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Theaters
For almost four decades, Sugimoto has been photographing the interiors of theaters using a large-format camera and no lighting other than the projection of the running movie. He opens the aperture when a film begins and closes it when it ends. In the resulting images, the screen becomes a luminous white box, its ambient light subtly bringing forward the rich architectural details of these spaces.
- GenresPhotographyArt
175 pages, Hardcover
First published March 1, 2006
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
June 13, 2017
This book materialized on the desk-top of my usual carrel. This is the place designated for books ready to be re-shelved, so after noticing the title and seeing the nature of the book, I decided to intercept it on its path back to the stacks.
Sugimoto presents a series of photographs whose exposure times are matched to the running times of films being observed. Over this time, the image of the screen sums to be only white light, illuminating the screen but depicting nothing, and also highlighting the details of the particular theatre in which he is taking the photograph. He positions the camera, it seems, as far to the rear as possible when inside a theatre, with most of the shots apparently taken from balcony vantage-points, and sometimes even seeming as if they are from the projection booth itself; when photographing a drive-in screen, on the other hand, he positions the camera quite close to the screen, in front of any vehicles.
The rectangles of white light in the center of these photographs both pull one in, serving as the unquestionable focal point of each print, and seem to release one after a certain point. Before making it to the central whiteness, one's eyes settles on the gorgeous, exotic details of the often ornate theatres on display. One almost wishes for a better view of the architectural detailing at times, but instead the experience of the filmgoer and the artistry of the film is allowed to take precedence over the artistry of the building for the length of the film, and the length of the film is all we get to see of these theatres.
The compression of the length of a film into a single photograph reflects the viewing experience of a film in many ways; one sits for a length of time, experiencing it in full, but nearly always that experience is condensed into a single memory of having been there, a single judgement of the film's quality. Not having the films themselves to look at in these photos, one takes away different details from each one: the varying size, depending on distance from the screen, and shape, depending on the film, of that central, burning white rectangle; the seating configurations; the size of the audiences; the details of the architecture. Over and over, the process of being absorbed and released reoccurs.
In today's media climate, this book is perhaps most potent in a way that couldn't have been imagined when some of the photos were taken (they were taken during two extended periods—between 1976 and 1980, and between 1991 and 1994). Most of the theaters represented are movie palaces of a sort that hardly exist anymore, built at a time when the bottom-line wasn't the greatest driving factor in business decisions and majesty and splendor were included even in building where they were bound to spend much of their time unfavored in the darkness; the screens, too, are of a size that isn't found economical or feasible in these days of cramming as many screens as possible into cineplexes. In the photos taken in 1977, there are still UA and RKO theatres, last vestiges of an already-dead era when distributors were permitted to own cinema chains; Hollywood's Cinerama Dome—one of what used to be many venues capable of projecting three-strip Cinerama films and what happens to be one of only three Cinerama theatres still standing today—is depicted with its telltale curved Cinerama screen, one of only two screens depicted in this book that depart from the strictly rectangular.
The photos taken in the 1990s are almost all of drive-in theatres, as if Sugimoto sensed that they were already in inevitable decline and had to be memorialized immediately, if ever (note that there are often two photographs of these theatres, presumably indicating a double feature, yet another vestige of the mostly-past). Throw in the fact that these were all photographs taken on actual film—of movies projected on film—and note the fact that more and more people are abandoning the theatre for the comfort of home set-ups, and there's the unavoidable suggestion that the whole film industry and the idea of public projection may someday only linger as a memory as well, more than a century of history compacted for remembrance in books like this one.
Sugimoto presents a series of photographs whose exposure times are matched to the running times of films being observed. Over this time, the image of the screen sums to be only white light, illuminating the screen but depicting nothing, and also highlighting the details of the particular theatre in which he is taking the photograph. He positions the camera, it seems, as far to the rear as possible when inside a theatre, with most of the shots apparently taken from balcony vantage-points, and sometimes even seeming as if they are from the projection booth itself; when photographing a drive-in screen, on the other hand, he positions the camera quite close to the screen, in front of any vehicles.
The rectangles of white light in the center of these photographs both pull one in, serving as the unquestionable focal point of each print, and seem to release one after a certain point. Before making it to the central whiteness, one's eyes settles on the gorgeous, exotic details of the often ornate theatres on display. One almost wishes for a better view of the architectural detailing at times, but instead the experience of the filmgoer and the artistry of the film is allowed to take precedence over the artistry of the building for the length of the film, and the length of the film is all we get to see of these theatres.
The compression of the length of a film into a single photograph reflects the viewing experience of a film in many ways; one sits for a length of time, experiencing it in full, but nearly always that experience is condensed into a single memory of having been there, a single judgement of the film's quality. Not having the films themselves to look at in these photos, one takes away different details from each one: the varying size, depending on distance from the screen, and shape, depending on the film, of that central, burning white rectangle; the seating configurations; the size of the audiences; the details of the architecture. Over and over, the process of being absorbed and released reoccurs.
In today's media climate, this book is perhaps most potent in a way that couldn't have been imagined when some of the photos were taken (they were taken during two extended periods—between 1976 and 1980, and between 1991 and 1994). Most of the theaters represented are movie palaces of a sort that hardly exist anymore, built at a time when the bottom-line wasn't the greatest driving factor in business decisions and majesty and splendor were included even in building where they were bound to spend much of their time unfavored in the darkness; the screens, too, are of a size that isn't found economical or feasible in these days of cramming as many screens as possible into cineplexes. In the photos taken in 1977, there are still UA and RKO theatres, last vestiges of an already-dead era when distributors were permitted to own cinema chains; Hollywood's Cinerama Dome—one of what used to be many venues capable of projecting three-strip Cinerama films and what happens to be one of only three Cinerama theatres still standing today—is depicted with its telltale curved Cinerama screen, one of only two screens depicted in this book that depart from the strictly rectangular.
The photos taken in the 1990s are almost all of drive-in theatres, as if Sugimoto sensed that they were already in inevitable decline and had to be memorialized immediately, if ever (note that there are often two photographs of these theatres, presumably indicating a double feature, yet another vestige of the mostly-past). Throw in the fact that these were all photographs taken on actual film—of movies projected on film—and note the fact that more and more people are abandoning the theatre for the comfort of home set-ups, and there's the unavoidable suggestion that the whole film industry and the idea of public projection may someday only linger as a memory as well, more than a century of history compacted for remembrance in books like this one.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews