“Komorebi” is a Japanese word for which English has no equivalent. Roughly translating to “scattered sunlight filtering through trees,” the word is a symbol of the distinct appreciation Japanese culture has for nature’s delicate beauty; a meditation on the interplay between light and darkness which creates arresting, transient moments all around us.
The cinematic medium is teeming with scenes like this. Sometimes they’re the big swells of the story; often, they’re fleeting moments that might pass right by if not carefully observed. With each entry in this monthly series, we aim to shed dappled light on a beautiful moment in film we’ve recently experienced – a moment that exemplifies the essence of komorebi.
As if eagerly competing for the title of “most badass opening sequence ever,” the first scene of John Frankenheimer’s underappreciated 1966 epic Grand Prix abruptly thrusts you into the world of motorsports, ready or not.
We’re at the Monaco Grand Prix, the iconic Formula One race. But we don’t know that yet. We’ll get all the exposition we need here in a minute, but first, Frankenheimer just wants us to know what it feels like.
In the very first shot, we are spat out of an exhaust pipe. The film’s title fills the maw of the pipe in a white block font as this anonymous hell-machine roars to life. We’re overwhelmed with its bellowing cry, and immediately, we’re immersed into the hectic proceedings of race preparation.
Bolts tighten. Mechanisms churn. Tires roll onto pavement. Cue opening credits.
Legendary graphic designer Saul Bass, known primarily for revolutionizing the cinematic title sequence through his use of kinetic typography and striking abstract art, deftly eschews graphical overlays here in favor of splicing together long-lens close-up photography by cinematographer Lionel Linden, with simple white text filling in the negative space of the images.
These macro shots, combined with articulate sound design, quickly make us intimate with the sensory experience of auto racing. A spark plug is plucked out of a tray. Tires are gauged for pressure. Helmets are strapped onto drivers and gloves are pulled taut. It’s a “gearing up” sequence for the ages. Bass then multiplies these images on top of themselves, tiling them four, eight, sixteen or more times across the screen to emphasize the bustle of the starting area.
Amidst the ongoing engine growls, other sounds of the race track start to peek in—crowd chatter, crew banter, even birdsong. It’s a fleeting reminder that we are indeed on Planet Earth, and this is, for most of the people here, a bit of Sunday-morning entertainment.
But the screams of the engines never cease.
A shot of a speaker tower introduces us to the faceless commentators, and the commentators in turn introduce us to our drivers. This is Frankenheimer drip-feeding us the first narrative shreds of the story we’re about to experience. British Racing Motors driver Scott Stoddard (Brian Bedford) is the first driver named and the first face we see; an appropriate choice given how much of the interpersonal drama throughout the film will revolve around him.
Ferrari’s Jean-Pierre Sarti (Yves Montand) is next. He gets a glowing introduction that highlights his veteran status as a multi-time winner and a force to be reckoned with.
The last notable driver we meet is Stoddard’s teammate, Pete Aron (James Garner), our de facto protagonist. Introduced as “the American,” and seemingly the only named driver not in the front row, Aron’s introduction highlights his tumultuous career as of late, and his struggle to find success with BRM since leaving Ferrari.
It’s a plainly expository introduction to our core cast that not only works, but excels at getting us up to speed quickly while keeping us fully immersed in the pure aesthetic atmosphere Frankenheimer, Bass, and Linden have created for us.
The engine sounds surge again, re-establishing dominance over the soundscape. They fall away once more, only briefly, to the pulse of a driver’s heartbeat. We see the steely eyes of drivers as they don their goggles.
The engines tear back in.
A thumbs-up enters the frame as “Directed by John Frankenheimer” graces the screen.
The starter counts down. Fingers grip steering wheels.
“Go!”
The field peels out.
It’s a stunningly modern title sequence, thanks to its telephoto imagery and rapid editing. You can see the styles of countless future filmmakers, from Tony Scott to Edgar Wright, being born from the primordial ooze that makes up Grand Prix‘s titles. At the same time, it’s hard to imagine a modern racing film putting this much painstaking effort and detail into establishing its aesthetic. (C’mon, F1, prove me wrong!)
And yet, we’re only just now getting into the real showcase.
As the cars careen out of their starting positions, Frankenheimer lets us take a breather. We’ll need it. He moves the camera into the air, and we track the cars from above as they wind through the streets of Monaco.
The respite is brief. The aerial shots go on just long enough to give us a sense of the course. What follows are some of the most breathtaking driving sequences I’ve ever seen.
Frankenheimer and Linden opted for a documentary style when shooting the racing sequences. The goal was to capture the visceral intensity of being in these cars. Prior to Grand Prix, car sequences were predominantly shot from either a third-person perspective (on the ground, watching cars go by), or shot in a still car on a set, with the environment created through rear-projection.
What this meant for Frankenheimer and crew was finding ways to get film cameras—generally large, heavy, bulky, and fragile devices—into Formula One cars—lean, wiry, deadly fast, and fragile devices.
The solution was to literally invent new technologies and shooting techniques. Basically, they rigged cameras to the sides and fronts of the cars, often mere inches off the ground. Some of the in-car shots required camera movement; in some cases, this was done by newly-developed remote control technology—in others, it required a human cameraman riding in a Ford GT40, full-speed, right next to the F1 cars. Patrick Willems recently published a phenomenal video detailing how this was done, which you should check out. (It’s worth noting that Logan and I had the idea to do Cinema Komorebi pieces on Grand Prix before either of us found Willems’ video, but it’s a wonderful companion piece nonetheless.)
But I’m here to talk about the effect of these techniques.
Frankenheimer eases us into the spectacle he has in store. He transitions from aerial photography to stationary shots of cars going by, from the ground. We move from stationary ground shots to moving ground shots. Then from moving ground shots to more aerial shots, but this time lower and tracking right alongside the cars.
Then, the good stuff.
After a long, satisfyingly high-speed tracking shot, Sarti enters a dark tunnel. We emerge from pitch black at the end in a POV shot, strapped to the nose of his car. From here, Frankenheimer has pulled out all the stops. We’re in the race.
As the deafening roar of the engines continue, we get more POV shots, as well as ample close-ups of the drivers (so you can say, “Shit, James Garner is actually driving that thing!”). There’s a loud, hard-edged reality to this that doesn’t let up for the entire sequence.
The scene is also almost entirely devoid of dialogue (except for an interstitial cutaway to Stoddard’s wife Pat, played by Jessica Walter, in her hotel room). For the most part, the only words we hear from the track are some race narration from the commentator, and a short voiceover from each of the main drivers.
These voiceovers are presumably from interviews the drivers gave about the day’s race, each one providing a shred of insight into where their heads are and foreshadowing their arcs throughout the film. It will make for a surprisingly powerful bookend when Frankenheimer repeats the technique during the film’s final race. Sarti muses:
“I think if any of us imagined—really imagined—what it would be like to go into a tree at 150 miles an hour, we would probably never get into the cars at all. None of us. So it has always seemed to me that to do something very dangerous requires a certain absence of imagination.”
The Monaco sequence goes on for ten minutes. Shot after shot of nail-biting, asphalt-scraping footage.
Frankenheimer cuts the action short with grim punctuation. Aron’s brakes suddenly fail, throwing him into the path of his teammate. Aron and his car are shunted into the Mediterranean, while Stoddard’s car rides up the rock wall, flips, and smashes back down into the pavement. Frankenheimer spares us none of the bloody details in the aftermath.
Stoddard is critically injured. Aron is disgraced. Sarti gets yet another win to propel him forward in his long campaign of excellence. This moment sets in motion all the events, both on and off the course, of the rest of the film. What we’ve just seen is a distillation of the entire film yet to come—the essence of the epic tale of barbaric contest Frankenheimer is attempting to put to screen. I won’t say the film never beats this sequence—the finale simply must be seen to be believed—but Monaco really features all the best aspects of the movie in one place.
I have a hard time thinking of another opener quite like it—one that not only sets the stage for everything to come, both narratively and tonally, but also epitomizes the power of the entire film. All that, and it’s just cool as shit to watch.
At almost 15 minutes, maybe I’m stretching the premise of this series to qualify this sequence as a “fleeting” moment of cinematic beauty. But really, Grand Prix‘s Monaco sequence is dozens of fleeting moments, strung together to create an aesthetically life-changing, cinema-changing sequence and prime the viewer for the intense action and melodrama that the next two-and-a-half hours will bring.
It’s an opener that distills everything great about the film you’re about to watch into a single first impression. It’s Frankenheimer, playing starter for this nearly 3-hour slalom, calling, “Ready?”
The answer, of course, is “no.” But he calls “Go!” anyway. Strap in.
Next week, for our September entry in this series, Logan will discuss the film’s ending. Stay tuned for more stunning racing cinema in Part 2!
Wishes he could forego sleep to watch more movies. Besides co-hosting Odd Trilogies and writing reviews, Andy builds Gundam models, loves on his three cats, and spends way too much time managing his Plex server. You can follow his movie-watching habits on Letterboxd.