Monaco, "The Language of Film: Signs and Syntax"

Monaco, "The Language of Film: Signs and Syntax"

from: James Monaco, How to Read a Film. New York: Oxford UP, 1981. pp. 121 - 191.

Film is not a language in the sense that English, French, or mathematics

is. It is, first of all, impossible to be ungrammatical in film. And it is not
necessary to learn a vocabulary. Infants appear to understand television
images, for example, months before they begin to develop a facility with
spoken language. Even cats watch television. Clearly, it is not necessary
to acquire intellectual competence in film in order to appreciate it, at
least on the most basic level.
But film is very much like language. People who are highly experienced
in film, highly literate visually (or should we say "cinemate"?), see more
and hear more than people who seldom go to the movies. An education
in the quasi-language of film opens up greater potential meaning for the
observer, so it is useful to use the metaphor of language to describe the
phenomenon of film. In fact, no extensive scientific investigation of our
ability to comprehend artificial sounds and images has as yet been
performed, but nevertheless we do know through research, that while
children are able to recognize objects in pictures long before they are
able to read, they are eight or ten years of age before they can
comprehend a film image the way most adults do. Moreover, there are
cultural differences in perception of images. In one famous 1920s test,
anthropologist William Hudson set out to examine whether rural
Africans who had had little contact with Western culture perceived
depth in two-dimensional images the same way that Europeans do. He
found, unequivocally, that they do not. Results variedthere were
some individuals who responded in the Western manner to the test
but they were uniform over a broad cultural and sociological range.
/122/
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Figure 3-1. CONSTRUCTION-TASK FIGURES. Subjects asked to reconstruct these

figures in three dimensions using sticks or rods, respond in different ways. People
from Western cultures, trained in the codes and conventions that artists use to
convey three-dimensionality in a two-dimensional drawing, see A as three
dimensional and B as two-dimensional. The operating code for three-dimensionality
here insists that the dimension of depth be portrayed along the 45 oblique line. This
works well enough in A, but not in B, where the oblique lines are not in the depth
plane. Subjects from African cultures tend to see both figures as two-dimensional,
since they are not familiar with this Western three-dimensional code. Figures C and
D illustrate the models of A constructed by Western and African observers,
respectively. (From, "Pictorial Perception and Culture," Jan B. Deregowski. (~) 1972 by
Scientific American, Inc. All rights reserved.)

The conclusions that can be drawn from this seminal experiment and
others that have followed are two: first, that every normal human being
can perceive and identify a visual image; second, that even the simplest
visual images are interpreted differently in different cultures. So we
know that images must be "read." There is a process of intellection
occuring not necessarily consciouslywhen we observe an image,
and it follows that we must have learned, at some point, how to do this.
The "ambiguous Trident," a well-known "optical illusion," provides an
easy test of this ability.

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Figure 3~2. THE AMBIGUOUS TRIDENT. The illusion is intriguing only because we
are trained in Western codes of perspective. The psychological effects is powerful:
our minds insist that we see the object in space rather than the drawing on a plane.

It's safe to say that the level of visual literacy of anyone reading this
book is such that observation of the trident will be confusing to all of us.
It would not be for someone not trained in /123/Western conventions
of three-dimensionality. Similarly, the well-known optical illusions in
Figures 3-3 and 3-4 demonstrate that the process of perception and
comprehension involves the brain: it is a mental experience as well as a
physical one.

Figure 3-3 THE NECKER CUBE. Devised in 1832 by L. A. Necker, a Swiss naturalist.
The illusion depends, once again, on cultural training.

Whether we "see" the Necker Cube from the top or the bottom or
whether we perceive the drawing in Figure 3-4 as either a young girl or
an old woman depends not on the physiological function of our eyes
but on what the brain does with the information received.

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Figure 3-4. "My Wife and My Mother-in-Law," by cartoonist W.E. Hill, was published
in Puck in 1915. It has since become a famous example of the phenomenon known as
multistable figure. The young woman's chin is the old woman's nose. The old
woman's chin is the young woman's chest.

The word "image," indeed, has two conjoined meanings: an image is an

optical pattern; it is also a mental experience, which is why, we can
assume, we use the word "imagine" to describe the mental creation of
pictures.
So there is a strong element of our ability to observe images, whether
still or moving, that depends on learning. This is, interestingly, not true
to a significant extent with auditory phenomena. If the machines are
sophisticated enough, we can produce recorded sounds that are
technically indistinguishable from their originals. The result of this
difference in mode of the two systems of perceptionvisual and audi/125/ toryis that whatever education our ears undergo in order to
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perceive reality is sufficient to perceive recorded sound, whereas there

is a subtle but significant difference between the education necessary for
our eyes to perceive (and our brain to understand) recorded images and
that which is necessary simply to comprehend the reality that
surrounds us. It would serve no purpose to consider phonography as a
language, but it is useful to speak of photography (and
cinematography) as a language, because a learning process is involved.
THE PHYSIOLOGY OF PERCEPTION
Another way to describe this difference between the two senses is in
terms of the function of the sensory organs: ears hear whatever is
available for them to hear; eyes choose what to see. This is true not only
in the conscious sense (choosing to redirect attention from point A to
point B or to ignore the sight altogether by closing our eyes), but in the
unconscious as well. Since the receptor organs that permit visual acuity
are concentrated (and properly arranged) only in the "fovea" of the
retina, it's necessary for us to stare directly at an object in order to have
a clear image of it.

You can demonstrate this to yourself by staring at the dot in the center
of this page. Only the area immediately surrounding it will be clear. The
result of this foveated vision is that the eyes must move constantly in
order to perceive an object of any size. These semiconscious movements
are called "saccades" and take approximately 1/20 second each, just
about the interval of persistence of vision, the phenomenon that makes
film possible.
The conclusion that can be drawn from the fact of foveated vision is
that we do indeed read an image physically as well as mentally and
psychologically, just as we read a page. The difference is that we know
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how to read a page in English, from the left to right and top to bottom
but we are seldom conscious of how precisely we read an image.
A complete set of physiological, ethnographic, and psychological
experiments might demonstrate that various individuals read images
more or less well in three different ways:
physiologically: the best readers would have the most efficient and
extensive saccadic patterns;
ethnographically: the most literate readers would draw on a greater
experience and knowledge of various cultural visual conventions;
psychologically: the readers who gained the most from the material
would be the ones who were best able to assimilate the various sets
of meanings they perceived and then integrate the experience.
/126/

Figure 3~5. SACCADE PATTERNS. At left, a drawing of a bust of Queen Nefertiti; at

right, a diagram of the eye movements of a subject viewing the bust. Notice that the
eye follows regular patterns rather than randomly surveying the image. The subject
clearly concentrates on the face and shows little interest in the neck. The ear also
seems to be a focus of attention, probably not because it is inherently interesting, but
rather because it is located in a prominent place in this profile. The saccadic patterns
are not continuous; the recording clearly shows that the eye jerks quickly from point
to point (the "notches" in the continuous line), fixing on specific nodes rather than
absorbing general information. The recording was made by Alfred L. Yarbus of the

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Institute for Problems of Information Transmission, Moscow. (From "Eye Movements

and Visual Perception, " by David Noton and Lavdrence Stark, June 1971.

The irony here is that we know very well that we must learn to read
before we can attempt to enjoy or understand literature, but we tend to
believe, mistakenly, that anyone can read a film. Anyone can see a film,
it's true, even cats. But some people have learned to comprehend visual
imagesphysiologically, ethnographically, and psychologicallywith
far more sophistication than have others. This evidence confirms the
validity of the triangle of perception outlined in Chapter 1, uniting
author, work, and observer. The observer is not simply a consumer, but
an active or potentially activeparticipant in the process.
Film is not a language, but is like a language, and since it is like
language, some of the methods that we use to study language might
probably be applied to a study of film. In fact, during the last ten years,
/127/

Figure 3-6. THE PONZO ILLUSION. The horizontal lines are of equal length, yet the
line at the top appears to be longer than the line at the bottom. The diagonals suggest
perspective, so that we interpret the picture in depth and conclude, therefore, that
since the "top" line must be "behind" the "bottom" line, further away, it must then be
longer.

this approach to filmessentially linguistichas grown considerably in

importance. Since film is not a language, strictly linguistic concepts are
misleading. Ever since the beginning of film history, theorists have been
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fond of comparing film with verbal language (this was partly to justify
the serious study of film), but it wasn't until a new, larger category of
thought developed in the fifties and early sixtiesone that saw written
and spoken language as just two among many systems of
communicationthat the real study of film as a language could
proceed. This inclusive category is semiology, the study of systems of
signs. Semiologists justified the study of film as language by redefining
the concept of written and spoken language. Any system of
communication is a "language"; English, French, or Chinese is a
"language system." Cinema, therefore, may be a language of a sort, but
it is not clearly a language system. As Christian Metz, the well-known
film semiologist, pointed out: we understand a film not because we
have a knowledge of its system, rather, we achieve an understanding of
its system because we understand the film. Put another way, "It is not
because the cinema is language that it can tell such fine stories, but
rather it has become language because it has told such fine stories"
[Metz, Film Language, p. 47].
For semiologists, a sign must consist of two parts: the signifier and the
signified. The word "word," for examplethe collection of letters or
soundsis a signifier; what it represents is something else againthe
"signified." In literature, the relationship between signifier and signified
is a main locus of art: the poet is building constructions that, on the one
hand, are composed of sounds (signifiers) and, on the other, of
meanings (signifieds), and the relationship between the two can be
fascinating. In fact, much of the pleasure of poetry lies just here: in the
dance between sound and meaning.
But in film, the signifier and the signified are almost identical: the sign
/128/ of cinema is a short-circuit sign. A picture of a book is much closer
to a book, conceptually, than the word "book" is. It's true that we may
have to learn in infancy or early childhood to interpret the picture of a
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book as meaning a book, but this is a great deal easier than learning to
interpret the letters or sounds of the word "book" as what it signifies. A
picture bears some direct relationship with what it signifies, a word
seldom does.
[Pictographical languages like Chinese and Japanese might be
said to fall somewhere in between film and Western languages
as sign systems, but only when they are written, not when they
are spoken, and only in limited cases. On the other hand, there
are some words"gulp," for examplethat are onomatopoeic
and therefore bear a direct relationship to what they signify, but
only when they are spoken.]
It is the fact of this short-circuit sign that makes the language of film so
difficult to discuss. As Metz put it, in a memorable phrase: "A film is
difficult to explain because it is easy to understand." It also makes
"doing" film quite different from "doing" English (either writing or
speaking). We can't modify the signs of cinema the way we can modify
the words of language systems. In cinema, an image of a rose is an
image of a rose is an image of a rosenothing more, nothing less. In
English, a rose can be a rose, simply, but it can also be modified or
confused with similar words: rose, rosy, rosier, rosiest, rise risen, rows
(ruse), arose, roselike, and so forth. The power of language systems is
that there is a very great difference between the signifier and the
signified; the power of film is that there is not.
Nevertheless, film is like a language. How, then, does it do what is
does? Clearly, one person's image of a certain object is not another's. If
we both read the words "rose" you may perhaps think of a Peace rose
you picked last summer, while I am thinking of the one Laura Westphal
gave to me in December 1968. In cinema, however, we both see the
same rose, while the filmmaker can choose from an infinite variety of
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roses and then photograph the one chosen in another infinite variety of
ways. The artist's choice in cinema is without limit; the artist's choice in
literature is circumscribed, while the reverse is true for the observer.
Film does not suggest, in this context: it states. And therein lies its
power and the danger it poses to the observer: the reason why it is
useful, even vital, to learn to read images well so that the observer can
seize some of the power of the medium. The better one reads an image,
the more one understands it, the more power one has over it. The
reader of a page invents the image, the reader of a film does not, yet
both readers must work to interpret the signs they perceive in order to
complete the process of intellection. The more work they do, the better
the balance between observer and creator in the process, the better the
balance, the more vital and resonant the work of art. /129/
The earliest film textseven many published recentlypursue with
shortsighted ardor the crude comparison of film and written/spoken
language. The standard theory suggested that the shot was the word of
film, the scene its sentence, and the sequence its paragraph. In the sense
that these sets of divisions are arranged in ascending order of
complexity, the comparison is true enough; but it breaks down under
analysis. Assuming for the moment that a word is the smallest
convenient unit of meaning, does the shot compare equivalently? Not at
all. In the first place, a shot takes time. Within that time span there is a
continually various number of images. Does the single image, the
frame, then constitute the basic unit of meaning in film? Still the answer
is no, since each frame includes a potentially infinite amount of visual
information, as does the soundtrack that accompanies it. While we
could say that a film shot is something like a sentence, since it makes a
statement and is sufficient in itself, the point is that the film does not
divide itself into such easily manageable units. While we can define
"shot" technically well enough as a single piece of film, what happens if
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the particular shot is punctuated internally? The camera can move; the
scene can change completely in a pan or track. Should we then be
talking of one shot or two?
Likewise, scenes, which were defined strictly in French classical /130/
theater as beginning and ending whenever a character entered or left
the stage, are more amorphous in film (as they are in theater today). The
term scene is useful, no doubt, but not precise. Sequences are certainly
longer than scenes, but the "sequence-shot," in which a single shot is
coterminous with a sequence, is an important concept and no smaller
units within it are sequential.
It would seem that a real science of film would depend on our being
able to define the smallest unit of construction. We can do that
technically, at least for the image: it is the single frame. But this is
certainly not the smallest unit of meaning. The fact is that film, unlike
written or spoken language, is not composed of units, as such, but is
rather a continuum of meaning. A shot contains as much information as
we want to read in it, and whatever units we define within the shot are
arbitrary. Therefore, film presents us with a language (of sorts) that:
a) consists of short-circuit signs in which the signifier nearly equals the
signified; and
b) depends on a continuous, nondiscrete system in which we can't
identify a basic unit and which therefore we can't describe
quantitatively. The result is, as Christain Metz says, that: "An easy art,
the cinema is in constant danger of falling victim to this easiness." Film
is too intelligible, which is what makes it difficult to analyze. "A film is
difficult to explain because it is easy to understand."

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Denotative and Connotative Meaning

Films do, however, manage to communicate meaning. They do this
essentially in two different manners: denotatively and connotatively.
Like written language, but to a greater degree, a film image or sound has a
denotative meaning: it is what it is and we don't have to strive to recognize it.
This may seem a simplistic statement, but the fact should never be underestimated: here lies the great strength of film. There is a substantial difference
between a description in words (or even in still photograph s) of a person or
event, and a cinematic record of the same. Because film can give us such a
close approximation of reality, it can communicate a precise knowledge that
written or spoken language seldom can. "Film is what you can't imagine."
Language systems may be much better equipped to deal with the
nonconcrete world of ideas and abstractions (imagine this book, for example,
on film: without a complete narration it would be incomprehensible), but they
are not nearly so capable of conveying precise information about physical
realities.
By its very nature, written/spoken language analyzes. To write the word "rose"
is to generalize and abstract the idea of the rose. The real power of the
linguistic languages lies not in their denotative ability but in this connotative
aspect of language: the wealth of meaning we can attach to a word that surpasses its denotation. If denotation were the only measure of the power of a
language, for example, then English-which has a vocabulary of a million or so
words and is the largest language in history-would be more than three times
more powerful than French, which has only 300,000 or so words. But French
makes up for its "limited" vocabulary with a noticeably greater use of connotation. Film has connotative abilities as well.
Considering the strongly denotative quality of film sounds and images, it is
surprising to discover that these connotative abilities are very much a part of
the film language. In fact, many of them stem from film's denotative ability. As
we have noted in Chapter 1, film can draw on all the other arts for variou s
effects simply because it can record them. Thus, all the connotative factors of
spoken language can be accommodated on a film soundtrack while the
conno- tations of written language can be included in titles (to say nothing of
the con- notative factors of dance, music, painting, and so forth). Because film
is a prod- uct of culture, it has resonances that go beyond what the
semiotician calls its "diegesis" (the sum of its denotation s). An image of a
rose is not simply that when it appears in a film of Richard III, for example,
becau se we are aware of the connotations of the white rose and the red as
symbols of the hou ses of York and Lancaster. These are culturally
determined connotations.
In addition to these influences from the general culture, film has its own
unique connotative ability. We know (even if we don't often remind ourselves
of it consciously) that a filmmaker has made specific choices: the rose is
filmed from a certain angle, the camera moves or does not move, the color is
bright or dull, the rose is fresh or fading, the thorns apparent or hidden, the
background clear (so that the rose is seen in context) or vague (so that it is
isolated) , the shot held for a long time or briefly, and so on. These are
specific aids to cinematic connotation, and although we can approximate their
effect in literature , we cannot accomplish it there with the precision or

efficiency of cinema. A picture is, on occasion, worth a thousand words, as

the adage has it.
When our sense of the connotation of a specific shot depends on its having
been chosen from a range of other possible shots, then we can say that this is,
using the language of semiotics, a paradigmatic connotation. That is, the connotative sense we comprehend stems from the shot being compared , not
neces- sarily consciou sly, with its unrealized companions in the paradigm, or
general model, of this type of shot. A low-angle shot of a rose, for example,
conveys a sense that the flower is for some reason dominant, overpowering,
becau se we consciously or unconsciou sly compare it with, say, an overhead
shot of a rose, which would diminish its importance.
Conversely, when the significance of the rose depends not on the shot compared with other potential shots, but rather on the shot compared with actual
shots that precede or follow it, then we can speak of its syntagmatic connotation ; that is, the meaning adheres to it because it is compared with other
shots that we do see.
These two different kinds of connotation have their equivalents in literature. A
word alone on the page has no particular connotation, only denotation. We
know what it means, we also know potentially what it connotes, but we can't
supply the particular connotation the author of the word has in mind until we
see it in context. Then we know what particular connotative value it has
because we judge its meaning by conscious or uncon scious comparison of it
with (1) all the words like it that might fit in this context but were not chosen,
and (2) the words that precede or follow it.
These two axes of meanin g-the paradigmatic and the syntagmatic-have real
value as tools for under standing what film means. In fact, as an art, film
depends almost entirely upon these two sets of choices. After a filmmaker has
decided what to shoot, the two obsessive questions are how to shoot it (what
choices to make: the paradigmatic) and how to present the shot (how to edit
it: the syntagmatic). In literature , in contrast, the first question (how to say it)
is paramount, while the second (how to present what is said) is quite
secondary. Semiotics, so far, has concentrated on the syntagmatic aspect of
film, for a very simple reason: it is here that film is most clearly different from
other arts, so that the syntagmatic category (editing, montage) is in a sense
the most "cine- matic."
Film draws on the other arts for much of its connotative power as well as
generating its own, both paradigmatically and syntagmatically. But there is
also another source of connotative sense. Cinema is not strictly a medium of
inter- communication. One seldom hold s dialogues u sing film as the medium.
Whereas spoken and written languages are used for intercommunication, film,
like the nonrepresentational arts in general (as well as language when it is
used for artistic purposes), is a one-way communication. As a result, even the
most utilitarian of films is artistic in some respect. Film speaks in neologisms.
"When a 'language' does not already exist," Metz wrote, "one mu st be something of an artist to speak it, however poorly. For to speak it is partly to invent
it, whereas to speak the language of everyday is simply to use it." So
connota- tions attach to even the simplest statements in film.
There is an old joke that illustrates the point: Two philosopher s meet ; one
says "Good morning !"The other smiles in recognition, then walks on frowning

and thinking to himself: "I wonder what he meant by that?" The question is a
joke when spoken language is the subject; it is however, a perfectly legitimate
question to ask of any statement in film.
Is there any way we can further differentiate the variou s modes of denotation
and connotation in film? Borrowing a ''trichotomy" from the philosopher C. S.
Peirce, Peter Wollen, in his highly influential book Signs and Meaning in the
Cinema (1969), suggested that cinematic signs are of three orders:
0 The Icon: a sign inwhich the signifier represents the signified mainly by its
similarity to it, its likeness;
0 The Index: which measures a quality not because it is identical to it but because it has an inherent relationship to it;
0 The Symbol: an arbitrary sign in which the signifier has neither a direct nor
an indexical relationship to the signified, but rather represents it through
convention.
Although Wollen didn't fit them into the denotative/connotative categories ,
Icon, Index, and Symbol can be seen as mainly denotative. Portraits are icons,
of course, but so are diagrams in the Peirce/Wollen system. Indexes are more
difficult to define. Quoting Peirce, Wollen suggests two sorts of indexes, one
technical-medical symptoms are indexes of health , clocks and sundials are
indexes of time-and one metaphorical: a rolling gait should indicate that a man
is a sailor. (This is the one point where the Peirce/Wollen categories verge on
the connotative.) Symbols, the third category, are more easily defined. The
way Peirce and Wollen use it, the word has a rather broad definition: words
are symbols (since the signifier represents the signified through convention
rather than resemblance).
These three categories are not mutually exclusive. Especially in photographic
images, the iconic factor is almost always a strong one. As we have noted, a
thing is itself even if it is also an index or a symbol. General semiotic theory,
especially as it is put forth in Christian Metz's writings, covers the first and last
categories-icon and symbol-fairly well already. The icon is the short-circuit
sign that is so characteristic of cinema ; the symbol is the arbitrary or conventional sign that is the basis of spoken and written language. It is the second
cat- egory-the index-that is most intriguing in Peirce and Wollen's system: it
seems to be a third means, halfway between the cinematic icon and the
literary symbol, by which cinema can convey meaning. It is not an arbitrary
sign, but neither is it identical. It suggests a third type of denotation that points
directly toward connotation, and may in fact not be understandable without the
dimension of connotation.
The index seems to be one very useful way in which cinema can deal directly
with ideas, since it gives us concrete representations or measurements of
them. How can we convey the idea of hotness cinematically, for instance? In
written language it's very easy, but on film? The image of a thermometer
quickly comes to mind. Clearly that is an index of temperature. But there are
more subtle indexes as well: sweat is an index, as are shimmering
atmospheric waves and hot colors. It's a truism of film esthetics that
metaphors are difficult in cinema. Comparing love with roses works well
enough in literature, but its cinematic equivalent poses problems: the rose, the

secondary element of the metaphor, is too equivalent in cinema, too much

present. As a result, cinematic metaphors based on the literary model tend to
be crude and static and forced. The indexi- cal sign may offer a way out of this
dilemma. Here film discover s its own, unique metaphorical power, which it
owes to the flexibility of the frame: its ability to say many things at once.
The concept of the index also leads us to some interesting ideas about connotation. It mu st be clear from the above discussion that the line between
denota- tion and connotation is not clearly defined: there is a continuum. In
film, as in written and spoken language , connotations if they become strong
enough are eventually accepted as denotative meanings. As it happens ,
much of the connotative power of film depends on devices that are indexical;
that is, they are not arbitrary signs, but neither are they identical.