In which I use too many adjectives and chase elusive academic success by juggling revision for a literature final and an attempt at meticulously analysing a too-enigmatic film opening while surviving on five hours of sleep and caramel ice-cream.
If I’ve learned anything during my seemingly endless hours of revising literary texts for my dreaded upcoming exam, it’s that the beginning and ending of a text are extremely crucial. And, of course, this is not just limited to literature; thus, I’ll now break down some of my personal favourite film openings, analyse them in relation to their body and ending, and understand what memorable openings constitute of.
In this blog-post, I’ll be analysing the opening of Robert Eggers’ peculiar 2019 horror drama, The Lighthouse; I find its use of sound and visual symbolism particularly fascinating and it would be immensely helpful for me to understand the intricacies of Eggers’ techniques to add to my limited knowledge of film-making—a natural prerequisite for creating a film opening of my own later on.
The film follows Willem Dafoe and Robert Pattinson as a veteran lighthouse keeper (Thomas Wake) and his younger apprentice (Ephraim Winslow) respectively. We accompany the two lighthouse keepers as they try to maintain their sanity whilst living on a remote New England island in the 1890s. This opening shows their momentous arrival at the island and is, I think, a very fitting beginning to the Delphic film.
part one: secret keeper.
Oppressive, secretive, claustrophobic—such is the visual atmosphere of The Lighthouse’s opening sequence despite an open sea setting. Shot on black and white 35mm film, its monochromatic aesthetic not only takes the spectator back to a bygone era, it also accentuates the timelessness of the horrors that are to follow this equivocal opening.
According to our trusty friend, Wikipedia, the 1.19:1 ratio here is ‘sometimes referred to as the Movietone ratio’ and was ‘used briefly during the transitional period when the film industry was converting to sound, from 1926 to 1932 approx’. Paired with Eggers’ decision to use this ratio, the black and white visual landscape creates a prevailing sense of mystery in the narrative. The aspect ratio seeks to withhold information from its audience and highlights the verticality of the phallic lighthouse, juxtaposing its potency with the frailty of Wake and Winslow—signified by close-up and establishing shots of the island’s forces, the waves, the fog, etc., in contrast with the smallness of the characters as compared to them, as well as an establishing shot in which the lighthouse scales a third of the frame with its enormity being contrasted again with the minute human figures—establishing binary opposites and making use of Barthes’ theory of Narrative Codes, specifically symbolic codes here; the lighthouse perhaps represents the cryptic power of the unknown while the lighthouse keepers symbolize the vulnerability of man in the face of such horrors.
This oppressive air is not limited to just the visuals. It seeps into the characterization of its protagonists and, consequently, serves as a representation of their power dynamics. The emphasis on Wake being superior—with shots of Winslow always walking behind him, his burden, both physical and metaphorical, heavier, and showing the younger being rattled by the foghorn while the older seems unbothered—introduces the inequalities of power at the centre of the film’s conflict right from the get-go and simultaneously intrigues us about the intricacies of its characters.
The multi-dimensional atmosphere of the mise en scène is very important for a narrative like that of The Lighthouse: one that asks more questions than it ultimately answers. While some horror or psychological thrillers leave their audiences with a definitive and conclusive ending that contrasts with the persisting mystery of the rest of the text, The Lighthouse, like most of its genre-defying predecessors, depends on this constant withholding of information to unsettle its audience, even leaving us with an equally ambiguous denouement.
Moreover, Dafoe and Pattinson’s performances are highly nuanced and clearly take inspiration from New England folklore surrounding seamen, which, along with the creators’ extensive research about lighthouse keepers (i.e. Robert co-wrote the script with his brother, Max, inspired by the period journals of Herman Melville and other seafaring materials) and the historically accurate costumes and props (such as the steamboat and the wickies’ uniforms), adds to multi-layered authenticity that makes The Lighthouse such an enveloping cinematic experience.
"Both of them seem like the kind of man you might find muttering to himself in the corner of an empty bar room with a distant look in his eye."
This excerpt from the script shows perfectly how the two manage to convey the peculiarity of the lighthouse keepers in the opening scene even without any dialogue. The characters' visuals alone reek of delirium, sea foam, black waves, vicious storms, and debauchery, reminding the audience of rich Greek mythology (which the film explores with allusions to Prometheus and Poseidon) and Edgar Allan Poe's unfinished short story, The Light-House, that expresses a lighthhouse keeper's growing loneliness and feelings of paranoia.
This riveting representation of the ligthhouse keepers has sometimes also been interpreted as a commentary on gender; keeping in mind the power struggle between Winslow and Wake, one cannot deny that the multivocal film could be Eggers’ close study of masculinity and beyond under the guise of a puzzling horror story. However, their representation also becomes stereotypical in some ways for comedic purposes—the film somewhat becomes a satirical parody of itself at times by showing a comical side of the wickies, subverting conventions of horror by interweaving terrific comedy into it in a way that doesn’t take away from the creepiness of the movie. The representation of the lighthouse keepers and stereotypes associated with them in folklore are major elements of the film but the opening does more to solidify their transient normalcy here before their descent into madness, contributing to the feeling that the narrative, brimming with questions, has much more to it than we can perceive at the moment, almost like it is keeping secrets from us. What lurks on this island, in the ocean, in these men? One could also call it, in true 'Gen Z' fashion, two lighthouse keepers’ ironic white boy summer—if white boy summers included losing your grip on sanity and some good old, bone-deep paranoia.
Therefore, particularly with its masterful use of certain elements of mise en scène—namely focusing on the relationships between objects and figures within the frame—The Lighthouse’s opening becomes a secret keeper of sorts, creating enigma and hinting at what is to come.
part two: impending doom.
Atmospheric sounds and Mark Korven’s original score coalesce together in The Lighthouse to create a soundscape brimming with tension. Perhaps my most favourite part of this movie is its dialect-heavy and dramatic dialogue—which is just another way of saying that ‘Doldrums. Doldrums. Eviler than the Devil. Boredom makes men to villains,’ seems like a very fun thing to declare despite its inherently dark implications in the context of the film—yet in the opening sequence, uneasiness prevails without any words, much like the ending which also contrasts with the dialogue-filled middle. Through this deliberate use of silence punctuated by ambient (diegetic) sounds, the film successfully continues to build its suspenseful atmosphere, giving the impression that we, along with Winslow and Wake, are waiting for something important to happen.
Thus, sound is instrumental in adding nuance to The Lighthouse’s complex atmosphere. Once again playing with its audience’s senses and what we can and cannot see, the sounds constantly remind us of ominous forces within and just beyond the frame, be it the waves, the foghorn, the seagulls or something more sinister. In the opening, we hear the sound of the foghorn before we see anything else—an incessant noise that seems enough to single handedly drive the lighthouse keepers into madness along with the audience. Furthermore, the foghorn also briefly serves as Winslow’s characterization with the last scene in which he is chilled by it, implying that he is not as accustomed to this life as Thomas is. With the introduction and repetition of this piercing sound, we’re transported to the key characters’ position; this marks the beginning of a sense of empathy, specifically for Winslow, with which the film will continue to play as the plot progresses.
Eggers’s stylistic choices, such as using mono sound design that interweaves the non-diegetic and diegetic sounds of the film together combined with a Movietone ratio, add authenticity to the film and create a highly engrossing milieu by somewhat mimicking the technology of the broad time period near which The Lighthouse takes place.
Overall, the score, emulating a slow-burn journey to madness, suits the film’s eerie undertones and develops apprehension within the audience about the perceived normality of the sequence, and this very intentional use of sound and silence contributes to the strikingly dark mood and unsettling tone characteristic of the horror genre, indicating imminent danger and creating extraordinary anticipation reminiscent of Beckett’s exemplary narrative, Waiting For Godot; much like this film, Godot defies traditional dramatic structure in which all conflict is resolved, resorting to the use of what are now classified as enigma codes.
part three: enchantment in the light.
With an over-the-shoulder shot, our attention diverts to the lighthouse’s faint beacon as the fog parts, connoting that it is significant somehow—an important nod to the bewitching nature of the light which the film later explores. The use of the rule of thirds here is also an intriguing detail: the light occupies the space in the stark middle, framed by the lighthouse keepers’ eldritch figures, subtly foreshadowing the overarching conflict in the narrative; the bone of contention, revealed early in the plot after the opening, is who takes care of the light that beams from the top of the lighthouse, and sets the scene of Winslow and Wake’s eventual demise as they try seeking some sort of intrinsic purpose in the light.
The beacon acts as a motif that brings out the worst in the lighthouse keepers as the story progresses. By focusing on this symbolic imagery through camerawork to hint at the characters’ existential struggles, Eggers perhaps also aimed to introduce themes regarding absurdism. Though we cannot detect an explicit reference to Camus' absurdist ideology in the film opening itself, the audience might infer from the connotations of the stillness and entrapment established with the camerawork and mise en scène that we are witnessing the calm before a storm induced by an existential power struggle between the lighthouse keepers, one that will only exacerbate moving forward and is fundamentally rooted in how fragmented their own identities are and how desperate they can get to mend them.
Lastly, one of the shots in The Lighthouse that left a truly indelible impression on me is that of Winslow and Wake standing silently in the tight frame, their gazes fixed on the same distant spot.
The mid-shot shows the two men transfixed by what they are seeing (the ship and also the audience) and could be underscoring their role as mirrors for the spectator’s own demons over the course of the film, making this claustrophobic moment of stillness, with its lack of camera movement replicating the rest of the opening, a threshold for the audience to enter the tense atmosphere of the movie through.
Demonstrative of some major themes in the narrative, like that of enchantment which could have religious, surrealist and other ideological readings in the the context of the plot, these cinematographic elements are brought together in the form of a captivating film opening.
part four: the disquieting calm before a stifling storm.
There is minimal use of editing at the beginning of this film, building upon the calm yet unnerving quality of it. Even the title appears unadorned on a black background. The audience is on edge because of the general ominous ambience, yet this unrushed sort of editing provides us with a pacific slowness. We almost become suspicious of the film itself, questioning whether we should expect from it what we expect from a typical horror film and keep our guard up, or give in to its deceiving lull with which comes the inevitable chance of having to confront something much darker than we anticipated.
In the final moments of the opening, we see Winslow looking at the departing ship, and, with it, the audience. Accompanying this figurative breach in the fourth wall, Winslow almost seems to be silently inviting us to inhabit his world of isolation—the spectator becomes his confidante, seeing through the brave front he has put up in the face of this point of no return. Subsequently, an eyeline match is used and we cut to a wide shot featuring the steam boat.
And so, in the image of the departing ship, we see what he sees: an encapsulating moment of aloneness and detachment from the outside world. Finally, the vessel disappears into a curtain of fog, mirroring the very first shot, presenting the cyclical end of their journey to the island. The delicately complex utilisation of an eyeline match in this sequence cements how resolutely the film wants its audience to be transported with its eccentric characters to the sequestered island in order to heighten the impact of the terrifying events that will follow.
Ultimately, where the events of the rest of the film are brimming with frenzied scenes aided by tumultuous cuts, the editing in the opening momentarily takes a back seat; the use of static shots, coupled with a relatively plain editing style, keeps the audience focused on an increasing eagerness to find out how the story will unfold.
All these elements amalgamate to establish the two key characters in the opening while the rest of the film strips away the little sense of self that they have created for themselves. Simultaneously, the film opening successfully introduces themes of foreboding and isolation with its deliberate use of sound and silence combined with subtle visual cues highlighted by camerawork and editing. What seems to be a conventional horror story in the beginning turns out to be much more sinister and ambiguous than expected; the opening manages to cater to the audience’s expectations based on what we know of the horror genre and also subverts some of these conventions in surreal ways later in the movie. Being a character-driven film in which much remains unsolved, it appeals to a niche audience, perhaps one interested in Lovecraftian horror and philosophical ideologies originating from literary movements.
Hence, The Lighthouse, in all its twisted glory, utilises these distinctive techniques here to set the dark tone of the film and the foundations of an immersive story, creating an impactful opening that leads into an equally-compelling polysemic narrative.
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