VOICE-OVER NARRATION
Voice-over narration is yet another way to divulge exposition. Like the Flashback, it’s done well or ill. The test of narration is this: Ask yourself, “If I were to strip the voice-over out of my screenplay, would the story still be well told?” If the answer is yes… keep it in. Generally, the principle “Less is more” applies: the more economical the technique, the more impact it has. Therefore, anything that can be cut should be cut. There are, however, exceptions. If narration can be removed and the story still stands on its feet well told, then you’ve probably used narration for the only good reason—as counterpoint.
Counterpoint narration is Woody Allen’s great gift. If we were to cut the voice-over from HANNAH AND HER SISTERS or HUSBANDS AND WIVES his stories would still be lucid and effective. But why would we? His narration offers wit, ironies, and insights that can’t be done any other way. Voice-over to add nonnarrative counterpoint can be delightful.
Occasionally, brief telling narration, especially at the opening or during transitions between acts, such as in BARRY LYNDON, is inoffensive, but the trend toward using telling narration throughout a film threatens the future of our art. More and more films by some of the finest directors from Hollywood and Europe indulge in this indolent practice. They saturate the screen with lush photography and lavish production values, then tie images together with a voice droning on the soundtrack, turning the cinema into what was once known as Classic Comic Books.
Many of us were first exposed to the works of major writers by reading Classic Comics, novels in cartoon images with captions that told the story. That’s fine for children, but it’s not cinema. The art of cinema connects Image A via editing, camera, or lens movement with Image B, and the effect is meanings C, D, and E, expressed without explanation. Recently, film after film slides a steady-cam through rooms and corridors, up and down streets, panning sets and cast while a narrator talks, talks, talks voice-over, telling us about a character’s upbringing, or his dreams and fears, or explaining the politics of the story’s society—until the film becomes little more than multimillion-dollar books-on-tape, illustrated.
It takes little talent and less effort to fill a soundtrack with explanation. “Show, don’t tell” is a call for artistry and discipline, a warning to us not to give in to laziness but to set creative limitations that demand the fullest use of imagination and sweat. Dramatizing every turn into a natural, seamless flow of scenes is hard work, but when we allow ourselves the comfort of “on the nose” narration we gut our creativity, eliminate the audience’s curiosity, and destroy narrative drive.
More importantly, “Show, don’t tell” means respect the intelligence and sensitivity of your audience. Invite them to bring their best selves to the ritual, to watch, think, feel, and draw their own conclusions. Do not put them on your knee as if they were children and “explain” life, for the misuse and overuse of narration is not only slack, it’s patronizing. And if the trend toward it continues, cinema will degrade into adulterated novels and our art will shrivel.
To study the skillful design of exposition, I suggest a close analysis of JFK. Obtain Oliver Stone’s screenplay and/or the video and break the film down, scene by scene, listing all the facts, indisputable or alleged, it contains. Then note how Stone splintered this Mount Everest of information into its vital pieces, dramatized each bit, pacing the progression of revelations. It is a masterpiece of craftsmanship.
