"Enough storyboarding. Let's shoot something."
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Kubrick Beyond Perspective
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BH1CqYG1qIAout and about
ミザンセーヌ（仏：Mise-en-scène [mizɑ̃sɛn]）は、演劇界および映画界において用いられる表現であり、おおまかに「作品の筋、登場人物を作り出すこと」を表す語である。「演出」の訳語があてられる。もとは演劇から発生した言葉であり、字義通り訳せば「舞台に置くこと putting on stage」の意である。
Mise-en-scène (French pronunciation: [mizɑ̃sɛn] "placing on stage") is an expression used to describe the design aspects of a theatre or filmproduction, which essentially means "visual theme" or "telling a story"—both in visually artful ways through storyboarding, cinematographyand stage design, and in poetically artful ways through direction. It is also commonly used to refer to multiple single scenes within the film to represent the film. Mise-en-scène has been called film criticism's "grand undefined term".[1]
Mise-en-scène
( mēz' äN sĕn') Mise-en-scène
n., pl. mise en scènes ( sĕn').
- The arrangement of performers and properties on a stage for a theatrical production or before the camera in a film.
- A stage setting.
- Physical environment; surroundings.
[French, putting on stage : mise, putting + en, on + scène, stage.]bouteilles 裝瓶 / mise en pages 【印刷】 拼版 mise en scène 上演，演出；攝製；導演 / mise bas （動物的）下仔
Fine art serves as the mise-en-scene of "Late and Soon," a Jamesian first novel about a group of cultivated New Yorkers; "Blood Relation," Eric Konigsberg's profile of his great-uncle, a Mafia hitman, is full of missed opportunities.
Reviewed by Erich Eichman and Jeffrey A. Trachtenberg LATE AND SOON
By Robert J. Hughes
(Carroll & Graf, 328 pages, $25)
![['Late and Soon']](https://online.wsj.com/public/resources/images/WK-AF569_bklate_20051103191052.jpg)
There is a scene in "Late and Soon" in which a wealthy collector, a tough-minded widow with two "ungrateful children," confides to a Sotheby's dealer her desire to find a proper home for her art by selling it before she dies. One is reminded of the tough-minded widow in Henry James's "The Spoils of Poynton," who spends most of that novel trying to guide her own beautiful objects away from a wayward son and a philistine daughter-in-law. She might have saved herself a lot of trouble by selling, too.
Robert J. Hughes's first novel -- Mr. Hughes is a Journal reporter, by the way -- has Jamesian overtones in more than just this scene. The Sotheby's dealer who accepts the widow's confidences is one of a group of cultivated New Yorkers who perform a kind of roundelay of desire, misalliance and reformation. Fine art serves as the center of the story's commercial activity and as its mise-en-scene -- one of the paintings under bidding pressure, for instance, is Tissot's "The Widow." The central actors in the drama possess, in Jamesian fashion, elevated taste, nuanced feeling and, for all that, inconvenient emotion of the sort that breaks through smooth social surfaces.
"She felt that her lingering memories of time, her expectations of being with people, the pleasure or tedium of company or the appraisal of behavior -- before, during, later -- shifted, depending on the memory, the remembrance, the denial, the absurdity of the day, or the time of the memory's recall. People were never wholly one thing to Claire, or they were for too long that one thing. They were shifting representations of her attitude toward them based on their actions, her moods, her building preconceptions. Some friends were better for her for their being known -- or being maintained -- through one form of communication only, through e-mail or telephone. Others were dear for being distant, with intense days of visiting and relief at parting. Others, fewer, were alive to her variously. Just as we know our family through the hectic formative years we have spent together, and carry those sensations, physical, mental, emotional, with us far into our adult lives, with those thoughts rarely changing an underlying disposition toward sister or brother or cousin, so, too, do we react only to an aspect of a person we love, or an incident that has charmed or flattered or repelled us, she thought. So few people existed for Claire as being beyond a function in her life; she rarely thought to consider that other people were fully as human as herself. To her -- and she occasionally realized this -- they existed only partially in the 'now' of any encounter with her, and were judged according to that fixed idea."
BLOOD RELATION
By Eric Konigsberg
(HarperCollins, 280 pages, $25.95)
Back in 2001, Eric Konigsberg wrote a New Yorker profile of Harold "Kayo" Konigsberg, his great-uncle. It was more than the usual first-person narrative of dysfunctional family trauma. Kayo was a Mafia hit man who may well have killed 20 people or more. He is now incarcerated in Auburn Correctional Facility in upstate New York. Mr. Konigsberg's close-knit Jewish family had long shunned Kayo. Eric thought it might be interesting to find out more about this strange blood relation.
![['Blood Relation']](https://online.wsj.com/public/resources/images/WK-AF565_bkbloo_20051103190331.jpg)
He has now transformed the New Yorker piece into a full-length narrative, filling out his portrait of a brutal man with an oversized personality and a sadistic streak. As a very young boy, we learn, Kayo once spotted a handyman atop a ladder -- and tried to shake him off. Later, as a 10-year-old, he hanged his aunt's cat. "I was always a troublemaker," he tells Mr. Konigsberg with typical nonchalance.
Kayo sees himself as a man wronged, although he does not deny his crimes: He has been locked up since the 1960s with little chance of parole, and his family all but ignores him. At first Mr. Konigsberg is fascinated by his great-uncle -- by his toughness and pride. Kayo, after all, is a Jewish gangster who never backed down from anyone. But gradually it dawns on Mr. Konigsberg that Kayo has been locked up for so long for a reason. And that is the problem with this book. Despite an abundance of clues, Mr. Konigsberg appears stunned when he realizes that Kayo is a truly frightening human being.
Mr. Konigsberg puts himself in the moral center of the book, constantly -- and implausibly -- questioning his own motives as well as those of his parents and relatives. He visits the families of some of Kayo's presumed victims, but he doesn't come away with any valuable insights. Nor does he use Kayo's story to pursue a larger theme -- like the shifting nature of Jewish identity in America. Instead, he spends too much time retelling a court case and recounting his efforts to acquire various legal documents. The book's paddedness, and its missed opportunities, make " Blood Relation" feel anemic. It's not a crime, but this account probably should have stayed a magazine story.
Reviewed by Erich Eichman and Jeffrey A. Trachtenberg LATE AND SOON
By Robert J. Hughes
(Carroll & Graf, 328 pages, $25)
There is a scene in "Late and Soon" in which a wealthy collector, a tough-minded widow with two "ungrateful children," confides to a Sotheby's dealer her desire to find a proper home for her art by selling it before she dies. One is reminded of the tough-minded widow in Henry James's "The Spoils of Poynton," who spends most of that novel trying to guide her own beautiful objects away from a wayward son and a philistine daughter-in-law. She might have saved herself a lot of trouble by selling, too.Robert J. Hughes's first novel -- Mr. Hughes is a Journal reporter, by the way -- has Jamesian overtones in more than just this scene. The Sotheby's dealer who accepts the widow's confidences is one of a group of cultivated New Yorkers who perform a kind of roundelay of desire, misalliance and reformation. Fine art serves as the center of the story's commercial activity and as its mise-en-scene -- one of the paintings under bidding pressure, for instance, is Tissot's "The Widow." The central actors in the drama possess, in Jamesian fashion, elevated taste, nuanced feeling and, for all that, inconvenient emotion of the sort that breaks through smooth social surfaces.
MORE IN BOOKS
![[More in Books]](https://online.wsj.com/public/resources/images/it_books09142004171604.gif)
At one point in "Late and Soon," it is said of Tissot that he could give to different painterly subjects "a similarity of mental texture." The auction-house dealer in the novel, a woman named Claire, is later prompted by a conversation with her ex-husband to ponder her own state of mind, its mental texture. Below, an excerpt from that internal soliloquy:
Read a review of Maureen Dowd's " Are Men Necessary?" Plus, see a list of the best-selling books for the week ended October 29.
"She felt that her lingering memories of time, her expectations of being with people, the pleasure or tedium of company or the appraisal of behavior -- before, during, later -- shifted, depending on the memory, the remembrance, the denial, the absurdity of the day, or the time of the memory's recall. People were never wholly one thing to Claire, or they were for too long that one thing. They were shifting representations of her attitude toward them based on their actions, her moods, her building preconceptions. Some friends were better for her for their being known -- or being maintained -- through one form of communication only, through e-mail or telephone. Others were dear for being distant, with intense days of visiting and relief at parting. Others, fewer, were alive to her variously. Just as we know our family through the hectic formative years we have spent together, and carry those sensations, physical, mental, emotional, with us far into our adult lives, with those thoughts rarely changing an underlying disposition toward sister or brother or cousin, so, too, do we react only to an aspect of a person we love, or an incident that has charmed or flattered or repelled us, she thought. So few people existed for Claire as being beyond a function in her life; she rarely thought to consider that other people were fully as human as herself. To her -- and she occasionally realized this -- they existed only partially in the 'now' of any encounter with her, and were judged according to that fixed idea."
--Erich Eichman
By Eric Konigsberg
(HarperCollins, 280 pages, $25.95)
Back in 2001, Eric Konigsberg wrote a New Yorker profile of Harold "Kayo" Konigsberg, his great-uncle. It was more than the usual first-person narrative of dysfunctional family trauma. Kayo was a Mafia hit man who may well have killed 20 people or more. He is now incarcerated in Auburn Correctional Facility in upstate New York. Mr. Konigsberg's close-knit Jewish family had long shunned Kayo. Eric thought it might be interesting to find out more about this strange blood relation.
He has now transformed the New Yorker piece into a full-length narrative, filling out his portrait of a brutal man with an oversized personality and a sadistic streak. As a very young boy, we learn, Kayo once spotted a handyman atop a ladder -- and tried to shake him off. Later, as a 10-year-old, he hanged his aunt's cat. "I was always a troublemaker," he tells Mr. Konigsberg with typical nonchalance.Kayo sees himself as a man wronged, although he does not deny his crimes: He has been locked up since the 1960s with little chance of parole, and his family all but ignores him. At first Mr. Konigsberg is fascinated by his great-uncle -- by his toughness and pride. Kayo, after all, is a Jewish gangster who never backed down from anyone. But gradually it dawns on Mr. Konigsberg that Kayo has been locked up for so long for a reason. And that is the problem with this book. Despite an abundance of clues, Mr. Konigsberg appears stunned when he realizes that Kayo is a truly frightening human being.
Mr. Konigsberg puts himself in the moral center of the book, constantly -- and implausibly -- questioning his own motives as well as those of his parents and relatives. He visits the families of some of Kayo's presumed victims, but he doesn't come away with any valuable insights. Nor does he use Kayo's story to pursue a larger theme -- like the shifting nature of Jewish identity in America. Instead, he spends too much time retelling a court case and recounting his efforts to acquire various legal documents. The book's paddedness, and its missed opportunities, make " Blood Relation" feel anemic. It's not a crime, but this account probably should have stayed a magazine story.
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