Tolstoy on Cinema

Was Tolstoy right that film is an inferior medium to literature, and in fact an immoral medium?

From What Is Art:

>Pick up any newspaper of our time, and in every one of them you will find a section on theatre, movies, and music; in almost every issue you will find a description of some exhibition or other, or of some particular painting, and in every one you will find reports on newly appearing books of an artistic nature - poetry, stories, novels.

>Immediately after the event, a detailed description is published of how this or that actress or actor played this or that role in such and such a drama, comedy or opera, and what merits they displayed, and what the contents of the new drama, comedy or opera were, and its merits or shortcomings. With the same detail and care they describe how such-and-such an artist sang such-and-such a piece, or performed it on the piano or the violin, and what the shortcomings or merits of the piece and of the performance were. In every large town there will always be, if not several, then certainly one exhibition of new paintings, whose merits and shortcomings are analyzed with the greatest profundity by critics and connoisseurs. Almost every day new novels and poems appear, separately or in magazines, and the newspapers consider it their duty to give their readers detailed reports on these works of art.

>To support art in Russia, where only a hundredth part of what would be needed to provide all the people with the opportunity of learning is spent on popular education, the government gives millions in subsidies to academies, conservatories and theatres. In France eight millions are allotted to art, and the same in Germany and England. In every large town huge buildings are constructed for museums, academies, movie studios, cinemas, conservatories, dramatic schools, and for performances and concerts.

>Hundreds of thousands of workers - carpenters, masons, painters, joiners, paper-hangers, tailors, hairdressers, jewelers, bronze founders, typesetters - spend their whole lives in hard labor to satisfy the demands of art, so that there is hardly another human activity, except the military, that consumes as much effort as this.

>But it is not only that such enormous labor is expended on this activity - human lives are also expended on it directly, as in war: from an early age, hundreds of thousands of people devote their entire lives to learning how to twirl their legs very quickly (dancers); others (musicians) to learning how to finger keys or strings very quickly; still others (artists) to acquiring skill with paint and to depicting all they see; a fourth group to acquiring skill in twisting every phrase in all possible ways and finding a rhyme for every word. And these people, often very kind, intelligent, capable of every sort of useful labor, grow wild in these exceptional, stupefying occupations and become dull to all serious phenomena of life, one-sided and self-complacent specialists, knowing only how to twirl their legs, tongues or fingers.

>But this, too, is not all. I recall attending once a movie set for one of the most ordinary new movies, such as are produced in all European and American movie studios

>I arrived when the first scene had already begun filming. To enter the set I had to pass backstage. I was led through dark underground corridors and passages of the enormous building, past immense machines for the changing of sets and lighting, where in darkness and dust I saw people working at something. One of the workers, his face grey and thin, wearing a dirty blouse, with dirty workman’s hands, the fingers sticking out, obviously tired and displeased, walked past me, angrily reproaching another man for something. Going up a dark stairway, I came out backstage.

>Amid piled-up sets, curtains, some poles, there were dozens, if not hundreds, of painted and costumed people standing or milling around, the men in costumes closely fitted to their thighs and calves, and the women, as usual, with their bodies bared as much as possible. These were all actors, male and female dance groups, or ballet dancers, awaiting their turns and piles of costumes and set dressings. My guide led me across the stage, over a plank bridge through the camera crew, where sat about dozens of engineers and electricians of all sorts, and into the dark stalls. On an elevation between two lamps with reflectors, in an armchair with a bullhorn in front of it, script in hand, sat the director, who conducted the actors and costumes crowds and dancers and the overall production of the entire movie

>When I arrived, the shot had already begun, and a procession of Indians bringing home a bride was being presented on set. Besides the costumed men and women, two other men in short jackets were running and fussing about the stage: one was the assistant director, and the other, who stepped with extraordinary lightness in his soft shoes as he ran from place to place, was the dancing master, who received more pay per month than ten workers in a year.

>These three directors were trying to bring together the acting, the dancers, and the procession. The procession, as usual, was done in pairs, with tinfoil halberds on their shoulders. They all started from one place and went around, and around again, and then stopped. For a long time the procession did not go right: first the Indians with halberds came out too late, then too early, then they came out on time but crowded together too much as they exited, then they did not crowd but failed to take their proper places at the sides of the stage, and each time everything stopped and was started over again.

>The procession began with a pantomime by a man dressed up like some sort of Turk, who, opening his mouth strangely, sang: ‘I accompany the bri-i-ide.’ He would sing it and wave his arm - bare, of course - from under his mantle. And the procession would start. But right away the Frenchman does something wrong at the end of the pantomime and the director, recoiling as if some disaster has taken place, yells "cut" through the bullhorn. Everything stops, and the director, turning to the procession, falls upon the Frenchman, abusing him in the rudest terms, of the sort that coachmen use, for having done the wrong step. And again everything starts over. The Indians with halberds again come out, stepping softly in their strange shoes; again the actor sings: ‘I accompany the bri-i-ide.’ But this time the pairs stand too close together. Again the yelling of "cut," the abuse, and it starts over. Again, ‘I accompany the bri-i-ide,’ again the same gesture with the bare arm from under the mantle, and the pairs, again stepping softly, halberds on their shoulders, some with serious and sad faces, some exchanging remarks and smiling, take their places in a circle and begin to dance. All is well, it seems; but again the yell of "cut", and the conductor, in a suffering and spiteful voice, begins to scold the male and female troupe members: it turns out that they fail to raise their arms from time to time while dancing, as a sign of animation. ‘Have you all died, or what? Cows! If you’re not dead, why don’t you move?’ Again it starts, again ‘I accompany the bri-i-ide,’ again the female troupe members dance with sad faces, now one and now another of them raising an arm. But two of the female dance members exchange remarks - again a more vehement yelling of "Cut". ‘What, have you come here to talk? You can gossip at home. You there, in the red trousers, move closer. Look at me. From the beginning.’

>'Again, ‘I accompany the bri-i-ide.’ And so it continues for one, two, three hours. The whole of such a shoot continues for six hours on end. The yelling of 'cut', the repetitions, the positionings, the correcting of the actors, the extras, the processions, the dancing, all of it seasoned with angry abuse. The words ‘asses, fools, idiots, swine’ I heard addressed to the actors and dancers a good forty times in the course of one hour. And the unfortunate, physically and morally crippled person - leading man, background extra, dancer, - to whom the abuse is addressed, keeps silent and does what is demanded, repeats ‘I accompany the bri-i-ide’ twenty times over, dance one and the same routine twenty times over, and again marches about in his yellow shoes with a halberd on his shoulder. The director knows that these people are so crippled as to be no longer fit for anything except blowing a horn or walking about with a halberd in yellow shoes, and at the same time they are accustomed to a sweet, luxurious life and will put up with anything only so as not to be deprived of this sweet life - and therefore he calmly gives himself up to his rudeness, the more so in that he has seen it all in Paris and Vienna and knows that the best directors behave that way, that it is the dramatic tradition of great artists, who are so enthralled by their great artistic feat that they have no time to sort out the feelings of the performers.

>It is hard to imagine a more repulsive sight. I have seen one worker scold another for not supporting the weight piled on him while unloading goods, or a village elder at haymaking abuse a worker for not building a proper rick, and the worker would be obediently silent. But however unpleasant it was to see, the unpleasantness was softened by awareness of the fact that some necessary and important task was being done, that the mistake for which the superior scolded the worker might have ruined something necessary.

>What, then, was being done here, and why, and for whom? It was quite possible that he, the director, was also worn out, like that worker; one could even see that he was indeed worn out; but who told him to suffer? And on account of what was he suffering? The movie they were filming was of the most ordinary kind, for those who are accustomed to them, but made up of the greatest absurdities one could imagine: an Indian king wants to get married, a bride is brought to him, he disguises himself as a minstrel, the bride falls in love with the sham minstrel and is in despair, but then learns that the minstrel is the king himself, and everyone is very pleased.

>That there never were and never could be any such Indians, and that what was portrayed bore no resemblance not only to Indians but to anything else in the world, except other movies - of that there can be no doubt. That no one communicates in pantomime, or expresses their feelings in a quartet, standing at a set distance and waving their arms, that nowhere except in a movie does anyone walk that way, with tinfoil halberds, in slippers, by pairs, that no one ever gets angry that way, is moved that way, laughs that way, cries that way, and that no one in the world can be touched by such a performance - of that there can also be no doubt.

>Involuntarily, a question comes to mind: for whom is this being done? Who can like it? If there are occasional pretty shots in the opera, which it would be pleasant to see, they could be shot simply, without those stupid costumes, processions, pantomimes and waving arms. As for the ballet, in which half-naked women make voluptuous movements, intertwining in various sensual garlands, it is a downright depraved performance. So that one simply fails to understand for whom it is intended. For a cultivated man it is unbearable, tiresome; to a real working man it is totally incomprehensible.

yes, he was, cinema is garbage for the most part

I've read all this text. Either I or the op have horrible reading comprehension, because nothing in the text implies that "film is an inferior medium to literature, and in fact an immoral medium".

Then maybe you should read the rest of his book? This is only an excerpt from "What Is Art?" It's the tip of the iceberg tbhfam.

I agree.

Then maybe the faggot op should've posted the excerpt that supports the claim instead of something barely related to it.

How is the excerpt barely related to the topic of movies when literally the entire excerpt is about movies?

Tolstoy is Veeky Forums af here imo.

How so? Tolstoy also hated fashion. He was a huge advocate of asceticism and anti-materialism.

The topic, presented in op's first sentence, is about the (intrinsic, I assume) inferiority and immorality of movies. The excerpt is about the shittiness of working conditions for moviemakers and the shitty culture around movies.

You have to see how Tolstoy presents the arguments in his book stemming from the excerpt (which is the first chapter) It's an excellent book tbqhfamalam.

he's just saying he's pullin off that fit mang chill

Tolstoy certainly did believe in physical fitness- believing it to be an essential part of life and education.

Stop posting man. You're not funny.

I don't know what led you to believe I was attempting to be funny, I'm trying to explain to you guys what Tolstoy's philosophy was.

Your loss if you don't read him. I find him to be an absolutely extraordinary writer. War & Peace is probably the greatest book ever written.

no

i don't know why anyone listens to opinions on art from over a century ago. useful for analysis in their own time, useless anywhere else

The bulk of every medium is garbage.

Of course cinema is art. Tolstoy also didn't even live to see the birth of basic narrative cinema, or even some of the more artistic European traditions -- French Impressionism and German Expressionism, to name two -- so his criticisms can't be taken too seriously.

I told you to stop posting you stupid mother fucker.

Tolstoy was a great writer but wrong about everything. Source, Lev Shestov

He died too early to see the great works of the artform

Tolstoy died in 1910, the first narrative film was in 1895. Get fucked.

Also, I'd rather go with Tolstoy- a book length, logical, convincing arguments from a the greatest writer who ever lived, than the musings of some basement dweller on Veeky Forums.org.

I don't think that's a very convincing way to go about it.

Nigga what great works that can stand with War & Peace? It's an immoral medium- inherently flawed. Read his book. It's a perversion.

When he talks about that no one acts this way, and convey their feelings in this way, does that not also apply to shakespeare?

And it seems that he's complaining about this generic type of cinema, not cinema as a whole.

He hates Shakespeare, too. He devotes an entire chapter to why Shakespeare is "bad art."

>I remember the astonishment I felt when I first read Shakespeare. I expected to receive a powerful esthetic pleasure, but having read, one after the other, works regarded as his best: “King Lear,” “Romeo and Juliet,” “Hamlet” and “Macbeth,” not only did I feel no delight, but I felt an irresistible repulsion and tedium, and doubted as to whether I was senseless in feeling works regarded as the summit of perfection by the whole of the civilized world to be trivial and positively bad, or whether the significance which this civilized world attributes to the works of Shakespeare was itself senseless. My consternation was increased by the fact that I always keenly felt the beauties of poetry in every form; then why should artistic works recognized by the whole world as those of a genius—the works of Shakespeare—not only fail to please me, but be disagreeable to me! For a long time I could not believe in myself, and during fifty years, in order to test myself, I several times recommenced reading Shakespeare in every possible form, in Russian, in English, in German and in Schlegel’s translation, as I was advised. Several times I read the dramas and the comedies and historical plays, and I invariably underwent the same feelings: repulsion, weariness, and bewilderment. At the present time, being desirous once more to test myself, I have, as an old man of seventy-five, again read the whole of Shakespeare, including the historical plays, the “Henrys,” “Troilus and Cressida,” the “Tempest,” “Cymbeline,” and I have felt, with even greater force, the same feelings—this time, however, not of bewilderment, but of firm, indubitable conviction that the unquestionable glory of a great genius which Shakespeare enjoys, and which compels writers of our time to imitate him and readers and spectators to discover in him non-existent merits—thereby distorting their esthetic and ethical understanding—is a great evil, as is every untruth.

How was his english?

Excellent, he wrote a few stories in english that are almost good as anything he wrote in Russian. He even corresponded in English with American and British writers.

He also did a recording of himself reading passages from his calendar of wisdom in English and other languages- but of course his english wasn't as good as his French and Russian.

Shakespeare is shit though. His characterisation and themes explored are primary school tier. His prose fails to communicate any depth beyond the very surface of occurrences. The only reason you fucks like him is because creaky, outworn prose is in Ye Old'e fancy looking intellectually praisable English

lol.

I think Tolstoy put it best:

>"Well, but the profound utterances and sayings expressed by Shakespeare's characters," Shakespeare's panegyrists will retort. "See Lear's monologue on punishment, Kent's speech about vengeance, or Edgar's about his former life, Gloucester's reflections on the instability of fortune, and, in other dramas, the famous monologues of Hamlet, Antony, and others."

>Thoughts and sayings may be appreciated, I will answer, in a prose work, in an essay, a collection of aphorisms, but not in an artistic dramatic production, the object of which is to elicit sympathy with that which is represented. Therefore the monologues and sayings of Shakespeare, even did they contain very many deep and new thoughts, which they do not, do not constitute the merits of an artistic, poetic production. On the contrary, these speeches, expressed in unnatural conditions, can only spoil artistic works.

>An artistic, poetic work, particularly a drama, must first of all excite in the reader or spectator the illusion that whatever the person represented is living through, or experiencing, is lived through or experienced by himself. For this purpose it is as important for the dramatist to know precisely what he should make his characters both do and say as what he should not make them say and do, so as not to destroy the illusion of the reader or spectator. Speeches, however eloquent and profound they may be, when put into the mouth of dramatic characters, if they be superfluous or unnatural to the position and character, destroy the chief condition of dramatic art—the illusion, owing to which the reader or spectator lives in the feelings of the persons represented. Without putting an end to the illusion, one may leave much unsaid—the reader or spectator will himself fill this up, and sometimes, owing to this, his illusion is even increased, but to say what is superfluous is the same as to overthrow a statue composed of separate pieces and thereby scatter them, or to take away the lamp from a magic lantern: the attention of the reader or spectator is distracted, the reader sees the author, the spectator sees the actor, the illusion disappears, and to restore it is sometimes impossible; therefore without the feeling of measure there can not be an artist, and especially a dramatist.

>Shakespeare is devoid of this feeling. His characters continually do and say what is not only unnatural to them, but utterly unnecessary. I do not cite examples of this, because I believe that he who does not himself see this striking deficiency in all Shakespeare's dramas will not be persuaded by any examples and proofs. It is sufficient to read "King Lear," alone, with its insanity, murders, plucking out of eyes, Gloucester's jump, its poisonings, and wranglings—not to mention "Pericles," "Cymbeline," "The Winter's Tale," "The Tempest"—to be convinced of this. Only a man devoid of the sense of measure and of taste could produce such types as "Titus Andronicus" or "Troilus and Cressida," or so mercilessly mutilate the old drama "King Leir."

>Gervinus endeavors to prove that Shakespeare possessed the feeling of beauty, "Schönheit's sinn," but all Gervinus's proofs prove only that he himself, Gervinus, is completely destitute of it. In Shakespeare everything is exaggerated: the actions are exaggerated, so are their consequences, the speeches of the characters are exaggerated, and therefore at every step the possibility of artistic impression is interfered with. Whatever people may say, however they may be enraptured by Shakespeare's works, whatever merits they may attribute to them, it is perfectly certain that he was not an artist and that his works are not artistic productions. Without the sense of measure, there never was nor can be an artist, as without the feeling of rhythm there can not be a musician. Shakespeare might have been whatever you like, but he was not an artist.

>"But one should not forget the time at which Shakespeare wrote," say his admirers. "It was a time of cruel and coarse habits, a time of the then fashionable euphemism, i.e., artificial way of expressing oneself—a time of forms of life strange to us, and therefore, to judge about Shakespeare, one should have in view the time when he wrote. In Homer, as in Shakespeare, there is much which is strange to us, but this does not prevent us from appreciating the beauties of Homer," say these admirers. But in comparing Shakespeare with Homer, as does Gervinus, that infinite distance which separates true poetry from its semblance manifests itself with especial force. However distant Homer is from us, we can, without the slightest effort, transport ourselves into the life he describes, and we can thus transport ourselves because, however alien to us may be the events Homer describes, he believes in what he says and speaks seriously, and therefore he never exaggerates, and the sense of measure never abandons him.

clearly neither you nor tolstoy understand genre or conventions.

> This is the reason why, not to speak of the wonderfully distinct, lifelike, and beautiful characters of Achilles, Hector, Priam, Odysseus, and the eternally touching scenes of Hector's leave-taking, of Priam's embassy, of Odysseus's return, and others—the whole of the "Iliad" and still more the "Odyssey" are so humanly near to us that we feel as if we ourselves had lived, and are living, among its gods and heroes. Not so with Shakespeare. From his first words, exaggeration is seen: the exaggeration of events, the exaggeration of emotion, and the exaggeration of effects. One sees at once that he does not believe in what he says, that it is of no necessity to him, that he invents the events he describes, and is indifferent to his characters—that he has conceived them only for the stage and therefore makes them do and say only what may strike his public; and therefore we do not believe either in the events, or in the actions, or in the sufferings of the characters. Nothing demonstrates so clearly the complete absence of esthetic feeling in Shakespeare as comparison between him and Homer. The works which we call the works of Homer are artistic, poetic, original works, lived through by the author or authors; whereas the works of Shakespeare—borrowed as they are, and, externally, like mosaics, artificially fitted together piecemeal from bits invented for the occasion—have nothing whatever in common with art and poetry.

Will Shakespeare ever recover? Veeky Forums on suicide watch. The city of England on suicide watch.

I strongly disagree with his view on the drama.

I'll help you rewrite, since you're obviously terrible at it:
"I don't like Shakespeare. Maybe it's because his themes felt... rudimentary? That may be because so many of his ideas, characterizations, and tropes have been worn to death since Shakespeare, and I'm just a product of a different culture, with less ability to escape my cultural prejudices than the great scholars, critics, and thinkers who have almost universally lauded the Bard. By "depth" I'm not sure what I'm talking about, because I've never actually taken a university literature course and don't know what ambiguity means, so when Shakespeare creates layers of indeterminacy in his theatrical texts, I can't recognize it. Because of this, I'm bitter and get mad at anonymous people I don't know in order to console myself: everyone must be wrong and idiots, because there's no way I'm not right!

Tolstoy understood both things far more than you do, since he was a far greater writer, had read way more, and was far smarter than you or anyone else on the planet. He just deliberately ignored and didn't give a shit about either things.

Look at War & Peace- it starts out as fiction, then it becomes a historical drama, then it becomes essays.

subjective innit

>He just deliberately ignored and didn't give a shit about either things.
Doesn't seem so smart, does it?

Tolstoy's plays were far better.

Shakespeare was the Quentin Tarantino of his day. He borrowed all his plots, made everyone speak in tangents and "clever" lines that nobody talks like in real life (poetry over verisimilitude,) had excessive graphic violence, and was obsessed with referencing other works of art.

Look at the way Troilus & Cressida combines a historical/mythical setting, horrific violence, tragedy, and broad comedy. Look at the violence in Titus Andronicus.

This is akin to citing a single climate scientist who denies global warming, and saying because he's smarter and better educated on climate science than I am, my opinion that the planet is heating is invalidated.

I'm agreeing with the consensus of brilliant thinkers here. It's not me versus Tolstoy, it's me citing tens of thousands of equally brilliant and educated minds *as* Tolstoy, and saying maybe he was out of his depth on this particular topic. The phenomenon of being brilliant in one arena (eg creative writing) and therefore believing you're brilliant in all arenas (eg theatre criticism) is pretty well-documented in the psych literature.

He wrote War & Peace and Anna Karenina, I think he did ok.

In Tolstoy's book he proves that art is not subjective. I highly recommend the book, it's so convincing. Tolstoy's arguments are unimpeachable and incredibly thorough.

>homer
>never exaggerating
???

But both things are related to writing, this isn't the same as Michael Jordan thinking he's gonna be a good baseball player. Tolstoy WROTE plays and theatre, and the only thing he did more than write a lot was read a lot.

"Homer is rapid in his movement, Homer is plain in his words and style, Homer is simple in his ideas, Homer is noble in his manner."

-Matthew Arnold

What a laughable post this is.

I smell.......... samefag.

Ladies and gents, the troll has been successful. Throw him food under the bridge no longer; he is only growing stronger with the length and bitterness of his thread.

We can never know his motives -- perhaps it is is his obscene boils, which cause him at once such psychological and physical agony, and force him to turn, again, away from the light -- but it is on us to end his suffering, in as merciful a way we know how. Cast your breadcrumbs no longer, and keep the eyes straight ahead while crossing his lair.

is this isn't bait kys

the point was maybe Shakespeare was some big shit in his day but Veeky Forumsizens feigning to enjoy him purely for his subject matter today without consideration for the development of literature over time are either bullshitters or retards

Go ahead, which part is wrong? At the end of the day your arguments aren't complete if you haven't read the book. Read "What Is Art?" and then get back to me tbphfam.

That does not make him a great critical thinker.

Nice argument pseud.

>enjoy him purely for his subject matter today
What the fuck kek.
I don't enjoy shakes for his fucking historical value either

What about Shakespeare's poetry

How is this bait? Tolstoy gives an argument in his book as to WHY he thinks Shakespeare is a bad writer, it's not like he says it to get a reaction or without giving his arguments.

I'm merely parroting his arguments.

Except Tolstoy was the greatest critical thinker of all time. You've obviously not read any of his non-fiction.

I don't know why I try to throw you pearls to you swine. It's such a useless task. It's pointless to discuss Tolstoy with people who are unfamiliar with him.

I'm going to sleep. Your loss, Veeky Forums. Bunch of embryos and hipsters who only read what's cool, instead of what's good.

>only read what's cool, instead of what's good
if that was true I would read Tolstoy instead of Bill

"When everyone in the world except one person disagrees with me, it must be because they're idiots and not because I'm wrong."

>>kek, won't even consider possibility he is the fool in the crowd

Every film made in Tolstoy's lifetime was crude and simplistic by virtue of the fact that the medium was an uncharted dimension. The motion picture, even before the advent of sound and color, presented radically new ways to express art. Had Tolstoy a chance to see the work of Tarkovsky, or Bergman, or Renoir, maybe he would have thought otherwise.

I think he would have liked Bresson

Pretty much.

Ozu perfected cinema. Most "great films" are actually only highly-decent.

I'm really glad you said Ozu. Late Spring and Tokyo Story are so wonderful

>inferior medium to literature
clearly
>an immoral medium
nah
'fit' as in clothes

No that guy, but I've seen Tokyo Story, and recently Good Morning (which I really loved) by him. Going to check out Floating Weeds next.

>Also, I'd rather go with Tolstoy- a book length, logical, convincing arguments from a the greatest writer who ever lived, than the musings of some basement dweller on Veeky Forums.org.

Since we're resorting to ad hominem, I'll just remind you that Tolstoy devolved into a paranoid old man that feared change and hated everything around him. Why should we take his criticism of cinema seriously when he didn't even live to see The Birth of a Nation (if this was even screened in Russia, I don't know)