PrepTest 89, Section 4, Question 7
The following passage is adapted from a 2001 article by a film historian.
In exhibiting works of art—whether in a gallery, a cinema, or anywhere else—the primary question usually is: which works should be exhibited together? In many exhibitions the selection is often tied to the creator of the works. For example, we might have an exhibition of Rembrandt's paintings. Another reasonable method might be to choose paintings with a particular theme or of a particular historical period, for example, Modernism. In all cases the aim is to select a series of works with something in common. In the world of cinema, this notion of "collecting the similar" has its analogue in the retrospective. This involves collecting together and screening several examples of the work of a particular director, star, studio, etc. In recent years a rediscovery of early (pre-1915) nonfiction film has been taking place, and such films have been the subject of some notable retrospectives.
But I would argue that the philosophy of "collecting the similar" is often inappropriate for screening early film, especially nonfiction, because it means showing several films of the same type one after the other in the same sitting, which would never have been the practice at the time the films were made. Gathering together several short films (and in the early 1910s most films were under fifteen minutes) by the same maker or studio, while useful for historians and academics, is often profoundly dull for the viewer. With some exceptions, nonfiction films have always been supporting films, not main attractions. Early cinemagoers never saw a collection of similar films screened together; they almost always saw a program that was a mix of everything from dramas and comedies to travelogues and news. Even into the 1920s a mixed program was the norm.
Film archives and retrospective festivals often behave as if the production of the films were the only side of the coin. Film archives spend vast amounts of time and effort in restoring films as they supposedly were when originally produced. These restorations are presented with great fanfare as authentic versions, or "directors' cuts." Yet as far as the exhibition side is concerned, authenticity is sometimes allowed to go out the window. Films are presented in an inauthentic setting, utterly shorn of the program that once gave these films life and context, a setting that allowed particular films to shine, but also to balance and react against other kinds of films. Film presenters discovered the magic of programming in the early years of the twentieth century, or more likely inherited it from the vaudeville tradition. It ill behooves us alleged early film lovers to forsake their insights today.
The following passage is adapted from a 2001 article by a film historian.
In exhibiting works of art—whether in a gallery, a cinema, or anywhere else—the primary question usually is: which works should be exhibited together? In many exhibitions the selection is often tied to the creator of the works. For example, we might have an exhibition of Rembrandt's paintings. Another reasonable method might be to choose paintings with a particular theme or of a particular historical period, for example, Modernism. In all cases the aim is to select a series of works with something in common. In the world of cinema, this notion of "collecting the similar" has its analogue in the retrospective. This involves collecting together and screening several examples of the work of a particular director, star, studio, etc. In recent years a rediscovery of early (pre-1915) nonfiction film has been taking place, and such films have been the subject of some notable retrospectives.
But I would argue that the philosophy of "collecting the similar" is often inappropriate for screening early film, especially nonfiction, because it means showing several films of the same type one after the other in the same sitting, which would never have been the practice at the time the films were made. Gathering together several short films (and in the early 1910s most films were under fifteen minutes) by the same maker or studio, while useful for historians and academics, is often profoundly dull for the viewer. With some exceptions, nonfiction films have always been supporting films, not main attractions. Early cinemagoers never saw a collection of similar films screened together; they almost always saw a program that was a mix of everything from dramas and comedies to travelogues and news. Even into the 1920s a mixed program was the norm.
Film archives and retrospective festivals often behave as if the production of the films were the only side of the coin. Film archives spend vast amounts of time and effort in restoring films as they supposedly were when originally produced. These restorations are presented with great fanfare as authentic versions, or "directors' cuts." Yet as far as the exhibition side is concerned, authenticity is sometimes allowed to go out the window. Films are presented in an inauthentic setting, utterly shorn of the program that once gave these films life and context, a setting that allowed particular films to shine, but also to balance and react against other kinds of films. Film presenters discovered the magic of programming in the early years of the twentieth century, or more likely inherited it from the vaudeville tradition. It ill behooves us alleged early film lovers to forsake their insights today.
The following passage is adapted from a 2001 article by a film historian.
In exhibiting works of art—whether in a gallery, a cinema, or anywhere else—the primary question usually is: which works should be exhibited together? In many exhibitions the selection is often tied to the creator of the works. For example, we might have an exhibition of Rembrandt's paintings. Another reasonable method might be to choose paintings with a particular theme or of a particular historical period, for example, Modernism. In all cases the aim is to select a series of works with something in common. In the world of cinema, this notion of "collecting the similar" has its analogue in the retrospective. This involves collecting together and screening several examples of the work of a particular director, star, studio, etc. In recent years a rediscovery of early (pre-1915) nonfiction film has been taking place, and such films have been the subject of some notable retrospectives.
But I would argue that the philosophy of "collecting the similar" is often inappropriate for screening early film, especially nonfiction, because it means showing several films of the same type one after the other in the same sitting, which would never have been the practice at the time the films were made. Gathering together several short films (and in the early 1910s most films were under fifteen minutes) by the same maker or studio, while useful for historians and academics, is often profoundly dull for the viewer. With some exceptions, nonfiction films have always been supporting films, not main attractions. Early cinemagoers never saw a collection of similar films screened together; they almost always saw a program that was a mix of everything from dramas and comedies to travelogues and news. Even into the 1920s a mixed program was the norm.
Film archives and retrospective festivals often behave as if the production of the films were the only side of the coin. Film archives spend vast amounts of time and effort in restoring films as they supposedly were when originally produced. These restorations are presented with great fanfare as authentic versions, or "directors' cuts." Yet as far as the exhibition side is concerned, authenticity is sometimes allowed to go out the window. Films are presented in an inauthentic setting, utterly shorn of the program that once gave these films life and context, a setting that allowed particular films to shine, but also to balance and react against other kinds of films. Film presenters discovered the magic of programming in the early years of the twentieth century, or more likely inherited it from the vaudeville tradition. It ill behooves us alleged early film lovers to forsake their insights today.
The following passage is adapted from a 2001 article by a film historian.
In exhibiting works of art—whether in a gallery, a cinema, or anywhere else—the primary question usually is: which works should be exhibited together? In many exhibitions the selection is often tied to the creator of the works. For example, we might have an exhibition of Rembrandt's paintings. Another reasonable method might be to choose paintings with a particular theme or of a particular historical period, for example, Modernism. In all cases the aim is to select a series of works with something in common. In the world of cinema, this notion of "collecting the similar" has its analogue in the retrospective. This involves collecting together and screening several examples of the work of a particular director, star, studio, etc. In recent years a rediscovery of early (pre-1915) nonfiction film has been taking place, and such films have been the subject of some notable retrospectives.
But I would argue that the philosophy of "collecting the similar" is often inappropriate for screening early film, especially nonfiction, because it means showing several films of the same type one after the other in the same sitting, which would never have been the practice at the time the films were made. Gathering together several short films (and in the early 1910s most films were under fifteen minutes) by the same maker or studio, while useful for historians and academics, is often profoundly dull for the viewer. With some exceptions, nonfiction films have always been supporting films, not main attractions. Early cinemagoers never saw a collection of similar films screened together; they almost always saw a program that was a mix of everything from dramas and comedies to travelogues and news. Even into the 1920s a mixed program was the norm.
Film archives and retrospective festivals often behave as if the production of the films were the only side of the coin. Film archives spend vast amounts of time and effort in restoring films as they supposedly were when originally produced. These restorations are presented with great fanfare as authentic versions, or "directors' cuts." Yet as far as the exhibition side is concerned, authenticity is sometimes allowed to go out the window. Films are presented in an inauthentic setting, utterly shorn of the program that once gave these films life and context, a setting that allowed particular films to shine, but also to balance and react against other kinds of films. Film presenters discovered the magic of programming in the early years of the twentieth century, or more likely inherited it from the vaudeville tradition. It ill behooves us alleged early film lovers to forsake their insights today.
It can be inferred from the passage that the author holds which one of the following views regarding the "directors' cuts" described in the final paragraph?
They are usually little more than clever marketing gimmicks and are entirely lacking in artistic value.
Producing them is largely a pointless endeavor, in that it is striving for a goal that can never be fully achieved.
Paradoxically, even though they are produced in an attempt to increase authenticity, in many cases they are less authentic than other versions.
The time and effort expended in producing them is potentially wasted if no attention is paid to other aspects of authenticity.
In the vast majority of cases where such a version is available, it represents by far the best way to experience the film.
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