It has been many decades since art, dance, or music were required to have paraphrasable content, or even thought of in that way. A similar freedom has come more slowly to the theater, and hardly at all to film. Narrative films can have such an overwhelming storytelling force that most filmgoers have become fixed on that level: They ask, “What’s it about?” And the answer satisfies their curiosity about the movie. Movie advertising and promotion executives believe a sure key to box office success is a movie that can be described in one easy sentence:

It’s about a giant shark.

Marlon Brando meets this girl in an empty apartment, and they…

It’s two hours of “Flash Gordon,” only with great special effects.

It’s about the tallest building in the world catching on fire.

It’s about a slum kid who gets a crack at the heavyweight title.

There did seem to be a brief moment, in the late 1960s, when narrative films were becoming obsolete. Easy Rider, mentioned before, inspired a wave of films with structures that were frankly fragmented. Some of them merely abandoned carefully plotted narrative for the easier, and much older, narrative structure of the picaresque journey; there was a subgenre of “road pictures” in which the heroes hit the road and let what happened to them, happen. Road pictures often functioned as clotheslines on which the director could hang out some of his ideas about American society, at a particularly fragmented moment in our own history. Easy Rider itself, for example, contained episodes on a rural commune, a drug-dealing subplot, a visit to Mardi Gras, a scene in which the protagonists got stoned on marijuana around a campfire, and episodes in which stereotyped rednecks and racists murdered the hippie heroes.

Other films abandoned narrative altogether. One of the period’s most popular films, the documentary Woodstock, never overtly organized its material, depending instead on a rhythmic connection of the music and images at its awesomely large rock concert. Underground and psychedelic films surfaced briefly in commercial houses. The Beatles’ Yellow Submarine was a free-fall through fantasy images and music. Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey teased its audiences with documentarylike titles (“To Infinity—and Beyond”) but abandoned all traditional narrative logic in its conclusion.

The films I have mentioned were successful, but most of the period’s nonnarrative films were not. The hugely successful films of the 1970s have all been built on sound narrative structures: The French Connection, The Godfather, Patton, Chinatown, The Sting, Star Wars. Because these films can be understood so completely through their stories, audiences have found them very satisfactory on that level. Nobody has been much interested that some of them (The Godfather and Chinatown, for example) may have richer levels of psychological and visual organization.

It appears, then, that films aimed only at the eye and the emotions cannot find large audiences. Experimental filmmakers can try out fascinating combinations of color, light, pulse, cutting, and sound (as Jordan Belsen did). They can even create works in which the actual cone of light from the projector was the work of art, and instruct the audience to stand where the screen would be (as Anthony McCall has done). But their nonnarrative works play in museums and galleries and on the campus; commercial feature filmmaking and its audience seem as committed as ever to good stories, well told.

I am enough a member of the generation that went to the Saturday matinees of the 1940s to love fine narrative movies (I sometimes list among my favorite films Hitchcock’s Notorious, Carol Reed’s The Third Man, and the first Humphrey Bogart classic that comes to mind). But I believe the future of feature films as an art form lies in the possibilities beyond narrative—in the intuitive linking of images, dreams, and abstractions with reality, and with the freeing of them all from the burden of relating a story. I certainly do not believe the day will come soon when large audiences forsake narrative. But I am concerned that three things are slowing the natural evolution of cinema—the eminence of the “event film” (already discussed), our obsessive insistence on a paraphrasable narrative, and the reduced visual attention span caused by over-consumption of television.

My concern about television should be almost self-explanatory. Most of us probably spend too much time watching it. Most of it is not very good. To catch and retain our attention, it has to go by quickly. There are thousands of little climaxes on the networks every night: Small, even perfunctory moments when someone is killed, slams a door, falls out of a car, tells a joke, is kissed, weeps, does a double take, or is merely introduced (“Here’s Johnny”). These smaller climaxes are interrupted at approximately nine-minute intervals by larger climaxes, called commercials. A commercial can sometimes cost more than the show surrounding it and can look it. Made-for-television movie scripts are consciously written with the thought that they must be interrupted at regular intervals; the stories are fashioned so that moments of great interest are either arrived at or (as often) postponed for the commercial.

I have expressed concern about our obsessive love for narrative, our demand that movies tell us a story. Perhaps I should be just as concerned with what television is doing to our ability to be told a story. We read novels for many reasons, E. M. Forster tells us in a famous passage from Aspects of the Novel, but most of all we read them to see how they will turn out. Do we, anymore? Traditional novels and films were often all of a piece, especially the good ones, and one of the pleasures of progressing through them was to see the structure gradually revealing itself. Hitchcock’s frequent practice of “twinning” is an example: His films, even such very recent ones as Frenzy (1972), show his delight in the pairing off of characters, scenes, and shots so that ironic comparisons can be made. Is the mass audience still patient enough for such craftsmanship? Or has the violent narrative fragmentation of television made visual consumption a process rather than an end?

Such questions are relevant to a discussion of two of the best films of recent years, Ingmar Bergman’s Persona (1967) and Robert Altman’s Three Women (1977). I might have chosen a number of other films for a discussion of the nonnarrative possibilities of the medium; I choose these two not only because I think they are genuinely great but because they share a similar theme and so can help illuminate each other.

Neither film was a commercial success. Persona, to borrow John Frankenheimer’s memorable description of his own The Manchurian Candidate, “went directly from the status of Flop to the status of Classic, without passing through the intermediate stage of Success.” And Altman’s film barely broke even—although at a cost of a little more than $1 million it was a low-budget production by 1977 standards. Bergman’s film quickly made its passage into classic status; the 1972 poll of the world’s film critics by Sight and Sound, the British film magazine, listed it among the ten greatest films ever made, and it is now considered by many Bergman scholars to be his best. Altman’s film has yet to find what I hope will be its eventual audience. Both films dealt with women who exchanged, or merged, personalities. Neither film ever explained, or tried to explain, how those exchanges took place. For many members of the audience, that was apparently the trouble.