As used in the passage, "a tidy history" most nearly means

In the 1920s, the Soviet filmmaker Lev Kuleshov reportedly ran a simple experiment that would go on to shape a century of film theory. He took a single shot of an actor's face, deliberately expressionless, and edited it into three separate short sequences, each time following the same neutral shot with a different image: a bowl of soup, a child playing, a coffin. According to the story that has circulated ever since, audiences who watched these sequences did not see the same blank expression three times. They reported seeing hunger in the first sequence, warmth in the second, and grief in the third, even though the actor's face on screen had not changed at all.

The lesson drawn from this story became a foundational idea in film editing: meaning in cinema does not live in any single shot alone, but in the relationship between shots, in what comes immediately before and after. A director choosing what to cut to next is not simply arranging images in sequence; according to this idea, the director is actively constructing what the audience will believe they saw.

There is a complication in this tidy history that most retellings leave out. The original film footage Kuleshov used has not survived, which means no modern researcher can screen the actual sequences he showed his original audiences. What survives is Kuleshov's own written account and the reports of those who claim to have seen the screenings, not the footage itself. When researchers in the twenty-first century began trying to test the effect directly, several early attempts, often using simplified or artificial materials rather than genuine film sequences, produced results that were inconsistent from one study to the next, leaving open the question of whether the effect was as strong, or even as real, as film-school lore had long assumed.

More recent research has taken a more careful approach. Rather than relying on crude reconstructions, some studies have used professionally filmed sequences integrated into authentic footage, asking viewers to rate the emotional content of a neutral face shown before and after a genuinely emotional scene. These studies have found that viewers' ratings do shift in the direction the surrounding scene would predict, a fearful scene making a neutral face seem more distressed, a happy scene making it seem more content. Brain-imaging work built on these same materials has identified activity in regions associated with emotional processing and memory when participants viewed these sequences, adding a physiological layer of evidence to the behavioral finding.

None of this fully resolves the story of Kuleshov's original screenings, which remains, at its core, an account historians cannot verify against the original footage. What it does establish is something narrower and more defensible: whatever did or did not happen in a Moscow screening room a century ago, the underlying principle that a neutral expression's perceived meaning can be shifted by surrounding context now has real experimental support behind it, gathered under far more careful conditions than the original story could ever have provided.