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diff --git a/15383.txt b/15383.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f99ec06 --- /dev/null +++ b/15383.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4511 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Photoplay, by Hugo Muensterberg + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Photoplay + A Psychological Study + +Author: Hugo Muensterberg + +Release Date: March 16, 2005 [EBook #15383] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PHOTOPLAY *** + + + + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Annika Feilbach and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +THE PHOTOPLAY + +A PSYCHOLOGICAL STUDY + + +BY + +HUGO MUeNSTERBERG + + + +D. APPLETON AND COMPANY +NEW YORK LONDON + 1916 + + + + +CONTENTS + + +INTRODUCTION + +CHAPTER PAGE + + 1. THE OUTER DEVELOPMENT OF THE MOVING PICTURES 3 + 2. THE INNER DEVELOPMENT OF THE MOVING PICTURES 21 + + +PART I. THE PSYCHOLOGY OF THE PHOTOPLAY + + 3. DEPTH AND MOVEMENT 44 + 4. ATTENTION 72 + 5. MEMORY AND IMAGINATION 92 + 6. EMOTIONS 112 + + +PART II. THE ESTHETICS OF THE PHOTOPLAY + + 7. THE PURPOSE OF ART 133 + 8. THE MEANS OF THE VARIOUS ARTS 155 + 9. THE MEANS OF THE PHOTOPLAY 170 +10. THE DEMANDS OF THE PHOTOPLAY 191 +11. THE FUNCTION OF THE PHOTOPLAY 215 + + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + + + +CHAPTER I + +THE OUTER DEVELOPMENT OF THE MOVING PICTURES + + +It is arbitrary to say where the development of the moving pictures +began and it is impossible to foresee where it will lead. What invention +marked the beginning? Was it the first device to introduce movement into +the pictures on a screen? Or did the development begin with the first +photographing of various phases of moving objects? Or did it start with +the first presentation of successive pictures at such a speed that the +impression of movement resulted? Or was the birthday of the new art when +the experimenters for the first time succeeded in projecting such +rapidly passing pictures on a wall? If we think of the moving pictures +as a source of entertainment and esthetic enjoyment, we may see the germ +in that camera obscura which allowed one glass slide to pass before +another and thus showed the railway train on one slide moving over the +bridge on the other glass plate. They were popular half a century ago. +On the other hand if the essential feature of the moving pictures is the +combination of various views into one connected impression, we must look +back to the days of the phenakistoscope which had scientific interest +only; it is more than eighty years since it was invented. In America, +which in most recent times has become the classical land of the moving +picture production, the history may be said to begin with the days of +the Chicago Exposition, 1893, when Edison exhibited his kinetoscope. The +visitor dropped his nickel into a slot, the little motor started, and +for half a minute he saw through the magnifying glass a girl dancing or +some street boys fighting. Less than a quarter of a century later twenty +thousand theaters for moving pictures are open daily in the United +States and the millions get for their nickel long hours of enjoyment. In +Edison's small box into which only one at a time could peep through the +hole, nothing but a few trite scenes were exhibited. In those twenty +thousand theaters which grew from it all human passions and emotions +find their stage, and whatever history reports or science demonstrates +or imagination invents comes to life on the screen of the picture +palace. + +Yet this development from Edison's half-minute show to the "Birth of a +Nation" did not proceed on American soil. That slot box, after all, had +little chance for popular success. The decisive step was taken when +pictures of the Edison type were for the first time thrown on a screen +and thus made visible to a large audience. That step was taken 1895 in +London. The moving picture theater certainly began in England. But there +was one source of the stream springing up in America, which long +preceded Edison: the photographic efforts of the Englishman Muybridge, +who made his experiments in California as early as 1872. His aim was to +have photographs of various phases of a continuous movement, for +instance of the different positions which a trotting horse is passing +through. His purpose was the analysis of the movement into its component +parts, not the synthesis of a moving picture from such parts. Yet it is +evident that this too was a necessary step which made the later +triumphs possible. + +If we combine the scientific and the artistic efforts of the new and the +old world, we may tell the history of the moving pictures by the +following dates and achievements. In the year 1825 a Doctor Roget +described in the "Philosophical Transactions" an interesting optical +illusion of movement, resulting, for instance, when a wheel is moving +along behind a fence of upright bars. The discussion was carried much +further when it was taken up a few years later by a master of the craft, +by Faraday. In the _Journal of the Royal Institute of Great Britain_ he +writes in 1831 "on a peculiar class of optical deceptions." He describes +there a large number of subtle experiments in which cogwheels of +different forms and sizes were revolving with different degrees of +rapidity and in different directions. The eye saw the cogs of the moving +rear wheel through the passing cogs of the front wheel. The result is +the appearance of movement effects which do not correspond to an +objective motion. The impression of backward movement can arise from +forward motions, quick movement from slow, complete rest from +combinations of movements. For the first time the impression of movement +was synthetically produced from different elements. For those who fancy +that the "new psychology" with its experimental analysis of +psychological experiences began only in the second half of the +nineteenth century or perhaps even with the foundation of the +psychological laboratories, it might be enlightening to study those +discussions of the early thirties. + +The next step leads us much further. In the fall of 1832 Stampfer in +Germany and Plateau in France, independent of each other, at the same +time designed a device by which pictures of objects in various phases of +movement give the impression of continued motion. Both secured the +effect by cutting fine slits in a black disk in the direction of the +radius. When the disk is revolved around its center, these slits pass +the eye of the observer. If he holds it before a mirror and on the rear +side of the disk pictures are drawn corresponding to the various slits, +the eye will see one picture after another in rapid succession at the +same place. If these little pictures give us the various stages of a +movement, for instance a wheel with its spokes in different positions, +the whole series of impressions will be combined into the perception of +a revolving wheel. Stampfer called them the stroboscopic disks, Plateau +the phenakistoscope. The smaller the slits, the sharper the pictures. +Uchatius in Vienna constructed an apparatus as early as 1853 to throw +these pictures of the stroboscopic disks on the wall. Horner followed +with the daedaleum, in which the disk was replaced by a hollow cylinder +which had the pictures on the inside and holes to watch them from +without while the cylinder was in rotation. From this was developed the +popular toy which as the zooetrope or bioscope became familiar +everywhere. It was a revolving black cylinder with vertical slits, on +the inside of which paper strips with pictures of moving objects in +successive phases were placed. The clowns sprang through the hoop and +repeated this whole movement with every new revolution of the cylinder. +In more complex instruments three sets of slits were arranged above one +another. One set corresponded exactly to the distances of the pictures +and the result was that the moving object appeared to remain on the +same spot. The second brought the slits nearer together; then the +pictures necessarily produced an effect as if the man were really moving +forward while he performed his tricks. In the third set the slits were +further distant from one another than the pictures, and the result was +that the picture moved backward. + +The scientific principle which controls the moving picture world of +today was established with these early devices. Isolated pictures +presented to the eye in rapid succession but separated by interruptions +are perceived not as single impressions of different positions, but as a +continuous movement. But the pictures of movements used so far were +drawn by the pen of the artist. Life showed to him everywhere continuous +movements; his imagination had to resolve them into various +instantaneous positions. He drew the horse race for the zooetrope, but +while the horses moved forward, nobody was able to say whether the +various pictures of their legs really corresponded to the stages of the +actual movements. Thus a true development of the stroboscopic effects +appeared dependent upon the fixation of the successive stages. This was +secured in the early seventies, but to make this progress possible the +whole wonderful unfolding of the photographer's art was needed, from the +early daguerreotype, which presupposed hours of exposure, to the +instantaneous photograph which fixes the picture of the outer world in a +small fraction of a second. We are not concerned here with this +technical advance, with the perfection of the sensitive surface of the +photographic plate. In 1872 the photographer's camera had reached a +stage at which it was possible to take snapshot pictures. But this alone +would not have allowed the photographing of a real movement with one +camera, as the plates could not have been exchanged quickly enough to +catch the various phases of a short motion. + +Here the work of Muybridge sets in. He had a black horse trot or gallop +or walk before a white wall, passing twenty-four cameras. On the path of +the horse were twenty-four threads which the horse broke one after +another and each one released the spring which opened the shutter of an +instrument. The movement of the horse was thus analyzed into twenty-four +pictures of successive phases; and for the first time the human eye saw +the actual positions of a horse's legs during the gallop or trot. It is +not surprising that these pictures of Muybridge interested the French +painters when he came to Paris, but fascinated still more the great +student of animal movements, the physiologist Marey. He had contributed +to science many an intricate apparatus for the registration of movement +processes. "Marey's tambour" is still the most useful instrument in +every physiological and psychological laboratory, whenever slight +delicate movements are to be recorded. The movement of a bird's wings +interested him especially, and at his suggestion Muybridge turned to the +study of the flight of birds. Flying pigeons were photographed in +different positions, each picture taken in a five-hundredth part of a +second. + +But Marey himself improved the method. He made use of an idea which the +astronomer Jannsen had applied to the photographing of astronomical +processes. Jannsen photographed, for instance, the transit of the planet +Venus across the sun in December, 1874, on a circular sensitized plate +which revolved in the camera. The plate moved forward a few degrees +every minute. There was room in this way to have eighteen pictures of +different phases of the transit on the marginal part of the one plate. +Marey constructed the apparatus for the revolving disk so that the +intervals instead of a full minute became only one-twelfth of a second. +On the one revolving disk twenty-five views of the bird in motion could +be taken. This brings us to the time of the early eighties. Marey +remained indefatigable in improving the means for quick successive +snapshots with the same camera. Human beings were photographed by him in +white clothes on a black background. When ten pictures were taken in a +second the subtlest motions in their jumping or running could be +disentangled. The leading aim was still decidedly a scientific +understanding of the motions, and the combination of the pictures into a +unified impression of movement was not the purpose. Least of all was +mere amusement intended. + +About that time Anschuetz in Germany followed the Muybridge suggestions +with much success and gave to this art of photographing the movement of +animals and men a new turn. He not only photographed the successive +stages, but printed them on a long strip which was laid around a +horizontal wheel. This wheel is in a dark box and the eye can see the +pictures on the paper strip only at the moment when the light of a +Geissler's tube flashes up. The wheel itself has such electric contacts +that the intervals between two flashes correspond to the time which is +necessary to move the wheel from one picture to the next. However +quickly the wheel may be revolved the lights follow one another with the +same rapidity with which the pictures replace one another. During the +movement when one picture moves away and another approaches the center +of vision all is dark. Hence the eye does not see the changes but gets +an impression as if the picture remained at the same spot, only moving. +The bird flaps its wings and the horse trots. It was really a perfect +kinetoscopic instrument. Yet its limitations were evident. No movements +could be presented but simple rhythmical ones, inasmuch as after one +revolution of the wheel the old pictures returned. The marching men +appeared very lifelike; yet they could not do anything but march on and +on, the circumference of the wheel not allowing more room than was +needed for about forty stages of the moving legs from the beginning to +the end of the step. + +If the picture of a motion was to go beyond these simplest rhythmical +movements, if persons in action were really to be shown, it would be +necessary to have a much larger number of pictures in instantaneous +illumination. The wheel principle would have to be given up and a long +strip with pictures would be needed. That presupposed a correspondingly +long set of exposures and this demand could not be realized as long as +the pictures were taken on glass plates. But in that period experiments +were undertaken on many sides to substitute a more flexible transparent +material for the glass. Translucent papers, gelatine, celluloid, and +other substances were tried. It is well known that the invention which +was decisive was the film which Eastman in Rochester produced. With it +came the great mechanical improvement, the use of the two rollers. One +roller holds the long strip of film which is slowly wound over the +second, the device familiar to every amateur photographer today. With +film photography was gained the possibility not only of securing a much +larger number of pictures than Marey or Anschuetz made with their +circular arrangements, but of having these pictures pass before the eye +illumined by quickly succeeding flashlights for any length of time. +Moreover, instead of the quick illumination the passing pictures might +be constantly lighted. In that case slits must pass by in the opposite +direction so that each picture is seen for a moment only, as if it were +at rest. This idea is perfectly realized in Edison's machine. + +In Edison's kinetoscope a strip of celluloid film forty-five feet in +length with a series of pictures each three-quarters of an inch long +moved continuously over a series of rolls. The pictures passed a +magnifying lens, but between the lens and the picture was a revolving +shutter which moved with a speed carefully adjusted to the film. The +opening in the shutter was opposite the lens at the moment when the film +had moved on three-quarters of an inch. Hence the eye saw not the +passing of the pictures but one picture after another at the same spot. +Pretty little scenes could now be acted in half a minute's time, as more +than six hundred pictures could be used. The first instrument was built +in 1890, and soon after the Chicago World's Fair it was used for +entertainment all over the world. The wheel of Anschuetz had been +widespread too; yet it was considered only as a half-scientific +apparatus. With Edison's kinetoscope the moving pictures had become a +means for popular amusement and entertainment, and the appetite of +commercialism was whetted. At once efforts to improve on the Edison +machine were starting everywhere, and the adjustment to the needs of the +wide public was in the foreground. + +Crowning success came almost at the same time to Lumiere and Son in +Paris and to Paul in London. They recognized clearly that the new scheme +could not become really profitable on a large scale as long as only one +person at a time could see the pictures. Both the well-known French +manufacturers of photographic supplies and the English engineer +considered the next step necessary to be the projection of the films +upon a large screen. Yet this involved another fundamental change. In +the kinetoscope the films passed by continuously. The time of the +exposure through the opening in the revolving shutter had to be +extremely short in order to give distinct pictures. The slightest +lengthening would make the movement of the film itself visible and +produce a blurring effect. This time was sufficient for the seeing of +the picture; it could not be sufficient for the greatly enlarged view on +the wall. Too little light passed through to give a distinct image. +Hence it became essential to transform the continuous movement of the +film into an intermittent one. The strip of film must be drawn before +the lens by jerking movements so that the real motion of the strip would +occur in the periods in which the shutter was closed, while it was at +rest for the fraction of time in which the light of the projection +apparatus passed through. + +Both Lumiere and Paul overcame this difficulty and secured an +intermittent pushing forward of the pictures for three-quarters of an +inch, that is for the length of the single photograph. In the spring of +1895 Paul's theatrograph or animatograph was completed, and in the +following year he began his engagement at the Alhambra Theater, where +the novelty was planned as a vaudeville show for a few days but stayed +for many a year, since it proved at once an unprecedented success. The +American field was conquered by the Lumiere camera. The Eden Musee was +the first place where this French kinematograph was installed. The +enjoyment which today one hundred and twenty-five thousand moving +picture theaters all over the globe bring to thirty million people daily +is dependent upon Lumiere's and Paul's invention. The improvements in +the technique of taking the pictures and of projecting them on the +screen are legion, but the fundamental features have not been changed. +Yes; on the whole the development of the last two decades has been a +conservative one. The fact that every producer tries to distribute his +films to every country forces a far-reaching standardization on the +entire moving picture world. The little pictures on the film are still +today exactly the same size as those which Edison used for his +kinetoscope and the long strips of film are still gauged by four round +perforations at the side of each to catch the sprockets which guide the +film. + +As soon as the moving picture show had become a feature of the +vaudeville theater, the longing of the crowd for ever new entertainments +and sensations had to be satisfied if the success was to last. The mere +enjoyment of the technical wonder as such necessarily faded away and the +interest could be kept up only if the scenes presented on the screen +became themselves more and more enthralling. The trivial acts played in +less than a minute without any artistic setting and without any +rehearsal or preparation soon became unsatisfactory. The grandmother who +washes the baby and even the street boy who plays a prank had to be +replaced by quick little comedies. Stages were set up; more and more +elaborate scenes were created; the film grew and grew in length. +Competing companies in France and later in the United States, England, +Germany and notably in Italy developed more and more ambitious +productions. As early as 1898 the Eden Musee in New York produced an +elaborate setting of the Passion Play in nearly fifty thousand pictures, +which needed almost an hour for production. The personnel on the stage +increased rapidly, huge establishments in which any scenery could be +built up sprang into being. But the inclosed scene was often not a +sufficient background; the kinematographic camera was brought to +mountains and seashore, and soon to the jungles of Africa or to Central +Asia if the photoplay demanded exciting scenes on picturesque +backgrounds. Thousands of people entered into the battle scenes which +the historical drama demanded. We stand today in the midst of this +external growth of which no one dreamed in the days of the kinetoscope. +Yet this technical progress and this tremendous increase of the +mechanical devices for production have their true meaning in the inner +growth which led from trite episodes to the height of tremendous action, +from trivial routine to a new and most promising art. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE INNER DEVELOPMENT OF THE MOVING PICTURES + + +It was indeed not an external technical advance only which led from +Edison's half a minute show of the little boy who turns on the hose to +the "Daughter of Neptune," or "Quo Vadis," or "Cabiria," and many +another performance which fills an evening. The advance was first of all +internal; it was an esthetic idea. Yet even this does not tell the whole +story of the inner growth of the moving pictures, as it points only to +the progress of the photoplay. It leaves out of account the fact that +the moving pictures appeal not merely to the imagination, but that they +bring their message also to the intellect. They aim toward instruction +and information. Just as between the two covers of a magazine artistic +stories stand side by side with instructive essays, scientific +articles, or discussions of the events of the day, the photoplay is +accompanied by a kinematoscopic rendering of reality in all its aspects. +Whatever in nature or in social life interests the human understanding +or human curiosity comes to the mind of the spectator with an +incomparable intensity when not a lifeless photograph but a moving +picture brings it to the screen. + +The happenings of the day afford the most convenient material, as they +offer the chance for constantly changing programmes and hence the ideal +conditions for a novelty seeking public. No actors are needed; the +dramatic interest is furnished by the political and social importance of +the events. In the early days when the great stages for the production +of photoplays had not been built, the moving picture industry relied in +a much higher degree than today on this supply from the surrounding +public life. But while the material was abundant, it soon became rather +insipid to see parades and processions and orators, and even where the +immediate interest seemed to give value to the pictures it was for the +most part only a local interest and faded away after a time. The +coronation of the king or the inauguration of the president, the +earthquake in Sicily, the great Derby, come, after all, too seldom. +Moreover through the strong competition only the first comer gained the +profits and only the most sensational dashes of kinematographers with +the reporter's instinct could lead to success in the eyes of the spoiled +moving picture audiences. + +Certainly the history of these enterprises is full of adventures worthy +to rank with the most daring feats in the newspaper world. We hear that +when the investiture of the Prince of Wales was performed at Carnarvon +at four o'clock in the afternoon, the public of London at ten o'clock of +the same day saw the ceremony on the screen in a moving picture twelve +minutes in length. The distance between the two places is two hundred +miles. The film was seven hundred and fifty feet long. It had been +developed and printed in a special express train made up of long freight +cars transformed into dark rooms and fitted with tanks for the +developing and washing and with a machine for printing and drying. Yet +on the whole the current events were slowly losing ground even in +Europe, while America had never given such a large share of interest to +this rival of the newspaper. It is claimed that the producers in America +disliked these topical pictures because the accidental character of the +events makes the production irregular and interferes too much with the +steady preparation of the photoplays. Only when the war broke out, the +great wave of excitement swept away this apathy. The pictures from the +trenches, the marches of the troops, the life of the prisoners, the +movements of the leaders, the busy life behind the front, and the action +of the big guns absorbed the popular interest in every corner of the +world. While the picturesque old-time war reporter has almost +disappeared, the moving picture man has inherited all his courage, +patience, sensationalism, and spirit of adventure. + +A greater photographic achievement, however, than the picturing of the +social and historic events was the marvelous success of the +kinematograph with the life of nature. No explorer in recent years has +crossed distant lands and seas without a kinematographic outfit. We +suddenly looked into the most intimate life of the African wilderness. +There the elephants and giraffes and monkeys passed to the waterhole, +not knowing that the moving picture man was turning his crank in the top +of a tree. We followed Scott and Shackleton into the regions of eternal +ice, we climbed the Himalayas, we saw the world from the height of the +aeroplane, and every child in Europe knows now the wonders of Niagara. +But the kinematographer has not sought nature only where it is gigantic +or strange; he follows its path with no less admirable effect when it is +idyllic. The brook in the woods, the birds in their nest, the flowers +trembling in the wind have brought their charm to the delighted eye more +and more with the progress of the new art. + +But the wonders of nature which the camera unveils to us are not limited +to those which the naked eye can follow. The technical progress led to +the attachment of the microscope. After overcoming tremendous +difficulties, the scientists succeeded in developing a microscope +kinematography which multiplies the dimensions a hundred thousand times. +We may see on the screen the fight of the bacteria with the +microscopically small blood corpuscles in the blood stream of a diseased +animal. Yes, by the miracles of the camera we may trace the life of +nature even in forms which no human observation really finds in the +outer world. Out there it may take weeks for the orchid to bud and +blossom and fade; in the picture the process passes before us in a few +seconds. We see how the caterpillar spins its cocoon and how it breaks +it and how the butterfly unfolds its wings; and all which needed days +and months goes on in a fraction of a minute. New interest for geography +and botany and zooelogy has thus been aroused by these developments, +undreamed of in the early days of the kinematograph, and the scientists +themselves have through this new means of technique gained unexpected +help for their labors. + +The last achievement in this universe of photoknowledge is "the magazine +on the screen." It is a bold step which yet seemed necessary in our day +of rapid kinematoscopic progress. The popular printed magazines in +America had their heydey in the muckraking period about ten years ago. +Their hold on the imagination of the public which wants to be informed +and entertained at the same time has steadily decreased, while the power +of the moving picture houses has increased. The picture house ought +therefore to take up the task of the magazines which it has partly +displaced. The magazines give only a small place to the news of the day, +a larger place to articles in which scholars and men of public life +discuss significant problems. Much American history in the last two +decades was deeply influenced by the columns of the illustrated +magazines. Those men who reached the millions by such articles cannot +overlook the fact--they may approve or condemn it--that the masses of +today prefer to be taught by pictures rather than by words. The +audiences are assembled anyhow. Instead of feeding them with mere +entertainment, why not give them food for serious thought? It seemed +therefore a most fertile idea when the "Paramount Pictograph" was +founded to carry intellectual messages and ambitious discussions into +the film houses. Political and economic, social and hygienic, technical +and industrial, esthetic and scientific questions can in no way be +brought nearer to the grasp of millions. The editors will have to take +care that the discussions do not degenerate into one-sided propaganda, +but so must the editors of a printed magazine. Among the scientists the +psychologist may have a particular interest in this latest venture of +the film world. The screen ought to offer a unique opportunity to +interest wide circles in psychological experiments and mental tests and +in this way to spread the knowledge of their importance for vocational +guidance and the practical affairs of life. + +Yet that power of the moving pictures to supplement the school room and +the newspaper and the library by spreading information and knowledge is, +after all, secondary to their general task, to bring entertainment and +amusement to the masses. This is the chief road on which the forward +march of the last twenty years has been most rapid. The theater and the +vaudeville and the novel had to yield room and ample room to the play of +the flitting pictures. What was the real principle of the inner +development on this artistic side? The little scenes which the first +pictures offered could hardly have been called plays. They would have +been unable to hold the attention by their own contents. Their only +charm was really the pleasure in the perfection with which the apparatus +rendered the actual movements. But soon touching episodes were staged, +little humorous scenes or melodramatic actions were played before the +camera, and the same emotions stirred which up to that time only the +true theater play had awakened. The aim seemed to be to have a real +substitute for the stage. The most evident gain of this new scheme was +the reduction of expenses. One actor is now able to entertain many +thousand audiences at the same time, one stage setting is sufficient to +give pleasure to millions. The theater can thus be democratized. +Everybody's purse allows him to see the greatest artists and in every +village a stage can be set up and the joy of a true theater performance +can be spread to the remotest corner of the lands. Just as the +graphophone can multiply without limit the music of the concert hall, +the singer, and the orchestra, so, it seemed, would the photoplay +reproduce the theater performance without end. + +Of course, the substitute could not be equal to the original. The color +was lacking, the real depth of the objective stage was missing, and +above all the spoken word had been silenced. The few interspersed +descriptive texts, the so-called "leaders," had to hint at that which +in the real drama the speeches of the actors explain and elaborate. It +was thus surely only the shadow of a true theater, different not only as +a photograph is compared with a painting, but different as a photograph +is compared with the original man. And yet, however meager and +shadowlike the moving picture play appeared compared with the +performance of living actors, the advantage of the cheap multiplication +was so great that the ambition of the producers was natural, to go +forward from the little playlets to great dramas which held the +attention for hours. The kinematographic theater soon had its +Shakespeare repertoire; Ibsen has been played and the dramatized novels +on the screen became legion. Victor Hugo and Dickens scored new +triumphs. In a few years the way from the silly trite practical joke to +Hamlet and Peer Gynt was covered with such thoroughness that the +possibility of giving a photographic rendering of any thinkable theater +performance was proven for all time. + +But while this movement to reproduce stage performances went on, +elements were superadded which the technique of the camera allowed but +which would hardly be possible in a theater. Hence the development led +slowly to a certain deviation from the path of the drama. The difference +which strikes the observer first results from the chance of the camera +man to set his scene in the real backgrounds of nature and culture. The +stage manager of the theater can paint the ocean and, if need be, can +move some colored cloth to look like rolling waves; and yet how far is +his effect surpassed by the superb ocean pictures when the scene is +played on the real cliffs and the waves are thundering at their foot and +the surf is foaming about the actors. The theater has its painted +villages and vistas, its city streets and its foreign landscape +backgrounds. But here the theater, in spite of the reality of the +actors, appears thoroughly unreal compared with the throbbing life of +the street scenes and of the foreign crowds in which the camera man +finds his local color. + +But still more characteristic is the rapidity with which the whole +background can be changed in the moving pictures. Reinhardt's revolving +stage had brought wonderful surprises to the theater-goer and had +shifted the scene with a quickness which was unknown before. Yet how +slow and clumsy does it remain compared with the routine changes of the +photoplays. This changing of background is so easy for the camera that +at a very early date this new feature of the plays was introduced. At +first it served mostly humorous purposes. The public of the crude early +shows enjoyed the flashlike quickness with which it could follow the +eloper over the roofs of the town, upstairs and down, into cellar and +attic, and jump into the auto and race over the country roads until the +culprit fell over a bridge into the water and was caught by the police. +This slapstick humor has by no means disappeared, but the rapid change +of scenes has meanwhile been put into the service of much higher aims. +The development of an artistic plot has been brought to possibilities +which the real drama does not know, by allowing the eye to follow the +hero and heroine continuously from place to place. Now he leaves his +room, now we see him passing along the street, now he enters the house +of his beloved, now he is led into the parlor, now she is hurrying to +the library of her father, now they all go to the garden: ever new +stage settings sliding into one another. Technical difficulties do not +stand in the way. A set of pictures taken by the camera man a thousand +miles away can be inserted for a few feet in the film, and the audience +sees now the clubroom in New York, and now the snows of Alaska and now +the tropics, near each other in the same reel. + +Moreover the ease with which the scenes are altered allows us not only +to hurry on to ever new spots, but to be at the same time in two or +three places. The scenes become intertwined. We see the soldier on the +battlefield, and his beloved one at home, in such steady alternation +that we are simultaneously here and there. We see the man speaking into +the telephone in New York and at the same time the woman who receives +his message in Washington. It is no difficulty at all for the photoplay +to have the two alternate a score of times in the few minutes of the +long distance conversation. + +But with the quick change of background the photoartists also gained a +rapidity of motion which leaves actual men behind. He needs only to turn +the crank of the apparatus more quickly and the whole rhythm of the +performance can be brought to a speed which may strikingly aid the +farcical humor of the scene. And from here it was only a step to the +performance of actions which could not be carried out in nature at all. +At first this idea was made serviceable to rather rough comic effects. +The policeman climbed up the solid stone front of a high building. The +camera man had no difficulty in securing the effects, as it was only +necessary to have the actor creep over a flat picture of the building +spread on the floor. Every day brought us new tricks. We see how the +magician breaks one egg after another and takes out of each egg a little +fairy and puts one after another on his hand where they begin to dance a +minuet. No theater could ever try to match such wonders, but for the +camera they are not difficult; the little dancers were simply at a much +further distance from the camera and therefore appeared in their +Lilliputian size. Rich artistic effects have been secured, and while on +the stage every fairy play is clumsy and hardly able to create an +illusion, in the film we really see the man transformed into a beast and +the flower into a girl. There is no limit to the trick pictures which +the skill of the experts invent. The divers jump, feet first, out of +the water to the springboard. It looks magical, and yet the camera man +has simply to reverse his film and to run it from the end to the +beginning of the action. Every dream becomes real, uncanny ghosts appear +from nothing and disappear into nothing, mermaids swim through the waves +and little elves climb out of the Easter lilies. + +As the crank of the camera which takes the pictures can be stopped at +any moment and the turning renewed only after some complete change has +been made on the stage any substitution can be carried out without the +public knowing of the break in the events. We see a man walking to the +edge of a steep rock, leaving no doubt that it is a real person, and +then by a slip he is hurled down into the abyss below. The film does not +indicate that at the instant before the fall the camera has been stopped +and the actor replaced by a stuffed dummy which begins to tumble when +the movement of the film is started again. But not only dummies of the +same size can be introduced. A little model brought quite near to the +camera may take the place of the large real object at a far distance. We +see at first the real big ship and can convince ourselves of its +reality by seeing actual men climbing up the rigging. But when it comes +to the final shipwreck, the movement of the film is stopped and the +camera brought near to a little tank where a miniature model of the ship +takes up the role of the original and explodes and really sinks to its +two-feet-deep watery grave. + +While, through this power to make impossible actions possible, unheard +of effects could be reached, all still remained in the outer framework +of the stage. The photoplay showed a performance, however rapid or +unusual, as it would go on in the outer world. An entirely new +perspective was opened when the managers of the film play introduced the +"close-up" and similar new methods. As every friend of the film knows, +the close-up is a scheme by which a particular part of the picture, +perhaps only the face of the hero or his hand or only a ring on his +finger, is greatly enlarged and replaces for an instant the whole stage. +Even the most wonderful creations, the great historical plays where +thousands fill the battlefields or the most fantastic caprices where +fairies fly over the stage, could perhaps be performed in a theater, +but this close-up leaves all stagecraft behind. Suddenly we see not +Booth himself as he seeks to assassinate the president, but only his +hand holding the revolver and the play of his excited fingers filling +the whole field of vision. We no longer see at his desk the banker who +opens the telegram, but the opened telegraphic message itself takes his +place on the screen for a few seconds, and we read it over his shoulder. + +It is not necessary to enumerate still more changes which the +development of the art of the film has brought since the days of the +kinetoscope. The use of natural backgrounds, the rapid change of scenes, +the intertwining of the actions in different scenes, the changes of the +rhythms of action, the passing through physically impossible +experiences, the linking of disconnected movements, the realization of +supernatural effects, the gigantic enlargement of small details: these +may be sufficient as characteristic illustrations of the essential +trend. They show that the progress of the photoplay did not lead to a +more and more perfect photographic reproduction of the theater stage, +but led away from the theater altogether. Superficial impressions +suggest the opposite and still leave the esthetically careless observer +in the belief that the photoplay is a cheap substitute for the real +drama, a theater performance as good or as bad as a photographic +reproduction allows. But this traditional idea has become utterly +untrue. _The art of the photoplay has developed so many new features of +its own, features which have not even any similarity to the technique of +the stage that the question arises: is it not really a new art which +long since left behind the mere film reproduction of the theater and +which ought to be acknowledged in its own esthetic independence?_ This +right to independent recognition has so far been ignored. Practically +everybody who judged the photoplays from the esthetic point of view +remained at the old comparison between the film and the graphophone. The +photoplay is still something which simply imitates the true art of the +drama on the stage. May it not be, on the contrary, that it does not +imitate or replace anything, but is in itself an art as different from +that of the theater as the painter's art is different from that of the +sculptor? And may it not be high time, in the interest of theory and of +practice, to examine the esthetic conditions which would give +independent rights to the new art? If this is really the situation, it +must be a truly fascinating problem, as it would give the chance to +watch the art in its first unfolding. A new esthetic cocoon is broken; +where will the butterfly's wings carry him? + +We have at last reached the real problem of this little book. We want to +study the right of the photoplay, hitherto ignored by esthetics, to be +classed as an art in itself under entirely new mental life conditions. +What we need for this study is evidently, first, an insight into the +means by which the moving pictures impress us and appeal to us. Not the +physical means and technical devices are in question, but the mental +means. What psychological factors are involved when we watch the +happenings on the screen? But secondly, we must ask what characterizes +the independence of an art, what constitutes the conditions under which +the works of a special art stand. The first inquiry is psychological, +the second esthetic; the two belong intimately together. Hence we turn +first to the psychological aspect of the moving pictures and later to +the artistic one. + + + + + +PART I + +THE PSYCHOLOGY OF THE PHOTOPLAY + + + + +CHAPTER III[1] + +DEPTH AND MOVEMENT + + +[1] Readers who have no technical interest in physiological + psychology may omit Chapter III and turn directly to Chapter IV on + Attention. + +The problem is now quite clear before us. Do the photoplays furnish us +only a photographic reproduction of a stage performance; is their aim +thus simply to be an inexpensive substitute for the real theater, and is +their esthetic standing accordingly far below that of the true dramatic +art, related to it as the photograph of a painting to the original +canvas of the master? Or do the moving pictures bring us an independent +art, controlled by esthetic laws of its own, working with mental appeals +which are fundamentally different from those of the theater, with a +sphere of its own and with ideal aims of its own? If this so far +neglected problem is ours, we evidently need not ask in our further +discussions about all which books on moving pictures have so far put +into the foreground, namely the physical technique of producing the +pictures on the film or of projecting the pictures on the screen, or +anything else which belongs to the technical or physical or economic +aspect of the photoplay industry. Moreover it is then evidently not our +concern to deal with those moving pictures which serve mere curiosity or +the higher desires for information and instruction. Those educational +pictures may give us delight, and certainly much esthetic enjoyment may +be combined with the intellectual satisfaction, when the wonders of +distant lands are unveiled to us. The landscape setting of such a travel +film may be a thing of beauty, but the pictures are not taken for art's +sake. The aim is to serve the spread of knowledge. + +Our esthetic interest turns to the means by which the photoplay +influences the mind of the spectator. If we try to understand and to +explain the means by which music exerts its powerful effects, we do not +reach our goal by describing the structure of the piano and of the +violin, or by explaining the physical laws of sound. We must proceed to +the psychology and ask for the mental processes of the hearing of tones +and of chords, of harmonies and disharmonies, of tone qualities and tone +intensities, of rhythms and phrases, and must trace how these elements +are combined in the melodies and compositions. In this way we turn to +the photoplay, at first with a purely psychological interest, and ask +for the elementary excitements of the mind which enter into our +experience of the moving pictures. We now disregard entirely the idea of +the theater performance. We should block our way if we were to start +from the theater and were to ask how much is left out in the mere +photographic substitute. We approach the art of the film theater as if +it stood entirely on its own ground, and extinguish all memory of the +world of actors. We analyze the mental processes which this specific +form of artistic endeavor produces in us. + +To begin at the beginning, the photoplay consists of a series of flat +pictures in contrast to the plastic objects of the real world which +surrounds us. But we may stop at once: what does it mean to say that the +surroundings appear to the mind plastic and the moving pictures flat? +The psychology of this difference is easily misunderstood. Of course, +when we are sitting in the picture palace we know that we see a flat +screen and that the object which we see has only two dimensions, +right-left, and up-down, but not the third dimension of depth, of +distance toward us or away from us. It is flat like a picture and never +plastic like a work of sculpture or architecture or like a stage. Yet +this is knowledge and not immediate impression. We have no right +whatever to say that the scenes which we see on the screen appear to us +as flat pictures. + +We may become more strongly conscious of this difference between an +object of our knowledge and an object of our impression, if we remember +a well-known instrument, the stereoscope. The stereoscope, which was +quite familiar to the parlor of a former generation, consists of two +prisms through which the two eyes look toward two photographic views of +a landscape. But the two photographic views are not identical. The +landscape is taken from two different points of view, once from the +right and once from the left. As soon as these two views are put into +the stereoscope the right eye sees through the prism only the view from +the right, the left eye only the view from the left. We know very well +that only two flat pictures are before us; yet we cannot help seeing the +landscape in strongly plastic forms. The two different views are +combined in one presentation of the landscape in which the distant +objects appear much further away from us than the foreground. We feel +immediately the depth of things. It is as if we were looking at a small +plastic model of the landscape and in spite of our objective knowledge +cannot recognize the flat pictures in the solid forms which we perceive. +It cannot be otherwise, because whenever in practical life we see an +object, a vase on our table, as a solid body, we get the impression of +its plastic character first of all by seeing it with our two eyes from +two different points of view. The perspective in which our right eye +sees the things on our table is different from the perspective for the +left eye. Our plastic seeing therefore depends upon this combination of +two different perspective views, and whenever we offer to the two eyes +two such one-sided views, they must be combined into the impression of +the substantial thing. The stereoscope thus illustrates clearly that the +knowledge of the flat character of pictures by no means excludes the +actual perception of depth, and the question arises whether the moving +pictures of the photoplay, in spite of our knowledge concerning the +flatness of the screen, do not give us after all the impression of +actual depth. + +It may be said offhand that even the complete appearance of depth such +as the stereoscope offers would be in no way contradictory to the idea +of moving pictures. Then the photoplay would give the same plastic +impression which the real stage offers. All that would be needed is +this. When the actors play the scenes, not a single but a double camera +would have to take the pictures. Such a double camera focuses the scene +from two different points of view, corresponding to the position of the +two eyes. Both films are then to be projected on the screen at the same +time by a double projection apparatus which secures complete +correspondence of the two pictures so that in every instance the left +and the right view are overlapping on the screen. This would give, of +course, a chaotic, blurring image. But if the apparatus which projects +the left side view has a green glass in front of the lens and the one +which projects the right side view a red glass, and every person in the +audience has a pair of spectacles with the left glass green and the +right glass red--a cardboard lorgnette with red and green gelatine paper +would do the same service and costs only a few cents--the left eye would +see only the left view, the right eye only the right view. We could not +see the red lines through the green glass nor the green lines through +the red glass. In the moment the left eye gets the left side view only +and the right eye the right side view, the whole chaos of lines on the +screen is organized and we see the pictured room on the screen with the +same depth as if it were really a solid room set on the stage and as if +the rear wall in the room were actually ten or twenty feet behind the +furniture in the front. The effect is so striking that no one can +overcome the feeling of depth under these conditions. + +But while the regular motion pictures certainly do not offer us this +complete plastic impression, it would simply be the usual confusion +between knowledge about the picture and its real appearance if we were +to deny that we get a certain impression of depth. If several persons +move in a room, we gain distinctly the feeling that one moves behind +another in the film picture. They move toward us and from us just as +much as they move to the right and left. We actually perceive the chairs +or the rear wall of the room as further away from us than the persons in +the foreground. This is not surprising if we stop to think how we +perceive the depth, for instance, of a real stage. Let us fancy that we +sit in the orchestra of a real theater and see before us the stage set +as a room with furniture and persons in it. We now see the different +objects on the stage at different distances, some near, some far. One of +the causes was just mentioned. We see everything with our right or our +left eye from different points of view. But if now we close one eye and +look at the stage with the right eye only, the plastic effect does not +disappear. The psychological causes for this perception of depth with +one eye are essentially the differences of apparent size, the +perspective relations, the shadows, and the actions performed in the +space. Now all these factors which help us to grasp the furniture on +the stage as solid and substantial play their role no less in the room +which is projected on the screen. + +We are too readily inclined to imagine that our eye can directly grasp +the different distances in our surroundings. Yet we need only imagine +that a large glass plate is put in the place of the curtain covering the +whole stage. Now we see the stage through the glass; and if we look at +it with one eye only it is evident that every single spot on the stage +must throw its light to our eye by light rays which cross the glass +plate at a particular point. For our seeing it would make no difference +whether the stage is actually behind that glass plate or whether all the +light rays which pass through the plate come from the plate itself. If +those rays with all their different shades of light and dark started +from the surface of the glass plate, the effect on the one eye would +necessarily be the same as if they originated at different distances +behind the glass. This is exactly the case of the screen. If the +pictures are well taken and the projection is sharp and we sit at the +right distance from the picture, we must have the same impression as if +we looked through a glass plate into a real space. + +The photoplay is therefore poorly characterized if the flatness of the +pictorial view is presented as an essential feature. That flatness is an +objective part of the technical physical arrangements, but not a feature +of that which we really see in the performance of the photoplay. We are +there in the midst of a three-dimensional world, and the movements of +the persons or of the animals or even of the lifeless things, like the +streaming of the water in the brook or the movements of the leaves in +the wind, strongly maintain our immediate impression of depth. Many +secondary features characteristic of the motion picture may help. For +instance, by a well-known optical illusion the feeling of depth is +strengthened if the foreground is at rest and the background moving. +Thus the ship passing in front of the motionless background of the +harbor by no means suggests depth to the same degree as the picture +taken on the gliding ship itself so that the ship appears to be at rest +and the harbor itself passing by. + +The depth effect is so undeniable that some minds are struck by it as +the chief power in the impressions from the screen. Vachel Lindsay, the +poet, feels the plastic character of the persons in the foreground so +fully that he interprets those plays with much individual action as a +kind of sculpture in motion. He says: "The little far off people on the +oldfashioned speaking stage do not appeal to the plastic sense in this +way. They are by comparison mere bits of pasteboard with sweet voices, +while on the other hand the photoplay foreground is full of dumb giants. +The bodies of these giants are in high sculptural relief." Others have +emphasized that this strong feeling of depth touches them most when +persons in the foreground stand with a far distant landscape as +background--much more than when they are seen in a room. Psychologically +this is not surprising either. If the scene were a real room, every +detail in it would appear differently to the two eyes. In the room on +the screen both eyes receive the same impression, and the result is that +the consciousness of depth is inhibited. But when a far distant +landscape is the only background, the impression from the picture and +life is indeed the same. The trees or mountains which are several +hundred feet distant from the eye give to both eyes exactly the same +impression, inasmuch as the small difference of position between the two +eyeballs has no influence compared with the distance of the objects from +our face. We would see the mountains with both eyes alike in reality, +and therefore we feel unhampered in our subjective interpretation of far +distant vision when the screen offers exactly the same picture of the +mountains to our two eyes. Hence in such cases we believe that we see +the persons really in the foreground and the landscape far away. + +_Nevertheless we are never deceived; we are fully conscious of the +depth, and yet we do not take it for real depth._ Too much stands in the +way. Some unfavorable conditions are still deficiencies of the +technique; for instance, the camera picture in some respects exaggerates +the distances. If we see through the open door of the rear wall into one +or two other rooms, they appear like a distant corridor. Moreover we +have ideal conditions for vision in the right perspective only when we +sit in front of the screen at a definite distance. We ought to sit +where we see the objects in the picture at the same angle at which the +camera photographed the originals. If we are too near or too far or too +much to one side, we perceive the plastic scene from a viewpoint which +would demand an entirely different perspective than that which the +camera fixated. In motionless pictures this is less disturbing; in +moving pictures every new movement to or from the background must remind +us of the apparent distortion. Moreover, the size and the frame and the +whole setting strongly remind us of the unreality of the perceived +space. But the chief point remains that we see the whole picture with +both eyes and not with only one, and that we are constantly reminded of +the flatness of the picture because the two eyes receive identical +impressions. And we may add an argument nearly related to it, namely, +that the screen as such is an object of our perception and demands an +adaptation of the eye and an independent localization. We are drawn into +this conflict of perception even when we look into a mirror. If we stand +three feet from a large mirror on the wall, we see our reflection three +feet from our eyes in the plate glass and we see it at the same time six +feet from our eye behind the glass. Both localizations take hold of our +mind and produce a peculiar interference. We all have learned to ignore +it, but characteristic illusions remain which indicate the reality of +this doubleness. + +In the case of the picture on the screen this conflict is much stronger. +_We certainly see the depth, and yet we cannot accept it._ There is too +much which inhibits belief and interferes with the interpretation of the +people and landscape before us as truly plastic. They are surely not +simply pictures. The persons can move toward us and away from us, and +the river flows into a distant valley. And yet the distance in which the +people move is not the distance of our real space, such as the theater +shows, and the persons themselves are not flesh and blood. It is a +unique inner experience, which is characteristic of the perception of +the photoplays. _We have reality with all its true dimensions; and yet +it keeps the fleeting, passing surface suggestion without true depth and +fullness, as different from a mere picture as from a mere stage +performance._ It brings our mind into a peculiar complex state; and we +shall see that this plays a not unimportant part in the mental make-up +of the whole photoplay. + +While the problem of depth in the film picture is easily ignored, the +problem of movement forces itself on every spectator. It seems as if +here the really essential trait of the film performance is to be found, +and that the explanation of the motion in the pictures is the chief task +which the psychologist must meet. We know that any single picture which +the film of the photographer has fixed is immovable. We know, +furthermore, that we do not see the passing by of the long strip of +film. We know that it is rolled from one roll and rolled up on another, +but that this movement from picture to picture is not visible. It goes +on while the field is darkened. What objectively reaches our eye is one +motionless picture after another, but the replacing of one by another +through a forward movement of the film cannot reach our eye at all. Why +do we, nevertheless, see a continuous movement? The problem did not +arise with the kinetoscope only but had interested the preceding +generations who amused themselves with the phenakistoscope and the +stroboscopic disks or the magic cylinder of the zooetrope and bioscope. +The child who made his zooetrope revolve and looked through the slits of +the black cover in the drum saw through every slit the drawing of a dog +in one particular position. Yet as the twenty-four slits passed the eye, +the twenty-four different positions blended into one continuous jumping +movement of the poodle. + +But this so-called stroboscopic phenomenon, however interesting it was, +seemed to offer hardly any difficulty. The friends of the zooetrope +surely knew another little plaything, the thaumatrope. Dr. Paris had +invented it in 1827. It shows two pictures, one on the front, one on the +rear side of a card. As soon as the card is quickly revolved about a +central axis, the two pictures fuse into one. If a horse is on one side +and a rider on the other, if a cage is on one and a bird on the other, +we see the rider on the horse and the bird in the cage. It cannot be +otherwise. It is simply the result of the positive afterimages. If at +dark we twirl a glowing joss stick in a circle, we do not see one point +moving from place to place, but we see a continuous circular line. It is +nowhere broken because, if the movement is quick, the positive +afterimage of the light in its first position is still effective in our +eye when the glowing point has passed through the whole circle and has +reached the first position again. + +We speak of this effect as a positive afterimage, because it is a real +continuation of the first impression and stands in contrast to the +so-called negative afterimage in which the aftereffect is opposite to +the original stimulus. In the case of a negative afterimage the light +impression leaves a dark spot, the dark impression gives a light +afterimage. Black becomes white and white becomes black; in the world of +colors red leaves a green and green a red afterimage, yellow a blue and +blue a yellow afterimage. If we look at the crimson sinking sun and then +at a white wall, we do not see red light spots but green dark spots. +Compared with these negative pictures, the positive afterimages are +short and they last through any noticeable time only with rather intense +illumination. Yet they are evidently sufficient to bridge the interval +between the two slits in the stroboscopic disk or in the zooetrope, the +interval in which the black paper passes the eye and in which +accordingly no new stimulus reaches the nerves. The routine explanation +of the appearance of movement was accordingly: that every picture of a +particular position left in the eye an afterimage until the next picture +with the slightly changed position of the jumping animal or of the +marching men was in sight, and the afterimage of this again lasted until +the third came. The afterimages were responsible for the fact that no +interruptions were noticeable, while the movement itself resulted simply +from the passing of one position into another. What else is the +perception of movement but the seeing of a long series of different +positions? If instead of looking through the zooetrope we watch a real +trotting horse on a real street, we see its whole body in ever new +progressing positions and its legs in all phases of motion; and this +continuous series is our perception of the movement itself. + +This seems very simple. Yet it was slowly discovered that the +explanation is far too simple and that it does not in the least do +justice to the true experiences. With the advance of modern laboratory +psychology the experimental investigations frequently turned to the +analysis of our perception of movement. In the last thirty years many +researches, notably those of Stricker, Exner, Hall, James, Fischer, +Stern, Marbe, Lincke, Wertheimer, and Korte have thrown new light on the +problem by carefully devised experiments. One result of them came +quickly into the foreground of the newer view: the perception of +movement is an independent experience which cannot be reduced to a +simple seeing of a series of different positions. A characteristic +content of consciousness must be added to such a series of visual +impressions. The mere idea of succeeding phases of movement is not at +all the original movement idea. This is suggested first by the various +illusions of movement. We may believe that we perceive a movement where +no actual changes of visual impressions occur. This, to be sure, may +result from a mere misinterpretation of the impression: for instance +when in the railway train at the station we look out of the window and +believe suddenly that our train is moving, while in reality the train on +the neighboring track has started. It is the same when we see the moon +floating quickly through the motionless clouds. We are inclined to +consider as being at rest that which we fixate and to interpret the +relative changes in the field of vision as movements of those parts +which we do not fixate. + +But it is different when we come, for instance, to those illusions in +which movement is forced on our perception by contrast and aftereffect. +We look from a bridge into the flowing water and if we turn our eyes +toward the land the motionless shore seems to swim in the opposite +direction. It is not sufficient in such cases to refer to contrasting +eye movements. It can easily be shown by experiments that these +movements and counter-movements in the field of vision can proceed in +opposite directions at the same time and no eye, of course, is able to +move upward and downward, or right and left, in the same moment. A very +characteristic experiment can be performed with a black spiral line on a +white disk. If we revolve such a disk slowly around its center, the +spiral line produces the impression of a continuous enlargement of +concentric curves. The lines start at the center and expand until they +disappear in the periphery. If we look for a minute or two into this +play of the expanding curves and then turn our eyes to the face of a +neighbor, we see at once how the features of the face begin to shrink. +It looks as if the whole face were elastically drawn toward its center. +If we revolve the disk in the opposite direction, the curves seem to +move from the edge of the disk toward the center, becoming smaller and +smaller, and if then we look toward a face, the person seems to swell up +and every point in the face seems to move from the nose toward the chin +or forehead or ears. Our eye which watches such an aftereffect cannot +really move at the same time from the center of the face toward both +ears and the hair and the chin. The impression of movement must +therefore have other conditions than the actual performance of the +movements, and above all it is clear from such tests that the seeing of +the movements is a unique experience which can be entirely independent +from the actual seeing of successive positions. The eye itself gets the +impression of a face at rest, and yet we see the face in the one case +shrinking, in the other case swelling; in the one case every point +apparently moving toward the center, in the other case apparently moving +away from the center. The experience of movement is here evidently +produced by the spectator's mind and not excited from without. + +We may approach the same result also from experiments of very different +kind. If a flash of light at one point is followed by a flash at another +point after a very short time, about a twentieth of a second, the two +lights appear to us simultaneous. The first light is still fully visible +when the second flashes, and it cannot be noticed that the second comes +later than the first. If now in the same short time interval the first +light moves toward the second point, we should expect that we would see +the whole process as a lighted line at rest, inasmuch as the beginning +and the end point appear simultaneous, if the end is reached less than a +twentieth of a second after the starting point. But the experiment shows +the opposite result. Instead of the expected lighted line, we see in +this case an actual movement from one point to the other. Again we must +conclude that the movement is more than the mere seeing of successive +positions, as in this case we see the movement, while the isolated +positions do not appear as successive but as simultaneous. + +Another group of interesting phenomena of movement may be formed from +those cases in which the moving object is more easily noticed than the +impressions of the whole field through which the movement is carried +out. We may overlook an area in our visual field, especially when it +lies far to one side from our fixation point, but as soon as anything +moves in that area our attention is drawn. We notice the movement more +quickly than the whole background in which the movement is executed. The +fluttering of kerchiefs at a far distance or the waving of flags for +signaling is characteristic. All indicate that the movement is to us +something different from merely seeing an object first at one and +afterward at another place. We can easily find the analogy in other +senses. If we touch our forehead or the back of our hand with two blunt +compass points so that the two points are about a third of an inch +distant from each other, we do not discriminate the two points as two, +but we perceive the impression as that of one point. We cannot +discriminate the one pressure point from the other. But if we move the +point of a pencil to and fro from one point to the other we perceive +distinctly the movement in spite of the fact that it is a movement +between two end points which could not be discriminated. It is wholly +characteristic that the experimenter in every field of sensations, +visual or acoustical or tactual, often finds himself before the +experience of having noticed a movement while he is unable to say in +which direction the movement occurred. + +We are familiar with the illusions in which we believe that we see +something which only our imagination supplies. If an unfamiliar printed +word is exposed to our eye for the twentieth part of a second, we +readily substitute a familiar word with similar letters. Everybody knows +how difficult it is to read proofs. We overlook the misprints, that is, +we replace the wrong letters which are actually in our field of vision +by imaginary right letters which correspond to our expectations. Are we +not also familiar with the experience of supplying by our fancy the +associative image of a movement when only the starting point and the end +point are given, if a skillful suggestion influences our mind. The +prestidigitator stands on one side of the stage when he apparently +throws the costly watch against the mirror on the other side of the +stage; the audience sees his suggestive hand movement and the +disappearance of the watch and sees twenty feet away the shattering of +the mirror. The suggestible spectator cannot help seeing the flight of +the watch across the stage. + +The recent experiments by Wertheimer and Korte have gone into still +subtler details. Both experimenters worked with a delicate instrument in +which two light lines on a dark ground could be exposed in very quick +succession and in which it was possible to vary the position of the +lines, the distance of the lines, the intensity of their light, the time +exposure of each, and the time between the appearance of the first and +of the second. They studied all these factors, and moreover the +influence of differently directed attention and suggestive attitude. If +a vertical line is immediately followed by a horizontal, the two +together may give the impression of one right angle. If the time between +the vertical and the horizontal line is long, first one and then the +other is seen. But at a certain length of the time interval, a new +effect is reached. We see the vertical line falling over and lying flat +like the horizontal line. If the eyes are fixed on the point in the +midst of the angle, we might expect that this movement phenomenon would +stop, but the opposite is the case. The apparent movement from the +vertical to the horizontal has to pass our fixation point and it seems +that we ought now to recognize clearly that there is nothing between +those two positions, that the intermediate phases of the movement are +lacking; and yet the experiment shows that under these circumstances we +frequently get the strongest impression of motion. If we use two +horizontal lines, the one above the other, we see, if the right time +interval is chosen, that the upper one moves downward toward the lower. +But we can introduce there a very interesting variation. If we make the +lower line, which appears objectively after the upper one, more intense, +the total impression is one which begins with the lower. We see first +the lower line moving toward the upper one which also approaches the +lower; and then follows the second phase in which both appear to fall +down to the position of the lower one. It is not necessary to go further +into details in order to demonstrate that the apparent movement is in no +way the mere result of an afterimage and that the impression of motion +is surely more than the mere perception of successive phases of +movement. The movement is in these cases not really seen from without, +but is superadded, by the action of the mind, to motionless pictures. + +The statement that our impression of movement does not result simply +from the seeing of successive stages but includes a higher mental act +into which the successive visual impressions enter merely as factors is +in itself not really an explanation. We have not settled by it the +nature of that higher central process. But it is enough for us to see +that the impression of the continuity of the motion results from a +complex mental process by which the various pictures are held together +in the unity of a higher act. Nothing can characterize the situation +more clearly than the fact which has been demonstrated by many +experiments, namely, that this feeling of movement is in no way +interfered with by the distinct consciousness that important phases of +the movement are lacking. On the contrary, under certain circumstances +we become still more fully aware of this apparent motion created by our +inner activity when we are conscious of the interruptions between the +various phases of movement. + +We come to the consequences. What is then the difference between seeing +motion in the photoplay and seeing it on the real stage? There on the +stage where the actors move the eye really receives a continuous series. +Each position goes over into the next without any interruption. The +spectator receives everything from without and the whole movement which +he sees is actually going on in the world of space without and +accordingly in his eye. But if he faces the film world, _the motion +which he sees appears to be a true motion, and yet is created by his own +mind_. The afterimages of the successive pictures are not sufficient to +produce a substitute for the continuous outer stimulation; the essential +condition is rather the inner mental activity which unites the separate +phases in the idea of connected action. Thus we have reached the exact +counterpart of our results when we analyzed the perception of depth. We +see actual depth in the pictures, and yet we are every instant aware +that it is not real depth and that the persons are not really plastic. +It is only a suggestion of depth, a depth created by our own activity, +but not actually seen, because essential conditions for the true +perception of depth are lacking. Now we find that the movement too is +perceived but that the eye does not receive the impressions of true +movement. It is only a suggestion of movement, and the idea of motion is +to a high degree the product of our own reaction. _Depth and movement +alike come to us in the moving picture world, not as hard facts but as a +mixture of fact and symbol. They are present and yet they are not in the +things. We invest the impressions with them._ The theater has both depth +and motion, without any subjective help; the screen has them and yet +lacks them. We see things distant and moving, but we furnish to them +more than we receive; we create the depth and the continuity through our +mental mechanism. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +ATTENTION + + +The mere perception of the men and women and of the background, with all +their depth and their motion, furnishes only the material. The scene +which keeps our interest alive certainly involves much more than the +simple impression of moving and distant objects. We must accompany those +sights with a wealth of ideas. They must have a meaning for us, they +must be enriched by our own imagination, they must awaken the remnants +of earlier experiences, they must stir up our feelings and emotions, +they must play on our suggestibility, they must start ideas and +thoughts, they must be linked in our mind with the continuous chain of +the play, and they must draw our attention constantly to the important +and essential element of the action. An abundance of such inner +processes must meet the world of impressions and the psychological +analysis has only started when perception of depth and movement alone +are considered. If we hear Chinese, we perceive the sounds, but there is +no inner response to the words; they are meaningless and dead for us; we +have no interest in them. If we hear the same thoughts expressed in our +mother tongue, every syllable carries its meaning and message. Then we +are readily inclined to fancy that this additional significance which +belongs to the familiar language and which is absent from the foreign +one is something which comes to us in the perception itself as if the +meaning too were passing through the channels of our ears. But +psychologically the meaning is ours. In learning the language we have +learned to add associations and reactions of our own to the sounds which +we perceive. It is not different with the optical perceptions. The best +does not come from without. + +Of all internal functions which create the meaning of the world around +us, the most central is the attention. The chaos of the surrounding +impressions is organized into a real cosmos of experience by our +selection of that which is significant and of consequence. This is true +for life and stage alike. Our attention must be drawn now here, now +there, if we want to bind together that which is scattered in the space +before us. Everything must be shaded by attention and inattention. +Whatever is focused by our attention wins emphasis and irradiates +meaning over the course of events. In practical life we discriminate +between voluntary and involuntary attention. We call it voluntary if we +approach the impressions with an idea in our mind as to what we want to +focus our attention on. We carry our personal interest, our own idea +into the observation of the objects. Our attention has chosen its aim +beforehand, and we ignore all that does not fulfil this specific +interest. All our working is controlled by such voluntary attention. We +have the idea of the goal which we want to reach in our mind beforehand +and subordinate all which we meet to this selective energy. Through our +voluntary attention we seek something and accept the offering of the +surroundings only in so far as it brings us what we are seeking. + +It is quite different with the involuntary attention. The guiding +influence here comes from without. The cue for the focusing of our +attention lies in the events which we perceive. What is loud and shining +and unusual attracts our involuntary attention. We must turn our mind to +a place where an explosion occurs, we must read the glaring electric +signs which flash up. To be sure, the perceptions which force themselves +on our involuntary attention may get their motive power from our own +reactions. Everything which appeals to our natural instincts, everything +which stirs up hope or fear, enthusiasm or indignation, or any strong +emotional excitement will get control of our attention. But in spite of +this circuit through our emotional responses the starting point lies +without and our attention is accordingly of the involuntary type. In our +daily activity voluntary and involuntary attention are always +intertwined. Our life is a great compromise between that which our +voluntary attention aims at and that which the aims of the surrounding +world force on our involuntary attention. + +How does the theater performance differ in this respect from life? Might +we not say that voluntary attention is eliminated from the sphere of +art and that the audience is necessarily following the lead of an +attention which receives all its cues from the work of art itself and +which therefore acts involuntarily? To be sure, we may approach a +theater performance with a voluntary purpose of our own. For instance, +we may be interested in a particular actor and may watch him with our +opera glass all the time whenever he is on the stage, even in scenes in +which his role is insignificant and in which the artistic interest ought +to belong to the other actors. But such voluntary selection has +evidently nothing to do with the theater performance as such. By such +behavior we break the spell in which the artistic drama ought to hold +us. We disregard the real shadings of the play and by mere personal side +interests put emphasis where it does not belong. If we really enter into +the spirit of the play, our attention is constantly drawn in accordance +with the intentions of the producers. + +Surely the theater has no lack of means to draw this involuntary +attention to any important point. To begin with, the actor who speaks +holds our attention more strongly than the actors who at that time are +silent. Yet the contents of the words may direct our interest to anybody +else on the stage. We watch him whom the words accuse, or betray or +delight. But the mere interest springing from words cannot in the least +explain that constantly shifting action of our involuntary attention +during a theater performance. The movements of the actors are essential. +The pantomime without words can take the place of the drama and still +appeal to us with overwhelming power. The actor who comes to the +foreground of the stage is at once in the foreground of our +consciousness. He who lifts his arm while the others stand quiet has +gained our attention. Above all, every gesture, every play of the +features, brings order and rhythm into the manifoldness of the +impressions and organizes them for our mind. Again, the quick action, +the unusual action, the repeated action, the unexpected action, the +action with strong outer effect, will force itself on our mind and +unbalance the mental equilibrium. + +The question arises: how does the photoplay secure the needed shifting +of attention? Here, too, involuntary attention alone can be expected. +An attention which undertakes its explorations guided by preconceived +ideas instead of yielding to the demands of the play would lack +adjustment to its task. We might sit through the photoplay with the +voluntary intention of watching the pictures with a scientific interest +in order to detect some mechanical traits of the camera, or with a +practical interest, in order to look up some new fashions, or with a +professional interest, in order to find out in what New England scenery +these pictures of Palestine might have been photographed. But none of +these aspects has anything to do with the photoplay. If we follow the +play in a genuine attitude of theatrical interest, we must accept those +cues for our attention which the playwright and the producers have +prepared for us. But there is surely no lack of means by which our mind +can be influenced and directed in the rapid play of the pictures. + +Of course the spoken word is lacking. We know how often the words on the +screen serve as substitutes for the speech of the actors. They appear +sometimes as so-called "leaders" between the pictures, sometimes even +thrown into the picture itself, sometimes as content of a written +letter or of a telegram or of a newspaper clipping which is projected +like a picture, strongly enlarged, on the screen. In all these cases the +words themselves prescribe the line in which the attention must move and +force the interest of the spectator toward the new goal. But such help +by the writing on the wall is, after all, extraneous to the original +character of the photoplay. As long as we study the psychological effect +of the moving pictures themselves, we must concentrate our inquiry on +the moving pictures as such and not on that which the playwright does +for the interpretation of the pictures. It may be granted that the +letters and newspaper articles take a middle place. They are a part of +the picture, but their influence on the spectator is, nevertheless, very +similar to that of the leaders. We are here concerned only with what the +pictorial offering contains. We must therefore also disregard the +accompanying music or the imitative noises which belong to the technique +of the full-fledged photoplay nowadays. They do not a little to push the +attention hither and thither. Yet they are accessory, while the primary +power must lie in the content of the pictures themselves. + +But it is evident that with the exception of the words, no means for +drawing attention which is effective on the theater stage is lost in the +photoplay. All the directing influences which the movements of the +actors exert can be felt no less when they are pictured in the films. +More than that, the absence of the words brings the movements which we +see to still greater prominence in our mind. Our whole attention can now +be focused on the play of the face and of the hands. Every gesture and +every mimic excitement stirs us now much more than if it were only the +accompaniment of speech. Moreover, the technical conditions of the +kinematograph show favor the importance of the movement. First the play +on the screen is acted more rapidly than that on the stage. By the +absence of speech everything is condensed, the whole rhythm is +quickened, a greater pressure of time is applied, and through that the +accents become sharper and the emphasis more powerful for the attention. +But secondly the form of the stage intensifies the impression made by +those who move toward the foreground. The theater stage is broadest near +the footlights and becomes narrower toward the background; the moving +picture stage is narrowest in front and becomes wider toward the +background. This is necessary because its width is controlled by the +angle at which the camera takes the picture. The camera is the apex of +an angle which encloses a breadth of only a few feet in the nearest +photographic distance, while it may include a width of miles in the far +distant landscape. Whatever comes to the foreground therefore gains +strongly in relative importance over its surroundings. Moving away from +the camera means a reduction much greater than a mere stepping to the +background on the theater stage. Furthermore lifeless things have much +more chance for movements in the moving pictures than on the stage and +their motions, too, can contribute toward the right setting of the +attention. + +But we know from the theater that movement is not the only condition +which makes us focus our interest on a particular element of the play. +An unusual face, a queer dress, a gorgeous costume or a surprising lack +of costume, a quaint piece of decoration, may attract our mind and even +hold it spellbound for a while. Such means can not only be used but can +be carried to a much stronger climax of efficiency by the unlimited +means of the moving pictures. This is still more true of the power of +setting or background. The painted landscape of the stage can hardly +compete with the wonders of nature and culture when the scene of the +photoplay is laid in the supreme landscapes of the world. Wide vistas +are opened, the woods and the streams, the mountain valleys and the +ocean, are before us with the whole strength of reality; and yet in +rapid change which does not allow the attention to become fatigued. + +Finally the mere formal arrangement of the succeeding pictures may keep +our attention in control, and here again are possibilities which are +superior to those of the solid theater stage. At the theater no effect +of formal arrangement can give exactly the same impression to the +spectators in every part of the house. The perspective of the wings and +the other settings and their relation to the persons and to the +background can never appear alike from the front and from the rear, from +the left and from the right side, from the orchestra and from the +balcony, while the picture which the camera has fixated is the same +from every corner of the picture palace. The greatest skill and +refinement can be applied to make the composition serviceable to the +needs of attention. The spectator may not and ought not to be aware that +the lines of the background, the hangings of the room, the curves of the +furniture, the branches of the trees, the forms of the mountains, help +to point toward the figure of the woman who is to hold his mind. The +shading of the lights, the patches of dark shadows, the vagueness of +some parts, the sharp outlines of others, the quietness of some parts of +the picture as against the vehement movement of others all play on the +keyboard of our mind and secure the desired effect on our involuntary +attention. + +But if all is admitted, we still have not touched on the most important +and most characteristic relation of the photoplay pictures to the +attention of the audience; and here we reach a sphere in which any +comparison with the stage of the theater would be in vain. What is +attention? What are the essential processes in the mind when we turn our +attention to one face in the crowd, to one little flower in the wide +landscape? It would be wrong to describe the process in the mind by +reference to one change alone. If we have to give an account of the act +of attention, as seen by the modern psychologist, we ought to point to +several cooerdinated features. They are not independent of one another +but are closely interrelated. We may say that whatever attracts our +attention in the sphere of any sense, sight or sound, touch or smell, +surely becomes more vivid and more clear in our consciousness. This does +not at all mean that it becomes more intense. A faint light to which we +turn our attention does not become the strong light of an incandescent +lamp. No, it remains the faint, just perceptible streak of lightness, +but it has grown more impressive, more distinct, more clear in its +details, more vivid. It has taken a stronger hold of us or, as we may +say by a metaphor, it has come into the center of our consciousness. + +But this involves a second aspect which is surely no less important. +While the attended impression becomes more vivid, all the other +impressions become less vivid, less clear, less distinct, less detailed. +They fade away. We no longer notice them. They have no hold on our +mind, they disappear. If we are fully absorbed in our book, we do not +hear at all what is said around us and we do not see the room; we forget +everything. Our attention to the page of the book brings with it our +lack of attention to everything else. We may add a third factor. We feel +that our body adjusts itself to the perception. Our head enters into the +movement of listening for the sound, our eyes are fixating the point in +the outer world. We hold all our muscles in tension in order to receive +the fullest possible impression with our sense organs. The lens in our +eye is accommodated exactly to the correct distance. In short our bodily +personality works toward the fullest possible impression. But this is +supplemented by a fourth factor. Our ideas and feelings and impulses +group themselves around the attended object. It becomes the starting +point for our actions while all the other objects in the sphere of our +senses lose their grip on our ideas and feelings. These four factors are +intimately related to one another. As we are passing along the street we +see something in the shop window and as soon as it stirs up our +interest, our body adjusts itself, we stop, we fixate it, we get more +of the detail in it, the lines become sharper, and while it impresses us +more vividly than before the street around us has lost its vividness and +clearness. + +If on the stage the hand movements of the actor catch our interest, we +no longer look at the whole large scene, we see only the fingers of the +hero clutching the revolver with which he is to commit his crime. Our +attention is entirely given up to the passionate play of his hand. It +becomes the central point for all our emotional responses. We do not see +the hands of any other actor in the scene. Everything else sinks into a +general vague background, while that one hand shows more and more +details. The more we fixate it, the more its clearness and distinctness +increase. From this one point wells our emotion, and our emotion again +concentrates our senses on this one point. It is as if this one hand +were during this pulse beat of events the whole scene, and everything +else had faded away. On the stage this is impossible; there nothing can +really fade away. That dramatic hand must remain, after all, only the +ten thousandth part of the space of the whole stage; it must remain a +little detail. The whole body of the hero and the other men and the +whole room and every indifferent chair and table in it must go on +obtruding themselves on our senses. What we do not attend cannot be +suddenly removed from the stage. Every change which is needed must be +secured by our own mind. In our consciousness the attended hand must +grow and the surrounding room must blur. But the stage cannot help us. +The art of the theater has there its limits. + +Here begins the art of the photoplay. That one nervous hand which +feverishly grasps the deadly weapon can suddenly for the space of a +breath or two become enlarged and be alone visible on the screen, while +everything else has really faded into darkness. The act of attention +which goes on in our mind has remodeled the surrounding itself. The +detail which is being watched has suddenly become the whole content of +the performance, and everything which our mind wants to disregard has +been suddenly banished from our sight and has disappeared. The events +without have become obedient to the demands of our consciousness. In the +language of the photoplay producers it is a "close-up." _The close-up +has objectified in our world of perception our mental act of attention +and by it has furnished art with a means which far transcends the power +of any theater stage._ + +The scheme of the close-up was introduced into the technique of the film +play rather late, but it has quickly gained a secure position. The more +elaborate the production, the more frequent and the more skillful the +use of this new and artistic means. The melodrama can hardly be played +without it, unless a most inartistic use of printed words is made. The +close-up has to furnish the explanations. If a little locket is hung on +the neck of the stolen or exchanged infant, it is not necessary to tell +us in words that everything will hinge on this locket twenty years later +when the girl is grown up. If the ornament at the child's throat is at +once shown in a close-up where everything has disappeared and only its +quaint form appears much enlarged on the screen, we fix it in our +imagination and know that we must give our fullest attention to it, as +it will play a decisive part in the next reel. The gentleman criminal +who draws his handkerchief from his pocket and with it a little bit of +paper which falls down on the rug unnoticed by him has no power to draw +our attention to that incriminating scrap. The device hardly belongs in +the theater because the audience would not notice it any more than would +the scoundrel himself. It would not be able to draw the attention. But +in the film it is a favorite trick. At the moment the bit of paper +falls, we see it greatly enlarged on the rug, while everything else has +faded away, and we read on it that it is a ticket from the railway +station at which the great crime was committed. Our attention is focused +on it and we know that it will be decisive for the development of the +action. + +A clerk buys a newspaper on the street, glances at it and is shocked. +Suddenly we see that piece of news with our own eyes. The close-up +magnifies the headlines of the paper so that they fill the whole screen. +But it is not necessary that this focusing of the attention should refer +to levers in the plot. Any subtle detail, any significant gesture which +heightens the meaning of the action may enter into the center of our +consciousness by monopolizing the stage for a few seconds. There is love +in her smiling face, and yet we overlook it as they stand in a crowded +room. But suddenly, only for three seconds, all the others in the room +have disappeared, the bodies of the lovers themselves have faded away, +and only his look of longing and her smile of yielding reach out to us. +The close-up has done what no theater could have offered by its own +means, though we might have approached the effect in the theater +performance if we had taken our opera glass and had directed it only to +those two heads. But by doing so we should have emancipated ourselves +from the offering of the stage picture, that is, the concentration and +focusing were secured by us and not by the performance. In the photoplay +it is the opposite. + +Have we not reached by this analysis of the close-up a point very near +to that to which the study of depth perception and movement perception +was leading? We saw that the moving pictures give us the plastic world +and the moving world, and that nevertheless the depth and the motion in +it are not real, unlike the depth and motion of the stage. We find now +that the reality of the action in the photoplay in still another respect +lacks objective independence, because it yields to our subjective play +of attention. Wherever our attention becomes focused on a special +feature, the surrounding adjusts itself, eliminates everything in which +we are not interested, and by the close-up heightens the vividness of +that on which our mind is concentrated. It is as if that outer world +were woven into our mind and were shaped not through its own laws but by +the acts of our attention. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +MEMORY AND IMAGINATION + + +When we sit in a real theater and see the stage with its depth and watch +the actors moving and turn our attention hither and thither, we feel +that those impressions from behind the footlights have objective +character, while the action of our attention is subjective. Those men +and things come from without but the play of the attention starts from +within. Yet our attention, as we have seen, does not really add anything +to the impressions of the stage. It makes some more vivid and clear +while others become vague or fade away, but through the attention alone +no content enters our consciousness. Wherever our attention may wander +on the stage, whatever we experience comes to us through the channels of +our senses. The spectator in the audience, however, does experience more +than merely the light and sound sensations which fall on the eye and +ear at that moment. He may be entirely fascinated by the actions on the +stage and yet his mind may be overflooded with other ideas. Only one of +their sources, but not the least important one, is the memory. + +Indeed the action of the memory brings to the mind of the audience ever +so much which gives fuller meaning and ampler setting to every +scene--yes, to every word and movement on the stage. To think of the +most trivial case, at every point of the drama we must remember what +happened in the previous scenes. The first act is no longer on the stage +when we see the second. The second alone is now our sense impression. +Yet this second act is in itself meaningless if it is not supported by +the first. Hence the first must somehow be in our consciousness. At +least in every important scene we must remember those situations of the +preceding act which can throw light on the new developments. We see the +young missionary in his adventures on his perilous journey and we +remember how in the preceding act we saw him in his peaceful cottage +surrounded by the love of his parents and sisters and how they mourned +when he left them behind. The more exciting the dangers he passes +through in the far distant land, the more strongly does our memory carry +us back to the home scenes which we witnessed before. The theater cannot +do more than suggest to our memory this looking backward. The young hero +may call this reminiscence back to our consciousness by his speech and +his prayer, and when he fights his way through the jungles of Africa and +the savages attack him, the melodrama may put words into his mouth which +force us to think fervently of those whom he has left behind. But, after +all, it is our own material of memory ideas which supplies the picture. +The theater cannot go further. The photoplay can. We see the jungle, we +see the hero at the height of his danger; and suddenly there flashes +upon the screen a picture of the past. For not more than two seconds +does the idyllic New England scene slip into the exciting African +events. When one deep breath is over we are stirred again by the event +of the present. That home scene of the past flitted by just as a hasty +thought of bygone days darts through the mind. + +The modern photoartist makes use of this technical device in an +abundance of forms. In his slang any going back to an earlier scene is +called a "cut-back." The cut-back may have many variations and serve +many purposes. But the one which we face here is psychologically the +most interesting. We have really an objectivation of our memory +function. The case of the cut-back is there quite parallel to that of +the close-up. In the one we recognize the mental act of attending, in +the other we must recognize the mental act of remembering. _In both +cases the act which in the ordinary theater would go on in our mind +alone is here in the photoplay projected into the pictures themselves. +It is as if reality has lost its own continuous connection and become +shaped by the demands of our soul._ It is as if the outer world itself +became molded in accordance with our fleeting turns of attention or with +our passing memory ideas. + +It is only another version of the same principle when the course of +events is interrupted by forward glances. The mental function involved +is that of expectation or, when the expectation is controlled by our +feelings, we may class it under the mental function of imagination. The +melodrama shows us how the young millionaire wastes his nights in a +dissipated life, and when he drinks his blasphemous toast at a champagne +feast with shameless women, we suddenly see on the screen the vision of +twenty years later when the bartender of a most miserable saloon pushes +the penniless tramp out into the gutter. The last act in the theater may +bring us to such an ending, but there it can come only in the regular +succession of events. That pitiful ending cannot be shown to us when +life is still blooming and when a twenty years' downward course is still +to be interpreted. There only our own imagination can anticipate how the +mill of life may grind. In the photoplay our imagination is projected on +the screen. With an uncanny contrast that ultimate picture of defeat +breaks in where victory seems most glorious; and five seconds later the +story of youth and rapture streams on. Again we see the course of the +natural events remolded by the power of the mind. The theater can +picture only how the real occurrences might follow one another; the +photoplay can overcome the interval of the future as well as the +interval of the past and slip the day twenty years hence between this +minute and the next. In short, it can act as our imagination acts. It +has the mobility of our ideas which are not controlled by the physical +necessity of outer events but by the psychological laws for the +association of ideas. In our mind past and future become intertwined +with the present. The photoplay obeys the laws of the mind rather than +those of the outer world. + +But the play of memory and imagination can have a still richer +significance in the art of the film. The screen may produce not only +what we remember or imagine but what the persons in the play see in +their own minds. The technique of the camera stage has successfully +introduced a distinct form for this kind of picturing. If a person in +the scene remembers the past, a past which may be entirely unknown to +the spectator but which is living in the memory of the hero or heroine, +then the former events are not thrown on the screen as an entirely new +set of pictures, but they are connected with the present scene by a slow +transition. He sits at the fireplace in his study and receives the +letter with the news of her wedding. The close-up picture which shows +us the enlargement of the engraved wedding announcement appears as an +entirely new picture. The room suddenly disappears and the hand which +holds the card flashes up. Again when we have read the card, it suddenly +disappears and we are in the room again. But when he has dreamily +stirred the fire and sits down and gazes into the flames, then the room +seems to dissolve, the lines blur, the details fade away, and while the +walls and the whole room slowly melt, with the same slow transition the +flower garden blossoms out, the flower garden where he and she sat +together under the lilac bush and he confessed to her his boyish love. +And then the garden slowly vanishes and through the flowers we see once +more the dim outlines of the room and they become sharper and sharper +until we are in the midst of the study again and nothing is left of the +vision of the past. + +The technique of manufacturing such gradual transitions from one picture +into another and back again demands much patience and is more difficult +than the sudden change, as two exactly corresponding sets of views have +to be produced and finally combined. But this cumbersome method has been +fully accepted in moving picture making and the effect indeed somewhat +symbolizes the appearance and disappearance of a reminiscence. + +This scheme naturally opens wide perspectives. The skilful +photoplaywright can communicate to us long scenes and complicated +developments of the past in the form of such retrospective pictures. The +man who shot his best friend has not offered an explanation in the court +trial which we witness. It remains a perfect secret to the town and a +mystery to the spectator; and now as the jail door closes behind him the +walls of the prison fuse and melt away and we witness the scene in the +little cottage where his friend secretly met his wife and how he broke +in and how it all came about and how he rejected every excuse which +would dishonor his home. The whole murder story becomes embedded in the +reappearance of his memory ideas. The effect is much less artistic when +the photoplay, as not seldom happens, uses this pattern as a mere +substitute for words. In the picturization of a Gaboriau story the woman +declines to tell before the court her life story which ended in a +crime. She finally yields, she begins under oath to describe her whole +past; and at the moment when she opens her mouth the courtroom +disappears and fades into the scene in which the love adventure began. +Then we pass through a long set of scenes which lead to the critical +point, and at that moment we slide back into the courtroom and the woman +finishes her confession. That is an external substitution of the +pictures for the words, esthetically on a much lower level than the +other case where the past was living only in the memory of the witness. +Yet it is again an embodiment of past events which the genuine theater +could offer to the ear but never to the eye. + +Just as we can follow the reminiscences of the hero, we may share the +fancies of his imagination. Once more the case is distinctly different +from the one in which we, the spectators, had our imaginative ideas +realized on the screen. Here we are passive witnesses to the wonders +which are unveiled through the imagination of the persons in the play. +We see the boy who is to enter the navy and who sleeps on shipboard the +first night; the walls disappear and his imagination flutters from port +to port. All he has seen in the pictures of foreign lands and has heard +from his comrades becomes the background of his jubilant adventures. Now +he stands in the rigging while the proud vessel sails into the harbor of +Rio de Janeiro and now into Manila Bay; now he enjoys himself in +Japanese ports and now by the shores of India; now he glides through the +Suez Canal and now he returns to the skyscrapers of New York. Not more +than one minute was needed for his world travel in beautiful fantastic +pictures; and yet we lived through all the boy's hopes and ecstasies +with him. If we had seen the young sailor in his hammock on the theater +stage, he might have hinted to us whatever passed through his mind by a +kind of monologue or by some enthusiastic speech to a friend. But then +we should have seen before our inner eye only that which the names of +foreign places awake in ourselves. We should not really have seen the +wonders of the world through the eyes of his soul and with the glow of +his hope. The drama would have given dead names to our ear; the +photoplay gives ravishing scenery to our eye and shows the fancy of the +young fellow in the scene really living. + +From here we see the perspective to the fantastic dreams which the +camera can fixate. Whenever the theater introduces an imagined setting +and the stage clouds sink over the sleeper and the angels fill the +stage, the beauty of the verses must excuse the shortcomings of the +visual appeal. The photoplay artist can gain his triumphs here. Even the +vulgar effects become softened by this setting. The ragged tramp who +climbs a tree and falls asleep in the shady branches and then lives +through a reversed world in which he and his kind feast and glory and +live in palaces and sail in yachts, and, when the boiler of the yacht +explodes, falls from the tree to the ground, becomes a tolerable +spectacle because all is merged in the unreal pictures. Or, to think of +the other extreme, gigantic visions of mankind crushed by the Juggernaut +of war and then blessed by the angel of peace may arise before our eyes +with all their spiritual meaning. + +Even the whole play may find its frame in a setting which offers a +five-reel performance as one great imaginative dream. In the pretty +play, "When Broadway was a Trail," the hero and heroine stand on the +Metropolitan Tower and bend over its railing. They see the turmoil of +New York of the present day and ships passing the Statue of Liberty. He +begins to tell her of the past when in the seventeenth century Broadway +was a trail; and suddenly the time which his imagination awakens is with +us. Through two hours we follow the happenings of three hundred years +ago. From New Amsterdam it leads to the New England shores, all the +early colonial life shows us its intimate charm, and when the hero has +found his way back over the Broadway trail, we awake and see the last +gestures with which the young narrator shows to the girl the Broadway +buildings of today. + +Memory looks toward the past, expectation and imagination toward the +future. But in the midst of the perception of our surroundings our mind +turns not only to that which has happened before and which may happen +later; it is interested in happenings at the same time in other places. +The theater can show us only the events at one spot. Our mind craves +more. Life does not move forward on one single pathway. The whole +manifoldness of parallel currents with their endless interconnections +is the true substance of our understanding. It may be the task of a +particular art to force all into one steady development between the +walls of one room, but every letter and every telephone call to the room +remind us even then that other developments with other settings are +proceeding in the same instant. The soul longs for this whole interplay, +and the richer it is in contrasts, the more satisfaction may be drawn +from our simultaneous presence in many quarters. The photoplay alone +gives us our chance for such omnipresence. We see the banker, who had +told his young wife that he has a directors' meeting, at a late hour in +a cabaret feasting with a stenographer from his office. She had promised +her poor old parents to be home early. We see the gorgeous roof garden +and the tango dances, but our dramatic interest is divided among the +frivolous pair, the jealous young woman in the suburban cottage, and the +anxious old people in the attic. Our mind wavers among the three scenes. +The photoplay shows one after another. Yet it can hardly be said that we +think of them as successive. It is as if we were really at all three +places at once. We see the joyous dance which is of central dramatic +interest for twenty seconds, then for three seconds the wife in her +luxurious boudoir looking at the dial of the clock, for three seconds +again the grieved parents eagerly listening for any sound on the stairs, +and anew for twenty seconds the turbulent festival. The frenzy reaches a +climax, and in that moment we are suddenly again with his unhappy wife; +it is only a flash, and the next instant we see the tears of the girl's +poor mother. The three scenes proceed almost as if no one were +interrupted at all. It is as if we saw one through another, as if three +tones blended into one chord. + +There is no limit to the number of threads which may be interwoven. A +complex intrigue may demand cooeperation at half a dozen spots, and we +look now into one, now into another, and never have the impression that +they come one after another. The temporal element has disappeared, the +one action irradiates in all directions. Of course, this can easily be +exaggerated, and the result must be a certain restlessness. If the scene +changes too often and no movement is carried on without a break, the +play may irritate us by its nervous jerking from place to place. Near +the end of the Theda Bara edition of Carmen the scene changes one +hundred and seventy times in ten minutes, an average of a little more +than three seconds for each scene. We follow Don Jose and Carmen and the +toreador in ever new phases of the dramatic action and are constantly +carried back to Don Jose's home village where his mother waits for him. +There indeed the dramatic tension has an element of nervousness, in +contrast to the Geraldine Farrar version of Carmen which allows a more +unbroken development of the single action. + +But whether it is used with artistic reserve or with a certain dangerous +exaggeration, in any case its psychological meaning is obvious. It +demonstrates to us in a new form the same principle which the perception +of depth and of movement, the acts of attention and of memory and of +imagination have shown. _The objective world is molded by the interests +of the mind. Events which are far distant from one another so that we +could not be physically present at all of them at the same time are +fusing in our field of vision, just as they are brought together in our +own consciousness._ Psychologists are still debating whether the mind +can ever devote itself to several groups of ideas at the same time. Some +claim that any so-called division of attention is really a rapid +alteration. Yet in any case subjectively we experience it as an actual +division. Our mind is split and can be here and there apparently in one +mental act. This inner division, this awareness of contrasting +situations, this interchange of diverging experiences in the soul, can +never be embodied except in the photoplay. + +An interesting side light falls on this relation between the mind and +the pictured scenes, if we turn to a mental process which is quite +nearly related to those which we have considered, namely, suggestion. It +is similar in that a suggested idea which awakes in our consciousness is +built up from the same material as the memory ideas or the imaginative +ideas. The play of associations controls the suggestions, as it does the +reminiscences and fancies. Yet in an essential point it is quite +different. All the other associative ideas find merely their starting +point in those outer impressions. We see a landscape on the stage or on +the screen or in life and this visual perception is the cue which stirs +up in our memory or imagination any fitting ideas. The choice of them, +however, is completely controlled by our own interest and attitude and +by our previous experiences. Those memories and fancies are therefore +felt as our subjective supplements. We do not believe in their objective +reality. A suggestion, on the other hand, is forced on us. The outer +perception is not only a starting point but a controlling influence. The +associated idea is not felt as our creation but as something to which we +have to submit. The extreme case is, of course, that of the hypnotizer +whose word awakens in the mind of the hypnotized person ideas which he +cannot resist. He must accept them as real, he must believe that the +dreary room is a beautiful garden in which he picks flowers. + +The spellbound audience in a theater or in a picture house is certainly +in a state of heightened suggestibility and is ready to receive +suggestions. One great and fundamental suggestion is working in both +cases, inasmuch as the drama as well as the photoplay suggests to the +mind of the spectator that this is more than mere play, that it is life +which we witness. But if we go further and ask for the application of +suggestions in the detailed action, we cannot overlook the fact that the +theater is extremely limited in its means. A series of events on the +stage may strongly force on the mind the prediction of something which +must follow, but inasmuch as the stage has to do with real physical +beings who must behave according to the laws of nature, it cannot avoid +offering us the actual events for which we were waiting. To be sure, +even on the stage the hero may talk, the revolver in his hand, until it +is fully suggested to us that the suicidal shot will end his life in the +next instant; and yet just then the curtain may fall, and only the +suggestion of his death may work in our mind. But this is evidently a +very exceptional case as a fall of the curtain means the ending of the +scene. In the act itself every series of events must come to its natural +ending. If two men begin to fight on the stage, nothing remains to be +suggested; we must simply witness the fight. And if two lovers embrace +each other, we have to see their caresses. + +The photoplay can not only "cut back" in the service of memories, but +it can cut off in the service of suggestion. Even if the police did not +demand that actual crimes and suicides should never be shown on the +screen, for mere artistic reasons it would be wiser to leave the climax +to the suggestion to which the whole scene has led. There is no need of +bringing the series of pictures to its logical end, because they are +pictures only and not the real objects. At any instant the man may +disappear from the scene, and no automobile can race over the ground so +rapidly that it cannot be stopped just as it is to crash into the +rushing express train. The horseback rider jumps into the abyss; we see +him fall, and yet at the moment when he crashes to the ground we are +already in the midst of a far distant scene. Again and again with +doubtful taste the sensuality of the nickel audiences has been stirred +up by suggestive pictures of a girl undressing, and when in the intimate +chamber the last garment was touched, the spectators were suddenly in +the marketplace among crowds of people or in a sailing vessel on the +river. The whole technique of the rapid changes of scenes which we have +recognized as so characteristic of the photoplay involves at every end +point elements of suggestion which to a certain degree link the separate +scenes as the afterimages link the separate pictures. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +EMOTIONS + + +To picture emotions must be the central aim of the photoplay. In the +drama words of wisdom may be spoken and we may listen to the +conversations with interest even if they have only intellectual and not +emotional character. But the actor whom we see on the screen can hold +our attention only by what he is doing and his actions gain meaning and +unity for us through the feelings and emotions which control them. More +than in the drama the persons in the photoplay are to us first of all +subjects of emotional experiences. Their joy and pain, their hope and +fear, their love and hate, their gratitude and envy, their sympathy and +malice, give meaning and value to the play. What are the chances of the +photoartist to bring these feelings to a convincing expression? + +No doubt, an emotion which is deprived of its discharge by words has +lost a strong element, and yet gestures, actions, and facial play are so +interwoven with the psychical process of an intense emotion that every +shade can find its characteristic delivery. The face alone with its +tensions around the mouth, with its play of the eye, with its cast of +the forehead, and even with the motions of the nostrils and the setting +of the jaw, may bring numberless shades into the feeling tone. Here +again the close-up can strongly heighten the impression. It is at the +climax of emotion on the stage that the theatergoer likes to use his +opera glass in order not to overlook the subtle excitement of the lips +and the passion of the eyeballs and the ghastly pupil and the quivering +cheeks. The enlargement by the close-up on the screen brings this +emotional action of the face to sharpest relief. Or it may show us +enlarged a play of the hands in which anger and rage or tender love or +jealousy speak in unmistakable language. In humorous scenes even the +flirting of amorous feet may in the close-up tell the story of their +possessors' hearts. Nevertheless there are narrow limits. Many emotional +symptoms like blushing or growing pale would be lost in the mere +photographic rendering, and, above all, these and many other signs of +feeling are not under voluntary control. The photoactors may carefully +go through the movements and imitate the contractions and relaxations of +the muscles, and yet may be unable to produce those processes which are +most essential for the true life emotion, namely those in the glands, +blood vessels, and involuntary muscles. + +Certainly the going through the motions will shade consciousness +sufficiently so that some of these involuntary and instinctive responses +may set in. The actor really experiences something of the inner +excitement which he imitates and with the excitement the automatic +reactions appear. Yet only a few can actually shed tears, however much +they move the muscles of the face into the semblance of crying. The +pupil of the eye is somewhat more obedient, as the involuntary muscles +of the iris respond to the cue which a strong imagination can give, and +the mimic presentation of terror or astonishment or hatred may actually +lead to the enlargement or contraction of the pupil, which the close-up +may show. Yet there remains too much which mere art cannot render and +which life alone produces, because the consciousness of the unreality of +the situation works as a psychological inhibition on the automatic +instinctive responses. The actor may artificially tremble, or breathe +heavily, but the strong pulsation of the carotid artery or the moistness +of the skin from perspiration will not come with an imitated emotion. Of +course, that is true of the actor on the stage, too. But the content of +the words and the modulation of the voice can help so much that the +shortcomings of the visual impression are forgotten. + +To the actor of the moving pictures, on the other hand, the temptation +offers itself to overcome the deficiency by a heightening of the +gestures and of the facial play, with the result that the emotional +expression becomes exaggerated. No friend of the photoplay can deny that +much of the photoart suffers from this almost unavoidable tendency. The +quick marchlike rhythm of the drama of the reel favors this artificial +overdoing, too. The rapid alternation of the scenes often seems to +demand a jumping from one emotional climax to another, or rather the +appearance of such extreme expressions where the content of the play +hardly suggests such heights and depths of emotion. The soft lights are +lost and the mental eye becomes adjusted to glaring flashes. This +undeniable defect is felt with the American actors still more than with +the European, especially with the French and Italian ones with whom +excited gestures and highly accentuated expressions of the face are +natural. A New England temperament forced into Neapolitan expressions of +hatred or jealousy or adoration too easily appears a caricature. It is +not by chance that so many strong actors of the stage are such more or +less decided failures on the screen. They have been dragged into an art +which is foreign to them, and their achievement has not seldom remained +far below that of the specializing photoactor. The habitual reliance on +the magic of the voice deprives them of the natural means of expression +when they are to render emotions without words. They give too little or +too much; they are not expressive, or they become grotesque. + +Of course, the photoartist profits from one advantage. He is not obliged +to find the most expressive gesture in one decisive moment of the stage +performance. He can not only rehearse, but he can repeat the scene +before the camera until exactly the right inspiration comes, and the +manager who takes the close-up visage may discard many a poor pose +before he strikes that one expression in which the whole content of the +feeling of the scene is concentrated. In one other respect the producer +of the photoplay has a technical advantage. More easily than the stage +manager of the real theater he can choose actors whose natural build and +physiognomy fit the role and predispose them for the desired expression. +The drama depends upon professional actors; the photoplay can pick +players among any group of people for specific roles. They need no art +of speaking and no training in delivery. The artificial make-up of the +stage actors in order to give them special character is therefore less +needed for the screen. The expression of the faces and the gestures must +gain through such natural fitness of the man for the particular role. If +the photoplay needs a brutal boxer in a mining camp, the producer will +not, like the stage manager, try to transform a clean, neat, +professional actor into a vulgar brute, but he will sift the Bowery +until he has found some creature who looks as if he came from that +mining camp and who has at least the prizefighter's cauliflower ear +which results from the smashing of the ear cartilage. If he needs the +fat bartender with his smug smile, or the humble Jewish peddler, or the +Italian organ grinder, he does not rely on wigs and paint; he finds them +all ready-made on the East Side. With the right body and countenance the +emotion is distinctly more credible. The emotional expression in the +photoplays is therefore often more natural in the small roles which the +outsiders play than in the chief parts of the professionals who feel +that they must outdo nature. + +But our whole consideration so far has been onesided and narrow. We have +asked only about the means by which the photoactor expresses his +emotion, and we were naturally confined to the analysis of his bodily +reactions. But while the human individual in our surroundings has hardly +any other means than the bodily expressions to show his emotions and +moods, the photoplaywright is certainly not bound by these limits. Yet +even in life the emotional tone may radiate beyond the body. A person +expresses his mourning by his black clothes and his joy by gay attire, +or he may make the piano or violin ring forth in happiness or moan in +sadness. Even his whole room or house may be penetrated by his spirit of +welcoming cordiality or his emotional setting of forbidding harshness. +The feeling of the soul emanates into the surroundings and the +impression which we get of our neighbor's emotional attitude may be +derived from this external frame of the personality as much as from the +gestures and the face. + +This effect of the surrounding surely can and must be much heightened in +the artistic theater play. All the stage settings of the scene ought to +be in harmony with the fundamental emotions of the play, and many an act +owes its success to the unity of emotional impression which results from +the perfect painting of the background; it reverberates to the passions +of the mind. From the highest artistic color and form effects of the +stage in the Reinhardt style down to the cheapest melodrama with soft +blue lights and tender music for the closing scene, the stage +arrangements tell the story of the intimate emotion. But just this +additional expression of the feeling through the medium of the +surrounding scene, through background and setting, through lines and +forms and movements, is very much more at the disposal of the +photoartist. He alone can change the background and all the surroundings +of the acting person from instant to instant. He is not bound to one +setting, he has no technical difficulty in altering the whole scene with +every smile and every frown. To be sure, the theater can give us +changing sunshine and thunderclouds too. But it must go on at the slow +pace and with the clumsiness with which the events in nature pass. The +photoplay can flit from one to the other. Not more than one sixteenth of +a second is needed to carry us from one corner of the globe to the +other, from a jubilant setting to a mourning scene. The whole keyboard +of the imagination may be used to serve this emotionalizing of nature. + +There is a girl in her little room, and she opens a letter and reads it. +There is no need of showing us in a close-up the letter page with the +male handwriting and the words of love and the request for her hand. We +see it in her radiant visage, we read it from her fascinated arms and +hands; and yet how much more can the photoartist tell us about the storm +of emotions in her soul. The walls of her little room fade away. +Beautiful hedges of hawthorn blossom around her, rose bushes in +wonderful glory arise and the whole ground is alive with exotic flowers. +Or the young artist sits in his attic playing his violin; we see the bow +moving over the strings but the dreamy face of the player does not +change with his music. Under the spell of his tones his features are +immovable as if they were staring at a vision. They do not speak of the +changing emotions which his melodies awake. We cannot hear those tones. +And yet we do hear them: a lovely spring landscape widens behind his +head, we see the valleys of May and the bubbling brooks and the young +wild beeches. And slowly it changes into the sadness of the autumn, the +sere leaves are falling around the player, heavy clouds hang low over +his head. Suddenly at a sharp accent of his bow the storm breaks, we are +carried to the wildness of rugged rocks or to the raging sea; and again +comes tranquillity over the world, the little country village of his +youth fills the background, the harvest is brought from the fields, the +sun sets upon a scene of happiness, and while the bow slowly sinks, the +walls and ceiling of his attic close in again. No shade, no tint, no hue +of his emotions has escaped us; we followed them as if we had heard the +rejoicing and the sadness, the storm and the peace of his melodious +tones. Such imaginative settings can be only the extreme; they would not +be fit for the routine play. But, however much weaker and fainter the +echo of the surroundings may be in the realistic pictures of the +standard photoplay, the chances are abundant everywhere and no skillful +playwright will ever disregard them entirely. Not the portrait of the +man but the picture as a whole has to be filled with emotional +exuberance. + +Everything so far has referred to the emotions of the persons in the +play, but this cannot be sufficient. When we were interested in +attention and memory we did not ask about the act of attention and +memory in the persons of the play, but in the spectator, and we +recognized that these mental activities and excitements in the audience +were projected into the moving pictures. Just here was the center of +our interest, because it showed that uniqueness of the means with which +the photoplaywright can work. If we want to shape the question now in +the same way, we ought to ask how it is with the emotions of the +spectator. But then two different groups of cases must be distinguished. +On the one side we have those emotions in which the feelings of the +persons in the play are transmitted to our own soul. On the other side, +we find those feelings with which we respond to the scenes in the play, +feelings which may be entirely different, perhaps exactly opposite to +those which the figures in the play express. + +The first group is by far the larger one. Our imitation of the emotions +which we see expressed brings vividness and affective tone into our +grasping of the play's action. We sympathize with the sufferer and that +means that the pain which he expresses becomes our own pain. We share +the joy of the happy lover and the grief of the despondent mourner, we +feel the indignation of the betrayed wife and the fear of the man in +danger. The visual perception of the various forms of expression of +these emotions fuses in our mind with the conscious awareness of the +emotion expressed; we feel as if we were directly seeing and observing +the emotion itself. Moreover the idea awakens in us the appropriate +reactions. The horror which we see makes us really shrink, the happiness +which we witness makes us relax, the pain which we observe brings +contractions in our muscles; and all the resulting sensations from +muscles, joints, tendons, from skin and viscera, from blood circulation +and breathing, give the color of living experience to the emotional +reflection in our mind. It is obvious that for this leading group of +emotions the relation of the pictures to the feelings of the persons in +the play and to the feelings of the spectator is exactly the same. If we +start from the emotions of the audience, we can say that the pain and +the joy which the spectator feels are really projected to the screen, +projected both into the portraits of the persons and into the pictures +of the scenery and background into which the personal emotions radiate. +The fundamental principle which we recognized for all the other mental +states is accordingly no less efficient in the case of the spectator's +emotions. + +The analysis of the mind of the audience must lead, however, to that +second group of emotions, those in which the spectator responds to the +scenes on the film from the standpoint of his independent affective +life. We see an overbearing pompous person who is filled with the +emotion of solemnity, and yet he awakens in us the emotion of humor. We +answer by our ridicule. We see the scoundrel who in the melodramatic +photoplay is filled with fiendish malice, and yet we do not respond by +imitating his emotion; we feel moral indignation toward his personality. +We see the laughing, rejoicing child who, while he picks the berries +from the edge of the precipice, is not aware that he must fall down if +the hero does not snatch him back at the last moment. Of course, we feel +the child's joy with him. Otherwise we should not even understand his +behaviour, but we feel more strongly the fear and the horror of which +the child himself does not know anything. The photoplaywrights have so +far hardly ventured to project this second class of emotion, which the +spectator superadds to the events, into the show on the screen. Only +tentative suggestions can be found. The enthusiasm or the disapproval +or indignation of the spectator is sometimes released in the lights and +shades and in the setting of the landscape. There are still rich +possibilities along this line. The photoplay has hardly come to its own +with regard to these secondary emotions. Here it has not emancipated +itself sufficiently from the model of the stage. Those emotions arise, +of course, in the audience of a theater too, but the dramatic stage +cannot embody them. In the opera the orchestra may symbolize them. For +the photoplay, which is not bound to the physical succession of events +but gives us only the pictorial reflection, there is an unlimited field +for the expression of these attitudes in ourselves. + +But the wide expansion of this field and of the whole manifoldness of +emotional possibilities in the moving pictures is not sufficiently +characterized as long as we think only of the optical representation in +the actual outer world. The camera men of the moving pictures have +photographed the happenings of the world and all its wonders, have gone +to the bottom of the sea and up to the clouds; they have surprised the +beasts in the jungles and in the Arctic ice; they have dwelt with the +lowest races and have captured the greatest men of our time: and they +are always haunted by the fear that the supply of new sensations may be +exhausted. Curiously enough, they have so far ignored the fact that an +inexhaustible wealth of new impressions is at their disposal, which has +hardly been touched as yet. There is a material and a formal side to the +pictures which we see in their rapid succession. The material side is +controlled by the content of what is shown to us. But the formal side +depends upon the outer conditions under which this content is exhibited. +Even with ordinary photographs we are accustomed to discriminate between +those in which every detail is very sharp and others, often much more +artistic, in which everything looks somewhat misty and blurring and in +which sharp outlines are avoided. We have this formal aspect, of course, +still more prominently if we see the same landscape or the same person +painted by a dozen different artists. Each one has his own style. Or, to +point to another elementary factor, the same series of moving pictures +may be given to us with a very slow or with a rapid turning of the +crank. It is the same street scene, and yet in the one case everyone on +the street seems leisurely to saunter along, while in the other case +there is a general rush and hurry. Nothing is changed but the temporal +form; and in going over from the sharp image to the blurring one, +nothing is changed but a certain spatial form: the content remains the +same. + +As soon as we give any interest to this formal aspect of the +presentation, we must recognize that the photoplaywright has here +possibilities to which nothing corresponds in the world of the stage. +Take the case that we want to produce an effect of trembling. We might +use the pictures as the camera has taken them, sixteen in a second. But +in reproducing them on the screen we change their order. After giving +the first four pictures we go back to picture 3, then give 4, 5, 6, and +return to 5, then 6, 7, 8, and go back to 7, and so on. Any other +rhythm, of course, is equally possible. The effect is one which never +occurs in nature and which could not be produced on the stage. The +events for a moment go backward. A certain vibration goes through the +world like the tremolo of the orchestra. Or we demand from our camera a +still more complex service. We put the camera itself on a slightly +rocking support and then every point must move in strange curves and +every motion takes an uncanny whirling character. The content still +remains the same as under normal conditions, but the changes in the +formal presentation give to the mind of the spectator unusual sensations +which produce a new shading of the emotional background. + +Of course, impressions which come to our eye can at first awaken only +sensations, and a sensation is not an emotion. But it is well known that +in the view of modern physiological psychology our consciousness of the +emotion itself is shaped and marked by the sensations which arise from +our bodily organs. As soon as such abnormal visual impressions stream +into our consciousness, our whole background of fusing bodily sensations +becomes altered and new emotions seem to take hold of us. If we see on +the screen a man hypnotized in the doctor's office, the patient himself +may lie there with closed eyes, nothing in his features expressing his +emotional setting and nothing radiating to us. But if now only the +doctor and the patient remain unchanged and steady, while everything in +the whole room begins at first to tremble and then to wave and to change +its form more and more rapidly so that a feeling of dizziness comes over +us and an uncanny, ghastly unnaturalness overcomes the whole surrounding +of the hypnotized person, we ourselves become seized by the strange +emotion. It is not worth while to go into further illustrations here, as +this possibility of the camera work still belongs entirely to the +future. It could not be otherwise as we remember that the whole moving +picture play arose from the slavish imitation of the drama and began +only slowly to find its own artistic methods. But there is no doubt that +the formal changes of the pictorial presentation will be legion as soon +as the photoartists give their attention to this neglected aspect. + +The value of these formal changes for the expression of the emotions may +become remarkable. The characteristic features of many an attitude and +feeling which cannot be expressed without words today will then be +aroused in the mind of the spectator through the subtle art of the +camera. + + + + + +PART II + +THE ESTHETICS OF THE PHOTOPLAY + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE PURPOSE OF ART + + +We have analyzed the mental functions which are most powerful in the +audience of the photoplay. We studied the mere act of perceiving the +pictures on the screen, of perceiving their apparently plastic +character, their depth, and their apparent movements. We turned then to +those psychical acts by which we respond to the perceived impressions. +In the foreground stood the act of attention, but then we followed the +play of associations, of memory, of imagination, of suggestion, and, +most important of all, we traced the distribution of interest. Finally +we spoke of the feelings and emotions with which we accompany the play. +Certainly all this does not exhaust the mental reactions which arise in +our mind when we witness a drama of the film. We have not spoken, for +instance, of the action which the plot of the story or its social +background may start in our soul. The suffering of the poor, the +injustice by which the weak may be forced into the path of crime, and a +hundred other social motives may be impressed on us by the photoplay; +thoughts about human society, about laws and reforms, about human +differences and human fates, may fill our mind. Yet this is not one of +the characteristic functions of the moving pictures. It is a side effect +which may set in just as it may result from reading the newspapers or +from hearing of practical affairs in life. But in all our discussions we +have also left out another mental process, namely, esthetic emotion. We +did speak about the emotions which the plot of the play stirs up. We +discussed the feelings in which we sympathize with the characters of the +scene, in which we share their suffering and their joy; and we also +spoke about that other group of emotions by which we take a mental +attitude toward the behaviour of the persons in the play. But there is +surely a third group of feelings and emotions which we have not yet +considered, namely, those of our joy in the play, our esthetic +satisfaction or dissatisfaction. We have omitted them intentionally, +because the study of this group of feelings involves a discussion of the +esthetic process as such, and we have left all the esthetic problems for +this second part of our investigation. + +If we disregard this pleasure or displeasure in the beauty of the +photoplay and reflect only on the processes of perception, attention, +interest, memory, imagination, suggestion, and emotion which we have +analyzed, we see that we everywhere come to the same result. One general +principle seemed to control the whole mental mechanism of the spectator, +or rather the relation between the mental mechanism and the pictures on +the screen. We recognized that in every case the objective world of +outer events had been shaped and molded until it became adjusted to the +subjective movements of the mind. The mind develops memory ideas and +imaginative ideas; in the moving pictures they become reality. The mind +concentrates itself on a special detail in its act of attention; and in +the close-up of the moving pictures this inner state is objectified. The +mind is filled with emotions; and by means of the camera the whole +scenery echoes them. Even in the most objective factor of the mind, the +perception, we find this peculiar oscillation. We perceive the movement; +and yet we perceive it as something which has not its independent +character as an outer world process, because our mind has built it up +from single pictures rapidly following one another. We perceive things +in their plastic depth; and yet again the depth is not that of the outer +world. We are aware of its unreality and of the pictorial flatness of +the impressions. + +In every one of these features the contrast to the mental impressions +from the real stage is obvious. There in the theater we know at every +moment that we see real plastic men before us, that they are really in +motion when they walk and talk and that, on the other hand, it is our +own doing and not a part of the play when our attention turns to this or +that detail, when our memory brings back events of the past, when our +imagination surrounds them with fancies and emotions. And here, it +seems, we have a definite starting point for an esthetic comparison. If +we raise the unavoidable question--how does the photoplay compare with +the drama?--we seem to have sufficient material on hand to form an +esthetic judgment. The verdict, it appears, can hardly be doubtful. Must +we not say art is imitation of nature? The drama can show us on the +stage a true imitation of real life. The scenes proceed just as they +would happen anywhere in the outer world. Men of flesh and blood with +really plastic bodies stand before us. They move like any moving body in +our surroundings. Moreover those happenings on the stage, just like the +events in life, are independent of our subjective attention and memory +and imagination. They go their objective course. Thus the theater comes +so near to its purpose of imitating the world of men that the comparison +with the photoplay suggests almost a disastrous failure of the art of +the film. The color of the world has disappeared, the persons are dumb, +no sound reaches our ear. The depth of the scene appears unreal, the +motion has lost its natural character. Worst of all, the objective +course of events is falsified; our own attention and memory and +imagination have shifted and remodeled the events until they look as +nature could never show them. What we really see can hardly be called +any longer an imitation of the world, such as the theater gives us. + +When the graphophone repeats a Beethoven symphony, the voluminousness of +the orchestra is reduced to a thin feeble surface sound, and no one +would accept this product of the disk and the diaphragm as a full +substitute for the performance of the real orchestra. But, after all, +every instrument is actually represented, and we can still discriminate +the violins and the celli and the flutes in exactly the same order and +tonal and rhythmic relation in which they appear in the original. The +graphophone music appears, therefore, much better fitted for replacing +the orchestra than the moving pictures are to be a substitute for the +theater. There all the essential elements seem conserved; here just the +essentials seem to be lost and the aim of the drama to imitate life with +the greatest possible reality seems hopelessly beyond the flat, +colorless pictures of the photoplay. Still more might we say that the +plaster of Paris cast is a fair substitute for the marble statue. It +shares with the beautiful marble work the same form and imitates the +body of the living man just as well as the marble statue. Moreover, +this product of the mechanical process has the same white color which +the original work of the sculptor possesses. Hence we must acknowledge +it as a fair approach to the plastic work of art. In the same way the +chromo print gives the essentials of the oil painting. Everywhere the +technical process has secured a reproduction of the work of art which +sounds or looks almost like the work of the great artist, and only the +technique of the moving pictures, which so clearly tries to reproduce +the theater performance, stands so utterly far behind the art of the +actor. Is not an esthetic judgment of rejection demanded by good taste +and sober criticism? We may tolerate the photoplay because, by the +inexpensive technical method which allows an unlimited multiplication of +the performances, it brings at least a shadow of the theater to the +masses who cannot afford to see real actors. But the cultivated mind +might better enjoy plaster of Paris casts and chromo prints and +graphophone music than the moving pictures with their complete failure +to give us the essentials of the real stage. + +We have heard this message, or if it was not expressed in clear words it +surely lingered for a long while in the minds of all those who had a +serious relation to art. It probably still prevails today among many, +even if they appreciate the more ambitious efforts of the +photoplaywrights in the most recent years. The philanthropic pleasure in +the furnishing of cheap entertainment and the recognition that a certain +advance has recently been made seem to alleviate the esthetic situation, +but the core of public opinion remains the same; the moving pictures are +no real art. + +And yet all this arguing and all this hasty settling of a most complex +problem is fundamentally wrong. It is based on entirely mistaken ideas +concerning the aims and purposes of art. If those errors were given up +and if the right understanding of the moving pictures were to take hold +of the community, nobody would doubt that the chromo print and the +graphophone and the plaster cast are indeed nothing but inexpensive +substitutes for art with many essential artistic elements left out, and +therefore ultimately unsatisfactory to a truly artistic taste. But +everybody would recognize at the same time that the relation of the +photoplay to the theater is a completely different one and that the +difference counts entirely in favor of the moving pictures. _They are +not and ought never to be imitations of the theater. They can never give +the esthetic values of the theater; but no more can the theater give the +esthetic values of the photoplay._ With the rise of the moving pictures +has come an entirely new independent art which must develop its own life +conditions. The moving pictures would indeed be a complete failure if +that popular theory of art which we suggested were right. But that +theory is wrong from beginning to end, and it must not obstruct the way +to a better insight which recognizes that the stage and the screen are +as fundamentally different as sculpture and painting, or as lyrics and +music. _The drama and the photoplay are two cooerdinated arts, each +perfectly valuable in itself._ The one cannot replace the other; and the +shortcomings of the one as against the other reflect only the fact that +the one has a history of fifteen years while the other has one of five +thousand. This is the thesis which we want to prove, and the first step +to it must be to ask: what is the aim of art if not the imitation of +reality? + +But can the claim that art imitates nature or rather that imitation is +the essence of art be upheld if we seriously look over the field of +artistic creations? Would it not involve the expectation that the +artistic value would be the greater, the more the ideal of imitation is +approached? A perfect imitation which looks exactly like the original +would give us the highest art. Yet every page in the history of art +tells us the opposite. We admire the marble statue and we despise as +inartistic the colored wax figures. There is no difficulty in producing +colored wax figures which look so completely like real persons that the +visitor at an exhibit may easily be deceived and may ask information +from the wax man leaning over the railing. On the other hand what a +tremendous distance between reality and the marble statue with its +uniform white surface! It could never deceive us and as an imitation it +would certainly be a failure. Is it different with a painting? Here the +color may be quite similar to the original, but unlike the marble it has +lost its depth and shows us nature on a flat surface. Again we could +never be deceived, and it is not the painter's ambition to make us +believe for a moment that reality is before us. Moreover neither the +sculptor nor the painter gives us less valuable work when they offer us +a bust or a painted head only instead of the whole figure; and yet we +have never seen in reality a human body ending at the chest. We admire a +fine etching hardly less than a painting. Here we have neither the +plastic effect of the sculpture nor the color of the painting. The +essential features of the real model are left out. As an imitation it +would fail disastrously. What is imitated in a lyric poem? Through more +than two thousand years we have appreciated the works of the great +dramatists who had their personages speak in the rhythms of metrical +language. Every iambic verse is a deviation from reality. If they had +tried to imitate nature Antigone and Hamlet would have spoken the prose +of daily life. Does a beautiful arch or dome or tower of a building +imitate any part of reality? Is its architectural value dependent upon +the similarity to nature? Or does the melody or harmony in music offer +an imitation of the surrounding world? + +Wherever we examine without prejudice the mental effects of true works +of art in literature or music, in painting or sculpture, in decorative +arts or architecture, we find that the central esthetic value is +directly opposed to the spirit of imitation. A work of art may and must +start from something which awakens in us the interests of reality and +which contains traits of reality, and to that extent it cannot avoid +some imitation. But _it becomes art just in so far as it overcomes +reality, stops imitating and leaves the imitated reality behind it_. It +is artistic just in so far as it does not imitate reality but changes +the world, selects from it special features for new purposes, remodels +the world and is through this truly creative. To imitate the world is a +mechanical process; to transform the world so that it becomes a thing of +beauty is the purpose of art. The highest art may be furthest removed +from reality. + +We have not even the right to say that this process of selection from +reality means that we keep the beautiful elements of it and simply omit +and eliminate the ugly ones. This again is not in the least +characteristic of art, however often the popular mind may couple this +superficial idea with that other one, that art consists of imitation. It +is not true that the esthetic value depends upon the beauty of the +selected material. The men and women whom Rembrandt painted were not +beautiful persons. The ugliest woman may be the subject of a most +beautiful painting. The so-called beautiful landscape may, of course, be +material for a beautiful landscape painting, but the chances are great +that such a pretty vista will attract the dilettante and not the real +artist who knows that the true value of his painting is independent of +the prettiness of the model. He knows that a muddy country road or a +dirty city street or a trivial little pond may be the material for +immortal pictures. He who writes literature does not select scenes of +life which are beautiful in themselves, scenes which we would have liked +to live through, full of radiant happiness and joy; he does not +eliminate from his picture of life that which is disturbing to the peace +of the soul, repellant and ugly and immoral. On the contrary, all the +great works of literature have shown us dark shades of life beside the +light ones. They have spoken of unhappiness and pain as often as of joy. +We have suffered with our poets, and in so far as the musical composer +expresses the emotions of life the great symphonies have been full of +pathos and tragedy. True art has always been selection, but never +selection of the beautiful elements in outer reality. + +But if the esthetic value is independent of the imitative approach to +reality and independent of the elimination of unpleasant elements or of +the collection and addition of pleasant traits, what does the artist +really select and combine in his creation? How does he shape the world? +How does nature look when it has been remolded by the artistic +temperament and imagination? What is left of the real landscape when the +engraver's needle has sketched it? What is left of the tragic events in +real life when the lyric poet has reshaped them in a few rhymed stanzas? +Perhaps we may bring the characteristic features of the process most +easily to recognition if we contrast them with another kind of reshaping +process. The same landscape which the artist sketches, the same historic +event which the lyric poet interprets in his verses, may be grasped by +the human mind in a wholly different way. We need only think of the +scientific work of the scholar. He too may have the greatest interest in +the landscape which the engraver has rendered: the tree on the edge of +the rock, torn by the storm, and at the foot of the cliff the sea with +its whitecapped waves. He too is absorbed by the tragic death of a +Lincoln. But what is the scholar's attitude? Is it his aim to reproduce +the landscape or the historic event? Certainly not. The meaning of +science and scholarship and of knowledge in general would be completely +misunderstood if their aim were thought to be simply the repeating of +the special facts in reality. The scientist tries to explain the facts, +and even his description is meant to serve his explanation. He turns to +that tree on the cliff with the interest of studying its anatomical +structure. He examines with a microscope the cells of those tissues in +the branches and leaves in order that he may explain the growth of the +tree and its development from the germ. The storm which whips its +branches is to him a physical process for which he seeks the causes, far +removed. The sea is to him a substance which he resolves in his +laboratory into its chemical elements and which he explains by tracing +the geological changes on the surface of the earth. + +In short, the scientist is not interested in that particular object +only, but in its connections with the total universe. He explains the +event by a reference to general laws which are effective everywhere. +Every single growth and movement is linked by him with the endless chain +of causes and effects. He surely reshapes the experience in connecting +every single impression with the totality of events, in finding the +general in the particular, in transforming the given facts into the +scientific scheme of an atomistic universe. It is not different from the +historical event. To the scholarly historian the death of Lincoln is +meaningless if it is not seen in its relation to and connection with the +whole history of the Civil War and if this again is not understood as +the result of the total development of the United States. And who can +understand the growth of the United States, unless the whole of modern +history is seen as a background and unless the ideas of state philosophy +which have built up the American democracy are grasped in their +connection with the whole story of European political thought in +preceding centuries? The scholar may turn to natural or to social +events, to waves or trees or men: every process and action in the world +gains interest for him only by being connected with other things and +events. Every point which he marks is the nodal point for numberless +relations. To grasp a fact in the sense of scholarly knowledge means to +see it in all its connections, and the work of the scholar is not simply +to hold the fact as he becomes aware of it but to trace the connections +and to supplement them by his thought until a completed system of +interrelated facts in science or in history is established. + +Now we are better prepared to recognize the characteristic function of +the artist. He is doing exactly the opposite of what the scholar is +aiming at. Both are changing and remolding the given thing or event in +the interest of their ideal aims. But the ideal aim of beauty and art is +in complete contrast to the ideal aim of scholarly knowledge. The +scholar, we see, establishes connections by which the special thing +loses all character of separateness. He binds it to all the remainder of +the physical and social universe. The artist, on the contrary, cuts off +every possible connection. He puts his landscape into a frame so that +every possible link with the surrounding world is severed. He places +his statue on a pedestal so that it cannot possibly step into the room +around it. He makes his persons speak in verse so that they cannot +possibly be connected with the intercourse of the day. He tells his +story so that nothing can happen after the last chapter. _The work of +art shows us the things and events perfectly complete in themselves, +freed from all connections which lead beyond their own limits, that is, +in perfect isolation._ + +Both the truth which the scholar discovers and the beauty which the +artist creates are valuable; but it is now clear that the value in both +cases lies not in the mere repetition of the offerings of reality. There +is no reason whatever for appreciating a mere imitation or repetition of +that which exists in the world. Neither the scholar nor the artist could +do better than nature or history. The value in both cases lies just in +the deviation from reality in the service of human desires and ideals. +The desire and ideal of the scholar is to give us an interconnected +world in which we understand everything by its being linked with +everything else; and the desire and ideal of the artist in every +possible art is to give us things which are freed from the connection +of the world and which stand before us complete in themselves. The +things of the outer world have thousandfold ties with nature and +history. An object becomes beautiful when it is delivered from these +ties, and in order to secure this result we must take it away from the +background of reality and reproduce it in such a form that it is +unmistakably different from the real things which are enchained by the +causes and effects of nature. + +Why does this satisfy us? Why is it valuable to have a part of nature or +life liberated from all connection with the world? Why does it make us +happy to see anything in its perfect isolation, an isolation which real +life seldom offers and which only art can give in complete perfection? +The motives which lead us to value the product of the scholar are easily +recognized. He aims toward connection. He reshapes the world until it +appears connected, because that helps us to foresee the effects of every +event and teaches us to master nature so that we can use it for our +practical achievements. But why do we appreciate no less the opposite +work which the artist is doing? Might we not answer that this enjoyment +of the artistic work results from the fact that only in contact with an +isolated experience can we feel perfectly happy? Whatever we meet in +life or nature awakes in us desires, impulses to action, suggestions and +questions which must be answered. Life is a continuous striving. Nothing +is an end in itself and therefore nothing is a source of complete rest. +Everything is a stimulus to new wishes, a source of new uneasiness which +longs for new satisfaction in the next and again the next thing. Life +pushes us forward. Yet sometimes a touch of nature comes to us; we are +stirred by a thrill of life which awakens plenty of impulses but which +offers satisfaction to all these impulses in itself. It does not lead +beyond itself but contains in its own midst everything which answers the +questions, which brings the desires to rest. + +Wherever we meet such an offering of nature, we call it beautiful. We +speak of the beautiful landscape, of the beautiful face. And wherever we +meet it in life, we speak of love, of friendship, of peace, of harmony. +The word harmony may even cover both nature and life. Wherever it +happens that every line and every curve and every color and every +movement in the landscape is so harmonious with all the others that +every suggestion which one stirs up is satisfied by another, there it is +perfect and we are completely happy in it. In the life relations of love +and friendship and peace, there is again this complete harmony of +thought and feeling and will, in which every desire is satisfied. If our +own mind is in such flawless harmony, we feel the true happiness which +crowns our life. Such harmony, in which every part is the complete +fulfillment of that which the other parts demand, when nothing is +suggested which is not fulfilled in the midst of the same experience, +where nothing points beyond and everything is complete in the offering +itself, must be a source of inexhaustible happiness. To remold nature +and life so that it offers such complete harmony in itself that it does +not point beyond its own limits but is an ultimate unity through the +harmony of its parts: this is the aim of the isolation which the artist +alone achieves. That restful happiness which the beautiful landscape or +the harmonious life relation can furnish us in blessed instants of our +struggling life is secured as a joy forever when the painter or the +sculptor, the dramatist or the poet, the composer or the +photoplaywright, recomposes nature and life and shows us a unity which +does not lead beyond itself but is in itself perfectly harmonious. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE MEANS OF THE VARIOUS ARTS + + +We have sought the aim which underlies all artistic creation and were +led in this search to paths which seem far away from our special +problem, the art of the photoplay. Yet we have steadily come nearer to +it. We had to go the longer way because there can be no other method to +reach a decision concerning the esthetic value and significance of the +photoplay. We must clearly see what art in general aims at if we want to +recognize the relative standing of the film art and the art of the +theater. If we superficially accept the popular idea that the value of +the photoplay is to be measured by the nearness with which it approaches +the standards of the real theater and that the task of the theater is to +imitate life as closely as possible, the esthetic condemnation of the +photoplay is necessary. The pictures on the screen then stand far +behind the actual playing on the stage in every respect. But if we find +that the aim of art, including the dramatic art, is not to imitate life +but to reset it in a way which is totally different from reality, then +an entirely new perspective is opened. The dramatic way may then be only +one of the artistic possibilities. The kinematoscopic way may be +another, which may have entirely different methods and yet may be just +as valuable and esthetically pure as the art of the theater. The drama +and the photoplay may serve the purpose of art with equal sincerity and +perfection and may reach the same goal with sharply contrasting means. +Our next step, which brings us directly to the threshold of the +photoplayhouse, is, accordingly, to study the difference of the various +methods which the different arts use for their common purpose. What +characterizes a particular art as such? When we have recognized the +special traits of the traditional arts we shall be better prepared to +ask whether the methods of the photoplay do not characterize this film +creation also as a full-fledged art, cooerdinated with the older forms of +beauty. + +We saw that the aim of every art is to isolate some object of experience +in nature or social life in such a way that it becomes complete in +itself, and satisfies by itself every demand which it awakens. If every +desire which it stimulates is completely fulfilled by its own parts, +that is, if it is a complete harmony, we, the spectators, the listeners, +the readers, are perfectly satisfied, and this complete satisfaction is +the characteristic esthetic joy. The first demand which is involved in +this characterization of art is that the offering of the artist shall +really awaken interests, as only a constant stirring up of desires +together with their constant fulfillment keeps the flame of esthetic +enjoyment alive. When nothing stirs us, when nothing interests us, we +are in a state of indifference outside the realm of art. This also +separates the esthetic pleasure from the ordinary selfish pleasures of +life. They are based on the satisfaction of desires, too, but a kind of +satisfaction through which the desire itself disappears. The pleasure in +a meal, to be sure, can have its esthetic side, as often the harmony of +the tastes and odors and sights of a rich feast may be brought to a +certain artistic perfection. But mere pleasure in eating has no +esthetic value, as the object is destroyed by the partaking and not only +the cake disappears but also our desire for the cake when the desire is +fulfilled and we are satiated. The work of art aims to keep both the +demand and its fulfillment forever awake. + +But then this stirring up of interests demands more than anything else a +careful selection of those features in reality which ought to be +admitted into the work of art. A thousand traits of the landscape are +trivial and insignificant and most of what happens in the social life +around us, even where a great action is going on, is in itself +commonplace and dull and without consequences for the event which stirs +us. The very first requirement for the artistic creation is therefore +the elimination of the indifferent, the selection of those features of +the complex offering of nature or social life which tell the real story, +which express the true emotional values and which suggest the interest +for everything which is involved in this particular episode of the +world. But this leads on to the natural consequence, that the artist +must not only select the important traits, but must artificially +heighten their power and increase their strength. We spoke of the +landscape with the tree on the rock and the roaring surf, and we saw how +the scientist studies its smallest elements, the cells of the tree, the +molecules of the seawater and of the rock. How differently does the +artist proceed! He does not care even for the single leaves which the +photographer might reproduce. If a painter renders such a landscape with +his masterly brush, he gives us only the leading movements of those +branches which the storm tears, and the great swing in the curve of the +wave. But those forceful lines of the billows, those sharp contours of +the rock, contain everything which expresses their spirit. + +It is not different with the author who writes a historical novel or +drama. Every man's life is crowded with the trivialities of the day. The +scholarly historian may have to look into them; the artist selects those +events in his hero's life which truly express his personality and which +are fit to sustain the significant plot. The more he brings those few +elements out of the many into sharp relief, the more he stimulates our +interest and makes us really feel with the persons of his novel or +drama. The sculptor even selects one single position. He cannot, like +the painter, give us any background, he cannot make his hero move as on +the theater stage. The marble statue makes the one position of the hero +everlasting, but this is so selected that all the chance aspects and +fleeting gestures of the real man appear insignificant compared with the +one most expressive and most characteristic position which is chosen. + +However far this selection of the essential traits removes the artistic +creation from the mere imitative reproduction of the world, a much +greater distance from reality results from a second need if the work is +to fulfill the purposes of art. We saw that we have art only when the +work is isolated, that is, when it fulfills every demand in itself and +does not point beyond itself. This can be done only if it is sharply set +off from the sphere of our practical interests. Whatever enters into our +practical sphere links itself with our impulses to real action and the +action would involve a change, an intrusion, an influence from without. +As long as we have the desire to change anything, the work is not +complete in itself. The relation of the work to us as persons must not +enter into our awareness of it at all. As soon as it does, that complete +restfulness of the esthetic enjoyment is lost. Then the object becomes +simply a part of our practical surroundings. The fundamental condition +of art, therefore, is that we shall be distinctly conscious of the +unreality of the artistic production, and that means that it must be +absolutely separated from the real things and men, that it must be +isolated and kept in its own sphere. As soon as a work of art tempts us +to take it as a piece of reality, it has been dragged into the sphere of +our practical action, which means our desire to put ourselves into +connection with it. Its completeness in itself is lost and its value for +our esthetic enjoyment has faded away. + +Now we understand why it is necessary that each art should have its +particular method for fundamentally changing reality. Now we recognize +that it is by no means a weakness of sculpture that the marble statue +has not the colors of life but a whiteness unlike any human being. Nor +does it appear a deficiency in the painting or the drawing that it can +offer two dimensions only and has no means to show us the depth of real +nature. Now we grasp why the poet expresses his feelings and thoughts in +the entirely unnatural language of rhythms and rhymes. Now we see why +every work of art has its frame or its base or its stage. Everything +serves that central purpose, the separation of the offered experience +from the background of our real life. When we have a painted garden +before us, we do not want to pick the flowers from the beds and break +the fruit from the branches. The flatness of the picture tells us that +this is no reality, in spite of the fact that the size of the painting +may not be different from that of the windowpane through which we see a +real garden. We have no thought of bringing a chair or a warm coat for +the woman in marble. The work which the sculptor created stands before +us in a space into which we cannot enter, and because it is entirely +removed from the reality toward which our actions are directed we become +esthetic spectators only. The smile of the marble girl wins us as if it +came from a living one, but we do not respond to her welcome. Just as +she appears in her marble form she is complete in herself without any +relation to us or to anyone else. The very difference from reality has +given her that self-sustained perfect life. + +If we read in a police report about burglaries, we may lock our house +more securely; if we read about a flood, we may send our mite; if we +read about an elopement, we may try to find out what happened later. But +if we read about all these in a short story, we have esthetic enjoyment +only if the author somehow makes it perfectly clear to us by the form of +the description that this burglary and flood and elopement do not belong +to our real surroundings and exist only in the world of imagination. The +extreme case comes to us in the theater performance. We see there real +human beings a few feet from us; we see in the melodrama how the villain +approaches his victim from behind with a dagger; we feel indignation and +anger: and yet we have not the slightest desire to jump up on the stage +and stay his arm. The artificial setting of the stage, the lighted +proscenium before the dark house, have removed the whole action from the +world which is connected with our own deeds. The consciousness of +unreality, which the theater has forced on us, is the condition for our +dramatic interest in the events presented. If we were really deceived +and only for a moment took the stage quarrel and stage crime to be real, +we would at once be removed from the height of esthetic joy to the level +of common experience. + +We must take one step more. We need not only the complete separation +from reality by the changed forms of experience, but we must demand also +that this unreal thing or event shall be complete in itself. The artist, +therefore, must do whatever is needed to satisfy the demands which any +part awakens. If one line in the painting suggests a certain mood and +movement, the other lines must take it up and the colors must sympathize +with it and they all must agree with the pictured content. The tension +which one scene in the drama awakens must be relieved by another. +Nothing must remain unexplained and nothing unfinished. We do not want +to know what is going on behind the hills of the landscape painting or +what the couple in the comedy will do after the engagement in the last +act. On the other hand, if the artist adds elements which are in harmony +with the demands of the other parts, they are esthetically valuable, +however much they may differ from the actual happenings in the outer +world. In the painting the mermaid may have her tail and the sculptured +child may have his angel wings and fairies may appear on the stage. In +short, every demand which is made by the purpose of true art removes us +from reality and is contrary to the superficial claim that art ought to +rest on skillful imitation. The true victory of art lies in the +overcoming of the real appearance and every art is genuine which +fulfills this esthetic desire for history or for nature, in its own way. + +The number of ways cannot be determined beforehand. By the study of +painting and etching and drawing merely, we could not foresee that there +is also possible an art like sculpture, and by studying epic and lyric +poetry we could not construct beforehand the forms of the drama. The +genius of mankind had to discover ever new forms in which the interest +in reality is conserved and yet the things and events are so completely +changed that they are separated from all possible reality, isolated from +all connections and made complete in themselves. We have not yet spoken +about the one art which gives us this perfect satisfaction in the +isolated material, satisfies every demand which it awakens, and yet +which is further removed from the reality we know than any other +artistic creation, music. Those tones with which the composer builds up +his melodies and harmonies are not parts of the world in which we live +at all. None of our actions in practical life is related to tones from +musical instruments, and yet the tones of a symphony may arouse in us +the deepest emotions, the most solemn feelings and the most joyful ones. +They are symbols of our world which bring with them its sadness and its +happiness. We feel the rhythm of the tones, fugitive, light and joyful, +or quiet, heavy and sustained, and they impress us as energies which +awaken our own impulses, our own tensions and relaxations. + +We enter into the play of those tones which with their intervals and +their instrumental tone color appear like a wonderful mosaic of +agreements and disagreements. Yet each disagreement resolves itself into +a new agreement. Those tones seek one another. They have a life of their +own, complete in itself. We do not want to change it. Our mind simply +echoes their desires and their satisfaction. We feel with them and are +happy in their ultimate agreement without which no musical melody would +be beautiful. Bound by the inner law which is proclaimed by the first +tones every coming tone is prepared. The whole tone movement points +toward the next one. It is a world of inner self-agreement like that of +the colors in a painting, of the curves in a work of sculpture, like the +rhythms and rhymes in a stanza. But beyond the mere self-agreement of +the tones and rhythms as such, the musical piece as a whole unveils to +us a world of emotion. Music does not depict the physical nature which +fine arts bring to us, nor the social world which literature embraces, +but the inner world with its abundance of feelings and excitements. It +isolates our inner experience and within its limits brings it to that +perfect self-agreement which is the characteristic of every art. + +We might easily trace further the various means by which each particular +art overcomes the chaos of the world and renders a part of it in a +perfectly isolated form in which all elements are in mutual agreement. +We might develop out of this fundamental demand of art all the special +forms which are characteristic in its various fields. We might also +turn to the applied arts, to architecture, to arts and crafts, and so on +and see how new rules must arise from the combination of purely artistic +demands and those of practical utility. But this would lead us too far +into esthetic theory, while our aim is to push forward toward the +problem of the photoplay. Of painting, of drama, and of music we had to +speak because with them the photoplay does share certain important +conditions and accordingly certain essential forms of rendering the +world. Each element of the photoplay is a picture, flat like that which +the painter creates, and the pictorial character is fundamental for the +art of the film. But surely the photoplay shares many conditions with +the drama on the stage. The presentation of conflicting action among men +in dramatic scenes is the content, on the stage as on the screen. Our +chief claim, however, was that we falsify the meaning of the photoplay +if we simply subordinate it to the esthetic conditions of the drama. It +is different from mere pictures and it is different from the drama, too, +however much relation it has to both. But we come nearer to the +understanding of its true position in the esthetic world, if we think +at the same time of that other art upon which we touched, the art of the +musical tones. They have overcome the outer world and the social world +entirely, they unfold our inner life, our mental play, with its feelings +and emotions, its memories and fancies, in a material which seems exempt +from the laws of the world of substance and material, tones which are +fluttering and fleeting like our own mental states. Of course, a +photoplay is not a piece of music. Its material is not sound but light. +But the photoplay is not music in the same sense in which it is not +drama and not pictures. It shares something with all of them. It stands +somewhere among and apart from them and just for this reason it is an +art of a particular type which must be understood through its own +conditions and for which its own esthetic rules must be traced instead +of drawing them simply from the rules of the theater. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +THE MEANS OF THE PHOTOPLAY + + +We have now reached the point at which we can knot together all our +threads, the psychological and the esthetic ones. If we do so, we come +to the true thesis of this whole book. Our esthetic discussion showed us +that it is the aim of art to isolate a significant part of our +experience in such a way that it is separate from our practical life and +is in complete agreement within itself. Our esthetic satisfaction +results from this inner agreement and harmony, but in order that we may +feel such agreement of the parts we must enter with our own impulses +into the will of every element, into the meaning of every line and color +and form, every word and tone and note. Only if everything is full of +such inner movement can we really enjoy the harmonious cooeperation of +the parts. The means of the various arts, we saw, are the forms and +methods by which this aim is fulfilled. They must be different for every +material. Moreover the same material may allow very different methods of +isolation and elimination of the insignificant and reenforcement of that +which contributes to the harmony. If we ask now what are the +characteristic means by which the photoplay succeeds in overcoming +reality, in isolating a significant dramatic story and in presenting it +so that we enter into it and yet keep it away from our practical life +and enjoy the harmony of the parts, we must remember all the results to +which our psychological discussion in the first part of the book has led +us. + +We recognized there that the photoplay, incomparable in this respect +with the drama, gave us a view of dramatic events which was completely +shaped by the inner movements of the mind. To be sure, the events in the +photoplay happen in the real space with its depth. But the spectator +feels that they are not presented in the three dimensions of the outer +world, that they are flat pictures which only the mind molds into +plastic things. Again the events are seen in continuous movement; and +yet the pictures break up the movement into a rapid succession of +instantaneous impressions. We do not see the objective reality, but a +product of our own mind which binds the pictures together. But much +stronger differences came to light when we turned to the processes of +attention, of memory, of imagination, of suggestion, of division of +interest and of emotion. The attention turns to detailed points in the +outer world and ignores everything else: the photoplay is doing exactly +this when in the close-up a detail is enlarged and everything else +disappears. Memory breaks into present events by bringing up pictures of +the past: the photoplay is doing this by its frequent cut-backs, when +pictures of events long past flit between those of the present. The +imagination anticipates the future or overcomes reality by fancies and +dreams; the photoplay is doing all this more richly than any chance +imagination would succeed in doing. But chiefly, through our division of +interest our mind is drawn hither and thither. We think of events which +run parallel in different places. The photoplay can show in intertwined +scenes everything which our mind embraces. Events in three or four or +five regions of the world can be woven together into one complex action. +Finally, we saw that every shade of feeling and emotion which fills the +spectator's mind can mold the scenes in the photoplay until they appear +the embodiment of our feelings. In every one of these aspects the +photoplay succeeds in doing what the drama of the theater does not +attempt. + +If this is the outcome of esthetic analysis on the one side, of +psychological research on the other, we need only combine the results of +both into a unified principle: _the photoplay tells us the human story +by overcoming the forms of the outer world, namely, space, time, and +causality, and by adjusting the events to the forms of the inner world, +namely, attention, memory, imagination, and emotion._ + +We shall gain our orientation most directly if once more, under this +point of view, we compare the photoplay with the performance on the +theater stage. We shall not enter into a discussion of the character of +the regular theater and its drama. We take this for granted. Everybody +knows that highest art form which the Greeks created and which from +Greece has spread over Asia, Europe, and America. In tragedy and in +comedy from ancient times to Ibsen, Rostand, Hauptmann, and Shaw we +recognize one common purpose and one common form for which no further +commentary is needed. How does the photoplay differ from a theater +performance? We insisted that every work of art must be somehow +separated from our sphere of practical interests. The theater is no +exception. The structure of the theater itself, the framelike form of +the stage, the difference of light between stage and house, the stage +setting and costuming, all inhibit in the audience the possibility of +taking the action on the stage to be real life. Stage managers have +sometimes tried the experiment of reducing those differences, for +instance, keeping the audience also in a fully lighted hall, and they +always had to discover how much the dramatic effect was reduced because +the feeling of distance from reality was weakened. The photoplay and the +theater in this respect are evidently alike. The screen too suggests +from the very start the complete unreality of the events. + +But each further step leads us to remarkable differences between the +stage play and the film play. In every respect the film play is further +away from the physical reality than the drama and in every respect this +greater distance from the physical world brings it nearer to the mental +world. The stage shows us living men. It is not the real Romeo and not +the real Juliet; and yet the actor and the actress have the ringing +voices of true people, breathe like them, have living colors like them, +and fill physical space like them. What is left in the photoplay? The +voice has been stilled: the photoplay is a dumb show. Yet we must not +forget that this alone is a step away from reality which has often been +taken in the midst of the dramatic world. Whoever knows the history of +the theater is aware of the tremendous role which the pantomime has +played in the development of mankind. From the old half-religious +pantomimic and suggestive dances out of which the beginnings of the real +drama grew to the fully religious pantomimes of medieval ages and, +further on, to many silent mimic elements in modern performances, we +find a continuity of conventions which make the pantomime almost the +real background of all dramatic development. We know how popular the +pantomimes were among the Greeks, and how they stood in the foreground +in the imperial period of Rome. Old Rome cherished the mimic clowns, but +still more the tragic pantomimics. "Their very nod speaks, their hands +talk and their fingers have a voice." After the fall of the Roman empire +the church used the pantomime for the portrayal of sacred history, and +later centuries enjoyed very unsacred histories in the pantomimes of +their ballets. Even complex artistic tragedies without words have +triumphed on our present-day stage. "L'Enfant Prodigue" which came from +Paris, "Sumurun" which came from Berlin, "Petroushka" which came from +Petrograd, conquered the American stage; and surely the loss of speech, +while it increased the remoteness from reality, by no means destroyed +the continuous consciousness of the bodily existence of the actors. + +Moreover the student of a modern pantomime cannot overlook a +characteristic difference between the speechless performance on the +stage and that of the actors of a photoplay. The expression of the inner +states, the whole system of gestures, is decidedly different: and here +we might say that the photoplay stands nearer to life than the +pantomime. Of course, the photoplayer must somewhat exaggerate the +natural expression. The whole rhythm and intensity of his gestures must +be more marked than it would be with actors who accompany their +movements by spoken words and who express the meaning of their thoughts +and feelings by the content of what they say. Nevertheless the +photoplayer uses the regular channels of mental discharge. He acts +simply as a very emotional person might act. But the actor who plays in +a pantomime cannot be satisfied with that. He is expected to add +something which is entirely unnatural, namely a kind of artificial +demonstration of his emotions. He must not only behave like an angry +man, but he must behave like a man who is consciously interested in his +anger and wants to demonstrate it to others. He exhibits his emotions +for the spectators. He really acts theatrically for the benefit of the +bystanders. If he did not try to do so, his means of conveying a rich +story and a real conflict of human passions would be too meager. The +photoplayer, with the rapid changes of scenes, has other possibilities +of conveying his intentions. He must not yield to the temptation to play +a pantomime on the screen, or he will seriously injure the artistic +quality of the reel. + +The really decisive distance from bodily reality, however, is created by +the substitution of the actor's picture for the actor himself. Lights +and shades replace the manifoldness of color effects and mere +perspective must furnish the suggestion of depth. We traced it when we +discussed the psychology of kinematoscopic perception. But we must not +put the emphasis on the wrong point. The natural tendency might be to +lay the chief stress on the fact that those people in the photoplay do +not stand before us in flesh and blood. The essential point is rather +that we are conscious of the flatness of the picture. If we were to see +the actors of the stage in a mirror, it would also be a reflected image +which we perceive. We should not really have the actors themselves in +our straight line of vision; and yet this image would appear to us +equivalent to the actors themselves, because it would contain all the +depth of the real stage. The film picture is such a reflected rendering +of the actors. The process which leads from the living men to the screen +is more complex than a mere reflection in a mirror, but in spite of the +complexity in the transmission we do, after all, see the real actor in +the picture. The photograph is absolutely different from those pictures +which a clever draughtsman has sketched. In the photoplay we see the +actors themselves and the decisive factor which makes the impression +different from seeing real men is not that we see the living persons +through the medium of photographic reproduction but that this +reproduction shows them in a flat form. The bodily space has been +eliminated. We said once before that stereoscopic arrangements could +reproduce somewhat this plastic form also. Yet this would seriously +interfere with the character of the photoplay. We need there this +overcoming of the depth, we want to have it as a picture only and yet as +a picture which strongly suggests to us the actual depth of the real +world. We want to keep the interest in the plastic world and want to be +aware of the depth in which the persons move, but our direct object of +perception must be without the depth. That idea of space which forces +on us most strongly the idea of heaviness, solidity and substantiality +must be replaced by the light flitting immateriality. + +But the photoplay sacrifices not only the space values of the real +theater; it disregards no less its order of time. The theater presents +its plot in the time order of reality. It may interrupt the continuous +flow of time without neglecting the conditions of the dramatic art. +There may be twenty years between the third and the fourth act, inasmuch +as the dramatic writer must select those elements spread over space and +time which are significant for the development of his story. But he is +bound by the fundamental principle of real time, that it can move only +forward and not backward. Whatever the theater shows us now must come +later in the story than that which it showed us in any previous moment. +The strict classical demand for complete unity of time does not fit +every drama, but a drama would give up its mission if it told us in the +third act something which happened before the second act. Of course, +there may be a play within a play, and the players on the stage which is +set on the stage may play events of old Roman history before the king +of France. But this is an enclosure of the past in the present, which +corresponds exactly to the actual order of events. The photoplay, on the +other hand, does not and must not respect this temporal structure of the +physical universe. At any point the photoplay interrupts the series and +brings us back to the past. We studied this unique feature of the film +art when we spoke of the psychology of memory and imagination. With the +full freedom of our fancy, with the whole mobility of our association of +ideas, pictures of the past flit through the scenes of the present. Time +is left behind. Man becomes boy; today is interwoven with the day before +yesterday. The freedom of the mind has triumphed over the unalterable +law of the outer world. + +It is interesting to watch how playwrights nowadays try to steal the +thunder of the photoplay and experiment with time reversals on the +legitimate stage. We are esthetically on the borderland when a +grandfather tells his grandchild the story of his own youth as a +warning, and instead of the spoken words the events of his early years +come before our eyes. This is, after all, quite similar to a play +within a play. A very different experiment is tried in "Under Cover." +The third act, which plays on the second floor of the house, ends with +an explosion. The fourth act, which plays downstairs, begins a quarter +of an hour before the explosion. Here we have a real denial of a +fundamental condition of the theater. Or if we stick to recent products +of the American stage, we may think of "On Trial," a play which perhaps +comes nearest to a dramatic usurpation of the rights of the photoplay. +We see the court scene and as one witness after another begins to give +his testimony the courtroom is replaced by the scenes of the actions +about which the witness is to report. Another clever play, "Between the +Lines," ends the first act with a postman bringing three letters from +the three children of the house. The second, third, and fourth acts lead +us to the three different homes from which the letters came and the +action in the three places not only precedes the writing of the letters; +but goes on at the same time. The last act, finally, begins with the +arrival of the letters which tell the ending of those events in the +three homes. Such experiments are very suggestive but they are not any +longer pure dramatic art. It is always possible to mix arts. An Italian +painter produces very striking effects by putting pieces of glass and +stone and rope into his paintings, but they are no longer pure +paintings. The drama in which the later event comes before the earlier +is an esthetic barbarism which is entertaining as a clever trick in a +graceful superficial play, but intolerable in ambitious dramatic art. It +is not only tolerable but perfectly natural in any photoplay. The +pictorial reflection of the world is not bound by the rigid mechanism of +time. Our mind is here and there, our mind turns to the present and then +to the past: the photoplay can equal it in its freedom from the bondage +of the material world. + +But the theater is bound not only by space and time. Whatever it shows +is controlled by the same laws of causality which govern nature. This +involves a complete continuity of the physical events: no cause without +following effect, no effect without preceding cause. This whole natural +course is left behind in the play on the screen. The deviation from +reality begins with that resolution of the continuous movement which we +studied in our psychological discussions. We saw that the impression of +movement results from an activity of the mind which binds the separate +pictures together. What we actually see is a composite; it is like the +movement of a fountain in which every jet is resolved into numberless +drops. We feel the play of those drops in their sparkling haste as one +continuous stream of water, and yet are conscious of the myriads of +drops, each one separate from the others. This fountainlike spray of +pictures has completely overcome the causal world. + +In an entirely different form this triumph over causality appears in the +interruption of the events by pictures which belong to another series. +We find this whenever the scene suddenly changes. The processes are not +carried to their natural consequences. A movement is started, but before +the cause brings its results another scene has taken its place. What +this new scene brings may be an effect for which we saw no causes. But +not only the processes are interrupted. The intertwining of the scenes +which we have traced in detail is itself such a contrast to causality. +It is as if different objects could fill the same space at the same +time. It is as if the resistance of the material world had disappeared +and the substances could penetrate one another. In the interlacing of +our ideas we experience this superiority to all physical laws. The +theater would not have even the technical means to give us such +impressions, but if it had, it would have no right to make use of them, +as it would destroy the basis on which the drama is built. We have only +another case of the same type in those series of pictures which aim to +force a suggestion on our mind. We have spoken of them. A certain effect +is prepared by a chain of causes and yet when the causal result is to +appear the film is cut off. We have the causes without the effect. The +villain thrusts with his dagger--but a miracle has snatched away his +victim. + +_While the moving pictures are lifted above the world of space and time +and causality and are freed from its bounds, they are certainly not +without law._ We said before that the freedom with which the pictures +replace one another is to a large degree comparable to the sparkling +and streaming of the musical tones. The yielding to the play of the +mental energies, to the attention and emotion, which is felt in the film +pictures, is still more complete in the musical melodies and harmonies +in which the tones themselves are merely the expressions of the ideas +and feelings and will impulses of the mind. Their harmonies and +disharmonies, their fusing and blending, is not controlled by any outer +necessity, but by the inner agreement and disagreement of our free +impulses. And yet in this world of musical freedom, everything is +completely controlled by esthetic necessities. No sphere of practical +life stands under such rigid rules as the realm of the composer. However +bold the musical genius may be he cannot emancipate himself from the +iron rule that his work must show complete unity in itself. All the +separate prescriptions which the musical student has to learn are +ultimately only the consequences of this central demand which music, the +freest of the arts, shares with all the others. In the case of the film, +too, the freedom from the physical forms of space, time, and causality +does not mean any liberation from this esthetic bondage either. On the +contrary, just as music is surrounded by more technical rules than +literature, the photoplay must be held together by the esthetic demands +still more firmly than is the drama. The arts which are subordinated to +the conditions of space, time, and causality find a certain firmness of +structure in these material forms which contain an element of outer +connectedness. But where these forms are given up and where the freedom +of mental play replaces their outer necessity, everything would fall +asunder if the esthetic unity were disregarded. + +This unity is, first of all, the unity of action. The demand for it is +the same which we know from the drama. The temptation to neglect it is +nowhere greater than in the photoplay where outside matter can so easily +be introduced or independent interests developed. It is certainly true +for the photoplay, as for every work of art, that nothing has the right +to existence in its midst which is not internally needed for the +unfolding of the unified action. Wherever two plots are given to us, we +receive less by far than if we had only one plot. We leave the sphere of +valuable art entirely when a unified action is ruined by mixing it with +declamation, and propaganda which is not organically interwoven with the +action itself. It may be still fresh in memory what an esthetically +intolerable helter-skelter performance was offered to the public in "The +Battlecry of Peace." Nothing can be more injurious to the esthetic +cultivation of the people than such performances which hold the +attention of the spectators by ambitious detail and yet destroy their +esthetic sensibility by a complete disregard of the fundamental +principle of art, the demand for unity. But we recognized also that this +unity involves complete isolation. We annihilate beauty when we link the +artistic creation with practical interests and transform the spectator +into a selfishly interested bystander. The scenic background of the play +is not presented in order that we decide whether we want to spend our +next vacation there. The interior decoration of the rooms is not +exhibited as a display for a department store. The men and women who +carry out the action of the plot must not be people whom we may meet +tomorrow on the street. All the threads of the play must be knotted +together in the play itself and none should be connected with our +outside interests. A good photoplay must be isolated and complete in +itself like a beautiful melody. It is not an advertisement for the +newest fashions. + +This unity of action involves unity of characters. It has too often been +maintained by those who theorize on the photoplay that the development +of character is the special task of the drama, while the photoplay, +which lacks words, must be satisfied with types. Probably this is only a +reflection of the crude state which most photoplays of today have not +outgrown. Internally, there is no reason why the means of the photoplay +should not allow a rather subtle depicting of complex character. But the +chief demand is that the characters remain consistent, that the action +be developed according to inner necessity and that the characters +themselves be in harmony with the central idea of the plot. However, as +soon as we insist on unity we have no right to think only of the action +which gives the content of the play. We cannot make light of the form. +As in music the melody and rhythms belong together, as in painting not +every color combination suits every subject, and as in poetry not every +stanza would agree with every idea, so the photoplay must bring action +and pictorial expression into perfect harmony. But this demand repeats +itself in every single picture. We take it for granted that the painter +balances perfectly the forms in his painting, groups them so that an +internal symmetry can be felt and that the lines and curves and colors +blend into a unity. Every single picture of the sixteen thousand which +are shown to us in one reel ought to be treated with this respect of the +pictorial artist for the unity of the forms. + +_The photoplay shows us a significant conflict of human actions in +moving pictures which, freed from the physical forms of space, time, and +causality, are adjusted to the free play of our mental experiences and +which reach complete isolation from the practical world through the +perfect unity of plot and pictorial appearance._ + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE DEMANDS OF THE PHOTOPLAY + + +We have found the general formula for the new art of the photoplay. We +may turn our attention to some consequences which are involved in this +general principle and to some esthetic demands which result from it. +Naturally the greatest of all of them is the one for which no specific +prescription can be given, namely the imaginative talent of the scenario +writer and the producer. The new art is in that respect not different +from all the old arts. A Beethoven writes immortal symphonies; a +thousand conductors are writing symphonies after the same pattern and +after the same technical rules and yet not one survives the next day. +What the great painter or sculptor, composer or poet, novelist or +dramatist, gives from the depth of his artistic personality is +interesting and significant; and the unity of form and content is +natural and perfect. What untalented amateurs produce is trivial and +flat; the relation of form and content is forced; the unity of the whole +is incomplete. Between these two extremes any possible degree of +approach to the ideal is shown in the history of human arts. It cannot +be otherwise with the art of the film. Even the clearest recognition of +the specific demands of the photoplay cannot be sufficient to replace +original talent or genius. The most slavish obedience to esthetic +demands cannot make a tiresome plot interesting and a trivial action +significant. + +If there is anything which introduces a characteristic element into the +creation of the photoplay as against all other arts, it may be found in +the undeniable fact that the photoplay always demands the cooeperation of +two inventive personalities, the scenario writer and the producer. Some +collaboration exists in other arts too. The opera demands the poet and +the composer; and yet the text of the opera is a work of literature +independent and complete in itself, and the music of the opera has its +own life. Again, every musical work demands the performer. The +orchestra must play the symphonies, the pianist or the singer must make +the melodies living, the actors must play the drama. But the music is a +perfect work of art even before it is sung or played on an instrument, +just as a drama is complete as a work of literature even if it never +reaches the stage. Moreover it is evident that the realization by actors +is needed for the photoplay too. But we may disregard that. What we have +in mind is that the work which the scenario writer creates is in itself +still entirely imperfect and becomes a complete work of art only through +the action of the producer. He plays a role entirely different from that +of the mere stage manager in the drama. The stage manager carries out +what the writer of the drama prescribes, however much his own skill and +visual imagination and insight into the demands of the characters may +add to the embodiment of the dramatic action. But the producer of the +photoplay really must show himself a creative artist, inasmuch as he is +the one who actually transforms the plays into pictures. The emphasis in +the drama lies on the spoken word, to which the stage manager does not +add anything. It is all contained in the lines. In the photoplay the +whole emphasis lies on the picture and its composition is left entirely +to the producing artist. + +But the scenario writer must not only have talent for dramatic invention +and construction; he must be wide awake to the uniqueness of his task, +that is, he must feel at every moment that he is writing for the screen +and not for the stage or for a book. And this brings us back to our +central argument. He must understand that the photoplay is not a +photographed drama, but that it is controlled by psychological +conditions of its own. As soon as it is grasped that the film play is +not simply a mechanical reproduction of another art but is an art of a +special kind, it follows that talents of a special kind must be devoted +to it and that nobody ought to feel it beneath his artistic dignity to +write scenarios in the service of this new art. No doubt the moving +picture performances today still stand on a low artistic level. Nine +tenths of the plays are cheap melodramas or vulgar farces. The question +is not how much larger a percentage of really valuable dramas can be +found in our theaters. Many of their plays are just as much an appeal +to the lowest instincts. But at least the theater is not forced to be +satisfied with such degrading comedies and pseudotragedies. The world +literature of the stage contains an abundance of works of eternal value. +It is a purely social and not an esthetic question, why the theaters +around the "White Way" yield to the vulgar taste instead of using the +truly beautiful drama for the raising of the public mind. The moving +picture theaters face an entirely different situation. Their managers +may have the best intentions to give better plays; and yet they are +unable to do so because the scenario literature has so far nothing which +can be compared with the master works of the drama; and nothing of this +higher type can be expected or hoped for until the creation of +photoplays is recognized as worthy of the highest ideal endeavor. + +Nobody denies that the photoplay shares the characteristic features of +the drama. Both depend upon the conflict of interests and of acts. These +conflicts, tragic or comic, demand a similar development and solution on +the stage and on the screen. A mere showing of human activity without +will conflict might give very pleasant moving pictures of idyllic or +romantic character or perhaps of practical interest. The result would be +a kind of lyric or epic poem on the screen, or a travelogue or what not, +but it would never shape itself into a photoplay as long as that +conflict of human interests which the drama demands was lacking. Yet, as +this conflict of will is expressed in the one case by living speaking +men, in the other by moving pictures, the difference in the artistic +conception must surely be as great as the similarity. Hence one of the +supreme demands must be for an original literature of real power and +significance, in which every thought is generated by the idea of the +screen. As long as the photoplays are fed by the literature of the +stage, the new art can never come to its own and can never reach its +real goal. It is surely no fault of Shakespeare that Hamlet and King +Lear are very poor photoplays. If ever a Shakespeare arises for the +screen, his work would be equally unsatisfactory if it were dragged to +the stage. Peer Gynt is no longer Ibsen's if the actors are dumb. + +The novel, in certain respects, fares still worse, but in other respects +some degrees better. It is true that in the superficial literature +written for the hour the demarcation line between dramatic and narrative +works is often ignored. The best sellers of the novel counter are often +warmed over into successful theater plays, and no society play with a +long run on Broadway escapes its transformation into a serial novel for +the newspapers. But where literature is at its height, the deep +difference can be felt distinctly. The epic art, including the novel, +traces the experiences and the development of a character, while the +drama is dependent upon the conflict of character. Mere adventures of a +personality are never sufficient for a good drama and are not less +unsatisfactory for the plot of a photoplay. In the novel the opposing +characters are only a part of the social background which is needed to +show the life story of the hero or heroine. They have not the +independent significance which is essential for the dramatic conflict. +The novel on the screen, if it is a true novel and not the novelistic +rendering of what is really a dramatic plot, must be lifeless and +uninspiring. But on the other hand the photoplay much more than the +drama emphasizes the background of human action, and it shares this +trait with the novel. Both the social and the natural backgrounds are +the real setting for the development of the chief character in the +story. These features can easily be transferred to the photoplay and for +this reason some picturized novels have had the advantage over the +photoplay cut from the drama. The only true conclusion must remain, +however, that neither drama nor novel is sufficient for the film +scenarios. The photopoet must turn to life itself and must remodel life +in the artistic forms which are characteristic of his particular art. If +he has truly grasped the fundamental meaning of the screen world, his +imagination will guide him more safely than his reminiscences of dramas +which he has seen on the stage and of novels which he has read. + +If we turn to a few special demands which are contained in such a +general postulate for a new artistic method, we naturally think at once +of the role of words. The drama and novel live by words. How much of +this noblest vehicle of thought can the photoplay conserve in its +domain? We all know what a large part of the photoplay today is told us +by the medium of words and phrases. How little would we know what those +people are talking about if we saw them only acting and had not +beforehand the information which the "leader" supplies. The technique +differs with different companies. Some experiment with projecting the +spoken words into the picture itself, bringing the phrase in glaring +white letters near the head of the person who is speaking, in a way +similar to the methods of the newspaper cartoonists. But mostly the +series of the pictures is interrupted and the decisive word taken +directly from the lips of the hero, or an explanatory statement which +gives meaning to the whole is thrown on the screen. Sometimes this may +be a concession to the mentally less trained members of the audience, +but usually these printed comments are indispensable for understanding +the plot, and even the most intelligent spectator would feel helpless +without these frequent guideposts. But this habit of the picture houses +today is certainly not an esthetic argument. They are obliged to yield +to the scheme simply because the scenario writers are still untrained +and clumsy in using the technique of the new art. + +Some religious painters of medieval times put in the picture itself +phrases which the persons were supposed to speak, as if the words were +leaving their mouths. But we could not imagine Raphael and Michelangelo +making use of a method of communication which is so entirely foreign to +the real spirit of painting. Every art grows slowly to the point where +the artist relies on its characteristic and genuine forms of expression. +Elements which do not belong to it are at first mingled in it and must +be slowly eliminated. The photoplay of the day after tomorrow will +surely be freed from all elements which are not really pictures. The +beginning of the photoplay as a mere imitation of the theater is nowhere +so evident as in this inorganic combination with bits of dialogue or +explanatory phrases. The art of words and the art of pictures are there +forcibly yoked together. Whoever writes his scenarios so that the +pictures cannot be understood without these linguistic crutches is an +esthetic failure in the new art. The next step toward the emancipation +of the photoplay decidedly must be the creation of plays which speak the +language of pictures only. + +Two apparent exceptions seem justified. It is not contrary to the +internal demands of the film art if a complete scene has a title. A +leader like "The Next Morning" or "After Three Years" or "In South +Africa" or "The First Step" or "The Awakening" or "Among Friends" has +the same character as the title of a painting in a picture gallery. If +we read in our catalogue of paintings that a picture is called +"Landscape" or "Portrait" we feel the words to be superfluous. If we +read that its title is "London Bridge in Mist" or "Portrait of the Pope" +we receive a valuable suggestion which is surely not without influence +on our appreciation of the picture, and yet it is not an organic part of +the painting itself. In this sense a leader as title for a scene or +still better for a whole reel may be applied without any esthetic +objection. The other case which is not only possible but perfectly +justified is the introduction of letters, telegrams, posters, newspaper +clippings, and similar printed or written communications in a pictorial +close-up the enlargement of which makes every word readable. This scheme +is more and more introduced into the plays today and the movement is in +a proper direction. The words of the telegram or of the signboard and +even of the cutting from the newspaper are parts of the reality which +the pictures are to show us and their meaning does not stand outside but +within the pictorial story. The true artist will make sparing use of +this method in order that the spectator may not change his attitude. He +must remain in an inner adjustment to pictorial forms and must not +switch over into an adaptation to sentences. But if its use is not +exaggerated, the method is legitimate, in striking contrast to the +inartistic use of the same words as leaders between the pictures. + +The condemnation of guiding words, in the interest of the purity of the +picture play as such, also leads to earnest objection to phonographic +accompaniments. Those who, like Edison, had a technical, scientific, and +social interest but not a genuine esthetic point of view in the +development of the moving pictures naturally asked themselves whether +this optical imitation of the drama might not be improved by an +acoustical imitation too. Then the idea would be to connect the +kinematoscope with the phonograph and to synchronize them so completely +that with every visible movement of the lips the audible sound of the +words would leave the diaphragm of the apparatus. All who devoted +themselves to this problem had considerable difficulties and when their +ventures proved practical failures with the theater audiences, they were +inclined to blame their inability to solve the technical problem +perfectly. They were not aware that the real difficulty was an esthetic +and internal one. Even if the voices were heard with ideal perfection +and exactly in time with the movements on the screen, the effect on an +esthetically conscientious audience would have been disappointing. A +photoplay cannot gain but only lose if its visual purity is destroyed. +If we see and hear at the same time, we do indeed come nearer to the +real theater, but this is desirable only if it is our goal to imitate +the stage. Yet if that were the goal, even the best imitation would +remain far inferior to an actual theater performance. As soon as we have +clearly understood that the photoplay is an art in itself, the +conservation of the spoken word is as disturbing as color would be on +the clothing of a marble statue. + +It is quite different with accompanying music. Even if the music in the +overwhelming majority of cases were not so pitifully bad as it is in +most of the picture theaters of today, no one would consider it an +organic part of the photoplay itself, like the singing in the opera. Yet +the need of such a more or less melodious and even more or less +harmonious accompaniment has always been felt, and even the poorest +substitute for decent music has been tolerated, as seeing long reels in +a darkened house without any tonal accompaniment fatigues and ultimately +irritates an average audience. The music relieves the tension and keeps +the attention awake. It must be entirely subordinated and it is a fact +that most people are hardly aware of the special pieces which are +played, while they would feel uncomfortable without them. But it is not +at all necessary for the music to be limited to such harmonious +smoothing of the mind by rhythmical tones. The music can and ought to be +adjusted to the play on the screen. The more ambitious picture +corporations have clearly recognized this demand and show their new +plays with exact suggestions for the choice of musical pieces to be +played as accompaniment. The music does not tell a part of the plot and +does not replace the picture as words would do, but simply reenforces +the emotional setting. It is quite probable, when the photoplay art has +found its esthetic recognition, that composers will begin to write the +musical score for a beautiful photoplay with the same enthusiasm with +which they write in other musical forms. + +Just between the intolerable accompaniment by printed or spoken words on +the one side and the perfectly welcome rendering of emotionally fitting +music on the other, we find the noises with which the photoplay managers +like to accompany their performances. When the horses gallop, we must +hear the hoofbeats, if rain or hail is falling, if the lightning +flashes, we hear the splashing or the thunderstorm. We hear the firing +of a gun, the whistling of a locomotive, ships' bells, or the ambulance +gong, or the barking dog, or the noise when Charlie Chaplin falls +downstairs. They even have a complicated machine, the "allefex," which +can produce over fifty distinctive noises, fit for any photoplay +emergency. It will probably take longer to rid the photoplay of these +appeals to the imagination than the explanations of the leaders, but +ultimately they will have to disappear too. They have no right to +existence in a work of art which is composed of pictures. In so far as +they are simply heightening the emotional tension, they may enter into +the music itself, but in so far as they tell a part of the story, they +ought to be ruled out as intrusions from another sphere. We might just +as well improve the painting of a rose garden by bathing it in rose +perfume in order that the spectators might get the odor of the roses +together with the sight of them. The limitations of an art are in +reality its strength and to overstep its boundaries means to weaken it. + +It may be more open to discussion whether this same negative attitude +ought to be taken toward color in the photoplay. It is well-known what +wonderful technical progress has been secured by those who wanted to +catch the color hues and tints of nature in their moving pictures. To be +sure, many of the prettiest effects in color are even today produced by +artificial stencil methods. Photographs are simply printed in three +colors like any ordinary color print. The task of cutting those many +stencils for the thousands of pictures on a reel is tremendous, and yet +these difficulties have been overcome. Any desired color effect can be +obtained by this method and the beauty of the best specimens is +unsurpassed. But the difficulty is so great that it can hardly become a +popular method. The direct photographing of the colors themselves will +be much simpler as soon as the method is completely perfected. It can +hardly be said that this ideal has been reached today. The successive +photographing through three red, green, and violet screens and the later +projection of the pictures through screens of these colors seemed +scientifically the best approach. Yet it needed a multiplication of +pictures per second which offered extreme difficulty, besides an +extraordinary increase of expense. The practical advance seems more +secure along the line of the so-called "kinemacolor." Its effects are +secured by the use of two screens only, not quite satisfactory, as true +blue impressions have to suffer and the reddish and greenish ones are +emphasized. Moreover the eye is sometimes disturbed by big flashes of +red or green light. Yet the beginnings are so excellent that the perfect +solution of the technical problem may be expected in the near future. +Would it be at the same time a solution of the esthetic problem? + +It has been claimed by friends of color photography that at the present +stage of development natural color photography is unsatisfactory for a +rendering of outer events because any scientific or historical happening +which is reproduced demands exactly the same colors which reality shows. +But on the other hand the process seems perfectly sufficient for the +photoplay because there no objective colors are expected and it makes no +difference whether the gowns of the women or the rugs on the floor show +the red and green too vividly and the blue too faintly. From an esthetic +point of view we ought to come to exactly the opposite verdict. For the +historical events even the present technical methods are on the whole +satisfactory. The famous British coronation pictures were superb and +they gained immensely by the rich color effects. They gave much more +than a mere photograph in black and white, and the splendor and glory of +those radiant colors suffered little from the suppression of the bluish +tones. They were not shown in order to match the colors in a ribbon +store. For the news pictures of the day the "kinemacolor" and similar +schemes are excellent. But when we come to photoplays the question is no +longer one of technique; first of all we stand before the problem: how +far does the coloring subordinate itself to the aim of the photoplay? No +doubt the effect of the individual picture would be heightened by the +beauty of the colors. But would it heighten the beauty of the photoplay? +Would not this color be again an addition which oversteps the essential +limits of this particular art? We do not want to paint the cheeks of the +Venus of Milo: neither do we want to see the coloring of Mary Pickford +or Anita Stewart. We became aware that the unique task of the photoplay +art can be fulfilled only by a far-reaching disregard of reality. The +real human persons and the real landscapes must be left behind and, as +we saw, must be transformed into pictorial suggestions only. We must be +strongly conscious of their pictorial unreality in order that that +wonderful play of our inner experiences may be realized on the screen. +This consciousness of unreality must seriously suffer from the addition +of color. We are once more brought too near to the world which really +surrounds us with the richness of its colors, and the more we approach +it the less we gain that inner freedom, that victory of the mind over +nature, which remains the ideal of the photoplay. The colors are almost +as detrimental as the voices. + +On the other hand the producer must be careful to keep sufficiently in +contact with reality, as otherwise the emotional interests upon which +the whole play depends would be destroyed. We must not take the people +to be real, but we must link with them all the feelings and associations +which we would connect with real men. This is possible only if in their +flat, colorless, pictorial setting they share the real features of men. +For this reason it is important to suggest to the spectator the +impression of natural size. The demand of the imagination for the normal +size of the persons and things in the picture is so strong that it +easily and constantly overcomes great enlargements or reductions. We see +at first a man in his normal size and then by a close-up an excessive +enlargement of his head. Yet we do not feel it as if the person himself +were enlarged. By a characteristic psychical substitution we feel rather +that we have come nearer to him and that the size of the visual image +was increased by the decreasing of the distance. If the whole picture is +so much enlarged that the persons are continually given much above +normal size, by a psychical inhibition we deceive ourselves about the +distance and believe that we are much nearer to the screen than we +actually are. Thus we instinctively remain under the impression of +normal appearances. But this spell can easily be broken and the esthetic +effect is then greatly diminished. In the large picture houses in which +the projecting camera is often very far from the screen, the dimensions +of the persons in the pictures may be three or four times larger than +human beings. The illusion is nevertheless perfect, because the +spectator misjudges the distances as long as he does not see anything in +the neighborhood of the screen. But if the eye falls upon a woman +playing the piano directly below the picture, the illusion is destroyed. +He sees on the screen enormous giants whose hands are as large as half +the piano player, and the normal reactions which are the spring for the +enjoyment of the play are suppressed. + +The further we go into details, the more we might add such special +psychological demands which result from the fundamental principles of +the new art. But it would be misleading if we were also to raise demands +concerning a point which has often played the chief role in the +discussion, namely, the selection of suitable topics. Writers who have +the unlimited possibilities of trick pictures and film illusions in mind +have proclaimed that the fairy tale with its magic wonders ought to be +its chief domain, as no theater stage could enter into rivalry. How many +have enjoyed "Neptune's Daughter"--the mermaids in the surf and the +sudden change of the witch into the octopus on the shore and the joyful +play of the watersprites! How many have been bewitched by Princess +Nicotina when she trips from the little cigar box along the table! No +theater could dare to imitate such raptures of imagination. Other +writers have insisted on the superb chances for gorgeous processions and +the surging splendor of multitudes. We see thousands in Sherman's march +to the sea. How hopeless would be any attempt to imitate it on the +stage! When the toreador fights the bull and the crowds in the Spanish +arena enter into enthusiastic frenzy, who would compare it with those +painted people in the arena when the opera "Carmen" is sung. Again +others emphasize the opportunity for historical plays or especially for +plays with unusual scenic setting where the beauties of the tropics or +of the mountains, of the ocean or of the jungle, are brought into living +contact with the spectator. Biblical dramas with pictures of real +Palestine, classical plots with real Greece or Rome as a background, +have stirred millions all over the globe. Yet the majority of authors +claim that the true field for the photoplay is the practical life which +surrounds us, as no artistic means of literature or drama can render the +details of life with such convincing sincerity and with such realistic +power. These are the slums, not seen through the spectacles of a +litterateur or the fancy of an outsider but in their whole abhorrent +nakedness. These are the dark corners of the metropolis where crime is +hidden and where vice is growing rankly. + +They all are right; and at the same time they all are wrong when they +praise one at the expense of another. Realistic and idealistic, +practical and romantic, historical and modern topics are fit material +for the art of the photoplay. Its world is as unlimited as that of +literature, and the same is true of the style of treatment. The +humorous, if it is true humor, the tragic, if it is true tragedy, the +gay and the solemn, the merry and the pathetic, the half-reel and the +five-reel play, all can fulfill the demands of the new art. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE FUNCTION OF THE PHOTOPLAY + + +Enthusiasts claim that in the United States ten million people daily are +attending picture houses. Sceptics believe that "only" two or three +millions form the daily attendance. But in any case "the movies" have +become the most popular entertainment of the country, nay, of the world, +and their influence is one of the strongest social energies of our time. +Signs indicate that this popularity and this influence are increasing +from day to day. What are the causes, and what are the effects of this +movement which was undreamed of only a short time ago? + +The economists are certainly right when they see the chief reason for +this crowding of picture houses in the low price of admission. For five +or ten cents long hours of thrilling entertainment in the best seats of +the house: this is the magnet which must be more powerful than any +theater or concert. Yet the rush to the moving pictures is steadily +increasing, while the prices climb up. The dime became a quarter, and in +the last two seasons ambitious plays were given before audiences who +paid the full theater rates. The character of the audiences, too, +suggests that inexpensiveness alone cannot be decisive. Six years ago a +keen sociological observer characterized the patrons of the picture +palaces as "the lower middle class and the massive public, youths and +shopgirls between adolescence and maturity, small dealers, pedlars, +laborers, charwomen, besides the small quota of children." This would be +hardly a correct description today. This "lower middle class" has long +been joined by the upper middle class. To be sure, our observer of that +long forgotten past added meekly: "Then there emerges a superior person +or two like yourself attracted by mere curiosity and kept in his seat by +interest until the very end of the performance; this type sneers aloud +to proclaim its superiority and preserve its self-respect, but it never +leaves the theater until it must." Today you and I are seen there quite +often, and we find that our friends have been there, that they have +given up the sneering pose and talk about the new photoplay as a matter +of course. + +Above all, even those who are drawn by the cheapness of the performance +would hardly push their dimes under the little window so often if they +did not really enjoy the plays and were not stirred by a pleasure which +holds them for hours. After all, it must be the content of the +performances which is decisive of the incomparable triumph. We have no +right to conclude from this that only the merits and excellences are the +true causes of their success. A caustic critic would probably suggest +that just the opposite traits are responsible. He would say that the +average American is a mixture of business, ragtime, and sentimentality. +He satisfies his business instinct by getting so much for his nickel, he +enjoys his ragtime in the slapstick humor, and gratifies his +sentimentality with the preposterous melodramas which fill the program. +This is quite true, and yet it is not true at all. Success has crowned +every effort to improve the photostage; the better the plays are the +more the audience approves them. The most ambitious companies are the +most flourishing ones. There must be inner values which make the +photoplay so extremely attractive and even fascinating. + +To a certain degree the mere technical cleverness of the pictures even +today holds the interest spellbound as in those early days when nothing +but this technical skill could claim the attention. We are still +startled by every original effect, even if the mere showing of movement +has today lost its impressiveness. Moreover we are captivated by the +undeniable beauty of many settings. The melodrama may be cheap; yet it +does not disturb the cultured mind as grossly as a similar tragic +vulgarity would on the real stage, because it may have the snowfields of +Alaska or the palm trees of Florida as radiant background. An +intellectual interest, too, finds its satisfaction. We get an insight +into spheres which were strange to us. Where outlying regions of human +interest are shown on the theater stage, we must usually be satisfied +with some standardized suggestion. Here in the moving pictures the play +may really bring us to mills and factories, to farms and mines, to +courtrooms and hospitals, to castles and palaces in any land on earth. + +Yet a stronger power of the photoplay probably lies in its own dramatic +qualities. The rhythm of the play is marked by unnatural rapidity. As +the words are absent which, in the drama as in life, fill the gaps +between the actions, the gestures and deeds themselves can follow one +another much more quickly. Happenings which would fill an hour on the +stage can hardly fill more than twenty minutes on the screen. This +heightens the feeling of vitality in the spectator. He feels as if he +were passing through life with a sharper accent which stirs his personal +energies. The usual make-up of the photoplay must strengthen this effect +inasmuch as the wordlessness of the picture drama favors a certain +simplification of the social conflicts. The subtler shades of the +motives naturally demand speech. The later plays of Ibsen could hardly +be transformed into photoplays. Where words are missing the characters +tend to become stereotyped and the motives to be deprived of their +complexity. The plot of the photoplay is usually based on the +fundamental emotions which are common to all and which are understood +by everybody. Love and hate, gratitude and envy, hope and fear, pity and +jealousy, repentance and sinfulness, and all the similar crude emotions +have been sufficient for the construction of most scenarios. The more +mature development of the photoplay will certainly overcome this +primitive character, as, while such an effort to reduce human life to +simple instincts is very convenient for the photoplay, it is not at all +necessary. In any case where this tendency prevails it must help greatly +to excite and to intensify the personal feeling of life and to stir the +depths of the human mind. + +But the richest source of the unique satisfaction in the photoplay is +probably that esthetic feeling which is significant for the new art and +which we have understood from its psychological conditions. _The massive +outer world has lost its weight, it has been freed from space, time, and +causality, and it has been clothed in the forms of our own +consciousness. The mind has triumphed over matter and the pictures roll +on with the ease of musical tones. It is a superb enjoyment which no +other art can furnish us._ No wonder that temples for the new goddess +are built in every little hamlet. + +The intensity with which the plays take hold of the audience cannot +remain without strong social effects. It has even been reported that +sensory hallucinations and illusions have crept in; neurasthenic persons +are especially inclined to experience touch or temperature or smell or +sound impressions from what they see on the screen. The associations +become as vivid as realities, because the mind is so completely given up +to the moving pictures. The applause into which the audiences, +especially of rural communities, break out at a happy turn of the +melodramatic pictures is another symptom of the strange fascination. But +it is evident that such a penetrating influence must be fraught with +dangers. The more vividly the impressions force themselves on the mind, +the more easily must they become starting points for imitation and other +motor responses. The sight of crime and of vice may force itself on the +consciousness with disastrous results. The normal resistance breaks down +and the moral balance, which would have been kept under the habitual +stimuli of the narrow routine life, may be lost under the pressure of +the realistic suggestions. At the same time the subtle sensitiveness of +the young mind may suffer from the rude contrasts between the farces and +the passionate romances which follow with benumbing speed in the +darkened house. The possibilities of psychical infection and destruction +cannot be overlooked. + +Those may have been exceptional cases only when grave crimes have been +traced directly back to the impulses from unwholesome photoplays, but no +psychologist can determine exactly how much the general spirit of +righteousness, of honesty, of sexual cleanliness and modesty, may be +weakened by the unbridled influence of plays of low moral standard. All +countries seem to have been awakened to this social danger. The time +when unsavory French comedies poisoned youth lies behind us. A strong +reaction has set in and the leading companies among the photoplay +producers fight everywhere in the first rank for suppression of the +unclean. Some companies even welcome censorship provided that it is +high-minded and liberal and does not confuse artistic freedom with moral +licentiousness. Most, to be sure, seem doubtful whether the new +movement toward Federal censorship is in harmony with American ideas on +the freedom of public expression. + +But while the sources of danger cannot be overlooked, the social +reformer ought to focus his interest still more on the tremendous +influences for good which may be exerted by the moving pictures. The +fact that millions are daily under the spell of the performances on the +screen is established. The high degree of their suggestibility during +those hours in the dark house may be taken for granted. Hence any +wholesome influence emanating from the photoplay must have an +incomparable power for the remolding and upbuilding of the national +soul. From this point of view the boundary lines between the photoplay +and the merely instructive moving pictures with the news of the day or +the magazine articles on the screen become effaced. The intellectual, +the moral, the social, and the esthetic culture of the community may be +served by all of them. Leading educators have joined in endorsing the +foundation of a Universal Culture Lyceum. The plan is to make and +circulate moving pictures for the education of the youth of the land, +picture studies in science, history, religion, literature, geography, +biography, art, architecture, social science, economics and industry. +From this Lyceum "schools, churches and colleges will be furnished with +motion pictures giving the latest results and activities in every sphere +capable of being pictured." + +But, however much may be achieved by such conscious efforts toward +education, the far larger contribution must be made by the regular +picture houses which the public seeks without being conscious of the +educational significance. The teaching of the moving pictures must not +be forced on a more or less indifferent audience, but ought to be +absorbed by those who seek entertainment and enjoyment from the films +and are ready to make their little economic sacrifice. + +The purely intellectual part of this uplift is the easiest. Not only the +news pictures and the scientific demonstrations but also the photoplays +can lead young and old to ever new regions of knowledge. The curiosity +and the imagination of the spectators will follow gladly. Yet even in +the intellectual sphere the dangers must not be overlooked. They are not +positive. It is not as in the moral sphere where the healthy moral +impulse is checked by the sight of crimes which stir up antisocial +desires. The danger is not that the pictures open insight into facts +which ought not to be known. It is not the dangerous knowledge which +must be avoided, but it is the trivializing influence of a steady +contact with things which are not worth knowing. The larger part of the +film literature of today is certainly harmful in this sense. The +intellectual background of most photoplays is insipid. By telling the +plot without the subtle motivation which the spoken word of the drama +may bring, not only do the characters lose color but all the scenes and +situations are simplified to a degree which adjusts them to a +thoughtless public and soon becomes intolerable to an intellectually +trained spectator. + +They force on the cultivated mind that feeling which musical persons +experience in the musical comedies of the day. We hear the melodies +constantly with the feeling of having heard them ever so often before. +This lack of originality and inspiration is not necessary; it does not +lie in the art form. Offenbach and Strauss and others have written +musical comedies which are classical. Neither does it lie in the form +of the photoplay that the story must be told in that insipid, flat, +uninspired fashion. Nor is it necessary in order to reach the millions. +To appeal to the intelligence does not mean to presuppose college +education. Moreover the differentiation has already begun. Just as the +plays of Shaw or Ibsen address a different audience from that reached by +the "Old Homestead" or "Ben Hur," we have already photoplays adapted to +different types, and there is not the slightest reason to connect with +the art of the screen an intellectual flabbiness. It would be no gain +for intellectual culture if all the reasoning were confined to the +so-called instructive pictures and the photoplays were served without +any intellectual salt. On the contrary, the appeal of those strictly +educational lessons may be less deep than the producers hope, because +the untrained minds, especially of youth and of the uneducated +audiences, have considerable difficulty in following the rapid flight of +events when they occur in unfamiliar surroundings. The child grasps very +little in seeing the happenings in a factory. The psychological and +economic lesson may be rather wasted because the power of observation +is not sufficiently developed and the assimilation proceeds too slowly. +But it is quite different when a human interest stands behind it and +connects the events in the photoplay. + +The difficulties in the way of the right moral influence are still +greater than in the intellectual field. Certainly it is not enough to +have the villain punished in the last few pictures of the reel. If +scenes of vice or crime are shown with all their lure and glamour the +moral devastation of such a suggestive show is not undone by the +appended social reaction. The misguided boys or girls feel sure that +they would be successful enough not to be trapped. The mind through a +mechanism which has been understood better and better by the +psychologists in recent years suppresses the ideas which are contrary to +the secret wishes and makes those ideas flourish by which those +"subconscious" impulses are fulfilled. It is probably a strong +exaggeration when a prominent criminologist recently claimed that +"eighty-five per cent. of the juvenile crime which has been investigated +has been found traceable either directly or indirectly to motion +pictures which have shown on the screen how crimes could be committed." +But certainly, as far as these demonstrations have worked havoc, their +influence would not have been annihilated by a picturesque court scene +in which the burglar is unsuccessful in misleading the jury. The true +moral influence must come from the positive spirit of the play itself. +Even the photodramatic lessons in temperance and piety will not rebuild +a frivolous or corrupt or perverse community. The truly upbuilding play +is not a dramatized sermon on morality and religion. There must be a +moral wholesomeness in the whole setting, a moral atmosphere which is +taken as a matter of course like fresh air and sunlight. An enthusiasm +for the noble and uplifting, a belief in duty and discipline of the +mind, a faith in ideals and eternal values must permeate the world of +the screen. If it does, there is no crime and no heinous deed which the +photoplay may not tell with frankness and sincerity. It is not necessary +to deny evil and sin in order to strengthen the consciousness of eternal +justice. + +But the greatest mission which the photoplay may have in our community +is that of esthetic cultivation. No art reaches a larger audience +daily, no esthetic influence finds spectators in a more receptive frame +of mind. On the other hand no training demands a more persistent and +planful arousing of the mind than the esthetic training, and never is +progress more difficult than when the teacher adjusts himself to the +mere liking of the pupils. The country today would still be without any +symphony concerts and operas if it had only received what the audiences +believed at the moment that they liked best. The esthetically +commonplace will always triumph over the significant unless systematic +efforts are made to reenforce the work of true beauty. Communities at +first always prefer Sousa to Beethoven. The moving picture audience +could only by slow steps be brought from the tasteless and vulgar +eccentricities of the first period to the best plays of today, and the +best plays of today can be nothing but the beginning of the great upward +movement which we hope for in the photoplay. Hardly any teaching can +mean more for our community than the teaching of beauty where it reaches +the masses. The moral impulse and the desire for knowledge are, after +all, deeply implanted in the American crowd, but the longing for beauty +is rudimentary; and yet it means harmony, unity, true satisfaction, and +happiness in life. The people still has to learn the great difference +between true enjoyment and fleeting pleasure, between real beauty and +the mere tickling of the senses. + +Of course, there are those, and they may be legion today, who would +deride every plan to make the moving pictures the vehicle of esthetic +education. How can we teach the spirit of true art by a medium which is +in itself the opposite of art? How can we implant the idea of harmony by +that which is in itself a parody on art? We hear the contempt for +"canned drama" and the machine-made theater. Nobody stops to think +whether other arts despise the help of technique. The printed book of +lyric poems is also machine-made; the marble bust has also "preserved" +for two thousand years the beauty of the living woman who was the model +for the Greek sculptor. They tell us that the actor on the stage gives +the human beings as they are in reality, but the moving pictures are +unreal and therefore of incomparably inferior value. They do not +consider that the roses of the summer which we enjoy in the stanzas of +the poet do not exist in reality in the forms of iambic verse and of +rhymes; they live in color and odor, but their color and odor fade away, +while the roses in the stanzas live on forever. They fancy that the +value of an art depends upon its nearness to the reality of physical +nature. + +It has been the chief task of our whole discussion to prove the +shallowness of such arguments and objections. We recognized that art is +a way to overcome nature and to create out of the chaotic material of +the world something entirely new, entirely unreal, which embodies +perfect unity and harmony. The different arts are different ways of +abstracting from reality; and when we began to analyze the psychology of +the moving pictures we soon became aware that the photoplay has a way to +perform this task of art with entire originality, independent of the art +of the theater, as much as poetry is independent of music or sculpture +of painting. It is an art in itself. Only the future can teach us +whether it will become a great art, whether a Leonardo, a Shakespeare, a +Mozart, will ever be born for it. Nobody can foresee the directions +which the new art may take. Mere esthetic insight into the principles +can never foreshadow the development in the unfolding of civilization. +Who would have been bold enough four centuries ago to foresee the +musical means and effects of the modern orchestra? Just the history of +music shows how the inventive genius has always had to blaze the path in +which the routine work of the art followed. Tone combinations which +appeared intolerable dissonances to one generation were again and again +assimilated and welcomed and finally accepted as a matter of course by +later times. Nobody can foresee the ways which the new art of the +photoplay will open, but everybody ought to recognize even today that it +is worth while to help this advance and to make the art of the film a +medium for an original creative expression of our time and to mold by it +the esthetic instincts of the millions. Yes, it is a new art--and this +is why it has such fascination for the psychologist who in a world of +ready-made arts, each with a history of many centuries, suddenly finds a +new form still undeveloped and hardly understood. For the first time the +psychologist can observe the starting of an entirely new esthetic +development, a new form of true beauty in the turmoil of a technical +age, created by its very technique and yet more than any other art +destined to overcome outer nature by the free and joyful play of the +mind. + + + * * * * * + + +BOOKS BY HUGO MUeNSTERBERG + + +Psychology and Life + pp. 286, Boston, 1899 + +Grundzuege der Psychologie + pp. 565, Leipzig, 1900 + +American Traits + pp. 235, Boston, 1902 + +Die Amerikaner + pp. 502 and 349, Berlin, 1904 (Rev, 1912) + +Principles of Art Education + pp. 118, New York, 1905 + +The Eternal Life + pp. 72, Boston, 1905 + +Science and Idealism + pp. 71, Boston, 1906 + +Philosophie der Werte + pp. 486, Leipzig, 1907 + +On the Witness Stand + pp. 269, New York, 1908 + +Aus Deutsch-Amerika + pp. 245, Berlin, 1909 + +The Eternal Values + pp. 436, Boston, 1909 + +Psychotherapy + pp. 401, New York, 1909 + +Psychology and the Teacher + pp. 330, New York, 1910 + +American Problems + pp. 222, New York, 1910 + +Psychologie und Wirtschaftsleben + pp. 192, Leipzig, 1912 + +Vocation and Learning + pp. 289, St. Louis, 1912 + +Psychology and Industrial Efficiency + pp. 321, Boston, 1913 + +American Patriotism + pp. 262, New York, 1913 + +Grundzuege der Psychotechnik + pp. 767, Leipzig, 1914 + +Psychology and Social Sanity + pp. 320, New York, 1914 + +Psychology, General and Applied + pp. 488, New York, 1914 + +The War and America + pp. 210, New York, 1914 + +The Peace and America + pp. 276, New York, 1915 + +The Photoplay + New York, 1916 + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Photoplay, by Hugo Muensterberg + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PHOTOPLAY *** + +***** This file should be named 15383.txt or 15383.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/3/8/15383/ + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Annika Feilbach and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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