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A Remembrance of
Early Movies
Oh yes, I remember seeing the first pictures that moved.
In fact, I can remember back before there were any moving pictures at
all. My name is Henry Daniels, and I’ll be 72 this year of 1932.
I loved motion pictures, I saw every one I could, and I read everything
I could find about them. My only difficulty was that I was born in a small
town in the Midwest.
When I was a little boy, most of what there was in the
way of entertainment was the stage—vaudeville, legitimate stage
like Broadway, and opera and so-forth. And you couldn’t go see those
unless you had a lot of money. We didn’t, so I had to be content
with the traveling magic lantern shows that showed pictures or photographs
up on a screen with a light behind them. These were great for a while,
but it wasn’t long before they became boring. We also had several
toys which showed off something they called “persistence of vision”:
they were known as stroboscopic toys, and they were made on the principle
that if still images pass quickly enough in front of the eye with black
spaces in between, the human eye will see only one picture. If each picture
is a little bit different the one before it, the eye sees it as movement.
We had a Thaumatrope at home. This was a little round disc
with a picture of a cage on one side, a picture of a bird on the other,
and a string attached to each side. When you spun the disc really fast
on the strings, it looked like the bird was in the cage. Another toy,
the Zoetrope, was a round drum with slits all around and pictures inside.
This one was better, because you could get different sets of pictures
to go in it. We didn’t have one, but the Thompsons down the road
did, and I went down to play with it nearly every day.
Now all this was invented back in the 1820s-1850s. It wasn’t
until the 1870s that the first step to moving photographs came about.
That step was series photographs. British photographer Eadweard Muybridge
(I remember he spelled it funny) was hired in 1872 to prove a $25,000
bet for Mister Leland Stanford, who was the governor of California. Mister
Stanford had bet a friend that at one point in a horse’s gallop,
all four feet were off the ground at one time. It wasn’t until 1877
that Mister Muybridge was able to set up cameras along a track with wires
that would trip the shutters when the horse hit the wires. When these
photographs were developed, they showed every part of the horse’s
stride. By the way, Mister Stanford won his bet—but spent over $40,000
to do it!
Mister Muybridge kept working on these series photographs,
and we got to see some of them in our magic lantern shows. Soon, a guy
named Marey, a Frenchman, put lots of photographic plates in one camera;
that way, he could take lots of pictures in a row with one camera. When
these pictures were moved quickly in sequence, it looked like the picture
was moving! Of course, there still weren’t more than about twelve
pictures per series—a pretty short movie. Meanwhile, George Eastman
of Kodak fame was working on making film out of celluloid to allow thousands
of frames to be shot in sequence.
But to get to the real inventor of the motion picture camera,
we have to look to the most famous inventor ever. Mister Thomas Edison
was a legend even in his own time. Mister Edison didn’t invent the
moving picture camera, though. He thought he had more important things
to work on himself, so he put one of his assistants, W.K. Laurie Dickson,
on the project. Dickson made his first movies around 1890. None of these
was shown publicly, but the earliest whole film in the Library of Congress
is called Fred Ott’s Sneeze. I guess you could say that
Fred Ott, an Edison Company mechanic, was the first movie star!
Mister Edison didn’t think that projecting movies
was the way to go, so he invented a thing called a Kinetoscope. You looked
through a little eye-piece at the top of the Kinetoscope, and could see
the film strip going through. Most of these movies were less than twenty
seconds long—but when we got Kinetoscopes put into our Phonograph
Parlor, we were amazed at those twenty seconds! It was so amazing to see
actual photographs move, just like real life! And you could see each Kinetoscope
film for only a nickel. It didn’t matter that they had no story,
only a short scene of everyday life—chickens being fed, a girl dancing,
or some men tearing down a wall—it was enough that they moved.
I read articles about two brothers in France, the Lumières,
who got one of Edison’s movie cameras and modeled one of their own
after it. They called it the Cinématographe (every one of these
things had some Greek name), and started making their own films.
The Lumières also invented the first projector that
worked. Before this, the film might get caught in the projector and get
ripped, or it might stay too long in front of the light and burn up. But,
building on the work of Major Woodville Latham and his two sons in Virginia,
Louis Aimé Augustin Le Prince in France, and William Friese-Greene
in England, the Lumières were able to make a projector that worked.
I read of several films that the Lumières made and
showed on screens, while we were still looking through our Kinetoscopes.
They had one of workers leaving their father’s factory, one of a
baby eating, and one a train coming into a station. This last one apparently
scared the moviegoers to death! They were so surprised by the train coming
straight toward them that many of them jumped out of the way! It’s
hard to imagine now that people couldn’t tell that it wasn’t
real, but back then, it looked so real, it was hard to tell the
difference. Then there was one called The Sprayer Sprayed, which
I was able to see years later. This was the first movie with a story,
despite what everybody says about The Great Train Robbery. A
man is watering the lawn with a hose when a young boy comes up and stands
on the hose, stopping the water. The man looks into the hose, only to
have the boy step off the hose, spraying the man in the face. The man
then runs and grabs the boy and sprays him. It didn’t seem like
anything at the time, I’m sure, but looking back at the movie now,
it’s funny how the camera never moved—the man chased the boy
outside of the frame, and the camera never moved to follow them. But at
that time (I believe it was first shown in about 1895), nobody had thought
yet of moving the camera—the camera wasn’t supposed to do
anything, just capture whatever was there in its line of vision.
Soon, Mister Edison realized that he had to project films
over here. A young man named Thomas Armat had come up with a projector,
and Mister Edison bought it from him to market it under the Edison Company
name. Mister Edison called it the Vitascope. I remember seeing one of
the earliest Vitascope films when a traveling vaudeville show came through
town. This was before the nickelodeons started springing up all over,
letting anyone with a nickel see projected films. It was called The
Kiss, and it showed two popular stage performers of the time kissing.
There was a huge outcry over the picture, which some considered pornographic.
It seems silly now, what with the developments of the past several years—but
it didn’t take long for censorship talk to start, did it?
But before long it seemed that the Lumières and
the Edison Company wanted to make different kinds of films. The Lumière
brothers were the fathers of the documentary, filming whatever happened
to be near the camera, while Mister Edison’s films kept tending
more and more toward fiction and staged scenes.
Another type of film being developed, decidedly in the
fiction category, was the trick film. J. Stuart Blackton, a cartoonist
and columnist for the New York World, met Mister Edison and got
so enamored with the movie business that he wanted to get into it himself.
The Edison Company didn’t sell cameras, only projectors. This kept
production in their own hands, but let others do the exhibiting. Mister
Blackton bought a projector and his partner, Albert Smith, modified it
to be a camera as well. Mister Blackton made some films supposedly of
the Spanish-American War, but it later turned out that he had made them
in New York on his own rooftop! This was the first hint that the camera
could lie. Mister Blackton also did a film about the burning of the Windsor
Hotel in 1899 by photographing the remains of the burned hotel, and then
building a model of it in his studio and burning it on film! These were
probably the first special effects to be put on film.
But Mister Blackton didn’t carry trick films to their
limit. It took a French magician named Georges Méliès to
do that. He found out that he could stop the camera, add or take away
something on screen, and restart the camera, and it would look like the
something had just magically appeared or disappeared. Méliès
also was one of the first to have several different scenes in his movies.
Before this, movies had usually had only one scene, with only one camera
set-up. He combined these two discoveries to fantastic effect in his best-known
picture, A Trip to the Moon, which was even shown over here!
Made in 1903, A Trip to the Moon showed a group of astronomers deciding
to go to the moon. They board a rocket ship, shoot up to the moon (landing
in the eye of the man in the moon!) and meet up with some moon creatures
that burst into smoke when they are hit by the astronomers. I tell you,
when we thought that pictures that moved were the most amazing thing we’d
ever see, we hadn’t seen nothing yet, to misquote from a recent
talking movie.
But realistic narrative fiction films, and also basic film
editing, are the legacy of Edwin S. Porter, who made motion pictures for
the Edison Company. Mister Porter, who had been an exhibitor, realized
that the single-scene films being produced weren’t going to keep
the people coming to see them forever. In fact, he was right. Motion pictures
entered its first commercial slump in the late 1890s. Mister Porter saw
narrative pictures, pictures that told a story, as the next logical step
to keep the audiences happy. So he made a picture about a fireman rescuing
a family from a burning building. But this wasn’t just a narrative
film: The Life of an American Fireman made two great leaps forward
in technique. It was the first movie that had different shots in the same
scene. I don’t know whether the movie producers simply hadn’t
thought of doing this yet, or if they didn’t think we would understand
it—but in this movie, there’s a shot of a fireman waking up
in the firehouse, then a close-up of a hand ringing the alarm, then a
shot of all the firemen getting out of their beds. It was all very logical
and natural, but it hadn’t been done before. I have to admit that
I had never thought of it before myself, but I can tell you that the audience
had no trouble figuring out what was going on—it was so obvious.
The rest of the movie was like that, too, with logical cuts easily linked
by the viewer’s mind.
Another thing of interest about The Life of an American
Fireman was that Mister Porter, I read later, had interspersed old
newsreel shots of firemen running down the street in a long shot in with
his new shots of his actors. We in the theatre couldn’t begin to
guess that they weren’t the same firemen. Mister Porter had figured
out that if we were told what we were seeing, we wouldn’t question
it—much as had Mister Blackton with his Spanish-American War movies.
Here’s where Mister Porter’s much-touted film
The Great Train Robbery comes in. No, it wasn’t the first
narrative film (The Sprayer Sprayed), or the first edited film
(The Life of an American Fireman). What it was, was the first
film to use what they call a “cross-cut.” This means, cutting
from one thing that is happening to something else that is happening at
the same time. Before, every film, even Mister Porter’s, had happened
in sequential order. The Great Train Robbery cut back and forth
between the robbers and their capturers. After we saw the robbers knock
out the train operator and rob the train, we had to know how the robbers
would be caught—the necessary end, of course. Mister Porter cut
back to the train operator being found and his sounding the general alarm.
He also used a little bit of cross-cutting between the escaping robbers
and the pursuing posse, but not to the extent and impact that D.W. Griffith
would later.
Speaking of Mister Griffith, he started in on films around
1908, I believe. He made many one-reelers (about 15 minutes long, the
normal length then) for the Biograph Company, and built on many of Mister
Porter’s findings. Mister Griffith soon became one of the only directors
that we knew by name. His pictures always seemed a cut above the rest,
and that was because they were: Although Mister Porter had invented modern
film editing, Mister Griffith perfected it.
Mister Griffith used the cross-cut to build suspense and
tension during chase scenes. Almost all of his pictures included a climactic
rescue. I remember one of his early films called The Lonely Villa,
in which a family is in danger from intruders to the house, and the father
is away. Mister Griffith cut back and forth between the family, forced
further and further into the house by the incoming intruders, and the
father rushing to the rescue. Each shot was shorter and shorter, building
the tension brilliantly.
Mister Griffith practically invented the shot, from the
camera’s point of view, using long, medium, and close-up shots in
a certain sequence to produce a certain reaction. He also realized the
power of the pan shot and the traveling shot—no one had substantially
moved the camera around within a shot before.
Perhaps most importantly, Mister Griffith made his movies
Say Something. He didn’t want to just entertain, he also wanted
to uplift and moralize. You could call his movies the first Message Pictures.
He used his cross-cutting in A Corner in Wheat in 1909 to draw
a parallel between the starving poor who wait in vain at a soup kitchen
and the vulgar rich who disdain the feast laid out for them. He would
go on to make the first great moral dramas on screen.
Mister Griffith reached his personal climax in 1915 with
Birth of a Nation. Now, that was a movie! They don’t make
them like that anymore. It was the longest movie that had ever been made—12
reels when released! That’s more than two hours! Now by this time,
there were many movies that were at least three or four reels long, but
Birth of a Nation tripled that. Yet despite the belief held by
many movie executives that fifteen minutes was as long as an audience
could sit still, the picture was the most successful ever made—and
still is, in fact.
Birth of a Nation was controversial in 1915, and
is controversial now in 1932. I expect it will be controversial for many
years to come. The hero of it is the founder of the Ku Klux Klan, a vigilante
group which sprang up during the Reconstruction of the South after the
Civil War. Mister Griffith’s view, as near as I could tell, was
that the “darkies” should’ve known their place, which
was not equal with whites—he glorified the servants who stayed to
help their masters after the war, and criticized those who strove for
equality. All I knew was that the battle scenes were amazing, of epic
scale, and yet Mister Griffith never lost sight of each individual character.
Despite his simplistic and often misguided moral views,
Mister David Wark Griffith was the greatest filmmaker the silent screen
ever knew. Probably the greatest that the cinema will ever know. His contributions
to filmmaking have made him, and I say deservedly, the Father of Modern
Filmmaking.
Well, I guess that’s all the time I have. Thanks
for giving me the chance to share some of the things I saw and read about
from the very first days of motion pictures. I watched the movies with
great awe from the first days of the Kinetoscope Parlors, and I intend
to keep watching them for a good many more years. I hope motion picture
producers can make these new-fangled sound pictures into something worth
watching. Interestingly enough, when sound came in, oh, about five years
ago, the movies went dead back to where they were in 1900 artistically.
The cameras don’t move (I guess it would mess up the sound equipment),
the acting hasn’t adapted to the new medium, and movies have again
become stage-bound. Oh, well. In 1900 people didn’t think movies
would amount to much either. All we need is another brilliant filmmaker
to teach the camera how to move again.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Mast, Gerald & Kwan, Bruce F. A Short History of
the Movies. Boston, London, Toronto, Sydney, Tokyo and Singapore:
Allyn and Bacon, 2000
Koszarski, Richard. Hollywood Directors 1914-1940.
New York: Oxford University Press, 1976
Ebert, Roger. Roger Ebert’s Book of Film: From
Tolstoy to Tarantino, the finest writing from a century of film.
New York and London: W.W. Norton & Company, 1997
Edited by Kearney, Robin. Chronicle of the Cinema:
100 Years of the Movies. London, New York, Stuttgart and Moscow:
Dorling Kindersley, 1995
Hampton, Benjamin B. History of the American Film Industry
from its beginnings to 1931. New York: Dover Publications, Inc.,
1970
MacDonald, Dwight. On Movies. Englewood Cliffs,
N.J.: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1969
Landmarks of Early Film. DVD; Kino, 2000
Birth of a Nation. Video; Barr Entertainment,
1933 cut
This paper originated as a term paper for Introduction to Mass Media,
Missouri Baptist College, Spring, 2001.
©2001 by Jandy Stone
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