Pickpocket
Directed by Robert Bresson,1959
Director Robert Bresson uses simple dialectical editing to convey meaning in his 1959 film Pickpocket.
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In the 1920s, Soviet filmmaker Lev Kuleshov proved that shots, the fundamental unit of cinema, can take on different meanings when they are placed in contrast to one other. Out of sequences—the chronological placement and therefore combination of shots—meaning and emotion are born. Kuleshov argued that the individual content of a shot was less important than how it was placed in relation to another shot.
Throughout the sequence, there are two main contrasting shots which work in tandem to bring the viewer into this suspenseful moment. The first is a medium close up of Michel, while the second is a close up of Michel's hands unlocking the purse of his intended target.
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Notice that there is no dramatic acting from the protagonist. Shot A alone is nearly meaningless—it's just a man standing in a crowd. However, when contrasted with the shot of Michel's hands on the lock of the purse, every tiny microexpression takes on the significance of a hurricane. Bresson understood that the camera picks up every tiny detail, and trusted his viewers to understand context. Overacting in this kind of filmmaking would remove the viewer from the reality of the scene. A simple blink or twitch of the head means everything in contrast to the shot before it.
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Note also that there is no dramatic music, no sustained drone or rising infrasound effects; just the atmospheric noise of the crowd, and the voice of the race track announcer. The sparse sound design adds to the suspense by giving the viewer nothing to distract themselves with. There is only the moment at hand. The announcer, speaking in a tense, heightened voice, seems to be announcing not longer the race, but the robbery. Additionally, by keeping the sound design relatively minimal, Bresson is able to use the sound of the horses rounding the track in the climax of this scene to create an explosion of tension—a Bressonian jumpscare.
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Finally, the tension dissolves. Bresson cuts back to shot B, showing us the successful robbery, and then employs an extra to wipe across the screen like a curtain closing on a stage. The shot-reverse-shot sequence is finished and Bresson cuts into a wider shot of Michel melting into the crowd around him. The sound fizzles out into a decrescendo of crowd noise, with no announcer.
This is an absolutely masterful use of the Kuleshov Effect, or dialectical editing, to build the experience of suspense. While many filmmakers might resort to grand camera moves, boisterous sound design, highly dramatized acting, or even visual effects to build a heightened atmosphere, Bresson seems to do almost nothing and yet the viewer is gripped. Let's break it down.
Shot A
On the second cut back to Michel, after we see his hands open the purse, he blinks—and we can feel the pure ecstasy he experiences here through that simple expression.
Shot B
On the first cut back to Michel after we see his hands unlatch the purse lock, he moves his head a fraction to the side. This miniscule movement, seen after the previous shot, conveys anticipation. This head movement is meaningless out of context.
In the third and final cut back to Michel's single in this sequence, Bresson uses the sound element of the horses rounding the track—the loudest and most raucous sound of this sequence. In contrast with the previous shot—Michel's hand entering the purse—we are thrust into the highest state of tension in the scene to this point. Is Michel going to be found out? Is he in danger?
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Notice the sound wave in this moment crescendos. This is the highest volume peak in the sequence.
The extra (left) wipes across the screen after Michel completes the robbery, allowing Bresson to cut into a wider shot of Michel dissolving into the crowd. The crime is complete, and the audience can breathe.
Of course, Bresson plays one more trick on us. Several shots after the tension in the scene is dissolved and it seems Michel is in the clear, two detectives enter the frame and we cut to Michel in the back of a police car. Bresson evades a hyper-dramatized depiction of crime and arrest, and in doing so he constructs an experience so granular and delicate that every sound, every body movement, and every facial expression elicits a visceral response in the viewer. Seemingly counterintuitively, by avoiding an intense depiction, Bresson creates an intense experience. And that experience is entirely grounded in simple dialectical editing.