The Story of Film

INTRODUCTION

A story of greatness and sudden shifts

The measure of an artist’s originality, put in its simplest terms, is the extent to which his selective emphasis deviates from the conventional norm and establishes new standards of relevance. All great innovations which inaugurate a new era, movement or school, consist in sudden shifts of a previously neglected aspect of experience, some blacked out range of the existential spectrum. The decisive turning points in the history of every art form … uncover what has already been there; they are revolutionary that is destructive and constructive, they compel us to revalue our values and impose new sets of rules on the eternal game.

Arthur Koestler1

The industry is shit, it’s the medium that’s great.

Lauren Bacall2

This book tells the story of the art of cinema. It narrates the history of a medium which began as a photographic, largely silent, shadowy novelty and became a digital, multi-billion dollar global business.

Although the business elements of film are important, you will find few details in what follows of what films cost and how the industry organizes itself and markets its wares. I wanted to write a purer book than that, one more focused on the medium than the industry. As you read, therefore, you will come across works that you may not have seen and may never see. I make no apology for this because I do not want to tell a history of cinema that is distorted by the vagaries of the market place. There are mainstream films described in what follows, but mostly I have focused on what I consider to be the most innovative films from any country at any at any period.

This could be seen as elitist or self indulgent, but it isn’t. Film is one of the most accessible art forms so even its most obscure productions can be understood by an intelligent non-specialist, which I assume you are. When I first read books about Orson Welles and François Truffaut, long before I saw their films, I experienced a real sense of discovery. I do not go into great detail about individual movies in The Story of Film, but I hope that what follows conjures similar pictures in your head, and creates a desire to see some of what is discussed. In the era of streaming, of online cinematheques, and of Blu-ray and DVD, such desire is more satisfiable than ever.

You will almost certainly find that some of your favourite films are not featured in my story. Many of mine aren’t. I have probably watched Billy Wilder’s The Apartment (USA, 1960), more than any other film – the scene where Shirley MacLaine runs down the street at the end is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen – but have not included it in this book. This is because, despite its exquisite tonality, it was less innovative than other films made in America at that time. Its adroit blend of irony and sexual comedy derives from Wilder’s hero, the great director Ernst Lubitsch, for example. The movie’s depiction of office life uses visual ideas from King Vidor’s The Crowd (see here). And Wilder’s admiration for the way Charlie Chaplin’s films flicker between farce and rapture filters into his depiction of the characters. By focusing on the innovative rather than the merely beautiful, popular or commercially successful, I am trying to strip the world of movies down to its engine. Innovation drives art and I have tried in the chapters that follow to reveal key innovative moments in the history of world cinema. Without the mould breakers, the fresh thinkers, the radicals and mavericks in cinema – without Lubitsch, Vidor and Chaplin – there would be no Billy Wilder directing Shirley MacLaine running down that street.

To pick up on the quotations at the beginning of this introduction, this book is, then, about the greatness of the medium of film and the sudden shifts which it has undergone. Take Steven Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan (USA, 1998) which was hugely popular, selling eighty million tickets around the world and finding larger audiences still on television, DVD and many streaming sites. Yet such popularity does not mean that it deviated from the conventional norm, as Koestler envisaged, or that it rose above Bacall’s shitty industrial compromises. Instead, it warrants mention because of its shocking opening flashback sequence which showed what it was like to be a soldier landing on Omaha Beach (1) on one of the most important days of the Second World War. These events had been portrayed before in cinema but their impact here came from a shift in the language of film itself. Drills were mounted to cameras to give a juddering effect. The stock was exposed in new ways. The sound of bullets was more vividly recreated than ever before. Steven Spielberg sat at home or lay awake or drove through the desert, asking himself the question, how can I do this differently? The best filmmakers have always asked themselves this, on the set in the morning, at night when they can’t sleep, in the bar with their friends, or at film festivals. It is a crucial question for the art of cinema and this book describes how directors have answered it.

The best composers, actors, writers, designers, producers, editors and cinematographers ask it too but The Story of Film concentrates mostly on the central creative figure in filmmaking. This is not because directors should take credit for everything we see and hear on screen – many films are great because of their actors, writers, producers or editors – but because directors are the people who pull the creative bits together and who oversee that alchemy whereby the words of the screenplay come alive. The French term realisateur – realizer – describes this process well, and what follows is an account of how filmic ideas are realized.

Realizing is, I believe, the root of the medium’s greatness. The ability of a shot to be about both what it objectively photographs – what is in front of the camera – and about the subjectivity of its maker explains the alluring dualism at the heart of cinema. Music, being less representational than film, is purer and more evocative; novels can more adroitly describe mental processes; painting is more directly expressive; poetry, far less unwieldy. Yet none of these are made quite so ambivalently as cinema. The Italian filmmaker Pier Paolo Pasolini tried to describe this personal-realistic dualism in his term Free Indirect Subjectivity – discorso libero indiretto3 – and a phrase in French philosophy – fourth person singular4 – captures well the paradox of something which is personal but also objective and without consciousness.

The greatest directors – the ones described in this volume – are driven by this paradox, but the process by which, and the reasons why, they form ideas are diverse. Federico Fellini says that another man whom he doesn’t know makes his films, and that that man tunes into Fellini’s own dreams. David Lynch claims that ideas pop from the ether. Neither of these are precise ways of describing things, but, as an example I will mention in the conclusion of this book shows (the one about the gorilla, if you want to flick forward), nowhere is where some of the best ideas originate. The creativity of other filmmakers featured in the following chapters can be described in more conventional terms: Djibril Diop Mambéty from Senegal was angry at colonialism and inspired by French cinema; Kira Muratova’s luminous bleakness came from the strictures of the Soviet Union; Martin Scorsese’s rich Italian-American childhood fuelled his imagination; Bernardo Bertolucci drew from his poet father, from the composer Verdi, and from great literature and cinema; Agnès Varda’s work as a photographer and interest in the essay form made her one of the great visual writers of her time; Shohei Imamura in Japan was a kind of anarchist who hated the politeness of Japanese culture and movies; Billy Wilder in America did limbering-up writing exercises each morning by imagining more and more original ways in which a young couple could meet for the first time; Spielberg wanted to do things differently because of his imaginative drive, because audiences will pay for something new, because he is bored with the norms of filmmaking, perhaps, and because he can see beyond them, because of new technical possibilities and because he wanted curiosity to teach young filmgoers how brave their grandfathers were.

2

How directors learn from each other: Carol Reed has a visual idea

Jean-Luc Godard adapts it

Martin Scorsese modifies it still further.

Whatever their ways of dreaming up ideas, filmmakers seldom do so in isolation. They watch each other’s work and learn how to tackle scenes from what has gone before, and from their collaborators, as the images on this page show (2). The first is from the 1946 British movie Odd Man Out. A character is undergoing a crisis and sees moments from his recent experiences reflected in the bubbles of a spilled drink. Director Carol Reed and his team asked how they could portray such a crisis in an imaginative new way and came up with this solution. The second image, made twenty years later, comes from the French film Deux au trois choses que je sais d’elle/Two of Three Things I know About Her (1967). Again a close-up of bubbles in a drink represents the point of view of the main character of the film, played by actress Marina Vlady. The film’s director, Jean-Luc Godard, knew and admired Carol Reed’s work, so it is likely that he was thinking of Odd Man Out when he filmed his version, though cinema had changed since Reed’s day and Godard’s use of the image is more intellectual than his predecessor’s. Now consider the third image, from Martin Scorsese’s American film Taxi Driver (1976). Again, a cup full of bubbles, again seen from the point of view of the main character. Scorsese knew Godard’s film, saw how well the image worked and adapted it for his own purpose, to express his character’s subjectivity and psychosis. This is cinematic influence, the passing of stylistic ideas from one filmmaker to the next.

The process is more complex than this simple example suggests. Thinkers and art historians have long discussed it. The American critic Harold Bloom wrote a book in 1973, The Anxiety of Influence, which touched on the negative feelings artists can have about their forebears. The German philosopher Georg Hegel argued that art is a kind of language, a dialogue between the artwork and its audience. Later, Heinrich Wofflin extended Hegel’s thoughts to argue that the language of art is the result of the ideas and technologies of its time. John Ruskin shifted focus by saying that art has a moral obligation to society. In Against Interpretation and Other Essays (1966) Susan Sontag took a counter position, arguing that society is read too much into art and that, form – the physicality of cinema and the bodies it predicts – is its essence. More recently, scientist Richard Dawkins in his famous book The Selfish Gene changed the terms of the debate again, comparing art neither to a language which evolves through one artist influencing another nor to a moral system, but to genetics. Just as biological units are genes, so the units of art and culture are memes, wrote Dawkins. Just as genes replicate and evolve, so do memes. Carol Reed’s close-up of bubbles in a drink is a meme which replicated and evolved through Godard and Scorsese. Occasionally memes take off, as when everyone is suddenly singing a catchy pop song, or when many of the films made in the mid 1990s in the West seemed to be versions of American director Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs (1991) or Pulp Fiction (1993).

It is helpful to imagine cinema evolving as a language or replicating like genes because doing so illustrates that film has a grammar and that in some ways it grows and mutates. However, there are problems in applying the ideas of Hegel, Wofflin, Ruskin, Dawkins and others to the study of film. The first is that they seem to imply that art – and therefore cinema – is always advancing, getting more complex, building on the past. Good film historians know that this isn’t true, and one of the arguments in this book will be that the frontal technical thrill of pre-industrial cinema, described in Chapter One, resurfaced in later years. It did not die out in favour of more complex filmic mutations.

The second reservation is more pragmatic. Film can be many things and shouldn’t be reduced to an essence, whether that is moral – as Ruskin argued about painting – or linguistic – as Hegel argued about art in general. There were epochs when cinema did indeed reflect the great moral issues of its day, such as in Europe after the Second World War, but France in the 1920s film’s technical and formal qualities were to the fore; in Japan in the 1930s, spatial concerns were central to some directors; and in the works of the Ukrainian Larisa Shepitko and the Russians Andrei Tarkovsky and Alexander Sokurov, the spiritual and religious aspects were what counted. These differences are not a matter of content – what was in front of the lens or what the story is about – but of what film actually is and what role it playsin human life.

3

The Story of Film is not about businessmen or audiences, but about directors such as Malian Souleymane Cissé,

A more useful model for understanding the nature of filmic influence can be found in the work of E.H. Gombrich, who wrote in his introduction to The Story of Art, There is no such thing as Art, there are only artists. This single volume account of the history of painting, architecture and sculpture asked the questions: What techniques were available to the artists of any period? How did they use and expand those techniques? How did art evolve as a result? This volume asks: What would happen if we did the same for movies? What if we consider that there is no such thing as Film, there are only filmmakers? Who are Griffith, Dovzhenko, Keaton, Dulac, Ozu, Riefenstahl, Ford, Toland, Welles, Bergman, Truffaut, Ouedraogo, Cissé, Honkasalo, Enyedi, Chahine, Imamura, Fassbinder, Akerman, Scorsese, Almodóvar, Makhmalbaf, Spielberg, Tarr and Sokurov? What techniques did they have available to them? How did they use and expand those techniques? How did they change the medium of film?

Gombrich’s argument was that artistic influenceis a matter of schema plus correction, but I would prefer the word variation. His point is that for an artform to evolve original images can’t always be copied slavishly. They should be adjusted according to new technical possibilities, changing storytelling fashions, political ideas, emotional trends, etc. This is what I will have in mind when I trace the lines of influence throughout this book. If film A is very original, if it successfully varies the schema a great deal (as, say, David Lynch’s Blue Velvet did in 1986), then films B, C, D and E will show the mark of that influence. I will write about A and mention the others. If, however, film D takes A’s ideas and twists them again in yet another direction, influencing F, G, H and I, then I will write about A and D.

the Japanese director Yasujiro Ozu

Some conventional historians will object that the model of schema plus variation is of limited use to the understanding of the art form of film which – unlike painting – is so driven by technological change. Why look at how directors have copied and varied each other’s shots and visual ideas when the means of achieving such ideas have regularly been upgraded through the introduction of sound, widescreen, new film stock, camera craning methods and digitization? This is simply wrong. Look at Scorsese using schema from the 1900s in the 1990s (see here) or Von Trier in the same decade looking back to Dreyer in the 1920s and 1940s, or the resemblance between the washing line staging in CinemaScope of the 1950s and tableau films of the 1910s. Yes, technology has been a key element in the changing creative possibilities available to filmmakers, but deep down the questions of staging, point of view, pace, suspense, time and psychology faced by filmmakers as they walk onto the set in the morning have remained remarkably consistent. That’s why schema plus variation works. It is for this reason that some of the most distinguished film scholars have suggested that it should be applied to film history5.

and the French impressionist Germaine Dulac. Through their achievements, the history of the medium will be told.

Some circumstances are not covered by the Gombrich model, however. This book is about the films which were influential, but will also describe films which should have been influential. Famous works like Citizen Kane (1941) from America, The Seven Samurai (1954) from Japan, Mother India (1957) from India and Battleship Potemkin (1925) from the former Soviet Union fall into the former category. They were schema which other filmmakers varied. This can be proved. What, though, of the great, original films which seem not to have had an impact on successive filmmakers, because they were made in Africa, or poorly distributed, or flopped at the box office, or were directed by a woman, or were misunderstood or banned? Djibril Diop Mambéty’s Senegalese film Touki Bouki (1973) was the most innovative African movie of its time, but not widely distributed, even within its own continent. Dorota Kedzierzawska’s Polish film Wrony/Crows (1995) is one of the most beautiful films about childhood, but was hardly seen. Kira Muratova made Dolgie provody/Long Goodbye (USSR), about a divorcée and her son, in 1971, but her brilliant and original work was not released in the Soviet Union until 1986. Are these films to be ignored because they failed to have impact? No. All good stories have ironies and these films add bitterness to our tale.

4

This is the story of how directors have influenced each other. For example, Mehboob’s Mother India was seen far beyond the borders of the country in which it was made. 1957.

One should be cautious, too, about applying an individualistic notion of artistic creativity to places where it does not pertain. A Hindu director doesn’t have the same conception of her or himself as an individual as Scorsese does. There isn’t the same drive to articulate a distinctive point of view, so the factors which applied to Spielberg, might not do so in South Asia. Also, Indian storytelling is more free-form than that in Western countries, and isn’t so confined by space and time. Likewise, in African storytelling, the idea that an artist is an originator or a varier, is not strong. To vary is to wreck. A great storyteller builds and transmits. Nor was artistic originality an important motive in Japan, at least during the first half of the twentieth century. As in much of Africa, a great Japanese artist was one who subtly reworked tradition, recasting it in a new light.

Despite these qualifications, the intention has been to write an accessible, low-jargon movie history for general readers and those who are beginning to study film, the sort of book that I wanted to read when I was sixteen. Many of us now feel overwhelmed by the thousands of films to watch on streaming sites and disc and the increasing numbers released each year in cinemas. I hope this book is a kind of handrail to steady you as you explore such Aladdin’s caves. As the title suggests, it is a narrative account, not a dictionary or encyclopaedia. Film theorists are suspicious of such attempts to see the history of the movies in story terms, as if doing so is trying to shoe-horn it into a formula. This is to underestimate narrative, which can be as fluid, multi-layered and responsive to subject as a writer wants it to be. So The Story of Film intends to open a door to the world of cinema and describe a reliable path through it. If successful, the reader will advance to more detailed or learned volumes, such as Thompson and Bordwell’s or Robert Sklar’s.

In these writers’ books they will find directors absent here: Catherine Breillat, Jonathan Demme, Abel Ferrara, Amos Gitai, Marcel L’Herbier, Neil Jordan, Ermanno Olmi, Bob Rafelson, Jacques Rivette, Eric Rohmer, George A. Romero, Hans Jurgen Syberberg, Maria Schrader and others. Each has produced significant work but in a manuscript of this length, I could not find space for them. Many will dispute my emphases, suggesting perhaps that France’s Rohmer deserves space over Ethiopia’s Haile Gerima. It is crucial, however, to record East Africa’s contribution to film ideas, and France, overall, gets its dues.

This raises two questions: How revisionist is The Story of Film and what new points does it make? Revisionism for its own sake is not interesting – and presumptuous when it challenges primary research – so that has not been the impulse. However, it has been necessary to make several adjustments to received opinion:

Firstly – as the Ethiopian example has just demonstrated – this book is unashamedly about world, not Western, cinema. Not in the spirit of tokenism, but to acknowledge that the Egyptian films of Youssef Chahine, for example, are unique because they engage with national and religious ideas, which have not been concerns of Western directors. Non-Western cinema is undervalued in film books, festivals, retrospectives, TV programmes, magazine polls, entertainment journalism and the like – a situation that damages the medium.

The second adjustment, in Chapter Three, is that the standard approach of mainstream Hollywood is essentially romantic rather than classical. Again and again in film books the phrase classic American cinema or the classic period of American filmmaking is used, as if classical means popular heyday or lucrative golden age, which it emphatically does not. Classicism in art describes a period when form and content are in harmony, when there is balance between the style of a work and the emotions or ideas it is trying to express. American films are mostly given to excess rather than balance – their characters are emotional, their stories express yearning – so the lengthy but more precise phrase closed romantic realism is used to describe normative film style. This is new and the implications are considerable. In Chapter Four I propose that the films of Japanese master director Yasujiro Ozu are the true works of filmic classicism. This will cause some raised eyebrows, but my model is, I believe, more valuable than the previous one, which used the word classical incorrectly.

Thirdly it is proposed that far from being a fallow time for cinema, filmmaking from the 1990s has undergone an unparalleled revival.

The structure of what follows is chronological and divided into three main epochs, Silent (1895–1928), Sound (1928–1990) and Digital (1990–present). Whilst there have been many changes in the course of film history, those in 1928 and 1990 had the greatest impact. Within these epochs, chapters deal with various trends. American cinema will be discussed in all eleven chapters in this book, because it has been active almost from the start. Native African cinema, by contrast, did not begin until the late 1950s, so will not become part of the story until then. If the work of a certain country or continent is not mentioned in a chapter, it is not being overlooked: either it was producing no films during the period covered or those that were being made were merely formulaic.

My Silent section looks at the thrill of early cinema, then how that thrill became narrative in the West and finally how movie factories dominated filmmaking after the First World War. Japanese film took another route through these years and this fundamental split is described. In the Sound epoch we look at the blossoming of Eastern cinema, Hollywood Romantic cinema, then the spread of realism. Two pairs of chapters follow: the first cover the great films of the East and the swelling and explosion of 1950s and 1960s cinema in the West. The second pair deals with the massive divergences in world film in the 1970s and 1980s. The last epoch, Digital, takes us up to the present day.

Finally, a confession: I have rewatched almost every film mentioned in this book. In some cases, however, that has not been possible. In these instances, I’m relying on memories of previous viewings. In addition, there are about forty films mentioned which I have never seen. Either prints of them no longer exist or I have been unable to track them down. They are included because filmmakers or historians have made a case for their importance.

***************

The year is 1888. We are standing on a bridge in an industrial city in … not France or America, where the first public screenings of projected films took place, but in England. The city is Leeds. A man is filming there … his footage still exists. It was only ever shown in machines into which a single viewer looked, but predates the generally accepted birth of the movies in Paris in 1895 by seven years. To the right is what he shot:

***************

5

A vivid example of pre-cinema: Leeds Bridge by Louis Le Prince. UK, 1888.

Finally, a note on change. When I wrote the first edition of this book seventeen years ago, I had to pay $75, plus shipping, for a videotape of an Ethiopian film called Harvest: 3000 Years to be sent to me from America. It took two weeks to arrive, and my anticipation built. When I eventually watched it, I could see that it was a masterwork, and part of The Story of Film.

Today it’s on YouTube, in all its glory. Just seventeen years ago, film history was elusive, a detective story and pricey. Now it’s a click away. We don’t need to defer our gratification for great for film as we used to.

This doesn’t, however, mean that the search for cinema is over, or that film history has been recovered, or is waiting patiently for our attention. It’s still difficult to see many of the great movies from India, for example. Despite the country’s valuable Film Heritage Foundation, established in 2014, and the attention of The Film Foundation, founded by Martin Scorsese in 1990, too many of the treasures of Indian cinema are un-restored, un-subtitled or unavailable because of copyright tangles. The same goes for films in many other countries.

And the search isn’t only about whether we can buy a good DVD or stream a film that we’ve heard of. It’s about what we haven’t heard of. For example, in the last twenty years, when I’ve visited a country, I’ve asked its film experts or archivists a simple question: who are your great women directors? In Albania they told me about Xanfise Keko; the director of the Bulgarian film archive kindly sent me copies of the great movies of Binka Zhelyazkova; when I was doing a season of Romanian films, I asked the same question and was told about Malvina Ursianu. The work of each has extended my love of movies. In the first edition of this book, which I wrote in my thirties, I discussed lots of women filmmakers, but in this twenty-first-century update, you’ll find more. Film history continues to reveal its secrets. There will always be more secrets, which is why I feel like a constant apprentice, always learning.

This is the case despite the fact that I have more privileged access to the film world and movie history than when I wrote this book. Back then, I’d directed a lot of TV, and was lucky enough to have met many of great actors and directors. But since then I have become closer to the contours of film. I’ve travelled the world, my camera on my back, making a film version of this book, which is called The Story of Film: An Odyssey. I’ve visited the Bengali village where Pather Panchali was shot, and the New York locations of Taxi Driver; I’ve interviewed Stanley Donen, who co-directed Singin’ in the Rain, and Kyoko Kagawa who acted in some of the best Japanese films ever made, including Yasujiro Ozu’s Tokyo Story. As I write this, I’m on a flight to Belarus to show one of my films and talk to film students.

The process of adapting the book for the screen was much bigger than writing it – more crew, more technology, more costs – but also more intimate, in that as we edit, say, a sequence on Harvest: 3000 Years or The Dark Knight, the films feel really close. They’re right in front of me. I can see every pan, every cut. I’ve made a dozen films for the big screen now, and have learnt more about how shots and cuts work, how its anarchic, androgynous rectangle scales things up. This, if anything, has given me even more respect for the alchemy of filmmaking and the filmmakers on whose shoulders I stand.

As movies lovers we speak a global, borderless language, the language of film. At a time when borders and barriers between countries are in the news and loom large in political imaginations, our love of cinema without borders is quietly radical. If we’re Indian and watch a French film, or queer and watch a straight film, or young and watch a movie about old people, or rich and watch a film about poor people, we’re encountering some things outside our immediate experience, but what we’re seeing is also our world, because it’s spoken in our language, the language of the film. Film is an Esperanto of space-time, a language of dreamers, outsiders, idealists, criers and shy people. Such people will exist in a thousand years, and so, in some form, will the pleasures of cinema.

1. Koestler, Arthur, The Act of Creation, London: Hutchinson, 1969

2. Bacall, Lauren, Scene by Scene, BBC Television, 2000. Interview with the author.

3. Pasolini, Pier Paolo, Heretical Empiricism, Bloomington: IUP, 1988. Translated by Ben Lawton and Louise Barnett. It is Naomi Green in Pier Paolo Pasolini: Cinema as Heresy, Princeton: PUP, 1993 who provides this less literal but more precise translation of Pasolini’s phrase.

4. Deleuze, Gilles, The Logic of Sense, London: Athlone, 1990. Translated by Mark Lester and Charles Stivale.

5. For example, Bordwell, David, A Case for Cognitivism, Iris Vol 9, Spring 1989, pp11–40.

SILENT late 1880s–1928

The short film, Leeds Bridge (UK, 1888), was photographed by Louis Le Prince, a pioneering Frenchman in England. A horse-drawn tram moves slowly; we can just see two men, bottom right of the frame, looking down into the river (5). The first thing we notice is that it is silent. The majority of the films made in the first four decades had no recorded soundtrack. Why was this? The technology to record people talking was available, but the thrill of moving images excited the inventors and their audiences so much, that no-one said, But these wonders are mute. As a result, The kingdom of Shadowswas more mysterious, fable-like and not of this earth. There were also practical implications. Absence of language barriers ensured that the birth of cinema was truly international and the films of the first decade were shown all over the world.

6

Although silent, the first films had huge impact: Battleship Potemkin. Soviet Union, 1925.

1

TECHNICAL THRILL (1895–1903):

The sensations of the first movies

What was the world like in the late nineteenth century, just before the movies began? It was very different from today. The USA was still expanding. The Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian Empires still existed. European empires governed three-quarters of the globe, with India as Britain’s most important colony. The state of Israel did not exist, nor had Iraq gained independence. The creation of the Soviet Union was thirty years ahead.

The industrial revolution had transformed the way of life for Western city dwellers. Urban populations clustered together, yet people became more detached from what they consumed. Life became more kinetic. The steam train made travel faster. Roller coasters, to which the cinema experience would be compared in the late twentieth century, had been around since 1884. Automobiles had just been invented and would evolve with cinema in fascinating tandem. While there was more visual stimulation in the West, its culture or human perception had not changed fundamentally, despite arguments to the latter. Photography had existed since 1827. People had painted for 150 centuries and would continue to do so. Scribes, poets and authors had written for at least fifty centuries.

Then, between them, a few French, British and American men took the lead in inventing what the Russian writer Leo Tolstoy called pointedly the clicking machine … like a human hurricane. This was a black box through which a ribbon moves, recording what it saw. Later, light was shone through this ribbon and the action was projected and repeated on a distant white wall, as if no time had passed. This repetition was possible because of a persistence of vision, via which the human brain perceives as continual motion a series of consecutive, rapidly projected, still images. The invention of this Western marvel was complicated, a kind of shambolic race. The runners were men with unfamiliar names: Thomas Edison, George Eastman, W.K.L. Dickson, Louis Le Prince, Louis and Auguste Lumière, R.W. Paul, Georges Méliès, Francis Doublier, G.A. Smith, William Friese Greene and Thomas Ince. As one edged forward, another took over and then a third sprinted past with a new invention. They worked in the sprawling state of New Jersey across the Hudson from Manhattan; in Lyon in southern France; in sunny La Ciotat on the Mediterranean; and in Brighton and Leeds in England. These locations were, on the whole, not flashy urban capitals, but working-class places.

7

Stills of Fred Ott’s First Sneeze – a peep-show Kinetoscope film, not yet projectable, shot by W.K.L. Dickson in Thomas Edison’s Black Maria (8).

8

Edison’s Black Maria, the world’s first studio designed to shootmoving images, which revolved to follow the light of the sun.

Not one of these men solely invented cinema and there is no clear start date for its birth. In 1884, New York manufacturer George Eastman invented film on a roll rather than on individual slides. In the same decade, New Jersey inventor Thomas Edison, son of a timber merchant, and his assistant W.K.L. Dickson, discovered a way of spinning a series of still images in a box which gave the illusion of movement and invented the Kinetoscope.1

By the late 1880s, in England, Louis Le Prince had patented a machine the size of a small refrigerator and filmed on Leeds Bridge and elsewhere. George Eastman came back into the race with a new idea: holes along the edge of the film roll that allowed it to be clawed accurately through the camera. The central problem tackled by these engineers, inventors and industrialists was that a strip of film could not run continuously past an open lens in the camera. It had to stop, expose for a fraction of a second, then advance and repeat this staccato action: grab – expose – advance; grab – expose – advance. The Lumière brothers, who came from a family of photographers, noticed that sewing machines worked in a similar way and adapted the technology. They made the box smaller than Le Prince’s huge camera, and reworked it, so that their Cinématographe could record and project images. A further problem was how to ensure that the whizzing jerkiness didn’t snap the film. The simple solution was devised by the pioneering family of Woodville, Otway and Gray Latham in their otherwise unsuccessful Eidoloscope projector: a slack loop of film would be loaded into the camera and projector, allowing the film to act like a piece of elastic as it accelerated and stopped continuously without breaking. These details show that the invention of film wasn’t a one-man effort. When it became clear that film was going to be a worldwide money-making phenomenon, many of these early pioneers tried to claim copyright for their contribution to the process. The rights battles were nasty and every bit of the process – even the sprocket holes and the loop – had legal claims made about them.

Of all the earliest films, it was those of the Lumière brothers which were the most widely seen. On 28 December 1895, a date many film historians consider the birth of cinema, they showed a short programme of their documentary films (and the fictional one L’Arrosseur arrossé), to a paying audience in a room on the Boulevard des Capucines in Paris. These included a now famous single shot film called L’Arrivée d’un train en gare de la Ciotat/The Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat Station/ (France) (9). The camera was placed near the track so the train gradually increased in size as it pulled in, until it seemed it would crash through the screen into the room itself. Audiences ducked, screamed or got up to leave. They were thrilled, as if on a rollercoaster ride.

The Lumière brothers dispatched films and projectionists to every continent with such speed that within one to two years audiences in most countries had seen the famous train in La Ciotat. Audiences in Italy (Turin) did so in 1896, as did those in Russia (St. Petersburg), Hungary (Budapest), Romania (Bucharest), Serbia (Belgrade), Denmark (Copenhagen), Canada (Montreal), India (Bombay), Czechoslovakia (Karlovy Vary), Uruguay (Montevideo), Argentina (Buenos Aries), Mexico (Mexico City), Chile (Santiago), Guatemala (Guatemala City), Cuba (Havana), Japan (Osaka), Bulgaria (Russe), Thailand (Bangkok), and the Philippines (Manila). I repeat, these were all in 1896 and all Lumière films. British films were shown in 1896 in the USA and Germany alongside home-produced American and German films. By 1900 the Lumière films had reached audiences in Senegal (Dakar) and Iran, including the Shah in his mirrored Qajar Palace. Films were considered a courtly novelty, a strutting peacock, rather than something for the masses.

9

The Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat Station (France, 1895) – a single-shot documentary that demonstrated the dramatic possibilities of screen composition.

A seventeen-year-old Lumière factory employee, Francis Doublier was charged with taking films to Russia. Louis Lumière gave him a camera, but with stern instructions, to let neither kings nor beautiful women examine its mechanism.2 Young Doublier presented the new Lumière films in Munich and Berlin, then travelled to Warsaw, St Petersburg and Moscow. On 18 May 1896, half a million Russians gathered just outside Moscow to see the newly crowned Tsar Nicholas II. The crowd got restive after waiting for some hours and stampeded when the rumour spread that the free beer being dispensed was about to run out. Doublier hand-cranked the camera, later saying, We used up three [rolls] on the shrieking, milling, dying mass around the Tsar’s canopy.3 Five thousand were rumoured to have died, but the Tsar later danced all night at the French Ambassador’s ball.

The following month, Doublier and his colleagues showed Lumière footage in Moscow, but the tragic coronation film had been confiscated by the Russian authorities; censorship had begun. The train arrived at La Ciotat as it had done around the world and audiences were amazed. Writer Maxim Gorky was there. He called what he had seen The kingdom of shadows.4

10

In his film The Kiss, G.A. Smith filmed from the front of a moving train, an effect that became known as a phantom ride.

English engineer Robert William Paul was a key figure in the formative years of cinema. He started making Edison and Lumière-style cameras in the mid-1890s. He sold the cameras rather than leasing them, which meant that British filmmakers felt freer to use the equipment. This may explain why the so-called Brighton School of early filmmakers was more innovative than their colleagues in France or America. The leading figure in the School was a portrait photographer called George Albert Smith, perhaps the most pioneering filmmaker of the earliest years. Mr Smith, as he became known, built his own camera whilst Doublier was heading eastwards. In The Corsican Brothers (UK, 1898), Smith draped part of his set in black velvet, filmed a shot, rewound the film and then re-exposed the film to include the image of a ghost, which appeared to float through the original set.5

11

How filmmakers like Smith achieved their phantom rides: cinematographer Billy Bitzer and this tripod-mounted camera on the front of a steam locomotive.

Smith was among the first to film action and then project it in reverse. In 1898, he shot what has since been called a phantom ride (10). This was a new visual experience for the audience achieved by putting the camera on the front of a moving train (11), as if it was a ghostly eye speeding through the air. In 1899 he combined this with a shot of a couple in a set modelled as a railway carriage. As they kissed the train went through a tunnel. Films with more than one shot started to emerge only in the late 1890s, and Smith’s combination of interior and travelling shot was one of cinema’s first attempts to say Meanwhile.

12

Alice Guy-Blaché (second from left), who directed 700 short films and established one of the first movie studios, Solax.

The phantom ride was more technically thrilling than the train arriving at La Ciotat. Imagery had never achieved this before, but it would become one of cinema’s most effective ways of putting the audience in the place of a traveller. Its most commercial use to date has been in the king of the world sequence on the ship’s bow in Titanic (USA, 1997) and its most profound use in the massive documentary, Shoah (France, 1985). In this account of the extermination of Jews in Nazi-occupied Europe the film’s director, Claude Lanzmann, sometimes puts the camera on the front of the train as he travels along the same lines as the murdered Jews. The ghost on the train becomes all the dead of Treblinka and of the other concentration camps.

13

Guy-Blaché’s contemporary Georges Méliès combined painted theatrical imagery and trick effects to explore the magical and stylized possibilities of cinema. This style is dated 1897.

At the same time that R.W. Paul, G.A. Smith and others such as Cecil Hepworth and James A. Williamson were testing the creative boundaries of film in England, their near-contemporaries in France were Georges Méliès and the remarkable, still undervalued Alice Guy-Blaché (12).6 Guy-Blaché started as a secretary to Léon Gaumont and directed perhaps the first ever scripted film, The Cabbage Fairy/La Fée aux choux (France, 1896), a comic fantasy about babies born in cabbage patches. Her later film Madame a des envies/Madame’s Cravings (1907) is a jolly portrait of a pregnant woman. First we see her in everyday life, but when she suddenly wants to eat a child’s lollipop or drink a glass of absinthe, Guy-Blaché cuts away from the context, so that the woman is elsewhere (or nowhere) eating and drinking to her heart’s desire. Guy-Blaché experimented with sound, visual effects and even hand-painted directly onto film. Some of her subsequent films were biblical epics, like G.A. Smith, she enjoyed running film backwards to magical effect and she created one of the first film studios, Solax, in New York State, where she had emigrated in 1907. In total she is thought to have directed as many as 700 short films, including westerns and thrillers.7

Méliès’ role in early cinema has not been overlooked. He started his career in illusionistic theatre, but became excited by the new medium, having seen the first public Lumière screening in December 1895. While filming in Paris, his camera jammed and, a moment later, it started up again. When he viewed the printed result, he noticed that since no film was exposed during the jam, streetcars suddenly jumped forward and people disappeared. This discovery of another magical quality of film inspired him to make films like The Moon at One Metre/La Lune à une metre (France, 1896), in which we first see an observatory and then cut to a theatrical painting of the moon in close-up, as if we are looking through a telescope (13). Méliès was a great delver into cinema’s magic box, turning the realist films of Lumière into theatrical fantasies. Martin Scorsese’s film Hugo (2011), brought Méliès to wider attention.

14

Tally’s Phonograph Parlor, a typical early cinema in Los Angeles, whose shop front nestled between a milliner and a hosiery store. The hoarding reads See the great Corbett fight.

Through accident and imagination, innovation and trial-and-error – our earliest example of Gombrich’s schema plus variation – the potential of cinema was being discovered and pushed forward by risk-takers and inquisitive, visually talented people. On the East coast of America, the now forgotten Enoch J. Rector extended film into another area: commerce, as the photograph of Tally’s Phonograph Parlor (14) explains. Taken in Los Angeles in 1897, long before the city had become a centre for film production, it illustrates how cinema at this stage was a shop-front entertainment, vying with clothing stores on either side for the attention of passers-by. The hoarding on the front of Tally’s reads See The Great Corbett Fight.8 This boxing match was staged in Nevada, and filmed by Rector using a film format that would not become popular for nearly fifty years – widescreen. He invented a new camera for the process and named it a Veriscope. The film running through it was 63mm wide. Most other film of the time was 35mm.

15

One of the first widescreen films: The Corbett-Fitzsimmons Fight. Director: Enoch Rector. USA, 1897.

This was one of the first examples, of filmmakers changing the shape of their canvas, as it were, to capture the visual spectacle of an event. There was very little editing at this stage, so Rector could not show his boxing match from multiple angles, as Martin Scorsese would do in his Raging Bull (USA, 1980). What makes The Corbett-Fitzsimmons Fight (USA, 1897) so interesting is that is helps reveal the changing social standing of cinema in America at that time. A local newspaper, The Brooklyn Eye, commented on its sheer spectacle, The man who would have predicted … that an event of the prior month would be reproduced before the eyes of a multitude in pictures that moved like life, and that lightning would move them and light them, would have been avoided as a lunatic or hanged as a wizard.9 But film historian Terry Ramsaye’s comments are even more interesting: the film brought The odium of pugilism upon the screen … all across Puritan America. Until that picture appeared, the social status of the screen had been uncertain. It now became definitively lowbrow, an entertainment of the great unwashed commonality.10 French producers had identified the appeal of cinema to working-class audiences by this stage, but had also begun to make films for and market them to middle-class customers. One company, Film d’Art, would soon begin making high-brow theatre adaptations for the screen. In Scandinavia, Germany and India, film quickly took on literary and cultural ambitions. In the US, films like The Corbett-Fitzsimmons Fight (15) set off in a populist direction, which most follow to the present day. This perhaps explains the USA’s eventual world domination of commercial cinema and its continuing reluctance to see film as art.

The end of the nineteenth century was a heady time for cinema. It was settling into the lives of people just as Tally’s Phonographic Parlor nestled in between a milliner and a hosiery store. It was becoming a social ritual of the public, but also the schema – the visual imagination – of budding filmmakers. Whether at Tally’s or at the Shah’s extravagant palace in Tehran, where the light of the projector beam must have scattered around those jewelled rooms like a glitter ball – cinema still had everything ahead of it. Socially, technically, politically, artistically, philosophically, transcendentally, nothing about it was yet pinned down. However, the storytellers and the industrialists would change this soon enough. The First World War would redefine the world and have a lasting impact on filmmaking, with the USA becoming the dominant force. But for now, filmmakers were still playing. They had discovered shots – a piece of visually recorded action extended roughly in real time. Today, the strangeness of a shot is muted by our familiarity with it.

And then, stranger still, cuts were introduced. What we are looking at suddenly disappears and is replaced by something different. Méliès realized the magic of this and, by 1898, multi-shot – edited – films started to appear. The grammar, choreography, grace or poetry of cutting – what would or would not jar visually, giving meaning to this transition – was a little way ahead. The century would have to turn and another brainy, antsy character, Edwin S. Porter, would need to stumble through the possibilities of cutting and come out the other end with some rules or, rather, norms.

For now, though, the faltering steps and discoveries continued. In England, in 1899, R.W. Paul built the first of what would become the filmmaker’s most sensuous tool, the camera dolly. This is a platform on wheels, on which a camera is mounted, so that it can move smoothly. In 1913 the Italians made Cabiria, with dolly shots of such grace and frequency that they prompted the expression Cabiria movements, used to describe similar pieces of film in the US. The legendary American director David Wark Griffith bettered them in one of the most complex films of the silent period, Intolerance (USA, 1916). In 1924, Germany’s master director, F.W. Murnau would use a dolly shot to represent the flight of sound from a trumpet to the ear of a listener. Later still, in the expanding landscape of sound cinema, filmmakers like Max Ophüls, Stanley Donen, Orson Welles, Alfred Hitchcock, Kenji Mizoguchi, Guru Dutt, Andrei Tarkovsky, Larisa Shepitko, Miklós Jancsó, Bernardo Bertolucci, Agnès Varda, Chantal Akerman, Béla Tarr and Fred Kelemen would use dolly shots to express their story, political, spiritual and philosophical ideas. Their sensual conception of film will be considered later. Together they created what Western art historians would call a baroque approach to shot construction: something elaborate and complete in itself.

16

The earliest close-ups in film tended to be motivated by onscreen characters looking through keyholes or spectacles, such as this one in G.A. Smith’s Grandma’s Reading Glasses. UK, 1900.

The turn of the century ushered in more new things. Smith’s Let Me Dream Again (UK, 1900) used what was perhaps the first example of a focus pull – a shot where a photographer twists the barrel of the lens to make the image go from sharp to soft focus. In it, Smith pulled a shot of a man kissing a beautiful woman out of focus, cut to another soft image, then pulled it into focus to reveal the same man kissing what Smith considered to be his less attractive wife. A cheap joke, perhaps, but such techniques would be used from then onwards to indicate a dream state or heightened desire. In the same year, Smith was first with yet another cinematic innovation. W.K.L. Dickson had photographed Fred Ott sneezing in a head and shoulders shot (7), but one of the first true close-ups in cinema appeared in Smith’s Grandma’s Reading Glasses (UK, 1900) (16). We know of this film only from a catalogue listing which says that a grandson uses the lady’s glasses to see objects in enormously enlarged form. Would human beings have ever seen such huge images before? In Ancient Greece, Egypt and Persia there were vast sculptures, and Italian religious art of the Renaissance sometimes featured massive depictions of biblical figures, but it was not until the close-up was used, that such enlargement becomes frequent.

17

Only later did filmmakers use close-ups simply to show their audiences a dramatic incident in more detail, as in The Sick Kitten (1903), a remake of G.A. Smith’s The Little Doctor. In the wide shot (above) the facial expression of the kitten could not be seen.

Grandma’s Reading Glasses does not provide a pure example of a close-up. As with images taken through keyholes and telescopes in early cinema, using reading glasses to explain why an image is so big is only a tentative first step in the selective enlargement of film imagery. The first close-up not involving characters looking through things, whose sole function was to show the audience an element of the story in more detail, was in the work of Mr Smith once again. In 1901 he made The Little Doctor (UK), which is now lost but which was remade two years later as The Sick Kitten (UK, 1903). In this we first see a room, two children and a cat (17), the master shot. Smith cuts to a close-up of the kitten as it is given a spoonful of medicine. No-one is looking through a telescope yet Smith simply decided that it would be clearer and more enjoyable for the audience to see this action bigger and in more detail. Filmmakers at the time worried that cutting suddenly into a detail like this would jar an audience accustomed, in the theatre, to being at a constant distance from the action. Smith showed that this was not the case. Cinema was not theatre, the link between the two was broken, and the emphasis and intimacy of cinema was born. After this, many of international cinema’s most memorable images were close-ups: the participants in the drama of Battleship Potemkin (Soviet Union, 1925) (18), Maria Falconetti in The Passion of Joan of Arc (France, 1928), Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift in A Place in the Sun (USA, 1951), Nargis in Mother India (India, 1957), Liv Ullmann and Bibi Andersson in Persona (Sweden, 1966), the cowboys in Once Upon a Time in the West (Italy, 1969) (19) and the similar close-ups in the climax of Larisa Shepitko’s heartbreaking Voskhozhdeniye/The Ascent (1977). In each case, these contained close-up images of actors’ faces. They became giants in the foreground. Out of such imagery grew movie stars and the devotional, psychological aspect of cinema.

Soon movies began to feature at major international trade fairs, none more extravagant than the Paris Exhibition of 1900, which acted as cinema’s coming-out ball. On a massive 82x49-foot screen in front of a huge audience, the Lumière brothers showed colour films, which would not become popular for more than fifty years, and widescreen films shot on film 75mm wide, which was bigger than that those used for the American biblical epics of the 1950s. There were also sound films with recorded dialogue and a Cinéoramain which the audience sat on top of a circular projection box and watched film presented on a 330-foot 360° screen, comprising ten adjacent images. Its descendants are the 3D IMAX screens in many modern cities. However, in its original form, Cinéorama only ran twice; the ten projectors created too much heat and the audience sitting above them was scorched.

18

Some Soviet directors used close-ups in much more polemical ways: Battleship Potemkin. Director: Sergei Eisenstein. Soviet Union, 1925.

Shots, cuts, close-ups and camera-moves – these were the technical elements providing the thrill of early filmmaking. Sneezes, trains, trips to the moon, babies in cabbage patches, boxing matches, children and kittens represented sentiment, fantasy, spectacle and moralizing. Cinema was still dealing in moments, fragments of real and imagined existence. One of the most striking things about these early short films is the Hey, you out there in the audience component, when their characters stare straight into the camera, sometimes taking a bow. Filmmakers had not grasped that audiences could forget that they were watching a film as they were drawn into it. This component was dropped once films started to tell stories, and later on, the American comedies of Laurel and Hardy broke the rules of narrative film, when Oliver Hardy stared straight into the camera, disdaining his hopeless sidekick Stan Laurel (see here).

Despite being shot in Western locations like New Jersey, Leeds or Lyon, early movies were not yet made by a film industry. The medium was born non-narrative and non-industrial. It had more to do with action and novelty, it was more like a circus. However, in 1903, cinema started to abandon the thrills of the phantom ride. Direct address to the audience died out. Men like D.W. Griffith and Yevgeni Bauer came along. Movie stars were created. Italian and Russian filmmakers stole the thunder from the Americans, British and French. Film history started to get complicated. Chapters Two (1903–18) and Three (1918–28) respectively describe how story and industry came into the movies, but the films discussed in this, perhaps the most important chapter in the book, are thrilling, simple and inconsequential, as they have been, sporadically, ever since.

19

Close-ups have remained among the most powerful devices available to directors. Few used them more dramatically than Sergio Leone in Once Upon a Time in the West. Italy, 1969.

1. Edison’s preoccupation with the Kinetoscope led him to underestimate the appeal for audiences of watching projected images communally and, as a result, to fall behind in the race to perfect cinema. The arrival of the home DVD in 1997 looked to some, who admired its fine sound and