Project: Drive (2011)

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The unnamed protagonist in Nicolas Winding Refn's Drive (2011) is a man of few words.

The Driver (Ryan Gosling) speaks seldom, as the film instead revolves around subtle details about his life. It's this approach that creates sublime moments of interaction between The Driver and Irene (Carey Mulligan), almost to the point where their time together resembles a dream.

In a particular scene, The Driver and Irene embark on a ride together, along the Los Angeles River, which was filmed between Victory Boulevard and Burbank Boulevard. In this short scene, rather than The Driver showcasing his skills as a professional driver and doing donuts with his car, or other conventional moves evidenced in similar "driving" films, we instead see a genuinely touching scene between two people, achieved by the interactions of the car and the empty space that surrounds them.

This includes the opening shot of the scene, a point-of-view of The Driver's car racing down the river bank, the sun’s reflection dancing across the “water freeway,” a narrow strip of water that runs at the base of the concrete slabs. The lyrics of the song that plays over the scene, "A Real Hero" by College, resonate with the narrative as well.

“Back against the wall and odds
With the strength of a will and a cause
Your pursuits are called outstanding
You’re emotionally complex
Against the grain of dystopic claims
Not the thoughts your actions entertain
And you have proved to be...

A real human being and a real hero”

Alphaville is 50: After Modernism Lost it Meaning, it Still had its Looks

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In 1965, ahead of its release, French New Wave director Jean-Luc Godard planned on calling Alphaville, his ultra-pulpy sci-fi noir, Tarzan vs. IBM. It’s the story of a thuggish secret agent sent to destabilize a totalitarian regime run by a hyper-rational computer. Alpha 60,  the machine running the state bureaucracy, has sanded down any display of genuine human emotion and warmth into a smooth steel slab of commodified and mechanized robotic efficiency. That’s the IBM part. The Tarzan part is Lemmy Caution, the self-actualized detective fisticuffing his way through endless machine bureaucracies. It’s a prototypical Cold War dystopia in many ways, equally concerned about the rise of totalitarianism and computer technology, and how they might work together.

In fact, a better title would probably have been Tarzan vs. Corbusier, because Alphaville is about the anxieties surrounding the spread of Modern architecture as much as it’s about anything else. Alpha 60 is essentially the meanest and least humanistic manifestation of Tom Wolfe’s White Princes in From Bauhaus to Our House; (one section that would have made Wolfe smile: Caution discovers one staunchly anti-bourgeois mass execution method where dissidents are invited to a concert hall and electrocuted in their chairs, rows of theater seats flipping over to deposit bodies into garbage bins). Similar to Modernism, Alpha 60’s unquestioned proclamations that society must work like ants to perpetuate mechanized order are presented as logical, inevitable, and for the universal good. These proclamations are often made directly to the viewer, through mechanized, croaking voiceover narration (delivered by a voice actor with a mechanical voice box) that lends an air of sinister omnipresence to Alphaville. Through a combination of 1984-style surveillance and Brave New World commodification and pacification, Alpha 60 has eradicated emotion, art, and nearly all culture. The only thing remaining is the apparatus to perpetuate its own expansion; intimidating enough to inspire the “Outer Countries” to send secret agent Caution (played by American-born actor Eddie Constantine) to destroy it, and abduct its inventor, Professor Von Braun (Howard Vernon).

Translated into architecture, Alpha 60’s world contains all manner of recognizable Modernist tropes: long smooth, frictionless halls of travertine. Endless, repetitive building facades. Expansive, uninterrupted floor plans. Rational, logical, inevitable. And horrific. We’re treated to several public executions, and threatened with a fate worse than Cold War atomic annihilation. Early Modernists said ornament was a crime. In Alphaville, any thought, action, or reaction that does not further the aims of the state is a crime.

Fifty years old this year (and set for a remake by Twin Peak cinematographer Frank Byers), Alphaville shows Modernism at a critical point before it became co-opted as yet another swatch in high-end designers’ color palette. Pick up the latest issue of Dwell. Cruise the Internet for Mad Men-inspired furniture. Fifty years ago, some pretty smart, influential people thought this stuff was going to help ruin the world. And if you look closely at Alphaville, the clues that this was never going to happen were already hidden in plain view.

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Most science fiction dystopias use custom-made sets to communicate an aesthetically consistent, fantastical and disturbing new reality (Blade Runner, Metropolis, Brazil). But Alphaville was more interested in deriving confusion and anonymity from already-existing places. Establishing shots are rare, and Godard uses abstract imagery, like flashing lights partially cut out of frame, to signal psychological dead ends and spatial breaks. Alan Woolfolk’s essay “Disenchantment and Rebellion in Alphaville,” explains that Alphaville is a rat’s nest of transitory zones: corridors, lobbies, and stairs, all powered by an unaccountable bureaucracy. It even throws our protagonist Caution off his game. When asked what he thinks of Alphaville, he says, “It’s not bad, if I knew where I was. . .” The film is defined by the denial of spatial understanding, not any grand stroke of world-creation.

This excruciatingly banal funhouse maze was not dreamed up in a studio back lot. Godard shot the movie in existing buildings built in the 50s and 60 in Paris, including (according to Woolfolk) the Maison de ‘lORTF and the Esso Tower in La Defense, the mega-scaled Modernist high rise district on the city’s outskirts, culturally and geographically the closest thing to Godard’s Alphaville in existence. True to the still-active Godard’s legacy, Alphaville is an incredibly rich, aesthetic pleasure; nearly every shot a gallery-worthy composition of neo-film noir paranoia and freewheeling bravado. But the film’s most audacious trick is making Paris look like downtown Des Moines.  It studiously avoids any of the city’s eminent cultural propriety, and focuses on only the poorest-aging and most anonymous, alienating corporate Modernism, fit for a regional bank headquarters in any number of C-grade American downtowns. Indeed, the Esso Tower was demolished in 1993. It was only 30 years old.

The film begins as Lemmy Caution, posing as a journalist, infiltrates Alphaville, on a mission to abduct Professor Von Braun and destroy Alpha 60. Caution is a man of action, hard-boiled, and trench-coat clad. His face is often only illuminated by the spark of a cigarette lighter, casting shadows that accentuate wrinkles and scars. His own appearance is out of step with the polished and exacting world around him. He shoots his gun without aiming. His favorite phrase is a barked “Clear out!” His go-to move when things get rough is to put his hands around the neck of a woman he’s being wooed by and threaten them. It always seems to work. Before killing Von Braun, he quips, “Yes, I’m afraid of death, but for a humble secret agent like me, it’s an everyday thing, like whiskey. And I’ve been drinking all my life.” He’s a campy pastiche of James Bond, Dick Tracy, and any number of smoldering film noir leading men who harbor a terrible secret but need you to believe they can still love. Decrying the lack of heroic leading men to depose Alpha 60, Caution even asks, “Is Dick Tracy dead? What about Flash Gordon?” In fact, American-born actor Eddie Constantine was mostly sending up himself. He played FBI agent Lemmy Caution in seven French films before Alphaville.

Early on, Caution is checked into a hotel room by a state-sponsored “level 3 seductress,” complete with a serial number tattoo on her back. He proves his macho credentials to her by rebuffing her advances, with a quick, “Look sweetie, I’m big enough to find my own ladies. Clear off now.” After a mysterious gunman attacks him, he suspects the seductress is in on it, and he tells her to sit on a chair and hold a pin-up nude over her head. He lounges on the bed, opens a book, and takes two no-look shots with his handgun, one through each breast of the pin-up. Early on, it’s established that women are mostly static objects, used for target practice, or sexualized sculpture.

Later, Caution meets with former colleague Henry Dickson (Akim Tamiroff) who was previously dispatched on the very same mission. Dickson, now a degenerate alcoholic, is holed up in a flophouse hotel, where guests  (mostly dissidents who don’t fit into Alpha 60’s degraded mold of humanity) are actively encouraged to kill themselves. His failure to complete his mission or adapt to this society of “termites” and “ants” Alpha 60 has created dooms him. He’s surrounded by dingy, rotting Victorian wallpaper, a signal that this is a place old and outmoded things go to die. And he does, during a sexual encounter with another government-issue prostitute, as Caution hides in the corner and takes pictures.

Caution eventually connects with Professor Von Braun’s daughter Natacha (Anna Karina), who genre conventions force to fall in love with him, even though he’s constantly grabbing her by the neck and putting her life in danger. With her, he attends what she distractedly describes as a “light and sound thing,” which is really a mass execution with performative elements that put it among the long list of dystopias that predict the rise of reality TV. This section of the film also offers its only presentation of grand, monumental Modernist space. Inside an expansive natatorium that could double as a bomb bunker, Lemmy and Natasha see a long line of men leading to a diving board. Synchronized swimmers in matching swimsuits stand at the ready. The men are walked to edge of diving board, and peppered with machine gun fire. From the observation gallery above, there’s polite clapping, and one of the attending dignitaries (including Professor Von Braun) explains that they are being executed for “behaving illogically.” (One man cried after his wife died.) The synchronized swimmers dive in to retrieve the bodies, starting with a few thrusts of a knife in case any are still alive, and ending with a few underwater flips and handstands. Godard’s camera hovers above them all, an expanse of water churning with death and oppression between the black-clad executioners and the white-shirted condemned. Thematically, Alpahville is a rather typical sci-fi dystopia for its era, engaging in hoary sci-fi conceits (like an evil computer short circuited by being asked to contemplate love and poetry). But the ball gowns worn by the mass execution attendees and refreshments offered in the lobby point to reality TVs ability to make our most base voyeuristic desires appointment viewing. Of course, the level of spectacle is all wrong. This is public execution as effete opera, not bawdy and populist television. Having never seen a single “Real Housewife” hurl champagne at a frenemy or Bad Girls hair-pulling tornado, he couched this prescient pop-culture evolution in an already outmoded art form.

It’s a horrific tableau, surrounded by a movie full of fallout-shelter laboratories, computer console mazes, and seizure-inducing media screens. But even as Godard dunks viewers in a sensory deprivation tank as designed by Kevin Roche, he offers clues that his feelings about these austere, Modern spaces are more complex. While Natacha slowly, luxuriously descends a floating, freestanding spiral staircase, the camera orbits around it, meeting her at the ground floor, where she meets up with Caution. As the duo heads towards the exit, the camera pin-wheels around the duo, relishing the open floor plan, showing off the column-free expanses, and generally behaving like a real estate promo video. Later, when Caution explores Alpha 60’s computerized innards, a shot explodes into a riot of rectangles; light fixtures, desks, computer consoles, and mainframes, an almost Cubist sculptural array of forms.

Godard is being won over by the stylish brand of minimalism these spaces offer, even as he decries them. If so, he’s not the only one being tempted. As Caution finally confronts Von Braun and makes his intentions clear, Von Braun offers him a deal: Join Alphaville, and become a double agent. Spy on the “Outer Countries,” and aid us in our preemptive war against them. For your services, you get “control of another galaxy,” “You’ll have gold. “You’ll have women,” Von Braun says. Caution demurs, shooting Von Braun, which sends everyone in Alphaville into a fit of full-body convulsions. He won’t be co-opted.

But Godard’s revelatory minimalist mise-en-scene flourishes give a clue that Modern architecture definitely, definitely will be. Caution won’t sell out, but Modernism will be defanged and flat-packed into Toyota Camry trunk-sized boxes, stacked to the sky in suburban IKEAs. It’s just too attractive not to be.

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Whether you ask Godard’s Alphaville or the manifesto-smiths at the Bauhaus, Modernism was always a tool for throwing away that past and rebuilding society. The two differ only in what was to be built: an apocalyptically mutilated humanity, or a socialist workers paradise.  (In fact, the gap between these two ambitions was the entire theme of French pavilion at the 2014 Venice Biennale.) When nothing of this sort occurred, most of what was left was the aesthetics, and Modernism became a consumer sensibility.

This was well under way by mid 60s when Philip Johnson’s MoMA show was 30 years in the rearview mirror, its anti-bourgeois import overshadowed by a great many new shiny corporate headquarters all designed in the tradition of socialist workers housing. Beyond the city, throwing out the history books was a tough sell. Vast new suburbs of puffy, gable roofed Neo Neo Tudor Colonial Mission mutants marched across the land. Almost no one built workers paradises, and when they did there were those damn Art Deco curlicues. Or, they were mega-scaled Corbusier-styled Radiant Cities infected with any and all social pathologies that would be dynamited in a few short years with such force as to destroy Modernism itself. (Auspiciously, Alphaville was released the year Corbusier died.) Philip Johnson’s Glass House is an incredible aesthetic statement, but for 65 years it’s been essentially unable to say anything to the vast segment of society who doesn’t automatically know who David Remnick is. If a resident of Alphaville wanted to take a North American tour of successful neighborhood-scaled Modernism, you could take them to Mies’ Lafayette Park, drive them around for five minutes, and credibly tell them the tour is over. Modernism apparently was not for revolution. So what was it for? Maybe its just for fancy dinner parties where the museum curator brings the polenta, the critic brings the quail, the flavor-of-the-month conceptual artist brings the arugula and beet salad, and the architect forgets the wine and only shows up with commiserations that no one takes Modern architecture seriously anymore. (And for transparency’s sake, here’s how I butter my bread for this sad gathering: I detest anything new made to look old and find it beyond depressing that I was six and living in rural Iowa during the MoMA Deconstructivist Architecture show. Modernism is awesome, my favorite buildings make me feel like a super villain, and I get that this is an unpopular opinion.)

Modernism is a way to divide your houzz.com search, a way to signal going to good schools and reading the right websites. It's a flavor of moneyed good taste. Its aspirations still seem pretty pure-hearted, if not comically naive, and many of its good ideas are still intact, though they’ve been more effectively endorsed by other philosophies. (Its preference for density and modularity is echoed in the newer sustainability movement, for example.) But it’s an aesthetic, not an inevitable way of life.

Alphaville is the moment before this recognition settled over the land. In it, Modernism still had teeth, and was potent visual symbol for technology-driven totalitarian efficiency that remakes society in its own image.

Another thing Alphaville gets wrong is the form lowest-common denominator, machine-designed building will take. Godard thought that mechanized efficiency would bring about cheap and omnipresent Modernism in all sectors of building. Endless rectangular molds to pour the thin remaining gruel of humanity into. But the opposite is true. All those cheap suburban manses and their plastic pediments are churned out from a CAD template and maybe given a cursory glance by a human. But pay millions for four glass walls wrapped around a rectangular floor and roof, and you have to listen to a man in funny glasses expound upon his vision of the true “nature of space.” In the world outside of Alphaville, robots (like Alpha 60) do gabbled roofs. Auteurs (like Godard) wearing berets and capes do flat roofs. In our world, Modernist architecture is an art-object, which would have been eradicated in Alphaville. That’s the central contradiction of the movie. Despite its minimalist austerity and sometimes arcane philosophy, Modernism has always been fully in creative human hands, which makes it suspect from the point of view of totalitarian masters, and a humanistic aspiration for everyone else. 

Zach Mortice is a freelance architectural journalist living in Chicago. He has written for Architectural Record, Metropolis, Architect Magazine, and Landscape Architecture Magazine. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram. 

Project: Blade Runner (1982)

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Tyrell Corporation Offices
Temple-like and open with high ceilings. An owl inhabits the room, representing the nocturnal nature of the world. The office is a warm, sterile place of worship. The Director, Ridley Scott, frames the space using one point perspective which is, in most cases, how the interiors of churches are typically photographed. The vertical lines of the grid leads the audience’s eyes to the very end of the office where a large table is located. The table acts as an altar and emphasizes the layout of the space and the religious themes of the film. This is the only moment in the film where the sun is shown directly on screen. 

Deckard's Apartment
Unlike Tyrell’s Offices, the camera never shows the entirety of Deckard's apartment, but rather, fragments of the space to create the narrative. This is done by the use of sharp cuts and close-up shots to achieve the claustrophobic and labyrinthine spatial qualities. In Film Noir, Architecture is represented like this to create a feeling of hopelessness for the characters and the audience. Both the Office and the Apartment are spaces of nostalgia, hints of the past littered everywhere.

Ali El-hashimi is an architecture student at the Architectural Association School of Architecture. His projects are based on the relationship between film and architecture.  If you would like to submit an architectural project that looks at film, please email us at contact@INTJournal.com.

Note: Apartment Drawing was based off of an Original SketchUp Model created by Benjamin Wigley.

A God From A Machine

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Foreshadowing is essential to any complex narrative, giving a unique insight to each character’s role in the story. In film, the static frame creates the boundaries of each shot while the position of the camera in space creates unique lines of sight. This generates a composition while allowing people to place themselves into that context. Therefore, the ways in which the camera presents each situation can be tailored to give a unique insight to the viewer that is not recognized by any of the actors. In Ex Machina, Alex Garland uses the camera to frame the architecture around each character in a way that adds new meaning to their actions. In such a complex plot, the architecture sets the tone and adds visual clues embedded in the composition of each shot so that the viewer may sense the real emotions and intent of each character.

Camera position is crucial in how people read the overall composition. It gives a sense of scale, letting the viewer become transported to that particular place. Perspective lines, materiality, transparency and lighting all play a role in how an overall composition is read. One of the unique things about Ex Machina is that the three main characters all have their own objectives. The idealistic youth, Caleb, the zealous scientist, Nathan, who won’t let anything stand in the way of his vision, and the artificial intelligence he created, Ava.

A contest winner, Caleb, is transported deep into the wilderness by helicopter to a cabin submerged into the hill, spilling down its side. The entrance is clad in wood and blends in with the dense forest that surrounds it. Upon entering, Caleb finds himself in an intimate residential setting with relaxing music playing in the background. Nathan, the scientist, is introduced on the balcony that is perched on the side of the mountain. Exercising equipment litters the ground when Nathan is found punching a bag with impressive skill.

A sense of aggression defines Nathan’s character as an intimidating and powerful individual. Most scenes show Nathan sitting down low, drinking a beer with a hard dark surface behind him pointing out how obtuse Nathan’s character is. The scientist continues to avoid any real questions Caleb asks and this lack of transparency creates more tension between them. Eventually he is found sinking into a dark couch in front of a dark concrete wall obscured by beer bottles to hammer the message to the viewer that Nathan is hiding something.

On the other hand, Caleb is initially framed behind a clear glass wall with all of his enthusiasm and naivete exposed to the viewer. When framed together, Nathan and Caleb are constantly placed behind these materials, whose properties become windows into each character as the complex narrative unfolds. The visual line that separates the two creates a tension that only the viewer can understand. As the story plays out, these visual cues act as a litmus test that only the viewer can read. 

In every session, Caleb and Ava are separated by a glass wall that extends into Ava’s cell. This line of separation is essential to their relationship. On Caleb’s first visit, he is shocked to find a large crack in the security glass separating Ava’s cell from the interviewing chamber. This mark frightens Caleb but as Ava approaches he is caught up in the awe of her beauty and delicacy. At first, the viewpoint is Ava mainly from inside the interviewing chambers looking out. This perspective shows Ava as a prisoner, and her cries for help soon reveal her situation.

Later that night, Caleb finds a video feed into Ava’s chambers and becomes mesmerized by her grace. A sexual tension begins to grow as Caleb continues to watch the AI and as they become closer, Ava reveals her romantic feelings for him. Soon the viewer is presented with an alternate perspective within Ava’s chambers looking onto Caleb in his glass interview cube. Ironically, the way the director frames these scenes poses a question to the viewer: Who is actually in the drivers seat, Caleb or Ava? This question gets posed again when Ava reveals her role in the power outages that have been occurring.

A laboratory in the wilderness is prone to power outages. Being so remote promotes security but requires a power station and generators. One primary aspect of a laboratory building typology is to have little to no fenestration so artificial lighting is critical. Nathan actually points this out to Caleb as they arrive at the guest room. The artificial light is very soft and subtle, diffused through the hallway by a line of columns separated from the wall only by a thin strip of light. Hallways are another defining feature of a laboratory. Sterility is important in any lab to prevent unwanted data from interfering with an experiment. A hallway acts like a spine that is lined with labs that each have their own conditioned space. By dividing the spaces up into their own environments, conditions can be maintained more accurately than if all the labs were conditioned by the same HVAC system. However, once those systems lose power, all experiments in that laboratory are suddenly forgotten.

An eerie red glow illuminates the lab when the back up generator kicks on, turning off all the video monitors. Illuminated in a deep red, Ava and Caleb use this privacy to talk about Nathan. This lack of any oversight lets the two speak freely as the red lights overtake their senses. For a few minutes each day they can reveal their true selves to each other. However, this bond is put into question when the climax twists the narrative, answering a part of what makes us human by examining the separation between what is simulation and what is real.

As technology increases at record pace the desire to break out of the frame is taken to new heights. Ex Machina presents an eerie take on what it means to make a true AI, one capable of independent thought and learning. Through all of the deception and manipulation the camera frames the truth by composing the actors around architectural elements that shed light onto the underlying narrative. Perspective lines, transparency, materiality and lighting all inform the viewer to create a holistic film experience. Ex Machina is a prime example of how architecture can become incorporated into a visual narrative, giving the viewer a more intimate and poetic experience.

Screenshot: Heat (1995)

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The closing moments of Michael Mann’s crime opus are full of emotion, aided by Moby’s swelling score and the hand-holding denouement as Robert De Niro’s Neil McCauley shuffles off this mortal coil beneath the twinkling LA night sky.

Following nearly three hours of high octane cinematic cat and mouse antics as master thief McCauley and his gang plan and execute a series of audacious heists -- all the while evading capture by Al Pacino’s tenacious cop Vincent Hanna -- the film reaches its "bromantic" climax by one of LAX’s many runways, lit in part by flashing signal lights, airplane traffic and the distinctive blue mist of a smoggy Los Angeles skyline.

Having observed his primary tenet of "never have anything in your life that you can’t walk out on in thirty seconds flat, if you spot the heat coming 'round the corner," McCauley is forced on the run by Hanna after an ill-judged vengeful hit of a traitorous gang member delays his flight to freedom with new found love Edie.  

As with most crime films, things come unstuck when the hero (or villain in this case) deviates from a set of highly prescriptive and ordered routines, and it’s this detour from "reason" that prompts McCauley’s demise. His hardened and clinical approach fostered through years of dedication results in a character more akin to a sharpened tool than a human being; an efficient composite of set methodical responses to measured external forces. McCauley’s awkwardly affectionate relationship with Evie -- which reveals a more vulnerable side at first, but which later becomes sinister and finally destructive -- demonstrates his inability to manage life when control is lost. Love is as alien a concept to McCauley as a life of "ballgames and barbecues," and its this emotion with all of its uncertainties that knocks him off balance.

As gang leader, McCauley is also father figure to Chris Shiherlis (Val Kilmer), Michael Churino (Tom Sizemore) and Trejo (Danny Trejo) all of whom are family men. Both McCaluey and Hanna however see that dedication to their work and commitment to a family are far from mutually compatible, but its McCauley that has chosen a life of prolonged solitude for reasons of self preservation and to steady his hand of judgement when dealing with his underlings’ family affairs.

The relationship that develops between McCauley and Hanna is one of mutual respect but also co-dependence as is made evident when the two meet in the fabled coffee shop scene midway through the film. The scene is tinged with both machismo and melancholy as the two men openly confess to having no other option than to pursue their chosen professions; a criminal mastermind afraid of drowning and an ace detective with recurring nightmares of dead-eyed victims he’d failed to save.

Michael Mann has been accused of laziness when portraying female characters, choosing instead to focus heavily on the trials and tribulations that beset his leading men, from Thief (1981) and Manhunter (1986) to Collateral (2004) and Public Enemies (2009). Taken at face value -- and in his defense, it seems Mann is simply more interested in examining the complexities of masculinity and the unique male bonds which develop between (mainly) criminals, cops and rebels. None of his male characters seem at all enamored by the quiet life, and all seem to harbor self destructive tendencies. Even his heroes – such as Russell Crowe’s Jeffrey Wigand (The Insider, 1999) or Will Smith’s Cassius Clay (Ali, 2001) seem to be damaged goods, and I’d guess that it’s these men’s darker sides which appealed to the director more than their courageous achievements.

Returning to the coffee shop scene in Heat, Neil McCauley speaks at one point about a ‘flip side to a coin’ when countering Hanna’s threat that, although reluctantly, he wouldn’t hesitate in taking down McCauley if it came down to a choice between him and ‘a poor bastard who’s wife would be made a widow’.

This flip-side remark by McCauley is at the heart of Heat and many other of Mann’s films that have dual protagonists often battling it out across a moral divide. The point so often made in these films however is that there is far more that unites his leading men than separates them, and that the line separating those who choose a life of crime from those intent on preventing it is a very thin line indeed.

Perhaps this is why, at the end of Heat, it’s the hand of Vincent Hanna and not that of Edie that holds Neil McCauley’s while both the music and the light fade into blackness.

Screenshot is an ongoing column from Gabriel Solomons, Senior Lecturer at the University of the West of England, Editor-in-Chief of The Big Picture magazine and Series Editor of The World Film Locations and Fan Phenomena book series. Screenshot examines a single shot from a film and presents an in-depth analysis.