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[estimated read time: 15-20 min, ~2500 words]
Introduction
Vision Fugitive, alongside Winter Afternoon, forms the first part of a diptych of performance films. Both works function outside the traditional framework of montage. However, stepping beyond established conventions of filmed music performance was not an initial criterion for their production. Rather, the visual directions were rooted directly in their respective musical programs, attempting to reconsider the fundamental act of translating music to the screen.
In the case of Vision Fugitive, the film offers a sweeping motion through 20th-century piano repertoire. Drawing on past experiences of performing Prokofiev’s complete Visions Fugitives on the concert platform, I felt these short pieces presented an unusual dramaturgical challenge—a friction I encountered again with Rachmaninoff’s Corelli Variations. These are works of boundless imagination, humor, and agility, yet they are easily overshadowed by their fragmentary nature. It is no wonder that both composers frequently truncated these sets in public performance: Prokofiev would perform only selections, while Rachmaninoff famously skipped variations depending on the coughs of the audience.
With regard to cinematic translation, the program seems predisposed to montage. Given the myriad contrasts between the individual characters within Prokofiev and Rachmaninoff, the choice to pursue editing would be easily justified, with each vision and variation providing fruitful territory for visual invention. Pauses between selections would allow for practical camera resets and multiple takes, with each sequence assembled through an array of brief shots in post-production.
The decision to abandon montage entirely was not taken lightly. However, I sought another kind of equilibrium between detail and whole—one derived from harmonic and spatial continuity rather than narrative assembly. While Prokofiev’s output stems from the tonal functional sphere, there is a remarkable anecdote that following a recital he was once confronted by a listener determined to know the key of the third vision. His response was dry: "Tonalities are not something I ever think about." In this spirit it feels appropriate to offer a counter-sarcasm and reintroduce Vision Fugitive—shifting to the singular tense to acknowledge the lone filmic technique at the heart of this project: a 52-minute, uninterrupted tracking shot, where camera choreography acts as a living counterpoint to the score.
Why undergo such a marathon of duress? The uninterrupted shot as a self-sufficient method of cinematic construction is a feat of both physical stamina and artistic imagination. On the one hand, it is the closest technique to a literal replica of a performance, grounded in a continuous present, akin to theatre. As Pasolini describes it, it is a singular point of view—the primordial event of cinema. On the other hand, a choreographed shot with elaborate motion and significant duration is wildly impractical due to the meticulous preparation involved. The history of the one-shot film is often traced to Rope (1948), when, despite being limited to ten-minute takes by existing camera technology, Alfred Hitchcock, in pursuit of continuous time, created the illusion of an uninterrupted 80-minute take to convey a psychological thriller. The production was riddled with problems, with lead actor James Stewart complaining that "the real important thing being rehearsed here is the camera, not the actors!" Hitchcock never attempted such a feat again.
Another significant one-shot film, Alexander Sokurov’s Russian Ark (2002), filmed inside the Hermitage, was only allotted four hours on a single day. The practical limitations of Vision Fugitive presented a comparable scenario. Like Russian Ark, there was no possibility for dozens of takes. Due to production constraints, venue access could occur only within two days, only one of which would include the concert piano necessary for the performance. In addition, there were the following obstacles: requirements of a rig design that would allow for maximum range of camera motion and filming in excess of fifty minutes; the exertion placed upon the operator to simultaneously frame, pull focus, and navigate the music and space without a score; the directorial question of refreshing viewer interest, with light, focus, and piano being the only available devices; and the pressure on myself as the musician, to not only memorize and stay responsive to camera choreography but deliver a performance in a highly volatile environment, where an error from any party involved would necessitate a return to the beginning.
Visual Pedal Point
Vision Fugitive ends with a postlude, John Cage’s In A Landscape. Despite this music being rooted in chance operations, its position at the end of the program underlines the deliberate core of the visual direction. Cage indicates that the una corda and sustain pedals are to be depressed for the entire duration of the piece, an invitation to build a cumulative sonic world, a single stream of consciousness toward the pedal release, revealing the harmonics in the final bar. This is music with no beginning or end, existing without boundaries. The decision to end the film with this composition stemmed from a desire to build a comparable, cumulative visual world, to draw attention to the veiled continuities and seamless transitions threading all of the works together.
In the considered programme, the gesture between the final vision, lento irrealmente, and the theme of the Corelli Variations offers an implicit connection. The final vision oscillates between C sharp and C natural, and ultimately resigns with an indeterminate octave bass on the A, presenting a veiled D minor in the pitch harmonics without any definite conclusion. Furthermore, the 9/8 rhythm, with frequent emphasis on the second beat, offers a compelling rhythmic motif that reaches toward Rachmaninoff, dissolving into the 3/4 andante of the Corelli theme. Despite appearing fragmentary, the Visions Fugitives contain hidden motivic transformations that echo one another. Among them, consider the case of the energetic motif of the fourth vision, animato, which transforms into a slow sigh motif in the final vision.
In the Corelli Variations, a hierarchy of subservient groups and independent variations are clearly denominated by the use of fermatas (variations 2, 7, 8, 12, 13), in addition to attacca transitions, most clearly in variations 9–12 through use of tempo markings, and 16–17 / 19–20 by way of written transitions. The coda presents a crucial interpretative moment as Rachmaninoff chooses to end the opus with a final D minor chord stamped with both a fermata and an enigmatic tie beyond the bar. Much like the foreboding, final tam-tam sound that dissolves Rachmaninoff’s Symphonic Dances into an abyss, the last fermata and chords of the Corelli Variations are a detail pointing to music without a clear border. This places the work within a broader category of the unfinished, a kind of musical equivalent of the Plinian signature in art, indicating that the artist was making it (faciebat), rather than made it (fecit).
This riddle on D minor presents an opportunity to strengthen Cage’s vision of indeterminism by introducing In A Landscape directly out of the harmony of the Corelli. Once again, there is no immediate change in either meter (3/4) or dynamic (pp) between the compositions. With the D minor pitch set now present on both tails of the composition, the resonances indicated at the end of In A Landscape are doubly emphasized.
Returning to the question of filmic technique, the one-shot method is the only cinematic device that would allow a borderless visual expression between the works. In adopting a one-shot method for Vision Fugitive, the cut is no longer the primary tool for articulating musical structure. Instead, a singular, evolving frame serves to heighten the harmonic continuity of the performance, and the aesthetic shot emerges as a guiding principle, where the tension is held in the lens rather than manufactured in the edit suite. Montage would forego Cage’s pedal point. It would forfeit Rachmaninoff’s Plinian signature. It would erase the inconclusive nature of Prokofiev’s final Vision Fugitive and weaken the hidden interweaving of motives. Most importantly, the one-shot captures Cage’s essence of chance, remedies fragmentation, and creates a visual pedal point merging discrete music into a single cinematic form unfolding in real time.
The Chamber Ensemble
While Vision Fugitive could not rely on elaborate technology to ease filming through camera rails, cranes, drones, or multiple operators, there was an advantage: the cinematographer, Andrew Staples, was a distinguished musician, capable of understanding music at the highest level of detail and retaining it in memory. Following a single rehearsal at home, when Staples and I met for the first time to listen to the repertoire together, I drafted a scheme of the hall with designated positions. In addition, I created a draft document for each piece in the programme, describing its visual feeling and potential camera motion.
A variable we could not anticipate was the exact time it would take for the camera to go between proposed positions, and the practical value of the aforementioned documents turned out to be the designation of moments requiring absolute stillness. These anchors would not only define places of rest for the cinematographer but also respond to the music’s demand for simplicity. In addition, Staples provided a lighting translation of my noted musical characters; however, the inability to conduct a site visit until the actual recording dates prevented extensive lighting design until the first recording day. The constraints of a two-day production window forced quick decisions. Choreography was rehearsed only on the second day, and the actual filming time frame was now restricted to a single afternoon.
Mechanics of Real Time
When the shooting script (score) was worked out in minute detail, it became clear that the technique of the uninterrupted shot became less a question of film blocking or choreographing precise motion, but the pursuit of creating a margin for response from the cinematographer, a scheme within which Staples could have freedom to compose each frame in real time. A system was implemented in which the audio engineer, while following the score, would call out cues via headset not only to the lighting operator but also to the cinematographer, calling each stage position, focus pull, and direction of motion. A total of 63 cues were composed to ensure the alignment between music, camera, and light.
On the final day, during the only camera rehearsal after all lighting was programmed, the camera failed halfway through the performance due to a technical fault with the gimbal. This served as a stark reminder that even if we were afforded adequate planning and rehearsal time, the risk of completion of the entire shot extended not just toward the successful musical performance and memorization of each production detail from all parties, but equally toward the faultless technical operation of gear and physical endurance of the cinematographer. One adjustment was afforded after watching the result of the first take. It became clear that our initial opening shot (a wide shot with face revealed) did not convey the suspense of the first Vision Fugitive. This resulted in a complete reconfiguration of the beginning, redefining the opening shot as a silhouette and rejoining the original movement plan in the third vision.
The second take became the final result. Even with a nimble team of only four people, the practical reality of this one-shot film allowed a maximum of two takes per day. If it were exceeded, the ideal cinematographer, in addition to skill sets in lighting, musicianship, and technical savvy, would also require the strength and agility of a professional dancer.
The Imperfect Absolute
The result of Vision Fugitive, the experiment of the uninterrupted shot, first and foremost, illustrates dynamism, the coveted word of the Futurists. If cinema is the sphere of magic and artifice, there is one aspect that will always remain the most difficult to create: real time. The suspense of real time, combined with the energy of the technique, underscores why directors still renew efforts toward marathon tracking shots, especially in action sequences. Not only does it serve to establish unique continuity, but the method, unless declared beforehand, is capable of forgetting itself. Out of all the filmic techniques, this kind of tracking shot is the most immersive. What we may take for granted in live musical performance — the liveness and irrepeatability of a single event — is heightened and amplified by the one-shot film to the extreme. The four-person team behind Vision Fugitive was not a production crew, but a chamber ensemble, and the vitality of the group performance remains imprinted.
While major editing was impossible, fine adjustments could still be made to audio and picture, with the primary concern being the stabilization of the image. There was also a latency between intent and execution. For example, at the end of the fifth Prokofiev vision, the lighting switched perfectly in sync with the final note of the piece. A similar idea existed in variation 14 of Rachmaninoff’s Corelli Variations. The light needed to appear exactly on the D minor harmony at the end of the second phrase, however, was delayed by a fraction of a second, and the intended effect could only be achieved through re-timing in post-production.
The planned cues also had an irreversible effect on the musical performance achieved. In many cases, I knew exactly where the camera needed to be and precisely gauged certain pauses and rests to allow for the camera to position correctly. This is clearly seen at the end of the second Prokofiev vision, where I knowingly anticipated the camera motion toward a wide shot and needed to start precisely with the next cue of light. Furthermore, the timed spotlights in John Cage’s In a Landscape were initially intended for the opening phrase of the second vision of Prokofiev; however, due to the relatively short duration of that vision, the placement of the idea was reconsidered. The spotlights were repurposed during the Cage instead, highlighting every 15 bars of the structure until the final refrain, where they were gradually diminished over the course of the last page of the score.
Vision Fugitive is not a normal performance nor a normal performance film. In contrast to the broader domain of virtual concert platforms and media governed by montage and editing, it demands a different audioviewer engagement and contemplation. By embracing chance and ambiguity, the uninterrupted shot in music is a tool that demands the audience to discover their own sync beyond literal physical gesture, thus creating an imaginary space for individual associations between music and picture. The one-shot technique predisposes filming toward the energy of live performance, requires meticulous script preparation and imagination, and offers the versatility to express not only dynamism and action but also meditation and stillness. What began as an attempt to render audiovisual expression derived from the written score ended in a chamber ensemble, in which the intuitive dialogue between team members became a principal actor in shaping the space between the musician and the musical composition. The return to Pasolini’s primordial event of cinema also signals a return to the primordial event of music — the ritual of the singular performance.