Focus Features

At age nine, I had the good fortune of seeing My Fair Lady, and was so fascinated that I asked to go back again and again, maybe 12 or 15 times, until my mother absolutely refused. I was transfixed, starting with the opening scene in which exquisite flowers blossom and seemed to actually glow. The light in the scene is neither day nor night. I couldn't put it in words then, but I was captivated, I think, because the flowers were shown as elements more powerful than their context, because they emanated light, as opposed to reflecting it. Similarly, I was fascinated and delighted by the surprise of Higgins' mother's house. His was the most sophisticated environment ever, full of exquisite antiques and exotic discoveries. We expected his mother's to be tasteful but less interesting, probably darker and somewhat cluttered. Instead, we're shocked to see a spare, white, designed room (all [Charles Rennie] Mackintosh, which would have been cutting edge at that time). The suggestion was palpable: lighter and brighter with many fewer things. Perhaps this was wisdom? Radically individualistic, regardless.

Even more powerful, a few years later, was the overwhelming experience of The Conformist. I saw, among other things, that space itself could make a mark. I was mesmerized as the two women danced, seemingly trapped in a predatory tango. The room was illuminated only by streaks of light through louvered windows. Both wore patterned dresses. Patterns overlapped patterns and tangled with the streaks of light, enwrapping them like a net getting tighter and tighter. The revelations from this film are too numerous to mention, but it stands out in my memory that there was a gradual transition from nearly monochromatic light in the early scenes (as they escaped Fascist Italy) to the brilliant, joyous color in the forest scene at the end, which served to intensify the ensuing horror.

In Juliet of the Spirits, the house and garden are obviously artificial. Everything is perfect and evenly lit, as if mechanically rendered. (Perhaps today it would have been computer animated). The message is clear: Juliet's world is safe, static, and seemingly content. Everything is already known, there's nothing to discover; that is until she enters a world dominated by shadows, veils, and layers of space with her visit to the hermaphrodite, in the vast cave-like room, and four poster bed within. Only then, in the shadows, does she discover that life is, indeed, about discovery.

With Blade Runner one thinks first of the light. In this apocalyptical vision of the future it's always uniformly dark and wet: no sun, no shadows, no contrasts. Practically no choices; little hope.

Stranger than Paradise fascinates and informs in a very different way from the others: instead of just focusing our attention within the environments depicted, instead of emotional immersion, Jarmusch used light and camera perspectives to distance us, to pull us away to have greater awareness of what we're seeing. Using black and white (instead of the color we've come to expect to depict realism) plus high contrast, and some very wide-angle views (as in the last scene where the choice must be made between two diverging paths) he entices us to reflect with the clarity of memory. Similarly, in designing certain environments we know it is often best just to set the stage and not complete it, so that the environment engages the inhabitants to choose their own path.