The Single-Take Sensation: When Technical Brilliance Outshines Storytelling in Modern Films
The single-take, or 'one-er', has become a cinematic sensation, often overshadowing the story it's meant to tell. This article explores the fine line between technical achievement and narrative substance.
Real Estate:The single-take, or 'one-er', has become a cinematic sensation, often overshadowing the story it's meant to tell. This year alone, with one-ers in 'Adolescence', 'The Studio', 'Retro', and 'Veera Dheera Sooran', the audience has turned into cheerleaders, eagerly awaiting the seamless long takes. However, sometimes it's okay to chop an ambitious idea whose sole point is its ambition.
The one-er in Karthik Subbaraj’s 'Retro', for example, overshadows the film's narrative. A 15-minute single take that was heavily promoted before the film's release, 'Retro' throbs with anticipation as the camera slithers around a marriage hall, capturing a celebratory dance, a feuding father and son, and a patricidal pump-fest. The shot begins and ends with the camera resting on a laughing Buddha, a neat loop that can exist independently of the film. This focus on technical brilliance highlights the film’s fundamental inability to tell a coherent story. Watching the scene felt like counting seconds of being underwater, holding one’s breath. It was an account of time, not of feeling.
No one likes a know-it-all, but we love knowledge. In cinema, as with people, when we see a movie try too hard to shimmer its scars on its surface, we do not lean in but tumble out. One such scar is the one-er, a cinephile’s wet dream. If a cinephile is someone who cares so much about the making of a movie, they forget that the point of the film was not its myth.
The one-er is, essentially, a technical achievement. To make it a cinematic achievement, it must be baked into the film’s desires. If the film desires only its myth—like 'Retro'—then that is the film’s cross to bear. Even the 30 seconds where the camera does not look away in Mikhail Kalatozov’s 'The Cranes Are Flying', a woman rushing through a military parade, from a deep close-up to watching her become mist among the dust, is a throbbing singularity of action and chaos. This scene, captured by Sergey Urusevsky, also the cinematographer behind 'I Am Cuba' and its long procession scene, flattens the claustrophobic awe felt towards the film’s making into the awe towards the film itself. The film carries the burden of this subterfuge. The film that uses the one-er best is the one that collapses the distinctions between our reaction to the film and our reaction to its making.
In the aftermath of the universal acclaim of 'Adolescence'—four episodes, each shot in one serpentine time-lugging take—a friend, confused by the love it received, posed a provocation. Imagine a director who decides to shoot a film on skates—a motion film, literally. Should that affect how we respond to the film? As viewers, why should we reward the limitations storytellers impose on themselves? Why should we celebrate you dancing in chains, when the chains were your idea?
This is, of course, a poke, not an argument, because so much of how we celebrate art is the story we tell about and around the art—context becoming text, subtext burdening text. Cinephiles have made it their mission to turn contextual trivia into textual features. 'Did you know how this was shot?' becomes 'This is why the film is so good'. Critics often borrow this collapse.
You cannot watch 'Adolescence' without the total awareness of its technical bravado—which arrives around every corner, when the camera does an odd or a substantially smooth move, jumping over the balcony, being flung across town, circling around conversations, tunnelling through corridors. The show becomes about the making of the show as we have lost the 'purity' of spectatorship, if we ever had it to begin with. It is a testament to the show that it uses the tension of the camera’s uncut presence to build a slight story, pulling us into its horrors as much as we pull back to appreciate its process.
There is something about the single take. The image hauls time alongside itself, like a dog walking its owner, the time-eating chronophage where you can hear every crunch. One second on screen is one second that you have spent on your seat—a total alignment of temporal experience and its representation. It is chilling, sometimes, this total sense of temporal belonging, which makes the shifts of weeks and months between the single-shot episodes of 'Adolescence' all the more necessary. You need to air some time into the story.
'Adolescence' makes use of the single-take to produce these portraits of time. When you actually sit in the spaces, inhabiting the temporal creases of these characters, the exceptionality of the moment feels dimmer. The fact that this child killed a girl. The fact that the father is seeing a video of his son doing this. Touched by the texture of life, these scenes are troubling because they are moments of exceptional violence rendered casually. Elsewhere, in the thrilling action set pieces of 'Children of God' or the playful burst of energy in 'Gallan Goodiyan' in 'Dil Dhadakne Do', the one-er becomes the image.
There is a conservative distinction often made between style and substance, one that essayists like Susan Sontag railed against, but I do not think this distinction is universally true, in the same vein that it is not universally untrue. Some directors are able to harness style to tell their story, using style as substance, the long take as claustrophobic and whipped into the world, the flash-cuts as hypertension in the narrative. Subbaraj has made a career out of prising style and substance apart, pursuing style with so much integrity that his story withers in a corner. But so sick are we of the Tetra pack filmmaking we see on display week in, week out, watching the response to 'Retro' feels like a consolation prize being given: thank you for trying so hard. It is patronising. We deserve better—as does he.
Frequently Asked Questions
What is a single-take in cinema?
A single-take, or 'one-er', is a filmmaking technique where a scene or entire film is shot in one continuous take without cuts. This technique can create a seamless and immersive viewing experience.
Why are single-takes often praised in the film industry?
Single-takes are often praised for their technical brilliance and the skill required to execute them. They can create a unique and engaging viewing experience, often adding to the narrative and emotional impact of the film.
Can a single-take overshadow the story in a film?
Yes, sometimes the technical achievement of a single-take can overshadow the story. If the film focuses too much on the technique and not enough on the narrative, it can lead to a disjointed or less impactful story.
What are some famous films that use the single-take technique?
Some famous films that use the single-take technique include 'Birdman', '1917', 'Adolescence', and 'The Cranes Are Flying'. These films have been acclaimed for their innovative use of the technique.
How does the single-take technique affect the viewer's experience?
The single-take technique can create a more immersive and continuous viewing experience, often making the audience feel more connected to the action on screen. However, it can also draw attention to the technical aspects, sometimes at the expense of the story.