline, they can easily identify the contrast and patterns that arise from varying shot durations, which can create a rhythm or pacing that is essential to the storytelling.

In stark contrast, a viewer experiences the film in a much different manner. She is immersed in the narrative as it unfolds before her eyes, unable to perceive the entire structure of the film simultaneously as if it were laid out on a linear axis. Instead, her experience is one of immediacy and emotional engagement, where she is swept along by the flow of the story. Although we all have an innate ability to perceive the passage of time, this perception is not purely objective; it is heavily influenced by a myriad of psychological factors, such as emotional engagement, suspense, and the overall context of the scenes. Consequently, our understanding of duration is often not precise but rather an approximation shaped by our feelings and reactions to the unfolding drama.

Moreover, editors possess a unique awareness of the cuts they have meticulously crafted, as they are the ones who placed them in the timeline. They are acutely aware of the transitions and the pacing, which hopefully was part of an overarching intention. In contrast, an audience member, engrossed in the story, may easily overlook these cuts. This phenomenon is precisely why editing is sometimes referred to as “invisible.” The goal of effective editing is to create a seamless experience that allows viewers to become fully absorbed in the film without being distracted by the mechanics of how it was constructed. The cuts, while essential to the storytelling process, should ideally fade into the background, allowing the audience to focus solely on the characters, the plot, and the emotional journey they are experiencing.

The following table summarizes the different activity and mentality of editor and viewer:

Cut Detection

When we discuss how shots connect, we often skip a fundamental question: how do we recognize them as separate shots in the first place? Before diving into complex topics about shot relationships, we need to understand something more basic: what visual motion signals to our brains that a cut has occurred? How do we detect—or sometimes miss—these cuts? What’s really happening in our perception when we experience continuity or discontinuity in editing?

In the realm of experimental psychology, there exists a body of research dedicated to exploring the nuances of continuity editing, particularly its effectiveness in rendering certain cuts virtually invisible to viewers. These studies typically involve presenting edited sequences to participants, who are then asked to identify the types of cuts they notice and those that elude their perception. However, this approach may not be the most appropriate research question to pursue. The fundamental issue lies in the fact that human beings often struggle to provide accurate accounts of what they see and what they fail to notice. Their descriptions are frequently influenced by preconceived notions and the anticipation of meaning, which can lead to a cognitive bias that fills in gaps or overlooks specific visual details that are crucial to understanding the editing process.

To truly advance our comprehension of how editing impacts the film viewer’s experience, it is imperative that we develop a more precise and actionable description of editing techniques. This refined description should not only encompass the cognitive efforts involved in recognizing and interpreting images but also be adaptable enough to be implemented in a computer program designed to replicate the same processes. By doing so, we can create a more objective framework that transcends the subjective limitations of human perception. Such a framework would allow us to analyze editing in a way that is both systematic and replicable, ultimately leading to deeper insights into the art of filmmaking and its psychological effects on audiences.

How do we notice a cut, and why do we sometimes miss it? Let’s explore this by imagining we’re teaching a computer program to detect cuts in film. Our Algorithm 1.0 might look something like this:

1. Compare two consecutive frames - are they different?
2. If yes, could this change simply be characters moving within the same shot? If so, that’s just pure staging.
3. Could the change be explained by the camera changing position? If yes, we’re dealing with camera movement (which often includes character movements too).
4. If the change can’t be satisfactorily explained by either of these possibilities - voilà! We’ve found a cut.

I mentioned earlier that for editing to work its magic—whatever kind of magic that might be—a cut needs to be seen. But here’s the interesting part: “seen” doesn’t necessarily mean consciously acknowledged. Our brains can register a cut without us actively thinking, “Oh, that was a cut!” This phenomenon highlights the remarkable capabilities of our cognitive processes, which often operate beneath the surface of our conscious awareness.

Imagine, for instance, a scene in a film where a long shot captures a man in the process of raising a rifle, his silhouette stark against a sprawling landscape. It then quicks cuts to a medium shot, bringing the viewer closer to the character’s expression and the subtle nuances of his posture. This cut, while potentially obvious, might well be missed by the audience due to the seamless match of action between the two shots. The transition feels fluid, almost as if the viewer is being gently guided through the narrative rather than jolted by abrupt changes.

But this doesn’t mean we don’t see it. We, of course, see it. Our eyes take in the visual information, and our brains are hard at work processing the changes involved in the cut. We register the differences in framing, the shift in perspective. However, it is the emotional weight carried by the character’s expression that is consuming most of our cognitive resources. We don’t shout “cut”! Instead, our brains are busy working on something else: what is the meaning of all this? Who is being targeted?

Our cut detection algorithm faces an interesting hurdle - we need to identify characters, objects, and camera perspectives, which might actually be trickier than spotting the cuts themselves! A 2.0 version of our algorithm doesn’t require the computer to understand what’s happening inside each frame. Instead, it relies on pure quantitative analysis.

When comparing two consecutive frames, we simply measure the amount of change between them, and then:

• If there’s only a small, incremental change (remember, this happens in just 1/24 of a second), it’s likely just objects or camera movement.
• If the amount of change (or motion) seems excessive for normal movement, it’s probably a cut.
• For extra certainty, we can compare with a third frame. If it continues the pattern from the second frame while remaining distinct from the first, we’ve definitely found a cut. In other words, if the differences between frames 1-2 and 2-3 are similar (D1=D2), it’s probably rapid movement. But if the difference between frames 2-3 is significantly less than between frames 1-2 (D2 < D1), then we’ve identified a cut at D1.

Editing Terms Demystified

Part of the reason we introduce the concept of cut detection algorithms is to help you understand the foundation of editing rules. You’ve probably seen these rules mentioned in every editing book, but have you ever wondered why they exist? Let’s explore some of the most frequently used ones:

• The 180 degree rule
• Jump cuts
• The 30 degree rule
• Graphic matches
• Axial cuts
• Match on action
• Continuity editing
• Point of View (POV)
• Subjective shots

The 180 degree rule

The so-called 180 degree rule states that the camera must remain on one side of an imaginary axis of action, which serves as a crucial reference point for the audience. By adhering to this guideline, filmmakers can prevent any potential confusion regarding the relative positioning of characters within a scene, thereby enhancing the viewer’s understanding of the narrative and the dynamics at play.

As illustrated in the above image, when the 180-degree rule is followed, the blue character consistently occupies the left side of the screen, while the red character is positioned on the right. This deliberate arrangement facilitates the mental construction of the diegetic space—the fictional world in which the story unfolds—by converting spatial decoding into a simple matter of left vs right, a task much easier to handle.

In this specific scenario, the visual distinction between the two characters, marked by their contrasting colors, further minimizes the risk of confusion. Even if the camera were to shift to a different viewpoint, such as from position D, the audience would likely still be able to discern the characters’ identities and their respective locations. However, this clarity is not guaranteed, and many filmmakers may prefer to adhere strictly to the rule to avoid any ambiguity that could detract from the storytelling experience.

It is essential to recognize that when this guideline is called a “rule,” we are actually discussing a “best practice” that has emerged within a specific context of cinematic storytelling. This convention has been gradually established throughout the history of film, shaped by the collective experiences of filmmakers and audiences alike. For those who are uninitiated in the language of cinema, such rules do not inherently exist; rather, they are learned and internalized over time. Just as one might develop a preference for eating bread over rice, these conventions are often a matter of trained habit and cultural conditioning. Many renowned filmmakers have chosen to deliberately violate this rule to create unique visual experiences or to evoke specific emotional responses from their audiences.

Jump cuts

A jump cut is a perceived stutter, a jolt of raw energy initiated by the differences between two shots. This may happen under two circumstances:

• constant background, sudden change of subject
• constant subject, sudden change of background

The first case is what made Méliès famous: the magic (dis)appearance of man and things. This is the original meaning of jump cut. See the following film:

The Haunted Hotel (1907)

A mischievous devil is ready to take a nap in a hotel room(!) when a guest enters. Annoyed by this intrusion the devil plays a series of tricks on the traveler (played by Méliès himself) and drives him to near madness. The use of the jump cut aims to conceal the cut. Although a cut is used, it is intended to convince the viewer that there isn’t one.

The second case is more rare. As the following frames from Last Year in Marienbad shows:

In the 1960s, a film emerged that would send shockwaves through the film world: Jean-Luc Godard’s debut feature, Breathless (1960). This revolutionary work captivated audiences with its carefree yet irresistibly charming approach to editing. At a time when rules of continuity and coherence were firmly established—with any deviation typically viewed as incompetence—Breathless boldly embraced a style that felt both spontaneous and raw. Remarkably, audiences didn’t just tolerate these unconventional editing choices; they understood, forgave, and even delighted in them.

In the film Marienbad, the sudden shifts in time and space create a sensation akin to teleportation. These abrupt transitions serve to jolt the audience, pulling them into the disorienting experience of the characters. The film’s narrative structure, which often feels fragmented and surreal, mirrors the complexities of memory and perception, inviting viewers to engage with the story on a deeper, more introspective level.

In Marienbad, these sudden shifts feel like impossible teleportation—something that clearly contradicts our understanding of the story world, as the characters possess no such abilities. Yet even when such changes can be logically explained, they still deliver that emotional jolt. In one memorable scene from Breathless, we see various shots of Jean Seberg’s character during a car ride, with backgrounds changing abruptly. This creates a visual tapestry that feels simultaneously disjointed and cohesive. While this shift makes logical sense—simply representing different moments from the journey—its impact remains powerfully exhilarating. We feel as if we’re experiencing the ride alongside the characters, each cut reminding us of the beautiful fluidity of time and space in cinema.

The 30 degree rule

This leads to another so-called 30 degree rule. Timothy Corrigan and Patricia White in their book The Film Experience (2004, 130) defines it as:

The rule aims to emphasize the motivation for the cut by giving a substantially different view of the action. The transition between two shots less than 30 degrees apart might be perceived as unnecessary or discontinuous — in short, visible.

Why? What is wrong with having cuts that are less than 30 degrees apart? Walter Murch, in his book on editing, In The Blink of an Eye (2006, 6), explains:

[We] have difficulty accepting the kind of displacements that are neither subtle nor total: Cutting from a full-figure master shot, for instance, to a slightly tighter shot that frames the actors from the ankles up. The new shot in this case is different enough to signal that something has changed, but not different enough to make us re-evaluate its context.

The idea of perceivable change is also present in another psychological phenomenon called Weber’s Law. Weber’s Law, formulated by the German psychologist Ernst Heinrich Weber, is a principle in psychophysics that describes the relationship between the magnitude of a stimulus and the perception of that stimulus. The law states that the just noticeable difference (JND) between two stimuli is proportional to the magnitude of the stimuli.

In film, Weber’s Law helps in understanding how changes are being perceived in proportion to the current stimuli: the cognitive load of the current frame. It is true to say that changes in camera angles or shots should be significant enough to be perceived by the audience. But what exactly is significant change needs to be determined in each individual cases. However, an average film editor can use the rule of thumb to simplify this calculation: 30 degree thus becomes a convenient way to apply the Weber’s law.

Axial cuts

The case Murch mentions illustrates a noticeable but not dramatic transition between scales—from a full shot to what’s known as an Italian shot. Because the change is not significant it renders a blurry picture that refuses to be categorized in cognition. What would be the case where the cut can be properly determined and categorized? It turns out that you can indeed make a series of shots all taken on the axis between the camera and the object. But these shots have to be significantly different in terms of scale. This technique is commonly referred to as an axial cut. If you’re curious to see a remarkable early example of this approach in action, look no further than Yamanaka Sadao’s beautiful 1937 film Humanity and Paper Balloons.

I borrow the two frames from David Bordwell’s insightful blog, where he presents a masterful entry on the use of axial cut in silent cinema.

Axial cuts create a truly captivating effect on our perception and emotional response. They stand out precisely because we haven’t become desensitized to them through repeated exposure. When we experience this technique, it often triggers an instinctive alarm response—after all, it simulates something rapidly approaching the center of our vision, which naturally activates our fight-or-flight instinct.

That’s why, when watching Sadao’s film, you’d immediately notice this technique’s impact—it grabs your attention almost instantly! I don’t believe Sadao was trying to shock us, though. Instead, this approach seems to serve a more nuanced purpose within the film’s overall artistic vision. On the flip side, some directors deliberately use axial cuts to evoke powerful visceral reactions from their audiences. Alfred Hitchcock’s classic thriller The Birds offers a perfect example of this technique in action.

In the sequence from The Birds, Hitchcock masterfully utilizes a rapid succession of three axial shots to create a sense of urgency and tension. Unlike a traditional zoom or a dolly shot that moves in from a wide view of the deceased character to a close-up, which might gradually build suspense, Hitchcock’s approach is brutal and disorienting. The quick succession of axial cuts not only heightens the emotional stakes but also immerses the viewer in the chaotic atmosphere of the scene. This technique achieves a violent effect on the viewer, forcing them to confront the horror of the moment in a way that feels immediate and unsettling.

To recap, a jump cut may involve either a) a sudden change of either the background or subject, but not both; or b) the same background and subject but with a nonsignificant change of camera angles, typically ranging from 10 to 30 degrees.

Graphic Match

What is intricately related to the concept of a jump cut is the technique known as a graphic match. A graphic match is a specific type of cut in film editing that highlights graphic similarities between two consecutive shots, creating a visual connection between otherwise completely distinct elements. This technique is often employed to draw parallels between different scenes, objects, or themes, thereby enriching the narrative and engaging the audience on a deeper level.

To clarify, a graphic match is distinct from a jump cut. While jump cuts intentionally disrupt the flow of a scene, graphic matches create this wonderful visual bridge between completely different scenes. In a graphic match, the backgrounds in the two shots need to differ significantly (again, Weber’s law) to provide clear context, yet the objects in the center may share a striking visual similarity that creates a seamless transition. The difference in background is crucial; it ensures that the viewer is not left feeling disoriented or confused, as can often happen with jump cuts.

Most graphic matches generate that delightful “aha!” moment—when your brain reconciles the visual similarity with the different contexts. It’s like discovering a clever connection between two seemingly unrelated ideas. Though usually pleasing, directors like Hitchcock have also used this technique to terrifying effect in scenes like the famous shower sequence in “Psycho.”

The following video has a collection of many other cases of graphic matches so you can see how graphic matches have evolved into a powerful storytelling tool in modern cinema, connecting scenes in ways that dialogue alone never could.

Match on Action

A fascinating editing technique that often pops up in the world of film and video production is known as match on action. This clever method involves capturing the same action from different angles, creating a dynamic viewing experience. So, what exactly do we mean by “different angles”? Well, it could be perspectives from both inside and outside a building or room, or it might involve varying shot scales. For example, a filmmaker might film a character opening a door from the outside, cut to the moment the door is halfway open, and then smoothly transition to a shot from inside, showcasing the character stepping through the doorway. Alternatively, they might cut from the moment a hand touches the doorknob to a closer shot of that hand turning it.

No matter how these different views are arranged, the core idea behind match on action is simple: let the action mask the cut. By focusing the audience’s attention on the movement, they’re less likely to notice the transition between shots.

In essence, match on action is an everyday editing technique that helps maintain the flow of action while significantly shortening the duration of a sequence. After all, who wants to spend all day watching someone slowly enter a room?

Point of View (POV)

The concept of the Point of View shot is one of the most intriguing topics in film studies. The exploration of point of view has a rich history in literature, tracing back to Aristotle, who famously distinguished between two modes of narration: mimesis and diegesis, or showing and telling. While many authors have delved into various aspects of this complex puzzle, Edward Branigan’s work, Point of View in The Cinema: A Theory of Narration and Subjectivity in Classical Film, stands out as a most comprehensive and systematic exploration. This remarkable book meticulously outlines and categorizes the different ways POV operates, using classic films as illustrative examples. Branigan’s largely semiotic project was born in a wrong time— it emerged in an era when linguistic, psychoanalytic, and ideological models were beginning to falling out of fashion—not replaced by the formalism advocated by David Bordwell and Noel Carroll—instead film studies as a discipline moved towards a multitude of interpretative frameworks, including multiculturalism, colonialism, and feminism.

Branigan categorizes point-of-view (p.o.v.) shots into two main types: prospective and retrospective, which he charmingly refers to as “discovered”. In prospective shots, we first see the agent who is observing, followed by the object of their gaze. In contrast, retrospective shots present the object first, before revealing the observing agent.

He also outlines several “simple structures” for p.o.v. shots (111-117), each with its own unique flair:

a) Closed: This sequence begins with the agent, then shifts to the object, before returning to the agent once more.

b) Delayed: Here, there’s a pause between the shots of the agent and the object, filled with a bit of time or other images.

c) Open: In this structure, we see the agent looking, but the object remains unseen. One might imagine a reverse scenario where the object is present but the agent is not, though Branigan doesn’t explicitly mention this. A delightful example can be found in the cloud-watching strips from Peanuts.

d) Continuing: This sequence showcases several objects that all relate back to a single agent.

e) Cheated: This involves a view of the object that isn’t realistically attributable to the agent, such as close-ups or alternate angles.

f) Multiple: In this case, the same object is observed by multiple agents, adding layers to the perspective.

g) Embedded: This intriguing structure features a p.o.v. shot nested within another, where Person A looks at Person B, who is in turn looking at something else.

h) Reciprocal: The best way to describe this is by envisioning two characters facing each other, each looking at the other.

If you’re curious about exploring these categories further, I highly recommend diving into his book. Today, though, let’s delve into some truly radical use cases of point of view (POV) in film. While POV techniques are sprinkled throughout cinema, it’s quite rare to find an entire film shot from a single perspective. One of the earliest and most notable examples is the 1947 film noir Lady in the Lake.

In this innovative film, the camera adopts the viewpoint of Philip Marlowe for nearly its entire runtime. What you see on screen is precisely what Marlowe sees, creating an immersive experience for the audience. Characters engage with the camera as if they’re speaking directly to Marlowe, which adds a unique layer to the storytelling. We witness Marlowe’s hands in action—lighting a cigarette, opening a door, or getting into a scuffle—along with glimpses of his arms and, occasionally, his reflection in mirrors or windows. This perspective means that the audience rarely sees the protagonist’s face during the main narrative, making those fleeting moments all the more impactful.

Robert Montgomery, who plays Marlowe, does make brief appearances as himself at the beginning and end of the film. In these segments, he directly addresses the audience to explain the experimental nature of the movie and to tie up the story. These moments break away from the strict first-person POV of the main narrative, but they were understandably added later by producers who worried that viewers might struggle to grasp the film’s unique approach. In line with Bragnigan’s system, the entire film is structured as a closed sequence, where we first see the agent, then the object, and finally return to the seeing agent.

I don’t want to argue that “Lady in the Lake” was a particularly successful film. Unfortunately, its use of point-of-view (POV) has been overshadowed by its shortcomings. The novelty of this technique quickly fades, leaving audiences to ponder its purpose. If viewers struggle to grasp the intent behind such a stylistic choice—whether due to their own understanding or the film’s execution—they often label it as a “bad” film.

Fast forward many years, and the concept of using POV for an entire film made a comeback with Hardcore Henry (2015). This time, the production had the advantage of an audience that was already well-acquainted with POV, thanks to the first-person shooter games that have captivated the younger generation. The thinking was clear: wouldn’t they enjoy a movie presented in a similar style?

Yet, despite these advantages, “Hardcore Henry” also fell short of achieving success. The film has a score of around 48% based on critic reviews, indicating mixed or average reviews. Some viewers praised the innovative style and adrenaline-pumping action, while others criticized the lack of a coherent story and character development. The last bit is indeed a big challenge: POV shot implies real time unfolded on the screen; but how can a character have any development during the real time of a movie?

Subjective Shot

The distinction between POV (Point of View) shots and subjective shots can be a bit nuanced:

A POV shot presents what a character is seeing, effectively immersing the audience in their perspective. In contrast, a subjective shot conveys a character’s emotional experience or perception, focusing on what they are feeling.

To achieve this, we can incorporate visual elements that symbolize emotions or thoughts, emphasizing the character’s emotional or psychological state rather than a literal viewpoint. We may choose to show the character’s exact perspective or not. In fact, I would suggest that films often selectively present certain aspects of a character’s viewpoint while omitting others. This creates a rich spectrum of possibilities.

Some initial experiments in conveying subjectivity can be as straightforward as depicting the camera as if it were wearing goggles, reminiscent of the iconic pool scene from The Graduate. In this scene, Benjamin Braddock dons a diving helmet as he moves through the pool and eventually submerges himself in the water. The helmet, which narrows his field of vision, creates a barrier between him and the outside world, underscoring his feelings of isolation and disconnection. This altered perspective forges a connection between the audience and Benjamin’s emotional state, reflecting his confusion and solitude as he navigates the complexities of adulthood. Additionally, the use of sound plays a crucial role; the muffled noises from the party further emphasize his detachment from the world around him.

A more recent example can be found in Enter the Void (2015), where blinking plays a significant role in the cinematic experience. Whether this feels appropriate depends on whether we are aiming for physiological verisimilitude or psychological impact. While an average person blinks frequently, we often do not consciously register these blinks. This phenomenon is somewhat akin to the low-level process of merging slightly different views from both eyes into a single, cohesive image, or creating a continuous perception of motion through snapshots captured by the retina.

The tropes established by Gaspar Noé and his team to convey subjective feelings are extensive. In addition to blinking and constant blurring, the film employs intense strobing lights, vibrant neon colors, abstract patterns, fractals, and swirling visuals, particularly during drug sequences and transitional moments. The visual experience is further enhanced by the protagonist’s constant self-dialogue (which I hesitate to call voice-over) and heightened bodily sounds, such as breathing and heartbeats. Sound is often muffled, amplified, echoed, or warped (like the ringing after a gunshot) to reflect Oscar’s physical state. All of these elements contribute immensely to the subjectivity of the shots.

While “Enter the Void” utilizes lengthy POV sequences and pushes this technique to its limits, the film does not shy away from breaking the POV to show Oscar in the frame. This aligns with a realization we’ve come to in recent years: a subjective shot does not need to replicate the optical point of view of a character. If our goal is to convey the emotional state of a character, what better way to do so than by showing the character’s own face? After all, we are all adept at reading faces.

Black Swan