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THE FILM TILL NOW

A SURVEY OF THE CINEMA

PAUL ROTHA

NEW YORK

JONATHAN CAPE & HARRISON SMITH

LONDON • JONATHAN CAPE • TORONTO

FIRST PUBLISHED 1930
REPRINTED IN FEBRUARY 1 93 1

JONATHAN CAPE & HARRISON SMITH INC.

I39 EAST 46TH STREET, NEW YORK

JONATHAN CAPE LTD., 30 BEDFORD SQUARE, LONDON

AND 91 WELLINGTON STREET WEST, TORONTO

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY J. AND J. GRAY
EDINBURGH

CONTENTS

PAGE

Preface 9

Acknowledgment 13

PART ONE

THE ACTUAL

CHAP.

I. The Development of the Film 21

II. The Various Forms of Cinema 59

III. The American Film 69

IV. The American Film (continued) 88
V. The American Film (concluded) 122

VI. The Soviet Film 146

VII. The German Film 175

VIII. The French Film 209

IX. The British Film 226

X. Films from Other Countries 235

PART TWO

THE THEORETICAL

I. The Aim of the Film in General and in Particular 241
II. The Preconception of Dramatic Content by Scenario

Organisation 253
III. The Methods of Expression of Dramatic Content by

Film Construction 268

(I) The Process of the Visual Cinema 269

(II) The Visual and the Audible Cinema 303

APPENDICES

I. The Production Units of some Outstanding Films and

their Players 313

II. Glossary of Terms used in Connection with the Film 340

III. Bibliography 344

Index 347

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

ELSTREE, I930
NINA PETROVNA
BED AND SOFA

LIGHTNING

FOX MOVIETONE FOLLIES

THE CABINET OF DR. CALIGARI

VAUDEVILLE

FAUST

MOTHER

ARSENAL

THE OLD AND THE NEW

ARSENAL

UBERFALL

LA MARCHE DES MACHINES

DRIFTERS

THE BIRTH OF THE HOURS

SADIE THOMPSON

FORBIDDEN PARADISE

THE CROWD

THE WEDDING MARCH

THE VIRGINIAN

OUR DANCING DAUGHTERS

THE WEDDING MARCH

FOOLISH WIVES

THE GOLD RUSH

THE BLACK PIRATE

GREED

THE DOCKS OF NEW YORK

WHITE SHADOWS

MOANA

WINGS

BROADWAY MELODY

October (Ten Days that Shook the World)

THE END OF ST. PETERSBURG
REVOLT IN KAZAN
THE HEIR TO JENGHIZ KHAN
BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN
NEW BABYLON

Frontispiece

Facing page
>>

26
26

>>
>»

36
36

48
48

>>
>>

56
56

62
62

66
66

78
78

102

>»

5»
>>

126
126

134

140

>>
>>

148
148

»>

152

158

162

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE MAN WITH THE CAMERA

THE GHOST THAT NEVER RETURNS

THE FLOOD

ZVENIGORA

THE STONE RIDER

DESTINY

CINDERELLA

TARTUFFE

THE LOVE OF JEANNE NEY

pandora's BOX

SIEGFRIED

THE SPY

NJU

DRACULA

WAXWORKS

WARNING SHADOWS

THE STREET

THE STUDENT OF PRAGUE

FINIS TERRAE

THE ITALIAN STRAW HAT

NAPOLEON

LE COLLIER DE LA REINE

LA PASSION DE JEANNE d'ARC

THERESE RAQUIN

DRIFTERS

PICCADILLY

A COTTAGE ON DARTMOOR

THE RING OF THE EMPRESS

THE CABINET OF DR. CALIGARI

BATTLESHIP 'POTEMKIN'

THE FROG

SPRING »

WHITE SHADOWS

THE HEIR TO JENGHIZ KHAN

THE VIRGINIAN

UNDERGROUND

EN RADE

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER

LA PASSION DE JEANNE D'ARC

THE HEIR TO JENGHIZ KHAN

THE OLD AND THE NEW

OCTOBER

THE PEASANT WOMEN OF RIAZAN

PORI

PICCADILLY

METROPOLIS

Facing page

PREFACE

Nobody can tell any one else how to accept a film. And, because a
film should be the result of a director's outlook on life and an ex-
pression of what he sees therein, it is obvious that rules and regula-
tions cannot be laid down as to how a film should be made. That is
not the aim of this book. We can, however, criticise a director's
methods of expression; his conception and his use of technical
devices peculiar to the cinema.

Criticism of films is as difficult as criticism of music. To describe
adequately the emotions aroused by Pudovkin or Pabst is as im-
possible as description of the feelings evoked by Mozart or Wagner.
In fact, I am tempted to quote that, like poetry, film criticism is
'emotion remembered in tranquillity. '

Throughout this book I have endeavoured to draw a clear distinc-
tion between a film and a movie. At the same time I have remembered
that it is perfectly possible to admire the best in The Love Parade
and to be affected deeply by the drama of The General Line. But
whereas the former picture produces no effect after its time of
showing, the latter leaves a profound impression on the mind,
giving rise to certain ideas and starting trains of thought of lasting
value. Unfortunately, the general public is always more inclined to
applaud the appearance of merit in a film than the merit itself.

In short, therefore, I am concerned in these pages primarily with
the film as a film; as a valuable medium of dramatic expression
rather than as a superficial entertainment; as a mental stimulant
rather than as an amusement.

The theories and reactions set down in this survey are the natural
outcome of a period of some years devoted to the close observation
of films and film production. They have been instigated by time
spent in public cinemas, in private projection rooms, and by experience
of studio work. I have thought fit to divide the result of my observa-
tions into two parts, the Actual and the Theoretical, each being
dependent on the other for support. Firstly, I have put on record

PREFACE

facts, information, and brief criticisms of such films, produced up
till the date of writing, as I consider of interest, together with notes
on their directors. The aim here has been partly to substantiate my
theoretical deductions and partly to provide a source of reference
for students of the cinema. It must be remembered that the life of
a film is short. It fades into the past with rapidity and is only to be
seen again with difficulty. Moreover, reliable data about even quite
well-known films is scarce and sometimes unprocurable. Secondly,
I have attempted to investigate the film as a means of expression;
to catalogue its attributes as evidenced till now; and to speculate
upon its potentialities as suggested by its course of development.

At the risk of redundancy, I wish to draw attention to the im-
portant part played by the emphasis of detail in filmic representation,
a factor which I have stressed in my theoretical chapters. This
significance of detail is characteristic not only of modern cinema but
of all contemporary art. And in particular I refer to the recognition
of the value of the inanimate. Although this feeling for detail is
prevalent, for example, in the novel of to-day, it is also the foundation
of the emotions created by the work of Zola and Dostoievski. I am
convinced that the former's 'La Debacle' and the latter 's 'Crime
and Punishment' contain the fundamental (non-technical) basis of
the Soviet cinema. Of equal importance to-day are Arnold Zweig's
'The Case of Sergeant Grischa,' and Herman Hesse's semi-autobio-
graphical 'Steppenwolf,' both of which probably suggest the power of
the cinema far more vividly than my own expression. It is in the
film's unique faculty for the collective representation of detail that
lies its primary claim to being the greatest of all forms of expression.
There exists practically no object outside the range of the camera
and the microphone which cannot be brought in terms of contrast
or similarity to emphasise, both visually and aurally, filmic argument.
I suggest that it is the power of selecting the most expressive detail
for emphasis of purpose that distinguishes the good film director
from the bad.

In the light of current events, I realise that I have laid myself open
to serious attack by refusing to acknowledge the cacophonous
omnipresence of the dialogue film. But, after renewed consideration,
provoked by the appearance of Hallelujah ! and The Virginian, I
maintain the opinion subsequently expressed. As a mechanical
invention the dialogue film is doubtless marvellous, and by the aid

PREFACE

of clever showmanship it is successful in catching the temporary
attention of the masses. Nevertheless, all dialogue films are simply
reductions to absurdity of the attempt to join two separate arts,
which, by their essential nature, defy synchronisation. Employed
judiciously as a sound adjunct to the visual image, the microphone
will add value to the camera, but as a means of 'realism' its place is
non-existent.

In the discussion of any semi-technical subject the employment
of technical terms and phrases is inevitable. But in order that there
may be as little confusion as possible, I have included a glossary of
cinematic terms in the appendices, to which I would refer the reader.
With regard to the illustrations, it will be appreciated that a static
reproduction, however good in itself, cannot adequately present the
cinematic aspect of a film. No still-photograph can convey filmic
meaning. At its best it can but serve as a reminder, or suggest the
character of the film from which it is taken. The selection embraces
films of all varieties; the arrangement has been governed by terms of
contrast and comparison.

Finally, I desire to express my warmest gratitude to Mr. F. Gordon
Roe and Mr. Osbert Lumley, without whose counsel and assistance
this book would never have been written.

Paul Rotha.

LONDON, W.I.

March 1930

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

1 wish to record my thanks to the many persons who have given
me valuable assistance in the compilation of this survey. My
particular gratitude goes to the following for kind loan of photo-
graphs and for the information which they have supplied: Mr. F.
Alfred, Miss P. Attasheva (of Moscow), Mr. Oswell Blakeston, Mr.
Adrian Brunei, Mr. Stuart Davis (of the Avenue Pavilion, London),
Mr. S. M. Eisenstein, Mr. Aubrey Ensor, Mr. T. H. R. Gibbings,
Mr. Bernard Gott, Mr. Edmond Greville, Mr. Robb Lawson, Miss
Marjorie Lockett, Mr. Kenneth Macpherson, Herr Erno Metzner
(of Berlin), Mr. Ivor Montagu, and Herr Hans Richter (of Berlin).

Most of the illustrations are reproduced by kind permission of the
following firms, to whom I am also indebted for information: In
London, Messrs. Bernhard-Tiffany, British Instructional Films,
British International Film Distributors, British International Pictures,
Film Booking Offices, First-National-Pathe, Graham Wilcox Pro-
ductions, M. P. Sales, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, New Era, Paramount,
Pro Patria, United Artists' Film Corporation, Universal, W. & F.
Wardour. In Berlin, Messrs. Prometheus, and Universum Film
A.G. In Paris, Messrs. Albatross-Sequana, Alliance Cinemato-
graphique, Aubert, and Pax.

I should like to thank also the Editor of The Architectural Review
for permission to reprint passages from articles that have appeared
in that journal; the Editor of the Film Weekly \ the Editor of Close
Up; the Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News; as well as the Film
Society for the full use of material contained in their programmes.

Further, I am grateful to M. Leonid Moguilevski, of the Section
Cinematographique, Office Commerciale de l'U.R.S.S., for making
it possible for me to see so many Soviet productions; and to the
Handelsvertretung der U.S.S.R. in Deutschland for sending valuable
data on the same subject.

The wrapper of this book is composed of film strips from Drifters,
A Cottage on Dartmoor, and Light Rhythms, which were kindly

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

supplied to me by the directors of the films, Messrs. John Grierson,
Anthony Asquith, and Oswell Blakeston respectively.

My sincere thanks are due to Mr. H. Percival for the kindness he
has shown in placing at my disposal his remarkable collection of
film data, and to the many others who have helped in this manner.

Lastly, I should like to take this opportunity of thanking Mr. J.
R. Fawcett Thompson and Bunch Lee for their indispensable services
in preparing the manuscript, collecting the illustrations, and the
always tedious task of proof reading and indexing.

Paul Rotha.

TO THOSE

AMONG CINEMA

AUDIENCES

WHO WONDER WHY

AND THINK HOW

THE FILM TILL NOW

PART ONE
THE ACTUAL

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

The development of the film may be regarded from three different
points of view: the Scientific, the Commercial, and the ^Esthetic.

The first is concerned with the mechanical advance of the instru-
ment and its technicalities, dealing with the workings of the pro-
jector, the intricate mechanism of the camera, the various methods
of sound reproduction by discs or sound-strip x on film. These it is
not proposed to consider, except where the actual machinery of the
instrument has direct bearing on the expression of the theme which
the film is unfolding.

The second covers the amazing growth of the film as an industry,
which here will be briefly recorded.

And the third views the progress which the film has made since
its birth as a medium of dramatic expression, including its limits
and its delimits. It is with this aesthetic aspect of the cinema that
this survey is primarily concerned.

Except historically and technically, the birth and early years of
the cinema are neither interesting nor particularly brilliant in
aesthetic achievement. Accounts of financial successes and failures
in tawdry commercialism are depressing. It suffices to mention a
few salient facts and dates in order to gain a perspective of the
position to-day without undue tedium.

(a) The Commercial Development of the Film

It seems generally agreed that, for all practical purposes, Edison
started the ball rolling in 1887. Having perfected the phonograph,
he desired to supplement the sound images with another mechanical
device which would present visual images alongside those of
sound. It is extraordinary to observe that this ambition of Edison,

1 For definitions of these and other technicalities, such as montage, sound or
visual image, etc., see the Glossary in Appendix II.

THE ACTUAL

which brought the film into being, is precisely the opposite to the
aim of the present-day producer, who attempts to supplement his
visual images with their recorded sounds. This astonishing fact is
worth serious consideration. The visual film was thought necessary
to accompany the sound record. Fifty years later, sound is deemed
necessary to accompany the visual film. . . .

Edison's first efforts apparently resulted in pictures of microscopic
size in spirals upon a cylinder, somewhat similar to the early gramo-
phone record. Some time later, strips of film were made out of
collodion and experiments were also carried out with celluloid, but
it was not until samples of the first Eastman-Kodak film, constructed
on a nitro-cellulose base, were obtained by Edison in 1889 that the
original cinema machine came into being. This was called the
Kinetoscope. Experiments proceeded in Edison's laboratory at
West Orange, until at length it was possible for one person at a time
to look through the peephole of the machine and to see a series of
pictures, some fifty feet in length, representing a person in movement
-jerky and interrupted, perhaps, but nevertheless movement. It is
said that the first actual cinematic record was that of a sneeze,
performed by an assistant in the laboratory, one Fred Ott, whose
name surely will go down to posterity on this account alone. Mr.
Ott's sneeze is symbolical of the contagious influence of the film
business.

In 1894 the Edison kinetoscope was presented commercially to
the New York public and hundreds of these machines were sold in
the open market. The subjects of Edison's films made at his labora-
tory were chiefly boxing-matches, dances, and variety turns, all of
which were suitable to show off the capabilities of the new invention
on account of their movement. But the limitation of these films
being viewed by only one person at a time gave rise to a demand for
a machine like a magic lantern, which would project the pictures
on to a screen so that they could be seen by a whole roomful of
people. Edison, however, disliked the proposal, believing that
collective showings would rapidly exhaust the market, and he omitted
even to patent his device in foreign countries.

Meanwhile, other experiments were in progress in Europe, all of
them aiming at a combination of Edison's kinetoscope with the magic
lantern, for the projection of the film on to a screen. A year later,
in 1895, Woodville Latham gave public demonstrations in America

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

of a projector using the kinetoscope film pictures, but the process
was crude and unsuccessful. About the same time, both Robert
Paul in London and the Lumiere brothers in Paris, inspired by the
exhibition of Edison's device in their respective cities, brought out
projectors ; Paul exhibiting his at Olympia and the Alhambra in
the following year.1 The principle upon which the modern projector
is based, however, is that of Thomas Armat's machine, which was
shown publicly for the first time at the Cotton States' Exposition at
Atlanta, Georgia, in September of 1895. Armat's Vitascope, which
was illegitimately coupled with Edison's name for box-office reasons,
was then shown on Broadway and was an immediate success. It
was not long before several other projectors were put on the market,
with the inevitable result that in a short time there was turbulent
conflict and litigation over patents, which was to last for several
years in America and thus to hinder progress. A disastrous damper
on the young industry was experienced also in Europe, for at a
charity bazaar in Paris, in 1897, one hundred and eighty members of
Parisian society were burned to death in a marquee, the cause of the
fire being a cinematograph machine. This calamity had a depressing
effect on the whole of northern Europe, and it was years before many
people would countenance the presence of the diabolical engine.

Gradually the fifty-feet lengths of film used in the kinetoscope
lengthened until, in 1897, eleven thousand feet of film were shown
by Enoch Rector in America, being a cinematic record of the Corbett-
Fitzsimmons fight at Carson City, Nevada. Exceptionally dull as
this enormous length of film must have been, its novelty was probably
astounding. During the same year a film version about three
thousand feet long of the Oberammergau Passion Play was made by
Richard Hollaman. This was not a genuine reproduction of the real
spectacle, as was advertised, but was manufactured on the roof of
the Grand Central Palace - a fact, however, which did not worry
the public when they became aware of the deception. Presumably
this affair has a vague claim to be the first attempt to photograph a
story in pictures, but actually it was a mere photographic record,
with no attempt at narration. About this time also, some wonderful
trick effects of fade-outs, dissolves, and other photographic devices

1 Several of these early instruments, of historic and scientific interest, are
included in the Will Day Collection of cinematograph equipment, which is housed
at present in the Science Museum, South Kensington, London.

THE ACTUAL

now familiar were attained by taking pictures of magic conjuring
by Georges Melies at the Theatre Robert Houdin in Paris. Melies
actually had his own studio, which was constructed in 1896, and
amongst other films produced a version of Jules Verne's Trip to the
Moon. This 'primitive' was revived by the Film Society on 5th
January 1930, and about the same time there were various revivals of
Melies 's work shown in Paris.1

Although these novelties were widely successful, it was not until
1903 that the first real attempt to tell a story by moving pictures
was made. This event was achieved by Edwin S. Porter's sensational
The Great Train Robbery, eight hundred feet in length, with Mae
Murray as the leading lady in what must surely have been the first
cabaret on the screen. This film was rapidly succeeded by many
other 'story-pictures,' as they were called, of a similar type, such as
The Great Bank Robbery and Trapped by Bloodhounds, or a Lynching
at Cripple Creek. Thereafter, for some years, there set in an orgy of
one-reel melodramas.

The arrival of the story-picture almost at once gave rise to the
need for suitable places in which to project these efforts, which
resulted in the famous nickelodeon or five-cent theatre. The first
of these was opened by Harry Davis, of Pittsburgh, a real-estate
operator and the proprietor of a stage theatre. This excellent show-
man opened his nickelodeon in 1905 with The Great Train Robbery
as the first stupendous attraction, much in the same way as exhibitors
in 1929 specialised in opening with The Singing Fool as soon as
their cinemas were equipped with transmitting apparatus. The
immediate success of Davis's house inspired speculators all over the
States to start similar shows, and it was not long before these
nickelodeons sprang up everywhere. They were particularly re-
munerative in the big labour centres, where the universal language
of the film appealed equally to mixed nationalities. It is of interest
to note that Zukor, Laemmle, Fox, and Marcus Loew, all men of
reputation in the producing industry at a later date, ran and made
big profits out of nickelodeons.

In Europe, story-pictures continued for the most part to be shown
in concert halls and variety houses and at such places as the London
Polytechnic Institute. During this time there had come into being
the famous Hale's Tours, which were conducted with great success

1 See also page 60.
24

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

for some years, between 1903 and 1909. These consisted of panor-
amic and travelling shots of scenes in various countries, projected
on to a screen at the end of a room which was arranged like the
interior of a railway carriage. The spectators were given the illusion
of a tour through some distant land, the screen variously showing
the railway track and spectacular views of well-known 'beauty
spots.' Effect was added to the performance by the whole carriage
being rocked to one side whenever the screen showed the train
rounding a curve. This may perhaps be regarded as the first attempt
to achieve atmosphere; certainly the carriages may be looked upon
as the forerunners of the vast 'atmospheric' cinemas of to-day.
The outside of the place was made to resemble the end of a carriage,
with two rails, and an attendant dressed as a railway-guard. The
gilded, whiskered walruses who guard the portals of London's
Empire and New York's Roxy would scorn to recognise their
predecessors in these pseudo railway-guards, attracting attention by
a screaming phonograph.

Out of the nickelodeons, music-hall shows, and Hale's Tours
there developed the first cinemas, which carried on the profitable
business and caused an increased demand for story-pictures. This
led to the erection of film studios and the forming of stock companies
of actors and actresses by the picture-makers. From the one-reel
melodramas and slapstick comedies there emerged the longer story-
films; and there grew up around the latter many names which were
to become world-famous. In 1908, David Wark Griffith, a stage
actor, was engaged by the American Biograph Company of New
York as a scenario- writer and actor, and his great influence on the
film was to manifest itself during the next ten years. About this
time also, numerous one-reeler 'westerns,' with their cowboys and
Indians, were especially popular with the ever-increasing film public.

From 1911 to 1914 the industry developed with astounding
rapidity. The film, hitherto a thousand feet, grew in length. But
the most sensational pictures now began to come from Europe, and
had considerable influence on the American producers. In England,
the Hep worth, the British and Colonial Kinematograph, and the
London Film Companies were all creating a demand by the good
quality of their steady output. France, with her national leanings
towards spectacular pageantry, produced historical films of consider-
able length, the most renowned being Louis Mercanton's Queen

THE ACTUAL

Elizabeth, with Sarah Bernhardt in the title role. This picture
created a sensation wherever it was shown and was bought for
America in 191 2 by Adolf Zukor (then an exhibitor in New York)
in conjunction with Edwin S. Porter, Daniel Frohman and others.
From Italy came a series of big productions or 'feature films,' as
they were known, including a version of Homer's Odyssey, The Fall
of Troy, Faust, The Three Musketeers, and The Sack of Rome-, but
greatest of all, the forerunner of every spectacle film since, was
Quo Vadis?, a veritable mammoth production of 191 3, eight thousand
feet in length. This also was bought and shown by George Kleine
in America, where to that date the most pretentious effort had been
The Life of Buffalo Bill. Since the day when American producers
first saw Quo Vadis?, cinema audiences of the world have been
presented with super-spectacle after super-spectacle. From The
Birth of a Nation, Griffith's reply to the Italian picture at the end of
j 914, through the years of Intolerance, The Ten Commandments,
Robin Hood, Ben-Hur, Noah's Ark, Metropolis, Secrets of the East
and Casanova, super-films abounded, developing to-day into Broad-
ways, Hollywood Revues, and General Cracks of the singing, dancing,
and talking variety. In the few years just before the war the feature
film sufficed to build up the industry (increased audiences meant
bigger film studios and larger cinema theatres) , and in 1 9 1 4 the opening
of the Strand Theatre on Broadway marked a new era in the history
of the cinema. The way was open for the position as it is to:day.

*
With the outbreak of war in 19 14, film production naturally came
to an end in Europe. The road was left clear for America to secure
for herself the supreme commercial control which she still holds.
It was simply a matter of circumstance of which the Americans
were quick to take full advantage. That they made the best of their
opportunity is only to their credit. But all was not easy for their
producers. Financiers were at first reluctant to put their war gains
into the film business. Great sums of money were lost, serious risks
taken, and wild speculations made in those early days before the
monied men of America realised the vast financial profits waiting to
be reaped from the movies.1

1 The reader is referred to the enthralling accounts of early struggles in Samuel
Goldwyn's Behind the Screen, Terry Ramsaye's A Million and One Nights, and
D. W. Griffith's When the Movies were Young.

* *..'

w:--^

* &%Mk

NINA PETROVNA
called in England ' The Wonderful Lie, ' by Hans Schwartz,
under the supervision of Erich Pc:nrr.sr. Brigitte Helm and
Fran: Lederer, 1929

sovkino

BED AND SOFA
by Alexander Roo:::. J ?l and Tiicolai Batalov.

1927.

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

Once started, however, the American producing firms made
astonishing progress. Throughout the whole war period their
output increased yearly until 191 8 found them completely dominating
the world market, with interests in foreign producing companies
and theatre controls that extended into England, France, Germany,
and the Far East. In England, their acceptance was widespread,
simply because there were no other films available, and because
their shallow, superficial nature appealed to the post-war state of
mind of the masses. British companies found it more profitable,
and far less of a responsibility, to rent American films than to make
their own. Moreover, American companies soon opened their
offices in Wardour Street and on the continent for their own dis-
tribution, and remain there still. A few attempts to produce were made
in England but the lack of both experience and capital rendered the
resulting pictures unworthy of presentation. America continued
with characteristic facility and slickness to make picture after picture
of a hard, scintillating type. By her natural business methods she
kept the standard up to a certain level, calculated to appeal to the
lowest grade of intelligence. England and Europe were littered with
these glittering, metallic movies, whose chief appeal lay in their sex
and salaciousness, until the time came when marketing pictures by
one's and two's began to be ridiculous, and Hollywood took to
selling a whole year's output to foreign exhibitors and renters before
the films themselves even were made. By this means she tightened
her hold on the foreign market. The 'star-system,' catchpenny
titles, scandalous publicity, and a hundred other tawdry schemes
were devised to sell the goods to the European public. Business
being business, without honour or morals, these movies were taken
by British exhibitors, and the public flocked to them because of the
cheapness and accessibility of the cinema. By degrees, the masses
became saturated with pictures of the worst type. They did not
know that others existed. They do not know now that many others
exist, nor are they given the opportunity to know. Rarely is any
foreign film (save an American) afforded a fair chance of success in
this country. As then, the movie is rampant; the film is dormant.

There is no denying the logic that the Americans would have been
foolish to loose their hold on the world market; and the method they
adopted for retaining that hold was the disposing of their films en
masse to British exhibitors. They devised a simple but clever system

THE ACTUAL

of selling their second and third-rate productions by means of their
super-films. For example, if an English exhibitor wanted a big
picture - a spectacle film - which would be a certain box-office draw,
then he had also to accept a number of poor pictures to show during
the off-season. This was all there was to it, except that, as the
method spread, the exhibitor began to book pictures before he had
seen them, and probably before they were made, either on the
strength of promises that they would be good or else by sample.
It will readily be seen how this system led to the abominable practice
of making films to type, encouraged of course by the evils of the
star-system. If, for instance, Raymond Hatton and Wallace Beery
made one comedy, the exhibitor was then coaxed to book five similar
films to show during the next two years. Many examples of this
stranglehold on both stars and directors are apparent, viz. the
polished, drawing-room pieces of Adolphe Menjou; the Emil Jan-
nings Way of All Flesh type of film; the Clara Bow comedies; and
the backstage and adapted stage-plays of to-day. All of these are
per recipe. Such a mechanical method of making films is bound
eventually to kill individuality in director and star. Obviously there
can be no creative effort in pictures produced in this manner.

But it was not only by these means that the Americans assumed
control of the industry. It became popular at an early stage to rent
big theatres for the premier run of a film in order to secure prestige.
A 'premier' at a large cinema in London, Berlin, Paris, or New York
is all-important to a film. In England the provinces are unquestion-
ably influenced by the London reception. It is the Press reports
after the first night which count the highest. Thus it became custom-
ary to launch any big new picture at a prominent theatre, and it
will be remembered that numerous American films had their first
run at London theatres. This idea developed into the acquisition
of theatres for premier runs, not only in capitals but in the key-
cities throughout a country. Competition led to the taking over of
whole chains of cinema houses, which meant of course that any
film a company liked to produce could be shown at every one of the
houses on their chain, the box-office profits being taken direct.
Nearly every big producing concern now owns its chain of theatres,
or is associated with a company owning theatres, while most of the
smaller film companies distribute their pictures through the larger
firms. In London alone, Metro- Goldwyn-Mayer own the Empire;

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

Paramount (the distributing side of Famous-Players-Lasky) the
Plaza and the Carlton; Fox are building a new cinema in the Hay-
market; Provincial Cinema Theatres own over one hundred and
twenty houses, including the New Gallery, the Tivoli, the Capitol,
and the Astoria, as well as being associated with the Gaumont-
British chain who control the Marble Arch Pavilion, Shepherd's
Bush Pavilion, Avenue Pavilion, and many others; Universal own the
Rialto in London and the Rialto in Leeds; and so on. Thus the
control of a chain of cinema theatres, with a 'shop-window' in London
and the advantages of group advertising, is one of the most important
assets for a producing company. There is little doubt that the larger
concerns will concentrate more and more in the future on enlarging

their existing circuits.

The struggle in Europe to break down American domination has
been hard and long fought; but although much of the European
output (Germany and France) has been superior to the Hollywood
film, the vast organisations so liberally equipped financially have
presented an insuperable barrier. Possession, one recalls, is nine
points of the law. In order to gain real profits, a film made in England,
Germany, or France must secure a showing in America. This at
present is almost impossible. A great deal has been said by smooth-
tongued publicity men about the Americans wanting British films,
but there is little doubt that the Americans are definitely hostile not
only to the British but the continental industry. They do not want
foreign films in America, except as occasional curiosities, and do
not intend to have them. Why should they?

After the war, the predominant country in Europe to attempt
producing pictures on anything like a big scale was Germany. (For
the moment it is as well to leave Soviet Russia out of the matter,
for although she started to build up an industry at an early date
she was not concerned with the outside market. She made films
with a purpose for her own people.) Superb as many of the
early German productions were, they failed to appeal to a public
saturated in American flashiness. Scarcely any of the early German
films were financially successful, and few made money outside their
country of origin, where the box-office receipts were not sufficient
to warrant production of fresh pictures. Added to which, Germany,
like most other European countries at that time, was financially poor,

THE ACTUAL

and to build up a film industry almost unlimited capital is needed.
Germany turned to her Government for support, and the response
was praiseworthy. But even with State help, bank subsidies, and,
later, loans from American companies, the German industry was in
a constant state of fluctuation. Her films, although far better than
the American output, failed to secure adequate returns, and Holly-
wood, quick to recognise the brains behind these productions, began
to rob Germany of her directors, players, and technicians, and to
turn them to her own commercial uses. Some years later many of
these returned the worse for wear, and are now in their own country.
Recent German productions tend to be Americanised, although
some attempt has been made by Erich Pommer to combine Holly-
wood commercialism with the remnants of the great German school
of 1919-25.

In Sweden and in France the same story can be told. For some
time Sweden tried gallantly to make films of good quality, but again
financial failure was the result. One by one her best directors and
players drifted across to Hollywood, where their work steadily
deteriorated. France, although spasmodically producing interesting
but isolated films, has never succeeded in sustaining a continued
output. In England also, much the same situation developed, the
Americans acquiring the most promising players for their own produc-
tions, leaving British directors to do the best they could with the
remainder. British directors are supposed to be renowned for their
lack of intelligence - and what were they to do when even the pretty
faces were snatched from them?

Thus, although four countries made every effort to produce
films in the face of the Hollywood movies, these pictures and their
makers were doomed to eventual failure, with the inevitable result
that the brains were imported into America. Instead of remaining
persons of individual taste they became cogs in the great movie
machine. I cannot recall one example of a European director who,
on going to Hollywood, made films better or even as good as he did
in his own surroundings. For example, Murnau's Four Devils and
Sunrise were not comparable to Tartuffe and The Last Laugh\
Lubitsch's The Patriot came nowhere near Dubarry in dramatic
power; Leni's The Man Who Laughs was a travesty compared to
Waxworks; Dupont's Love Me and the World is Mine is not generally
associated with his name; Seastrom's Thy Soul Shall Bear Witness

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

is preferable to Name the Man. Among players, contrast Emil
Jannings in The Street of Sin with Jannings in Faust; Conrad Veidt
in A Man's Past with Veidt in A Student of Prague; Greta Garbo
in A Woman of Affairs (better photographed, it is true) with Garbo
in The Joyless Street; Pola Negri in The Flame with Negri in The
Crown of Lies; Lya de Putti in The Scarlet Woman with Lya de Putti
in Manon Lescaut, and so on. There are few conclusions to be drawn
from these comparisons. Perhaps these directors, when given carte
blanche and the wonderful technical resources of Hollywood, lost
their sense of values. Perhaps the attempt to make good films with
accepted Hollywood box-office ingredients was distasteful to
European artists, who decided to bluff the Americans by including
a few facile camera tricks which the magnates would consider high
art. Or perhaps, and this is probably nearer the mark, it was im-
possible to produce let alone conceive any work of real aesthetic
value when surrounded by the Hollywood atmosphere of dollars
and unintelligence, where culture and sincerity seem to be unknown
qualities. The finest picture is not painted by an artist who has
small boys to light his cigarettes, perfected mechanical appliances to
mix his paints, canvases which have been specially primed at
exorbitant cost, brushes made from the hairs of a strange and rare
beast in the Himalayas at twenty pounds a hair. Nothing but hot-
house virtuosity can come out of that environment. Sincerity of
purpose and surroundings bring out good work. Transfer the
painter from his disordered studio into a luxurious apartment with
every new fangled contrivance to hand and he is at a loss. Thus,
for instance, Paul Leni producing Waxworks with little money, the
goodwill of three great actors, handicapped by lack of lights, studio
space and time, bound down by limits, was forced to use his ingenuity
and to extract the utmost value from a sheet of paper.1 But Paul
Leni directing The Man Who Laughs, with millions of dollars to
spend, a cast of thousands, with the flattering knowledge that he had
only to ask for a thing and get it, became slack, drivelling, slovenly,
and lost all sense of decoration, cinema, and ^artistry. This may be
applied equally to a hundred other films made under the same
circumstances, even by Americans, as was the case with Josef von
Sternberg's The Salvation Hunters, a much over-praised film, which

1 The last episode, of Jack-the-Ripper, was made with the barest essentials of
scenery and lighting, owing to lack of finance.

THE ACTUAL

contained a few elementary ideas of cinema, ideas that Sternberg
has failed to develop since Paramount elevated him to a director-
ship.

It is important to note that there had been little attempt at com-
bination or working in common interests in the American side of
the business, although various producing concerns were well advanced
on the road to prosperity. Despite the fact that, in 191 5, the Motion
Picture Board of Trade was formed in New York, followed two years
later by the National Association of the Motion Picture Industry,
neither of these boards had much status with the trade and the
public. In fact, it is said that not until there had been repeated
abuses of the trade, salacious productions, and several disastrous
scandals involving leading personalities on the screen and the
executive staffs did the formation of the Motion Picture Producers
and Distributors of America Inc. come into being (1922). This
high-sounding organisation was distinguished by having for its
figure-head Mr. Will Hays, who specially resigned from the Post-
Master Generalship of the United States to take the position. The
powers exercised by the Hays organisation extended over a wide
area, embracing the selection of movie subjects, general trading in
films, international dealings with companies, the relations of the
general public to the film industry, censorship, and taxation. Mr.
Hays himself looks after the general interests of the cinema with
loving kindness, by taking a hand in almost every affair and a large
salary. From time to time strong worded edicts are issued from the
great man's office, which lend suitable dignity to the concern but
have little real meaning or effect. It was Mr. Hays who so shrewdly
decided that Somerset Maugham's play 'Rain' should not be made
into a film subject unless it were renamed Sadie Thompson, thereby
displaying great moral sagacity.

In 1925, the international aspects of the cinema began to cause
endless trouble, both politically and industrially, to governments
and the Press. Europe suddenly awoke to the fact that the American
control of the screen, with its steady flow of propaganda for the
American people, their life and work, was exerting an influence on
world trade. Americanisation not only of Europe, but of Asia,
Africa, and Australia was being furthered through the entertaining
medium of the cinema. Agitations arose in all countries, and, after

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

heated discussions between the trade and their respective Govern-
ments, quotas were fixed. America herself tried to disguise the whole
matter by importing foreign stars and directors so as to give the film
an international appeal, and by sending her own production units
to work abroad. In this way she hoped partially to evade the quota
regulations and to retain her hold on the world market. She has been
successful.

Quota restrictions on American films encouraged European
production, and determined attempts in England, Germany, and
France were again made to build up an industry. Many companies
both large and small, some with negligible financial backing, made
their appearance, and after a few months a number of passable films
were available for exhibition. Few were really satisfactory, however,
partly because the public was still saturated with flashy American
pictures of low standard, partly because British films were inferior
to even the American movies. This was due to the lack of organisa-
tion, the scarcity of intelligent directors, and the unsuitable type of
people of which the executives in British studios were composed.
In 1924, a publicity campaign was launched to help the British film.
This campaign was perhaps the worst thing that could have happened.
By continuous articles from eminent hands in the Press, by debates
in both Houses, by libellous accounts of foreign methods, by reported
scandals about American stars, by a tremendous stirring of agitation
amongst the masses, the public was browbeaten into a state of
receptivity for British films. For months the Press told the public
how good the British films then in the making were going to be.
After all this publicity, with the public hypnotised into readiness to
applaud the worst picture in the world because it was British, the
promised films came, one by one. Upon this shamefully false founda-
tion the present industry in England is largely based.

The British Government's film bill of 1927 decided that every
distributing firm and exhibitor should show a five per cent, quota of
British films, no matter what the films were like. Similar but more
severe restrictions were passed in Germany and in France, where,
however, the position was slightly different. The German and
French publics would rather see a second-rate film made in their own
country than an imported movie. Moreover, German and French
films made to supply exhibitors with their quota were of much better
standard than the British product. In England, the home-made
c 33

THE ACTUAL

film was often so inferior than an exhibitor lost money while showing
it, and had to make up the loss on next week's American picture.
Some exhibitors actually decided to ignore the quota and pay the
resulting fine, which they could well afford to do out of the profits
from American programmes.

After a time most of the smaller British companies collapsed,
and the remaining big firms concentrated on producing a considerable
number of pictures, with both English and foreign directors and
players, which would bring in returns sufficient to build up their
business on a sound basis. Such was the position when Hollywood
chose to exploit the dialogue film. Four out of the numerous British
firms (British International, Gaumont-British, British Instructional,
and Gainsborough Films) had gained a small footing in the home
market by imitating American movies and American methods.
This was also taking place on the continent, where players and
directors, who some years previously had drifted to Hollywood,
were reappearing in their home countries. Hollywood was being
left in the lurch, and, moreover, there was evidence that the public
was at last tiring of the perpetual movie. Something fresh had to
be devised to whet their jaded appetites.

How the dialogue film struck the industry in every country like a
bombshell is recent history. How Warner Brothers, not knowing
which way to turn in order to continue with their production, decided
to gamble on the talking film and how they achieved an astounding
success; how all Hollywood rapidly followed in their wake; how the
talking film hit the nascent British industry; how law-suits and
injunctions took place over infringed patents of reproducing appara-
tus; how the coming of the 'talkies' was Britain's great chance; how
British films have died three times; how the unrepentant masses
flocked to the novelty of The Singing Fool', how the Americans keep
their control of the world market - all this and more is scattered
in the daily Press and is on everyone's lips.

The first British dialogue film of any merit, Blackmail (produced
by British International Pictures and directed by Alfred Hitchcock),
was shown to the Press and the trade in America. The New York
critics generally agreed that it was well up to their standards. But
nobody bought the picture in New York; nobody wanted it; and in
order to present the film publicly the British company rented a

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

theatre. Now Blackmail may not have been a particularly good film,
but it was infinitely superior to any American dialogue picture of
the same time. But the opposition it met with was a hard blow to
British International Pictures. Even the Dominions cold-shouldered
it. Censorship authorities in Australia at first prevented the picture
from being shown, but later withdrew their ban. Such are the diffi-
culties a British film has to meet.

Meanwhile, it is said, America is thinking beyond the dialogue
film, beyond even the colour and stereoscopic film; that she is
scheming quietly for complete control of the entertainment industry
of the world; and that she intends to achieve this by means of
television.

At the moment of writing (October 1929)1 there are two forces
that count in America - the Radio Corporation of America and the
American Telephone and Telegraph Company. These two gigantic
concerns own and control everything that matters in the entertain-
ment industry. Their present power is due to an outcome of mergers,
tie-ups, and combinations that have been taking place for some
years. They are rivals in the war for complete control, but it is likely
that their rivalry will culminate in amalgamation.

The Radio Corporation of America, who have the immense
financial backing of the General Electric Company, are allied with
the Pathe film producing concern and have recently organised their
own film company on a big scale - Radio Pictures. They own a large
number of cinemas, having purchased the vast Keith Albee circuit
of theatres and variety houses. They are associated with the Victor
Gramophone Company, the alter ego of His Master's Voice. They
own also an invention for stereoscopic films, called the Stereopticon,
which, it is said, is ready for the general market and will make
television a certainty. Finally, they are extremely efficient in the
making of dialogue film apparatus, the R.C.A. process being used
both in British studios and cinemas.

The American Telephone and Telegraph Company are rich in their
association with film producing concerns, being allied to Warner
Brothers, Paramount, United Artists, Fox, Universal, First National
and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. It is reported that through these firms
they can control half of the total number of cinemas in the United

1 For much of this information I am indebted to the Morning Post, in whose
columns there is steady antagonism to American domination of the film industry.

THE ACTUAL

States. They are connected with the Columbia Gramophone Com-
pany and through them are constructing the second largest chain of
radio stations in the world. Warner Brothers have bought up all
the leading publishers of light music, including the best-known firm
in London, Messrs. Chappell. The Fox Film Company are also
financially interested in the Gaumont-British Company of England,
who, as has been stated, own a large chain of theatres in this country.
Five representatives of the Paramount Film Company have joined
the board of the Columbia Broadcast Company. The Western
Electric recording apparatus, which is being installed in many
cinemas in England with great speed, is a subsidiary concern of the
American Telegraph and Telephone Company.

These are the two firms whose united objective will be the entire
control of the entertainment of the world. Through the means of
the film, the gramophone, the radio, and television will America
dominate the earth.

Wheels within wheels, tie-ups and mergers, quick and quiet
shifting of interests, acquisition of small companies in foreign lands,
chains of theatres and cinemas increasing by one's and two's, defiance
of quota acts - these are the ways of the commercial film.

Yet another difficulty to be encountered by the progress of the
cinema is the acute problem of film censorship. As is generally
known, copies of films differ according to the demands of the censor-
ship regulations in the country of presentation. Whereas a critic
in Berlin may applaud the editing and cutting of a certain sequence
of Herr Pabst's new film, this sequence may have been re-edited or
completely deleted in the copy of the same film seen by a critic in
London. That the aesthetic value of the film suffers thereby as a
whole is, of course, obvious to all but the Press and the censorship
committee itself, but even this latter body must at times realise the
havoc it causes to films by deletions for so-called political and moral
motives. Those interested in this aspect of the subject are referred
to Mr. Ivor Montagu's valuable pamphlet, The Political Censorship
of Films (Gollancz, 1929), but it would seem that unless all forms of
censorship are either abolished or subjected to drastic revision
there is no solution to the problem. The fault, however, lies equally
with the producers and the directors. If they make films in which

DtTiihard nrtanv

L1GH rNING

a western, by cJames McKay. An instance of America using
natural material Conti isi u '■ lowet ph .

FOX MOVIE! ONE FOLLIES
by Marcel Silver, with dialogue and sound reproduction. An
example of forced artificiality and sophisticated handling.

ivX

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

there are certain sequences that wilfully infringe the censor's rules,
they must obviously expect them to be severely edited before leave
for public exhibition is granted. The root of the trouble lies really
in the different rulings laid down by each country. Nevertheless, the
present censorship of films in England undoubtedly needs stringent
reform, for its ban on many harmless pictures is detrimental to the
progress of the British film industry.

Apart from this, frequent exception can be taken to the official
reasons given for the rejection of a film. A case in point arose in
connection with Germaine Dulac's La Coquille et le Clergyman.
According to the Film Society's programme for 16th March 1930,
this was banned from public exhibition by the British Board of
Film Censors because it 'is so cryptic as to be almost meaningless.
If there is a meaning, it is doubtless objectionable.' Firstly, to confess
ignorance of the significance of a film, and then to suggest that it is
'doubtless objectionable,' reveals a standard of criticism that is truly
Gilbertian!

Mr. Kenneth Macpherson, writing on the sore subject of the
destruction of films by the censor authorities, cites the case of The
Joyless Street. The film was made in thirty-four days working at
sixteen hours a day, and when completed it was ten thousand feet
in length, about the same as Ben-Hur or The Big Parade. France
accepted the film, deleting two thousand feet and every shot of the
'street' itself. Vienna extracted all sequences in which Werner
Krauss appeared as the butcher. Russia turned the American
lieutenant into a doctor and made the butcher the murderer instead
of the girl. After having run a year in Germany, an attempt
was made to censor it. In America it was not shown at all, and in
England once, at a private performance of the Film Society.
That is the history of a creative work which contained less harm-
ful matter than Our Dancing Daughters or Hot for Paris, and it
gives some idea of the censorship's power to destroy the qualities
of any film.

There is no reason at all why many of the forbidden Soviet films,
for example, should not be shown to special audiences of persons
connected with the film trade and the Press, who might perhaps
realise the shortcomings of their own work in this manner.
Economically, also, foreign methods of production might be studied
with advantage from some of these suppressed films.

THE ACTUAL

(b) The Development of the Film as a Means of Expression
When considering the commercialism which surrounds the
producing and exhibiting of any film, the unscrupulous dealings
and double-crossing which occur when a production is launched,
it is surprising to discover how far the cinema has really advanced
as a medium of dramatic expression. It has been seen how the film
began its career and how it became popular with the public, but it
is well to remember that the child-film was nursed by a company
of 'fur-dealers, clothes-spongers, and grocers' (to use the words of
Mr. Messel *) in whose hands it could hardly have been expected to
rise above the lowest form of entertainment. Moreover, and the fact
must be stressed, the primary aim of film producers is to make the
maximum of financial return in the shortest possible time, a method
hardly congenial to so intricate an art as the cinema.

The later part of this survey will show the real functions,
capabilities, and potentialities of the film as a medium of expression
considered apart from any commercial point of view save that of
general appeal, which surely is the only proper outlook. It is the aim
here to preface these theories by actualities, to reinforce the possibili-
ties of the cinema by analysis of the progress of the film until now,
examining influences and estimating their worth, selecting some
tendencies and rejecting others.

It is essential in the first place to assert that the film is an
independent form of expression, drawing inspiration with reservation
from the other arts. Furthermore, it should be remarked that the
attributes of the film are derived from the nature of the instrument
itself, and not from other matters of subject, story-interest, and
propaganda. It should also be remembered that the film is essentially
visual in its appeal, any dialogue being detrimental to this appeal;
and that light and movement are the two elements employed in the
creation of these visual images. As I shall demonstrate later, the
abstraction of the absolute film is the nearest approach to the purest
form of cinema, far removed from the commercial film, and descrip-
tions will be given of their simplist methods of psychological appeal
through the eye to the mind of the spectator. Following this there
will be determined the other lower forms of cinema, descending in
aesthetic significance through the epic and art film to the ordinary
narrative film and the singing and dancing picture.

1 Vide, This Film Business, by Rudolph Messel (Benn, 1928).

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

The scientific and mechanical advance of the cinema has developed
with marked rapidity as compared with the aesthetic tendency, which
has been either backward or, in all but a few studios, absent. I
have yet to explain that perhaps the greatest handicap imposed on
aesthetic progress was the camera's misleading faculty of being able
to record the actual. At an early stage, it was found that the camera
was capable of registering a credible record of real scenes and events,
thereby becoming a valuable asset to education, a reliable means of
historical reference, and a potential method of discovery in the
sciences. When put to these uses the realistic properties of the film
were good. Even to-day, the news-bulletin and topical budget are
always welcome events in the evening's programme, especially when
heightened in effect by sound. It must be emphasised, however,
that no narration of story or expression of dramatic theme has place
in this form of cinematic record. The appeal is purely interest. The
audience is not asked to participate in the emotional feelings of stout
gentlemen in top hats launching liners, or His Majesty opening a new
home for destitute orphans. The audience watches the incidents
with interest and listens to the dialogue in much the same way as it
reads the evening paper. But when the camera came to be employed
for the telling of a fictional theme, its realistic photographic powers
were used instead of the creative imagination of the director, who
failed to express the story through the camera. The latter almost
at once became an instrument of photographic realism rather than
a medium for the expression of creative imagination. Its real powers
of distortion, by means of exaggerated angle, slow-motion, and
masking,1 and of transposition were completely neglected in the
hasty striving after the obvious goal of realism. The power of the
camera to record the actual on a screen coaxed the audience into
believing that their sole pleasure lay in the recognition of familiar
things. Thus, at the outset of the story-picture, the film began its
career on a false basis, and, it hardly need be stated, has continued
along these wrong lines (with a few notable exceptions) until the
present day, when the dialogue film is further extending the desire
for realism, as are also the stereoscopic screen and the colour film.
The exact replica of an object, accurate in every detail and measure-
ment, cannot give the same emotions of pleasure as the real object.

1 The reader is referred to the full analysis of camera properties in Part II, Chapter
III.

THE ACTUAL

A photograph of a person is a very poor substitute for the actual
being. It lies in the hands of the creator to utilise his imaginative
powers in the creation of the replica, which is his impression, ex-
pression, or mental rendering of the subject. Because a picture is
' lifelike,' it is not necessarily an exact rendering of the original.
It is rather the artist's interpretation of the original, in which he
has emphasised the salient characteristics. The spectator at once
seizes upon the latter and recognises them as being akin to his own
thoughts about the subject, which perhaps have been subconscious
in his mind until the picture has brought them into sudden under-
standing. Further, the artist's conception may suggest thoughts
about the original of which the spectator had no previous knowledge.
This is particularly applicable to the film in its power of emphasis
by the close up. The very presence of commonplace objects takes
on a fresh meaning when shown enlarged on the screen, when
emphasised as playing a part in the whole pattern of life. And,
above all, it is essential to remember that a picture can be a non-
representative as well as a representative record of an object.

But it will be understood that actual progress of the film along
its proper path has been slow, and is only defined in a minute
percentage of the many hundreds of productions realised up till now.
Mr. Charles Marriott has suggested that 'art is a matter of the medium
in which it is executed and a just balance between using that material
in the imitation of nature and of abstraction, the degree of naturalism
and the degree of abstraction being limited by the material.' This
matter of 'the medium in which it is executed' cannot be stressed
too much with regard to the cinema, for only on rare occasions is
the film used rightly as its nature demands. The pleasure of film
appreciation lies in the recognition of small developments, which do
not often comprise the whole. It is rare to find a film that is in itself
a step forward. Indeed, sometimes it is a reward to find one single
shot in a movie which suggests an advance in the film's capabilities.
However discouraging the present position of the film may be,
unconsciously the worst director may put forward a fresh idea of
interest. Someone has got to go on making movies, even if they do
not stop to ask themselves whether progress is being made.

With the production in 1903 of The Great Train Robbery, the
story-film was launched on its long and prosperous career and the
incident or action of the film became of first importance. An

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

excellent example, which shows clearly how mistaken were the ideas
of the pioneer directors, was to be seen in the Comedie Frangaise
films of 1908. Members of this celebrated institution were persuaded
to perform famous scenes from several of the French classic dramas,
including episodes from Tartuffe and Phedre, and to act them as
they would on the stage, exaggerating their gestures into the lens of
the camera. It was calculated by the promoters of the scheme that
the appeal of the well-known scenes coupled with the popularity of
the celebrated actors and actresses would achieve a wide success.
The fallacy of the idea is obvious, of course, and the result was quite
ineffectual. But it suggested to Adolf Zukor the great possibilities
of famous plays and famous players, which, as is now well-known,
developed into Famous-Players and later into the Famous-Players-
Lasky Film Corporation, one of the biggest producing concerns in
the world. From the time of the Comedie Frangaise effort onwards,
it became a natural course of events to appropriate subjects and
persons hallowed by public approval, with complete disregard of
their suitability, and to adapt them to the screen. This process is as
common, if not commoner, to-day as it ever was. Stage stars are
filling the film studios because of the dialogue cinema; any best-
seller novel is bought for the screen; any name that comes into the
public eye is snapped up for the movies. What of Elinor Glyn,
Aimee Macpherson, Philip Yale Drew, and in the past Jack Dempsey,
Georges Carpentier, and Steve Donoghue?

Gradually the acted story became the raison d'etre of the
film. Stage technique was modified, the gesture still being used in
relation to the spoken word, and 'acting' became one of the
necessary talents of the movie star. Upon this type of stagey
performance, good photographic looks and the power of suggesting
sexual passion has the infamous star-system of America grown up,
a system that has been slavishly copied in this country.
Quite frankly, this sort of thing is not film at all but merely 'living
photography.'

Despite all opposition, the natural tendencies of a medium inevit-
ably assert themselves, and, in the case of the film, some of its
simpler resources began to show at an early stage. This was not due,
however, to any deep thinking on the part of the 'fur dealers and
clothes-men,' but to a natural course of development. They were to
be found principally in the slapstick comedy, the melodramatic

THE ACTUAL

thriller, and the spectacle film. Of the three young tendencies,
slapstick is the most interesting, for it utilised the fantastic capabilities
of the cinema. It brought to the screen things that were unreal and
impossible, but verified them by actual vision. All the devices of
the camera, such as slow-motion, ultra-rapid motion, abrupt cessation
of movement by camera stopping, and distortion have their direct
use in slapstick for achieving comic effect. This has now been
augmented by the introduction of sound, which is capable of adding
largely to humorous effect. In particular, reference may be made
to the Mickey Mouse cartoon films, perfect examples of the sound
and visual cinema. In an exceptionally early fragment of film prior
to 1900, which was included recently in a souvenir film, Royal
Remembrances, a motor car ran over a policeman, who was smashed
by the impact into small pieces which subsequently rejoined them-
selves. This may be taken as an early example of consciousness of
the capabilities of the medium. Years later, the same trick of breaking
an object into pieces and assembling the fragments into a whole
again was used for dramatic purpose in Eisenstein's October, where
the gigantic symbolic statue of the Czar fell and crumbled only to
come together again with the assembly of the Kerenski Provisional
Government. In devices of this kind, the mind of the audience is
held between the fact that they know the incident which they are
seeing is in reality impossible, and the veritable fact that there it is
in actuality before their eyes. A wonderful state of mind to conjure
with! The great asset of the melodramatic thriller was its movement,
prevalent in the chase and escape element, which displaced literary
story-interest. The emotions of the audience when witnessing these
melodramas of speed were roused to excitement by the action and
not by the meaning of the story. It was this call for movement that
developed the faculties of the scenario- writer, who learnt to employ
the film's capacities for parallel action and * last-minute-rescues. '
The value of the high-spot climax was appreciated and was led up
to by the chase. It was from these melodramas and westerns, with
their essential fast movement, that the Americans learnt their slick
flashiness which is the hall-mark of their movies to-day. On the
other hand, this feeling for movement has led to the false assumption
that American films have tempo in comparison with the early German
and Swedish productions. It must always be stressed that movement
of actors and material is only one form of cinematic movement.

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

The function of editing is infinitely more important as the intrinsic
essence of filmic creation.

Thus, in the middle of the striving for photographic realism, came
the first real advance in the cinema. One year after the war, the first
genuinely imaginative film made its appearance amongst the hundreds
of formulated movies. This break in the monotony, this gleaming
ray of light, deserves our closest attention.

Like a drop of wine in an ocean of salt water, The Cabinet of
Doctor Caligari appeared in the profusion of films during the year
1920. Almost immediately, it created a sensation by nature of its
complete dissimilarity to any other film yet made. It was, once and
for all, the first attempt at the expression of a creative mind in the
new medium of cinematography. Griffith may have his place as the
first employer of the close up, the dissolve, and the fade, but
Griffith's contribution to the advance of the film is negligible when
compared with the possibilities laid bare by The Cabinet of Doctor
Caligari. Griffith and his super-spectacles will disappear under the
dust of time, if they have not already done so, but Wiene's picture
will be revived again and again, until the existing copy wears out.
In ten years this film has risen to the greatest heights, as fresh now
as when first produced, a masterpiece of dramatic form and content.
It is destined to go down to posterity as one of the two most
momentous advances achieved by any one film in the history of the
development of the cinema. The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari and
Battleship 'Potemkirt are pre-eminent.

Made for the Decla producing firm by Dr. Robert Wiene, of the
Sturm group in the Berlin theatre, during 191 9 (a period, it will be
remembered, when expressionism and cubism were the doctrines of
the advanced schools of the drama, the novel, painting, and sculpture
in Germany, France, and Russia) The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari
was released in March of the following year. It was handled in this
country at a later date by the Philips Film Company, now extinct.
Wiene, himself an enthusiast for expressionistic theories, was almost
an amateur in film production. The architects or designers, Walther
Rohrig, Herman Warm, and Walther Reimann, were three artists
absorbed with ideas of cubist and abstract art. It is only natural to
assume that their intelligence saw in the making of a film an adventure
in a new medium, a form of expression which they must have realised

THE ACTUAL

was wider and more receptive than the static stage and canvas, but
an expression which to them at that date bore a distinct relationship
to the other arts.1 It is not surprising, therefore, that The Cabinet
of Doctor Caligari is in some places more theatre than film, and that
there is a distinct tendency throughout to illustrate the titles with
pictures. These faults, apparent now with a heightened knowledge
of the film's capabilities, must be allowed for in the appreciation of
the meaning of this remarkable picture. In technical accomplish-
ment of camerawork the film made little real progress. The photo-
graphy, by Willi Hameister, revealed no new suggestion of camera
angle, all the scenes apparently being taken from a normal eye-level.
Dramatic mood was achieved by contrasted lighting effects and by
the nature of the settings. Long shots and medium shots predomin-
ated, masked close ups occasionally being used, and the old iris-in
and iris-out method of beginning and ending a sequence was adopted
throughout. The latter camera device was notably used for em-
phasising important matter, by opening or closing on to a face or a
light, or (in the example cited on page 285), on to the revolving
roundabouts. These openings were not always circular in shape,
for the view of Holstenwal was discovered to the audience by a diamond-
shaped iris, suitable to the twisted and angular houses of the distorted
town.

The progress lay, rather, in the tremendous problem of how the
camera was to be used, and the result of Wiene's thought was
sufficient to stagger the film production of the two continents out of
its comfortable peace and calm.

In 191 9, The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari put forward to the world
these dominating facts, which have lain at the back of every intelligent
director's mind to this day: that, for the first time in the history of
the cinema, the director had worked through the camera and broken

1 The following information, if reliable, is of considerable interest: 'When the
scenario for Caligari was first handed to Wiene the manuscript specified none of
the style that appeared in the production. In form, the original scenario was con-
ventional. But Wiene saw an opportunity of getting away from the customary by
giving the scenes in Caligari settings and forms which intensified the thought and
emotions of the characters and established a very positive relation between them
and mimetic action. The authors did not want expressionistic acting and decora-
tions. To this day they do not understand why the picture had success. Mayer,
one of its authors (who later wrote the scenario for The Last Laugh), has come
round to Wiene's attitude; the other (Hans Janowitz) still insists that Wiene should
never have handled the production of Caligari in the abstract style he gave it.
(Excerpts from several articles by Barnet Braverman in The Billboard, in Novem-
ber, reprinted in The Film Year Book, 1926, New York).

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

with realism on the screen; that a film, instead of being realistic,
might be a possible reality, both imaginative and creative; that a
film could be effective dramatically when not photographic; and
finally, of the greatest possible importance, that the mind of the
audience was brought into play psychologically.

As a film, The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari asked everything of its
audience. They were to take part and believe in the wild imaginings
of a madman. They were to share his distorted idea of the professor
of the lunatic asylum in which he (the lunatic) and they (the audience)
were confined. The theme and the conception were absolutely
remarkable.

The scenario was written by Karl Mayer and Hans Janowitz, and
even now contains brilliant and absorbing story-interest. The
continuity, although a little difficult to follow, was well constructed
and flowed with adequate smoothness. It is curious to note that after
witnessing The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari, it is the story, and its
remarkable unfolding, which principally holds the imagination.

The settings, which were almost entirely composed of flat canvas
and hanging draperies, furnished with such simple objects as ladder-
back chairs and stuffed horse-hair sofas, were painted with two
intentions in mind: primarily to emphasise the distortion of the mad-
man's mind through whose eyes they were seen, and secondly to
provide interesting decorative values of tone, varying from rich
velvety blacks to the purest whites. Wherever possible, the design
and layout of the set enhanced the dramatic content or meaning of
the scene. In the linear design of the painted floors, for example,
the prominent, usually straight lines of pattern led the eyes of the
spectator direct to the figures or objects of significance. The
walls of the prison cell were arranged and painted in tall perpendicular
planes, emphasising dejection. The prisoner, seated crossed-legged
on the floor, was the point to which all lines of the painted floor-
pattern converged. Again, the warped and angular branches of the
trees in the landscape strengthened the dramatic escape of Cesare
bearing away the body of the unconscious Jane. The stool upon
which the official-bound Town Clerk was seated was at least six feet
high, symbolising both bureaucracy and the difficulty that Caligari
had in obtaining attention. These are but a few examples of the
emphasis of dramatic content by means of pictorial composition and
settings.

THE ACTUAL

The lighting, also, was arranged from this point of view, in com-
plete co-operation with the architects. When the murder of the
Town Clerk was discovered, a magnificent scene was shown of a
darkened room, its walls sombre and angular, with the single source
of light directed on to the beautifully grouped draperies of the white
bed linen. No corpse was visible, only the motionless figures of the
policemen in the half-light, but there was no shadow of doubt as to
the content of the scene. Although the decor was largely angular,
at times contorted and twisted arabesques, Matisse-like, aggravated
the scene, as when Cesar e made his nocturnal entry in Jane's bed-
room.

Of the acting there is not a great deal to be written, for the parts
did not call for any great emotional skill beyond melodrama. This
type of acting, together with heavy make-up, was characteristic of
the atmosphere of the film. The titles, in accordance with the feeling
of the whole, were irregularly lettered and strangely set out.

It may, perhaps, be asserted that this film has dated. Technically,
as regards camerawork, stock, lighting, this is correct and naturally
inevitable. But in meaning, content, suggestion, treatment, and
above all entertainment, The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari is as con-
vincing to-day as when seen years ago. It is true, also, that surrealism
and neo-realism have superseded expressionism in the minds of the
avant-garde, but this does not alter the fact that expressionism plays
a large part in the film, and we are not concerned here with the
whims of the intelligentsia. Nevertheless, it is curious to remark
that although The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari was a revolution in
cinematic tendency, it has never been directly imitated or copied.
Raskolnikov, directed by Wiene in 1923, and based on Dostoievski's
novel 'Crime and Punishment,' was assisted in dramatic emotion by
Andrei Andreiev's cubist architecture, but could hardly be called an
imitation. Rather was it an essay by the same director in a similar
vein to an earlier success.

Comparison has also been falsely drawn between The Cabinet of
Doctor Caligari and Aelita, a film made in Soviet Russia about the
same time by Protasanov. This is a delusion, for the sets and costumes
of Aelita, on which it is assumed the comparison is founded, were
designed fantastically in order to express an imaginary idea of the
planet Mars, and not, as in The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari, to
emphasise the thoughts of a distorted mind. The cubist setting for

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

Wiene's film was used purely because the audience were asked to
imagine themselves thinking a madman's thoughts.

As a document of cinematic progress, the value of The Cabinet of
Doctor Caligari increases year by year. Since its first showing, over
ten years ago, it has been mentioned and referred to, criticised and
revived, times without number. It has become celebrated. Prac-
tically all those who were connected with its production have become
famous. There is no need to trace their course and recent successes,
for they are too well-known. Only one word need be added, Robert
Wiene has never repeated his achievement. It is his sole work of
genuine merit.

Although the appearance of The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari set
working the brains of people both in and out of the film industry,
and although it was a clear finger pointing the path for the cinema,
one film, however great, cannot change the output of vast producing
concerns. With its new ideas on the use of the camera as an instru-
ment of expression, Wiene's film certainly influenced some of the
more advanced American directors, but taken as a whole the pro-
ductions of Hollywood remained on their former level. What The
Cabinet of Doctor Caligari did, however, was to attract to the cinema
many people who had hitherto regarded a film as the low watermark
of intelligence.

Not until 1925 did a film appear which wholly justified the position
of the cinema. During the intervening period many remarkable
films were realised, chiefly in Germany and in Sweden, which
evidenced that brains were at work in Europe, but these were of
less significance than would first appear. They naturally have their
place in the gradual development and will be found dealt with more
fully at a later stage. In 1925 The Last Laugh, the joint product of
Murnau, Mayer, Freund, and Jannings, definitely established the
film as an independent medium of expression. Unlike The Cabinet
of Doctor Caligari, it had nothing in common with the theatre, but
made full use of the resources of the cinema as known at that date.
It was a remarkable example of filmic unity, of centralisation of
purpose and of perfect continuity. It was made without titles, with
the single exception of a director's note, which changed the natural
sad ending into a happy one, a superbly handled concession to the
public. Everything that had to be said in this thematic narrative of

THE ACTUAL

an old hall-porter was said entirely through the camera. Not a
written or spoken word was necessary to the correct unfolding of the
theme. By psychological understanding every action suggested a
thought to the audience, every angle a mood that was unmistakable
in meaning. The Last Laugh was cine-fiction in its purest form;
exemplary of the rhythmic composition proper to the film. It is
reported that it was hissed off the screen in a certain north country
town, which goes to suggest that the great general public is at fault
after all.

After this date, the German cinema, to which intelligent people
were looking for further progress, began to decline, largely on account
of the general exodus of Teutonic talent to Hollywood. The art
film (decorative in treatment and enveloped in an architectural
environment of studio structures) for which Germany had built
herself a reputation was a commercial failure. The superb efforts
of German creative directors drained the coffers of the industry, an
unfortunate but indisputable fact. An argument for the failure of
these films is the knowledge that the cinema is essentially modern,
and modernism is above all things anti-romantic and experimental,
reflecting as it does the spirit of the age. The German decorative
films were for the most part romantic and spectacular, with a natural
tendency towards the German love of the theatrical and the splendour
of pageantry. Their tone was on a grand scale, at once serious
minded and splendid, far from the superficiality of the movie to
which the masses were accustomed.

About this time, between the appearance of The Cabinet of Doctor
Caligari and The Last Laugh, the wide-felt influence of psycho-
analysis, which had swept over the post-war school of painting and
literature, was making its mark on filmic treatment. Many films,
both from France and Germany, bore traces of psycho-analytical re-
search, particularly those by directors who were striving after natural-
istic methods, such as Lupu Pick, Karl Grune, and G. W. Pabst.
There will be seen in the later section dealing with film psychology
the important part played by the 'ineptitudes' of life in the revealing
of inward phenomena. An early example of this groping idea was
found ludicrously in Doctor M abuse , but unfortunate as parts of this
melodrama were, there is no doubt that Fritz Lang was feeling along
the right lines. During this stage also, the machinery complex which
had occupied the Vorticists before the war re-arose in a glut of

dec la

THE CABINET OF DR. CALIGARI
by Robert Wiene. Conrad Veidt, as Cesare steals the body of
Jane, Lil Dagover; note contrast of black and white. 1919

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gernian

THE CABINET OF DR CALIGARI
f/ie famous film by Robert Wiene. Conrad Veidt as Cesare
the somnabulist; note theatrical expressionist architecture.

dec la

german

VAUDEVILLE
by E. A . Dupont under the supervision of Erich Pommer. Emit
Jannings and Lva de Putti in the caravan sequence. 1926

FAUST
by F. W. Murnau. The final achievement of German studio
craftsmanship, with Emil Jannings as Mephistopheles. 1926

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

composite shots of trains, trams, factories, and all types of machinery.
At one time it was almost impossible to see a film without a double,
triple, or quadruple exposure shot of wheels. For some years,
expressionism also had its sway with the German film, despite an
occasional breakaway into isolated individualism. The expressionists
were interested in man in general and not in the individual. Although
they made use of the representation of characters, the result was not
regarded as personal experiences but as the essential experiences of
humanity. Thus, it was usual to find themes woven around the Man
and the Girl, as in Grune's The Street, Pick's New Year's Eve,
Czinner's Nju, Lang's Destiny, with additions in the form of Death
the Stranger, and The Prostitute. It is of importance to note that
nearly all these films were entirely studio-made; whole palaces and
streets being built; providing a feeling different to the open-air films
taken on the exact location.

Some time later, the theme interest seemed to have been focussed
on individuals again and their peculiar characteristics, as with
Pommer's jewel thief and policeman in Asphalt, and the two men
and the wife in Homecoming. This was a swing round to the partial
admission of the star-system, a feature of the Americanisation of the
German studios. Very different in texture, for example, was The
Hungarian Rhapsody in comparison with the moral seriousness of The
Wild Duck. There was a tendency towards individualism in the new
German film and a feeling for a more mechanical spirit, which was
progressive. The first may be said to have been due to America;
the second to the influence exerted by the Soviet films in
Germany.

In contrast with the heavy morbidness and slow methods of the
Swedes and Germans, the French school was marked chiefly by its
directors' nineteenth-century delight in classical compositions and
its continuous leaning towards spectacle. French films were roughly
divided into two classes: the avant-garde of the jeune cineastes and
the commercial film on the lines of V Atlantide , Michael Strogoff
and Casanova. Whereas the Germans had sought to gain their
effects by a theatrical, traditional form of acting in conjunction with
an environment of studio structures, the French experimentalists
attempted the creation of atmosphere by a series of succeeding
exterior compositions, usually of great pictorial beauty but non-
dynamic. Nevertheless, although many of the jeune cineastes toyed
D 49

THE ACTUAL

with the cinema as their fathers had dabbled in their ateliers, several
developed into directors of remarkable talent, as for example Rene
Clair, Jean Epstein, and Jacques Feyder, whose work must be con-
sidered apart from the usual avant-garde kindergarten product.

Meanwhile, it must not be forgotten that America was producing
films in vast quantities during the years that the cinema was discover-
ing its aesthetic qualities in Europe. The American cinema as a whole
naturally demands wide investigation, which will follow at a later
stage, but at the moment it is important to mention two outstanding
tendencies that had grown up in Hollywood. A school of light,
domestic, drawing-room comedy, displaying a nicety of wit and
intelligence, had developed, to be carried eventually to as high a
degree of perfection as this lighter side of film allowed.1 It had its
origin in Chaplin's memorable satire A Woman of Paris (1923), as
well as in Ernst Lubitsch's brilliantly handled The Marriage Circle ,
made in the following year. It was probably the result of a fusion
between the existing school of Hollywood bedroom farce and the
imported Teutonic talent, the latter being exemplified primarily by
Lubitsch. Along these lines the majority of America's clever young
men worked with a superficial skill, to produce many effervescent
comedies and farces, sparkling and metallic, which provided light
entertainment for the audiences of all nations.

In contrast with this movement in the studios, there had appeared a
small group of directors who showed a preference for constructing
their films around natural incidents and with real material; a tendency
that had possibly grown out of the early western picture. Robert
Flaherty, Ernest Schoedsack, Meriam Cooper, Karl Brown, William
Howard, and W. S. Van Dyck formed the nucleus of this group,
to whom there should be added James Cruze, John Ford, and Victor
Fleming, by reason of their isolated pictures which fall into this
category. To Flaherty, however, must be given the full credit for
the first film using natural resources, the inspiring Nanook of the
North, in 1922, followed later by the beautiful Moana, in 1926.
Other remarkable pictures characteristic of the naturalistic move-
ment to be noted were Grass, Chang, Stark Love, White Gold, and
Aloysius Horn, all films that stood out sharply from the common
run of American movies.

1 The supreme example to date is Ernst Lubitsch's The Love Parade, a brilliant
combination of sophisticated, witty direction and perfected technical accomplish-
ment.

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

Apart from these two tendencies, only the work of Erich von
Stroheim, King Vidor and Henry King, and the individualistic
films of Chaplin and Fairbanks, projected with real seriousness
from the mass of machine-made movies up till the time of the
dialogue film. Investigation of these, together with less interesting
work, will follow.

Acknowledging the theoretical excellence of Pabst, the importance
of Karl Dreyer's La Passion de Jeanne a" Arc, Clair's delightful
comedies, Feyder's impressive Therese Raquin, and the domestic
comedies of the American school, the most momentous advances of
the cinema during recent years have manifested themselves in Soviet
Russia. Although the value which the Soviets attached to the
resources of the film and which they have developed with such skill
is constantly stressed in these pages, it must not be forgotten that
the intensity of purpose so predominant in the Soviet film has been
brought about by changed social conditions and historical events
since the revolution in 1917. Early Soviet pictures, such as The
Postmaster and The Marriage of the Bear, contained little of the filmic
compilation of the present productions. When analysing the con-
temporary Soviet film, it has firstly to be understood that a production
is seldom launched unless the theme contains some definite socio-
logical or political meaning; for the Soviets have realised more than
any other country how powerful an instrument of propaganda is the
cinema. It is partly out of the desire to express these contained ideas
with the utmost possible conviction, and partly out of the exception-
ally brilliant intelligences of the foremost Soviet directors, that the
modern state of technical perfection in the science of the film has
been reached. There has been a tendency in England and elsewhere,
however, due to the always hasty enthusiasm of the intelligentsia, to
call any film coming from the U.S.S.R. a masterpiece. This is very
far from being the case, for actually there are not more than about
half-a-dozen really capable film directors in Soviet Russia. There
are, of course, many second and third-rate directors as there are in
Germany or America, but it has become customary to raise their
work to unusually high standards in London. The whole situation
is rather reminiscent of that when the intelligentsia ' discovered'
Russia in the first decade of this century; when it became the fashion
to read Tchekov, Dostoievski, Gogol, Gorki, and Turgenev without
discrimination as to their merits; when no studio was complete

THE ACTUAL

without its samovar and ikons were all the rage for interior
decoration.

Every Soviet film is, to put it crudely, a picture with a purpose,
and it is the duty of the Soviet director to express that purpose as
clearly, powerfully, and vividly as possible. Added to which, it must
be remembered that the cinema in Soviet Russia has been fortunate
in having the whole-hearted support of the Government, whose
leaders have at all times fully recognised the value of the film for
spreading their principles. Lenin regarded the theatre as a potential
microcosm of the whole theories of Bolshevism and determined to
build a new theatre in Russia which would serve as a practical model
for the people to learn from and to copy. The cinema, by reason of
its limitless range and commercial superiority over the theatre, lent
itself to the same idea. It will be recalled for example, that the
Government commissioned several films to be made in order to
commemorate the tenth anniversary of the Soviet regime. The Ten
Days That Shook the World (renamed later, October) and The End
of St. Petersburg were two of the results. Out of their efforts to meet
this demand, Eisenstein and Pudovkin built up a form of film
technique that is now unequalled for dramatic intensity. The same
applies to more recent directors, to Ermler, Raismann, and Turin.

It is certain that the first experiments in film construction,

employing strips of celluloid as the basic material, which is the

foundation of almost all Soviet film technique, were due to Lev

Kuleshov, an instructor and film director in Moscow. From his

original theories regarding the relation and inter-relation of pieces of

film, which we may place about 1922, there have developed the

principles of constructive editing. Pudovkin, having studied for a

while with Kuleshov, carried the idea further by devoting himself

to using raw material as the foundation for his filmic working; whilst

Eisenstein, having made his first mass film, The Strike, in 1924,

proceeded to enlarge on his ideas of intellectual cinematography. To

these directors must be given the credit for the most advanced forms

of contemporary cinema and their theories are to be seen reflected

in the work of almost all the lesser-known Soviet directors. From 1924

onward, therefore, the most interesting developments in the cinema

have taken place in the U.S.S.R. and it is to this newly-constructed

country that we must turn for modern tendencies towards progress.

mcjrabpom-russ

MOTHER

by V, I. Pudovkin ; note naturally contrasted lighting.

1926

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ARSENAL
ij; Dovjenko. A film of rebellion in the Ukraine distrid. 1929

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

Of the film to-day, I find it hard to write, let alone to tell,
for the unbalanced state of the whole industry, together with the
sweeping tide of the noisy dialogue film, are movements which
strangle at the outset any attempt at progress in the cinema. To find
the proper film it is necessary first to brush aside the sweepings
from America and England, dissect the films from France and
Germany with an open eye for second-hand virtuosity, and regard
the new Soviet pictures with reservation in case they may be resting
on their past successes. Of the wedded synchronised sound and silent
film, co-ordinated into a filmic whole, there is as yet no concrete
example, though one waits in anticipation for Pudovkin's Life Is
Beautiful. It is possible only to watch the dialogue film and utilise
one's imaginative power. Of the true silent film but few examples
come laggardly to England, often enough to be hidden away unseen.
Occasionally a few of these may find their lonely way to the Film
Society or the affectionate screen of what is at the moment of writing
London's only loyalist, the Avenue Pavilion.

Of the feeling prevalent on the continent it is difficult to say,
for news is rare of the silent film, and words and static photographs
are inadequate to realise the intensity of film technique. The dynamic
theme, the relation and inter-relation of thought expressed in moving
images, is too elusive to be captured in print. It is, perhaps, only
possible to sum up by disconnected statements of ideas, reactions,
and observations.

The predominant characteristic of the proper film to-day is the
growing tendency to find filmic expression by means of climatic
effect. This process of image construction is the basis of Soviet
continuity, and has spread with rapidity into the minds of the more
advanced German and French directors. There seems, moreover,
to be a distinct striving after some form of arithmetic or geometric
progression in the arrangement of visual images during mounting,
in the relation and inter-relation of film strips. There is also a
tendency to shorten the approach to a scene by the elimination of
the long shot and the increased use of the close up. The psycho-
logical effects made possible by the introduction of varied cutting
by the Soviets is in the process of being carried to an advanced
stage. Cross-cutting and inter-cutting are being utilised more as a
method of insistence on the main object than as the old-fashioned
even distribution of dramatic suspense of the 'last-minute-rescue'

THE ACTUAL

variety. Symbolic inter-cutting is being employed as an aid to the
emphasis of the central theme, as with the statue of Peter the
Great in The End of St. Petersburg. It is a dual theme of symbol
and individual, connected mentally by association of ideas and
visually by similarity of the shooting angle. It is being found that
emotional effect is to be more easily reached by an intercut comparison
to a like emotional effect.

There seems prevalent in the film of to-day a more sensitive
feeling for the association of ideas, which is finding filmic expression
in terms of contrast and comparison, mental and visual. There are
directors, who, in their work seek to establish by suggestion, con-
trast, and comparison, what may perhaps be called a continuity of
human thought. One is emotionally conscious that the content of a
theme is constantly ranging over more than one idea at the same
time, a double purpose of meaning for the expression of which the
natural resources of the film are admirably suitable. This affinity
of ideas is marked by a connecting link, which may be said to be, in
its terms of contrast and comparison, the essence of filmic treatment,
both in the mental association of ideas by symbolism and by the
actual visual likeness of one thing to another.

Contrasts appear to take on various aspects. The contrast of space,
between the interior and the exterior; between the close confinement
of walls and the spreading horizon of a landscape; between the
occupied and the unoccupied; between the full and the empty.
The contrast of size, between the thick and the thin, the long and
the short. The contrast of shapes, between the square and the
circle, between a top hat and a cloth cap. The contrast of likenesses,
so well exemplified by Vertov's gas mask and skull. The contrast
of extremes, between the worker underground and the top of the
factory chimney. There is an association of ideas between the
mouth of a bugle and the muzzle of a gun. There is a comparison
of likeness between the poise of athlete and the balance of a horse.
There is a similarity of motion between the stroking of one's hair
and the stroking of a cat. There is the comparison of form, used so
much for easy transference of thought in dissolves and mixes. All
these factors make themselves apparent in the uses of cross-cutting
for reference. They are filmic methods of strength, emphasis,
enforcement of meaning by the association of ideas.

To be considered further but not necessarily to be accepted, there

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

are the new theories of montage construction that have been put
forward by Eisenstein. These embrace an entirely fresh method for
the determination of the relation that lies between the film strips in
the assembling of a picture from its contributory lengths of frames.
Eisenstein seems concerned with the disposal of the old, orthodox
principles of editing (i.e., according to the time lengths of shots,
the relationship of shapes, the association of ideas, etc., all of which
produce sensations in the minds of the audience, ranging from
sudden shock to smooth transfusion according to the will of the
director) by the adoption of a new method which will be governed
by the physiological sensations produced by over-tones of the visual
and sound images. He is experimenting with the arrangement of
shots, scenes, and sequences according to their degrees of emotional
pathos by creative impulse, calculating to disturb the nervous reflexes
of the spectator into responsiveness. He believes that instead of an
audience seeing and hearing a film they should sense it; sense being
the clue to the fourth dimension or over-tone, to be found in the
beats of music and in the interval that exists between one visual
image on the screen and another. On the assumption that both visual
over-tones and sound over-tones are magnitudes of the same
dimension (time) and that both are physiological sensations, he
proceeds to new methods of filmic construction by a process of tonal
and over-tonal montage. Naturally one awaits practical expression
of his theories with interest before offering comment; other, that is,
than those made manifest by certain portions of The Old and the
New (The General Line), which were not concerned with sound
reproduction.

In actual production there is a welcome tendency towards the
use of real material in place of studios and professional players.
The cinema shows distinct signs of becoming film instead of theatre.
Outside the U.S.S.R., Jean Epstein, Walther Ruttmann, and Hans
Richter are seeking subjects in the commonplace instead of the
artificially constructed, and there are also the few natural resource
films in America. But these examples of the real film are but
drops in the ocean of the movies of the world, overshadowed and
dwarfed by the menace of the dialogue cinema.

Ridiculous as it may seem in the short span of life during which
the film has existed, the process of misuse of the medium is repeating

THE ACTUAL

itself. General tendencies at the present moment show the mis-
conception of the film to be greater and more difficult to unlearn
than ever before. Directors as a whole are still only beginning to
understand the potentialities of the film as a medium in itself. Its
limits and delimits still present a broad field for investigation. It is
just being realised that mime and gesture and the consciousness of
the inanimate transmit an international idea; and that the pictorial
meaning of the film is understandable to all according to their
powers of sensitivity. But the main object to-day appears to be the
synchronisation of the sound of the human voice with the photograph
of the moving lips and to reproduce the sound of visual objects in
order to make them seem more real. That this is the desire of the
American producers and directors is apparent from their advertise-
ments. In brief, the introduction of the human voice merely relieves
the director of his most serious obligation, to convey meaning to the
mind by means of the resources of the visual cinema. The act of
recording dialogue is not a further resource, as some theorists like
to imagine. The dialogue film at its best can only be a poor substitute
for the stage. From an aesthetic point of view, sound can only be
used to strengthen symbolism and emphasise dramatic action, and
experiments on these lines will be successful and justified.

On the heels of the usurping dialogue film comes the introduction
of the stereoscopic screen and the colour film. Both of these inven-
tions, wonderful though they may be in themselves, seek to achieve
the realism so antagonistic to an imaginative medium. The cinema,
with the addition of these new inventions, will degenerate into
theatrical presentation on a large and economic scale. The true
resources of the film will be swept aside in the desire for a straighter
and more direct method of story presentation. The duration of time
that a visual image is held on the screen is already becoming longer.
As Mr. Eric Elliott has so truly written: 'given a large stage scene
with three dimensional effect, combined with colour and oral
dialogue, it is tempting authors and producers to "put across" the
sustained dramatic situation of the theatre proper.'1

Thus, there are few films which stand alone as achievements of
real cinema, whilst there are many that miss greatness because of
the negligence of the director or the obstinacy of the producer. Rare
indeed is it to meet with an intelligent and sympathetic film producer;

1 Vide, The Anatomy of Motion Picture Art, by Eric Elliott (Pool, 1928).

THE OLD AND THE NEW

by S. M. Eisenstein and G. V. Alexandrov. An intense shot
of movement of material, from low- level an die. 192,7

sovkino

ARSENAL
by Dovjenko. A beautifully composed close uv, typical of
Soviet naturalism. 1929

rufku

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE FILM

frequent indeed is it to meet upstart producers who make illegitimate
claim to a knowledge of the film, riding roughshod over the con-
ceptions of the director. If a film is to be a unity, clear cut and single-
minded, the director alone must preconceive it and communicate
its content to the audience through groups of interpreters of his
vision, under his supreme command. The construction of a film
from the first conception to the final product must be under the
absolute control of the director. This is unhappily far from being
the case.

But great films have been produced and great films will be produced
in the future, although the opportunities to-day are more remote.
Was it not Rene Clair who said that the zenith of the film was passed
a few years ago? And yet, in Bryher's Film Problems of Soviet
Russia (Pool, 1929), Pabst is said to have observed that 'Russia
has taken one road and America has taken the opposite, but
in a hundred years both will meet. England has taken neither,
but will work out her own salvation independently, and in the
end she will arrive at the same result.' This may be so, but I
find it hard to agree when considering the present circumstances.
Again, Mr. Chaplin has written that '. . . it has been from
the film itself, a device offering constant provocation to the
imagination and senses of rhythm and colour that the sheer
strength and crude grandeur of the motion picture industry have
come. A giant of limitless powers has been reared, so huge that
no one quite knows what to do with it. I, for one, am hopeful
that Mr. Wells shall settle the question for us in his next
novel.' 1

Mr. Wells has written that novel, but the question is no nearer
being answered. 'The King Who Was a King' was full of a thous-
and ideas, gleaned from a scrutiny of the output of Germany and
America, but there was precious little in the book that had direct
bearing on the position of the film itself. I believe that Mr. Wells
saw and realised the greatness of the film, but did not know quite
what to do about it. And in any case his outlook was literary and
not filmic.

For the most part the cinema still lies in the hands of those who
desire to make it the means of the greatest possible financial return
in the shortest space of time. One looks, therefore, to those in whose

1 In the foreword to Films: Facts, and Forecasts, L'Estrange Fawcett (Bles, 1927).

THE ACTUAL

power it is to keep steady the direction of the advance of the film.
To Chaplin, Fairbanks, and Flaherty in America; to Soviet Russia;
to Pabst, Richter, and Pommer in Germany; to the young men of
France; for with their whole-hearted and enthusiastic support the
film can be diverted from the abyss towards which it is heading.

THE VARIOUS FORMS OF CINEMA

Before proceeding to a detailed investigation of the product and
personalities of separate film-producing countries, it is essential to
define the several forms of cinema. In this way it will be found that
such tendencies as choice of theme and employment of real or
artificial material for the camera, existing in individual countries,
can be more easily classed or contrasted with tendencies in other
producing centres. For this reason, therefore, the various known
forms of cinema may be grouped briefly as follows : —

(a) The Abstract or Absolute Film

The abstract film, like Ruttmann's Operas, Richter's Rhythmus,
and the late Viking Eggeling's Symphonie Diagonale, is as far removed
from the commercial fiction film as is surrealism from the Royal
Academy. The abstract film is a primary example of unity of filmic
purpose. Briefly, it seeks to produce simple psychological reactions
in the mind through the eye by the variation in rapidity of groups
of abstract forms in movement, and by the relations of geometric
figures changing their proportions, dissolving and displacing each
other , thereby making visual abstract patterns . The result on the mind
produced by the abstract film may be compared with that produced
by the word patterns of the post-war school of poets, to certain
forms of literature such as the work of James Joyce, and to music
without melodic interest. For example, a series of disconnected
words may suggest an incident and by the welding of these dis-
connected sentences a complete whole can be built up having a
psychological value.

The film with its cinematic properties of rapid movement, con-
trast, comparison, rhythm, expansion and contraction of form is
admirably suited to present a series of abstract visual images to the
eye, capable of causing strong emotional reactions. A sequence of

THE ACTUAL

swift impressions, of little interest singly, but arranged in relation
one to another, has powerful psychological meaning.

A more recent form of the abstract film is the pattern film, which
often uses machinery in motion or at rest, or architectural motives,
as its material basis. Most successful in this manner have been
Eugene Deslav's La Marche des Machines, Richter's Vormitaggspuk,
and Joris Ivens and Francen's Pluie and Le Pont d'Acier.

The late Viking Eggeling was one of the pioneers of the absolute
film and an excellent description of his method is given by Mr.
Ivor Montagu in Close Up (vol. i, no. 6). 'The basis of his work is
line, and his patterns are mainly the varying positions on a two-
dimensional plane, the screen, of his one dimensional figures, in
contradistinction to the patterns of Richter and Ruttmann which
are usually two-dimensional forms moving in three dimensions.
The screen is a blackboard to Eggeling and a window to Richter
and Ruttmann.' In contrast to this, Deslav's abstractions are patterns
of photographic reality pieced together to make rhythmic unity.

The definite similarity existing between the absolute film and the
early melodrama is significant, for the psychological appeal to mind
and eye is identical. As Mr. Eric Elliott has pointed out, everything
the cinema has so far actually demonstrated, and all its possibilities
as they are seen now, should theoretically have been obvious the
moment it became practicable to project a series of animated images
in scenes on a screen. It is curious to note how far the directors in
those primitive days realised the resources of the new medium (such
as the rapidity of the chase) in order to fulfil their ideas and it is
interesting to watch, for instance, Georges Melies' Trip to the
Moon, made in 1897, in which were used projected negative, double-
exposure and 'magical' effects equal, if not superior, to those em-
ployed in Fairbanks' The Thief of Bagdad in 1923. Any form of
art, however, that may have developed out of these crudities was
extinguished when the centre of film production shifted from Europe
to America at the outbreak of war in 191 4.

It is impossible to give here an exhaustive list of abstract films,
but amongst those of more than usual interest, apart from already
mentioned examples, were Filmstudie and other works by Hans
Richter; A quoi revent les jeunes fdles (1924-25) by Henri Chomette;
Le Ballet Mecanique (1925) by Fernand Leger and Dudley Murphy;
Eugene Deslav's Montparnasse and Les Nuits Electriques; Sandy's

THE VARIOUS FORMS OF CINEMA

Light and Shade; Francis Bruguiere and Oswell Blakeston's Light
Rhythms) and works by Marcel Duchamp and Maurice Sollen.

At the time of writing, no abstract film has been shown in England
incorporating sound as well as visual images, but the possibilities of
sound co-ordinated with visual patterns for abstract effect are limitless.

(b) The Cine-poem or Ballad Film

Of this type of cinema there is little to be written for experiments
in this direction have been few. Occasionally a single sequence in
a full-length film stands out alone as a cine-poem, as a pure creation
of a simple mood or atmosphere, based possibly on literary inspira-
tion, which can be lifted direct from its surrounding sequences
and be shown complete in itself. Most notable is, of course, Walther
Ruttmann's fascinating Dream of the Hawks in Siegfried, the first
part of Fritz Lang's Nibelungen Saga. The sequence, which was
•extremely short, purported to show Kriemhild's dream in which she
was forewarned of Siegfried's death and of her own fate. This was
done by means of the silhouettes of two black hawks and a white
dove circling in beautiful rhythmic actions against a grey background,
the whole maintaining a moving decorative pattern. Man Ray's
short film, Ulttoile de Mer, was a filmic expression of Robert Desnos'
poem and was of merit by reason of its transient light forms and
movement. Much of it was photographed through mica masks,
producing a soft effect of mistiness. Of Emak Bakia, Man Ray's
earlier picture, he says himself: *. . . a series of fragments, a cine-poem
with a certain optical sequence, make up a whole that still remains a
fragment. Just as one can much better appreciate the abstract
beauty in a fragment of a classic work than in its entirety, so this film
tries to indicate the essentials in contemporary cinematography.'

In this section must be included such short films as Alberto
Cavalcanti's La P'tite Lili, a delightful burlesque of a traditional
song of 'La Barriere,' in which an effect of a sampler was obtained
by the use of coarse gauzes in front of the lens of the camera.
Kirsanov's Brumes d'Automne, a simple representation of the mood
of a girl after a tragic occurrence, was moving in a slow, sentimental
way, much of the mental state being suggested by throwing the lens
of the camera in and out of focus. Silka's fable film, La Ballade du
Canart, although crude in technical execution, may be called a cine-
poem in conception and deserved better treatment.

THE ACTUAL

This type of film is as yet represented by a few isolated examples
only, though there are traces of surrealism in some Soviet films that
have been seen, such as the opening sequences of Barnet's comedy
The House in Trubnaya Square and portions of Dovjenko's Zvenigora.
The appeal of the surrealist film is necessarily limited and production
is due entirely to private resources. I believe, however, that there is
something to be learnt from its manner of treatment, which can
be applied on a wider scale in fiction films. Although the essential
character of Louis Bunuel's Le Chien Andalou prevented it from
being shown except to a restricted audience, there was much astonish-
ing matter to be gleaned from it. Realising the primary aim of the
surrealist movement to be the expression of dreams and thought
tangents of an imaginative person provoked by material surroundings
and placed on paper or canvas, it is natural that the film lends itself
to an expression which demands 'imaginative velocity and moral
nonchalance, unlimited risibility, and a sensitivity to the fantasy of
the commonplace.' Bunuel's film, whilst containing some un-
pleasant material, was one of the most dynamic I have seen. It had
an intensity of expression unknown in most examples of cinema, an
intensity gained from the material and not from technical assembling.
There was a fluid continuity that was amazing in its swift transference
of thought, and mention should be made of the extraordinary
gestures of Pierre BatchefT.

Germaine Dulac's brilliant La Coquille et le Clergyman was also
surrealistic in tendency, being a series of expressions of states of
mind strung together with a beautifully defined thread of continuity.
At moments it rose to great heights of dramatic intensity, due to the
cleverly chosen angles, whilst the photography throughout was of
the best quality. It was to be taken as an extreme instance of the
domination of ideas over the irrelevance of situations. Neither of
these films has been generally shown in England; but that of Dulac
was presented to the Film Society on 16th March 1930.

(d) The Fantasy Film

The possibilities of the film in the realm of fantasy are unlimited
and are to be found hidden away in practically every side of general
production. The especially fantastic nature of the cinema at once

UBERFALL
called in England 'Accident,' by Erno Metzner. Mirror
distortions, used to depidt the subconscious. 7928-29

LA MARLHE DES MACHINES
by Eugene Deslav. An abstrad pattern film of machinery. 1928

THE VARIOUS FORMS OF CINEMA

suggests a hundred ideas which are impossible of being expounded
in any other medium. Notable instances which immediately occur
to the mind are the charming silhouette films by Lotte Reiniger, of
which mention can be made of The Adventures of Prince Achmed
and Cinderella. There have been several imitations of Lotte
Reiniger's work, but they can be detected with ease by their inferior
craftsmanship. Another fantastic type was to be seen in Stanislas
Starevitch's model film The Magic Clock, in which good use was
made of the 'magic' qualities of the camera. Whilst this type of
fantasy cannot be called strictly cinematic there is nevertheless room
for much development.

Coming to the full-length fantasy film one recalls, of course, Ludwig
Berger's exquisite version of Cinderella in 1923, with its superb
Baroque architecture by Rudolph Bamberger. I find this chiefly
memorable for the marvellous battle of the witches, perhaps the best
example of film magic ever made. Flashes of fantasy appeared in
nearly all the films of the middle German period, notably in
Siegfried, Destiny, Faust; in the early Russian Morosko; in Doyjenko's
Zvenigora; in the spectacular Ufa production, Secrets of the East;
in Fairbanks' The Thief of Bagdad; in Renoir's La Petite
Marchande d'Allumettes; and in Clair's Le Voyage Imaginaire. There
remains much to be accomplished, however, in this vein, particularly
in the manner of Hans Andersen and the Brothers Grimm. The
consummate ease with which magic can be achieved by double
exposure and freak effects on the screen suggests the wide range of
material waiting to be utilised.

(e) The Cartoon Film

The cartoon element goes back to an early stage in the development
of the cinema, arising probably in the first place out of the humorous
strip in the American newspapers. Although the laborious draughts-
manship, necessarily entailed in the production of the hundreds
of small drawings needed as material for smooth movement, has
naturally limited the output of these animated cartoons, nevertheless
those artists who have specialised in this form of cinema have nearly
always achieved success. In the past the appearance of Felix the Cat,
Mutt and Jeff , and TEsop's Fables were always greeted with enthusiasm.

But it is not until the recent Walter Disney cartoons of Mickey
Mouse that the full value of such work has been realised. In point

THE ACTUAL

of fact, the Disney cartoons are not only funnier and better drawn
than their predecessors, but they are far more filmically conceived
and have the added advantage of mechanically recorded accompani-
ment. The possibilities afforded by the incorporation of sound with
the drawn cartoon film are unlimited, and, without showing in-
gratitude to the creator of Mickey Mouse, one foresees a wealth of
imaginative material lying at the hands of the creative draughtsman
of the future, particularly with the employment of flat colour.

To many writers at the moment, the Disney cartoons are the most
witty and satisfying productions of modern cinema. Their chief
merit lies in their immediate appeal to any type of audience, simply
because they are based on rhythm. They have been compared to
the early one-reelers of Chaplin, and the way in which they appeared
unheralded gradually to achieve an international acceptance is not
unlike that of the great comedian's early work. The real importance
of Mickey Mouse, however, lies not so much in the clever draughts-
manship and amusing wit of Walter Disney as in the full advantage
that is taken of synchronised sound. Whilst film theorists in every
country have been fruitlessly arguing over the merits and demerits
of sound images and their employment in counterpoint, Disney has
put into use all the properties to be gained from synchronisation.
In the burlesque accompaniment of distorted sounds that is wedded
to the ever-moving figures of Mickey Mouse and his associates there
are to be discovered all the intrinsic qualities of sound in combination
with visual images. The essential characteristics of the Disney
cartoon films, where distorted linear images are matched with equally
distorted sound images, are those of the visual-sound film of the
future. In his earlier cartoons it was noticeable that Disney divided
the appeal equally between the screen and the sound, both matching
but neither governing the other. In his later pictures [Springtime
and Jungle Rhythm) there is a tendency to fit the linear images to a
definite melody, which is detrimental, for it impedes the free flow
of the draughtsmanship. It has been suggested, also, that there is a
feeling of vulgarity in the more recent examples, but that is a matter
outside the range of this survey. As the best of Disney's work
I would choose without hesitation Mickey's Choo-Choo and The
Jazz Fool, both masterpieces of combined wit and humour expressed
in terms of patterned draughtsmanship and sound, revealing a sense
of cutting and of angle.

THE VARIOUS FORMS OF CINEMA

(/) The Epic Film

Like fantasy, the power of the epic film is still but partially exploited,
and, again, where experiments have been made in this direction they
have been remarkably successful. The film is capable of showing
the movement of masses better than any other medium, but it is
necessary to differentiate between the epic and the mere spectacle
film. By the film's control of space and time, it is possible to portray
by massed movement the feelings and psychological reactions of a
race. The epic film conceives collective life as an end in itself or
with, perhaps, an individual of more than ordinary significance
emerging from the crowded background.

The greatest examples of the epic mass film were the world-
famous Battleship lPotemkiny and October by S. M. Eisenstein. It
seems incredible that a person drawn from any class or any part
of the civilised world could witness these films without obtaining
a full realisation of the spirit of the Russian people. They were
political in that portions of them dealt with political events; they were
propaganda in the same way that the The King of Kings (that essence
of hypocritical nonsense) was propaganda for the Christian religion.
On the score of their epic quality as apart from their propagandist
intention they deserve to be shown freely throughout the world.

Contrasted with these mass productions, Pudovkin's The End of St.
Petersburg, which dealt roughly with the same events as October,
was an example of individuals moving against a crowded background,
of an epic theme seen through individuals. By circumstance of
the scenario narrative a peasant boy was made to project from the
masses, but was suggestive only of their mental state.

It is necessary also to include such films as Grass in this category
and to a very much lesser extent Martin Luther, which was, or
should have been, epic in conception, as well as Abel Gance's vast
picture Napoleon.

(g) The Documentary or Interest Film, including the Scientific,
Cultural and Sociological Film

This type of cinema has been recently explored with great success

on the Continent and especially in Soviet Russia, where the interest

picture has been made in great numbers. Films on how this thing

is made and how that functions are often to be found in the average

e 65

THE ACTUAL

programme in England. Moreover, the treatment of these films is
rapidly improving, as for example in Edmond Greville's fascinating
picture of the making of watches at Tavannes in Switzerland, The
Birth of the Hours. Instances of the various forms may be taken
as: (a) Geographic: Pamyr, With Cobham to the Cape, Turksib and
Port; (b) Scientific: The Mechanics of the Brain, and many short
films of surgical operations, etc. ; (c) Sociological: The Expiation,
and, of course, most of the ordinary Soviet films. In England,
special mention should be made of numerous nature films produced
by British Instructional Films, all admirably directed, as well as
John Grierson's recent epic of the herring fleet, Drifters.

(h) The Combined Documentaire and Story-Interest Film

The growing desire to photograph reality rather than structural
studio representations has rendered this form of cinema exceptionally
popular of recent years and many outstanding pictures have been
made on these lines. The aim of combining story-interest with real
material is altogether good and opens up vast and hitherto untouched
material as subject matter for scenarios. Prominent examples in this
vein have been: The Heir to Jenghiz Khan, White Shadows, Finis
Terrce, Nanook of the North, Moana, and Chang.

(i) The Cine-Eye and Cine-Radio Film

With the school of the cine-eye and the cine-radio one immediately
couples the name of its founder, Dziga-Vertov, and of his brother
and cameraman, KaufFmann. The group is a branch of the Vufku-
kino organisation of the Soviet Ukraine and so far has worked alone
in the development of its theories. The Vertov theory, in brief r
assumes that the camera lens has the power of the moving human eye
to penetrate every detail of contemporary life and its surroundings , to an
accompaniment of sound. Particular use is made of the scientific re-
sources of the cinema, and all such technical devices as slow and rapid
motion, abrupt cessation of movement, double and triple exposure, to-
gether with all the orthodox principles of montage as understood by
the Soviet cinema, are included in its work. It has been aptly termed
la cinematographic sans jeu; its limitations are at once obvious.

(j) The Cine-Record Film

(a) The representation of modern fact, without the introduction of

new era

DRIF1 ERS

John Grier son's epic of the herring-fleet : a detail shot of the
fishing vessel. The one outstanding British film. 1929

trench

THE BIRTH OF THE HOURS

an interest film on clocks by Edmond Greville

dorland

1929.

THE VARIOUS FORMS OF CINEMA

story-interest, is to be found chiefly in topical news-reels, both
sound and silent, as distinct from the Dziga-Vertov theories and
Walther Ruttmann's Berlin. For this purpose, the advent of the sound
film has increased the appeal beyond measure. British Movietone
News, Paramount News, Fox Movietone News, etc., are all excellent
uses of good camerawork and sound reproduction. To be mentioned
also in this group are the numerous reconstruction films of war events,
a feature of British production some years ago (Zeebrugge, Mons, The
Somme, The Battles of Falkland and Coronel Islands, *Qy Ships, etc.).
(b) The representation of past fact, without the introduction of
fictional story-interest, is an attempt to put on record the actual
happenings of some past event. Karl Dreyer's film La Passion de
Jeanne d'Arc can well be cited as an example of this extremely
difficult accomplishment, as well as Czerepy's production of the life
of Frederick the Great, Federicus Rex.

(k) The Decorative Film and Art Film, as Distinct from the Cine-
Fiction Film

This form of cinema is now almost obsolete, for the cost of
production is inevitably greater than the returns from such a picture,
if it is to be well done. No firm which has to satisfy its shareholders
can afford to produce an art film for the sheer prestige of having
done so. Nevertheless, some notable and splendid examples of
purely decorative films exist, most of them having been made during
the early and middle periods of the German cinema. Perhaps the
greatest picture of this kind is the first part of The Nibelungen Saga,
Siegfried, made by Fritz Lang in 1923. No expense was spared on
this magnificent film, which stands practically alone as an example
of simplified decoration. On a smaller scale, Paul Leni's Waxworks
deserves mention if only for the fine architecture, but it is to be under-
stood that this type of cinema is more related to the theatre than to the
film. A number of small , one and two reel art films have been made from
time to time, but most of them, like Robert Florey's Loves of Zero, are
insignificant. Fairbanks' The Thief of Bagdad, although negligible
after the greatness of Destiny, may be ranked as a pseudo-art film.

(/) The Cine-Fiction Film

This form of cinema naturally constitutes the bulk of the world's
film output and may be subdivided into three sections:

THE ACTUAL

(a) Modern comedies, farces, satires, and dramas, etc.

Typical examples of these may be taken at random as: A Woman
of Paris, Therese Raquin, The Crowd, The Love of Jeanne Ney,
Piccadilly, The Spy, Les Nouveaux Messieurs, Vaudeville, Foolish
Wives, The Virginian, The Kiss, etc.

(b) Unrealistic costume and historical romances and dramas, etc.,
as Tartuffe, The Patriot, Le Capitaine Fracasse, Forbidden Paradise,
New Babylon, The Student of Prague, Scaramouche, Schinderhannes,
Le Collier de la Reine, The Golem, Rosenkavalier , etc.

(c) Spectacle films, without apparent decorative motive, instanced
well by Ben-Hur, The Viking, Noah's Ark, The Ten Commandments,
La Marseillaise, General Crack. These mammoth productions are
usually of negligible aesthetic value, serving only as advertisements
on a large scale for their producing firms, who scatter wholesale
propaganda as to the number of persons taking part, how much
timber was used, the average weight of the cast, etc. They generally
originate from Hollywood, for no other producing centre has the
immense amount of money needed nor the time to waste.

(d) Pure comedies, including slapstick, as distinct from the
drawing-room comedies indicated above. All Chaplin films come
into this group as well as those of Lloyd, Keaton, and the lesser
comedians; and such films as Moscow that Laughs and Weeps,
Hurrah! Tm Alive, Rookery Nook, Les Deux Timides.

(m) Musical, Dancing, and Singing Films

These, usually on a large scale, have only been made possible by
the advent of sound and dialogue reproduction. Already there have
been outstanding successes in The Broadway Melody, Fox Movietone
Follies, Rio Rita, Broadway, Sally, The Hollywood Revue of 1929,
etc. There is little doubt that this type of light entertainment will
be produced widely in the future to meet the constant demand for
musical comedy, and with it will come the all-colour film and
wider screen.

Ill

THE AMERICAN FILM

.By sheer ubiquity, American movies compel attention. Although
they are, together with their British and German prototypes, the
lowest form of public entertainment, their very number prevents
their being ignored. In every country of the world where cinemas
persuade both the hardworking and the rich to part with their
money at the grille-hole of the box-office, there is to be found celluloid
of Hollywood origin. Indeed, so far has the influence of the movie
spread that its presence is noted not only in the cinema but in
the wireless, the theatre, the Press, and in all matters of advertising.
The star-system alone has penetrated to the inner regions of every
servant-girl's heart, influencing her likes and her dislikes, her ideals
and her dreams. Movies are a part of drawing-room gossip and dinner-
table repartee. They have superseded the novel and the play as a
topic of fashionable conversation. The first night of some movies
may almost be as important a social occasion as the first night of an
opera.

Nine out of ten newspapers notice movies in their columns and
at least ninety per cent, of those mentioned are American. The
cinematic terms of close up and star are incorporated in the vocabulary
of the English-speaking peoples, as well as being used all over Europe.
One in ten poster hoardings displays cinema programme bills. A
vast majority of the titles displayed are American. Except for a
handful of home-made movies (demanded by the quota regulations)
and a sparse sprinkling of foreign films, the programmes of British
cinemas are composed of Hollywood movies. Moreover, the film
industry is said to be the fourth largest in the United States.

After some consideration, I have ultimately decided (with a few
notable exceptions) to regard Hollywood much as I would a factory,
managed and owned by a few capable business men, who seek only
large financial returns from the goods that they manufacture. Among

THE ACTUAL

the employees of these great firms are undoubtedly a number of
artists, sincere in their aims, who sacrifice their intentions for the
sake of a living, for which they are hardly to be belittled. It follows
that the bigger the profits made by the owners for themselves and
their shareholders, the vaster the business expands and the more
pictures are manufactured. It has already been seen that American
producing concerns, beginning in a small way by making one or
two reel story-pictures, gradually developed the trade until, taking
advantage of the situation offered by the war, they eventually assumed
control of the world market.

Now the vagaries of public taste are well known, and it has
been the constant occupation of the film producer to gauge that
taste and to keep abreast with its fluctuation. But, not content with
pandering to the public taste, the film producer has also set out to
create public likes and dislikes by clever advertising and world-wide
distribution of certain classes of films. In a business-like way, the
film men of Hollywood have experimented with the appetite of the
public, and they are not to be blamed from a commercial point of
view for having turned out stereotyped productions when the masses
have shown their acceptance of such forms. When any new type of
film comes from Hollywood and is successful, there quickly follows
a swarm of similar but inferior pictures, trading on the reputation of
the first.

To the shrewd observer of the cinema, the difficulty lies in differen-
tiation between films demanded by public taste and movies deliberately
foisted upon the masses. The public does not by any means choose

its own players. If a big American firm wish to put over Miss

as a leading lady, they can and will do so, by systematically presenting
movies at their own chain of cinemas with that particular young lady
in them. In time, seduced by an exhaustive publicity campaign, by
press photographs of the young lady in her pants and underclothes,
and by repeated appearances of the new star, the public will sit
back in its tip-up plush seat and believe that it has discovered a fresh
favourite; whilst the producing firm will sigh with temporary relief
and set about keeping the young lady where they have put her.
The whole matter resolves itself into the problem of gently persuading
the public that it likes a certain player in a certain type of picture,
without the public becoming aware of the fact that it is being
persuaded. There is, perhaps, a touch of Dziga-Vertov about it.

THE AMERICAN FILM

Actually, it is simply the basic principle of advertising. Several
players could be named who are stars simply because they appear
with monotonous regularity three times a year. Obviously, in order
to retain the 'popularity' of their stars all over the world, no scruples
have been spared by American producers in devising new methods
for keeping their public and for the furtherance of constructing,
packing, and selling their goods. There are practically no lengths
to which a Hollywood firm will not go to sell a film.

At this point, it is of interest to sketch briefly the relationship of
the public to the American cinema. From the early period of the
first story-pictures until a year or two after the war, the American
movie progressed in quality. It found constant support in the public
primarily because of the novelty of the cinema itself. During the
whole of this period, producers were assured of the loyalty of the
masses, which was continually on the increase. To many people
the film was still an innovation. They went to the cinema because
it was the cinema, and not for any other reason. Nearly every big
production converts more people to the ranks of the cinema-going
public. The Birth of a Nation, Intolerance, The Four Horsemen of the
Apocalypse, The Big Parade, and Ben-Hur all created new film-goers.
In the same way, one single showing of Battleship 'Potemkiri* and
The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari gains believers in the film proper.
During this period, therefore, from about 191 2 until about 1920,
the very marvelling of the general public, watching every new
film with mouths agape, was sufficient for the studios to become
established on a practical basis, capable of mass production. To
this golden era belongs the best work of Griffith, Thomas Ince, and
Mack Sennett, together with the sincere efforts of William S. Hart
and Douglas Fairbanks. These pictures had a roughness about them,
an intensity of feeling and an air of honesty that have long since
vanished in the up-to-date slickness of the Hollywood movie. It
may, perhaps, be said that the first indications of the star-system
were making themselves shown, but although individual personalities
were gradually being connected with separate pictures, there was no
wide exploitation of the fact. He Comes Up Smiling and Reaching for
the Moon were seen because they were cinema. They were invigor-
ating and they were stimulating. They had not yet begun to be
Fairbanks.

But from this stage the American cinema began to succumb to the

THE ACTUAL

personality process, resulting in the tyrannical reign of the star-
system, the super-film, and the publicity blurring campaigns, all of
which were to develop to such an extent that they strangled them-
selves. The producing companies made their great mistake when
they decided to cater for the taste of the music-hall patron. The
enthusiasm of the real public had already fallen off when directors
tended to repeat themselves. The standard of films had reached a
rut; a groove out of which it had to be jolted if big business was to
be continued. Some new weapon was needed to stir the public out
of its apathy.

The Americans decided to recapture the attention of the masses
by the wholesale exploitation of stars, a process, if such it may be
called, which was in its embryo with the success of films in which
Chaplin, Fairbanks, Pickford, Swanson, etc., played. The film busi-
ness of Hollywood was to become one big game of bluff. Obviously,
those who bluffed hardest (and no nation in the world is so accom-
plished in the art of bluffing as the American) made the most money.
The film men began to work (and some of them realise it now) to
the detriment of the prestige of the film. The cinema lost a public
who loved it for itself and what it meant to them. They had no liking
for vaudeville, for star turns on a big scale. In the place of the old
film-goer there arose a new type of audience, a vacant-minded,
empty-headed public, who flocked to sensations, who thrilled to
sensual vulgarity, and who would go anywhere and pay anything to
see indecent situations riskily handled on the screen. Of such types
are the audiences of to-day largely composed.

America exploited the star-system for all the crooked business
was worth. Competitions were organised; beauty contests arranged;
vast correspondence 'fan mails' worked up; widespread campaigns of
personal publicity launched; marriages and separations arranged;
whilst a public of the lowest and worst type responded with the
eagerness usually found in such people. They began to write letters
to their favourite stars; how old were they; how much were they
worth; how much did they weigh; what sort of face cream did they
use; why were they married; what were their children like (if any)
and so on. This was encouraged and fanned by the publicity men.
In contrast to the audiences of early days, people now went to the
cinema to see films because of the stars who were in them. They
cared nothing for the films themselves, so long as they were shown

*4r*#*

amencan

SADIE THOMPSON
R;'OUl Walsh, rom Somerset Maugham's play 'Rain.

-llied artists

Gloria S. ;,<> name vart.

1927

■#*

FORBIDDEN PARADISE
by Ernst Lubitsch Pola Negri in her superb satire on
Hollywood ways and means. jajd

himous playe

THE AMERICAN FILM

close ups of their idols.1 The star became a fetish, inasmuch that
such a demand was created for movies that producing companies
were unable to make them quick enough. Naturally the stars them-
selves commanded tremendous salaries that waxed larger year by year.
They grew bloated and puffed up by their world-wide publicity.
They took to playing three, four, and even five parts in the same film,
achieved by means of double exposure. Audiences exulting and
thrilled, feasted their eyes and thoughts on the form of the star.
Many famous names occur at this time, names that rose up and were
forgotten. A few stayed, but they were exceptional. The Talmadge
sisters, Wallace Reid, Rudolph Valentino, Pauline Frederick, the
inimitable Mae Murray, Nita Naldi, Richard Dix, Thomas Meighan.
Tom Moore, Dorothy and Lilian Gish, Viola Dana, and scores of
others, all possessed manufactured screen personalities. The ideal
type for the film star was the blank-minded, non-temperamental
player, steeped in sex and sheathed in satin, who was admirably
suited to movie 'acting,' which called for no display of deep emotions,
no subtlety, no sensitivity, no delicacy, no guile. All through her
career Norma Talmadge has achieved success by looking slightly
perplexed and muzzy about the eyes. But audiences worshipped her
(they still do); wrote to her for signed photographs; hung them over
their beds and got a thrill out of them; and told their friends how
great an actress she was. The Rudolph Valentino affair was worked
with such success that, after his death, a guild was actually formed of
people who had never set eyes on him to perpetuate his name. The
publicity departments played the handsome Italian, with the cauli-
flower ear and the hundred per cent, sex, so well that anything be-
came possible. It was even rumoured that Pola Negri's playing in
Hotel Imperial was due to the emotions she was undergoing at the
time because of the death of her beloved Valentino! Is it to be
wondered that no sane-thinking person could see anything at all
possible in the vaunted aesthetic value of the cinema?

With the gradual ascendance of the star-system, Hollywood
became the playground of beauty, of youth, and of good looks of
both sexes. Sleek, slim, slit-eyed, scarlet-mouthed women infested
managers' offices. All over the world, in fact, girls left home . . . for
they were certain that only their stupid, vacant, but beautiful faces

1 Incidentally, one shudders at the gross abuse of the technical resources of the
medium, in particular the misuse of the close up.

THE ACTUAL

mattered in the film world. That is why Miss , now the well-
known film star, was once a shop-girl or a typist or something
else.

The star-system achieved for Hollywood and the cinema in
general an unenviable reputation. It called forth denunciations and
castigations from conservative constitutions and religious bodies,
which, of course, it thoroughly merited. Not, that is to say, from a
moral, but from a film point of view, for the morals of a film star
are entirely his or her own affair. It was the star-system that should
have been attacked; not its victims, but its sponsors, the American
producing concerns. The star-system was nothing more or less than
a flagrant prostitution of creative intelligence and good film material.

As has been indicated, bound up with the task of public acceptance
of the star-system, there arose vast publicity campaigns organised
by producing concerns to 'get across' their own particular stars and
pictures. America fights half her film battles with publicity cam-
paigns. At least two-thirds of the film writers in the United States
and in England are mere gossip writers, who retail more or less
scandalous news that is sent to them from the studios. There are
not twenty critics in this country who know the first thing about
films save what the publicity sheets issued from the studios tell them.
Every company floods critics and editors of newspapers and periodicals
all over the world with ready-made press propaganda, until the
journalists lose all sense of values. During the height of the star-
system every available detail, the more personal the better, was
published about American film stars. Papers were deluged with
highly coloured matter from big firms, each exaggerating the talents
of their individual stars. These descriptions were typical of the
hypocrisy and dissimulation of Hollywood. But producing firms
realised as well that the tone of their publicity must be given the
appearance of purity. From the public's outlook, it was the halo
round the star that mattered. It was imperative to keep it unbroken.
Both publicity departments and the Hays organisation took every
care to hide up any scandal or misbehaviour that should occur in
Hollywood. Quite obviously, if scandalous accounts were circulated
about some hard-faced, smoothly-shingled young virgin who played
sweet innocent heroines, the general public were apt to become
dubious as to whether they were having their legs pulled or not.
This, however, does not prevent temporary scandals and movements

THE AMERICAN FILM

in the divorce market from receiving current publicity. To counter-
act this, some thousands of photographs are circulated yearly of
well-known film stars in familiar and entirely creditable attitudes.
The public are saturated with this sort of propaganda, and believe it
all. A typical story is cited by Walter Kron, who quotes from a
criticism by a woman journalist, Louella Parsons, as follows: '. . .
his work as Lord Nelson in The Divine Lady proved what a really
fine artist he is. With an arm missing and blind in one eye, he still
managed to have sex appeal.' Another favourite method of retaining

public esteem is the personal appearance. 'Miss travels

specially to London for the opening performance of her new film,'
and so on.

The continued forcing of the star-system inevitably called for new
faces and fresh talent, and before long producers were raking the
world for suitable aspirants to film fame. This, in due course, led
to the distressing habit of 'discovering' likely persons in countries
thousands of miles from California, transporting them, buoyed up by
false promises, to Hollywood where, after a few months of exaggerated
publicity, they were forsaken without so much as making one film
appearance, being left to find their way home as best they might.
Although less guilty in this respect, English studios have tried the
same devices of beauty competitions and the like. The chances are
remote that the winner of any film contest has any cinematic talent
whatsoever beyond an insipid, pretty face. All these disreputable
methods of finding film 'talent' are of no use to the progress of the
cinema.

As time went on, the haloes of existing stars in Hollywood began
to pale visibly. Producers were continually forced to find new stars.
Fresh names began to replace the old favourites, and stars of the
calibre of Dolores del Rio, Sue Carol, Lupe Velez, and Joan Crawford
appeared, dragged from remote corners of the stage or studio crowd
work. Productions became more and more costly. The spectacle
film, which for some years had lain low, developed into the super-
film, and once more casts of thousands costing millions were employed
to attract the public. At the same time, hundreds of feature-films
were made to type; and one became accustomed to whole groups of
movies of the same variety. There was a craze for war films, aviation
films, underworld films, mother-love films, night-life films, backstage
films, Spanish films, costume films, etc.

THE ACTUAL

At this juncture, it is felt necessary to retrace the years, in order
to appreciate the influence of talent imported from Europe in
American studios. Shortly after the war, as has been seen, both
Germany and Sweden gave plentiful evidence of the genius and
technical brilliance that lay in their studios. The magnates, astute
as ever in their business outlook, realised that German and Swedish
intelligence had delved down much further into the cinema than
had that of the superficial directors of Hollywood. They
recognised, moreover, that England and France admired the aesthetic
qualities of the German film, and they determined to flavour their
own movies with some of this evidently 'artistic' talent. Not only
this, but the increasing necessity for the international cinema to
quiet the suspicions of commercial influence, made the installation
of the foreign element in Hollywood desirable. American
producers, therefore, sought to refresh their shop-worn productions
by the influence of German and Swedish film technique, followed
later by importations of both French and Hungarian players and
directors. From then onwards, American firms acquired talent from
Europe as soon as it made itself apparent. The tale of English
actors who have made good in Hollywood is too old a wound to be
re-opened.

The German and Swedish element in the Hollywood studios
marked a new era in American film output. It is significant that
although the majority of German films failed outside their country of
origin, two were successful in the United States. Dubarry (renamed
Passion) and Carmen (renamed Gypsy Love) both directed by Ernst
Lubitsch, with Pola Negri, were well received. As a result, Miss
Negri went to Hollywood, to be followed shortly by Lubitsch, and
it was not long before the remainder of the Europeans deserted the
sinking ship and settled down in California. The list is too long to
be given in full, but pre-eminent among the exodus were Emil
Jannings, Conrad Veidt, Lya de Putti, Greta Garbo, Camilla Horn,
Karl Mayer, Lars Hanson, Nils Asther, Greta Nissen, Dimitri
Buchowetzki, Paul Leni, Fred Murnau, Ludwig Berger, Erich
Pommer, E. A. Dupont, Victor Seastrom, and the late Mauritz Stiller.
Yet not one of these directors or players, having been bought by
dollars, but fell into the Hollywood groove of living. The movie
kings housed and fed these valued importations like prize cattle, and
succeeded after some struggling in taming them for their needs. A few

THE AMERICAN FILM

broke loose after a time and returned to the European fold, where
they have for the most part failed to regain their former status. So
strong is the dollar influence of Hollywood that it is necessary to
consider the works of these directors in two phases, the pre-Holly-
wood and the American period. For example, on the score of
appearances, I find it impossible to accept the Murnau who made
Faust and The Last Laugh as the same man who later made Sunrise
and The Four Devils. Some link between the two pairs of films is
sought in vain. They seem the work of separate persons: the first of
an artist, working with sincerity under harmonious surroundings;
the second of a pseudo-artist muddling under extreme difficulties.

Of the individual influence of the Europeans on the American
movie more will be said later, but it is to be remembered that their
work was to set examples for the younger Hollywood school of
directors to imitate. Lubitsch's The Marriage Circle and Kiss Me
Again type of film served as a copy-book to a dozen of the young
directors. Monta Bell, Mai St. Clair, Victor Heerman, Frank Tuttle,
Harry Beaumont, Roy del Ruth, William Wellman, and all the rest
of these clever young men have modelled their work on a mixture of
Lubitsch and Chaplin. It was the era of a new type of comedy,
not the slapstick of Lloyd or the ludicrous style of Keaton, but a
suave, polished, slick, slightly-satirical, sexual comedy. It was a
fusion, perhaps, of the American flair for brilliance and the German
tendency towards the psychological. It was to produce the Man,
Woman and Sin, Sex in Fetters, Broadway After Midnight type of
movie. It was a new quality in the American film, quite different
from the natural western element and the spectacle picture, and has
been tremendously successful. It is found to-day in the plentiful
adaptations of Lonsdale and Somerset Maugham plays to the dialogue
film. Charming Sinners, Interference, and The Last of Mrs. Cheyney
are cases in point.

It is not illogical that such an industry as the American movie,
possessing an aim of the maximum amount of profit from the mini-
mum necessary expenditure of time and labour, should be constructed
on an extremely well-organised basis. Whatever may be said against
American methods, it cannot be denied that they have developed
their system of working to a highly perfected state. No man
finds employment in a Hollywood film studio unless he knows his

THE ACTUAL

job. That job is his business and he manages it as such. That is
where the Hollywood studio differs from the British studio. The
American film man knows nothing whatsoever about the aesthetics
of the film, its possibilities or its development, and he cares less.
He is out for his daily money, and the making of movies happens
to be the way he is doing it. He might just as well be engaged in a
chemical factory or coal-mine, except that the movie life is a pleasant
one. Cine-organisation of studio work, about which so much is
written in the second part of this survey, has been carried to excess
in Hollywood. Each studio v/orks according to its own plan. No
fresh production is started without careful pre-consideration as to
its type, the selling methods to be employed with the completed
picture, and the mentality of the people to whom it is to appeal. A
schedule of production for a year's output is the result of much
deliberation. No reasonable period of time or amount of money
is spared on a movie. Every official in every studio has his allotted
time and a definite amount of money for his particular job. In fact,
he is simply a cog in a highly-efficient organisation, manufacturing
pictures according to formula. Moreover, the Americans are perfectly
serious-minded in their movie methods. They thought of them;
they developed them; and they have profited by them. That is quite
sufficient.

The American film man is amazingly hard-working. His heart is
thoroughly in his job. He understands the business so long as it
remains business; as soon as it becomes something more, entailing
appreciation of beauty, subtlety of wit, psychology of emotions, then
he is as good as finished. He takes refuge in calling it modern,
artistic and what is even worse, highbrow. The only highbrow films
are those made by dilettantes and intelligentsia {e.g., the American
Fall of the House of Usher; Florey's Loves of Zero; Len Lye's Tusylava).
No pure film is futurist, avant-garde, highbrow, or precious. No Soviet
film is advanced or 'artistic' or even difficult to understand. It is,
on the contrary, made for the simple peasant mind. But the Holly-
wood film man would call October or Mother an art film, for the reason
that they are a more natural state of cinema than the sophisticated
movie to which he is accustomed. The Last Laugh was an example
of the primitive use of cinematic technique, yet the film man of
Hollywood and Elstree will avoid discussing it. He is afraid of it.
So also is the average film critic. If he sees any new film which he

THE CROWD
King Victor's great 'psychological' film. James Murray as
the hoy friemi in a moment of depression. 7°2S

metro-gold wyn-mayer

amencan

paramount

THE WEDDING MARCH
by Erich von Stroheim. Fay Wray and Erich von Stroheim in
the hospital sequence, notable for its photography. 1926-29

THE AMERICAN FILM

does not immediately comprehend, he will call it 'highbrow' and
leave it severely alone instead of analysing its properties. When the
famous Soviet film, Battleship iPotemkiri' was shown in London last
November, not one of the regular newspaper critics was able to give
a clear, intelligent, broad-minded criticism of its properties. They
shirked it by weakly calling it Soviet propaganda. They were ashamed
to admit that their microscopic knowledge of the functions of the
cinema did not allow them to analyse this powerful film. The
average American film man can speak of nothing but movies. In
Hollywood they talk films, make films, and live films, entirely from
a business point of view. The average British film man knows little
about films. He knows all about golf and football, but he has seldom
seen a recent production.

All the big but not necessarily good films have come from
Hollywood, simply because no other country has the money to make
them, and even if they did, they would not know what to do with
them. In America, the more money expended on the production of
a film, the greater it is in the eyes of the producers and also the
public. How often has not the eternal slogan of the cast of twenty
thousand players and the film which cost two million dollars been
seen on London poster hoardings?

Moreover, Americans appreciate the value of perfected technical
accomplishment, which British executives will not realise. Hollywood
companies know well that the public will be the first to complain
of bad lighting, inferior camerawork, indifferent settings, and badly-
designed dresses. They recognise the importance of the real thing ,
and they appreciate the public's liking for appearances. If silk
brocade is needed for a curtain, the Americans will not use cheap
satin, because they know that the fake will be noticeable. They will
go to interminable lengths to get things right . If the scenario demands >
they will build London in Hollywood or go to Italy to film Ben-Hur.
They would buy the suit off the King's back if they could get it, or
failing that, have an exact replica made of it. The American movie
producer and director is immensely painstaking, and that is to his
eternal credit. On the other hand, he will make mistakes about the
simplest and most ordinary things. What Price Glory? was notorious
for its military discrepancies. Money for new mechanical apparatus,
up-to-date camera devices, newly invented lighting systems or
intricate laboratory appliances is never wanting. The Americans

THE ACTUAL

know the value of these necessities. Two-thirds of the movies 'get
across' in England solely because of their good dressing. Technical
accomplishment plays a large part in the polish of the Hollywood
movie. The quality of the photography is usually faultless. Moving
shots and camera panning are always beyond reproach, no matter
whether aesthetically they are being used rightly or wrongly. It is
rare to see an American extra badly made up. An American movie
star's clothes are always exquisite. Cheapness and shabbiness are
unknown in the Hollywood studios. For this reason alone the
American movie is always successful. The general public, judging
largely from outward appearances and knowing little of the cinema
itself, welcomes its glitter.

And, as is to be expected, Hollywood movies are slick, facile, and
well-finished. At the same time, they display an absence of good
taste, of intelligence, and, if the term is allowable, of culture. These
qualities, so essential to the cinema, are lacking in the American
film director and producer. It is these which they have tried tp buy
with dollars from Europe, which they have gradually found to be an
impossibility. They are qualities that no amount of money in the
world can buy. The American movie has not got them and never
will have them. The futility of the situation is extraordinary.

There is found, then, at the close of the pre-dialogue period of
the American film, a mixed selection of productions being made
according to formula. They have been well-named committee-made
pictures. In most cases, the director is not his own master, being
under the control of the producing board, the sole desire of which
is to turn out a certain number of standard pictures during the year.
Directorial talent has been subdued and shaped into a single quality,
the raison d'etre of every Hollywood director worthy of his name,
PICTURE-SENSE. This, it may be added, has nothing whatsoever
to do with cinematic sense, a quality peculiar to the European film.
Picture-sense controls the choice of theme, the treatment, the
players, and the presentation. Hollywood has rigidly schooled herself
into looking at every film from a picture-sense angle. The ingredients
of a successful film, conceived from a picture-sense point of view,
may be said to be: a strong, powerful theme (preferably sexual); a
highly polished, quick-moving technique, employing all the most
recent discoveries (usually German); a story-interest that will carry

THE AMERICAN FILM

the sex, at the same time allowing for spectacle and at least two high
spots; and a cast of international players. Of such a type were Flesh
and the Devil, The Last Command , The Patriot, Wild Orchids, and
The Kiss. Hundreds of pictures based on this formula were being
produced just prior to the general adoption of the dialogue film. The
same idea was being carried out in England with Piccadilly and in
Germany with Volga Volga.

American pictures are filled with people, for prominent among
the movie beliefs of Hollywood is the misconception that the general
public is more interested in people than in things. Seldom is a
landscape or a piece of architecture used in an American film for its
own beautiful sake. (The work of Henry King and Robert Flaherty
may be taken as exceptional.) Only as a background to people does
the American producer allow nature to interfere. Typical of this
belief is the film White Shadows, in which even the hard hand of
Hollywood, personified in the haggard Monte Blue and sex-charged
Raquel Torres, could not subdue the waving palms and mountainous
cumulus clouds of the south seas, which Van Dyck's cameramen
succeeded in photographing so well. In all probability there are a
few directors in Hollywood who would, if given the opportunity,
make films of sincerity, but they are continually manacled by the
one great obstacle, picture-sense or box-office. They cannot afford
to break away and attempt to produce on their own. The combines
are far too strong. Only the star-producers of the Chaplin, Fairbanks,
Pickf ord , and Swanson group work alone and pursue their own methods ,
but even they are afraid of the demands of the distributors. Perhaps
Chaplin only is in the position to make films as he really wishes,
but even he cannot afford to make another Woman of Paris. Fairbanks
and Pickford are to be sincerely admired for their efforts to create
better American films. They realise, at least, that they are lacking
in some of the essentials of good cinema, and are not afraid to go to
the source for the benefit of learning.

The mentality of the American film magnate is perplexing. His
futile mistakes and brilliant successes are a continual source of
wonderment. The Americanisation of Emil Jannings is typical of
Hollywood methods. In reviewing the position, it may be recalled
that Paramount-Famous-Lasky secured the 'world's greatest actor,'
the man who shook the audiences of the entire cinema by his powerful
performances in tragedy and comedy. In early days, he became known
f 81

THE ACTUAL

in Peter the Great, Danton, The Loves of Pharaoh, as Louis XV in
Dubarry, as Henry VIII in Anne Boleyn, in Sumurnn, etc. This was
Jannings, the repertory player, with the stage and Reinhardt uppermost
in his mind . From this came Jannings the film actor , finding his bearings
in the fresh medium, dropping the old theatrical ideas and finding
new filmic ones. During this period he did his best work, in Waxworks,
Nju, The Last Laugh, Faust, Tar tuff e, Vaudeville, in both comedy
and tragedy. And then Jannings in Hollywood, with the picture-
sense men running round him in circles, crying 'what shall we do
with him, now we have got him here?' like so many pet dogs round
a bull. They looked at all his past films, diagnosed the successes,
noted the powerful bits, rehashed them for stock, and decided to
construct individual masterpieces based on small incidents in his
former triumphs. The public would never recognise old wine in
new bottles; they would be too occupied in acclaiming the world's
greatest actor now starring in American productions. Thus The Way
of All Flesh was a clever reassembling of Vaudeville, the white-
haired old man and all. Compare, also, The Last Command and
The Last Laugh, with bits of Vaudeville thrown in to make up weight.
Look again at The Sins of the Fathers, The Street of Sin, The Betrayal,
and they will all be found to be reissues of the European Jannings.
The transposition was, of course, well done, and the public acclaimed
Jannings to be greater than ever. The ovation accorded The Patriot
was unprecedented, and yet it was a very banal performance, in
nauseating bad taste. Publicity from the Paramount studios lent
glamour to the position. At one time, a London film journal actually
printed a statement that Jannings, having had two reels of The
Last Laugh shown through to him in Hollywood, sat back and
deplored the bad acting. This, it is to be admitted, is clever publicity.
Later, they sent Jannings back to Berlin, 'on holiday,' for he was
considered of little use in the dialogue film. In order to cover up
the injustice of the act, they presented him with the highest honour,
the annual award of merit bestowed by the Academy of Motion
Picture Arts and Sciences for the most notable screen work during
the year. They actually dared to present this to him as he left Holly-
wood, with his dismissal in his pocket! Universal 's mishandling of
Conrad Veidt was of a similar nature. It was almost unbearable to
watch Veidt 's painful striving with the impossible role of Gwynplaine
in The Man Who Laughs, when comparatively fresh in the mind

THE AMERICAN FILM

was his exquisite performance in The Student of Prague. Imagine
Universal, with 'Uncle' Carl Laemmle and all, murmuring thus:
'Here is this great emotional actor, who plays with such intense
force that his mind appears warped, portraying on his narrow face
the inner conflict of self with terrible truth, under contract to us.
What part shall we put him over in? How can we make him greater
still? Let us take away the use of his mouth, and make him act with
his eyes and hands. Let us give him a permanent smile and then
make him play tragedy. Think of the sensation . . .'

#
Searching for the true characteristics of the American film, as
distinct from European influence, it is found that youth, vitality,
space, and movement are the chief attributes of the movie. American
traditions, generally speaking, date back only to the time of the civil
war, and, as in her literature, many of her movies, especially those of
the early war-period, carry themes relative to that event. Both
politically and socially America has been far too busy to devote any
sincere attention to the arts, with the result that there is no con-
temporary school of American painting recognised in Europe, and
her literature is marked only by isolated achievements. The average
American citizen has more sympathy with a mechanic or an engineer
than with an artist or a writer. Painting or composing is a dilettante
profession, pursued only by the rich. Rudolph Messel in his analysis
of the American mentality has traced the development of the cowboy
mind from the days of the great gold rush into the modern day
healthy American with money as his sole aim.1 Much of the American
mind is occupied with a primitive instinct for fight and possession,
an instinct that is the basis for many movies {viz., the early westerns,
with their gunmen and hard-riding cowboys; the recent vogue for
underworld crook stories, with gangsters, etc.). Out of this primitive
animal mind comes also the strong sexual feeling, particularly in
the dynamic American girl. Nearly every movie is saturated in sex
stimulant; a quality that is increasing with the dialogue film, and
is uppermost in almost every director's and producer's mind, not
only in Hollywood, but in England, France, Germany, and even
Russia. The most popular stars in Paris are Joan Crawford and
Victor MacLaglan. Every girl chosen for a part in a British film is
judged by her amount of sex, according to outward appearances.

1 Vide, This Film Business, by Rudolph Messel (Benn, 1928).
83

THE ACTUAL

Yet one of the most sexual pictures ever produced was Alexander
Room's Bed and Sofa, which contained the applied theme of man's
selfish and bestial attitude towards women, a state of affairs which
Room tried to counteract. Bound up with this sexually primitive,
fighting, self-possessive state of American mentality is a warped
sense of religion and a false pride of patriotism, both of which find
expression in the movie. The King of Kings, The Godless Girl, What
Price Glory? and The Big Parade emphasise this point.

Sexual youth is one of the essentials of the American film. In the
studios there is ever a search for youth, for with it go the vitality
and dynamicism that are inseparable from the true function of the
movie. Youth and movement were the keynotes of Our Dancing
Daughters, The First Kiss, Wings, The Legion of the Condemned,
Beau Geste, and countless others of the same brand. Clara Bow,
Fay Wray, Charles Rogers, Richard Arlen, Nancy Carroll, Anita
Page, Sue Carol are all symbols of the American drama of youth.

Pace, together with the combined motives of sex, youth, and
spaciousness, is the chief reason for the success of the American
movie. It was the vitality of movement in such films as The Broadway
Melody, Hollywood Revue, Ben-Hur, Beau Geste, College Days, The
General, The Black Pirate, and Wings which made them popular,
as well as the underlying factors of publicity and star-system. One
rarely observes a European film with such pace as was contained in
these movies; but this pace is only movement of material, a distinc-
tion which is explained on page 251. Pace of material reaches back
through the years to the silk-legged Mack Sennett slapsticks, to
the fast-moving westerns, where it touches the feeling for spacious-
ness. Every audience delights in the vast spaciousness of the western
cinema. The cowboy films with their valueless stories, their lean
riders and flaxen-haired rancher's daughters in gingham frocks,
brought to the screen a sense of unlimited horizons, of far-reaching
desert. But the western is gradually fading from the American
cinema. Instead there is the spaciousness of rooms; great, tall,
ceilingless rooms; and of cities, with buildings reaching into the sky.
Only on rare occasions is a small set seen in an American movie.
To the Hollywood director, a dining-room must stretch away into
infinity, with doors running up out of sight, and polished, reflecting
floors. . . .

But space, sex, vitality, and youth are but material from which the

THE VIRGINIAN

Pidor Fleming S dialogue film. Contrast the spaciousness with

the photograph below. One of the few American naturalistic

1929

paramount

films.

OUR DANCING DAUGHTERS
by Harry Beaumont. Contrast metallic, superficial brilliance
mth the naturalist atmosphere of the photograph above 1928

metro-goldwyn-mayer

THE AMERICAN FILM

film director constructs his work. The pace of the American movie
is not the pace of film. It is in the construction of the film, in the best
use of the resources peculiar to the cinema, in the employment of
the properties and the attributes of the screen, that the Americans
fail. They have no knowledge of the rendering of their material.
They are unable to contrive its assembling, its relationship, its
meaning with any degree of sincerity. In the filmic treatment and
composition of this rich material the American allows business to
overcome the proper functions of the cinema. For this sense of
filmic representation, for this real use of the cinema, it is imperative
to turn to other countries whose traditions and culture make possible
a better understanding of the values of the film as an instrument of
expression.

Of the dialogue film period I do not propose to write at length
for three logical reasons. Firstly, because the medium of the film
as understood in this survey does not allow the reproduction of
spoken dialogue in conjunction with the visual image of the speaker;
secondly, because I do not believe that the dialogue film has any
permanent value in the development of the film; and thirdly, because
the dialogue movie will be superseded by the sound-and-visual-image
cinema, of which there is yet no actual unified instance. In the
general interests of this book, however, the events and brief tendencies
of this illegitimate phase of the cinema may be mentioned.

The dialogue film became an actual commercial certainty when the
Warner Brothers' producing concern, on the verge of financial
collapse as a result of the failure of their silent programme, decided
to exploit the Vitaphone, a talking film apparatus on the disc method
for which they held the rights. The whole affair was a matter of
chance, a shot in the dark, with a well-known variety artist as the
box-office appeal. The gamble succeeded. To the general surprise
of Hollywood, who had little faith in the dialogue film, the public
of America received the novelty of the speaking and singing entertain-
ment with open arms. It offered a reaction to the machine-made
movie. Immediately a stampede took place among the producing
firms for within a short time Warners were making tremendous
profits out of their venture. There was a rush by the companies to
secure equipment, to convert their silent studios into sound-proof
ones, to build new stages, to find suitable subjects, to test the voices

THE ACTUAL

of their stars, and to buy from the theatre all the adjuncts of the voice.
Hollywood turned yet another corner in her amazing career. She
threw aside all the ideas and processes by which she had built up
her vast industry; she risked the adaptability of her directors to this
new device; she chanced the success of her established stars, now
that their voices were to be heard. She discarded all her well-tried
systems and staked her opportunities of further success on the
novelty of a new invention.

The results were not in the least surprising. The reaction of the
public, who were taken unawares, was inevitable. They were as
eager to hear this new invention as they had been to see the kineto-
scope. Up till the present moment, the general interest of the public
remains held by the dialogue film, but there are tendencies to show
that the first craze is subsiding. There is a feeling of uncertainty
abroad.

Of the types of dialogue film as yet observed, there are roughly
four varieties: the adapted stage play, an obvious source to which
producers immediately turned for ready-made dialogue; the thriller,
being an extension of the old crook melodrama, with slang, bangs,
and every conceivable noise; the sentimental, individual-appeal
picture, which relies on the personality of one star; and the musical
comedy, the backstage type of movie with a slight story-interest
serving as an excuse for colour and syncopation.

In the first category may be placed The Last of Mrs. Cheyney,
The Doctor's Secret, Madame X, and Charming Sinners, all of which
were adapted stage plays, notable for their slow theatrical develop-
ment, their sparkling dialogue and their uncinematic quality. In,
the second are such pictures as The Perfect Alibi, Bulldog Drummond,
and Dr. Fu Manchu, being entertainment along popular lines but
without any value. In the third, the sobbing performances of Al
Jolson in The Singing Fool and The Jazz Singer, and the charm of
Maurice Chevalier in The Innocents of Paris, being remarkable only
for their variety elements. While in the fourth is the descendant of
the super-spectacle film, with dancing and singing and colour, such
as The Hollywood Revue, The Fox Movietone Follies, On With the
Show, and The Broadway Melody, all of which suffer from their lack
of camera movement and other filmic properties, being successful
because of their musical numbers and chorus work.

There have also been individual experiments along the lines of

THE AMERICAN FILM

Gloria Swanson's The Trespasser and the Pickford-Fairbanks' Taming
of the Shrew. Both these productions have obvious merits, but
neither can be considered within the range of the proper cinema.
I have only seen two American dialogue films that have had true
quality, King Vidor's Hallelujah! and Victor Fleming's The Virginian,
and these only because of the use of sound for dramatic emphasis.

Mention has already been made of the use of sound in the accom-
paniment of the animated cartoon film. The Mickey Mouse cartoons
have definitely achieved the beginnings of the wedded sound-and-
visual-image film, which will be developed in the course of time.

IV
THE AMERICAN FILM (continued)

Among the countless movies born in Hollywood are many which
demand inclusion in this survey, and investigation of their qualities
had best be made through an examination of their individual directors,
placing the productions in their allotted groups as they occur. It
must be stated that whatever good and harm American directors
and producers have done to the cinema, there are certain develop-
ments originating in Hollywood for which she must be given credit.
For example, the Americans were the first persons interested in the
cinema to discover that the film-play possessed functions peculiar to
itself. Although the original use of the camera as an instrument of
creative imagination is not found until Wiene's The Cabinet of Doctor
Caligari, Griffith certainly determined that the capabilities of the
film were not to make a simple record of the material placed in front
of the lens of the camera, but that they consisted in the reproduction
of that material on a screen by a process peculiar to the film alone.
Griffith at an early stage in the history of the cinema was the first
director with the intelligence to attempt to organise the scenario-
manuscript; to make dramatic use of the close up, the fade-in and
the fade-out, being technical devices of the camera instrument
which, although discovered before Griffith used them, had not
been utilised as a means of dramatic effect.

The films of Griffith are to be regarded as well-constructed
models of contrasted tension, achieved by the gradual narration of
consecutive incidents, with the action planned in such a manner
that the dramatic tension of the film rises to a powerful climax at
the conclusion. This climactic ending to the Griffith pictures found
outlet in what is popularly called 'the last-minute-rescue. ' Actually,
this was simply a working-up of excitement towards the final sequence
of action, thereby making a satisfactory rounding-off to the film.
The continuity process of parallel action will be mentioned later in

THE AMERICAN FILM

this connection. Griffith, moreover, was not only content to construct
his climax from the actions of his characters, but he contrived the
story so as to intensify the final struggle of the theme by using the
conflicting elements of nature, of rain, snow, storm, and ice. This use
of atmospheric environment heightened the Griffith climax to an
almost indescribable pitch of emotion, well seen in the snowstorm,
the melting river of ice and the awe-inspiring waterfall of Way
Down East. It will be remembered that the elements increased in
intensity towards the final struggle. In this example from Way
Down East, Griffith used not only the available natural resources,
but heightened the thrill of the rescue from the waterfall by the
capabilities of the camera itself by contrasting two streams of move-
ment. In this sequence of events, the snowstorm, the ice-floes, and
the waterfall, each increasing in strength, formed a comparative
background to the increasing despair of the characters themselves
in the narrative. Love followed in the footsteps of despair. As a
contrast to this turbulence of natural resources may be taken the
gradual atmospheric changes in America, of twilight and of morning.
Griffith is a master of natural effect; and his influence is seen in
many Soviet films.1 It will be found, also, that in his earlier and better
films, Griffith always chose his characters from the normal stream of
life, and developed their fictitiously constructed lives in a world
quite normal to them. (Isn't Life Wonderful? , The Birth of a Nation y
Way Down East, America, etc.)

The 'last-minute-rescue, ' such a prominent feature of the Griffith
film, had been used at an early date in The Life of an American
Fireman (1903) and has been in constant employment since then.
The girl at the guillotine; the knife about to fall; the approaching
riders flourishing the pardon; the little details that hinder the fall
of the knife; the arrival of the riders at the last moment; these are
the factors, so well used in Orphans of the Storm, familiar to all
audiences throughout the world. Griffith improved the tension
created by parallel action by addition of the close up. He inter-
spaced the alternate motives with a close up of the hooves of galloping
horses; the keen edge of the blade; the girl's neck bared; the excite-
ment on the faces in the crowd; tears in the eyes of Miss Gish —

1 Recall the mist scenes at Odessa in Battleship * Potemkin ' and the death of
the ' Partisan ' leader in The Heir to Jenghiz Khan, both instances of natural
atmospheric effect in the Griffith manner.

THE ACTUAL

and so on. Perhaps Griffith's cleverest use of the close up was in
the trial scene of Intolerance, an instance of subordination of the
general to emphasis of the particular. The woman was hearing the
sentence of death passed on her husband, whom she knew was
innocent of the crime. On her face a subdued, anxious smile was
half-hidden by tears. This was shown in close up. Suddenly, a
flash was seen of her hands gripped together in anxiety. Not once was
her whole figure shown to the audience, but her emotions were rendered
doubly dramatic by individual close ups of her face and hands.

Griffith was at one time an actor and play-writer. He apparently
wrote a film manuscript of Sardou's 'La Tosca,' had it rejected, but
was engaged as an actor to play in a one-reeler, The Eagle's Nest.
Against his own will, he started directing, being induced to make
The Adventures of Dolly in 1908, which was followed shortly by
The Lonely Villa, One Avenging Conscience, The Sheriff's Baby, and
many others. His real work, however, was not until 19 14, when
The Birth of a Nation was produced as an answer to Italy's 'super'
film Quo Vadis? of the year before. It was decided that The Birth
of a Nation was to be the world's greatest film, in twelve reels with
many thousands of extras. In the customary manner of Griffith, a
theme on a large scale was selected, based on the result of the
enfranchisement of the negro, with added high-spot interest in the
war of the North and the South and the Ku Klux Klan vendettas.
Financially, the picture was a success, although much was said at
the time about it being anti-colour propaganda. Nevertheless,
propaganda or not, all America and later the rest of the world went
to see it, and if it achieved nothing else, it certainly placed the cinema
as an entertainment and as a provocator of argument on the same level
as the theatre and the novel.

The Birth of a Nation relied entirely on the cinema for its success,
for it carried no well-known names as a box-office attraction. It
stood alone as a film; and as a film it was triumphant. The chief
faults to be found with the construction were in the slow, meaningless
opening; the realistic replicas of Abraham Lincoln's study and the
theatre in which he was assassinated; and the badly handled, insuffer-
ably dull battle scenes. Nevertheless, the importance of the film lay
in its achievement of attracting the notice of serious-minded people
to the expressive power of the cinema. Its merits are to be appreciated,
not individually, but as a whole.

THE AMERICAN FILM

For his next picture Griffith again chose an immense theme, so
vast that the film became unwieldy and depressing, and thereby
defeated its own purpose. He sought to convey the idea that intoler-
ance pervades the spirits of all peoples, from past to present, dragging
with it despair, murder, and ruin. The immensity of the idea (which
would be turned down with scorn by any scenario department of
to-day) was Griffith's undoing, for he was forced by the limits of
time alone to treat the theme generally. Intolerance did not set out
to tell a narrative; instead, it utilised four separate historical incidents,
divided by centuries of time, to express one central theme. It has
been said that Intolerance was the first attempt to use the film in its
correct manner. The four incidents chosen by Griffith to illustrate
his theme were the fall of Babylon; the intolerance of the world and
the Pharisees towards Christ; the massacre of St. Bartholomew;
and a modern story of capital and labour, set in an atmosphere of
misunderstanding, vicious gambling dens and corrupt orphanages.
These four separate stories were connected by a link, supplied by
Walt Whitman's lines 'out of the cradle endlessly rocking,' which
manifested itself in the form of Lilian Gish aimlessly rocking a
cradle, and appeared at regular intervals throughout the course
of the film. The four stories were developed slowly, gradually
working up into a Griffith crescendo, with quadruple action in the
climactic ending, rounded off by a touch of symbolism. The Persians
approached Babylon; Christ was crucified; the Huguenots were
butchered; but the young man in the modern story was saved by a
miraculous 'last-minute-rescue.'

Intolerance was, and still is, the greatest spectacular film. Its
ingredients, the sumptuous feast of Belshazzar, the wild attack on
the massive walls of Babylon, the scene at Golgotha, the struggling
horde of extras and the vast sets, have been at the back of every
American producer's mind ever since. They are the urge and com-
fort of Mr. de Mille. They are indirectly responsible for the many
imitations - The Ten Commandments, Noah's Ark, and the Hun-
garian Sodom and Gomorrah, all of which failed because they lacked
the fierce intensity of purpose of Griffith. Intolerance had the
makings of a great film but failed because of its own immensity. A
film, even in twelve reels, cannot embrace the width and depth of a
theme such as Intolerance sought to carry, without the elimination
of detail. Under these circumstances the theme at once becomes

THE ACTUAL

superficial. The theme carried no power because of its general
treatment. At the time of production, Intolerance had the reputation
of being the most expensive film ever produced; the high reputation
of Griffith from The Birth of a Nation; an air of mystery, for it was
made under a veil of secrecy; but it was a failure because of its own
intolerance. The American people were puzzled by its name, by its
meaning, and by its hugeness. They took a dislike to it.

Of Griffith's later films there is not a great deal to be written.
It is well-known that he did not live up to the promise of his first
two achievements, that he brooded in the darkness, and tried to
repeat his successes in a different guise. Broken Blossoms, inspired
by a short story by Thomas Burke, is of interest because it was the
forerunner of the sordid, dilapidated slum theme that has been
present in the cinema ever since Griffith suggested it. The film
succeeded for only one reason; it had no other asset to carry its
weight across to the audience save the direction. Lilian Gish,
despite her earlier playing, was not yet considered in the ranks of
stardom; Richard Barthelmess was unknown; and the story was simple,
tragic, and sordid, with no call for the spectacle of Griffith's earlier
work. Yet Broken Blossoms, with all its morbidness, was a success.
As a film it achieved great emotional power, due entirely to the
strong direction. It created many things, the most significant being
the establishment of Lilian Gish as a tear-stained slum girl, which
she has been on and off ever since; it founded the school of dirt and
depression among dirty plates and unswept rooms; and it influenced
Stroheim in the making of Greed. Moreover, it showed producers
that a simple, human story, without the box-office attractions of silk
legs and spectacle, could be made successful if handled by an intelli-
gent director. Broken Blossoms relied on the cinema for its expression.

Orphans of the Storm, with its setting in the popular French
Revolution , was another new undertaking for Griffith . It was historical
costume film technique as distinct from the reconstruction of the
ancient world of Intolerance. Financially, the orphans were peculiarly
pleasing, especially when it is remembered that costume films are
usually considered to be failures before they are even made. They
secured over a hundred thousand pounds in this country alone,
being advertised as based on Carlyle's 'French Revolution.' Actually,
it was Hollywood's French Revolution, with little of the real Griffith,
save in the construction of the 'last-minute-rescue' at the guillotine.

THE AMERICAN FILM

But Griffith was beginning to repeat himself. He seemed forced to
go back over his ground and it became tiring to watch the rescue of
Miss Gish, however strong Griffith's sympathies for her may have
been. One Exciting Night, a thriller that excelled in thrills but nothing
else; America; Isn't Life Wonderful? and Sally of the Sawdust Ring
were all reiterations of early Griffith methods. Isn't Life Wonderful?,
an essay on the food shortage problem in post-war Germany, was meant
to express an idea. But when he made this film, Griffith appeared
not to have appreciated the progressive movements of the whole
cinema around him. He was, as it were, simply Griffith wrapped up
in a parcel and tied round with string by Griffith. Later, he was
forced to climb down from his fence of independence, join the
Famous-Players-Lasky Company, and under their supervision made
Sally of the Sawdust Ring, a. crude, sentimental picture of circus life
which was financially successful. Since then he has continued to
make a series of uninteresting pictures of unequal merit, among them
being Drums of Love, The Sorrows of Satan, The Battle of the Sexes,
(notable for the playing of the talented Phyllis Haver and Jean
Hersholt), and The Lady of the Pavements, with the vivacious Lupe
Velez. He is now engaged on a dialogue version of Abraham Lincoln.
In general, the work of Griffith is notable for the expression of one
central idea, a single theme carrying the film through from start to
finish. This unity of purpose has been lacking in his recent films.
Round this idea he constructs his scenario action and his characters,
placing them in their natural surroundings, and finds players suitable
for their sincere characterisation. It will be observed that once
Griffith has moulded an actor or an actress into the desired shape,
he seldom continues to use that player. Having employed them with
great success for the expression of one or two of his films, he gives
them to the smaller directors, by whom they are made into stars.
As far as possible, Griffith works with raw material, and in this
respect he resembles the Soviets. Lilian Gish is admittedly an
exception to this theory, but she is perhaps the prototype of the
Griffith heroine. Griffith nearly always creates his parts on the same
characteristics. In particular the tear-stained, sobbing young woman,
with or without child, smiling behind the misery with a wistful
smile is recalled. Griffith's important work may lie in the past,
in the early days of the spectacle film when theories on continuity
and rhythmic construction were young, but he is a power in the

THE ACTUAL

American cinema that must be stressed. There is much to be learnt
to-day from his early ideas, and his influence on the more eminent
of Hollywood directors is marked. Both King Vidor and Erich von
Stroheim learnt their early cinema from Griffith. Although his ideas
are sentimental, his technique elementary, and his construction of
the old type, it is upon them that much of the best of modern film
treatment is built.

On turning to the work of Erich von Stroheim a barrier is at
once found to the true appreciation of his artistry by the fact that
he has gained for himself (chiefly on account of his masterly bluffing
of the American producers and by his display of meaningless
magnificence) the status of a genius. It will frequently be found
that when argument is broached about a Stroheim film, this powerful
word is solemnly pronounced and further analysis, if any has been
made at all, is impossible. I suggest, however, that just as Stroheim
has bluffed Hollywood with such admirable neatness, it is equally
possible for him to have deceived the intelligence of his ardent
admirers among the jeune cineastes. It is not denied that Stroheim
has made one exceptionally interesting and powerful film in Greed>
but on the other hand it is asserted that his filmic knowledge is
inadequate. He seems incapable of recognising the limits and de-
limits of the cinema. The fact that Greed, in its original form, was
twenty reels in length and that two hundred thousand feet of film
were shot when making The Wedding March, indicates neither the
mind of a genius nor a great film director, as so many of his disciples
seem to believe. On the contrary his obvious incapability to express
his ideas adequately in ten thousand feet of film shows clearly his lack
of understanding of the resources of the medium. Added to which,
Stroheim has unfortunately earned for himself the reputation of
gross extravagance and so great is the faith of Hollywood in vastness
on any scale that, if Stroheim ceased to squander money on his
productions, he would no longer be called a genius. Whilst fully
appreciating the fact that a director must have freedom in order to
express his ideas, it cannot but be admitted that if he has to take
nearly twenty times the amount of film actually used in the final
copy, he has no idea of what he wants or how he is going to achieve
his desired result, the two elementary qualifications of a director.
Stroheim 's greatest faults are his love of excess and his failure to
express his mind filmically. He labours his points and repeats his

paramount

THE WEDDING MARCH
by Erich von Stroheirr. Cherry blossom time in Vienna, with
Fay Wray and the dir 1926-29

nenca

universal

FOOLISH WIVES
Erich von Stroheim's early and sensational sex Mm.

1922

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arguments to the limits of boredom, losing thereby any subtlety or
meaning that they might convey. Typical of this was the painful
gold colouring in Greed, which very nearly wrecked the film, and
the superfluous cherry blossom in The Wedding March. Both these
attempts at atmospheric emphasis lost their effect by their redun-
dancy. Instead of becoming suggestive they became irritating.
Quite certainly they were Victorian.

Stroheim's best work is to be seen in small pieces. There are
many sequences in his films that stand out alone for their extreme
beauty and sympathetic feeling. This in itself suggests the lack of
unity and central purpose of the Stroheim film. Frequently it is
declared that he is hampered in his realisation by lack of money,
but in consideration of the extraordinary licence allowed him in the
past, this argument for his failure is hardly convincing. If Stroheim
is the filmic genius he is said to be, then he will express his purpose
under the limited conditions of film-making.

Admittedly, this awkward predicament of having to spend money
in order to keep up appearances is regrettable, but Stroheim has no
one to blame save himself. If it were possible to see Stroheim in
small, separate sequences, it would then be correct to call him a
superbly talented experimentalist. One of the most beautiful sequences
realised in the history of the cinema was the short hospital scene in
The Wedding March, exquisite alike in feeling, acting, simplicity,
and lighting. Photographically, it was magnificent, the range of
tones shimmering from deep velvety blacks to dazzling gauzed
whites with perfect gradation. But the fact remains that if Stroheim
suddenly dropped his pose, became serious, ceased his expensive
bluffing campaign, and made a film of normal length, with a normal
amount of money and in a normal space of time, producers would
believe that they had been cheated out of their money, and the film
would be regarded as a joke, whilst actually it would be a master-
piece.

It is said that Erich von Stroheim has led a stormy life in Holly-
wood trying to combat commercialism with artistic temperament.
Perhaps it would be more truthful to say that Stroheim has com-
mercialised his artistic temperament. No producing centre in the
world save Hollywood would have accepted Stroheim's whimsical
fancies. His ideas are always made to look as if they are conceived
on a great scale, calling for vast financial resources, and naturally

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when he carries them out, strict executive eyes are watchful of his
movements. But Stroheim, carried away by his 'genius,' enlarges
and extends his ideas as he puts them into realisation, far beyond
original specification. As is only to be expected, trouble ensues
between the two parties. It is remarkable that, despite Stroheim's
failings, producing companies still continue to place their faith and
money in him. The case of The Merry -Go-Round is almost too well-
known to be cited. Report has it that Stroheim spent so long in
showing a squad of soldiers how to salute in the Stroheim manner
that the producers finally grew tired of the game, ejected Stroheim
and put in Rupert Julian to finish the picture.

Stroheim was at one time an officer in the army of Franz Josef
of Austria (whom God and Stroheim have preserved in The Wedding
March). Later, he came to New York to live alternately as gardener,
ostler, dish-washer, etc., all of which are excellent occupations for
a potential film director, for they breed an understanding of reality.
He arrived in Hollywood about the beginning of the war, found work
as an extra, and played the Pharisee in Griffith's Intolerance. His
first achievement, however, did not come until after the war, when he
directed and acted in Blind Husbands. Stroheim's acting as the
superior, smart, salacious Austrian officer on holiday, with just
sufficient power to seduce any woman he happened to meet, was
outstanding for its truth. The film had a good reception, and he
proceeded to make Foolish Wives in the same way. Once more he
acted and directed, adding touches to the lascivious Austrian officer,
and proved himself capable of progress. Foolish Wives will always
remain an extraordinary film. It was subtly sexual and provocative.
Old-fashioned in technique when seen by modern eyes, it nevertheless
still retains much of its force and dramatic power. Following this
came the disastrous affair of The Merry -Go-Round, with Norman
Kerry and Mary Philbin, which was left unfinished by him. Soon
afterwards, Metro- Goldwyn gave him the production of Greed ',
adapted from Herbert Norris's novel 'McTeague,' and Stroheim made
the film on which his reputation stands to-day. Why and how Metro-
Goldwyn came to give Stroheim the opportunity to make this picture
still remains a mystery, for the theme of Greed was the last possible
form of box-office appeal for Metro- Goldwyn, always a firm of
showmanship, to be interested in.

Stroheim set out to show the loathsome effect of a human being's

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passion for money; how it affected the woman whose passion it was;
and how it reacted on the persons with whom she came into contact.
The action was woven around a wedding and a double murder, with
death in a torrid desert by thirst and exposure. Greed was the essence
of sordidness, the depth of depression and the horror of distorted
human nature. But it was sheer, undiluted truth; the essence of
reality expressed in the powerful terms of the cinema. Not one ray
of light, of warmth, of cheer disturbed its meandering length. It
was the concentrated dreariness of life. From its opening among
the tree-clad hills which surrounded the gold mine, through the
depths of the dark squalor of middle-class life, to the murder of the
wife and the final sequence in the valley of death, it was disturbing.
The people who saw it loathed it, yet were fascinated. Americans
frankly disliked it; its moral that money is worthless either roused
their consciences uncomfortably or was passed by unseen. They
could not believe that someone had made a film about a man who
murdered his wife because she had hoarded money. It was too near
to life, too damning in its truth, too frank in its Tightness. Stroheim's
days as a dish-washer had shown him too much.

In Greed, more than in any other film, Stroheim strengthened his
theme by insistence on detail and by the consciousness of inanimate
objects. Stroheim knew the value of the camera's faculty for the
selection of the particular. He used it as it had never been used
before in the establishment of psychological atmosphere. The dingy
wallpaper, the automatic piano, the dirty dishes, the unmade bed,
the unemptied wash-basin, the brass bedstead, the soiled handker-
chief, all these details insignificant in themselves were used to build
up an effect of squalor. It was from Greed that Sternberg acquired
his talent for using sordid material. There is also an affinity in the
use of detail between Stroheim and Pabst. Both directors are aware
of the consciousness of the inanimate. Both use objects rather than
persons to create atmosphere. It is possible to see The Joyless Street
(1925) and Greed (1923) on the same level. The opening scene of
Jeanne Ney, most of The Salvation Hunters , and portions of The
Docks of New York have distinct relationship with the bedroom of
McTeague in Greed. The final sequence in the desert, with the
sense of space, the blazing sun, the cracked sand, the shot mule,
stands alone as a superb rendering of environment. Greed was
Victorian, but it was cinema. Despite its faults, the gold coloration,
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the too sudden development of the wife's character, the ridi-
culous make-up of Gibson Gowland, this was Stroheim's greatest
picture. It is interesting to note that Stroheim's explanation for the
length of Greed, said variously to have been anything from twenty
to a hundred reels in its original version, was that he used no more
film than was absolutely necessary for the filmic expression of the
theme. This is an evasive statement typical of Stroheim, to which
there is no answer. Nevertheless, the copy generally shown, about
ten thousand feet in length, left much to be desired in editing.
The film fell evenly into two halves. It is assumed that the transition
period after the wedding was eliminated, an unfortunate act that
took weight from the otherwise brilliant performance of Zazu Pitts
as the hoarding wife. Her acting, under the control of Stroheim,
has never been equalled by any other American actress at any time.

The next Stroheim picture was a reaction to the reality of Greed.
It was a movie version of a popular musical comedy in the Ruritanian
manner, complete with princesses and monocled lieutenants, flashing
sabres and pink roses. The Merry Widow was as much a story movie
as Greed was a thematic film. Occasionally, amid the welter of crown
princes and chorus girls, a stagey duel and a coronation in the true
Hollywood manner (colour), there came a flash of Stroheim technique,
a sparkle of wit akin to the Forbidden Paradise of Ernst Lubitsch.
To his credit, Stroheim at least made the synthetic Mae Murray
do something else than mince, and he handled John Gilbert as he has
not been handled since. But despite this, the picture was nothing
more than a typical Metro-Goldwyn adaptation of a musical comedy,
with tuneful music and Parisian humour. Because it had been
successful in the theatre, the producers calculated that The Merry
Widow would be a successful, money-making movie. But why give
it to Erich von Stroheim, the maker of Greed, to produce?

Stroheim pursued his luxurious way, passed into the hands of
Paramount-Famous-Players, and began The Wedding March in
June 1926. He finished the picture in the late spring of 1927.
He spent over twelve months in trying to edit his vast mass of material
into some unified whole, calmly suggesting to Paramount that he
should make two films out of it, until finally they lost their temper,
and gave the bins of celluloid to someone else to cut. The successor,
however, did no better than Stroheim, and the assembling was
turned over to yet another professional cutter, who succeeded in

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condensing the original matter into about ten reels. Eventually, it
was shown in England early in 1929, three years after it had been
begun, and, as was only to be expected, was disjointed, erratic, and
uneven in quality. Von Stroheim, of course, wished it to be clearly
known that he entirely disclaimed the version shown to the public,
and washed his hands of the whole matter. Without prejudice,
he had only himself to blame. In the copy presented to the public,
The Wedding March was lacking in unity, uncertain in treatment,
and crudely interspaced with cheaply written titles, but, for the
student of the cinema, it contained some beautiful passages. Like
other Stroheim films, the setting was Vienna; with a background of
falling cherry blossom; sentimental beer gardens that were out of
joint with some topical-news shots of the city at the beginning; a
scandal-mongering and poverty-stricken court; and a coloured
procession with a lifelike replica of old Franz Josef. It was burdened
with little story-interest, being concerned chiefly with the tragic
love of a prince for a poor but charming girl, and the fatal circum-
stances that compelled the former to do the will of his parents and
marry according to his status. It was pathetic, appealing, and wistful;
sentimental, charming, and Victorian. One recalls it now by a few
isolated sequences. Prince Nicki's first meeting with the girl, when
he is on parade and is unable to speak to her; the hospital sequence
which has been mentioned; the delightful interplay between Stroheim
and Maude George, as his mother; and Zazu Pitts 's exquisite playing
of the lame princess, the compulsory wife of the unwilling Prince
Nicki. Notable, also, was the use of heavily -gauzed photography
for the love scenes, in contrast to the sharp, clear-cut camerawork
of the butcher's scenes. Although the public version stopped short
with the unhappy marriage of the prince and princess, to the grief
of the poor but charming girl, the original conception continued the
theme to a hunting trip in the mountains and the death of the limping
princess. From an examination of the still-photographs of this latter,
unshown part of the picture, it seems of greater interest than the
first. Although it is improbable that the second half of The Wedding
March will be presented on account of its silence, there is perhaps a
possibility of it being shown as a curiosity at some future private
performance.

After his retirement from the Paramount concern, Stroheim
started the direction of Gloria Swanson in Queen Kelly, in which

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Miss Swanson played the part of a prostitute. The film was apparently
finished and in cutting stage when the dialogue film made its un-
seemly intrusion. It was deemed unwise to attempt the synchronisa-
tion of the picture owing to its unsuitability as a talking vehicle for
Miss Swanson. Instead, she went under the direction of Edmund
Goulding in The Trespasser, while Stroheim went into The Great
Gabbo, under James Cruze. Of this latter film I find it hard to write,
for so cluttered up was it with infernal singing, dancing, talking,
backstage, musical comedy stuff, that Stroheim was given no chance
with his part. Added to which, he was obliged to wear bad uniforms
and was overpowered by the worst coloured sequences ever seen in
the history of the cinema. Once more, The Great Gabbo was of merit
here and there because of Stroheim's quiet, masterful personality,
but its values went no further. It added in no way to the reputation
of James Cruze, to the value of dialogue film as a means of expression,
or to the accomplishment of the 'genius' of Stroheim.

Stroheim, as a director, has given much to the cinema in an
indirect and obscure manner. Stroheim as an actor is always a
source of interest. Stroheim as a cinematic genius is not to be
countenanced.

Charles Chaplin's greatest asset is his deep understanding of human
nature; an understanding that has not been reached without contact
with the low, depressing, morbid side of life; a contact with under-
classes, the poor and the hungry. Chaplin, like Stroheim, Pudovkin,
Eisenstein and other great directors, bases his sense of reality on his
years of poverty and insignificance. Without the circumstances of
his days of struggle, Chaplin would never have reached the heights
to which he has attained. The financial profits of his pictures have
meant nothing to him, save that they were a proof of the success of
his message to the world, and that they have prevented him recently
from the necessity of working for a firm other than his own. No man
has made Chaplin what he is to-day save Chaplin himself. He
believes in two things: himself and the cinema.

For his own films, Chaplin claims nothing but that they have
amused and lightened the hearts of millions. If he hears that they
are badly shown, with harsh musical accompaniment, he is irritated
because the carelessness of others is destroying his purpose. For
this reason, he welcomes the mechanically synchronised musical
score. There are moralists who say that Chaplin should be happy

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because he gives happiness and joy to others. But Chaplin, I believe,
is an unhappy, disconsolate, and lonely man. He is constantly over-
whelmed and saddened by the immensity of life. As an artist,
Chaplin lives apart from the rest of humanity. What artist, who
ever fulfilled the expression of his thoughts, was every happy?
For to realise them he has had to suffer, to experience bitter loneliness,
and to endure the aching pain of loveliness. He has, too, to live in
unrest. With Chaplin, I suspect, it is all this, for it is to be seen in
his films. An artist such as Chaplin can live only and have interest
alone in the work upon which he is engaged at the moment. This
work demands intense concentration, as indeed does that of any real
film director. When Chaplin is conceiving and producing a film,
it is disastrous for him to have any thoughts but those related to
that film in his mind. That is why the divorce affairs and legal
matters which enveloped him some time ago were so unfortunate.
Despite general criticism to the contrary, however, his genius over-
came these mundane calamities.

Chaplin conceives every gesture, every scene and every sequence
of his films from every possible point of view. He possesses a
tremendous power of visualisation, and a valuable knowledge of the
psychological effect of the visual image. He was one of the first
directors to realise the camera's capability for recording detail and
movement. The language of Chaplin, like that of acrobats and clowns,
is international, for it is visual in gesture and universal in theme.
The idea behind every Chaplin film is easily understood by every
one, according to their powers of receptivity. Chaplin realises that
the camera records personal movement far more closely than the
eyes of a music-hall 'house.' Miming before a camera lens is very
different from gesturing before an audience. The projected image
on the screen enlarges and enhances the smallest of movements.
Like other great directors, Chaplin makes supreme use of camera
emphasis. Little movements mean big things in the Chaplin film,
and, moreover, his invention of detail is amazing. Three memorable
instances occur to the mind. The unforgettable roll dance in The
Gold Rush; the inimitable crooked finger, suggestive of the maggot
in the apple, in The Circus; and the magnificent pantomime scene of
the David and Goliath sermon in The Pilgrim. These three incidents
show with immeasurable force the marvellous sense of filmic detail
possessed by Chaplin. He is a genius in the art of suggestion.

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In any other medium but the film his genius would be negligible.
There is nothing in a Chaplin film which has not been put there for
a purpose and the effect of which has not been calculated. He pre-
conceives the psychological effect on an audience of every small
strip of film. For this reason his work is never littered with lavish
display. It is his faculty for discovering expressive detail, as distinct
from his individual personality, which renders Chaplin the supreme
artist. The Circus alone showed how, by his unique inventive-
ness of mind, he transmuted the traditional methods of fun into real
uproarious humour under the eyes of the traditionalists themselves.
This was in the rehearsal episode - the William Tell act and the
Barber's Shop business. Chaplin has never excelled the brilliance of
this scene.

Chaplin has reduced misfortune, trepidation, disillusion, and
suffering to emotions of laughter. His adventures are against the
hard-hearted, the oppressors and the selfish, for he knows the smug
complacency, the hypocrisy, and the injustice of this world. He is
continually fleeing from the angry arm of the law, which wants him
for some misunderstood or unconscious offence. Blows, insults,
and abuse are heaped upon him, and yet the audience roars at his
discomfort. Deprived of all that he holds dear, companionship,"
food, happiness, Chaplin remains a figure of fun to the masses.
To others, perhaps more sensitive, he is pathetic, for in some way he
is themselves, their lives and their emotions. The Circus was one of
the greatest tragedies in the history of the film and yet it was magni-
ficently funny. With his alert, sensitive, illimitable resourcefulness,
his well-meaning, misunderstood kindliness, Chaplin stands alone in
the cinema. It is the resolution of the man which secures the affec-
tions of the public to him. There is no comparable effect to the
feelings roused by the closing sequence of a Chaplin film; that
final defiant gesture of every picture when, buoyed up with eternal
faith and hope, Chaplin fades into the distance, into, as it were, the
opening of his next film. There is a definite link between all of the
Chaplin comedies. When he is seen afresh, after a lapse of time, he
appears to have just come round the corner from his last film, to
mingle with another crowd of idlers. Although his productions are
now separated by years, there is still that link, a continuity of idea
between one film and the next. Despite this, Chaplin is not a type;
he is not an actor; he is an individual searching for a satisfaction

1 02

THE GOLD RUSH
f/jp tfnest of the Chaplin Films. The tone prospector. 1925

allied artists

amencan

THE GOLD RUSH
the most famous of all Chaplin films. Mack Swain and
Charlie Chaplin. 1925

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which he will never discover. For this reason alone, if dialogue is
introduced into a Chaplin film; if there is the slightest concession to
the public taste created by the producers, by the Warners, the Laskys,
the Zukors, the Foxs; then the Chaplin film as it is known, universally
appreciated and adored, will cease to be.

Each of Chaplin's pictures is a theme woven around one character.
He is naturally aware of his remarkable individuality, for it will have
been noticed that as the years have advanced, he has been gradually
eliminating the caricaturish element from his pictures. With his own
development the characters with which he peoples his stories have
become more reasonable and more real, until, in The Circus, they
were quite natural. It is interesting to compare the supporting cast
in the latter film with that of Shoulder Arms. The flowing false
moustaches, the big noses, the stout stomachs, the ridicule, the
slapstick are gone. Actually, it will be remembered that Chaplin
began as a 'funny man,' evolved through these knockabout comedies
a distinct personality and eventually epitomised not only the down-
trodden under-dog, but the disappointment and discouragement of
the whole world. It is of point, for a moment, to recall Chaplin of
The Kid's Auto Races, The Immigrant, Sunnyside, The Kid, The Gold
Rush, and finally, The Circus, tracing the development of the leading
lady and cast as well as of Chaplin himself.

By way of example, the treatment of Myrna Kennedy in the last-
named film was evidence of Chaplin's interest in feminine personality;
a facet of his character which was largely responsible for the subtlety
of A Woman of Paris.

As is now well-known, Chaplin was originally engaged for film
work by Adam Kessel, who happened to see the young comedian
when he was touring far from his London home, in a pantomime-
revue affair called 'A Night in a London Club.' Kessel signed Chaplin
for a year's work at Los Angeles, beginning in November of 191 3,
the pictures being made under the direction of the inimitable Mack
Sennett. These comedies are usually known as the Keystone period,
that being the name of the producing firm. Their character was
pure slapstick with the customary ingredients - throwing of custard
pies, falling down, hitting of people on the head and being hit back.
In nearly all these early one or two reelers, Chaplin was not the pre-
eminent member of the cast, with the exception of the first, the
already mentioned Kid's Auto Races (191 3), wherein he merely

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became funny by continuous repetition of the same motive. The film
was without story and scenario, and is of interest merely because
it represents Chaplin's first appearance in the sphere which he was
to make so peculiarly his own. Of this period, also, is The Fatal
Mallet, in which Chaplin and Mack Sennett alternately hit one
another on the head in their rivalry to embrace Mabel Normand,
who disconcertedly sat aside until Chaplin struck her in the rear
with the toe of his boot. A year later, Chaplin supported Marie
Dressier, at that time a well-known stage actress, in Tillie's Punctured
Romance, together with Mack Swain, Mabel Normand, and Chester
Conklin. This comedy was made in six reels, a hitherto unprecedented
length, and took fourteen weeks to prepare as compared to the cus-
tomary one week for a single reeler. To this period, also, belonged
The Face on the Bar Room Floor, one of the two attempts at burlesque
by Chaplin, with Edna Purviance and Chester Conklin. From these
crudities, Chaplin continued into the Essanay period and a series of
comedies in the true slapstick manner followed, such as Champion
Charlie, Charlie the Perfect Lady (in which he played without a
moustache, again with Edna Purviance and Chester Conklin), Charlie
at the Bank, Carmen, Shanghaied, Charlie at the Show, etc. Many
of these contained the dream element, being his fond imaginings
whilst dozing over his work, and in them all he was beginning to
assert the individuality of the later pictures. So successful were
these from a financial point of view that, in 191 6, Chaplin signed a
contract with the Mutual Film Corporation, for whom he made
many films, including Easy Street, The Floorwalker, the individual
effort One A.M., The Fireman, The Rink, The Pawnshop, The
Cure, and many others, in all of which he was supported by Edna
Purviance. Later, he made the famous Million Dollar Chaplins for
the First National Company, including Sunnyside, A Dog's Life,
Shoulder Arms, The Kid, A Day's Pleasure, Pay Day, The Idle
Class, and The Pilgrim, the last two of which prepared the way for
the Chaplin of to-day. Though conceived in terms of travesty, they
were all excellent in their construction and their unification of
Chaplin's personality. Not, however, until the United Artists'
productions of The Gold Rush and The Circus, of 1925 and 1927
respectively, was there to be found the true realisation of the artist.
Both these films were superb examples of cinema; their composition
and continuity was flawless; their exposition of the genius of Chaplin

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unrivalled. Recollection of them makes it necessary to re-state
Chaplin's rare faculty of exact timing. Like the Soviets, he is aware,
to the nearness of a frame, of the precise length for which a shot
should be held on the screen. Although his filmic knowledge may
not express itself in the same technique as the Soviet school, never-
theless it is unique in American film production.

Quite apart from his contribution to the cinema as a self-directed
actor, it is of importance to recall Chaplin's single essay in the
serious direction of others. Just in the same way as The Cabinet of
Doctor Caligari, Greed, and Battleship 'Potemkin* are landmarks in
the development of the film, so A Woman of Paris was the founder
of a type of film-movie that has flourished in Hollywood since its
production in 1923. Chaplin wrote the scenario and directed the
picture himself, and, as with the later comedies, it was well-balanced
in tension and actional sequence, the continuity flowing with an
admirable smoothness. He chose a simple, natural theme of a boy's
love for a girl; a misunderstanding; the development of their separate
lives, the girl as an intelligent demi-mondaine , the boy as a tempera-
mental creative artist; their re-meeting and the boy's resultant
suicide at the discovery of his lover's way of living. The actual
story-interest was of little value; it was the thoughts and mental
reactions of the characters that gave rise to the action which were of
interest. But what mattered most was Chaplin's treatment. He not
only introduced the audience to a cultured prostitute and an exquisite
roue in a drawing-room setting of flowers and gilt furniture, but he
dug deep down into motives so that beneath their superficial actions
could be discerned the quick workings of their minds. By subtle
direction he laid bare the reasons of their petty quarrels, their
jealousies and contrary complexes. He attacked both man and woman-
hood in this unforgettable film. He showed an understanding of
the machinery of human mentality that hitherto had been merely
suspected from his own comedies. He was reminiscent, if the com-
parison may be allowed, of the wit and skill of Wilde. The joy of
watching A Woman of Paris unfold its length was only equalled by
that of Bed and Sofa. With both films the spectator experienced an
inward sense of irresistible delight, due, I believe, largely to the
design and balance of the continuity. This is not, of course, to sug-
gest for a moment that Chaplin and Room have any similarity, save
in an understanding of the principles of continuity.

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A Woman of Paris marked the first appearance of Adolphe Menjou
in the suave, cynical, elegant, slightly humorous man-about-town
role which he has so often repeated with inferior direction. The
original part, under the genius of Chaplin, was inimitable in its
fascinating, attractive, inscrutable, gentlemanly behaviour. Only
on two other occasions has the svelte Menjou been so clever - in a
modification of the Chaplin part in Lubitsch 's The Marriage Circle
and Forbidden Paradise. With due respect to the artistry of Lubitsch,
his handling of Menjou lacked the knowledge of human nature
possessed by Chaplin. With an estimable sense of gratitude and
recognition for her long support, Chaplin gave the leading role of
this brilliant satire to Edna Purviance, a gesture that was typical of
the man's character and suggestive of his idealisation of women.
He himself appeared anonymously for a brief moment in the guise
of a French railway porter.

Significant in Chaplin's direction was the use of the close up for
emphasis of detail. He was able on several occasions to suggest
the atmosphere of a scene by the visual image of a single character.
No one will forget the immovable face of the masseuse during the
beauty treatment of Miss Purviance, her mechanical procedure with
her job whilst the girl friends called in to chatter. Chaplin here was
treading on the ground of Eisenstein, but, it will be recalled, was
treading unconsciously. The brilliance of this film is remembered
by its small incidents. The delightful episode of the rope of pearls;
the miniature saxophone (an instance of Chaplin's inventiveness);
the box of chocolates; the pocket handkerchief; a napkin full of holes;
these were the memorable details of this amazing film. Mention is
also to be made of the great scene of the demi-mondaine at the bed
of the dead artist; the breaking to the mother of the news of her son's
suicide; the boy seated alone on his bed, distraught, with a flood of
white light on the bedclothes dazzling out of the blackness of the
room. These are episodes unforgettable for their dramatic treatment.

A Woman of Paris inspired Lubitsch 's The Marriage Circle, and,
following in its wake, a hundred other movies from the hands of the
young men of Hollywood. As is generally the case, the imitations
lacked the sparkle, the wit, and the intelligence of the master film.

Both Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford are to be regarded
with the sincerest admiration, for they are vital forces in the cinema.
In the first place, neither of them is an artist; nor, in the second place,

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can either of them be said to have any idea of the values of acting.
Yet they have both, in their own way, climbed from obscurity to
the heights of universal popularity. Through years of hard work,
they have become stars; but, paradoxically enough, it is not fitting
to call either of them products of the star-system. Neither Douglas
Fairbanks nor his wife have become what they are now by aid of
their respective producing companies. Like Chaplin, they have
made themselves.

It is to the credit of Fairbanks and Mary Pickford that they are
fully conscious of their limitations and capabilities in the expression
afforded by the film. Fairbanks, one feels, realises only too well
that he is not an artist or an actor in the accepted understanding of
the terms. He is, on the contrary (and of this he is fully cognisant),
a pure product of the medium of the cinema in which he seeks self-
expression. But knowing his own limits and those of Hollywood,
he will surround himself with persons who make claim to artistry.
He will bring from France Maurice Leloir, a specialist in historical
costume, to supervise in Hollywood the designs for The Man in the
Iron Mask. He knew well, in this case, that no American designer
had either the knowledge or taste to reconstruct with any faith the
costumes of seventeenth century France. In the same way, Fairbanks
saw the German films Destiny, Waxworks , Sumurun, and Siegfried
and realised their value as examples of fantasy then unknown in
America. He determined to learn from continental intelligence.
The Thief of Bagdad was a poor film, badly designed and conceived
with false artistry, but nevertheless it is impossible not to appreciate
the motive that underlay its production. Fairbanks made a definite
attempt in this film to do something better, to step out of the Holly-
wood groove. He is to be admired for his courage, for there were few
others in California willing to essay the chance. The Thief of Bagdad
was not a financial success; it was not a good production; but its
presence lies to the credit of Fairbanks. Curiously enough it is in
this wish to encourage the 'art' of the cinema that Fairbanks strikes
the wrong note. His most recent films have not had the rough power,
the intensity or the vigour which made his earlier pictures such good
examples of cinema. Of late years there has been too much of the
ulterior motive, too much lavishness and too little Fairbanks. Dis-
regarding the obvious advance in technique, due to mechanical
progress, The Mark of Zorro was a very much better example of the

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filmic properties of Fairbanks than either The Gaucho or The Man
in the Iron Mask.

It may seem ridiculous to claim that Fairbanks, an acrobat who is
unable to put drama into his gestures or emotion into his expressions,
is one of the few outstanding figures in the whole world of the
cinema. Yet, by reason of his rhythm, his graceful motion and
perpetual movement of acting material, Fairbanks is essentially
filmic. He has, it is true, no other talent than his rhythm and his
ever-present sense of pantomime, save perhaps his superior idea of
showmanship. It is certain that he sees in every situation of the past
and of the present a foundation for rhythmical movement. Just as
Chaplin learned to walk a tight-rope for the making of The Circus,
so Fairbanks has learnt to fence, to wield a whip, to throw a lariat.

At first glance, these gestures may be explained by the Fairbanks
enthusiasm, but they are to be attributed to more important reasons
than the sheer love of doing things right. He saw in those accom-
plishments some basis for filmic actions other than mere acrobatics.
He realised that the actions were superbly graceful in their natural
perfection, as indeed are any gestures born out of utility. He delights
equally in the swing of a cloak, the fall of the ostrich feather in his
hat, the mounting of his horse, the hang of his sword, the slender
form of his doublet. One remembers the prologue to that early
film A Modern Musketeer, a small gem that could be shown by itself.
In all his costume pictures, Fairbanks took the utmost pleasure in
the romanticism that the clothes of the period offered to him. In
The Black Pirate, The Three Musketeers, and Robin Hood he made
every possible play with the details of the period. He delighted in
D'Artagnan's duels, in the Earl of Huntingdon's tournament, in the
Spanish Main romanticism of the pirates. The Petruchio of The
Taming of the Shrew, jackboot on head and apple-core in hand, was
a symbol of the romance of Fairbanks. It needed a great man to
carry off that costume with grandeur. I can think of no other
personality in the cinema who could have so displayed the courage
of his convictions. In the same way that Chaplin is the centralised
character of his work, so is Fairbanks the sole raison d'etre of his
pictures. Despite the presence of his wife, he dominated The Taming
of the Shrew. Although none of his films has been nominally directed
by him, he is nevertheless the underlying mind behind every detail,
however paltry. The spirit of Fairbanks is at the base of every factor

1 08

THE AMERICAN FILM

in his productions; behind every movement, the design of the sets,
the choice of the cast, the lay-out of the continuity, the construc-
tion of escapes and situations, the making of the costumes, the tech-
nical perfection of the camerawork, the drama of the lighting.
The mind of the man governs the architecture of the whole.

I have complained that this personality of Fairbanks, this love of
complete supervision, has recently superseded his actual playing.
This 'art' complex has ousted the Fairbanks of youth and energy.
Not for one moment is the control of the man regretted, nor is his
love of detail to be discouraged, but nevertheless, I believe that this
feeling for magnificence has dwarfed the roughness of the original
Fairbanks spirit. The bandit of The Gaucho was tame in comparison
with the cowboy of Heading South. There is no question that in his
last three films the production has been in advance of the actual
screen work of Fairbanks. The individual motion, the defiant
gesture and the swinging stride have been belittled by the splendour
of the environment. There has been a tendency towards top-
heaviness. There has been too much Fairbanks the producer and
too little Fairbanks the acrobat. In the concentration upon his love
of costume, of romantic sets, he has limited the actions of his own
playing. He has failed to justify the heroism of his own existence.
In order to appreciate the full meaning of Fairbanks, it is necessary
to return to his earlier work, where his own movement and grace
ran through every foot of the film. One recalls The Mark of Zorro,
the latter part of Robin Hood, portions of The Three Musketeers, and
particularly The Lamb, The Matromaniac, A Modern Musketeer,
Knickerbocker -Bucker oo , Arizona, and Heading South. It is true that
after The Thief of Bagdad, he made an attempt to return to the real
Fairbanks in Don Q, but the old spirit was absent.

In all the early Fairbanks films his overwhelming personality
dominated the pretensions of a story and the elaboration of spectacle.
The film sufficed in that it was always the exuberance of Fairbanks
that held the audience. The stories were always composed around
the same familiar structure, the inevitable hero, heroine and villain.
They were located in different countries in order to retain the fresh-
ness of atmosphere, through which moved the ever-restless figure
of Fairbanks; the essence of enthusiasm, good spirits, adventure,
disreputableness, chivalry, and courtesy. The one aim used to be
good-heartedness, to be attained by effortless energy. One recalls in

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this respect, the Artcraft series, Reaching For the Moon, He Comes Up
Smiling, Down to Earth, and, later, Mr. Fix It. These moral uplift
films were quite distinct from the adventure themes, the open-air
romanticism of The Lamb, The Man From Painted Post, and Arizona,
which culminated, after the war, in The Mark of Zorro. Briefly, it is
perceived that Fairbanks has come from the moral uplift, Say, Young
Fellow type of film, through the cowboy and the bandit to the
costume romanticism of Robin Hood, and the other personal produc-
tions on a large scale. With the exception of Don Q and parts of
Robin Hood, he has cloaked the full meaning of his vigour under the
mantle of his own desire for magnificence.

It is apparent that the motion peculiar to Fairbanks could not
possibly be conveyed by any other medium but the film. Fairbanks
could not be theatre or literature. All the attributes of the cinema
go to help the movement that envelopes his productions. The
properties of the camera, its device of slow-motion, add grace to
his sweeping curves of action. I find it curious in this respect that
Fairbanks, who is usually said to keep well abreast with current film
production, has not shown more interest in the mobility of the camera.
There was, it is true, a long travelling shot in the opening of The
Taming of the Shrew, and another at the end, but these were purely
atmospheric and not in any way attached to Fairbanks himself.
It is possible, perhaps, to visualise the rhythm of Fairbanks being
followed by the smoothly swinging path of Fritz Arno Wagner's
camera, as one remembers the latter 's work in Jeanne Ney. In such
wise could the Fairbanks motive be most powerfully expressionistic.
I visualise a renascence of the soft-toned ranches of southern
California, Spanish in their design, with great tree shapes looming
against a deep panchromatic sky. I visualise Fairbanks once more
the rapid Zorro, caught by the eye-lens of the German cameraman.
But such things are for the imagination.

Nevertheless, I earnestly hope that Fairbanks will make some
return to his old outlook, when his movement stood for all that was
good in the material cinema. The 'art' and 'moral' influence with
which he has tried to imbue his big productions has not been
acceptable, even though set in a background of William Cameron
Menzies's structures. Not too easily can The Thief of Bagdad,
with its chocolate box minarets and ludicrous winged monsters, be
forgotten; the wasted situations of The Gaucho still rankle; and The

> 1 4

S^Mf

a me man

THE BLACK PIRATE
the colour film, with Douglas Fairbanks and Anders Randolph.

1926

allied artsts

amcncai

THE BLACK PIRATE
the colour film with Douglas Fairbanks. A remarkable studio
reconstruction of a desert island. ]926

allied artists

THE AMERICAN FILM

Man in the Iron Mask was a false conception of romanticism, despite
the Leloir designs, with a prologue and epilogue that were among
the worst things ever seen on the screen. The Taming of the Shrew ,
for all its splendid entertainment and its exposition of Fairbanks,
lacked the fire of the earlier films. Alone, The Black Pirate stood out
as a brilliant film. Taken for what it was, a glorious collection of
impossible situations in delightful settings, it was as good as anything
that Fairbanks has ever done. It was rapid in pace, strong in feeling,
and, above all, it was stimulating. With The Mark of Zorro, it is
his best work.

With the coming of the dialogue film, it became a commercial
necessity for both Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford to divert
their talent along fresh channels. Miss Pickford went ahead of her
husband and made Coquette, a film that raised much controversy,
but Fairbanks hung back, contemplating presumably the needs of
this new mechanical invention. For some time there had been sug-
gestions that these two famous persons should appear in the same
film, a dangerous and perhaps disastrous undertaking. But if ever a
suitable occasion arose for their dual picture, then it was in this new
species of cinema. Thus, the only way in which a proper appreciation
of The Taming of the Shrew could be obtained was by regarding it
from a business point of view. It was a superb piece of showmanship.
The choice of a Shakespearean play was astute, for it meant that
the dialogue was safe from criticism. True, people would complain
at the prostitution of the play, but criticism could not be levelled
at the lines themselves. That it was Shakespeare's play mattered not
one jot. It was a commentary upon husbands and wives; it afforded
a chance for spectacle; it was in all ways an admirable vehicle for
the two personalities to be launched in a new manner. As a film, it
was excellent entertainment, but it could not be considered as
a proper cinematic exposition of the talent of either Douglas
Fairbanks or Mary Pickford.

Of Mrs. Douglas Fairbanks I find difficulty in writing, for there
is a consciousness of vagueness, an indefinable emotion as to her
precise degree of accomplishment. In vain she has been described
as the Cinderella of the screen, with an air of innocence that touches
deeply the chords of the strongest heart. She is said to be 'the sweet
young girl that every man desires some day to have for himself.'
This may well be, but Mary Pickford as a business woman, acutely

THE ACTUAL

aware of the selling power of her sweetness, is the more interesting
personality. The breakaway from the stereotyped part has been
difficult for Mary Pickford. She tried, it will be remembered, once
before with Lubitsch's Rosita, but the public apparently preferred
the Little Annie Roonies to the Spanish singing girl. Nevertheless,
it was clear that she could not continue to play the child of fifteen,
and Coquette was a perfectly justified appearance. In The Taming of
the Shrew she was swept off her feet by the tempestuosity of her
husband, which was after all precisely what the story demanded.
One hankers inevitably after the Pickford of Human Sparrows and
Daddy Long Legs, but the commands of time are to be obeyed.
The future of Miss Pickford will be troublesome.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Douglas Fairbanks are extremely serious about
this film business. They realise their severe responsibility. They
are both of extreme importance to the cinema. With Chaplin,
Stroheim, and, to a lesser extent, Griffith, they are the outstanding
figures in the American cinema. It would be wise not to under-
estimate the value of their work. They have separately and jointly
given much that is good to the film. One feels also that they both
have much left to give in the future, but it is dubious whether this
will be by way of the dialogue film. Rather they will achieve even
greater significance, perhaps, by a careful research of their past
work and a study of the methods of the continental directors.

The importation of European talent into the studios of Hollywood
has been briefly remarked upon, and it is important to observe the
developments of these foreigners in their new surroundings and
their indirect influence on the American film. The coming of Ernst
Lubitsch into the fold of Hollywood directors marked a definite era
in the standard of the movie, and his artistry, together with that of
his confreres, left a distinctive Germanic strain in the younger
American school. It is to be remembered that despite apparent
faults, the love of lavish display and the concession to salacious
appeal, the American movies were at that time (1920 to 1923) at
least popular throughout the world. They were being produced,
moreover, with a high degree of technical accomplishment, and were
distinguished for their hard, metallic nature. Germany, on the other
hand, had developed a type of film utterly different to the movie,
a heavy, slow-moving, darkly lit, studio film, bordering on the one

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side the psychological, and on the other the fantastic. It has been
seen that the Americans, instead of regarding this European child
as a rival, took it as an ally, and the majority of the Germans, only
too precariously placed in their own fluctuating industry, were not
slow to accept the proffered contracts from Hollywood. The result
of this fusion has been some extraordinary films, notable for their
mixed tendencies.

In Europe, Lubitsch had directed several films, most notable being
Dubarry, Sumurun, and The Flame, with Pola Negri, and Anne
Boleyn with Emil Jannings, when he followed Miss Negri across to
California. He was an extremely efficient director with a leaning
towards spectacle, a subtle sense of wit peculiar to himself and a
definite feeling for the dramatic in the manner of Reinhardt tradition.
Lubitsch in America developed into a curious unknown quantity,
who combined flashes of dexterous artistry, imbued with cunning,
with much rather dull and boyish sentimentality. He started his
American period in a bad vein, being given Mary Pickford and
Raoul Walsh to direct in a Spanish film, Rosita, in which his Germanic
mind was in opposition to the star value of Miss Pickford. He had
no idea of Hollywood production methods and became confused
in his outlook. Save for a few scenes of pictorial beauty, the film
was best forgotten. His next picture, however, was much more the
true Lubitsch, for following in the path of Chaplin's A Woman of
Paris, with a hint of the James Cruze domestic comedies, he made
The Marriage Circle, a witty, superficial, amusing, intimate com-
mentary on modern life in Vienna and Paris, as Hollywood
knew them. Lubitsch contrived to continue where Chaplin had left
off, leaving out the cynicism and inner meaning and concentrating
on the lightness of the framework. With this frippery, Lubitsch set
off all the young men in Hollywood in the same vein, making himself
from time to time several other comedies of a similar nature, such
as Three Women, Kiss Me Again, Lady Windermere's Fan (from the
Wilde play) and So This Is Paris, all delightful, effervescent movies
of a good type. In between these sweetmeats came Lubitsch 's one
really brilliant film, a satire on Hollywood so subtle and so crafty
that to this day many Americans cannot perceive wherein lay its
sting. In the first place, Forbidden Paradise was conceived by
Famous-Players-Lasky as a rollicking, Ruritanian melodrama, with
good opportunities for spectacle and a reliable box-office appeal.

H 113

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Ernst Lubitsch, however, for once forgetting that he was being clever
on an American salary, treated this farce, in a moment of inspiration,
in such a manner that it satirised with a nicety of wit the entire
American movie system. The scenario was adapted by that admirable
scenarist, Hans Kraly, from a play called 'The Czarina,' which dealt
with the amorous intrigues of Catherine of Russia, but Lubitsch
brought the thing up-to-date, putting it in a Ruritanian setting.
The amorous moods of the queen, the fiery revolutionary disturbances
suppressed by handy cheques, the delightful ins-and-outs of the
court intrigues, were handled by Lubitsch with a perfection of
satire. The continuity was pleasingly smooth and he employed
deft touches in the use of the particular to reinforce the general
that have never since appeared in his work. The Lubitsch of The
Student Prince was a dull dog when compared with the witticisms of
Forbidden Paradise. He chose for his players, Pola Negri, whose
talents he knew well and whose playing of the impassioned queen,
exquisitely regal when in the presence of the court and sexually
alluring when alone with her favourite lieutenant, has never been
surpassed in its kind; Adolphe Menjou, of Chaplin's schooling,
magnificently subtle - his wide-hearted acceptance of the decorations
that emblazoned the breast of the young lieutenant and the French
ambassador will not be forgotten; Rod la Rocque, the essence of
dashing lieutenants, innocent, good looking and slender; and Pauline
Starke, angelic as the virginal lady-in-waiting.

He had built the vastest of palaces in which to house his regally
passionate queen, with shining floors, massive columns, and great
sweeps of drapery that seemed to hang from heaven. He had the
roundest of full moons; the most luscious of roses; the blackest of
velvet for the Negri's imperial dresses, with trains that swished
across the mirrored floors; and an exquisite chorus of uniformed
officers and bearded revolutionaries. Beyond being a commentary
on the frailty of women (in particular of queens), on sly chancellors
and gallant officers, Forbidden Paradise was a most satisfying exposure
of the false glamour in which Hollywood lived.

Of Lubitsch 's other and more recent Americo-German work,
there should be mentioned that extremely popular and successful
film The Student Prince, and The Patriot, a return to the historical
spectacle, in co-operation with his early actor Jannings. The first-
named picture was calculated by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer to be a

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really great film, lavish in spectacle, superb and smooth in direction,
splendidly photographed, with Norma Shearer, Ramon Novarro, and
Jean Hersholt as the players. The Student Prince was typical of the
Americanisation of Lubitsch. It was a meaningless, superficial
exposition of sexual sentimentality, rendered acceptable to the public
by a perfection of technical accomplishment that has rarely been
equalled. (For this reason it was voted by the general public as 'the
film of the year.') It was an example of the keeping up of appearances.
In reality, tearing aside the veil of glamour, Lubitsch 's famous
subtlety had degenerated into a lot of men all taking ofT their hats
at the same moment and the interplay of opening and shutting doors.
Of old Heidelburg, where the action was set, the film told not a
thing, for the atmosphere was that of the second-class property
rooms. As an instance of sheer undiluted picture-sense, The Student
Prince was to be appreciated. As a film, in the development of
Lubitsch 's career, it was worthless.

Like The Student Prince, Lubitsch 's The Patriot was hailed as the
world's greatest film, with the world's greatest actor, made by the
world's greatest director, with a cast of twenty thousand. As a
matter of fact it was none of these things, which were due to Para-
mount's highly imaginative publicity department. It was a ridiculous
travesty of Russian history; a mauled version of Alfred Neumann's
play; an absurd, melodramatic, bestial display of bad taste. It is,
of course, well-known that Jannings is a great actor in the theatrical
manner, with much gesturing, mouthing, gibbering, and eye-rolling
as his assets. That much is apparent from his early historical films,
Danton, Anne Boleyn, and later, from Tar tuff e and The Last Laugh.
But the Paramount-Lubitsch-Jannings merger was nothing if not
ludicrous. Whereas, in his earlier German work, Jannings put
sincerity, force and meaning into his gestures, in his Hollywood
period there was nothing but a bare framework. Jannings as the
mad Paul the First succeeded in being ridiculous, unnecessarily
lascivious, and, to an admirer of his better work, merely pitiful.
It was sad to see good material put to such prostitution. Lewis
Stone, on the other hand, always a quiet, restrained actor, played the
difficult part of the treacherous Count Pahlen with dignity, reserve,
and self-control, due not to Lubitsch or Paramount, but to his own
personality. In short, The Patriot, despite its natural leanings
towards cinema, was a mishandled, highly theatrical, over-acted,

THE ACTUAL

rather pathetic instance of Americo- German tendencies. It lacked
not only unity, but sincerity, purpose, style, and power. Some
persons, judging by the reception accorded the picture (it was
showing in London during the fortnight when the Evening Standard
was running a public competition for postcard film criticism), mistook
the capering of Jannings for these qualities. It was yet another
example of the subordination of talent, possibly artistry, perhaps
genius, to the demands of the box-office mind.

Lubitsch is a director of interest, if only because he is always an
unknown quantity. He makes such films as The Flame and Sumurun
in Germany, Forbidden Paradise and The Marriage Circle in America,
and completes the enigma by The Student Prince and The Patriot.
For appreciation of his cinematic knowledge, it is necessary to untie
the Hollywood wrappings and peer inside to discover the intelligence
he once possessed.

The undoing of Fred Murnau has been much the same as that of
Ernst Lubitsch, save that the process has been quicker and is manifest
in a lesser number of films. Murnau, of Germany, is associated with
The Last Laugh, Tar tuff e, Dracula, and Faust, films of value which
showed their director to have a well-defined knowledge of the re-
sources of the cinema, summarised in particular in the much discussed
Last Laugh. Murnau went to Hollywood at the invitation of the Fox
Film Company, who gave him carte blanche for his productions in
their name. Mr. Fox was all out to buy 'art' for his second-rate
productions. With Murnau went the celebrated Karl Mayer, the
scenarist of The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari, Tartuffe, and many
other German films, and together they devised the manuscript for
Sunrise, based on Suderman's 'Trip to Tilsit.' Murnau, taking the
bull by the horns, took full advantage of Mr. Fox's generous offer.
He built a city. He employed Charles Roscher, so that he could use
his name, as a cameraman, and chose (or was it Mr. Fox's doing?)
Janet Gaynor and George O'Brien as his players. Herr Murnau was
all set to make Mr. Fox a big picture. Brer Rabbit!

I am at a loss to describe the groanings and rumblings of the
machinery as the 'rhythm' of Sunrise unfolded. Firstly, it must be
understood that Sunrise was 'a new conception of the function of
the motion picture; a new outlook on the depth of human nature.'
Secondly, 'When you see Sunrise, you will see what can be done with
new, untried material, when controlled by the hands of an artist.'

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Thirdly, 'Sunrise has a new technique.' Although these announce-
ments, issued with the severest gravity, were probably due to Mr.
Fox's new 'art' film publicity department, they are significant of the
price that Murnau and Mayer had to pay for their Hollywood
engagement. The theme of Sunrise was meant for intelligent people;
it was very successful with housemaids and their boy friends. The
picture itself was well done. The city looked really well. The tech-
nique was clever. Mr. Fox was perfectly sincere when he said that
the picture was a masterpiece. It was. A masterpiece of bluff, insin-
cerity, unsubstantial nonsense. To those who had read the lesson
in the American work of Lubitsch, Sunrise was not a disappoint-
ment. A little foresight showed that Hollywood would dismember
Murnau, just as she had Lubitsch, Seastrom, Buchowetzski. Sunrise
turned out to be exactly what had been expected. At the same
time, many London film critics bleated restlessly over the
'rhythm' of the great picture. . . .

Murnau 's second picture for Fox was The Four Devils, a 'story of
the circus ring,' which was (save for some moving camerawork) an
uninteresting film. Sunrise was at least meritorious if only in a small
way; but this second film, with its puling sentiment, its little boys
and girls, its wicked men and sensual vamps, was Mr. Fox in his
post-war days of white-haired mothers carrying baskets over the hill.
The German director has made another film for Mr. Fox, but as yet
it is in the future. In the meantime, I wait to hear of Herr Murnau 's
return to Berlin, where perhaps it will be possible for him to pick
up the threads of cinema where he laid them down after The Last
Laugh and Faust.

Erich Pommer, whilst not strictly a film director, is nevertheless
a supervisor, and the productions which have resulted from his
control are all of considerable note. He left Germany after the making
of Vaudeville, which was directed by E. A. Dupont, and supervised
by Pommer. Exactly what the supervision of Erich Pommer amounts
to is hard to ascertain with any degree of certainty, but the fact
remains that there are directors, who, whilst working under him
make excellent pictures, but are disappointing when alone. Dupont
is a case in point. Vaudeville, from all standards, was a brilliant
film and, on the strength of it, Dupont went to Hollywood to the
Universal Company. There he made an unmentionable picture,
Love Me and the World Is Mine, which is not remarked upon by any

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film man for fear of incurring the anger of Herr Dupont. His later
work in England, Moulin Rouge, Piccadilly, and Atlantic, although
of more merit than the Hollywood picture, still lacks the vitality and
strength of the film supervised by Pommer. When Pommer reached
Hollywood, on the other hand, he sat alone and demanded this and
that; supervised Mauritz Stiller making Hotel Imperial, and after-
wards Barbed Wire; and returned to Berlin to control Hans Schwartz
on Nina Petrovna and The Hungarian Rhapsody, and Joe May on
Asphalt and Homecoming. It is evident, from a consideration of the
above-mentioned films, that Herr Pommer 's supervision accounts for
a great deal.

Hotel Imperial, although not a great film, was nevertheless one
of the best productions that have come from America. The story
was of an Austro-Russian war type, set in a captured town on the
Galician front in 191 5, and Pola Negri and James Hall played spy
parts with distinction. It was opened with skill with the entrance
of the Austrian officer into the captured town, an opening of deserted
streets in the cold dreariness of dawn. Miss Negri was a servant girl
in the hotel where the officer took refuge, and her playing in this
first sequence was her best individual work in America. The whole
of the first reel was superbly done, the empty streets, the deserted
hotel, the girl about to begin her day's work, her hiding of the officer,
his raving delirium. This was Pommer using his greatest skill.
The remainder of the picture, especially the orgy scenes with George
Siegmann as a drunken Russian general, were in the true Hollywood
debauchery style which they manage to do so well.

Technically, the production was of interest, for it was one of the
first to be made on the composite set method. An eye-witness de-
scription of the sets is given by Mr. L'Estrange Fawcett, and deserves
repetition.1 'Some may remember the use made of travelling camera
in Hotel Imperial. The stage accommodating the hotel was one of the
largest in existence, and eight rooms were built complete in every
detail, four leading off each side of the lobby, which ran the length
of the building. . . . Suspended above the set were rails along which
the camera, mounted on a little carriage, moved at the director's
will. Scenes (shots) could be taken of each room from above from
every point of view. . . . There were two objects - first, to enable
Erich Pommer to experiment with angle photography, representing

1 Vide, Films: Facts and Forecasts, by L'Estrange Fawcett (Bles. 1927);

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impressions of scenes taken from the point of view of a character
watching the others. . . . Secondly, the story could be filmed in proper
sequence. In Hotel Imperial, an attempt was made to build up a
cumulative dramatic effect by following the characters swiftly from
one room to another, by means of several cameras and rolling shots/
Pommer succeeded in giving to the film an air of intimacy that is
lacking in most pictures. On this method, many films are made in
German studios to-day, and the same idea was adopted by Edmund
Goulding when making the dialogue version of The Trespasser, no
fewer than fifteen cameras being used to pick Miss Swanson up at
every different angle. To return to Hotel Imperial, it was to be
ranked along with Forbidden Paradise as one of the best productions
from the Paramount Company. Not only was it the come-back of
Miss Negri, but it was the triumph of a star in a role that asked no
sympathy.

Mauritz Stiller continued, without the controlling hand of Erich
Pommer, and made at a later date that most extraordinary of all
movies, The Street of Sin. This was a picture from a scenario by
von Sternberg, with Emil Jannings, Olga Baclanova, and Fay Wray.
No expense was spared on its making. The script was well balanced;
the continuity good; the setting natural. Yet, for some obscure
reason, it was one of the worst films ever done. Most curiously, it
defied analysis. It was made just previous to Stiller's death in 1929.

Victor Seastrom, a Swedish director who travelled to Hollywood
soon after the war, has a series of uneven films to his name, but,
with the sole exception of The Scarlet Letter, has made little of the
material given to him by his producers. Confessions of a Queen,
Name the Man, and The Tower of Lies were dull pictures, and not
until the woodland sequence of He Who Gets Slapped did any of
the old Seastrom poetry come to the surface. This sequence of the
two lovers in the sunlight, away from the circus ring in which most
of the story took place, was the only redeeming incident in an other-
wise uninteresting heartbreak affair of Lon Chaney. Seastrom's
The Scarlet Letter, from the Nathaniel Hawthorne story, was of
greater power but was unfortunately rendered farcical by the false
morality of the producers. It was remarkable, however, for the play-
ing of Lilian Gish as Hester Prynne, a very different woman to the
Griffith young lady, and for the appearance of Lars Hanson, at that
time (1926) just come from Sweden. The theme of The Scarlet

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•

Letter was gloomy, but Seastrom raised its gloom to moments of
great beauty. It was a film made in one key, for even the humorous
relief of the stocks and the ducking-stool were fitted into the pattern
of sorrow. Seastrom 's sweeping sense of landscape, so evident in
his early Swedish pictures, was expanded and gave an enchanting
atmosphere to the first love scenes between Miss Gish and Lars
Hanson. A later picture by the same director, The Wind, was of less
interest, but there was again evidence of his lyricism. This feeling
for depth and width was common to all the Swedish directors in
their pre-American work. It was found in Stiller's Arne's Treasure,
The Atonement of Gosta Berling, in Brunius's Charles XII, in Sea-
strom's Thy Soul Shalt Bear Witness, in Love's Crucible, and in the
work of Benjamin Christiansen. With Seastrom it manifests itself
in his shots of landscape, his feeling for the presence of the elements,
his love of wind, sky, and flowers. Perhaps it is in accord with the
dusty desert of the American westerns and the chimneys and smoke
of the Soviet workers' films. Perhaps it is due to the natural Swedish
tendencies towards the beauty of nature and the rhythm of poetry.
Seastrom took this reality of nature with him to the mechanised
studios of Hollywood, and it blossomed even in that hot-house
atmosphere. It was to be felt in The Tower of Lies, in The Wind,
in The Scarlet Letter, and in the short gem-like scene in He Who
Gets Slapped. Nearly all the themes of Seastrom are connected with
the struggle of human beings against the common mass of humanity.
He is concerned with individual persons and their relationship to
their environment. There was Hester Prynne set against the narrow-
mindedness of the conventional people in The Scarlet Letter, and
Miss Gish striving in The Wind. In the latter, the wind itself was
an outer emphasis of the inner struggle; a sort of Griffith-like use
of the elements. So also did the flowers and tree roots help the lovers
in The Scarlet Letter. But Seastrom has ceased to develop. He re-
mains stationary in his outlook, thinking in terms of his early
Swedish imagery. He has recently made little use of the progress
of the cinema itself. The Divine Woman, although it had the Greta
Garbo of The Atonement of Gosta Berling, had none of the lyricism,
the poetic imagery of the earlier film. It is true, however, that he
rendered the Scandinavian less of a star and more of a woman than
in any other of her American films. The lyricism of Seastrom, of
the Swedish film itself, with its snow, its wind, its trees and flowers,

1 20

THE AMERICAN FILM

its depth and width of landscape, cannot remain unblemished in
the American factory.

Of other continental directors who have had their fling in Hollywood,
Dimitri Buchowetzski has not been successful. In Germany he
made several dramas of the historical costume type, with plenty of
blood and thunder, such as Danton, Othello, and Peter the Great,
with Emil Jannings. In America his pictures have been of little
value, and number among them Men and The Crown of Lies, with
Pola Negri; The Midnight Sun; The Swan; Graustark, with Norma
Talmadge; and Valencia, with Mae Murray. Among others, Ludwig
Berger, who directed the exquisite Cmderella, has made The Sins
of the Fathers, with Jannings; Benjamin Christiansen, The Devil's
Circus and Sorcery; Alexander Korda, a Hungarian, A Modern
Dubarry and The Private Life of Helen of Troy; Lothar Mendes
has strung together The Four Feathers; and Michael Courtice,
having made the semi-spectacle picture The Moon of Israel in Europe,
went to Hollywood and joined Warners to direct Noah's Ark.

Quite recently, Jacques Feyder, the Belgian, who in Europe is
associated with the brilliant realisation of Zola's Therese Raquin and
the political satire Les Nouveaux Messieurs, made his first picture for
Metro- Goldwyn-Mayer, The Kiss, in which he skilfully combined
intelligent direction with the necessary percentage of picture-sense.
His treatment of Greta Garbo was more subtle than that usually
accorded to this actress by American directors, but it did not bear
comparison in texture with his handling of Gina Manes in the Zola
picture. But there was a freshness about The Kiss that raised it
above the level of the ordinary movie and a use of camera angle
which was reminiscent of Feyder's earlier work. One queried,
however, why the film should have been set in France, when the
atmosphere and types were so obviously American? Why does a
firm take the trouble to transport a French director to Hollywood
and then give him a picture with a French locale to direct? It seems
odd.

THE AMERICAN FILM (concluded)

1 here are certain American directors of lesser standing than Griffith,
Erich von Stroheim, and Chaplin whose work, if not altogether
brilliant from a filmic point of view, is at least of more intelligence
than that of the common run of movie directors. One assumes, also,
from certain flashes of cinematic knowledge in their films, that these
directors would in all probability make better use of their intelligence
if they were not entangled in the net work of studio system, and
dominated by the drastic demands of the production committees
for whom they work. The pictures of King Vidor, Josef von Stern-
berg, Rex Ingram, James Cruze, and Clarence Brown are, generally
speaking, of more than passing interest. In their work there is an
idea, an experiment, a sense of vision, a use of the camera, a striving
after something that is cinema, which is worth detailed analysis for
its aesthetic value. But we must remember that these men are
employees of large manufacturing firms and have perforce to incor-
porate in their films at least two-thirds of that picture-sense quality
so dear to producers. In the remaining third, there may be found
some indication of the director's real opinion of the film subject.

King Vidor is probably the outstanding director of the young
American school and he has already shown remarkable versatility in
the satirical, the mock-epic and the psychological film. His best
known and most commercially successful work was the notorious
Big Parade, although preferable from a filmic point of view were
The Crowd, The Politic Flapper, and Hallelujah! . The Crowd has been
hailed in intelligent film circles as a great film. In Paris, it is
considered the greatest if not the most successful film to have come
from Hollywood, although recently this belief has been rather
forgotten under the novelty of White Shadows. Nevertheless, what-
ever lavish praise may be accorded The Crowd, it was not by any
means the film that it was said to be. It failed for several significant

THE AMERICAN FILM

reasons. Primarily, it was a literal and not a cinematic expression
of a theme, although the original conception was cinematic. Vidor's
theme was vast in its breadth; a man's ineffectual struggle against
the hostile indifference of the masses; a young man's hopeless striving
against the convention, the unsympathy and the brute selfishness
of the everyday people who surrounded him. The film should have
been the spirit and the humanity of the crowd. It was called The
Crowd. Instead, it concentrated attention on the human interest of a
single individual. As the film stood, it should in all senses of self-
justification have been called The Man. The relation between the
man and the crowd was ill-defined and slurred over. There was,
afterwards, no clear-mindedness as to either the man or the crowd.
At times there was a tendency to become interested in the individuals;
the crowd became meaningless and uninteresting. All through the
film there was a feeling of detail and no sense of the breadth of the
conception. It was easily possible to pay attention to the small
actions of James Murray and Eleanor Boardman, and hence, to lose
contact with the theme because of their mannerisms. The Crowd
was not a unity. The interests were divided and subdivided instead
of being bound together into a forceful, filmic whole, such as The
Last Laugh. I have suggested that The Crowd was filmic in its original
conception and literary in its treatment. It demanded the complete
elimination of all sub-titles. It should have been treated from the
same angle as Murnau's film, but from a mass and not an individual
outlook. Not one of the ironical titles infused into the film were of
cinematic value. The manuscript should have been conceived and
written by King Vidor and not by a scenarist. Added to this, the
opening sequence of the man's boyhood and the death of his father
were painfully unnecessary; the film should have opened on a broad
scale with architecture. The psychology of the separate characters
became twisted and inconsistent as the theme developed. The ending,
for which presumably Vidor was not responsible, was beneath con-
tempt. The treatment when considered apart from the theme
(which is absurd) was good. It was Vidor's misfortune and lack of
direction that the players were the filrrl and not the theme. The
Crowd was a sincere attempt on the part of Vidor to do something
well; it was a failure because of his misconception of the theme and
the regrettable picture-sense of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.

The question raised by The Big Parade was a big one, and it

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successfully occupied the British Press whilst Metro- Goldwyn's
picture was playing to record audiences at the London Tivoli.
Somehow or other, during the premier presentation of this film, a
rumour arose that it was a big American publicity stunt. It was
propaganda to the effect that it showed how America won the war.
Whether this was so or not is no concern of these pages, but in any
case the propaganda (if any) can hardly have been effective with any
intelligent Briton. Like all war films manufactured in Hollywood,
The Big Parade carried little of the real spirit of war. The film story
had been written by Laurence Stallings, and the picture was given
by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer to King Vidor for direction. Apparently
Vidor was not attracted to the idea, regarding it in the first place as
'just another war story.' The picture was made and it seemed as if
it would be an ordinary programme feature, until after it had been
run through for a pre-view, Irvin Thalberg, of the Metro-Goldwyn-
Mayer production heads, suddenly decided that it could be made
into a great, stupendous, super film. It would be America's patriotic
part in the Great War. It would put America on the map of Europe.
Vidor, fired with this new impulse, remade the complete film from
start to finish from a new angle. The result was overwhelmingly
successful. Despite the detail discrepancies and the weakness of the
ending, there is no doubt that The Big Parade was a most remarkable
picture. Its power lay in the opening sequences, where an immense
feeling that hundreds of thousands of people were being howled into
war, none of them knowing its meaning, the women regarding it as
a thing of romance, the young men as a chance of gallant heroism,
was dramatically spread across to the spectator. King Vidor handled
these scenes with a nobility not usually associated with the American
cinema. But perhaps the most memorable part of the film was the
departure of the men from their billets in the French village for the
front line. The long line of rattling lorries, the convoy of aeroplanes
overhead, the cobblestones giving way to the straggling forest, this
was magnificently handled. I shall not attempt to decide whether
The Big Parade epitomised war as it really was or war as Hollywood
and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer imagined it to be. It is like comparing
the naturalness of 'Journey's End' or 'The Case of Sergeant Grischa'
with the many novelettes written about brave officers and nasty
Germans. From a purely personal point of view, however, the short
sequence in Pudovkin's The End of St. Petersburg told far more

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vividly of the reality of the front than all the eleven thousand feet of
The Big Parade. The latter film, nevertheless, succeeded in showing
with sincerity the folly of the thing, if only from an American stand-
point.

Vidor was seen in a more happy, less problematical vein of
mind in that brilliantly clever satire, The Politic Flapper, and later
in another picture of the same type, Show People. In the former
particularly, Marion Davies was given the opportunity to show her
versatility and her vivacity, and for pure enjoyment both these slight
pictures were high among the American output of recent years. Of
Vidor 's earlier efforts it is unnecessary to write at length, for they
were merely the training ground for his later proficiency. Among
his work there may be mentioned The Sky Pilot (1921); Peg 0' My
Heart (1922); His Hour (1924); The Wife of the Centaur (1925);
La Boheme (1926); Bardelys the Magnificent and Proud Flesh. He has
recently completed a dialogue and sound production, Hallelujah!
one of the many negro pictures to come from America. It was a
film of great lyrical beauty, filled with the spiritual feeling of the
South, and may be ranked, with parts of The Crowd, as being Vidor's
best work. Although from a cinematic point of view the film was too
divided into separate sequences with little conjoining continuity,
there was no question that it carried with it a sincerity of faith
emblematical of the coloured peoples. Most of the picture was taken
on the Southern cotton plantations near Memphis, and all the
minor players were chosen from the cotton workers.

Josef von Sternberg rose rapidly to directorship by the making
of The Salvation Hunters, a dreary film which Hollywood thought
exceptionally intelligent. Sternberg succeeded in making this picture
independently of the big producing concerns, no mean feat, and
credit must be given on that account to his enterprise and courage.
Chaplin is declared to have greeted The Salvation Hunters as a great
film, a masterpiece of Human Realism; listened awhile at the following
chorus of praise instigated by his grave announcement; and then
given out that he was only pulling their legs. Nevertheless, whether
this was true or not, the picture was bought by Allied Artists. Its
drab monotony of dock-life, its symbolic dredger, its squalid door-
ways, and its sudden, ineffectual ending are going down to posterity as
a masterpiece. It is rather like the dustbins and garbage of Alberto
Cavalcanti. In fact, it seems that if one can make a picture so dreary,

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so dull, and so depressing that it defeats criticism, then one will be
hailed as a genius. The pseudo-success of The Salvation Hunters
left an uncomfortable mark on the work of Sternberg. His apparent
desire to appear clever often hinders him from becoming so. Stern-
berg gives the unfortunate effect of always trying to be great. His
films are always self-conscious. They are Sternberg films.

Paramount-Famous-Players secured the services of this little man,
and for them he wrote some scenarios ( The Street of Sin) and made
some pictures. Amongst his clever qualities, Sternberg has acquired
that necessary faculty of picture-sense. Nearly all his pictures for
Paramount have been successful. The Last Command, The Docks of
New York, Thunderbolt, and Paying the Penalty were good films,
but not one of them conveyed the filmic intelligence with which he
is usually credited. Paying the Penalty was one of the best of the
underworld pictures so popular a short time ago, before the same idea
was adapted to the dialogue and sound film. It held the spectator
by a slow development, gradually increasing to a tremendous climactic
thrill, a sort of Sidney Street encounter with the police. Sternberg
showed here a feeling for pictorial values, a definite interest in filmic
suspense, but the continuity, especially the flash back sequence, was
weak. The Last Command was probably the best of the Sternberg-
Paramount pictures, but, as has been written, was virtually a reissue
of the earlier Jannings films of the late German period. This film
may be taken as another instance of the committee-made picture of
the pre-dialogue era. It was a cleverly blended mixture of |Jie
elements of Hollywood picture-sense with a Germanic use of the
camera. The story was dramatic and powerful, necessitating the use
of crowds and the Paramount property rooms. It had a cast of inter-
national appeal; Jannings (German), Evelyn Brent (British) and
William Powell (American). It was handled in a direct, polished
manner, with a tragic ending, for Jannings must be tragic. The
camera was used with a pleasant freedom, notably in the opening
scenes in the studios. The setting had a double interest, for at that
time 'Imperialist Russia' (a la Hollywood) was in the vogue and the
general public always likes to see the inside of film studios. The
whole picture was turned out with the efficiency of a fifty-shilling
tailor, an efficiency that the astute film observer has come to associate
with the Paramount studios.

Sternberg has some sense of the dramatic and he never fails to

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amencan

metro-goldwyn

GREED
by Erich von Stroheim, probably the first ' depression ' film.
Zazu Pitts in her remarkable playing of McTeague's wife.

1923

amencar.

paramount

THE DOCKS OF NEW YORK
by Josef von Sternberg, with Olga Baclanova and George
Bancroft. An instance of the 'dirt and depression' school.

1928

THE AMERICAN FILM
exploit this in a heavy way. He used Bancroft in the same way as
Tannings, but with considerably more success. Perhaps he was not
quite so awed as by the great man. The Docks of New York was a
distinguished film, although superficial in treatment and pseudo-
filmic in character. Taking shots through hanging iron chains did
not establish the atmosphere of a place, although it may have created
pretty pictorial compositions. Sternberg seems lodged m this gully
of pictorial values. He has no control over his dramatic feelings
(The Street of Sin) and very little idea of the filmic psychology of
any scene that he shoots {The Docks of New York). He has, however,
some feeling for the use of women. His contrast of Betty Compson
and Olga Baclanova in the latter film was good. Despite all his
faults, Sternberg will perhaps one day make a really interesting film,
if that is, he forgets that it is a Sternberg picture.

'Rex Ingram as a film director is doubtful. Ingram as an artist is
negligible. His work displays a certain feeling for theatrical cinema
a leaning towards the drama of individuals, and a rather low-minded
flair for American showmanship. Just as Sternberg is too much the
director of the Sternberg picture, Ingram saturates his films with
'artistic' nonsense. Occasionally, in isolated sequences, Ingram
forgets his artistry and quite by chance directs a really moving scene.
Of such a nature were the shooting of Alice Terry as the spy and the
drawing of the submarine commander's character in Mare Nostrum.
These two scenes were handled with a sympathy, a value of suspense
remote from the Ingramish direction of The Three Passions and lhe
Garden of Allah. The picture with which Ingram secured his name
and a long term contract with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer was,- of course,
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. From a technical point of view,
in consideration of its date (1921), The Four Horsemen was extremely
accomplished. Ingram set out in this epic picture to make Valentino
a hero, and the Germans the vilest brutes, who killed for the sheer
love of killing. He spared no effort in doing this, and successfully
painted black white and white black, with no neutral tones to break
the jar. Ingram showed the popular conception of war. The Four
Horsemen arrived at a most opportune moment. It was exactly what
the public wanted to see about the war. It was precisely what the
Press had been writing about with so much enthusiasm. Ingram
was an opportunist; so also were Metro-Goldwyn; the result was
unprecedented in The Four Horsemen. Ingram did everything to

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make that picture popular. He raked up spiritual references from
the Bible, and made his horsemen flit about in an eerie manner in
the sky. He caused Valentino to slink around with a cigarette
dangling from his lips, and established him as an international hero
by letting him dance a tango with his natural grace. Above all, by
doing these things with an eye to public appreciation, he estab-
lished himself as a great director in the opinion of the public, of
Hollywood, and of himself. From that time onwards it was simply
a question of Rex Ingram productions.

Some time after the world-wide reception of The Four Horsemen,
he made The Prisoner of Zenda, and thereby reached the highest
stage of intelligence that he is ever likely to achieve. He used Lewis
Stone, Alice Terry, and Ramon Novarro for his acting material,
and he creditably dragged the utmost out of them. The theme was
sentimental, as all Ruritanian themes are, but sweetly so, with scope
for gentle handling. To-day, perhaps, when held against modern
achievements, The Prisoner of Zenda seems dull and old-fashioned.
It was far from being so when first shown in this country. It is
memorable now chiefly for the clever acting of young Ramon Novarro
as the dashing Rupert. Novarro, before his days of stardom, was
refreshing and stimulating. His playing in Zenda, against the
reserved dignity of Lewis Stone, was beyond reproach. Rex Ingram's
direction was capable, in a straightforward manner. His next out-
standing success was an adaptation of Sabatini's costume romance,
Scaramouche, and this also he handled with competency. He
remembered Griffith's Orphans of the Storm and outdid the French
Revolution in its own roguishness. This time he made Lewis Stone
the villain, Novarro the smiling hero, and his wife again the heroine.
As a costume melodrama, of no weight or pretensions to being any-
thing else but pleasant spectacle, Scaramouche was with the best of
its kind. It was lavish, crowded, brutal, charming, and amusing all
at the same moment. To-day, it is almost forgotten. Of Ingram's
other American productions, none was outstanding, but for reference
may be mentioned Hearts Are Trumps (1921); Trifling Women (1922);
Where the Pavement Ends (1923) and The Arab, after which he
transported himself and his wife across to the shores of the Medi-
terranean. Mare Nostrum, a melodrama of espionage, with dastardly
Germans and some good submarine shots, was uneven but of better
technique than the Hollywood films. The Magician, with Paul

128

THE AMERICAN FILM

Wegener, was a bad adaptation of Somerset's Maugham's novel, and
is memorable only for an operation scene which was handled in the
best Ingram manner. The Garden of Allah, save for some beautiful
panchromatic photography at the end of the picture, was drearily
done in the true Ingram tradition of a story straightly told, with
flashes of humour in the choice of crowd types. This curious mania
for eccentric types is typical of Ingram. He seems to take delight in
searching out the most ugly of mankind, making them useful in a
close up. One recalls the man with the bomb in The Prisoner of
Zenda\ the revolutionaries in Scaramouche\ the crowd in the bazaar
in The Garden of Allah; the hunchback in The Magician. Later,
The Three Passions was an effortless picture, distinguished only for
Shayle Gardner's character study of a ship-builder. The film as a
whole was one of the worst of Ingram's artistic attempts. Perhaps it
is possible that this director will regain his old skill, but he will have
to jolt himself out of a deep rut. Perhaps he, like Griffith, does not
keep abreast with the current films of the world. Perhaps he, like
so many other directors, has exhausted his knowledge of the film.

Clarence Brown is another American director who has shown
short flashes of cinema in between long stretches of picture-sense.
Some time ago, in 1925, his clever handling of The Goose Woman
and of Louise Dresser aroused some interest. During the first portion
of this film, while Miss Dresser played the drink-sodden prima donna
who had fallen beside the way, Clarence Brown's direction was
remarkable. He made her live in the filthiest squalidity with gin
bottles and geese, and at night she would hunch up her back over
her precious book of press-cuttings, to read over the reports of her
glorious days. So far the film was excellent, handled with sympathy,
but the latter half was quite ridiculous, Miss Dresser, the direction,
and the film going to pieces. Among the many films credited to
Clarence Brown were The Light in the Dark (1922); The Eagle,
with Valentino at his best; Smouldering Fires, with Pauline Frederick,
in 1925; and The Trail of yg8, a film that was meant to be an epic,
but succeeded in being a first-class super film, without interest to
the intelligent-minded. Flesh and the Devil, however, made in 1926,
was a film of more than passing cleverness. It was, it is true, another
example of the committee-produced picture, with John Gilbert,
Lars Hanson and Greta Garbo as the star appeal, but it contained
short sequences that strengthened Clarence Brown's claim as a
1 129

THE ACTUAL

director. The copy shown in this country was maltreated, either by
the censor or by special English editing, but it sufficed to show that
in its original version Flesh and the Devil had some pretensions to be
called a good film. The theme was sheer, undiluted sex, and Brown
used a series of close ups to get this across with considerable effect.
Notable also was his use of angles, different indeed from either the
customary German or American method, and the happiness with
which he settled the characters in their environment.

The work of John Ford has been uneven, but there are to his
credit two good films, The Iron Horse and Three Bad Men, made in
1924 and 1926 respectively. The former purported to tell the story
of the laying of the first railroad across America in the teeth of the
opposition of nature and the Indians. It was the type of film that
America can make well if she sets her mind to it. It ranked on the
same level with the epic quality of The Covered Wagon, and combined
the best elements of the western school with the more sophisticated
direction of the Hollywood feature film. The Iron Horse was vast
in its conception, and John Ford, despite the hindrances of a story-
interest, handled it with a high degree of talent. It was not popular
in this country, where audiences have no enthusiasm for railways
being thrown across trackless wastes, but as a film it was fit to rank
with any in the class of recorded fact. I remember with feeling the
long line of railwaymen's camps on the progressing track; the spirit
and adventure of the pioneers; the clever rendering of the manoeuvres
of the encircling Indians; and above all, the far-stretching landscape
across which the steel track was to run. Ford's other film, Three
Bad Men, was conceived in the same open-air spirit, dealing with
the dramatic episodes of the gold rush in 1877. ^n many remarkable
scenes the incidents of this extraordinary event were brought out
with reality. The dance hall, its oddly assorted patrons, the would-
be-rich settlers, the pastor and his ruined chapel, were pieces in a
pattern that Ford blended together with clever direction. The great
moment of the picture was the astounding stampede, the mad,
on-rushing race of the donkeys, mules, race-horses, and oxen,
jogged forward by their lashing drivers towards the hidden gold.
Through the whole film moved irresistible camaraderie, the likeable
badness of the three disreputable companions, each of whom met their
death by holding the real bad men at bay. The playing of Frank
Campeau, Tom Santschi, and Farrell MacDonald was excellent.

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Henry King, I feel, is one of the most sincere of American
directors, whose work seldom receives the attention it deserves. He
is to be numbered among those directors in Hollywood who, if they
were allowed the chance, would make a film to compare with the
product of any of the better European cineastes. All his productions
contain points of definite interest, demanding a detailed examination
for which there is not the space in these pages. To his credit must
firstly be placed what was at its date the finest film America had
produced, ToVable David (1922), which was followed later by Stella
Dallas, Romola, The White Sister, The Winning of Barbara Worth
(a sophisticated western), The Magic Flame, and the better parts of
The Woman Disputed. In ToVable David, King expounded his theme
with a delicate use of detail and a sympathetic employment of land-
scape for the emphasis of atmosphere. The material was distributed
with a nicety of feeling rare in the American film; the continuity
was balanced to perfection and flowed with admirable smoothness;
and the characterisation, notably in the case of Richard Barthelmess
in the name part, revealed a depth of character that has not been
noticed in any later film by the same director. King robbed Griffith
of all that was good, combining the spoil with his own filmic
knowledge. The real value of Stella Dallas, a brilliant and deeply
emotional film, was superficially destroyed in this country by the
cheap and contemptible publicity that it received. It was diversely
said to be 'the greatest mother-love picture ever made,' and that
'Mr. King had focalised in it all the creative artistry of his great
career,' all of which was an attempt to put over Samuel Goldwyn's
appreciation of the 'art' of the cinema. It implied, on the contrary,
not only the strangeness of Mr. Goldwyn's mind, but the negligible
amount of appreciation he possessed for the work of his own directors.
The story of Stella Dallas was not of unusual interest, but it gave
scope for a consistent character development over a space of time,
and lent itself to delicate touches of direction. Its lesson lay in the
superb handling of acting material, notably in the cases of Belle
Bennett and Lois Moran, and also in Jean Hersholt's masterly
rendering of the coarse riding-master. It was one of those rare films
that rested on its treatment alone, a type of film not usually connected
with America. Sympathy and delicacy are the two salient char-
acteristics of Henry King's work, exemplified strongly in ToVable
David and Stella Dallas. He is a misunderstood and mishandled

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THE ACTUAL

director; a man of deep cinematic mindedness, who struggles in
vain against the overpowering and crippling demands of picture-
sense.

Notwithstanding the plethora of movies of the man, woman, and
sin variety, with which one is generally accustomed to couple the
label of Hollywood and which constitute the greater part of her
output during film history, there are a few naturalistic films that are
to be considered apart from the fiction film. They are to be differ-
entiated, also, from the work of the directors who have just been
discussed, with the exception of John Ford and James Cruze, who
happily combine a sense of this plein air school with their cine-fiction.

In the first place there was the western film, a form of cinema
in which America excelled; and secondly, the more recent arrival of
the south-sea island picture. The western was perhaps America's
nearest approach to real cinema. It was perfectly natural. It was,
practically speaking, the Americans being themselves. Distinct from
the sexual interplay of the drawing-room movie, the western had its
birth in the early days of the one and two reelers, and rose to its
zenith towards the end of the post-war period about 1922 or 1923.
Since then, it has degenerated into a more sophisticated form, as
with The Winning of Barbara Worth and In Old Arizona. It has
almost been displaced by the steel-girder and the office eye-shade,
the dance frock and the dumb-bell, together with the products of
America's dancing youth. There is, it is true, some indication of
the revival of the western in the dialogue cinema. Its natural scope
for the use of synchronised sound, of horses' hoof-beats and of
gun-shots, was the basis of Paramount 's The Virginian, directed by
Victor Fleming. The use of American natural landscape and types
in this picture was highly creditable, and, despite the limitations
imposed by dialogue, I have no hesitation in saying that it was
amongst the best (if not the best) pictures to come from Hollywood
since the opening of the dialogue period. The Virginian, because of
its wonderful open-air atmosphere, lifted Victor Fleming in my
estimation out of the rut of second-rate directors, although credit
must also be given to J. Roy Hunt for his superb exterior photography.

During their day the westerns were widely successful, for the
cowboy spirit and dust of the desert are inborn in the true American
of the old school. In its middle period of William S. Hart, the

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Farnum brothers, William and Dustin, William Russell, Tom Mix,
and Hoot Gibson, the western film had an air of sincerity in its open
stretches of sand, its fleeting horses, its smell of sage and gunsmoke.
Not that I suggest that Americans once behaved precisely as did
these rustlers and gunmen, but there was nevertheless some element
of fact in the idealised cowboy. The spirit of openness seemed to
have come quite naturally to the westerns, and was in itself eminently
suited to the functions of the cinema. It will be recalled that the
story-interest of these fast-moving pictures was usually negligible;
all that mattered was the hard riding, the spreading horizon of the
desert, the crumbled canon walls, the dusty hooves of cattle and
mustangs, the heat and the cold, the rain and the wind. It was some-
thing that the Americans understood. It was captured by the cinema
with remarkable faith, very different to. the studio reconstructions of
'Imperialist Russia' and 'Mediaeval England.'

From time to time the western film was stripped of its fictitious
trappings and was raised to the standard of an epic. It lost its story
and became a reconstructed record of some great past achievement.
Two examples of this have been mentioned, John Ford's The Iron
Horse and Three Bad Men, but the pinnacle was reached in
Cruze's The Covered Wagon. This was a film that combined the
essence of the western with the cinematic knowledge of Hollywood; a
film of the men and women who set their faces and their wagons
to the west in the giant trek across the plains. The production of
this film was all the more remarkable in that its makers were the
Famous-Lasky Company. It was an odd link in their tradition.
It was their first breakaway from the drawing-room movie, a step
that has since been followed up by Old Ironsides (Sons of the Sea),
also directed by Cruze, and the Chang and Four Feathers type of
picture. It was a direct development from the crude western, but
approached in an epic spirit; a sincere attempt to reconstitute past
fact.

James Cruze, up to that time a maker of domestic comedies and
since then of pseudo-dramatic movies, must be commended for
having accomplished his task with distinction. It was known at the
time that he had some cinematic skill in direction, but his handling
of space in The Covered Wagon was unsuspected. In the dream
sequence of Jazz and in To the Ladies, Cruze was interesting. In
The Covered Wagon he demanded serious consideration. He first

i33

THE ACTUAL

learned his knowledge of the cinema in the early serials, a fact which
is probably responsible for the open-air direction of this epic. Of
his other pictures, all of which are worth notice, will be recalled:
The City That Never Sleeps, The Pony Express, Hollywood, The
Beggar on Horseback, Merton of the Movies, and The Goose Hangs
High. His recent attempt at straight drama in The Great Gabbo was
inferior to this earlier work, but some allowance is to be made for
the superfluity of song-and-dance stuff, which was obviously added
to ensure box-office appeal. It is hoped that Cruze will return to
the space and truth of The Covered Wagon. He is a director who
essentially needs fresh air. He is misusing his intelligence in the
factory.

Of recent years, there have sprung up in Hollywood occasional
but admirable attempts to use the natural resources of the American
cinema. The western has been partially replaced by the travel film
which, although to a large extent experimental and only financed
by the big companies if well-known stars are allowed to share the
natural beauties, has the most prominent claim for the attention of
the American industry to-day. These outstanding examples of the
real use of the cinema are to be regarded as distinct from the advances
made by Lubitsch, Chaplin, and Stroheim in the pure cine-fiction
school. If they are not the direct development of the western, then
they are at any rate in relationship to it. They can be connected also
with similar movements in Soviet Russia, Germany, and France.

The first American step in this manner was made by Robert
Flaherty, who happens to be an Irishman, and was the result of a
film financed by Revillon Freres, the Paris furriers, as an advertising
venture. Nanook of the North, the Eskimo film, although not
entirely sincere in that it purported to be what it was not, marked
the starting-point of the American interest picture, without plot or
story but simply the continuity of a theme. Actually Nanook,
which set up to be a film of the Eskimo in the far north, was made
on a latitude level with Edinburgh. The same theory of thematic
continuity was found in Flaherty's other film, the beautiful Moana.
Each in their own way, Nanook and Moana were supreme examples
of the pure visual cinema. In form they were alike, opening with
a quiet sequence that established the characters in their normal
environment, emphasising only the swing of the bough of a tree or
the slope of the snow. With an unwinding thread of continuity

i34

mt'tro -gotuwyn mayer

WHITE SHADOWS
the film of the South Seas, with camerawork hy Boh Roberts.
An instance of the beautiful decorative values obtainable by
panchromatic stnrb ''ens

uuiciican

MO AN A
Robert Flaherty's superb film of the south seas islands, notable
for its naturalistic use of panchromatic photography. 1926

paramount

THE AMERICAN FILM

each progressed without a litter of titles; the one telling of the warm,
dark-skied south with its rich foliage and crystal water; the other
of the bitter cold and ice, with the wind sweeping across the snow
fields. Both films ended on a note of rest. Moana with the betrothed
pair swaying in their dance against the sinking sun; Nanook with
the moaning wind and the howl of the sleigh dogs. Each film told
of the immensity of living; the urge to live; the width and breadth
of the universe. Of the two, Moana was perhaps the finer. It had
a warmness, not physical but spiritual, in handling that was missing
in the coldness of Nanook.

Each of these superb films was made by Flaherty with private
finances, but in order to continue producing pictures he was forced
to accept a contract from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. It is said that he
was to have had the making of White Shadows in the South Seas,
but reasonably enough rejected the offer on account of the inclusion
of a story and two stars. Instead, it was made by W. S. Van Dyck.
To Flaherty must go the credit then, of inspiring the new movement
in the American cinema that gave rise to such films as Grass, Chang,
Stark Love, White Gold, White Shadows, and Trader Horn.

Van Dyck is of secondary importance to Flaherty. White Shadows,
good as it was in places, cannot be compared to the quality of Moana.
If Flaherty had made the former, there is little doubt that he would
have surpassed Moana. If it were possible to consider White
Shadows apart from the nonsense of the acting interest, a badly faked
model of a shipwreck and a moral of white men ruining the sanctity
of the islands, there remained some very beautiful landscape scenes.
Nevertheless, it is to be noted that the cameraman for this film was
also Flaherty's cameraman on the shooting of Moana. It is interesting
to recall, moreover, that Van Dyck at one time was making westerns,
being responsible for a series of Buck Jones's pictures, The Desert's
Price, Hearts and Spurs, and Ranger of the Big Pines. There would
seem some reason, therefore, to place the credit for the best parts
of White Shadows to Bob Roberts, leaving the blame for the story
handling to Van Dyck. Who made the film does not matter very
much, but it was significant, on the other hand, that Flaherty was
contemporaneously kicking his heels at Metro- Goldwyn-Mayer's
expense in Culver City, that suburb of Los Angeles. White Shadows,
despite its cheapness of story, will remain memorable for its liquid
sunlight, its gently swaying palms, its white clouded skies, its

i35

THE ACTUAL

far-reaching stretches of hot sand and beach. It ranks with The
General Line as being a perfect example of the beautiful decorative
values of panchromatic photography.

Following up the success of White Shadows, Van Dyck attempted
to repeat himself with The Pagan, a film made ridiculous by the
intrusion of a Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer contract star. Mr. Ramon
Novarro may be popular with nursemaids when he is practically
in the all-together, but he had definitely no place (singing on his back
in the water) in this purely pictorial picture. Is it possible to imagine
the Moana of Flaherty as played by Mr. Novarro? Van Dyck has
recently been sent by his company to Africa, complete with studio
equipment, including not only generators and lights, but sound-
recording apparatus for obtaining the noises of the jungle. The film
is based on the experiences of Trader Aloysius Horn, and will again
be made against natural settings.

In this same group of natural resource directors must be included
Shoedsack and Cooper, Howard and Karl Brown. Ernest B. Shoed-
sack and Meriam C. Cooper first achieved recognition by their film
Grass, which was made among the Baktyari tribe of North-West
Persia, during 1925. The picture was a vivid record of the almost
insurmountable difficulties that faced the tribe when they migrated
twice yearly in their trek for grass. One watched with suspense the
extraordinary manner in which this band of half a million men,
women, and children surmounted the snow-covered mountain range,
and forded the roaring torrent that barred their way. The film was
a marvellous photographic record, spoilt in this country by the in-
sertion of irritating and fatuous titles, written by a Paramount
writer called Richard P. Carver. After the success of Grass, the same
pair were sent to the jungle country of Northern Siam, where they
spent two years in taking records with the camera. Eventually
Chang was capably mounted into a story form, and credit was due
to the editors who worked up the theme to a highly emotional climax,
which, as has been mentioned at a later stage, was rendered even
more dramatic by the use of the magnascope. Chang told the story
of the family of Kru, a Lao tribesman, who built beyond the village
in a clearing in the jungle, and of his struggle not only against the
encroaching jungle but the beasts that lived therein. Not one sequence
of this admirable film dragged, the element of suspense being
brilliantly handled. Moreover, the spirit of the jungle was captured

136

THE AMERICAN FILM

in such a manner that the audience seemed to live in it themselves.
When the jungle awoke at the close of Kru's hard-working day, a
wonderful feeling of stirring, of undergrowth moved by unseen
forms, of branches swinging by other forces than those of the wind,
spread into the spectators. Thus the film continued until, suddenly,
as if by magic, the magnascope flooded the whole of one end of the
cinema with the massed stampede of elephants. The emotional
power of this climax was so strong, so overwhelming in its size and
movement, that I have little hesitation in calling it one of the most
brilliant ever devised. Akin to the case of Grass, the titles, written
specially by Achmed Abdulla, the novelist, were inclined to be
absurd.

Satisfied with the phenomenal success accorded to Chang, Para-
mount sent Shoedsack and Cooper to the Sudan for the purpose of
taking further camera records. But at this point, unfortunately,
the producers remembered their picture-sense. Wishing to add to
the success of Chang, which to all intents and purposes was a film
of pure natural resources, Paramount decided to blend Shoedsack
and Cooper's records in the Sudan with an adaptation of A. E. W.
Mason's novel, The Four Feathers, adding for the sake of entertain-
ment several stars and a pro-British moral. The resulting picture, a
hotch-potch devised by Lothar Mendes, was put out to the public
as being by the makers of Chang. Those who remembered the natural
quality of the latter film were dismayed to find in The Four Feathers
a devastating attempt to cut in a few shots of hippopotami charging
and baboons escaping from a bush fire with a Hollywood movie of
the worst type. The animal shots, nice enough in themselves, were
totally out of place, having no relation to the rest of the picture.
In this way does picture-sense spoil the only good work done by
American directors. Producers have the entirely fallacious idea at
the back of their heads that they are catering for the public taste.
The situation is rendered the more significant by the preceding
success of Chang, which stood on its own merits without the aid of
Hollywood. This deplorable habit, popular with big producers, of
incorporating a few excellent but irrelevant shots in an otherwise
cheap movie, is typical of the picture-sense mind. They calculate
that the public would not go to a film entirely composed of animals;
but they will see the animals if smoothed down by Messrs. Clive
Brook, William Powell, Richard Arlen, Noah Beery, and misty-eyed

i37

THE ACTUAL

Fay Wray. Wings, whilst dealing with the air, was good; but when it
descended to earth, to Clara Bow and the boys, it was unbearable.
On these occasions, the intelligent public must take the bad with
the good. It is the way of Hollywood.

Of other films to be added to this group of plein air productions,
mention must be made of William K. Howard's White Gold, which
attempted to appeal to two types of audience, the intelligent and the
rest; and Karl Brown's excellent picture, Stark Love, with Helen
Munday, Forest James, and Silas Miracle. Howard's film was made
in the so-called continental technique, meaning that he paid more
attention to atmosphere than to individuals. Instead of the crowded
dance-hall, only the shadows were shown; in place of a shot of the
corpse, the hero looked behind the door and drew back with horror
plainly written in his face. Howard also tried the repetition of single
word titles with some success, but the film as a whole was inclined
to be laboured. He was also the director of some early westerns, like
Light of the Western Stars and The Border Legion. Karl Brown's
film, which was financed by Famous-Players-Lasky, was taken during
1927, among the primitive descendants of pioneers in the Appalachian
mountains of North Carolina. The director had been the camera-
man on Paramount 's The Covered Wagon, and Stark Love was a
reminder of the grandness of the pictorial beauty of the earlier film.
The acting material was raw nature; the story-interest simple and
convincing; the direction straightforward with a sense of dramatic
value. The film was to be ranged on a level with Flaherty's Moana
and Jean Epstein's Finis Terra.

Returning to the ranks of the ordinary movie directors, there are
found a large number of second and third rate film men. Much of
their work is of little save passing interest, and does not call for
further comment than that usually accorded to it in the Press. Most
of these secondary directors are like popular dance tunes - they only
tell for a short time. Movies are easily made, and just as easily for-
gotten. On rare occasions one of their films contains some little
device, some twist of the camera that is interesting, some odd
close up which for the moment holds the spectator, but for the most
part they are dull. Even as it is characteristic of big directors to
convey a great deal in a few shots, so, on the contrary, these small
directors tend to photograph much and say nothing. It is these film

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THE AMERICAN FILM

men who make a steady stream of pictures with which to fill the
cinemas of the world. None of these movies is wholly good or wholly
bad. Each is saturated with mental sob-stuff, high-spot thrills,
alluring sexual positions, false patriotic motives, spectacular settings,
and ravishing clothes. All are turned out with a polished, facile,
slick technique. They are conceived, taken, and presented with one
purpose in mind - picture-sense. Most of these directors have been
in the business some space of time. They may be relied upon to
turn out an average picture in a given length of production time,
with any given star and any given story.

Herbert Brenon has been making pictures ever since he staggered
America with the Annette Kellerman film, The Daughter of the Gods,
in 191 6, for which production he diverted a river from its course
and altered the face of a landscape. Brenon, therefore, started his
directorial career in the best tradition. Since that date he has produced
a continuous flow of movies, mostly of the mock-sentimental kind,
including versions of Barrie's Peter Pan and A Kiss for Cinderella;
The Side Show of Life; The Alaskan; The Little French Girl; that
very successful, popular film, Beau Geste, the forerunner of many
similar pictures; and more recently, an adaptation of Warwick
Deeping 's Sorrell and Son, a film of guaranteed appeal, but little
filmic content. Brenon principally lacks imagination. His sense of
pictorial values is sound, but his cinematic interpretation is negligible.

Raoul Walsh has made a curious assortment of films, showing at
rare intervals a feeling for cinema and always a strong motive of
picture-sense. Chief among his work ranks Sadie Thompson, an
adaptation of Somerset Maugham's brilliant short story and play,
'Rain.' In this film, some three years ago, Gloria Swanson made her
come-back to the screen and Lionel Barrymore acted with distinction.
Walsh did his best to tell the story of the fugitive from San Francisco,
and the professional reformer who persecutes her until he himself
is obsessed with sexual desire; but the contrived happy ending,
which may have fitted in with Allied Artists' idea of picture-sense,
was mediocre. Nevertheless, Gloria Swanson 's performance was
remarkable, and succeeded in placing her as an actress of talent far
above the usual Hollywood standard. Walsh's second-best picture
was one of the war films so prevalent a few years ago, and as such
was singularly unsuccessful. Despite its mock-heroic character,
What Price Glory? was directed with some degree of vigour, and was,

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THE ACTUAL

of course, satisfactory from a commercial point of view. Like the
other American war films, it said nothing of the war itself except
for a few sequences of blood and thunder. At an earlier date than
this, Raoul Walsh had revelled in attempted fantasy, for he was
responsible for the ice-cream mixture of The Thief of Bagdad, and
others of an Arabian texture, such as The Lady of the Harem. To
his credit, also, are to be placed the Negri film, East of Suez, The
Wanderer, The Loves of Carmen, and The Monkey Talks.

Cecil B. de Mille is likewise to be reckoned among this group of
directors, and although his work cannot be accepted with sincerity,
he is nevertheless a curiosity. Briefly, one thinks of de Mille as a
pseudo-artist with a flair for the spectacular and the tremendous;
a shrewd sense of the bad taste of the lower type of the general public,
to which he panders; and a fondness for the daring, vulgar, and
pretentious. His productions number many, all of which by
reason of their magnitude and publicity are well-known. In parti-
cular, he is responsible for The Ten Commandments, The Volga
Boatmen, The Road to Yesterday, The Golden Bed, The King of
Kings, and The Godless Girl, none of which demands further investi-
gation.

Donald Crisp is a director of the good, honest type, with a simple
go-ahead idea of telling a story. He has made, among others, one of
the best of the post-war Fairbanks films, Don Q, and Buster Keaton's
The Navigator. In the same class are to be reckoned such men as
Fred Niblo, who made the spectacle of spectacles, Ben-Hur, as
well as The Temptress, and Fairbanks' Mark of Zorro; Victor
Fleming, who 'handled' Emil Jannings in The Way of All Flesh,
made Mantrap with Clara Bow, a pseudo-epic in The Trumpet Call,
Lord Jim, and The Virginian, for which last, however, he deserves
warm praise; Rupert Julian, who directed The Phantom of the Opera,
HelVs Highroad, and completed The Merry-Go-Round when Stroheim
left off; and Alan Crosland, maker of Bobbed Hair, Three Weeks,
and that abominable costume picture with John Barrymore, Don
Juan, followed by another as bad, The Beloved Rogue.

The leader of the sentimentalists and gauzed photography school
is, of course, Frank Borzage, who makes pictures for Mr. Fox.
He is principally known for that 'film of the year,' Seventh Heaven,
which he followed later with similar eye-wash, The Street Angel.
Both of these pictures are generally considered as being beautiful,

140

C-

WINGS

the 'epic ' of the air, by William Wellman ; note artificiality of
trees and corpses. ' 192?

THE BROADWAY MELODY
the sound and dialogue musical comedy, by Harry Beaumont.
Set design by Cedric Gibbons ; an instance of movie artificiality.

1929

metro-goldwyn-rnayer

THE AMERICAN FILM

superb, artistic, and superlative in every way, but their titles are all
that need be recorded of them.

George Fitzmaurice directs movies like The Dark Angel and Love
Lies, about which there is nothing to say; Marshall Neilan takes the
credit for the unfortunate Tess of the d'Urbervilles, Diplomacy, and
The Venus of Venice; Sam Taylor has a knowledge of rough slapstick,
and has made some of the Harold Lloyd comedies, Mary Pickford's
My Best Girl, and lately, the dialogue version of The Taming of the
Shrew. Tod Browning once made a film which was reputed to be of
interest, The Unholy Three, and later The Blackbird, Under Two
Flags, and The Mystic; Rowland V. Lee directed The Man Without
a Country, Havoc, said to be the best American war film, and The
Outsider; whilst Allan Dwan made Tin Gods and The Music Master.

Among those whom I should class as better directors are to be
recorded such men as Lewis Milestone, who made an excellent
comedy in Two Arabian Nights, and has since directed a clever
melodramatic film of the bootlegger type, The Racket, with Louis
Wolheim. Milestone is well aware of the right use of half-lighting,
of well-chosen camera angles and of contrasted motives of tension
with unexpected movement of material. Victor Schertzinger is
another director who has done notable work, prominently in that
excellent film, Forgotten Faces, where, although he was inclined to
misuse his moving camera shots, he built up some dramatic situations.
He has many pictures to his name, amongst which are Man and
Maid, The Wheel and Thunder Mountain. E. H. Griffith was the
maker of a sincere film, Judgment, a dramatic theme of a man's
cowardice, and has also to his credit Headlines and Bad Company.
Harry Hoyt will be remembered for his competent version of Conan
Doyle's extraordinary story, The Lost World, a. film in which Lewis
Stone, Bessie Love, Wallace Beery, and Lloyd Hughes played with
distinction.

Dorothy Arzner is a clever woman director who at one time
wrote scenarios, took up cutting (The Covered Wagon) and finally
made a picture called Fashions for Women. Lois Weber is another
woman director, who made that excessively dull movie, The Sensation
Seekers.

To this long list are to be added the names of some of the older
school, like Thomas H. Ince, Ralph Ince, King Baggott, Clarence
Badger, Herbert Blache, Charles Brabin, Edwin Carewe, John

141

THE ACTUAL

Conway, Irving Cumings, William C. de Mille, Joseph Henaberry,
Frank Lloyd, Sam Wood, and Edward Sedgwick.

There are many young men in Hollywood who, having had their
schooling as scenario-writers and assistant-directors to already well-
established film makers, are taken on and launched by the big firms.
The majority of their work is best described as being modelled on
the Lubitsch-Stroheim-Chaplin style: a well-assorted medley of ideas
gleaned from The Marriage Circle , Foolish Wives, and A Woman
of Paris. It is quite unnecessary to analyse such movies at length,
for they nearly all conform to what has already been described as
the formula of man, woman, and sin. They are slick, facile, flashy,
well-photographed pictures, displaying here and there touches of
Germanic influence in their camera angles. They are always rapid
in pace, being briskly cut, with what are usually termed 'snappy'
titles. It will suffice to mention: Mai St. Clair (Good But Naughty >
The Show Off, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, etc.); Monta Bell, assistant
to Chaplin on A Woman of Paris (Broadway After Dark, Man,
Woman, and Sin, Pretty Ladies, etc.); William Wellman, who must
be given praise for making Wings, although that film's merit lay in
its fifteen cameramen, and You Never Know Women, from Ernst
Vadja's story; Victor Heerman (For Wives Only); Sidney Franklin
(The Duchess of Buffalo, with Constance Talmadge, and recently
Wild Orchids, with Greta Garbo); Paul Bern, who wrote the script
for The Beloved Rogue and made Grounds for Divorce; Frank Tuttle,
scenarist for Allan Dwan's Manhandled, with Gloria Swanson, and
director of The American Venus and Blind Alleys; James Flood,
(Three Hours); Roy del Ruth, whose Wolfs Clothing was far above
the average movie; and H. d'Abbadie d'Arrast, Chaplin's assistant
on The Gold Rush (A Gentleman of Paris, Serenade, and Service for
Ladies, all with Adolphe Menjou).

The titles of the above movies clearly indicate their subject and
trend. They may be summed up, perhaps, in the three names,
The Popular Sin, The Waning Sex, and Blonde or Brunette.

In the last eighteen months, there has arisen a number of new
film directors who, owing to the dialogue film, have migrated from
the stage. Many of the old silent film directors have also adapted
their technique to the new demands of sound. In this group are
to be found such men as Harry Beaumont, maker in the past of
Glass Houses, Gold Diggers, and Our Dancing Daughters, and more

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THE AMERICAN FILM

recently of The Broadway Melody; Charles Reisner, who years ago
directed Sydney Chaplin in The Man on the Box, and made The
Hollywood Revue and Chasing Rainbows; and Marcel Silver, director
of Fox Movietone Follies. With the dialogue period opened what
may be called an era of new names as well as an era of new values.
The introduction of this usurping mechanical achievement has
rendered the old attributes of a film director no longer applicable.

Apart from the comedies of Chaplin it is necessary only to mention
the more recent work of Buster Keaton and the expensive knock-
about contraptions of Harold Lloyd. Keaton at his best, as in The
General, College, and the first two reels of Spite Marriage, has real
merit. His humour is dry, exceptionally well constructed and almost
entirely mechanical in execution. He has set himself the task of an
assumed personality, which succeeds in becoming comic by its very
sameness. He relies, also, on the old method of repetition, which
when enhanced by his own inscrutable individuality becomes
incredibly funny. His comedies show an extensive knowledge of
the contrast of shapes and sizes and an extremely pleasing sense of
the ludicrous. Keaton has, above all, the great asset of being funny
in himself. He looks odd, does extraordinary things and employs
uproariously funny situations with considerable skill. The Keaton
films are usually very well photographed, with a minimum of detail
and a maximum of effect. It would be ungrateful, perhaps, to suggest
that he takes from Chaplin that which is essentially Chaplin's, but,
nevertheless, Keaton has learnt from the great genius and would
probably be the first to admit it.

The Harold Lloyd comedies fall into a lower class, but are usually
amusing. In my estimation, at least, Lloyd is not funny in himself
and has none of the attributes of Chaplin or even Keaton. His
comedies are fast moving, vigorous in action of the material, being
entirely contrived out of a series of comic situations. Lloyd movies
are excellent examples of the gag comedy. Many minds contribute
to the nonsense of the escapes and chases and ingenious escapades
that go to make up College Days, Safety Last, and For Heaven's
Sake. There is no centralisation about a Lloyd comedy as there is
in the Chaplin film. There is no unity of character; no building up
of personality. The Harold Lloyd pictures are good fun. They may
always be relied upon for amusement of a harmless, light and

i43

THE ACTUAL

thoughtless nature. They are essentially physically stimulating.
They serve their purpose in that no audience is left dull or depressed
after seeing a Lloyd comedy.

From this brief survey of some of the more important American
films,' it will have been seen that most of the output is ephemeral in
value. Seldom will a Hollywood film bear reiteration. It passes
through the hands of the story-writer, the selection committee, the
scenario editor, the treatment writer, the scenarist, the gag-man,
the production committee, the director, the cameraman, the art
director, the players, the title-writer, the professional cutter and the
film editor, until eventually the finished product is launched on to the
massed audiences, who are lured to see it by all manner of persuasive
advertising, exploitation stunts and suggestive attractions. The life
of a movie is precalculated and preorganised from the beginning to
the end. Nevertheless, despite these conditions of manufacture, the
mass production, the obstinate committees, the uncreative directors,
the horrors of the star-system and the corrugated iron environment,
there are occasions when a single film, the creative work of one man's
mind, makes its appearance. There are in Hollywood, fortunately,
men of intelligence whose very personality over-rides the machinery.
With wisdom and discretion they use to full advantage the organ-
isation of Hollywood and its excellent technical resources. From
Chaplin, Stroheim, Griffith, at one time Fairbanks, Lubitsch, and
Vidor, there have come films that are of the highest merit. The Gold
Rush, A Woman of Paris, Greed, Broken Blossoms, The Black Pirate,
Forbidden Paradise, and Hallelujah! . In another category, produced
under different conditions from those controlling the making of
cine-fiction, there has been the individual work of Flaherty, Karl
Brown, Shoedsack, and Cooper: - Moana, Chang, Grass, Stark Love,
and Nanook. These were films of great excellence that will endure
and be studied in the future. On the whole, however, America's
greatest achievements have been in her westerns, her relatively few
natural resource films, and her polished, satirical comedies. Due to
the fusion of Chaplin and Lubitsch influence, the best of the cine-
fiction films have been the domesticated comedies and the subtly
pointed bedroom pieces; films of the Wolfs Clothing, So This Is
Paris, and Serenade variety. They comprise the lighter side of film
conception and have been developed to a state of perfection far beyond

144

THE AMERICAN FILM

the dramatic tragedy of The Way of All Flesh school. In the dialogue
film, the adaptation of stage plays by such writers as Somerset
Maugham and Frederick Lonsdale indicates a tendency to continue
along these lines.

Hollywood, before the coming of the dialogue film, was a factory
of skilled workers, all of whom were able to produce films with a
technique that had become polished by experience and efficient
organisation. These men are adapting their practical knowledge to
the new processes demanded by the visual and aural cinema along
the line of least resistance. They are foolishly attempting to combine
the widely divergent techniques of the stage and the film. But the
masses, many of them fresh to the cinema, support the new process
in their love of novelty, sensation, and realism. Our filmic knowledge
triumphs with ease over the past and the future evils of the cinema;
but the present evils of dialogue and realism triumph over our
knowledge to-day by reason of their commercial strength.

VI
THE SOVIET FILM

1 here is always a tendency to exaggerate the discovery of a new
invention, a fresh philosophy, or an original theory of painting;
similarly, the significance of the Soviet film has been largely over-
rated by enthusiastic cineastes in this country. Perhaps the primary
reason why the discovery of the Soviet cinema has been more
momentous in England than on the continent is because, until com-
paratively recently, all productions from the U.S.S.R. have been
withheld from public exhibition by the British Board of Film Censors.
In consequence, fanned by eulogistic descriptions from abroad,
there has risen a heated demand from the circle of film writers and
experimentalists in England for the wholesale acceptance of Soviet
films. Officially discountenanced, the forbidden productions have
assumed gigantic importance as 'works of art' in the minds of the
British intelligentsia. All Soviet films are hailed as the supreme
examples of modern cinema; all Soviet directors as filmic geniuses;
with the result that the cult for Soviet films (still in great part for-
bidden) has become slightly hysterical and more than a little tedious
in its parrot-like cry.

Actually, the product of the Soviet film industry is to be received
with the strictest reservation. It is to be accorded the severest
criticism, for it has been born of remarkable circumstances during a
span of twelve eventful and restless years. Moreover, it should be
remembered that the present state of the Soviet cinema has been
made possible only by the social and political events that have taken
place in Russia since the October revolution of 19 17. But this is not
to assume, as is often done, that a similar progression of events
would produce a cinema such as that of the Soviet in England.

The Soviet cinema is immensely powerful. Its films carry social
and political contents expressed so emotionally and with such a
degree of technical perfection that the content may be swallowed in

146

THE SOVIET FILM

the temporary admiration of the method. This has unfortunately
been the case with the numerous over-young and over-enthusiastic
cineastes, which is suggestive of their lack of balanced critical faculties.
Because of its full use of the resources of the cinema, the Soviet
film to-day is in the position to influence an attitude of mind and an
outlook on life. It is, as a matter of fact, produced for that very
purpose. On this account, therefore, acceptance of a film produced
in the U.S.S.R. as an example of filmic exposition must be guided
by rigorous and careful deliberation. In hasty admiration of perfect
technique, it is easy to accept content, theme, and meaning without
thought as to their full intention.

It will be recalled that among the proposals of the Soviet Govern-
ment, when they assumed control in 1917, was the suggestion that
all forms of expression to the public, such as the cinema, the theatre,
the Press, and literature, should be under the guidance of the State.
The aim was, of course, that the new ideas and concepts of the
Government should be widely circulated in the outlying districts as
well as in the industrial centres. The theatre essentially was to become
a unified form of drama, arising out of the social necessities of the
masses. This aim has to some extent been successful, having evolved,
during the process of rebuilding, a technique such as exists nowhere
outside Soviet Russia. Incorporated in this constructive policy for
the theatre was a similar but wider aim for the cinema. Originally,
I believe, only a few of the Soviet leaders realised the capabilities
of the film as an instrument of propaganda, considering the theatre
the more powerful. But they have since become aware of the vast
superiority of the cinema over the stage, both for economic reasons
and for its greater breadth of representation, until now it is the
principal medium of expression for the Government. The initial
aim of the Soviet film was to reflect and interpret a new social
civilisation in the making, as conceived by Marx and realised by
Lenin, which resulted in a form of cinema demanding an entirely
new scale of values. Lenin intended the theatre to be a microcosm
of the complete theory of Bolshevism, to be admired and copied by
the masses. But it was Lenin also who declared that 'of all the arts
the most important for Russia is, to my mind, that of the cinema.'

The nationalisation of the Soviet film did not take place until
1 91 9. But two years earlier, in December, a special Cinema Com-
mission was held in Leningrad by the People's Commissariat of

i47

THE ACTUAL

Education to lay down a future policy. The complete control of
film production and distribution, however, soon passed into the
hands of the Government and there began the development of the
cinema along the lines of Lenin's policy. From that time onward,
films were produced according to carefully laid plans, with certain
types of films for certain audiences. The new cinema depicted the
general policy of the Government and of the people; of construction
and of creation. Further, all profit derived from the exhibition of
films went to the realisation of better and bigger productions.
Theoretically, it was an admirable state of affairs for the nurturing
of a new form of dramatic expression.

Even as in literature themes are developed, ideas propounded,
and problems solved beyond the mere exercise of writing and style,
so the Soviet directors contrived to employ the visual images of the
cinema to express, not, as in other countries, mere thrilling episodes
and acrobatic sensations, but the spirit and heart of mankind. Under
the new policy a film was considered worthless unless it elucidated
some new idea for the stimulation of mass thought. On principle,
every film presented a problem or a theory which was definitely
connected with the everyday life of the persons for whom it was
made. A content of sociological importance was the basis of all
productions; and around this was woven a narrative story-interest.
Added to which, numerous pictures were made which depicted the
events of the revolution and life under the Czarist regime, both of
which were, as was to be expected, considerably distorted to suit the
Government's purpose. (The exclusion of Trotsky, for instance, in
Eisenstein's October, renders it valueless as an historical document.
One remembers, also, the distortion of historical events in the French
Commune film, Kozintsev and Trauberg's New Babylon.) Com-
mercially, aesthetically, and politically the cinema was the ideal
medium for the glorification of the Soviets.

We are to understand, then, that the Soviet film such as has been
produced in increasing numbers as the years have progressed, is
designed to instruct, to develop, and to connect up the thought and
conditions of the outlying villages with that of the big towns; so that
each man, woman, and child in every district shall be made aware of
the social, scientific, industrial, and political progress of the State.
And in order to stimulate the interest of the masses in the film
industry, production is taken into their lives so that they have

148

OCTOBER
renamed 'The Ten Days that shook the World,' by S. M.
Eisenstein. One of the several films commissioned by the
government for the tenth anniversary of the soviet regime.

1927-28

THE END OF ST. PETERSBURG
by V. I. Pudovkin. One of the several films commissioned by the
government for the tenth anniversary of the soviet regime 1 92 7

mejrabpora-russ

THE SOVIET FILM
opportunities to participate in realisations, to write scenarios » and
to vote approval or disapproval of a film content before production
takes place There are said to be organisations for the close co-
operation between producing companies and the people, so as to
enable subjects of significance to all classes to be represented But
it must be remembered, Russia is a vast country with great spaces of
thinly populated land in the agricultural districts where villages are
separated by many miles. In order to secure exhibition of films in
these districts therefore, there are travelling cinemas, each of which
takes a monthly route, visiting about twenty villages. When it has
completed its round, it begins again with a new programme Thus
even the most isolated villages are kept constantly in touch with
movements ,n the towns. Each of the latter has, of course, its cinemas
and statistics show a rapid increase in theatres during the last few
years. The distribution of films takes place almost exclusively through
Government channels; films carrying different contents being sent to
various parts, according to the State's calculation of the needs of the
populace ,n each district. In this way, the cinema reaches and
influences the minds of the workers, the tradesmen, and the citizens

Turkester3' " **" ** ^ PCaSantS " ^^ 3nd the tribesmen »
Hence, the content of every film is its raison d'etre, whether of
ocial, heroic, epic, historical, romantic, human, or national import-
ance. Moreover, it is out of the desire to express this content with
the greatest amount of emotional effect on the simple minds of the /
masses that the cinematic technique of Soviet directors has developed /
n theworld effiden°y eqUa"ed by "° other ^"Producing country

Soviet films fall into various classes, each made for a special purpose
tnd these are roughly as follow: '

(a) General subjects dealing with life before, during, and after
he revolution, including satires, dramas, comedies, melodramas, etc
rhe usual aim of these pictures is to show the tyranny and oppression
mder the Czanst regime and the benefits derived from Bolshevik
ontrol. The subject is approached through various channels viz.,

» Leon Moussinac in Le Cinema Sovtetique gives the foil™;™ ;_«
hat, m 1927, the Sovkino received no fewer than 2 1 «~ ° < 8 mf°rmatlon
Ailst the Vufku-kino, in the same year had more than ^oo * ^ ^ PuWic:

149

THE ACTUAL

the mass or epic film, of comparatively contemporary interest, showing
the masses challenging the old - established authority (October,
Battleship 'Potemkin,' The Strike); the individual film, depicting
the effect of the revolution on a single person, or group of persons
(Mother, The End of St. Petersburg); the historical or monumental
film, dealing with past historical events of massed revolt (New
Babylon, S.V.D., Revolt in Kazan); the reconstruction film, portraying
life under the advantages of the Soviet regime, the rebuilding of the
New Russia and the formation of the Worker, the Citizen, and the
Peasant, etc. (The Fragment of an Empire, Life's Roads, The Peasant
Women of Riazan, Pits, Moscow that Laughs and Weeps): and such
films as Eisenstein's The Old and the New, which showed the State
laying economic foundations for mechanical agriculture; Dziga-
Vertov's The Eleventh Year, which reflected the commercial and social
development of the Ukraine under ten years of Soviet control; and
Turksib, Turin's superb film, of the construction of the Turkestan-
Siberian railway.

(b) The educational, scientific, and cultural film, which is a form
of cinema that the Government has developed to a vast degree.
Instructional films are made about every conceivable subject:
industrial, medical, geographical, ethnological, etc., and are shown
widely with a view to better education. Special films are made, for
example, for the technical instruction of engineers and electricians,
and for the officers and men of the Red Army, on field manoeuvres,
aerial defence and attack, etc.

(c) The news-reel, which, as in other countries, is a survey of the
events of the week. It is, of course, largely used to popularise and
advertise the leaders of the proletariat.

(d) The children's film, both cine-fiction and educational.

For each of these groups there exists in every producing company
separate scenario departments and information bureaux, which are
capable of dealing with the various stages of scenario treatment.
This highly developed organisation for the classification, cataloguing,
and sorting of the film scenario is an important feature of the Soviet
cinema. In no other film-producing country is so much attention
paid to the construction of scenario work. Under the control of the
central bureau is the selection of themes for the year's output, so that
the films may accord exactly with the aim of the Government, politic-
ally, socially, and financially. There exist also other departments

150

THE SOVIET FILM

which deal with the scenarios and manuscripts sent from the
people, and with the examination of literature, documents, etc.,
published in Russia and abroad that would make possible film
material. The realisation of the films, once the subjects are chosen,
is again a matter of close collaboration. The production units are
allotted, according to their characteristics, to deal with such subjects
as are deemed suitable to them. The workers in every studio
(directors, cameramen, scenarists, architects, etc.) are all catalogued
and labelled, so to speak, with regard to their individual qualifica-
tions. In this way the achievement of perfect collectivism is attempted
in film production.

The majority of the technicians and acting personnel go through
special courses of training before assuming their positions in the
studios. As is well-known, there exists the Moscow State School of
Cinematography, which was founded in 19 19 for the intensive
training of workers in all branches of the industry. There are also
several other schools throughout the country, in Leningrad and in
the Ukraine. All producing firms have to give a certain number of
positions in their studios to graduates from the State schools. In the
latter, every section of film production is included, so that before
entry into a studio a worker has some knowledge of film technique,
acting, psychology, dramatic literature, make-up, acrobatics, dancing,
etc., as well as his specialised skill in his particular job, be it scenario
work, assistant-direction, photography, lighting, set-construction, or
in the laboratory. There exists also the Feks group, at Leningrad,
for the sole purpose of experiment and avant-garde work. All the
State schools are regularly visited by the better-known directors and
technicians, who lecture and instruct on theory and on their practical
experience of production work.

Briefly, then, the cinema is the main medium of the Commissariat
of Education for the instruction of the masses; and thus, we under-
stand that the primary aim of the Soviet Government is to carry the
principles of Bolshevism by means of the cinema, not only throughout
Russia, but to the farthest corners of the world. If the intellectual
classes of foreign countries find their aesthetic ideal in these films (as
is the case) then so much the better for the Soviet, since it will
render it easier for their content to be absorbed.

151

THE ACTUAL

It may be suggested that such an ideal state of conditions for
film production cannot exist without some flaw in the pattern. The
complete organisation, co-operation, and harmony of working con-
ditions appear to be the dream-paradise of the cineaste. There is,
however, a serious drawback in the apparent happiness of the Soviet
film industry; it lies at the root of the organisation, actually in the
policy of the Government itself. There is a certain inward antagonism
between the Government and the production units. The cinema is
controlled by Bolshevist minds, whose sole aim is the spread of their
faith; whilst the realisation of the best films is in the hands of the
workers, who are also by way of being artists. As a result, the film
director, who for some years past has been training his mind and has
been contented with the policy dictated to him in his work, now finds
himself in the position of being unable to realise his aesthetic principles
if they do not conform to the wishes of the Government. He can only
make a film of a subject approved by the controlling State bureau.

Although he has freedom of expression in actual technical repre-
sentation, his aesthetic progress is limited by the demands of the
production committee. Unless he is a true Bolshevik, his work will
become stultified by the eternal theme of propaganda. It is ridiculous
to suggest that the Soviet Government produce films for the sheer
love of the medium. They do indeed make 'art' films, but only for
export in order to secure the appreciation of foreign intelligentsia.
I have no hesitation in saying that the Soviet film director is as
impeded in his self-development as his confrere in Hollywood is
bound by the capitalistic ideas of picture-sense and star-system.
Neither is free to develop his knowledge of the cinema along a natural,
instinctive course. The Soviet director, it is true, has the benefit of
being able to realise his own ideas of technical expression {viz.
editing and cutting) which the German, American, and British
director has not; but they are each equally prevented from progress
in the realisation of their philosophic, spiritual, and creative con-
ception of the film as a means of self-expression.

The two Soviet directors, S. M. Eisenstein and V. I. Pudovkin,
have achieved during their evolutionary period the enviable position
of being the most eminent directors in the world. They have been
satisfied with State control over their themes and concepts whilst
they have been otherwise interested n the perfection of their tech-
nique. But they are now in the extraordinary position of possessing

152

REVOLT IN KAZAN
a picturesque historical film by Youri-Taritsch.

1927-28

THE HEIR IO JENGHIZ KHAN
better known as ' Storm over Asia, ' by V. 1. Pudovkin. L. Dedmtsev
as the general. Exemplary of panchromatic photography. 1927-28

inejr.mpom-rus

THE SOVIET FILM

a marvellous degree of technical accomplishment and of being unable
to employ it freely to express their personal attitude towards life.
Either they must continue to be good Bolsheviks, content to remain
making films for the purpose of propaganda, or they must leave
their native country and seek employment elsewhere. It is certain
that if they are true artists, with the inevitable international outlook
of an artist, they will never be allowed free expression of their minds
in Soviet Russia under the present system of State control.

This remarkable condition of affairs can only be applied at the
moment to the few eminent directors of the U.S.S.R. (Eisenstein,
Pudovkin, and possibly Kozintsev, Trauberg, Turin, Dovjenko, and
Ermler) for the majority of Soviet regisseurs are mechanical in their
outlook and will be easily persuaded to manufacture a steady output
of State-controlled films. The position will be rendered more acute,
however, when the film schools produce further creative mentalities.
Even the iron rule of a Soviet regime cannot suppress the birth and
development of an instinctively creative mind.

As might be expected from an industry organised under a system
of bureaucracy there is a network of producing companies in Soviet
Russia, each employing its individual directors and units. The
principal concerns are: the Sovkino, with studios at Leningrad and
Moscow; the Mejrabpom-Russ, with studios at the same cities; the
Vufku-kino, at Kiev and Odessa, in the Ukraine; the Goskinpromy
at Tiflis in Georgia; the Belgoskino, at Minsk in White Russia; the
Turkmenkino, in Turkmenistan; the Vostok-kino, at Baku; and the
Armenkino, in Armenia.

The Sovkino, which came into being in 1925, employ many
directors, of whom the most important are S. M. Eisenstein, Lev
Kuleshov, Alexander Room, Kozintsev and Trauberg, Ermler, Olga
Preobrashenskaia, Youri-Taritch, Popoff, Sefir Choub. They are
the sole distributors of Soviet films abroad and the only importers
of the foreign product. To the Mejrabpom-Russ (a collective word
meaning the International Workers' Relief) are attached V. I.
Pudovkin, Y. A. Protasanov,'Fiodor Otzep, Konstantin Eggert,
V. Obelenski, Jeliabuski, Boris Barnet, V. R. Gardin, etc. The
Vufku-kino, in the Ukraine, claim Dovjenko, Dziga-Vertov, Kauff-
mann, Georgi Stabavoi, Raismann, Kavaleridze, etc. Many other
directors of scientific and documentary films, as well as of cine-fiction,

i53

THE ACTUAL

attached to these and other companies, are far too numerous for
inclusion.

Until 1925, when the production of Eisenstein's Battleship
'Potemkin* marked a new era in the technique of the cinema, numerous
films were realised by various producing concerns in Moscow and
Leningrad -by the Sevsapkino, the Kino-Sever (Kino-North), the
Goskino, and the Mejrabpom-Russ companies. Few of these pictures,
however, have been shown outside Soviet Russia and the possibility
that they will be seen is remote. In any case, I do not believe that
they were of great value save as a training ground for the directors
of to-day, nearly all of whom were engaged in some minor capacity
during this early period. Pantelev, Doronin, Viskovski, Kuleshov,
Gardin, Protasanov, Razoumni, Jeliabuski, and Barski were some of
the principal directors of that time; such men as Otzep, Nathan
Zarkhi (later scenarist to the Pudovkin films) and Youri-Taritch
being employed as scenarists. Pictures of some interest to be con-
nected with this era were Palace and Fortress, a large scale historical
production, by Ivanovski; The Adventures of Octobrine, a political
satire, by Kozintsev and Trauberg; The Executioners, a. big production
dealing with political events from 1905 to 1918, by Pantelev; The
Death Ray, by Kuleshov, from a scenario by Pudovkin; The Adven-
tures of Mr. West Among the Bolsheviki, a comedy of manners, also
by Kuleshov; The Cigarette Merchant of Mosselprom, a comedy by
Jeliabuski; and The Tailor of Tor j ok, by Protasanov. During this
transition stage several art-films, theatrical in technique, were also
produced, some being shown in England at a later date.1 Of these
may be mentioned The Postmaster, from the novel by Pushkin,
scenario by Otzep and direction by Jeliabuski; Morosko, a folk-lore
film by the same director; Polikushka, from the Tolstoi novel; and
a melodrama, The Marriage of the Bear, directed and played by
Konstantin Eggert, from a script by Lounatcharski. These were
produced by the Mejrabpom-Russ company and members of the
first Moscow Art Theatre took part in their realisation. To them is
to be added the big decorative production of Aelita, directed by

1 Mr. F. A. Enders, of Messrs. Film Booking Offices, London, was responsible
for the handling of The Postmaster and The Marriage of the Bear in England. He
also held several other films from the U.S.S.R. at that time, including the celebrated
Potemkin and Aelita, but was unable to show them owing to censorship regulations
and commercial reasons.

154

THE SOVIET FILM

Protasanov, from the play by Count Alexei Tolstoi. This was an
extraordinary Martian fantasy, combining the events in Russia
during 191 7 and 191 8 with a fictitious story on the planet; it was
notable for its wonderful massed grouping of crowds and for the
cubist settings and costumes designed by Isaac Rabinovitch and
Madame Alexandra Exter, of the Kamerny Theatre, Moscow. It
has not been shown in England. The influence of the stage, in setting,
lighting, and acting was strongly marked on these 'art' films, there
being no trace of the dynamic filmic properties that were later to
become the characteristics of the Soviet cinema.

The first experiments in film construction, using strips of celluloid
as the basic material, which are the foundation of Soviet film tech-
nique appear to have been due to Lev Kuleshov. He was the director
of several productions, including On the Red Front, The Death Ray,
Expiation, and recently made The Gay Canary and 2 Buldi 2, as
well as being the founder of a school of cinematography. Kuleshov
tried many experiments in the arrangement of pieces of film in
different orders, finding that he could obtain remarkable effects by
the relation, inter-relation, and juxtaposition of the various lengths.
He logically maintained that in every art there was, firstly, a material
and, secondly, a method of composing that material according to its
nature; further, he determined that in the cinema the material was
the film strips of photographic record, and the composing was the
act of editing or piecing those strips together. His famous experiment
with the actor Mosjukhin and the plate of soup, the coffin, and the
little girl is probably too well-known to be repeated. Some time later,
Pudovkin, who at that time was working on scenarios, became
interested in the experiments of Kuleshov, and in 1923 they formed
together a production unit and made The Adventures of Mr. West
Among the Bolsheviki. This was followed later by Pudovkin 's film,
The Chess Player, in which Jose Capablanca was made to appear
to play a part merely by the cutting and composition of film strips.
Thus it is from the original experiments of Kuleshov and Pudovkin
that the modern school of advanced editing and cutting has developed.
It is of interest to note that Pudovkin suggests as a probable reason
for the progress of editing among the Soviet cineastes, that in the
early days there was a shortage of film stock, and that whilst they
were unable to find fresh film for their cameras, the Soviet technicians
had ample time to evolve cinematic theories. Not only this, but

i55

THE ACTUAL

they were forced to utilise what stock they had with the greatest
care in order to get the best effects, which provided a contrast to the
chaos and haste so characteristic of the studios of Hollywood and
England at that time.

The directors generally included in the left-wing, or most advanced
school, of Soviet film production are S. M. Eisenstein, V. I. Pudovkin,
G. Kozintsev and L. Trauberg, Lev Kuleshov, and to a lesser extent,
Dovjenko, Turin, and Ermler. The work of Eisenstein, who was
at one time trained as an engineer and an architect, is known by four
productions. He has particular leanings towards the drama and
comedy of the Japanese theatre and an immense interest in the work
of Sigmund Freud. His early experiences were varied. He worked
in the Russian army as a designer of field fortifications; he painted
camouflage and propaganda on the sides of cattle-trucks and trains;
he was employed as a decorator in the workers' theatre in Moscow;
he joined Meierhold, but was unable to agree with him; he studied
Leonardo da Vinci and the reflexological school of Pavlov at one and
the same time; and he has a fondness for the melodramatic thrillers
of Eugene Sue. In 1924, he made his first mass film, The Strike;
in 1925, The Battleship (Potemkin,y which was originally planned as
a section only of a larger film, 1905, the latter idea being abandoned
and the section being shown separately. In 1926, he began work on
The Old and the New, known also as The General Line, but dis-
continued production in order to make October, originally called
Ten Days that Shook the World, one of the several films commissioned
by the Government in connection with the tenth anniversary
celebrations of the revolution. Upon completion of October, he
returned to The Old and the New, finishing it in 1929. In all his
films he has been assisted by G. V. Alexandrov, with Eduard Tisse
as his principal cameraman. I find it of significance that Tisse was
originally employed in news-reel work, and thus is admirably suited
to Eisenstein 's impulsive method of working.

In his first three films, Eisenstein has been interested in the
representation of the mass mind, in particular the mass challenging
the established authorities. He has sought to express the spirit of
the people and not of the individual, and for this reason his work is
to be placed on the epic scale. The theme of Battleship 'Potemkiri*
is familiar. It concerned the revolt of the crew of a battleship against

156

THE SOVIET FILM

their officers on account of the bad food; the warm reception of the
rebel ship by the townspeople of Odessa; the attack on the latter
by the local military; and the final meeting of the battleship with
the remainder of the Russian fleet. October was a representation of
the events that followed the establishment of the Provisional Govern-
ment in 1 91 7; the flight of Kerenski; the attack on the Winter Palace;
and the triumph of Lenin. Both of these films were supreme examples
of advanced cinematography in that they were a synthetic combina-
tion of the emotional, the documentary and the absolute film.1

The intense dynamic vitality that is the keynote of Eisenstein's
personality is the dominating feature of his cinematic expression.
His films are unparalleled examples of ruthless, throbbing, vigorous
direction. With absolute faith he remains true to the central aim of
his theme. He does not seek help from outside sources, from irrele-
vant but symbolic references as does Pudovkin, in the expression of
his content. There are no isolated characters, no individual manner-
isms or personal developments in his films. He works with broad
vision, with the central theme of revolt as his one tremendous purpose.
It was the collective spirit of the sailors in Battleship iPotemkih>
and the feelings of the mass in October that gave those films their
grand, sweeping, awe-inspiring quality. Throughout the former, it
was the line of guards, the twirling parasols, the breadth of the lapping
waves, the sails of the yachts, the architectural rotation of the steps,
the flapping of the tent on the quay, the wind under the sheet that
covered the captive sailors, the mass-suspense of the rebel crew as they
waited for the fleet, that were significant. Similarly in October ', it
was the gigantic statue which guarded the streets, the architecture
and chandeliers of the Winter Palace, the floating pamphlets in the
river, the banners of the crowd, the rifles of the guard, that were the
main factors of expression. Added to which, Eisenstein has a wonder-
ful sense of pictorial composition and a unique feeling for the con-
stant movement of his acting material. The lighting of his scenes is
always so arranged and contrasted that the images never fail to convey
their meaning at the first flash. He has, in company with Griffith
and Abel Gance, an amazing sense of the pure visual image, apart
from any interest in human character. It is from his images,

1 The reader is referred to Eisenstein's Article, ' The Fourth Dimension in the
Kino,' published in Close Up (Vol. VI. Nos. 3, 4), in which is propounded his
theory for the ' ideological film ' and the evolution of ' intellectual cinema-
tography.'

157

THE ACTUAL

expressive only of collective spirit, that he constructs his main,
vibrating theme.

Eisenstein is essentially impulsive, spontaneous and dramatic in
his methods. He does not work from a detailed manuscript like
Pudovkin, for he has not the deliberate, calculating mind of the latter.
He prefers to wait until the actual moment of production and then
immediately seize upon the right elements for the expression of his
content. It is of note to recall that neither the steps sequence at
Odessa nor the misty shots of the harbour were included in the original
manuscript for Battleship 'Potemkin'; but as soon as Eisenstein
reached Odessa and found these features, he at once altered his
script to include them. He is thus a brilliant exception to the theory
of complete preconception which is dealt with elsewhere in this
volume.

He builds with a remarkable process of cutting, an overlapping of
movement from one shot into the next that filmically gives double
strength to his images. He seldom uses images without movement
of material, unless it is to convey atmosphere (as in the shots of the
gods and architecture in October) , which he overlaps, thus
emphasising the content. For example, the raising of the bridge in
October , with the dead horse and the girl's hair as details, was so
overlapped and shot from every available angle that the actual
movement was synthesised into at least a dozen filmic movements.
It is the insistence so produced that gives the work of Eisenstein
such extraordinary strength. His films can only be described as
producing the sensation of throbbing, pulsating, and prickling like
that of a purring piece of machinery. The spectator is conscious solely
of the insistence, the astonishing urge of expression. These are the
characteristics of the Eisenstein film that Edmund Meisel incorporated
in his musical scores for Battleship 'Potemkin' and October , thereby
rendering the presentation of these films doubly emotional. The key
to the power of Eisenstein 's direction is the relation that lies between
the cutting and the material content, utterly different to the con-
structive editing of Pudovkin. The rhythmic cutting of Eisenstein
is governed by the physiology of material content, whereas the
editing of Pudovkin is controlled by the constructive representation
of the elements of the scene, governed by the psychological expression
of the content. In the words of Moussinac: 'un film d' Eisenstein
ressemble a un cri; un film de Poudovkine evoque un chant. y

158

BATTLESHIP ' POTEMKIN '
by S. M. Eisenstein. The drowning of the officers. 1924-25

goskino

ifflj Wm

BA I I LESHIP ' Pol KM KIN '
by S. M. Eisenstein. Detail shot ." the famous s<enr on ih<-
steps o1 Odessa, memorablt '." //.■. rhythmic movement. ]^25

THE SOVIET FILM

In his most recent work, Eisenstein seems to be divided in his
outlook, his mass concept being split by the character of an individual.
Throughout The Old and the New there was a division of interest
between the character of Lapkina, the peasant girl, and the socio-
logical content of the theme. It was, of course, a film definitely
created for the purpose of instructing the agricultural classes, to
persuade them to adopt modern methods of machinery instead of
their primitive ways, and from this point of view was probably
successful. Cinematically, it was of interest in sequence construction
and the rhythmic placing of titles, as well as in the superb beauty
of the pictorial compositions. The individual types of the peasants,
the great stretching shots of landscape, of wind, of storm, of clouds,
were magnificent. The opening was conceived on a vast scale
representing the immensity of the area of Russia and its millions of
illiterate peasants. The whole conception was an enormous under-
taking, and, taking into allowance the period of interruption for the
production of October ', Eisenstein may be said to have succeeded far
beyond expectation in his task.1

As will have been gathered, Pudovkin is essentially the constructive
director, more interested in the method of expressing his themes
than in the themes themselves. His films contain more study, more
deliberation, more calculation, more esoteric intellectuality than
those of Eisenstein. Just as the themes of the latter are expressed
through the collective spirit of people and things, so are Pudovkin 's
individual characters expressed through the themes. Pudovkin is
scientific and architectural in his outlook; the builder of a film
composition from small pieces, essentially psychologically dramatic.
He is less spiritual and less physical than Eisenstein. He is more
methodical and less visionary.

By profession originally a chemical engineer (a fact not without
significance), he first became interested in cinematic representation
through the experiments of Kuleshov, as we have seen. He has made
five films to date, viz. The Mechanism of the Brain (1925), in collabora-
tion with the professors of Pavlov's laboratory at the Academy of
Sciences, Leningrad; The Chess Player, an experiment in cutting
(1926); Mother, from the story by Maxim Gorki (1926); The End of
St. Petersburg, one of the several films commissioned by the Soviet
Government in connection with the tenth anniversary celebrations

1 Cf. Eistenstein's new theories on tonal and overtonal montage, pages 55, 293.

159

THE ACTUAL

of the revolution (1927); and The Heir to Jenghiz Khan, frequently
referred to under the translation of the German title, Storm Over
Asia. He has also recently completed a sound film, Life is Beautiful.

The key to Pudovkin's direction lay plainly in The Mechanism
of the Brain, for it gave an exposition of the methods which he
employs for the selection of his visual images, based on an under-
standing of the working of the human mind. But most important of
the Pudovkin films was undoubtedly Mother, for in its brilliant
realisation were found not only the elements of his constructive
process, but a clue (in the opening scenes) to his future development
in the phase of non-political cinema. It is to the treatment of the
opening scenes in Mother that, I understand, Pudovkin has returned
in the production of Life Is Beautiful. In Mother, we discovered
the scientific method of the decomposition of a scene into its
ingredients, the choice of the most powerful and suggestive, and the
rebuilding of the scene by filmic representation on the screen. In
this respect, I recall the sequence of suspense at the gate of the
factory; the gradual assembly of the workers; the feeling of uncer-
tainty as to what was to happen. This was the result of extra-
ordinarily clever construction of shots and of camera position in
order to achieve one highly emotional effect. It may, perhaps,
appear the simplest of methods, the basis of all filmic representation,
but it needs the mental skill of a Pudovkin to extract such dramatic
force from a scene. I recall, also, the scene with the falling of the
clock; the discovery of the hidden fire-arms under the floorboards;
the trial, with the judges drawing horses on their blotting pads; the
coming of spring; the escape from the prison; and the final crescendo
ending of the cavalry charge. It is impossible to describe the
emotional effect of this film. Without hesitation, I place it amongst
the finest works in the history of the cinema.

The primary weapon in the building of scenes is Pudovkin's use
of reference by cross-cutting. In Mother, there was the constant
inclusion of landscape, of nature, noticeable in every sequence. It
was not symbolic, as with the porcelain figures in The Living Corpse,
but the sheer use of imagery to reinforce drama. The shots of vacant
landscape in the opening; the trees and the lake cut in with the boy
in prison; the breaking ice, rising by cross-cutting to a stupefying
climax in reference to the cavalry charge. It is this breadth of
reference that builds up the Pudovkin scene with such force.

160

THE SOVIET FILM

The End of St. Petersburg, although a brilliant example of the
methods of Pudovkin, had not the intense concentration of Mother.
It had not the compelling force, the contact with reality that made
the latter so great. The content sought to express the events of the
war years, the overthrow of the Czarist regime, and the final establish-
ment of the Lenin Government. It was in other words, the transition
of St. Petersburg to Leningrad. There were two subsidiary themes to
the main purpose; the coming of the peasant boy to the city in search
of work and his experience in the war; and the story of the Bolshevik
and his wife. Above all was the overwhelming triumph of the Soviets.
It was an astonishing film, composed with the full power of Pudov-
kin's filmic mind, at once overpowering and unconvincing. There
were many memorable sequences: the peasant and his companion
looking for work, coming to the Palace of Justice, the approach
through a maze of columns to the base of one great column; the
amazing scenes of hysteria at the outbreak of war, the fluttering
banners and flowers; the shots of the front cross-cut with those of
the stock exchange; the attack on the Winter Palace. Every sequence
was a wonderful example of construction, of the values of cutting
and of dramatic camera angles, but the film had neither the unity
nor the universal understanding of Mother.

With The Heir to Jenghiz Khan, Pudovkin rose to the height of his
career in some sequences whilst in others he lost the thread of his
theme by interest in local environment. The whole effect was one of
unevenness. In company with the two preceding films, it was a
masterpiece of filmic construction, of referential cross-cutting, and
of the representation of mixed mentalities. It opened with a series
of landscape shots of distant hills, of small round huts, of great
storm-clouds; and from the distance the spectator was taken nearer
by approaching shots. The whole of the first part up to the visit
to the lamaserai was magnificent. Thereafter, the theme inclined to
wander, to be interested in local detail rather than in the significance
of that detail. There were moments of great power, however, as
when the soldier took Bair to be shot; the witty cross-cutting between
the scenes of the general's wife dressing and the preparation of the
lamas for the festival; and the terrific storm scenes at the close.
These were Pudovkin at his best and most emotional, but the film
as a whole was broken up and over-long.

As is well known, Pudovkin prefers, whenever possible, to work
l 161

THE ACTUAL

with raw material, building it in terms of filmic representation to
achieve his desired result. Consequently he has filled his pictures
with the most remarkable types of all nationalities. The Heir to
Jenghiz Khan, for example, in its scenes of the fur market and the
festival of the lamas brought material to the screen that had never
before been photographed. The types were as amazing as those of
the peasants in Eisenstein's The Old and the New. Pudovkin has
been very successful in his results with these naturalistic methods
till now, and I believe that working on similar lines he will achieve
even greater success. I am convinced that his principles of filmic con-
struction, at once scientific, rhythmically structural, philosophic, and
architectural are those calculated to achieve the most emotional results.
To be included among the advanced Soviet directors are two men
of the younger school, G. Kozintsev and L. Trauberg, who have in
collaboration realised several films, including S.V.D. (which in
translation means A Great Work), The Devil's Ring, The Adventures
of Octobrine, and Shinel, from the story by Gogol. They have, at
the expense of their Government, studied film production in Paris
and Berlin. Their principal interest, however, lies in their recent
production New Babylon, a film based on the events of the Paris
Commune. Unlike other directors of the left-wing, who are chiefly
concerned with the naturalism of their material content, Kozintsev
and Trauberg favour a form of costume melodrama, stylised and
slightly romantic. For the expression of this heroic romanticism
they employ the recognised advanced forms of editing and cutting,
as originated by the theories of Pudovkin and Kuleshov. New
Babylon, although somewhat loosely composed and lacking the closely
woven pattern of Pudovkin 's early work, was conceived and realised
with emotional skill. The environment of the opening, cross-cut from
the interior of the emporium to the cafe, was well established, as
was the capture of the guns on the hill. The film suffered principally
from over-length and a straggling continuity of narrative towards
the end. It was, however, a progression from their earlier work,
in particular from S.V.D., which was a cloak and sword melodrama
set in the Decembrist period, about the second decade of the nine-
teenth century. It was notable for its lovely scenes of the military
in the snow-fields and an ice carnival. The chief merit of the direction
of these regisseurs lies in their brilliant handling of crowd work, of
constant movement among turbulent pictorial compositions.

162

NEW BABYLON
a film of the French Commune by G. M. Kozintsev and L. S.
Trauberg. The dregs of capitalism. . 1928

sovkino

NEW BABYLON
a film or the French Commune by G. M. Kozintsev and L. S.
Trauberg. The defense of the barricades. 1928

THE SOVIET FILM

Of particular interest also among the younger school is the work
of Dovjenko, one of the directors for the Vufku-kino, of the Ukraine,
who, although not strictly of the left-wing group, is outstanding for
his individuality of vision. In many peculiarities, Dovjenko is unique,
not only in the cinema of Soviet Russia, but in that of the world.
He has primarily an extraordinary faculty for adapting the character-
istics of writers and poets as well as those of other directors, welding
them with personal touches into his themes. He has no sense of
completeness, little conception of a film as a unified whole, but he
contrives nevertheless to charge his work with ideas that are universal.
His two films, Zvenigora and Arsenal, were filled with occult
mysticism and magic, and were almost supernatural in their wild
vagueness. He combines the mystical feeling of Dostoievski,
Hofmann and Gogol in his ever- wandering imagination. His ideas
are disjointed and his filmic expression is as yet immature, for he has
but limited knowledge of the exposition of his imagination in
constructive cinematic terms. He has, however, a definite sense of
the devices of the camera, instanced in the slow-motion opening to
Zvenigora, and the abrupt cessation of material movement in Arsenal.
His mysticism is fascinating. For example, in the latter film, a man
lit a candle for his ikon; the features of the saint grew disdainful;
he leaned down from his picture and blew out the candle in the man's
hand. Again, the soldiers were racing from the front with a sleigh
on which was a coffin; in the village the widow waited beside a grave
which was already mysteriously dug; the soldiers urged the horses
to go faster; one of the animals turned its head and said: 'All right,
we are going as fast as we can!' But, admirable as was the conception
of this incident, it was not sufficiently effective in cinematic expression.
It called for a dozen quick flashes of the horses and a title split among
them.

Both Zvenigora and Arsenal were erratic but impulsively created
with a combined aesthetic and spiritual mysticism. Actually, even to
the northern Soviets, much of Dovjenko 's work is unintelligible, for
he seeks to express legends and folk-lore peculiar to the Ukraine
and illogical to a spectator unversed in the traditions of the locale.
For this reason, Zvenigora was poorly received in Moscow and
Leningrad, and I am informed that much of its curious incident,
such as the placing of the bomb on the railway lines and the extraordin-
ary dream sequence, was only understandable to a Ukrainian gifted

163

THE ACTUAL

in party politics. Memorable were the scenes of the old man on the
grassy hillsides, wrapped in his magic visions; the digging for the
imaginary treasure; the spirit of the trees and the slopes; the en-
chanting beginning of the Cossacks riding in slow-motion; and the
passages in the woods with the brigands and the old man's evocations
of hidden treasure.

It is my belief that in Dovjenko, Soviet Russia has a director of
unprecedented vision, of wonderful imagination and of rare freedom
of mind. If it is possible for him to learn through experience the
right filmic exposition of his astonishing concepts (and he seems on
the correct path in the use of camera devices), Dovjenko will develop
into a cinematic artist of unique genius. With the exception of the
work of Eisenstein and Pudovkin, and Turin's Turkstb, Dovjenko 's
two films are the most stimulating to the mentality yet realised in
the U.S.S.R.

In contradistinction to the work of the left-wing directors, whose
principal interest lies in technical methods of construction and
expression of content, the characteristic of the right-wing is the
sociological purpose of their productions. Predominant in this
group is Alexander Room, who is a psychologist director interested
in the exposition of the interplay of emotions between an intimate
group of persons. He is inclined to approach the narrative
situations in his films through the reactions of the participants,
bringing their inner thoughts to the attention of the spectator by a
careful photographic selection of their small, possibly insignificant,
outer actions. He suppresses the environment of the narrative,
except where it can emphasise the human relationship, and employs
external objects only when they are of direct consequence to his
characters. It will be seen that, in this detail, Room is in direct
opposition to the methods of the left-wing. His direction is extremely
simple and straightforward, relying almost entirely on the acting
values of his cast and narrative' material for emotional effect. Each
of his films has carried a strong sociological content, of personal,
domestic, and contemporary importance. From a psychological
point of view, Room seems primarily absorbed in the mental and
physical attitude of men towards women. This was the thematic
basis of his best-known film, the notorious Bed and Sofa, which has
met with approval in most countries, though it was refused public

164

THE SOVIET FILM

exhibition in England, even after certain deletions had been effected.
It was, however, shown privately to the Film Society, April 7th, 1929.

The sociological theme of Bed and Sofa was in sympathy with the
general movement to raise the social level of women by the frank
realisation of masculine selfishness. Room took a narrative of a
husband, his wife, and another man, of universal consequence,
and placed it in an environment of Moscow during the housing
shortage problem. Out of the peculiar circumstances arising from
the nature of the environment, he contrived situations that lent
themselves to an expression of his motive. He carried the first two-
thirds of his treatment of the eternal triangle with almost perfect
direction, until at that point at which a decision had to be made in
order to carry the moral content, he descended to a sentimental and
banal motherhood feeling on the part of the wife, thereby destroying
the intensity of the drama, but achieving his sociological motive.
Moreover, it was apparent that this sudden discrepancy, providing
a weak conclusion to an otherwise brilliant film, was due to a con-
cession to the policy of the producers, to wit the discouragement of
abortion in the U.S.S.R. ^Esthetically speaking, it was neither the
logical nor natural ending for the first two-thirds of the film. Had
Bed and Sofa been finished from the opposite point of view, I believe
that it would have been one of the greatest films ever made. The
mental understanding that controlled the direction of the earlier
portions was amazing. The emphasis of contrasted moods, of space
and compression, of sense of humour and depression, was conveyed
to the spectator with tremendous psychological knowledge. There
was no gesture, however small, on the part of the characters (admirably
played by Nicolai Batalov, Luidmila Semenova, and the late Vladimir
Fogel) which had not supreme significance in revealing the inner
working of their minds. The construction of the situations was
perfectly contrived, the continuity having a smooth fluidity that
enveloped the spectator. The balance of the scenario and the arrange-
ment of the alternating incidents were masterly. Technically, the
cutting was so good as to be almost unnoticeable. I suggest that,
despite the failure of the concluding sequences, Bed and Sofa was
an unequalled instance of pure psychological, intimate, cinematic
representation of human character.

Room's first film, The Death Ship, was made a year previously,
in 1926. It was of interest as the early work of a clever director, but

165 '

THE ACTUAL

was primitive in many respects, lacking the construction of Bed and
Sofa. It is not worth detailed comment, being notable chiefly for
the sparkling quality of the landscape environment in the Black
Sea district. He has since made The Pits and The Ghost that Never
Returns, from a story by Henri Barbusse. The former was again
uneven in texture, certain passages of intense emotional feeling
between the girl and her lover in her squalid room being upset by
the propaganda scenes in the workers' club and in the children's
nurseries, as well as by the enforced 'glory of motherhood' motive.
From a pictorial point of view some of the scenes in the glass factory
where the men worked were of great beauty, but the melodramatic
ending in the workers' theatre was poorly contrived. Once again,
the spectator experienced the overthrow of what might have been
a good film by the stressed introduction of propaganda, without
which the film would never have been produced by the Government.
It is impossible to ignore the purpose of such films, or not to ap-
preciate their aim, but while it is understood it is also deplored. From
a sociological point of view, both The Pits and Bed and Sofa were
probably admirable; but from the cinematic outlook, their emphasised
moral motive was regrettable.

In the right-wing group is to be included also the work of Olga
Preobrashenskaia, whose film The Peasant Women of Riazan has
been much praised in intelligent film circles. Actually, however,
when judged by the work of Room or the left-wing directors,
Preobrashenskaia 's direction lacks power and insight, although this
picture was superior to the average American or European output.
Olga Preobrashenskaia has three assets: a feeling for movement of
material; a deep sense of natural beauty; and an idea of pictorial
composition. But, as has been pointed out, these qualities are to be
found in almost every Soviet production. She lacks conception and
has a leaning towards the theatrical both in lighting and in acting,
but the principal reason for the weakness of The Peasant Women of
Riazan was once again the sociological propaganda. The concluding
scenes with the children's welfare home and the 'new spirit' were
indifferent. There were certainly passages of great beauty, notably
those of the waving ear-heads of corn, the scenes of the spring festival
and the wedding of Ivan and Anna, but the film as a whole lacked
dramatic value. Several other pictures have been made by the same
woman director, including some for children which she should have

166

THE SOVIET FILM

done well, and she has recently completed The Last Attraction, a
circus story, which is again said to be uneven and inferior to The
Peasant Women of Riazan.

A further film of the same type was Eugenij Cheriakov's His
Son, which began in a maternity hospital and ended in an ambulance.
It was yet another theme of child welfare work, and, according to
accounts, the spectator was entertained by shots of babies eating,
washing themselves, and sleeping, with a funeral and a ' last-minute-
rescue ' as the high-spots.

The virtuosities of Dziga-Vertov and his group of the cine-eye
have been called the avant-garde of the Soviet cinema. Actually, I
suggest that, with the possible exception of KaufTmann, the group is
going round in circles without being able to find a way out. Dziga-
Vertov has instanced his theory of the cine-eye, a theory upon which
he has based all his films and which the workers of the cine-eye
group of the Vufku-kino organisation of the Ukraine attempt to
develop year by year, as follows:

'. . . It is the evening performance at a cinema in a little village
near Moscow. The local picture-theatre is filled with peasants and
workmen from the neighbouring factory. A film is being shown
without musical accompaniment. The only sound that breaks the
stillness is the whirring machinery of the projector. An express train
flashes across the screen. Then a little girl appears, walking slowly
towards the audience. Suddenly, there is a startled scream in the
house. A woman rushes forward towards the image of the little girl
on the screen. She weeps and clasps a child in her arms. But the
image on the screen has passed away. A train again flashes across
the screen. The lights in the house go up. The woman is being
carried out, for she has become unconscious. "What has happened?"
asks a visitor to the workman next to him. The latter turns slowly
to look at him, and replies, "Ah, that, my friend, is the cine-eye. The
girl whose image you saw on the screen fell ill some time ago, and
recently she died. That woman who cried out and ran towards the
screen, she was the girl's mother. . . ." '

The cine-eye group specialise in the progress of what they call
in Soviet Russia the 'film without joy,' which can be associated in
a mild way with the interest picture. Briefly, the idea of the cine-eye
is the cinematography of actual incidents and objects of everyday

167

THE ACTUAL

life. Vertov watches human expressions, mannerisms, and small
incidents everywhere, photographing them at their most character-
istic moments. He has no interest in films acted by professional
players, which he considers theatrical. The method is a scientific,
experimental study of the visible world. It seeks to collect and to
catalogue for our pleasure and edification the actualities of con-
temporary life. It sorts out the pertinent from the irrelevant and
places it on the cinema screen.

The object of the cine-eye is to build an international language
of the cinema. The ordinary cine-fiction film already achieves this
to a certain extent, but in most cases it is a false rendering of fact.
A record must be made and kept and shown of all that happens
around us, apart from news matter which is adequately dealt with
in the news bulletin. The lens of the camera has the power of the
moving human eye. It can and does go everywhere and into every-
thing. It climbs the side of a building and goes in through the window;
it travels over factories, along steel girders, across the road, in and
out of trains, up a chimney stack, through a park . . . into the houses
of the rich and poor; it stands in the street, whilst cars, trams, 'buses,
carts flash by it on all sides ... it follows this person down that alley
and meets that one round the corner. . . .

The workers of the cine-eye made their first manifesto in 1923,
published in a paper called 'Lef.' But before this, from 191 8 to 1922,
Dziga-Vertov worked alone as the pioneer and experimenter of the
cine-eye, until between 1923 and 1925 a small group was formed,
numbering among them Kauffmann (Vertov's brother) and Kopaline.
Since that date, the output of the group has increased, until now it
may be said that the cine-eye group of the Vufku-kino is at the head
of the documentary section of the Soviet cinema. The workers of the
group rejoice in the name of the kinoki, and of their work may be
mentioned The Struggle under Czarism, The Truth of Lenin, The Sixth
Part of the World, The Eleventh Year (one of the several films com-
missioned by the Soviet Government in connection with the tenth
anniversary celebrations of the revolution), The Man With the Camera,
Spring, and The Cradle.

The cine-eye makes use of all the particular resources of the
cinema, of slow-motion, ultra-rapid motion, reversed movement, com-
posite and still photography, one turn -one picture, divided screen,
microscopic lens, etc. It uses all the forms of montage in assembling

168

THE MAN WITH THE CAMERA
by Dziga-Vertov, with camerawork by Kauffman. The
pre-eminent film of cine-eye school; note texture of the skin.

1928

vufku

Mjvkino

THE GHOST THAT NEVER RETURNS
by Alexander Room ; note extraordinary texture of the surface
of the river bed, and compare with illustration above. 1929

THE SOVIET FILM

and presenting its facts in a coherent order out of the chaos of modern
life, and it seeks to establish a level of distinction among the thousands
of phenomena that present themselves on all sides to the mind of
the cine-director. All this was set down at length in a manifesto by
Vertov in 1919.

The whole of the theories of Vertov were summed up in The Man
With the Camera, which, although a fascinating exposition of the
resources of the cinema and a marvellous example of technical
accomplishment, was totally devoid of dramatic value. Throughout
the film the spectator was constantly being reminded of the camera,
for it was continually being brought before the eye on the screen.
The film was regularly punctuated by the interruption of a close up
of the lens of the camera, the camera itself, and the eye of the camera-
man. We travel along watching a cameraman photographing a lady
in a carriage. We see on the screen what the camera of the camera-
man is taking. We see the cameraman as the lady in the carriage
sees him. We are alternately the camera and we see what the camera
sees; then we are seeing the camera seeing what we saw before.
At that point, we cease seeing the camera and we see what we have
just seen being developed and mounted in the studio-laboratory.
'Ah,' we say to ourselves, 'that is the cine-eye.'

Vertov was over-fond of cross-cutting for the purpose of compari-
son. From streets being washed to a girl washing herself; from
motor-horns to a policeman holding up the traffic and back again;
from the soft beds of the rich to the hard benches in the park; his
cutting was generally short and staccato. He was over-inclined to
flash a series of two-frame shots before the audience and blind them.
Vertov in practice ran away from Vertov in theory.

The Eleventh Year was a record of the construction of the Ukraine
during the ten years of Soviet regime. Its theme was man's attempted
control over nature; of civilisation over the primitive. Where before
there was waste ground now there are towns. Water that was useless
now supplies the electricity for hundreds of homes. Thus the film
went on with mines and pits and chimneys and smoke and workers.
Kauffmann's picture Spring attempted to show the gradual transition
from the Russian winter to the first signs of spring; the awakening
of new life. It was admirably photographed and well composed into
a beautiful pattern of shots.

With the coming of the sound film, the cine-eye theories expand

169

THE ACTUAL

to embrace the cine-radio. The camera becomes the ear as well as
the eye. The kinoki become the radioki. They seek now to express
their material in terms of cine-eye-sound, in the form of radio- vision.
Eventually they will come to the simultaneous montage of visual
and sound facts, sensitive to the touch and capable of being smelled.

The work of Dziga-Vertov and his confreres is necessarily limited.
There are bounds to the amount of reality available even to his
cine-eyes and cine-ears. He cannot, for example, record emotional
scenes, except when taken out of doors and then they must be natural.
By rejecting all forms of studio work, he sets inevitable barriers to
his progress. Although from a technical standpoint I have full
admiration for the pictures of Dziga-Vertov, I am convinced that
he has been proceeding up a cul-de-sac, and that he is already at
the end. His last film, The Man With the Camera, was a wonderful
piece of virtuosity, of montage, of material and of cutting, a perfect
exposition of the cinematic values available to the director, but little
else. Outside Russia his theories and films are only just becoming
known, hence their enthusiastic reception by the intelligentsia and
amateur film groups, but in his own country he is not considered
to have achieved anything since the publication of his early mani-
festos. He is, in fact, rather out of date.

In Soviet Russia, as in other countries, there are many second
and third rate directors whose films, in comparison to those of the
left and right wings, are not of unusual consequence. Their work,
however, has met with considerable approval amongst the film
litterati, and it is usual to find their merits have been largely over-
estimated. Typical amongst this group I would place such men as
Georgi Stabavoi, Fiodor Otzep, Boris Barnet, Y. A. Protasanov,
and Youri-Taritch.

Stabavoi works for the Vufku-kino, having realised for them The
Man in the Forest, Calumny, and Two Days, the last being his most
important picture. He is a heavy-handed, darkly psychological
director, capable of utilising dramatic situations to some effect, but
is not considered of much importance by the Russian school. Otzep
has made three films, Mess Mend, The Yellow Pass, and, in conjunc-
tion with Messrs. Prometheus, of Berlin, The Living Corpse, from
the play by Tolstoi. He was originally well known as a scenario
writer, being responsible for the manuscripts of The Postmaster,

170

THE SOVIET FILM

Polikushka, and The Cigarette Maker of Mosselprom. He is not a
director of any standing, his work being uneven and lacking in
dramatic quality. The Living Corpse, which was one of the few films
exemplifying Soviet technique to be generally shown in England,
was of interest principally for the playing of Pudovkin as Fedya
Protasov, and for the editing, which was in the hands of the latter.
It was obviously the product of a unit working in unaccustomed
surroundings. Barnet is a director of comedies, usually of amusing
incident and notable for an employment of trick effects. Two of his
comedies have been seen, Moscow that Laughs and Weeps, and The
House in Trubnaya Square. Both were humorous as light entertain-
ment, but not of cinematic importance. The latter contained all the
elements of slapstick, being a burlesque on middle-class life in a
block of flats in Moscow. There was a delightful Ford car that did
tricks, an amusing election procession, and some comic theatre
scenes. It was, moreover, a clever burlesque on many Soviet films.
There was more than a gentle dig at Eisenstein's crowds and Dziga-
Vertov's tramcars. Protasanov is a director of the old school, in
company with Youri-Taritch, Gardin, Dolinov, and Pantelev. He
was the director of the big Martian fantasy, Aelita, of The Three
Thieves, The Waiter's Daughter, The White Eagle, and The Forty-
First, none of which was of more than average merit. Youri-Taritch
has made two big spectacle films, Ivan the Terrible and Revolt in
Kazan. Both were historical costume pictures, for the Russian loves
his historical film, and were excellent pictorially. The list of directors
in this class could be extended considerably, but their work, as a rule,
is not worth detailed comment.

There are, however, three recent Soviet films that demand inclusion,
The Fragment of an Empire, Prison, and Turksib, for their directors,
Ermler, Raismann, and Turin, will be of future significance. The
first is a member of a group of experimenters attached to the
Leningrad Studio of the Sovkino, and The Fragment of an Empire
was their fifth production. This film was the epitome of the Soviet
sociological propaganda cinema, realised with an extraordinary skill
of technical achievement. Its theme was the expression of the con-
structive work accomplished in Soviet Russia since the October
revolution, and its aim was to sum up the achievement of the workers
and to reflect the ideals of the modern Government. It contained
problems of cultural reform, of discipline among the workers, of

171

THE ACTUAL

friendship, and of the eternal universal question of love and marriage.
The film was a complete document of the social and political life of
contemporary Russia. The exterior scenes were taken in various
towns, but were fllmically composed into one great city, Ermler
presumably desiring to express a universal concept of the newly
constructed country. The narrative interest concerned a N.C.O.,
who was wounded and lost his memory in 19 17, and regained it ten
years later. He returned to St. Petersburg to discover Leningrad.
In place of all that he knew in the past, he became involved in the
new country of the Soviets. From a psychological point of view,
the direction of Ermler was amazing. The subconscious process of
the man's mind, particularly in the return of his memory through
an association of latent ideas, was portrayed with extraordinary power.
From death to emptiness; from emptiness to perplexity; from
perplexity to understanding, the changing mental states were subtly
revealed. As a representation of mental images, of reactions, of
subconscious thought, the film was unequalled. The employment
of technical resources was admirable; the cutting swift and slow in
perfect modulation; the pattern closely woven. It is undoubtedly
the outstanding film of the Soviet cinema after the two last produc-
tions of Eisenstein and Pudovkin.

Raismann's film of a mutiny in a prison, although less interesting
than Ermler 's compelling picture, was nevertheless a clever piece
of cinematography. The opening was on a grand scale of clouds and
architecture in slow dissolve shots, followed by the wind in a Siberian
prison, and a dramatic escape. There succeeded the life in the prison
under the new governor, the revolt that failed, the scene of prisoners
at the church, the governor's party, and the release of the prisoners
because of the revolution. It was, in fact, the old theme, but directed
with a high degree of skill, with contrasted lighting and clever cross-
cutting.

Victor Turin's magnificent film of the building of the Turkestan-
Siberian Railway was shown during March 1930, by the London
Workers' Film Society. It was primarily a remarkable example of
the organisation of material. The film was divided into parts, each
dealing with a certain phase of the great undertaking. Thus the
opening reels expressed the urgent need for the railway in order to
link up the vast territories of the north and the south, showing the
difficulties of the old, primitive methods of transport and irrigation.

172

THE I'LOOD
by Kavaleridze note theatrical lighting to emphasise the luxury
and magnificence supposed iz- exist wider the old regime. 1928

vul'ku

ZVENIGORA

Nadsmski c; the eld man with I 2923

it'ku

THE SOVIET FILM

These were followed by scenes of the first surveyors, the assembly
of the material needed for the task, the gradual pushing out of the
railroad into the barren wastes, the first giant locomotive to make its
appearance amongst the camels and horses, the triumph of man and
machinery over nature, leading up to a final crescendo of the promise
that the line would be open in 1930. The theme was handled with
astonishingly skilful editing, the audience being worked up to an
intense emotional crisis by the sheer brilliance of technique. Indivi-
dual scenes of strong dramatic value abounded in every part, but
especial mention may be made of the sand-storm in the desert,
the coming of the water from the mountains to the land below, and
the race between the first engine and the tribesmen mounted on their
ponies and oxen.

A predominant feature of the Soviet cinema is the wide develop-
ment of the interest picture and travel film for educational purposes.
There is practically no subject, whether scientific, geographical,
ethnological, industrial, military, naval, aeronautical, or medical which
has not been approached by Soviet directors. It is quite impossible
in a short space to give any idea of the vastness to which this side
of the cinema has attained in the U.S.S.R. I can only mention a
few films that were outstanding in each group, so as to indicate the
range of the material covered. Firstly, there seems to be almost no
essential part of the territories of Russia that remains photographically
unrecorded. There has been a constant succession of production
units leaving the various studios for the purpose of making film
expeditions. In this section there was the wonderful Pamyr, the film
of a joint expedition organised by the Leningrad Academy of Sciences
and the German Notgemeinschaft; The Heart of Asia, taken in
Afghanistan; The Trail of a Meteorite , made in the Siberian marshy
forests; The Way to India', Sea Warrens, dealing with the migration
of birds and the vegetation of the steppes, during spring and autumn,
along the coast country of the Black Sea; Comet, a film of Tartar
life; The Men of the Wood, an expedition into N.W. Siberia; The
Rails Go Ringing, made by Leontiev in the engine sheds at Tiflis;
and many others. Industrial and agricultural sections include such
films as: The Sunflower Industry, The Fight for the Harvest, Chaos
and Order, Soviet Fordism, The Campaign for a Crop. Medical and
hygiene films have been plentifully made, viz., Ten Years of Soviet

173

THE ACTUAL

Medicine, The Morning of a Healthy Man, Mother and Child, Malaria,
etc.

It is difficult to write freely about the pre-eminent films of the
Soviet cinema, for however much one may admire their technical
excellence and acknowledge their unquestionable superiority to the
product of any other film-producing country, it is impossible to
ignore their primary social, political, and often anti-religious influence.
The whole existence of the Soviet cinema has come about through
the urgent desire to express vividly and with the utmost effect the
policy of the Soviet Government and development of the principles
of Leninism. Elsewhere in this survey I have written that the
primary aim of the film at the present moment is entertainment.
This statement must be qualified by the functions of the Soviet
cinema, which have caused the film to be considered as a dominant
factor in the social and political organisation of a country. Hence
it is that the finest examples of the greatest form of dramatic expression
in the contemporary world are rendered unacceptable to a country
of intelligence, culture, and deep-rooted tradition. The situation,
which is obviously of the greatest consequence to the future develop-
ment of the cinema as a whole, is without practical solution. I do not
deny that there are many Soviet films that could be generally exhibited
in England without resultant harm, but I am equally certain that
there are a great number of others which, by reason of their brilliance
of execution (and thus, persuasiveness), could not be freely circulated
without detriment to the constitution of this country. On the other
hand, I can see no logical reason why the best products of Soviet
cinematography should not be shown by special arrangement to
restricted audiences of people in personal contact with the British
film industry. In this connection, the London Film Society and the
Workers' Film Society are to be congratulated warmly for their
enterprise, since it is only through their channels that it has been
possible in England to examine the most interesting expressions of
the Soviet effort.

i7 +

VII
THE GERMAN FILM

Not so long ago, it was general to look to the German cinema for
the real uses of the film medium. A single German production
meant a promised relief from the twenty American metallic movies
which shouldered its London presentation. The simplicity of the
German cinema then indicated that the intelligence and artistry,
the creative imagination and craftsmanship, so essential to the produc-
tion of a unified work of art, lay in the studios of Neubabelsburg and
Staaken. It became natural to believe that a film coming from a
German studio, made by a German director, cameraman, architect,
and actors would be of certain interest. During that period of the
German cinema which culminated in The Last Laugh and Tartuffe,
this was the truth. So far as was known at that time, the Germans
were the only producers of intelligent films in the world, with the
exception, perhaps, of a few isolated examples of the early French
school and the heavy pictures of the Swedes. Germany was wise in
that she put her best talent into the creation of an industry, subsidised
by the Government; but she reckoned without the influence of the
American movie on the audiences of the world. The Germans were
unable to realise that, outside their own country, few people of
intelligence and good taste ever went to the cinema. We know that
the general public had become saturated with the artificiality of the
Hollywood movie. It was quite unable to cope with the meaning
that the serious-minded German contained in his film. The masses
had little, if any, experience of the cinema as a means of dramatic
expression. They were shocked at and did not fully comprehend
the sombre, darkly lit, intensely powerful German film. They knew
nothing of psychology, of decorative beauty, and of the intrinsic
reality of the cinema. They continued to show interest in the movie.
The German film flourished awhile, sparkled with individual
efforts, developed technical resources to a pitch of perfection and

i75

THE ACTUAL

brought new conceptions to light on the support of her own intelligent
people and those of France and lesser Europe. But the German film
languished for want of wider support. The ideas of these films were
conceived on a grand scale, demanding large finance for their
realisation, but the returns were small. The true German film died
quietly. Many of its creators went to America, whilst those who
remained joined with fresh commercialised minds in the complete
reorganisation of their industry on American principles. Hollywood
took interest in her rival, nourished her, but stole her talent. The
German cinema became American in its outlook and its character-
istics became those of Hollywood.

The films which Germany produced in the years following the
war were no more saleable outside her own country than those of
the Swedes and the French. The position of her film industry was
founded upon an uneconomic basis. It must be recalled that film
production in Europe was grievously hampered by the lack of
sufficient financial resource; whereas America was preposterously
wealthy. Whilst money was the last worry of Hollywood producers,
in Germany (as later in England) it was the first. The German
Government, realising that the showing of her films abroad would
bring about advertisement after her ignominious war defeat, helped
the industry with whole-hearted support. It induced the Deutsches
Bank to finance the biggest company, the Universum Film, A.G.
(known to the world as Ufa), and then brought into play the
Kontingent law, which drastically required every German distributor
to buy one home production for every American film he handled.
This ruling certainly encouraged the production in the studios,
although it meant, on the other hand, that there was a chance of
quality being flouted by quantity. But despite this subsidy the
German cinema continued to flounder, constantly becoming bank-
rupt, borrowing money from American firms, and taking twice the
scheduled time to make a film. Interchange of studio personnel and
players was adopted freely in order to keep the trend of production
international. Many British and French stars are better known in
Germany than in England. Recently, German directors have been
working in English studios; failing to understand British temperament
and trying to intermix German psychology with British bourgeois
unintelligence. British firms produced in Germany and even with
the technical resources available failed to justify their existence. All

176

THE STONE RIDER
by Dr Arnold Fanck. An example of german decorative
studio craftsmanship ; note all the mannerised eredions. 1923

DESTINY
by Fritz Lang. The story of the third light. A supreme
instance of german studio craftsmanship ; note plasterivork etc.

decla-bioskop

THE GERMAN FILM

along there has been a slavish imitation of American methods.
Germany finds it difficult now to produce a film that is German.

In surveying the German cinema from the end of the war until
the coming of the American dialogue film, the output may roughly
be divided into three groups. Firstly, the theatrical costume pictures;
secondly, the big middle period of the studio art films; and thirdly,
the decline of the German film in order to fall into line with the
American 'picture-sense' output. These three periods naturally
overlap one another, and there have been isolated exceptions to
the general trend. Such pre-eminent films as The Cabinet of Doctor
Caligari, Torgus, Vanina, The Last Laugh, and the films of G. W.
Pabst, stand apart from the general run of production, in certain
cases being advanced examples of the type of film to come in the
future.

The easily distinguishable characteristics of the earlier German
films were their feeling for studio representation, for simplicity of
story and treatment, for a consciousness of camera presence, and for
a dramatic, psychological understanding of events. The German film
was born and bred in an atmosphere of studio structure, for seldom
did the German director go outside for his exterior material. The
outstanding feature of all the greater of the early German films
was their decorative sense of architecture. At an elementary stage
in their cinematic development, the Germans revealed a strong and
not unwanted tendency towards filmic craftsmanship. An instance
of this is the perfection to which German cameramen have taken
the technical qualities of their photography. It was in Germany
that the camera first learned to be free of its tripod, that it first
assumed the movement and life of a human being. But although
they used their camera to its full capacity, the Germans still largely
retained the studio-mind, approaching at times the artificiality of the
theatre. They seemed unable to accept the possibility of the free
spirit of the cinema, which is so marked in later Soviet and French
productions. Germany was unable to produce an En Rade or a
Battleship 'PotemkinJ but she did bring to light The Student of
Prague and The Love of Jeanne Ney. There is little doubt, however,
that the studio-mind, with its love of craftsmanship and structural
work, imposed limitations on the choice of theme and treatment,
restrictions that have damaged the recent films of Erich Pommer,
m 177

THE ACTUAL

Nina Petrovna, Homecoming, and Asphalt. While it is admitted that
studio architecture is absolutely necessary for certain incidental
situations, which cannot be achieved on actual location (such as the
creation of special streets and landscapes), nevertheless this artificiality
is in opposition to the real aim of the cinema. Material that serves
for filmic creation in the process of constructional editing has need
to be the nearest approach to reality, if not reality itself.

The German film has contributed many valuable attributes to
the cinema of the world. From the studio film there has been learnt
the complete subordination of acting material, revealed so well in
The Student of Prague; the pre-organisation of studio floor-work,
including the composite set which allows for the taking of scenes in
their correct sequence 1; the unification of light, setting, and acting
material (the central part of Tar tuff e, and The Last Laugh); and the
freedom of the camera as an instrument of expression, assuming the
status of an observer and not of a spectator. The German cinema has
taught discipline and organisation, without which no film can be
produced as a unified whole.

The importance of the realisation of The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari
has already been dwelt upon at some length. To reiterate, it was
the first significant attempt at the expression of a creative mind in
the new medium of cinematography. It broke with realism on the
screen; it suggested that a film, instead of being a reality, might be a
possible reality; and it brought into play the mental psychology of
the audience. There has been a tendency of late to look back with
disdain at the theatrical character of Wiene's film. It has been objected'
that The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari, in its structural co-ordination
of light, design, and players, in its cubist-expressionist architecture,
was pure stage illustration. It needs but little intelligence to utter
this profound criticism, but it must be realised that The Cabinet of
Doctor Caligari was produced under extraordinary circumstances.
It is simple to look back now and diagnose the crudities of Wiene's
work, with the most recent progress of the Soviet film and the
American 'compound' cinema fresh in mind, but in 1919 all theory
of the cinema was extremely raw. It is only through such experiments
as that of Wiene, Warning Shadows, The Street, and The Last Laugh,
that advance has been at all possible. The narrow-minded cine-
journalists of to-day blind themselves to the traditional development

1 See description, page 118, of composite set used in Hotel Imperial.

178

THE GERMAN FILM

of the cinema. They seize upon Dziga-Vertov and deny the existence
of Karl Dreyer; they saturate their minds with the sound film and
forget the intrinsic structure of visual images. It has been said that
the admirers of The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari are usually painters,
or people who think and remember graphically. This is a mistaken
conception, for the true cineaste must see and realise the importance
of its realisation as well as that of La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc, The
Last Laugh, ToVable David, Finis Terrce, Jeanne Ney, and Turksib.
Each of these films is related, each overlaps in its filmic exposition
of thought. It is absurd to deny their existence on the grounds of
theatricalism, expressionism, individualism, or naturalism. Without
the creation of The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari, much that is admired
in the cinema of to-day would be non-existent. It bore in it a sug-
gestion of the fantasy that was to be the prominent characteristic of
the art film. Some short time later, Kobe's Torgus, or The Coffin
Maker, again with expressionist architecture, was another indication
of the mystical fantasy which was to be the underlying motive of
Warning Shadows, The Student of Prague, Waxworks, and others of
a similar type.

The essence of the middle German film was simplicity of story
value and of actional interest that eventually led to a completeness
of realisation fulfilled in The Last Laugh. Many of the themes were
simple experiments in film psychology. Karl Grune's The Street
was a reduction of facts to the main development of one character
during a short period of time. It obtained its mood by the co-
ordination of light and camera psychology rather than by the acting,
which was crude and mannered. Arthur Robison's Warning
Shadows was again a simplification of detail, a centralisation of incident
into small units of space and time, decorated by a fantastic touch.
Waxworks was yet another example. Nearly all these films contained
the fantastic element. They were seldom wholly tragic or wholly
comic. They were often melodramatic, as in the case of Doctor
M abuse.

Earlier than this middle period of simplicity and fantasy there
had been a wholesale production of theatrical costume films that
made use of the German's natural love for spectacle and the property
room. These served as a foundation for the stylised school of German
film acting. At all periods of the German cinema, the actors have
exerted a stabilising influence on the fluctuation of the various types

179

THE ACTUAL

of films. Their restraining presence helped towards the establish-
ment of the film as a whole. One recalls, in this respect, the numerous
films of Conrad Veidt, Emil Jannings, Alfred Abel, Werner Krauss,
Bernard Goetzke, Julius Falkenstein, Albert Steinruck, Alexander
Granach, Asta Nielson, Henny Porten, Lydia Potechina, etc., in
which the actors themselves steadied, and even in some cases con-
trolled the direction.

With the German feeling for studio-craftsmanship came the
decorative architecture and freedom of camerawork that were
brought to a head in the big production of Faust, foreshadowed by
Lang's Destiny and Siegfried, Robison's Warning Shadows, Murnau's
Tar tuff e, and Ludwig Berger's Cinderella. The decorative setting,
based on traditional design with modern fantastic motives, played a
large part in the middle German period. These fantastic productions
began and ended with themselves. They carried no universal meaning,
as did Karl Grune's The Street or At the Edge of the World. To
this completeness, already partially achieved by the maturity of the
traditional acting material, the splendid settings of Walther Rohrig,
Robert Herlth, Otto Hunte, Erich Kettlehut, Karl Vollbrecht,
Albin Grau, Rudolph Bamberger, Herman Warm, and others, added
a final binding force. Their plastic columns, bulging mouldings,
great flat expanses, simply decorated architecture formed an admirable
background, never obtruding, for the acting material and simplicity
of treatment of the period. It is of the utmost importance to grasp
the significant part played by the architect in the development of
the German cinema. Indeed, it may be said without detriment to
their directors that two-thirds of the aesthetic success of Warning
Shadows, Siegfried, and Cinderella lay in their design. The first
part of the Nibelungen Saga has never been equalled for sheer
decorative beauty; the complete charm of Cinderella came from the
decoration of Rudolph Bamberger. Destiny, The Golem, Sumurunt
and Waxworks were equally superb in their creative architecture.
This natural feeling for decoration, for simple but rich design, in
the Diireresque and Baroque styles, was the real basis of the German
studio-mind. Even in films of a popular type this wonderful sense
for good design was prevalent. Unlike other countries, the experi-
mentalists in the German cinema were able to embody their revolu-
tionary ideas in films of general practicability. There was almost
no German avant-garde school at that time, for the most advanced

1 80

CINDERELLA
the delightful fantasy film by Ludwig Berger, with architedure
by Rudohh Bamberger; note beautiful lighting contrast. 1923

geiman

TARTU FFE
by F. W. Murnau, camerawork by Karl Freund and design by
Walter Rbhrig and Robert Herlth. HI Dagover as Elmire.

1925

THE GERMAN FILM

filmic intelligences were working in the commercial studios. This
accounted to a large extent for the superior aesthetic value of the
German film in relation to the rest of the world's output.

Towards the gradual decline of the decorative film, brought about
by its own completeness, there arose a new type of cinema, less
fantastic and more inclined to reality, but incorporating even more
strongly the psychology of human emotions in the thematic narrative.
This new form had been heralded to some extent by the appearance,
in 1922, of von Gerlach's Vanina, adapted from Stendahl, with
Asta Nielson, Paul Wegener, and Paul Hartmann. In consideration
of its date, Vanina was unique in its un- German feeling for fluidity
of thematic conception. Vanina had breadth and space outside the
customary studioisms of the period. Three years later there came
The Last Laugh, which, as has been stated earlier, laid down the
elementary principles of filmic continuity. It was, perhaps, an
unequalled example of the co-ordination of production personnel.
Murnau, Freund, Mayer, and Jannings worked collectively to produce
a film that was a complete realisation in itself. It expressed a simple,
universal theme, unrelieved by incidental detail and cross purposes.
It was a centralisation of environment, of setting, of atmosphere,
of players, to one dominating purpose. It had a plastic fluidity that
was made possible by a titleless continuity. It had a completeness
that for once was achieved by the architecture of the studio. It was
the final outcome of the German craftsman's studio-mind. In the
same year, as well as The Last Laugh, there was to come Dupont and
Pommer's celebrated Vaudeville, Grune's The Two Brothers, Lupu
Pick's The Wild Duck and New Year's Eve, and Pabst's The Joyless
Street. With the exception of the last, these were all films with moral
themes, close to the reality of modern life, treated with a new technique
of moving camerawork and unusual angles of viewpoint. Vaudeville
was, of course, the outstanding film that staggered the American
producing companies when shown to them in the States. It was
Vaudeville that took Pommer, Dupont, and Jannings to Hollywood.

Speaking broadly, for there are several notable exceptions, the
German film entered into a decline after that date. The new produc-
tions, having lost the spirit and craftsmanship of the best German
period (from 1921 to 1925) were constructed along the box-office
lines of the American cinema. They were in the nature of a reaction
from the work of the highest filmic intelligences in Europe at that

181

THE ACTUAL

time, for Soviet Russia was then but an unknown quantity, experi-
menting with theatrical pictures. There followed for some years a
great number of second and third rate German movies made to
supply the Kontingent law, directed by such men as Richard Eichberg,
Joe May, and Willi Wolff, with players like Harry Liedtke, Paul
Richter, Mady Christians, Ellen Richter, Harry Halm, Liane Haid,
Willy Fritsch, Lia Maria, Lilian Harvey, Jack Trevor, and Jenny
Jugo. Many of these did not reach England, which only imported
the best of the German output, but even from those which did it
was obvious that they were lacking in the inventiveness of mind and
originality of conception that had distinguished the earlier productions.

During recent years there has been an increased commercial
co-operation between Germany and other European film-producing
countries. The technical studio organisation of the German film
industry was realised to be the most efficient in Europe, if not in the
world, and both England and France interchanged production units
with Germany. Many foreign firms were anxious to combine in
joint productions realised by German technical resources. These
pictures were an attempt to rival the constant flood of American
picture-sense movies. Amid this heterogeneous mass of German films,
however, there were still several individual works by pre-eminent
directors who retained some intelligent interest in the cinema.
Fritz Lang's Metropolis and The Spy; G. W. Pabst's Secrets of the
Soul and Jeanne Ney; Fritz Wendhausen's Out of the Mist; the
films of Elizabeth Bergner's Poetic Film Company, Donna Juana
and The Violinist of Florence; and Walther Ruttmann's Berlin , were
evidence that there still remained progressive cineastes in Germany.

But generally speaking, German film production was rapidly
becoming like that of Hollywood in external appearances. Many of
the big pictures of 1928, for example, might have been the product
of American studios. They were made for an international appeal,
and little of the old German feeling for psychology and simplicity of
treatment remained. Erich Pommer, on returning from Hollywood,
attempted to combine the merits of the old German school with a
new outlook of international picture-sense. Of his four pictures
recently produced, Nina Petrovna and Homecoming were of better
quality than the average American or German movie. They were
not, I admit, good films in the sense that they were masterpieces of
filmic expression, but they contained certain aspects of camerawork

182

THE GERMAN FILM

and architecture that were reminiscent of past achievements. There
has been a tendency also towards the filming of melodramatic thrillers,
light and artificial in mental value, but constructed with a great deal
of technical skill. Of such may be mentioned Fritz Lang's excellent
The Spy, perhaps one of the best pictures of its kind; and Tourjanski's
Manolescu. Pabst's Jeanne Ney, also, was melodramatic in action.
There have also been a number of good, middle-class comedies made,
of general entertainment value, such as The Bold Sea Rover (in England,
Hurrah! Tm Alive), with that delightful comedian, Nickolai Kolin,
and Love's Sacrifice, a light, polished picture of youthfulness, directed
with admirable skill by Hans Schwartz. The old fondness for the
spectacular historical film, which seems ever present on the continent,
has resulted in the large but quite unconvincing production of
Waterloo, directed by Karl Grune, originally a simplist director; the
same director's ill-conceived Marquis d'Eon; the sensational and
theatrical film of Martin Luther (which revealed clearly the fallacy
of the pageant picture); Ludwig Berger's version of The Meister singers,
a late example of the studio-mind; and Schinderhannes , made by the
young director, Kurt Bernhardt.

The problem of the sound and dialogue film came to Germany
in much the same disastrous way in which it stupefied France and
England. For some time German producing companies and directors
stood aside to watch the procedure of events, until from month to
month they issued announcements of forthcoming sound films. At
the time of writing, no German film with mechanical reproduction of
dialogue has reached this country, but several units are at work on
productions. The situation of sound recording has been rendered
difficult in Germany by reason of a patent war that exists between
the Western Electric Company of America and the Klangfilm-
Tobis-Siemen Co. of Germany, a conflict that alternates in victories
and losses. The necessity of making bi-lingual dialogue films in
German and English will assuredly place the production of intelligent
films in a precarious position, for the Germans must needs meet the
foreign market demands. So long as dialogue films are supplied
by America, Germany must also adapt herself to their production,
which is yet another step away from the German film of national
characteristics.

I have not the space at command to analyse in full the work of

183

THE ACTUAL

Germany's many directors, but some notes may be written on the
characteristics and technique of her most significant regisseurs.

I complain elsewhere that Pabst is theoretically the great director,
but that he has failed to justify fully his immense reputation since
his first and fifth films, The Joyless Street and Jeanne Ney. Although
this is adverse criticism of a director who has given many instances
of his rare knowledge of the probing power of the camera, nevertheless,
I feel that there is a general tendency to over-estimate any and every
instance of Pabst's undoubted ability. But Pabst at his best, un-
hampered by limitations, uncut save by himself, is perhaps the one
genius of the film outside Soviet Russia approached, though in an
entirely different manner, by Karl Dreyer, Chaplin, and Rene Clair.
Both aesthetically and technically, his work is of the first importance
to the European cinema. Investigation of his methods is difficult,
complex, and hard to express in words. Pabst possesses a power of
penetration into the deepest cells of human behaviour, and succeeds
in psychologically representing the traits of his characters by filmic
exposition. He is principally concerned with the development and
understanding of the intricacies of the minds of his characters, and
lays open their mentality by employing every resource available to
the medium in which he works. It has been written in criticism that
Pabst delights in the sheer use of technical accomplishment, as
if he were simply a Monta Bell or a Mai St. Clair, but no more
unwarranted statement has been uttered since the beginning of film
journalism. It is impossible to witness the showing of a film by Pabst
without marvelling at his unerring choice of camera angle for the
expression of mood, or his employment of moving camera to heighten
tension. Pabst, probably more so than any other director (outside
the Soviet cinema), understands the complete value of his instruments.
Jeanne Ney has already been cited as a superb example of the uses
of the camera as a means of dramatic expression; Crisis, although
not revealing Pabst to full advantage (I have only seen the cut
English version), was exceptionally interesting in its use of reverse
shots and camera mobility.

Before he became absorbed in the cinema, G. W. Pabst was
engaged in the theatre, and it was not until 1923 that he opened his
film career with the tempestuous and badly received The Joyless
Street. Since that date he has made seven films, Don't Play With
Love, Secrets of the Soul, Jeanne Ney, Crisis, The Box of Pandora,

184

THE LOVE OF JEANNE NEY
by G. W. Pabst with camerawork by Fritz Wagner. With
/•/ itz Rasp as the emigre in the opening sequence. 1927

german

THE LOVE OF JEANNE NEY
by G. W. Pabst. Brigitte Helm, as the blind girl discovering

the murder of her father, Raymond Ney. 1927

THE GERMAN FILM

The White Hell of Pitz Palii, and The Diary of a Lost Girl Of these,
the two last named have not at the time of writing been shown in
England, where the work of this remarkable director is not generally
known.

The history of The Joyless Street (the reader is referred to p. 37)
has already been described, but the film which caused this extra-
ordinary reception has not yet been approached. It seems poor
enough to write that The Joyless Street succeeded in showing the
devastation that war conditions wreaked on the inhabitants of a small
dark street in post-war Vienna, for there have been so many films
which have dealt in similar circumstances. But with the genius of
Pabst this film was different, for it tore away the American glamour,
destroyed the romanticism, and exposed the stark reality of hunger
and passion under distorted conditions. No film or novel has so
truthfully recorded the despair of defeat and the false values of social
life that arise after war as The Joyless Street. With unerring
psychology by which he caused the smallest actions of his characters
to carry meaning, Pabst brought to his picture moments of searing
pain, of mental anguish, of sheer unblemished beauty. His extreme
powers of truthfulness, of the understanding of reality, of the vital
meaning of hunger, love, lust, selfishness and greed, rendered this
extraordinary film convincing. Like Greed, its significance went
below the artificial surface of everyday life, turning up the deepest
emotions. It was, perhaps, too true for the comprehension of the
masses. Like Greed, it was too real, too devastating in its truth.
It is recorded that Pabst himself once said, 'What need is there for
romantic treatment? Real life is too romantic and too ghastly.'
Mention has already been made of Greta Garbo in this film, for it
is by this that one theorises on her beauty and nature. In Hollywood
this splendid woman has been wantonly distorted into a symbol of
eroticism. But Greta Garbo, by reason of the sympathetic under-
standing of Pabst, brought a quality of loveliness into her playing
as the professor's elder daughter. Her frail beauty, cold as an ice
flower warmed by the sun, stood secure in the starving city of Vienna,
untouched by the vice and lust that dwelt in the dark little street.
Not only Greta Garbo, but the other players in this film were
fascinating. I recall Asta Nielson, superb as the woman who murdered
for her lover, slowly realising the horror of her action, her eyes
expressing the innermost feeling of her heart; Valeska Gert, the

185

THE ACTUAL

blatant, avaricious woman, who, under the thin guise of a milliner,
kept the house patronised by the nouveaux-riches; Werner Krauss,
the sleek-haired, wax-moustached butcher, secure in his pandering
to the wealthy, with the great white dog at his side; Jaro Furth, the
intellectual Councillor Rumfort, unable to understand the new con-
ditions; Robert Garrison, the vulgar little speculator; and the others,
Agnes Esterhazy, Henry Stuart, and Einar Hanson. When re-seen
quite lately, the technique and technical qualities of The Joyless
Street seemed faded (it was made in 1925), but the vital force of
Pabst's direction was still present.

Of Pabst's psycho-analytical film, Secrets of the Soul, I can write
but indifferently, for the copy reluctantly shown in England was
badly damaged in order to meet censorial requirements. Insomuch
that its continuity straggled, gaps and interruptions that could not
possibly have occurred in the original copy being painfully apparent.
It had little story to relate, but was a simple demonstration of the
theory of psycho-analysis. It was, for those sufficiently interested, a
key to the working of Pabst himself. From the doctor's treatment
of the patient with the knife-complex, and from the dream sequence,
it was possible to discern the manner in which Pabst himself dissects
his film characters. The picture was beautifully photographed, and
was of interest for the scene when Werner Krauss recalled his
thoughts and actions of the previous day, the incidents being
isolated from their local surroundings and placed against a white
background.

It took several years for the value of The Joyless Street to be
appreciated, but when Jeanne Ney made its dramatic appearance in
1928, there were those who were eager to receive this new film by
Pabst. It was, it is true, badly mutilated in England, and actually
presented by the English renters, Messrs. Wardour, under the
absurd title of Lusts of the Flesh. Jeanne Ney, which was based
illegitimately on the novel by Ilya Ehrenburg, was produced by Ufa,
of Berlin, and apparently Pabst had difficulty in making the film in
his own way. It was the time when the Americanisation of the
German studios was in progress, and Pabst was told to make the
picture 'in the American style.' Fortunately, Pabst had courage,
and in Jeanne Ney he made a more subtle, a swifter, less tragic, and
more dynamic film than The Joyless Street. At first glance, Jeanne
Ney was a melodramatic spy story of communists, adventurers, a

186

THE GERMAN FILM

typist, a blind girl, with a murder and a diamond robbery. It is
curious, at this point, to remark that all the stories chosen by
Pabst are melodramatic, almost novelettish in incident. The Joyless
Street was adapted from a serial story by Hugo Bettauer, in the
Vienna Neue Freie Presse, and the narrative incident of Crisis was
not much better. Instead, however, of this being detrimental, it
proves only too conclusively how important is filmic treatment in
relation to story value. The interest of Jeanne Ney was not in its
actional incident, but in the individuals concerned, their thoughts,
emotions and reasons for behaving as they did. From the superb
opening sequence of the orgy, beginning with a close up of the
emigre's shabby boots, and the camera slipping away and tracking
into every corner, Jeanne Ney developed from sequence to sequence
with breath-taking power. Mood succeeded mood, each perfect in
its tension and its understanding. The shooting of the consul,
Jeanne's father, the restless curtains caused by the draught from the
opening door, the quick-cut reverse shots; the inimitable, likeable
kindness of the smiling Communist attache, with his kippers, and the
wan smile of Jeanne; the parting in the drenching rain, the mud, the
anguish of the farewell, the stark trees; the superbly conveyed
atmosphere of the detective bureau, the types of the sleuth hounds,
the disike of Jeanne for her new work ; the reunion of the boy and
Jeanne, in the warm sunlight walking through the poor streets of
Paris, the flowers, the sheer beauty of love and youth; the brilliant
scene where little bald-headed Raymond Ney counted his imaginary
money, the murder; the tremendous scene between the blind girl
and the murderer; the hotel, its sordid shabbiness overcome by the
love of Jeanne, the peace of their night, unsoiled by the contagious
atmosphere of the house. . . .

The cutting of Jeanne Ney was executed with such skill that it
seemed unnoticeable. Every cut was made on some movement, so
that at the end of one shot somebody was moving, and at the beginning
of the next shot the action was continued. The eye was thus absorbed
in the movement and the actual transposition from one shot to another
became unnoticeable. Instinctively one recalled the overlapping
cutting of The Battleship 'PotemkinJ and realised the similar aims of
Eisenstein and Pabst in this respect. For this reason it will at once
be seen how disastrous can be the effect of the censor's scissors.
Pabst cut Jeanne Ney to a definite length; every frame had its place

187

THE ACTUAL

and meaning. The removal of a foot of such a film damages its
balance, design, and emotional effect.

The photography of Jeanne Ney, by Fritz Arno Wagner, has been
emphasised elsewhere, and it is sufficient to add that technically,
for smoothness of panning and travelling shots, and for perfectly
natural light values, it has never been surpassed. At Pabst 's will,
Wagner's camera nosed into the corners and ran with the players;
photographed from below eye-level and down stairways; yet not once
was the instrument misused. Every curve, every angle, every
approach of the lens was controlled by the material that it photo-
graphed for the expression of mood. Sadness, joy, uplift, depression,
exuberance, fear, morbidness, delight were achieved by the position
and mobility of the camera. Its viewpoints were regulated by the
logic of the action. Jeanne Ney was a unified individual work.
From start to finish it was conceived, controlled, and created by one
sensitive but dominant mind - Pabst.

As a film, after the brilliance of Jeanne Ney, Crisis was a disap-
pointment. As the expression of the character of a woman, a single
individual, it was of interest. The story was a conventional plot of a
misunderstood marriage; many of the same type have been manu-
factured in Hollywood. It is understood that once again the English
version was considerably cut, whilst in Germany, Pabst refused to
put his name to the production because of the editing. The film,
as shown in this country, lacked stimulus. The direction again
revealed Pabst 's brilliancy for angles and pictorial composition,
occasional moments rising to heights of intensity. The wife's hysterical
collapse in the night club; the discovery of her brooding husband
when she returned home; the vicious undercurrents of atmosphere
that lay behind the cabaret scenes; were handled with a technique
that was equal to The Joyless Street. The centre of interest, however,
was the compelling fascination of Brigitte Helm's Myra. Pabst was
the first director to reveal the rare side to this actress, a quality that
was not apparent in A Daughter of Destiny, Metropolis, At the Edge
of the World, L' Argent, and her other pictures. In Jeanne Ney,
Pabst was interested in the playing of Brigitte Helm as the blind girl.
In Crisis, he came absorbed in the personality of Miss Helm herself.
He succeeded in making her every movement exciting. Her strange
latent power and underlying hysteria were here given their freedom.
Her vibrant beauty, her mesh of gold hair, her slender, supple figure

1 88

THE GERMAN FILM

were caught and photographed from every angle. The intensity of
her changing moods, her repression and resentment, her bitterness
and cynicism, her final passionate breakdown in the Argentine club;
these were constructed into a filmic representation of overwhelming
dynamic power. Pabst analysed and dissected the remarkable
character of Miss Helm and built up out of the pieces a unified,
plastic personality. Her curious, fascinating power has never been
exploited with such clarity. Gustav Diessl as the husband was
beyond reproach, his whole outlook being enhanced by the low-
level camera angles; while Hertha von Walther, as the dissipated girl
friend, was strangely moving, her attractive smile at once under-
standing and scornful.

In each of his films, with the sole exception of the psycho-
analytical essay The Secrets of the Soul, Pabst has been concerned
with some aspect of the character of woman. His stories have been
but a framework of incident on which to wind the theme of feminine
character development. Every woman of Pabst 's synthetic creation
has had a curious, unnameable and hopelessly indefinable quality
about her. He seems in the building up of their filmic personalities
to be able to bring to the surface the vital forces of their being.
Each actress employed in the work of Pabst assumes a new quality,
not actually but filmically. He contrives by some unknown force to
invest his characters with a quality of intense feeling, with strangely
complex sexual or mental significance. In each of his succeeding
films he has sought more and more to express the motives that lie
behind a woman's impulsive thoughts and actions. He appears to
have the power of discovering a hidden quality in an actress, whatever
her career may have been before she came under his control. Like
Greta Garbo - Asta Nielson, Edith Jehanne, Brigitte Helm, Hertha
von Walther, and Louise Brooks are almost ordinary when appearing
in other films under scattered direction. But Pabst has an under-
standing, an appreciation of the intelligence, perhaps of culture,
that builds the actual personality into a magnetic, filmic being.

It was, it seems, this hidden quality, this deeper, hitherto
uninvestigated, side of feminine nature that persuaded Pabst to
choose, after long searching, Louise Brooks to play Lulu in Pandora's
Box. Lulu was the theme of Wedekind's two tragedies, 'Erdgeist' and
'Die Biichse der Pandora,' one being the sequel to the other, around
which Pabst built his concept. Lulu was the final essence of the sexual

189

THE ACTUAL

impulse of woman; charged to the fullest extent with physical
consciousness. The spring of her life was the satisfaction of this
insatiable impulse, and the power of man was the possible means of
that satisfaction. She loved spasmodically but with the strongest
sensuality, until, sickening of her exhausted companion, he was
indifferently destroyed. She was unable, moreover, to comprehend
the ruthlessness of her devastation in her search for sexual satisfaction.
She loved for the moment the man to whom she surrendered her
body, but that love died like a flash when his exhaustion was com-
plete. Her sentiment was hardened by the monotonous recurrence
of the events which she had caused. She remained untouched by
the death of her masculine stimulants. She had no interest in the
vastness of life save sexuality and its accompaniments. She was
childlike in her centralisation of material purpose. She was the
essence of youth, with the eyes of a child, beautiful in appearance,
and utterly attractive in manner. Her ultimate and only possible
ending was her self-destruction by the passions which she aroused,
killed by the lust-murderer, Jack-the-Ripper , in London.

In Louise Brooks, known to the public only by her American
work (The American Venus, Evening Clothes, The Canary Murder
Case), Pabst believed that he saw the hidden quality that could be
filmically synthesised into Lulu. His judgment must undoubtedly,
in view of his career, have been correct, but he failed to realise that
in the transference of Lulu from the stage to the silent screen, he was
to lose a link that vitally connected the external Lulu to her inner
self. Wedekind caused Lulu to become a possible reality by the
contrast of her outward appearance to the hard, naive, passionate
sentences that she spoke. By reason of her unaffected utterances in
combination with her innocent appearance, Lulu became the essence
of woman, the despoiler. In brief, Lulu was an impossible reality
without the speech that Wedekind gave her. In the medium of the
film these words were absent; Lulu became vacant and unconvincing,
even under the direction of Pabst. The audience was unable to
connect the appearance of Lulu with the magnetism that attracted
men to her. The mistake lay in the visual representation of a literary
figure. It was an attempt, basically at fault, to translate into a medium
of visual images a character that was originally expressed by literature.
It was an attempt that proved conclusively the difference that lies
between two entirely different forms of expression. A character

190

PANDORA'S BOX
by G. W. Pabst, a film woven around Wedekind's 'Lulu,' with
Louise Brooks and Gustav Diessl ; note camera angle. 1928

PANDORAS BOX
by G. W. Pabst ; note contrast in lighting to heighten mood of
scene. Louise Brooks and Gustav Diessl. 1928

THE GERMAN FILM

can be, and has been built many times by visual images. So also has
a character been formed by the use of words and sentences. The
latter may, perhaps, serve as the inspiration for the former, but
never can one be transcribed in terms of the other. Pabst conceived
Lulu as a literary concept, living possibly in his imagination, but
failed to express that concept filmically. It will be immediately
suggested that the speech so vital to the exposition of Lulu might
have well been supplied by the mechanical reproduction of dialogue.
Such a consideration is worthless, since by reason of its aesthetic
impossibility it would have only added a further load to the im-
perfections of the cinema. Thus, having taken into consideration
the basic fault of Pandora's Box, we may be permitted once more to
admire the excellence of the cutting, of the use of detail, of the
chosen angles; of the introduction of the fog at the end of the film
to emphasise the increasing thematic tension as the character of
Lulu approached its fulfilment; of the unfolding of the incident in
seven essential scenes, each built with clever montage.1

Neither of Pabst 's last two pictures has been generally seen.
The one, The White Hell of Pit zP alii, with its series of mountaineering
catastrophes, is set in the Alps; the other, The Diary of a Lost Girl
concerns the revolt of a number of girls against the rigid rules of a
reformatory. Both are stated to be notable for the camerawork of
Sepp Allgeier, and they both have settings designed by Erno
Metzner, who made Uberfall. The former film is co-directed by
Arnold Fanck and Pabst; the first-named director being remembered
for his superb mountain film, The Wrath of the Gods and for The
Stone Rider. Each is said to be interesting, but then so is any film
until it has been shown.

There is a tendency, obscure but nevertheless real, to regard
Fritz Lang as a more intelligent Rex Ingram, for they are both
expert showmen. But whereas Ingram's faculty never rises above a
certain level of American picture-sense, Lang has definitely produced
work that is of value. Destiny, Siegfried, and Metropolis were sufficient
evidence of the fertility of his imagination and his sense of decorative
design. Lang is further to be admired for his bigness of outlook
and his power of broad visualisation. Both Metropolis and The

1 The ' specially arranged ' English copy was a travesty, for the whole meaning of
the picture as well as its technical qualities were destroyed. The significant part
played by Alice Roberts in the German version was omitted.

IQI

THE ACTUAL

Woman in the Moon were magnificently big cinematic conceptions,
realised with every technical perfection of the cinema. It is impossible
not to admire Fritz Lang in this respect. On the other hand, one
regrets his entire lack of filmic detail, of the play of human emotions,
of the intimacy which is so peculiar a property of the film. Only on
rare occasions, notably in the tea-party scene between Gerda Maurus
and Willy Fritsch in The Spy, has Lang revealed interest in human
beings as such. As a rule his characters are meaningless men and
women (heroes, heroines, and villains) swept hither and thither by
the magnitude of his conception. And yet he has an instinctive
feeling for types, for there is seldom an individual part in his films
that is not distinctive.

Lang is accustomed to utilise the best film technicians in Germany
for his vast studio conceptions. Karl Hoffman, Freund, Fritz Arno
Wagner, Gunther Rittau, the cameramen; and Otto Hunte, Erich
Kettlehut, Oscar Werndorff, Karl Vollbrecht, the architects, have
worked in the Lang production unit. All Lang's scenarios have been
conceived and written in collaboration with his wife, Thea von
Harbou.

Both Destiny and Siegfried were supreme examples of the German
art film. They were entirely studio-made, and in each the decorative
value of the architecture was the binding force of the realisation.
They were fantastic in that they were concepts of the imagination;
they were decorative in that they employed a series of visual images
designed in black and white and intervening tones of grey in a two-
dimensional pattern. For sheer pictorial beauty of structural architec-
ture, Siegfried has never been equalled, for no company could afford
to spend money as did Decla-Bioskop in 1922-23. No expense can
have been withheld on that extraordinary production, but, in com-
parison to the cost, little money could have been made in return.
Siegfried was far from being pure film, far from the naturalism of the
Soviets or the individualism of Pabst, but it was restrained, simplified
pageantry, rendered with a minimum of decoration to gain the maxi-
mum of massed effect. Who can ever forget the tall, dark forests;
the birch glade, bespattered with flowers where Siegfried was slain;
the procession of Gunther' s court, seen distantly through the mail-
clad legs of the sentinels; the calm, silent atmosphere of the castle
rooms, with their simple heraldic decoration; and above all, the dream
of the hawks, a conception by Ruttmann mentioned at an earlier

192

.1 1 I

... v^f*^- 1

** -.T* • ** fife w

♦ - '-'3" **f '* ?*.A

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SIEGFRIED

fry Fritz Lang.. Paid Richter in the name part. A remarkable
studio reconstruction filled with poetic lyricism. 1923

decla-bioskop

gt?rman

SIEGFRIED
the first part of the Nibelungen Saga, by Fritz Lang. One of
the most decorative of the early German art films, with
architecture by Otto Hunte. Karl Vollbrecht and Erich
Kettlehut ' jg23

decla-bioskop

THE GERMAN FILM

stage ? Destiny, also, was finely created, using every contemporary
resource of trick photography and illusionary setting. Unlike
Siegfried, which was a straightforward narration of facts, Destiny
was an interplaited theme of three stories, 'the three lights,' each
connected symbolically to the main modern theme of the two lovers.
The film was magnificently conceived and realised; played with
unforgettable power by Bernard Goetzke as Death, the Stranger,
Lil Dagover as the Girl, and Walther Janssen as the Boy. It was a
production that has been forgotten and deserves revival.

Lang has made also two melodramatic thrillers of spies, gamblers,
disguises, crooks, and police. Doctor Mabuse, the Gambler, was
produced in 1922; The Spy, an improved version on the same lines,
in 1927-28. In its original form, Doctor Mabuse was over seventeen
thousand feet in length, and was issued both in Germany and in
England in two parts. It was the first German film to reach this
country (about the same time as Lubitsch's Dubarry, renamed
Passion) and was regarded as remarkable in film technique by the
American-influenced minds of British audiences. The story was of
the usual feuilleton type, with murders, a Sidney Street defence of
Mabuse *s house against the police and the army, and fainting women,
with a strong spell of hypnotism and psycho-analysis. The action,
unlike Lang's other work, was rapid in pace, and startling in incident,
and was therefore preferred by some critics to his slow-moving pageant
films. In certain respects it was interesting also as linking the pre-war
long shot and chase elements with the tentative methods of the newer
school. Six years later, Lang repeated his success twofold in The
Spy, a story, not unlike Doctor Mabuse, of an international crook, with
secret papers, a railway smash, complex disguises, and another final
street battle. It was all splendid entertainment, superbly done. It
was quick moving, thrilling, and dynamic. Lang took again as his
criminal genius the versatile Rudolf Klein- Rogge, who improved
on his early Mabuse part. Technically, the production was amazingly
efficient, notably in Wagner's brilliant camerawork. In minor
incidental effect, Lang had pilfered from far and wide. An excellent
scene on diagonal steel-girder staircases was taken from a Soviet
film, but his 'plagiarism' was justified.

Of Metropolis, more wilful abuse has been written than praise,
partly because the version shown in this country was unhappily
edited, many sequences being deliberately removed. The English
n 193

THE ACTUAL

copy was arranged by Channing Pollock, author of 'The Fool.' The
film, when it made its London appearance, was not enthusiastically
received. H. G. Wells, amongst others, damned it as 'quite the
silliest film . . .' As a matter of fact, Metropolis was very remarkable ,
based on a brilliant filmic conception, and, had it been shown in its
entirety, would have afforded a wonderful exposition of cinemato-
graphy. As with all of the German studio-films, the binding keynote
of the picture was its amazing architecture. It is not until we compare
Metropolis with a British picture on the same lines, Maurice Elvey's
High Treason , that it is possible to realise its value. There is not one
member of the production units or executive committees; not one
critic or film journalist in this country, who can afford to sneer at
Fritz Lang's conception. High Treason, with its arts-and-crafts
design by Andrew Mazzei, revealed only too clearly how poorly
England produces a film of this kind. Though neither a great film
nor an example of pure filmic expression, Metropolis contained
scenes that for their grandeur and strength have never been equalled
either by England or America. Who, for example, could have handled
the sequence when Rotwang transfers life and the likeness of human
form into the steel figure with such brilliant feeling as Fritz Lang?
Metropolis, with its rows of rectangular windows, its slow-treading
workers, its great geometric buildings, its contrasted light and shade >
its massed masses, its machinery, was a considerable achievement.
Its actual story value was negligible; the architecture was the story
in itself.

Lang's recent production, The Woman in the Moon, a film pur-
porting to show the journey of a rocket to the moon and the adventures
of the crew there, has not yet been shown in England. From its
still-photographs and conception, it appears to be quite as remarkable
as the other productions. It is simple, perhaps, to call Fritz Lang a
showman, but he is to be reckoned also as a man of decided film
intelligence, of broad views, of rare imagination, of artistic feeling,,
who is not afraid to put his amazing conceptions into practical form,
using every technical resource of the studio to do so. Lang is to be
admired and studied for his courage and self-confidence. He has
not, it is true, any knowledge of constructive editing, nor yet any real
idea of cutting, but he has initiative and a sense of bigness. His
work is primarily architectural, essentially the product of the film
studio.

194

ft itz
Pick.

Lung'

I Ht SPY
melodramatic thriller, Lien De

and Lnpu

1 9 27

NJU
by Paul Czinner. Dramatic context enhanced by the turbulence
of the wind and rain. Elizabeth Bergner, as Kju. 1924

THE GERMAN FILM

The names of Paul Czinner and Elizabeth Bergner are closely
associated, for until recently, when Herr Czinner came to England
to direct Pola Negri, they have been interested in the joint productions
of the Elizabeth Bergner Poetic Film Company. Czinner and
Bergner 's first film, however, was the now famous Nju, for the
Rimax Film Company in 1924, in which the two other parts were
played by Emil Jannings and Conrad Veidt. It has not been generally
shown in this country. Nju was the essence of story simplification,
of contrasted human emotions without irrelevant matter. It came
during the transition period from the decorative to the naturalistic
productions. Jannings was convincing as the humbly married office-
man, childishly innocent and delightfully in love with his wife. She
was attracted by the smart young man. She was found out; a dramatic
scene; she left the husband. The young man refused her and she
threw herself into the river. The husband followed, not understanding.
The young man stood alone in the room where the wife had been;
the old charwoman swept round him with her broom. He went out.

There was something extraordinary about this film; an indescribable
atmosphere of emptiness, of fatality. Elizabeth Bergner, Jannings,
and Veidt simply stood about; Czinner caught the interplay of their
thoughts. It was a direct representation of facts as they were; there
was little attempt to tell a story. One felt that it happened, and was
recorded as it happened. It was marred only by the final child-
interest, to comfort the bereaved husband. Nju left a feeling, rare
in the usual completeness of a German film, that things would still
go on. It was an incident that would be left behind by the lover
and the husband in the continuation of their lives. It had a feeling
similar to that evoked by the last shot in Vaudeville, the wide open
prison gates and the sky.

The second Paul Czinner-Elizabeth Bergner film was The
Violinist of Florence, made for Ufa (released in England under the
ludicrous title of Impetuous Youth), and was outstanding for its
lyrical beauty and poetic grace. It revealed an Elizabeth Bergner
utterly dissimilar to the Bergner of Nju; a small, elf-like child, with
queer, wide-open eyes, watching and wondering; a child whose
subtle emotions were revealed by Czinner 's tenderness. Czinner
began this film by presenting the reactions of the child to her father
(superbly played by Conrad Veidt) and to her stepmother; a tangled
mass of human emotions sorted out by the brilliant psychological

i95

THE ACTUAL

direction. With the deepest interest one followed this child's thoughts;
the scene of the flowers at the dinner-table; the mixing of the drinks;
the scene at the boarding-school when she received the letter from
her father; her joyous attempts to cross the frontier when she ran
away from school; her wanderings in the hills, the cattle by the
roadside - all this was most beautifully and truthfully done.
Suddenly, about this point, the film achieved sheer Elizabethan cross-
dressing comedy. Renee was mistaken for a boy and taken to Florence
by an artist and his sister. Admittedly, in themselves, these latter
sequences were delightful, but they were isolated from Czinner's
opening and the main body of the film. It has even been suggested
that they might have been a portion of another film, so different was
their feeling. Nevertheless, despite this inconsistency, The Violinist
of Florence deserved more appreciation than it was accorded.
The third Czinner production, Donna Juana, made for the newly
formed Elizabeth Bergner Poetic Film Company (in association with
Ufa for distribution), was a light, romantic costume film, adapted
from some old Spanish sketches by Tirso de Molina. Following
the cross-dressing motive of the last portion of The Violinist of
Florence, this film was typically Shakespearean, Elizabeth Bergner
playing a sort of Viola role, fighting a duel with her lover, and
so forth. The poetic atmosphere of Spain, exquisitely photographed
by Karl Freund, pervaded this new work of Czinner, which was
utterly charming in both conception and realisation. Miss Bergner
was again supported by Walter Rilla, who played in the former film,
and by the delightful Erna Morena. Following Donna Juana, Czinner
directed his own adaptation of Honore Balzac's 'DuchessedeLangeais,'
for the Phoebus Film Company, renaming it UHistoire des Treize.
Miss Bergner again played the lead, whilst Hans Rehman and Agnes
Esterhazy supported her. Once more Czinner revealed his genius in
direction, although as a whole the film was not of equal value to
the earlier productions. Before coming to the Elstree studios to
direct Miss Pola Negri for the Whitaker production unit, Czinner
made a version of Arthur Schnitzler's Frdulein Else, his last film
with Elizabeth Bergner. This, like Donna Juanna and UHistoire des
Treize, has not been shown in England. Czinner may be reckoned
as a director of considerable distinction, quite un- German in character,
who, like Pabst, has an interest in natural individuals. His touch is
light, fragile, and essentially poetic.

196

THE GERMAN FILM

Much has already been written regarding the work of Murnau.
Of his earlier films, Phantom, adapted from Hauptmann's story, and
the pirated version of Bram Stoker's Dr acuta are known. The latter,
produced in 1922, was possibly crude in its melodramatic acting,
but nevertheless it contained much of considerable interest. There
was a very definite feeling for camera angle in the establishment of a
macabre mood, and effective use was made of projected negative
and one-turn — one-picture camera devices for the suggestion of
eerieness. Fritz Arno Wagner's camerawork was notably good,
particularly a scene of frightened horses in the twilight and the close
ups of the architecture of the Count's castle. Murnau 's The Last
Laugh has been discussed earlier, and his Tartuffe, a production by
the same unit, is memorable for its superb simplicity. The scenario
was again by Karl Mayer; the camerawork by Karl Freund; and the
architecture by Walter Rohrig and Robert Herlth.

From the acting standpoint Tartuffe was a remarkable example
of harmonious talent, typical of German completeness. The spectator
felt that there was an underlying current of humour running through-
out each sequence, a humour that was not without its vital
dramatic moments. One recalls the crystal tear of Elmire that fell
like a liquid pearl on the miniature of Orgon; the relationship of the
figures one to another; the symbolic black figure of Tartuffe, with
silhouetted thin ankles and clumsy square-toed shoes; the exquisite
subtle beauty of Elmire, with curled wig, fragile dress, and gentle
mien. Clever contrast was made between the closely held Bible
of Tartuffe, its minute size symbolic of his hypocritical nature, and
the open frankness of Orgon. Tartuffe constituted Janning's third
portrayal of comedy (former occasions being in Waxworks, in the
final part of The Last Laugh, and later, of course, in Faust). It is
difficult to forget Tartuffe descending the curved staircase - Tartuffe
espying the image of Orgon' s reflection in the teapot - Tartuffe
listening, watching, suspicious, leaning on the handrail. The Elmire
of Lil Dagover was fragrantly beautiful. I recollect her seduction
of Tartuffe on the first occasion; her very gestures were fragile.
Werner Krauss was as good as he can at times be bad. His por-
trayal of Orgon was all that was necessary, and was probably one of
his best parts.

The atmosphere that surrounded the characters enveloped the
spectator. It was an atmosphere of simplification, of graceful curves,

197

THE ACTUAL

and gorgeous detail of plaster and ironwork. There was no customary
over-decoration. Unnecessary detail was eliminated to the better
effect of the mass. I remember the beauty of the lace neglige in the
final bedroom scene; the pattern of the bed covering; the porcelain
clock on the fireplace; the reality of the square-toed shoes; the
emphasis given to them in the scene of the hammock (a touch of
genius); the design of Orgon's ring, and a hundred other points.
All these were in perfect harmony, perfect taste, and of the highest
tone. Every detail and every mass was the result of creative fore-
thought. It was this tone that was spread over the whole. No
matter where the characters moved or how they gestured, the
composition remained perfect. Moliere, Watteau, Boucher, and the
French engravers of the eighteenth century were embodied in the
spirit of this film, which was only marred by the unnecessary modern
prologue and epilogue.

Herr Murnau 's last film in Germany before he accepted the Fox
contract in Hollywood was a realisation of Faust. This film may
again be taken as a consummate example of German craftsmanship.
Every detail, every mass, every contrast of light and shade, emphasised
the mediaeval atmosphere. Mention will be made later of Murnau 's
use of the art of Diirer and of Bruegel in his psychological estab-
lishment of the period. Again, Karl Freund's photography was
superb, and the production was a notable instance not only of trick
camerawork but of the Scheufftan process of illusionary architecture.
The Mephisto of Jannings was completely delightful, the essence of
refined, subtle humour, of mischievous trickery and inimitable
devilry; the Marguerite of Camilla Horn, pure and flower-like; the
Faust of Gosta Ekman, a Swedish actor, thoroughly competent;
whilst Yvette Guilbert's playing as Marguerite's aunt was an ever-
memorable piece of sheer artistry. The drinking scene between Jannings
and Yvette Guilbert stands as one of the finest sequences of humour
in the history of the screen. That such an artist as Murnau should have
gone to Hollywood to devote his filmic, philosophic mind to such
banalities as Sunrise and The Four Devils is infinitely regrettable.

In the two architectural productions of Murnau, Tartuffe and
Faust, his direction was closely bound up with the design of Walter
Rohrig and Robert Herlth, the acting of Jannings and the camera
craftsmanship of Karl Freund. In the same way, the four out-
standing films by Dr. Ludwig Berger - Cinderella, A Glass of Water,

198

HI I

,-,■>. 4

DRACULA
fej' F. 1^. Murnau. The pirated film made in 1922. A double
exposure shot of Max Schreck as the dying Count Dracula.

prana

WAXWORKS
by Paul Lent, memorable for its decorative design. Conrad

Veidt as Ivan-the- 1 errible, one of Ins most famous parts 1^24

iking

THE GERMAN FILM

The Waltz Dream, and The Burning Heart - were the realisation of
the Ludwig Berger - Rudolph Bamberger unit of workers. Herr
Bamberger was also the architect to Berger 's version of the Meister-
singers, The Master of Nurnburg, a Phoebus production, with Rudolph
Rittner, Max Gulstorss, Gustav Frohlich, Julius Falkenstein and
Elsa Wagner in the cast. It is by Cinderella, however, that Ludwig
Berger is best known. Made in 1923, when the German cinema
was at the height of its middle and best period, Cinderella was a
film of the most beautiful fantasy, delicately conceived and realised
with a perfection of decorative pictorialism. The touch of Ludwig
Berger seemed magical, so completely entrancing was the subtle
fabrication of this exquisite work. Bamberger, for his design, centred
his theme around the charm of southern Baroque art, making full use
of the plastic moulding in which the German studio workers seem
to excel. Technically, the magic in this film was brilliantly accom-
plished, for it was essentially cinematic. It was curious to note that
Berger 's design of pictorial composition was nearly always sym-
metrical throughout this picture - for he obviously centred his
movement of acting material round a feature of the architectural
composition. Thus it was observed that doorways, windows, gate-
ways, alleyways, etc., were always set in the centre of the screen,
the remainder of the composition moving about them. In the same
year, Ludwig Berger made A Glass of Water, a film that nominally
concerned Queen Anne of England, but actually there was no idea
of historical accuracy for that would have been antagonistic to the
decorative motive as well as to the environment of the picture.
Once more Rudolph Bamberger's setting was in the spirit of South
German Baroque, whilst Helga Thomas, Mady Christians, and Lucie
Hoflich were again in the cast, with Rudolph Rittner and Hans
Brausewetter. Although not realised with the charm of Cinderella,
this film was nevertheless pleasing, tending perhaps to over length.
Berger's later picture The Waltz Dream, made in 1926, was one of
the few German films to meet with success in America. It ran in
New York for several weeks, appreciated by American audiences as
'something different.' Actually, it was a charming comedy - as one
would expect from Berger - sentimental and harmless, but not to
be compared with the earlier Cinderella. Again, Mady Christians
played with graceful comedy, supported by Willy Fritsch, who was
at that time practically unknown, whilst the soft photography of

199

THE ACTUAL

Werner Brandes and the subdued richness of the Bamberger settings
contributed to the atmosphere which Berger sought to realise. This
director has made yet another German picture with Miss Christians
and Bamberger, The Burning Heart, which has recently been syn-
chronised, whilst in Hollywood he has directed The Sins of the
Fathers with Emil Jannings, and a version of the operetta, The
Vagabond King.

The name of Arthur Robison is at once coupled with that of
Warning Shadows, a film that by now is well-known to all familiar
with the development of the cinema. Actually, the credit for this
unique work should be given equally to all the production unit, to
Fritz Arno Wagner, the cameraman; to Albin Grau, the architect;
to Rudolph Schneider, the scenarist; and to Dr. Robison; as well as
to the brilliant playing of Fritz Kortner, Gustav von Wangenheim,
Ferdinand von Alten, Fritz Rasp, Max Gulstorss, Alexander Granach,
and Ruth Weyher. To cite a familiar fact, the film was made without
the use of titles, save at the opening for the introduction of the
characters, but several quite ridiculous and totally discordant cap-
tions were inserted for its English presentation. At the time of
production, in 1922, Warning Shadows was a remarkable achieve-
ment. Its purely psychological direction, its definite completeness of
time and action, its intimate ensemble were new attributes of the
cinema. It was a rare instance of complete filmic unity, with the
possible exception of the unnecessary roof-garden scene. The con-
tinuity of theme, the smooth development from one sequence into
another, the gradual realisation of the thoughts of the characters, were
flawlessly presented. It carried an air of romance, of fantasy, of
tragedy. Every filmic property for the expression of mood, for the
creation of atmosphere, that was known at the time was used with
imagination and intelligence. Its supreme value as an example of unity
of purpose, of time, of place, of theme cannot be over-estimated. Of
Dr. Robison 's other pictures, mention need be made only of Manon
Lescaut (1927), Looping the Loop (1928) and his recently completed
work, The Informer, for British International Pictures of Elstree. For
the production of Manon Lescaut, faithfully adapted from the im-
mortal romance of the Abbe Prevost, Robison had the advantage of
the design of Paul Leni, better-known as a director. The acting
material was well chosen, no easy task with a costume picture of this
type, the Manon of Lya de Putti and the Chevalier des Grieux of

200

german

WARNING SHADOWS
Arthur Robison's celebrated film. Memorable for its
simplification of treatment. Fritz Kortner as the suspicious

husband Ruth Wevhei as the wife.

1922

THE STREET
by Karl Grune. With Eugene Klopfer and Aud Egede J\[issen
(by permission of F. Alfred, Esq.) 1923

THE GERMAN FILM

Vladimir Gaiderov being admirable, whilst the supporting cast, par-
ticularly Sigfried Arno, Frieda Richard, and Lydia Potechina, were
exceptionally competent. Robison succeeded in establishing an air of
intimacy, of dramatic relationship between one character and another,
of the deep passion that linked the two lovers, by a continual use of
close ups. The decorations of Leni gave to the film a reality that is
lacking in the vast majority of costume pictures. His tendency to
continue scenes through doorways and along passages lent a depth
that prevented artificiality, a customary characteristic of such produc-
tions. The costumes, designed with a wealth of accurate detail that
was fully revealed by the close penetration of the camera, were more
faithful to their period, both in cut and wear, than any others that
have been seen in historical film reconstruction. On the other hand,
Looping the Loop, a curious contrast to Robison 's earlier work, was
a circus film - an environment which was popular at the time. It
was not of especial interest, being a straightforward rendering of the
usual circus story; a clown with a broken heart, a girl's flirtations, and
an unscrupulous philanderer. The photography of Karl Hoffman
was good; the settings of Walter Rohrig and Herlth consistent;
and the acting of Werner Krauss as accomplished as usual. In
brief, the production unit was worthy of better material. I have
been given to understand, however, that the original negative was
destroyed by fire and that the copy generally exhibited was made
from an assembly of left-over 'takes.' Of Robison 's British picture,
The Informer, a Sinn Fein story of gunmen and betrayal, it is hard
to write, for although it obviously contained the elements of an
excellent film, the silent version shown to the public was so badly
edited that little of Robison 's technique could be appreciated. In
order to meet market requirements at the time, a version with added
dialogue sequences was presented, but this does not enter into
consideration.

Karl Grune has made one outstanding film, The Street, and a
number of others that will be forgotten in the course of time.
Made in 1923, Grune 's The Street was again typical of the
German studio-mind. Its chief value lay in its unity of theme,
its creation of mood by contrasted intensities and movements of
light, and its simplicity of treatment. Apart from these significant
features, it was acted with deplorable melodrama, and its studio
structure setting was hardly convincing. Nevertheless, for its few

201

THE ACTUAL

moments of filmic intensity, such as the celebrated moving shadow
scene in the opening and the cleverly handled game of cards, it must
rank as important. Grune's other films include The Two Brothers,
with Conrad Veidt in a dual role; Arabella, with Fritz Rasp; Jealousy,
with Werner Krauss and Lya de Putti; At the Edge of the World, an
unconvincing pacifist theme, distinguished only for the settings by
A. D. Neppach and the playing of Brigitte Helm; Marquis d'Eon, a.
depressing historical film, with Liane Haid badly miscast as the
chevalier, notable only for the camera craftsmanship of Fritz Arno
Wagner; The Youth of Queen Louise, a Terra production with Mady
Christians; and Waterloo, the Emelka tenth anniversary spectacle
film, badly staged at great expense, foolishly theatrical and lacking
conviction. Karl Grune may have made The Street, but he has
failed as yet to develop the cinematic tendencies displayed as long
ago as 1923, becoming a director of the ordinary type. The same
may be said of Robert Wiene, who will, of course, long be
remembered as the director of The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari, but
who, since that achievement, has done little to add to his laurels.
Raskolnikov, made in 1923 from Dostoievski's 'Crime and Punish-
ment' with a band of the Russian Moscow Art Players, was an essay
in the same vein as The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari but less successful.
The following year, Wiene made The Hands of Orlac, with Conrad
Veidt, for the Pan Film Company of Austria; a singularly dreary,
melodramatic film, interesting only because of a few tense moments
of Veidt 's acting and some cleverly contrasted lighting. Wiene has
also made, in direct contrast to these heavy and slow productions,
a light version of the opera Rosenkavalier , a delicate film of little
lasting value.

Henrik Galeen is yet another director who has to his credit but
one pre-eminent realisation, The Student of Prague. Galeen was first
associated with the cinema as a scenarist, having been connected
in this capacity with Paul Leni's Waxworks, Wegener's The Golem,
and Murnau's Dracula. It will have been noticed by those interested
in films of the past, that very frequently it is difficult to discern
who exactly was responsible for the merits and demerits. Galeen,
for example, probably had a great deal more to do with The Golem
than the scenario, and similarly the complete production unit of The
Student of Prague, including Herman Warm, Gunthur Krampf, and
Erich Nitzchmann, all well-known technicians, should receive credit.

202

THE GERMAN FILM

This remarkable film, almost un- German in its realisation, stands
out during the transition period, when the decorative art film was
being succeeded by the naturalistic film. Expressionist themes and
cubist settings, so marked in the first German period, had developed
into motives of mysticism and Baroque design, to give place again
to the naturalness of the street, the town, and the individual. The
Student of Prague combined both of these two latter periods. It had
open spaciousnes's and dark psychology, wild poetic beauty and a
deeply dramatic theme. Beyond this, it had Conrad Veidt at his best;
a performance that he has never equalled either before or since.
It was, possibly, theatrical - but it was, also, filmic in exposition.
From the beginning of the students' drinking scene to the final death
of Baldwin, this film was superbly handled. The conflict of inner
realities; the sadness and joy of changing atmosphere; the storm
emphasising the anguish of Baldwin-, the rendering of the depths of
human sorrow and weakness; the imagination and purity of treat-
ment; the intensely dramatic unfolding of the theme: all these entitled
this film to rank as great. The interior design was admirable, lit
with some of the most beautiful lighting I have observed. As a film
that relied for its emotional effect on the nature of the material,
the lighting and pictorial composition, it was unparelleled. Two
other productions go to the credit of Galeen, Mandrake (A Daughter
of Destiny) and After the Verdict, a British production; but little can
be said in praise of them, although it is only fair to add that the English
version of the former film was completely mutilated in order to meet
the censor's requirements.

Paul Leni's Waxworks was a typical example of the early decorative
film, revealing, as would be expected from an artist of this character,
a strong sense of painted, rather theatrical, architecture. As is
probably known, the film purported to tell three episodic incidents
of three wax figures in a showman's tent, developed by the imagina-
tion of a poet, the figures being Ivan-the-Terrible, Haroun-al-Raschid,
and Jack-the-Ripper . The parts were played by Conrad Veidt,
Emil Jannings, and Werner Krauss, respectively; the only occasion
on which these three celebrated actors have appeared together in
the same film. Their individual performances were magnificently
acted in the theatrical manner. Leni's decorations were simply
conceived, but Waxworks, whilst certainly being a film of exceptional
interest, was not by any means great from a filmic point of view.

203

THE ACTUAL

Its significance lay in its exemplary methods of simplicity both in
treatment and in design. Leni made also Prince Cuckoo, a film about
which there is little on record and, as already mentioned, designed
the settings for Robison's Manon Lescaut. His career in Hollywood,
where he went in 1926, developed into two good melodramatic
thrillers, The Green Parrot and The Cat and the Canary, which he
followed with a travesty of cinematic methods, The Man Who Laughs.
He died last year, having just completed an all sound and dialogue
picture for his American employers, Universal.

The work of Lupu Pick has tended to become over-praised and
over-estimated. He played, it is true, a part of some importance in
the gradual dawn of the German naturalistic school, with the produc-
tion in 1923 of New Year's Eve, but this film itself was dreary. It
was over-acted, in the worst German manner, by Eugene Klopfer, a
stage actor who knew little of the film, and it was made without titles.
Pick's direction is principally characterised by a slow, deliberate
development of plot and character, depending wholly on the acting
value and narrative situations for dramatic effect. Apart from New
Year's Eve (the English renaming of Sylvester) he is known chiefly
by his dull version of Ibsen's Wild Duck; The Last Cab, in which
he played the lead; The Rail; and La Casemate Blindee. He came to
Elstree in 1928, and made for the Louis Blattner Film Corporation,
A Knight in London, a light comedy with camerawork by Karl
Freund. His interest, therefore, really lies in the transitional nature
of his earlier films. Dr. Arnold Fanck is associated principally with
an early cubist production, The Stone Rider, typical of the decorative
film, with constructed open-air sets, gloomy atmosphere and distorted
environment, in which Rudolph Klein-Rogge and Louise Manheim
played. He is better remembered, however, by that superb mountain
film, The Wrath of the Gods, a picture of great pictorial beauty.
Recently he joined G. W. Pabst in the Alpine realisation, The White
Hell of Pitz Palu.

Returning to the first period of the German film, that is the era
of theatricalism and later the beginnings of the expressionist and art
film, a brief note should be included on the Lubitsch productions,
and others of a similar type. Apart from Anne Boleyn and similar
historical pictures, Lubitsch directed a meritorious film, The Flame ,
with Pola Negri, Alfred Abel, and Herman Thimig; as well as the

204

THE STUDENT OF PRAGUE
by Hennk Galeen. A marvellous atmosphere of calm and
quietude achieved by grouping and lighting. 1925

sokal

german

THE STUDENT OF PRAGUE
The death of Baldwin, admirably played by Conrad Veidt ; note
feeling of rest, after the preceding violent adion. 1925

sokal

THE GERMAN FILM

Arabian night fantasy, Sumurun. To the Buchowetski historical
pictures should also be added a version of Dostoievski's Brothers
Karamazov, whilst mention must be made of Richard Oswald's
Lucretia Borgia and Lady Hamilton, as well as the same director's
House in the Dragonerstrasse, with Werner Krauss. More recently,
Oswald has directed a spectacular French film based on the adven-
tures of Cagliostro, with Hans Stiiwe in the name part, and a war
film, The Fugitive Lover, again with Hans Stiiwe and Agnes Esterhazy.

In 1923, there was made the big Neuman production of the life
of Frederick the Great, played with distinction by Otto Gebiihr,
with Erna Morena as Queen Christine. Federicus Rex was of great
length, so much so that a copy has long lain in London for lack of
proper editing. By those who have seen the film in Germany, it is
said to be a remarkably faithful representation of historical fact.
The direction is diversely attributed to Karl Lamprecht and A. V.
Czerepy. Another big historical production was the Cob Film
Company's Martin Luther, with Eugene Klopfer in the name part,
a film which recently caused some sensation in London by the British
Board of Film Censors' ban upon its showing. The sensational ban
was duly removed after some slight alterations had been made and
the Board had perceived the foolishness of their action. Despite
the publicity it received, however, the film proved to be not
only dull but without any filmic justification. It was directed by
Hans Kyser, a former scenarist to Murnau's film, Faust. Among
other films of an early date, mention must be made of Karl Frohlich's
Maternity and Tragedy, both typical of their period; Leopold Jessner's
Hintertreppe, made in 1921, from a scenario by Karl Mayer, with
Henny Porten, Fritz Kortner, and Wilhelm Dieterle; and Frederick
Zelnig's Les Tiserands and The Blue Danube.

With the later period of naturalism and reality there arose a
number of directors nearly all of whom are of significance, including
Berthold Viertel, Fritz Wendhausen, the late Bruno Rahn, and Kurt
Bernhardt. Viertel, who had at an earlier date made The Wig (with
Otto Gebiihr) and Nora, claims attention by reason of the Adventures
of a Ten-Mark Note. This was a badly titled and poorly edited film,
but the basic idea and some of the direction were noteworthy, despite
unnecessary distortion of camera angles. Werner Futterer was the
outstanding member of the cast. Wendhausen, who has also to
his credit The Trial of Donald Westhof, is chiefly notable for his

205

THE ACTUAL

brilliant film, Out of the Mist, with Mady Christians. This was a
theme of German agricultural life, of a wayside hostelry, of a saw-
mill, with a climactic ending of torrential floods. The direction was
simple, going straight to the motive of every action that made up
the narrative situations. The atmosphere of the woods, of the fair-
ground, and of the sawmill was created with the greatest skill,
Wendhausen realising the close relationship that lay between the
people of the village and their land. The interior settings were
exquisitely lit and the photography throughout was beautiful. As
well as Mady Christians, Werner Fiitterer was again in the cast,
together with Lia Eibenschutz and Karl Klock.

Before his untimely death a short time ago, two pictures of the'street*
type were associated with Bruno Rahn, the first being Kleinstadtsunder
(UAuberge en Folie) and the second, The Tragedy of the Street, which
was shown in an abbreviated form in this country. Rahn followed on
the lower-class reality that was started by Grune's The Street, and con-
tinued later by Pabst and Lupu Pick. The Tragedy of the Street was
an intensely moving, deeply realised film of the street', the feet that
walk over its stones; and of the people to whom those feet, high heels
and low heels, belonged. Asta Nielson, that actress of erotic character-
isation, played the elder of the two prostitutes; Hilda Jennings, the
younger, who had dreams of escaping from the life she was forced
to lead. To many, no doubt, the theme was sordid, possibly un-
pleasant, but Rahn infused its sordidness with a glimpse of happiness,
a sudden appearance of all the sentiment of love and joyousness on
which the woman had turned her back. Asta Nielson has never been
greater than in this film; every moment of her slow acting was
charged with meaning; the basin of black dye and the toothbrush;
the buying of the confectionery shop with her savings; the final,
overpowering tragedy. Throughout, all things led back to the street;
its pavements with the hurrying, soliciting feet; its dark corners and
angles; its light under the sentinel lamp-posts. Rahn's Kleinstadt-
siinder, made just previous to The Tragedy of the Street, was a lighter
theme than the latter, again with Asta Nielson, Hans von Schlettow,
Hans Wasmann, and Ferdinand von Alten. The pictures were
produced by the Pantomin Film Company, both being superbly
photographed by Guido Seeber. Kurt Bernhardt is a director of
the young German school, who achieved rapid acclamation by his
film, Schinderhannes. He has also to his credit, Torments of the Night,

206

THE GERMAN FILM

a modern theme with Alexander Granach and Wilhelm Dieterle.
Schinderhannes contained a narrative placed in the year 1796 - when
the French army occupied the left bank of the Rhine - of a band of
outlaws who opposed the regime of the French military. It was a
difficult theme to treat with conviction, but Bernhardt, aided greatly
by the camerawork of Gunthur Krampf, succeeded in making an
extremely moving film out of its intricate incident. He attempted
to develop the theme outside national feeling, to realise the character-
istics and atmosphere of the period, and the sequence of events
flowed smoothly to the finale of Schinderhannes' death as a national
hero.

Among the more pretentious of the recent German productions r
it is necessary to include the work of Hans Schwartz, Joe May,
Tourjanski, and Volkoff. Schwartz was the director of an admirable
domestic comedy, Love's Sacrifice, in which there played a new
German actress of great charm, Kate von Nagy. He has a light touch,
almost artificial at times, and a pleasing smoothness of handling.
Under the supervision of Erich Pommer he made The Hungarian
Rhapsody, a film obviously inspired by Soviet influence (Preobrashen-
skaia's Peasant Women of Riazan) that was hardly successful, but more
recently directed Brigitte Helm and Franz Lederer in Nina Petrovna,
a picture of considerable merit with elegant settings by Rohrig and
Herlth and some clever camerawork by Karl Hoffman. Joe May,
who is connected at an early date with such films as The Hindu
Tomb (with Bernard Goetzke) and The Japanese Dagger, has also
worked recently for the Ufa Company under Pommer 's control.
Asphalt, a good conception made unpractical by studio structure,
and Homecoming, a bad realisation of Leonhard Franck's great novel,
'Karl and Anna,' distinguished only by Gunther Rittau's photo-
graphy, were Joe May pictures. Tourjanski, a Russian emigre, was
responsible for the Anglo-German spectacle, Volga-Volga, a film
of interest solely for its exterior photography; and Nicolas Volkoff,
who is associated with musical comedy spectacles {Casanova and
Michael Strogoff), made for Ufa the well-staged but Americanised
Secrets of the Orient. Of the lesser-known German directors, those
whose names and work must be mentioned are Jaap Speyer (Conscience,
a powerful film with Bernard Goetzke and Walter Rilla); Wilhelm
Thiele (Hurrah! Fm Alive, with the inimitable Nikolai Kolin);
Erich Washneck (Jackals, an excellent film with Olga Tschechowa

207

THE ACTUAL

and Hans von Schlettow; A Society Scandal, with Brigitte Helm);
Willy Reiber (Sturmfleet, a well-realised theme of the sea); Max
Glass (Homesickness, with Mady Christians and Wilhelm Dieterle);
Willi Wolff (Kopf Hoch Charley, with Ellen Richter); Gerhard
Lamprecht (Under the Lantern, an underworld picture with Lissi
Arna); and A. W. Sandberg (The Golden Clown, with Gosta Ekman
and Mary Johnson), together with Max Mack, Rudolf Meinert, and
Manfred Noa.

The German has been a great cinema. It has produced principles
and processes that have been all-important contributions to the
cinema of the world. From its individual development there have
come the freedom of the camera, the feeling of completeness, and
the importance of architectural environment as part of the realisation.
These have been brought about by the national aptitude for crafts-
manship, for structure, for studioism. They have been a means to
an end, that in itself has not yet been discovered. It has been well
said that the German film begins and ends in itself. This, with
certain reservations, is true.

In recapitulation, it has been seen how the years immediately
after the war gave rise to the historical costume melodrama, com-
mercial products of the property room and Reinhardt (Dubarry,
Anne Boleyn, Othello, Merchant of Venice). There was then The
Cabinet of Doctor Caligari, with its decorative environment and its
use of psychology, to be followed by other expressionist films,
Torgus, Raskolnikov, Dracula, and later, The Stone Rider. From
these there developed the architectural film, increasing in pictorial
beauty to the culminating Faust (Siegfried, Waxworks, Destiny).
Then began the feeling for reality, still by studio representation,
with Vanina and The Street, followed in time by the work of Lupu
Pick, Murnau, Czinner, Pabst, Dupont [New Year's Eve, Last Laugh,
Nju, Joyless Street, Vaudeville, and Baruch (1924)]; later by Rahn and
Bernhardt; until there came the surrender to the American cinema -
resulting in commercial melodrama, to be relieved only by the isolated
films of Pabst, the magnitudinous studio-films of Lang, and the
childlike psychology of Hans Behrendt's Robber Band and Die Hose.
Finally, there is the crisis presented by the advent of the dialogue
and sound film, the result of which has yet to be seen.

208

VIII
THE FRENCH FILM

JT rench cineastes have the discouraging habit of denying the existence
of the French film despite ever-constant proof to the contrary.
But then the French cineaste is a tiresome fellow, who is always
dissatisfied with everything that takes place and is burdened with a
mind that chases itself in circles. Added to which, we are frequently
given to understand that the failure of the French cinema is due
entirely to its being French.

Apart from so devastating a national outlook, few writers in this
country appreciate the significance of the French cinema, and even
those who do have only reached that intelligent frame of mind with
the recent importation of avant-garde productions into London.
The reason for this lack of appreciation in England of the French
product seems to be due to three causes: firstly, because much of the
French cinema, save for the grand spectacular films, has been experi-
mental in nature, and therefore a closed book to British film writers;
secondly, because production in France has always been spasmodic;
and thirdly, because there has been comparatively little opportunity
for the close examination of the French film in England, except at
the performances of the London Film Society.1

In short, then, the general ignorance as to the salient character-
istics, influences, and tendencies of the French cinema is
singularly profound, a fact that is all the more remarkable in
that the French film is of extreme importance, not only to the
cinema of Europe, but to a proper understanding of the cinema as a
whole.

As stated above, the French cineaste has strangely little regard for
the capabilities of his self-created cinema. He appears to be always

1 Gratitude is to be accorded Mr Stuart Davis for his enterprise in presenting at
the Avenue Pavilion, London, a three - months season of French productions
during the autumn and winter 1929-30. This provided an excellent opportunity
for the examination of some of the outstanding examples of the French school.
o 209

THE ACTUAL

too interested in the films of other countries to take part in his own
productions. In post-war days he was the most appreciative critic
of the German and the now extinct Swedish film; this, later, being
displaced by a reaction to the constructive methods of the Soviets;
whilst the whole time he has had a sneaking fondness for the American
movie, first in its action, and now in its sex. The position is rendered
the more curious in that several of the qualities which the cineaste
admires in the American cinema are indirectly derived from his own.
Despite its increasing prevalence, the reason for this idolisation of
Hollywood is hard to discover. The sole aim of the average French
director seems to be to go to Hollywood, which surely is the last
place in which to find an intelligent understanding of the cinema.
But, notwithstanding all logic, the cineaste has a constant craving
after the metallic glitter of the movie, with its movement of acting
material and mock-humanitarianism. The fully charged sex-appeal
movie is the fetish of the French cineastes. The natural acting material
of France (Pierre BatchefF, Maurice de Feraudy, Philippe Heriat,
Jim Gerald, Gina Manes) is suppressed in the fervent worship of
Sue Carol, Florence Vidor, and Joan Crawford, and the physical
mannerisms of George Bancroft and Victor MacLaglen. They will
deny the presence of the capricious Catherine Hessling in favour of
Lupe Velez. They will ruthlessly condemn Epstein and Dreyer, but
enthuse over von Sternberg and von Stroheim. The Wedding March
is considered preferable to En Rade; Our Dancing Daughters to
Therese Raquin; White Shadows to Finis Terrce. They will accept
the decor of Cedric Gibbons and forget that it is almost wholly
derived from the Exposition des Arts Decor atifs, held at Paris in 1925.
It is this ridiculous state of artificiality that strangles the French
cinema to-day, that prevents it from progressing along its natural
course of development. There are fortunately, however, a few
directors who have sufficient independence and are sane-headed
enough to stand above this childish attitude of self-condemn-
ation, such as Rene Clair and Jean Epstein, and it is to these men
that we must look for the future of the French cinema in its purified
form.

Meanwhile, the young cineaste perpetually calls for youth in the
film. The dynamic vitality of the American girl is his schoolboy
downfall. He is incapable of achieving a true perspective of the cinema
as a whole, of its widespread developments and traditions. He has,

210

trench

ociete generate do films

FINIS rKRR.H
Av -lean Epstein the film taken on the island of Ushant. 1928

trench

THE ITALIAN STRAW HAT
the bnTliant satirical comedy by Rene Clair, with Olga
Tschechowa. A masterpiece of wit and sophistication. 1928

' albatross-sequant

THE FRENCH FILM

in fact, lost his sense of values when he calls The Crowd the great
achievement of the American cinema.

#
In contrast to the cinema of the Soviets, collectivism in film
production is practically unknown in France. This, it would seem
is partly due to the haphazard methods of the producing companies
and to the natural disinclination of the French for co-operation
Nearly every film of interest which has originated from France has
been the product of an individual artist-mind. This characteristic is
to be found equally in the experiments of the avant-garde and in
the bigger realisations of Clair, Feyder, Epstein, and Dreyer. But
perhaps the basic reason for this single-mindedness is that it is the
natural outcome of the painter's studio so inherent in French tradition
One has but to recall the last two decades of the nineteenth century
when the marble-top cafe table bred the environment in which the
camaraderie of Seurat, Lautrec, Van Gogh, Gauguin, and the rest had
its origin. This group habit, so typical of Parisian intellectualism, has
. given rise to the cinematic artist and photogenic experimentalist
personified in Duchamp, Chomette, Deslav, Gremillon, Man Ray'
etc and which is so well instanced in their absolute cinematics,'
LEtotle de Mer, Montparnasse, Fait Divers, A quoi revent les jeunes
piles, and others. J

Much has been said to the detriment of the French avant-garde
film, but, on the contrary, I believe that it constitutes an excellent
grounding for the young film director. We know that it is the fashion
tor any young man of intelligence to borrow a few hundred francs
and a camera and to make an abstract, absolute film of Paris, selling
it afterwards (if he is fortunate) to an advertising firm. But this is
an admirable way for that young man to develop his filmic instinct,
if by any chance he should possess any. In themselves, experimental
films are of little significance, being mere object-lessons in cinematic
values and the various uses of the resources of the cinema Thev
are a testing ground for the instruments of the film, and hence should
be of the utmost interest to the big scale director. In all experimental
films there are to be found a dozen uses of camera devices and trick
photography which, with modifications, can be employed in the
commercia film. Rene Clair's Entr'acte, made in 1923, may be cited
is a typical example. It was realised from a scenario in the dadaist
manner by Francis Picabia, and purported to be an exposition of

211

THE ACTUAL

the cult of the spontaneous dissociation of ideas. It exploited the
theory, now obsolete, of the irrelevance of material events and
consequently was entirely antagonistic in conception to the essential
organisation, selection, and construction of the cinema. Contained
in its realisation, however, were various camera devices, now familiar,
of slow-motion, the reversal of pictorial composition from left to
right of the screen, and photographing a ballet dancer from
below through a sheet of glass. Henri Chomette's A quoi r event
les jeunes filles (1924) was also in this category, the material
content being entirely composed of light and speed, the human
element being absent from the film save for the cine-portraits of Man
Ray. It was an attempt at pure emotionism. The environment of
the cineastes is completed by the cine-journalists, with their ephemeral
outlook and easily persuaded minds, who are ever busy in criticism
and filmic theory. And behind them lies the group of little cinemas
which specialise in the presentation of avant-garde work and intelli-
gent films from other countries - the Studio 28, Studio des Ursulines,
Studio Diamant, etc.

The experimental contribution of the French cinema will ever
be present in Paris, which is a fitting locale for an avant-garde move-
ment. The short capricious films of Germaine Dulac, Eugene
Deslav, Georges Lacombe, Rouguier, Man Ray, Kirsanov, Gremillon
are always mentally stimulating in that they seldom end with them-
selves. They are continually suggestive of new ideas, new shapes
and angles, that may be of significance to the cinema proper. On
the other hand, it is ridiculous to accept the avant-garde movement
as the aesthetic zenith of the film, as so many of the intelligentsia
seem to do. The experimentalists in the abstract and absolute film
are interesting in their right place, which is the private cinema, but
any attempt to thrust their work on to the masses is merely absurd.

Developed from the experimental groups there are a number of
directors of some maturity, who have come to realise that a con-
siderable amount of money is necessary for the production of any
film of significance. Clair, Epstein, Cavalcanti, Renoir have all had
their training in the avant-garde before making larger pictures.
Thus has come into being the principal characteristic of the French
cinema, the single-minded production with the director or the
cameraman, as the case may be, as the sole metteur-en-scene . Hence,
Gance is the single creator of Napoleon , Clair of Le Chapeau de Paille

212

THE FRENCH FILM

d'ltalie, and Feyder of Therese Raquin; whilst on a lower scale are
Deslav's La Marche des Machines , Dulac's La Coquille et le Clergyman ,
and Kirsanov's Brumes d'automne.

But this constant stream of experimental work does not mean that
France's sole contribution to the cinema will remain in an empirical
state, as so many like to assume. On the contrary, it suggests that
France should possess a number of distinguished directors grown up
through stages of experiment. There is, however, a wide gulf between
the French director and the French producer, well instanced by
Rene Clair's relationship with Albatross- Sequana. With the exception
of the Societe Generale de Films, there exists no producing company
in France who recognises the artist-mind of the French director.
Producers seem unable to realise that instead of organising their
industry on an American basis, they must adapt their production
schedule according to the directors whom they employ. This would
result in a permanent policy of individually realised films, each with
its controlling source in the artist-mind of the director. As mentioned
above, this policy has been adopted by the Societe Generale de Films
and has resulted, to date, in two outstanding productions, Finis
Terrce and La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc. The production plans of this
enterprising company have, however, been temporarily suspended,
owing to the problem raised by the dialogue film.

But it is useless to believe that this natural outcome of the French
cinema, even if widely adopted, will ever flourish on a big com-
mercial scale. The market for the French 'artist' production must
necessarily remain limited, for the French have not any idea of the
entertainment of the masses. The appeal of such films as La Passion
de Jeanne d'Arc is naturally restricted, but it is sufficient to ensure
further production if unhampered by the side-issues of the dialogue
film. The French cinema as a whole is incapable of competing with
the vast commercial product of Hollywood, and no amount of
contingent regulations will make it possible. The opportunity of
the French producing companies lies in the public which the American
and British companies are creating by their steady stream of in-
different talking films. This public is definitely hostile to the dialogue
product that is being thrust upon it from Elstree and Hollywood,
and would be receptive of good silent films from any country. The
French commercial development is gradual but sure, and if a better
understanding could be reached between producer and director,

213

THE ACTUAL

and the companies would be content with small profits, there waits
a public in this country which will receive their product. If the
dialogue film invasion continues, and by reason of American com-
mercialism it should do so for some time, the film public will
quietly divide itself into two audiences, sufficient to support both
the silent and dialogue production companies.

#
Directly associated with the rise of the French film director from
the environment of the artist's atelier and the marble-top table of
the boulevard is his delight in the perfect composition of the visual
image. The cineaste has first and foremost a pictorial outlook, which
is as discernible in the avant-garde films as in the large scale spectacle
productions of the French commercial cinema. In contradistinction
to the slow, morbid psychology and emphasis of dramatic acting
values that mark the early German and Swedish film, the French
cinema has always been characterised by its directors' love of classical
compositions, almost in an early nineteenth-century manner. It is
an outlook that bears comparison to the classicism of the painters
Chavannes and David. The French director frequently sets out to
create an environment solely by a series of succeeding visual images,
often of great pictorial beauty in themselves but usually non-dynamic
in material. There have been many attempts to establish thematic
atmosphere with the barest framework of narrative content. Such
was the intention of Cavalcanti's En Rade and Epstein's Finis Terrce,
as well as numerous of the avant-garde films, Menilmontant , La Zone,
Tour au Large, Le Tour, etc. Of recent years, with the interest shown
by the cineaste in the Soviet cinema, principles of cutting have been
infused into the values of pictorial composition. But quite unlike
the constructive policy of the Soviet director, the avant-garde seem
to believe that material can be photographed anywhere and anyhow
as long as the images themselves are of interest, and that by simply
joining them together, according to their form and shape, a complete
film will result. This fallacious idea is, of course, strictly antagonistic
to the constructive principles of editing and cutting as understood
in Russia. Instances of the chaos produced by this irrelevant method
were to be seen in Silka's La Ballade du Canart, Man Ray's Le Mystere
du Chateau de De\ and Eugene Deslav's Montparnasse . Only one
example occurs where constructive editing has been rightly incor-
porated with beautiful visual images: — in the often quoted Finis Terra.

214

JfWW\

w s0

in,;
nil

Lbs

ill

trench

societe generale de films
NAPOLEON
A6t?/ Gance's great historical reconstruction film, admirable
in accurate detail, but clumsy in its length. 1924-28

rrench

LE COLLIER DE LA REINE
a historical film by Gaston Ravel, with Pierre Bachelet and
Kotula at the cameras, typical of French pidonalism. 1928-29

eclair

THE FRENCH FILM

With the exception of the two recent comedies of Rene Clair, the

French director has little real feeling for movement of acting material.

It is on these grounds that the cine-journalist rightly attacks his own

cinema, holding up for example the American action film, formerly

in the western and later in the underworld thriller. It is this failure

to utilise movement of acting material that causes the French grand

films, such as Koenigsmark, Monte Cristo, Michael Strogoff, Casanova,

and Le Joueur d'Echecs to be unconvincing. Although pictorially

the big realisations seldom fail to please, their paucity of action often

renders them depressing. The spectacle films, which are so typically

French in their pageantry and pomp, are conceived in the latent

spirit of eighteenth-century romanticism. Despite the fact that they

are almost always extremely well done from a historical and visual

point of view, the perfection of pictorialism does not prevent them

from becoming frequently tedious and often exceptionally dull, as in

Le Miracle des Loups and La Merveilleuse Vie de Jeanne d'Arc. For

actual detail in reconstruction of settings and costumes the French

are unparalleled for good taste and accuracy, but these grand films

are negligible cinematically. On this account, therefore, despite

their shallowness and entire absence of good faith, the American

costume spectacles, such as Ben-Hur, General Crack, and The Beloved

Rogue are preferable filmically to their French counterpart and certainly

more commercially successful. This fact is all the more deplorable

when one recalls the brilliant costumes and settings, so perfect in spirit

and taste, of such a film as Gaston Ravel's Le Collier de la Reine.

The supreme example of the pictorial mind was instanced in that
most remarkable of all films, Karl Dreyer's La Passion de Jeanne
d'Arc, where the very beauty of the individual visual images destroyed
the filmic value of the production. Every shot in this extraordinary
film was so beautifully composed, so balanced in linear design and
distribution of masses, so simplified in detail that the spectator's
primary desire was to tear down each shot as it appeared on the screen
and to hang it in passe-partout on his bedroom wall. This was in
direct opposition to the central aim of the cinema, in which each
individual image is inconsequential in itself, being but a part of the
whole vibrating pattern. In Dreyer's beautiful film the visual image
was employed to its fullest possible extent, but employed graphically
and noi filmically. But more of La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc later.
Alberto Cavalcanti (who, it will be recalled, was an architect

215

THE ACTUAL

before a metteur-en-scene) is another example of the pictorial but non-
cinematic mind. En Rade was composed of numerous lovely com-
positions out of which was built an atmosphere of ships and the sea,
but the film was definitely lacking in the dynamic vitality of the
cinema. But in Epstein's Finis Terrce the visual image was con-
structively used. Every shot was of interest; firstly, psychologically in
the filmic manner, and secondly, from a pictorial standpoint. Epstein
worked with a cinematic, constructive mind, keeping the graphic
visual design of secondary importance. The same cinematic relation
between image and content was found also in Feyder's Therese
Raquin, in which the influence of Germanic psychology was
strongly marked in the arrangement of the images, Feyder also
employing with subtle skill the contrast of light intensities to
emphasise the expression of the dramatic mood.

Indirectly related to the French delight in the harmonious com-
position of images is a leaning towards the decorative, artificially
created environment, which is again non-cinematic in its semi-
theatrical artistry. This tendency towards sweetness of decoration I
were almost inclined to describe as artistic embellishment, if I had
not so great an admiration for French graphic art in its proper
surroundings. The creation of the artificial environment, especially
when inclined to become sentimental in the French film as compared
to the expressionist and fauvist character of the early German pictures,
is hostile to the proper aim of the cinema, which is primarily concerned
with the representation of reality. In the French film, as in the
German, this environment may at first sight be taken for a degree of
fantasy. Actually, however, it is nothing of the sort. It is the syrup
of sentimentality, destructive to the forcefulness of purpose of the
cinema. It was seen at its worst and most decadent in the fairyland
settings of Clair's Le Voyage Imaginaire and in Renoir's La Petite
Marchande d'Allumettes, where it was strongly reminiscent of the
Russian ballet and the decorations of the Chauve-Souris. Moreover,
beyond setting, it spreads into spiritual themes until there is found
the 'Spirit of France' in Napoleon, with its fluttering eagle, the 'Rose
of the rail' in La Roue and in Poirier's vision d'histoire, Verdun. It
is a type of poetic symbolism, essentially nineteenth-century in
feeling, of spiritual sentimentality that is uncongenial to the
architectural, contemporary essence of the cinema.

#
216

THE FRENCH FILM

Of the present directors in France it has been said that the most
significant are Jean Epstein, Rene Clair, Abel Gance, Karl Dreyer
(a Dane who has recently worked in France with French material)
and Jacques Feyder (a Belgian, who has directed in Germany and who
is now in Hollywood). The first two of these have developed from
the avant-garde movement.

Epstein, who is of Polish origin, is characterised by his philosophy
of outlook and his essentially cinematic mind, which has recently
been influenced by the constructivism of the Soviet cinema. Amongst
his early experimental work, usually conceived with a sense of
mysticism and expressed by a variety of trick camerawork, mention
may be made of Mauprat, Le Coeur Fidele, L'Affiche, La Glace a Trots
Faces, and Six et Demi x Onze. It was with his version of La chute de
la Maison Usher that he first claimed serious attention. He succeeded
in this somewhat theatrical production in creating an atmosphere of
macabre mysticism rather after the manner of Murnau in the earlier
Dracula. Chiefly notable were his uses of flying drapery, of low-
lying mist, of gusts of wind and of the imagery of guttering candle
flames, with which he emphasised the literary value of Poe's story.
Regrettable were the poor model shots, clumsily contrived, which
were destructive to the poetic atmosphere of the whole. Epstein
was hampered by the interpretation of a literary theme in terms of
the cinema. Utterly different, however, was his next work, the
realisation of Finis Terrce. This was a film with practically no narra-
tive content, taken with actual material on an island off the coast of
Brittany. The theme concerned an injury to the hand of a fisherman,
who was one of four gathering a harvest of kelp on the island of
Bannec, and a quarrel that resulted from the accident. The value
of the content rested on the interplay of the emotions and reactions
of the characters to the incidental events. For the first two-thirds of
his film, Epstein built the theme in preparation for a final climactic end-
ing. In the last third he lost control, and by changing the location from
the fishermen on the island to their mothers and the doctor he failed to
retain the unity of the earlier portion . Nevertheless , despite this glaring
mistake in thematic construction, Epstein made a film of great strength,
of powerful psychological and pictorial value, that may be placed
almost on the level of Flaherty's Moana. He has recently completed
Sa Tetey which, although conceived on the same lines as the earlier
film, is said to be more artificial in psychological construction.

217

THE ACTUAL

The two best comedies realised in France have come from Rene
Clair, who is perhaps the most delightfully witty and ingenious
director in Europe. He has, moreover, that quality of employing
movement of material which is absent from the work of other French
directors. He has learnt freely from the American cinema, from
Mack Sennett and from Lloyd, but his idol, of course, is Chaplin.
Clair manipulates his adaptations with a degree of refinement that
renders them peculiarly his own. His films, especially the two
most recent examples, Le Chapeau de Paille (Tltalie and Les Deux
Timides, are more completely French in spirit than any other produc-
tions. He has an extraordinary skill in combining satire, comedy,
sentiment, and fantasy. Originally a journalist on Ulntransigeant, he
later took up acting, eventually becoming an assistant to Jacques de
Baroncelli. His early films were all experimental in form, beginning
in 1922 with Paris qui Dort, followed by the already-mentioned
Entr'acte, Le Fantome du Moulin Rouge, Le Tour, and Le Voyage
Imaginaire. Few of these were of much consequence in themselves,
but during their realisation Clair learned a thorough knowledge of
the resources of the cinema, which was to be of great avail in his
more ambitious productions. In 1925 he accepted a contract with
the Albatross- Sequana producing firm, and for obvious commercial
reasons his work became bridled and less wild. This limitation,
however, brought out the best in Clair, for he was forced to extract
the utmost out of the material provided for him by his firm. In
La Proie du Vent, although hampered by an uninteresting scenario,
he made a competent picture, with a few individual sequences of
exceptional merit. Two years later he produced his best work,
Le Chapeau de Paille d'ltalie, a brilliant comedy deep in bitter satire
of middle-class French life, and realised with a high degree of intelli-
gence and cinematic skill. Around a simple dual theme of a man
who was a little hard of hearing and the destruction of a lady's straw
hat, Clair wove a film that was not only exceptionally witty, but a
penetrating commentary on the pettiness and small-mindedness of
the bourgeoisie who constitute such a large proportion of the French
populace. For this reason, the film was not a commercial success,
the public being partially aware of its exposure and righteously
indignant, with the result that Clair remained idle for a year, although
still under contract to Albatross- Sequana. Finally, he was allowed
to make another comedy, Les Deux Timides, which though less

218

THE FRENCH FILM

brilliant than its predecessor was nevertheless of considerable note.
His fire and wit were not given the freedom that had rendered Le
Chapeau de Paille cTItalie so amusing, but, for use of technical
trick-work in order to achieve funny effect, it stands almost alone.
Clair's fervent admiration of Chaplin is apparent throughout all his
work, but that is not to say that he is in any way an imitator of the
great comedian. Probably A Woman of Paris has had more influence
on his outlook than the actual comedies of Chaplin. There is no
question that Clair has very definitely his own individual sense of
cinema and a mentality that I do not hesitate to place alongside that
of the other big directors in the cinema for its refined wit and
intelligence. I certainly suggest that Le Chapeau de Paille d'ltalie
is the most brilliant satirical comedy produced in Europe, to be
grouped with Lubitsch's The Marriage Circle and Chaplin's A
Woman of Paris.

Although Karl Dreyer's great contribution to the cinema lies in
the production of La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc, his work at an earlier
period was distinguished by a simplicity of handling and an under-
standing of psychological values in the development of character.
In 1924, he made Heart's Desire for Ufa, with a thematic narrative
based on an artist's love for his adopted son and the latter 's ingratitude.
It was slow moving, unfolded with careful deliberation of detail,
Benjamin Christiansen playing Zoret, the artist, and Walther Slezack,
the boy. Some time later he made The Master of the House (Le
Mattre du Logis), a Danish production telling the story of a lower
middle-class flat occupied by a man, his wife and three children,
and the complications that ensued owing to the selfishness of the
husband. The direction was quite straightforward, with scrupulous
attention paid to detail and without any variety of angles or lighting.
Yet it was powerfully done, intimate and compelling. It had little
success in any country save France, whither, on the strength of it,
Dreyer went in 1927 to make the immortal La Passion de Jeanne
d'Arc.

It seems ungrateful to level adverse criticism at this beautiful
film, for it was so moving and so intense that hostile opinion appears
ridiculous. Nevertheless, despite the admiration evoked by the visual
and spiritual meaning of this representation of the last moments of
the agony of Jeanne d'Arc, cinematically Dreyer's film was not
great. Its overwhelming fault of the isolation of the visual images

219

THE ACTUAL

from the dynamic content has already been explained, and further
comment on its lack of filmic texture is considered superfluous.
But it remains to record that Dreyer deserved the highest praise
for his marvellous representation of environment; his terrible and
strong use of camera angle and camera movement for the close
establishment of an intimacy between the characters and the audience
that has rarely, if ever, been equalled; and for his splendid subordina-
tion of detail in settings and general atmosphere. He insisted that
no make-up of any sort should be used by his acting material, with
the result that the faces looked like burning copper with finely
wrinkled textures against the stark white backgrounds. A strange
power, an unprecedented insistence was given to the characters by
this lack of artificial make-up. Across the screen spread great close
ups of eyes, a leer, the corner of a mouth, a smirk, a delicately marked
hand, revealing with tremendous force the inward thoughts and
emotions of the crowd, the judges, the monks, the soldiers, and above
all the expressions of Jeanne herself, hesitating, perplexed, enlightened,
anguished, ever fascinating. For once there was no concession to
public convention, no star, no high-spot, no box-office appeal, no
'last-minute-rescue,' nothing but the dominating direction of Dreyer.
From a pictorial point of view the selection of visual images in this
film has never before or since been approached in any production
from any source whatsoever. There is no question that La Passion
de Jeanne a" Arc was extraordinarily powerful. From the- opening to
the closing shot it held, swayed, staggered, overwhelmed and tore
at the spectator. It somehow contrived to get underneath and round
the back of one's receptivity. It demanded the complete concentration
of the audience from start to finish. I have no compunction in saying
that it was one of the most remarkable productions ever realised in
the history and development of the cinema, but it was not a full exposi-
tion of real filmic properties .

Dreyer 's employment of the psychology of human emotions and
reactions was profound. His sense of atmosphere was superbly
expressed. The greater portion of the film was taken in close ups
from high and low level angles, the screen being constantly flooded
with compositions so completely pleasing in themselves that they
ceased to be contributions to the concatenation of shots. The greatest
praise should be given to the whole production unit and the extra-
ordinary playing of Mme. Falconetti as Jeanne. Eighteen months

trench

societe ge'nerale de filrm
LA PASSION DE JEANNE D'ARC
Karl Dreyer's film. Mme. Falconetti as Joan. Camerawork
by Rudolph Mate and Kotula. 1927-28

french

societe generale de films
LA PASSION DE JEANNE D'ARC
the superb film by Karl Dreyer. Antonin Artaud; note
texture of photography and beauty of detail. 1927-28

THE FRENCH FILM

were spent on the film for the Societe Generate de Films, and despite
its demerit the film will ever be memorable.

The style of Jacques Feyder, who is a Belgian, appears to change
with each of his interesting productions. It would seem he is
naturally assimilative. He has adapted from the Germans and from
the Swedes, but he has always adapted correctly and with sincerity.
In his list of films are to be found, U Image (from a scenario by
Jules Romains); L'Atlantide; Gribiche; Crainquebille, from the Anatole
France novel; Visages d'Enfants; Carmen, with Raquel Mellor;
Therese Raquin, from Zola, and a comedy, Les Nouveaux Messieurs.
It is, however, in the two latter films that Feyder demands attention.
He is essentially a director of dramatic situations, of heavy conflict
between disturbed emotions, and for such handling the material of
Zola's Therese Raquin was admirable. It was made in German
studios for the Defu firm, and its lighting and treatment were typically
Germanic. But pre-eminent was Feyder's remarkable direction of
Gina Manes, an actress who can be as good (as in Therese Raquin)
or as bad (as in Molander's Sin, from the Strindberg play), according
to the mind controlling her playing. Feyder's treatment of Therese,
her inner mind, her suppressed sex, her viciousness and her sensuality
was an amazing example of dramatic direction. By the smallest
movement, by the flicker of an eyelash, by a sidelong glance at
Laurent, by her partly opened mouth, by her calm composure at the
Raquin home, and by her passion in the studio of her lover, the
spectator was forced to share the mind of this remarkable woman.
In the handling of Wolfgang Zelzer, as Camille the husband, with his
adjustable cuffs and cheerful bonhomie, Feyder was equally brilliant,
bringing to the surface the pitiful desolation of the little man's life.
Feyder built his film by the use of selected detail, by indirect sugges-
tion, and by symbolism into a strong emotional realisation of a
dramatic theme. He was inclined, it is true, to exaggerate the melo-
drama of the closing scenes by too heavy a contrast in lighting and
by a sequence of double and triple exposure which disturbed the
smooth continuity that was so well achieved in the first two-thirds of
the picture. Nevertheless, Therese Raquin was a great achievement
of dramatic direction, an example of the use of emphasis of detail to
reinforce the content. The following Feyder picture was in direct
contrast to the depression of Zola, for Les Nouveaux Messieurs was a
comedy of politics adapted from a stage play, demanding satirical

221

THE ACTUAL

direction utterly divorced from the sombreness of Therese Raquin.
It was not surprising that this film caused a flutter in the French
political dovecote; that feeling at first ran so high that the censor
intervened and prohibited it being shown in its country of inception,
although later the ban was removed. The dominating feature of
Les Nouveaux Messieurs was its biting humour. The foibles of the
rival politicians were mercilessly exploited in a mute appeal to the
intelligence of the spectator as a silent protest against the childishness
of political strife. Technically, it was interesting for some competent
camerawork, with frequent use of low - level angles and clever
composite photography, as in the confusion of thought in the
telephone scene at the Trade Union Headquarters. The outstand-
ing impression given by these two Feyder films, Therese Raquin
and Les Nouveaux Messieurs, was the astonishing versatility of
their director. Both, in their kind, could scarcely have been
more brilliant. Feyder's first film in Hollywood for Metro-
Goldwyn-Mayer was The Kiss, which has been mentioned in the
American chapter at an earlier stage as a clever mixture of picture-
sense and filmic intelligence.

Marcel l'Herbier is the supreme technician of the French cinema,
his films at all times revealing a high degree of technical accom-
plishment. His work suffers, if one may be allowed the term, from
over-intellectuality. He is essentially the cinematic aesthete rather
than the film director. His technique is too brilliant to be convincing,
too clever to be of purpose for dramatic expression. His recent film
U Argent, from Zola, with its refinement of setting and forced acting,
was evidence of this sensitive intellectualism. Of the many pictures
to his credit, there may be mentioned for reference U Homme du
large, in 1920, typical of the first avant-garde movement; Don Juan
and Faust, in 1921, with Jaque Catelain and Marcelle Pradot, a
curious mixture of Velazquez pictorial influence and the expressionism
of The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari; El Dorado, notable at its time for
distorted camerawork; he Marchand des Plaisirs, again with Catelain;
Le Vertige; L'Inhumaine; Le Diable au Coeur, with Betty Balfour and
Andre Nox; Le Feu Mathew Pascal, from Pirandello, with Ivan
Mosjoukine and settings by Alberto Cavalcanti; U Argent, with
Brigitte Helm, Alfred Abel, and Marie Glory; and Nuits de Princes,
with Catelain and Gina Manes. L'Herbier is a prolific director,
always of interest, but seldom producing a picture of complete merit.

222

rranco german

THERESE RA^LTN
by Jacques Feyder, with Gina Manes, Wolfgang Zelzer,
Jeanne Marie-Laurent and Hans Schlettow ; note beauty of
lighting and grouping of figures. 1928

detu

franco-german

THERESE RAQUIN
by Jacques Feyder, from Zola's novel, with Gina Manes and
Wolfgang Zelzer as the husband and wife. 1928

detu

THE FRENCH FILM
Apart from his artist's appreciation of pictorial beauty, Alberto
Cavalcanti is not a director of cinematic films. His selection of visual
images and his delicate sense of environment are sincere, but his
expression of theme and content is not filmic in texture. He has
but little idea of camera position except for pictorialism and none
at all of constructive editing for dramatic effect. These faults and
virtues are apparent in all his work, in the decor for 1 Herbier s
Ulnhumaine and Le Feu Mathew Pascal, and the realisations ot
Yvette, Rien que les Hemes, En Rade, and Le Capitaine Fracasse
His most interesting work was in the burlesque cine-poem, La t Me
Lilt, in which he touched a true note of poetic sentimentality.
Although his themes are littered with garbage and depression, they
are always sweet natured. Rien que les Hemes, made in 1925, was
similar in aim to Ruttmann's Berlin, but whereas the latter film was
an impersonal selection of images taken during a day in a great city,
Cavalcanti's handling was more intimate. Among a pattern of shots
of Paris, interspaced at regular intervals by close ups of a clock
marking the hours, he followed the movements of an old woman
and a young*girl. Cavalcanti is not interested in the usual devices
favoured by the avant-garde, being generally concerned with the
slow unfolding of a human being's life. En Rade, set among the
quays and ships of Marseilles, was a praiseworthy example ot
centralisation of environment, beautiful pictorially, but negligible
cinematically. His last picture to be seen was a costume romance
adapted from Gautier, Le Capitaine Fracasse, rich in seventeenth-
century detail and atmosphere, but unfilmic in form. He has recently
completed Le Petit Chaperon Rouge, with Catherine Hesslmg.

Jean Renoir, son to the famous painter, is recalled principally by
three films, Nana, La petite Marchande des Allumettes, and Le Tournoi.
The first was based on the Zola novel, with Werner Krauss and
Catherine Hessling in a mixture of the can-can, Lautrec back-stage
and Offenbach; the second was a charming, sentimental realisation
of the Hans Andersen story, notable for the fascination of the
irresistible Mile. Hessling and a wilful, artificial setting already
commented upon; while the third was a costume romance, in the
best French historical manner, scrupulously accurate but quite
unconvincing.

Abel Gance is the grand maitre of the French cinema, theoretically
the apotheosis of great directors, but in practice always out-of-date

223

THE ACTUAL

with ideas. He spent five years on the production of Napoleon, a
theme so vast that it defeated its own, Abel Gance's and everybody
else's purpose. It was filled with imagination, technical devices, and
ramifications of complicated scenario work, needing three screens on
which to exhibit its lumbering bulk. It was tediously cumbersome
and hopelessly overweighted with symbolic reference. Gance is
essentially the employer of the symbolic image, with the 'Spirit of
France' perpetually at the back of his mind. Solemnly we observe
the eagles in Napoleon; the rails, wheels, and signals in La Roue;
the parks and terraces in La Zone de la Mort; and the lily in J' Accuse.
Mention should be made of his early films, La Xe Symphonie and
Mater Dolorosa , both outstanding at their time of realisation. He has
now embarked on another stupendous theme, The End of the World;
the year of presentation has not yet been calculated.

With the pre-war period of the French cinema I have little con-
cern. It is mostly to be summed up in the characteristic productions
of the Gaumont, Pathe, and Aubert companies, marked chiefly by
their theatrical conception, stylised acting and the attention paid
to story value. One of the most ambitious efforts was a several reel
version in Pathecolor of Victor Hugo's Les Miser ables. The domestic
comedies of Max Linder, whom I am tempted to describe as a proto-
type of Adolphe Menjou, may also be recalled. Similarly, I do not
intend to catalogue the many films produced during the early post-
war years in France by various directors, but, if occasion arises,
reference may be made to the work of the late Louis Delluc {La
Fete Espagnole, in collaboration with Germaine Dulac, in 1920; La
Femme de Nulle Part and Fievre, both made in 1921); of Jacques de
Baroncelli {Le Carillon de Minuit, Le Pere Goriot, Pecheur d'Island,
and Reveil,with Isobel Elsom);of Severin-Mars {Le Coeur Magnifique);
and of Jules Duvivier {La Tragedie de Lourdes).

To these may be added Nicolas Volkoff's Kean, a film of consider-
able merit made in 1924; Leon Poirier's Jocelyn, Verdun, and La
Croisiere Noire (an admirable interest picture); Marc Allegret's
travel film, in conjunction with Andre Gide, Voyage au Congo; the
amusing work of Germaine Dulac, Arabesque, Mme. Beudet, and
La Coquille et le Clergyman; and the many short films of the avant-
garde, too numerous for inclusion.

From this some slight estimate of the significance of the French

224

THE FRENCH FILM

cinema may be gained. That it is important is very clear despite
the efforts of the cineaste and the cine-journalist to prove the contrary.
Of the future of the French cinema it is impossible to write, for each
step will depend on the precarious position of the dialogue film.
Various experiments are being made with sound reproduction in
France, but at the time of writing, no serious realisation has been
seen, although several full-length dialogue films are said to have been
completed.

225

THE BRITISH FILM

The British film is established upon a hollow foundation. Perhaps
it would be more significant to write that it rests upon a structure
of false prestige, supported by the flatulent flapdoodle of news-
paper writers and by the indifferent goodwill of the English people.
Inasmuch that a film emanating from the studios of this country
to-day is at once enshrouded in a haze of patriotic glamour by the
public, who feel that the product (with one or two notable
exceptions) is unworthy of its esteem.

The whole morale of the modern British cinema is extravagantly
artificial. It has been built up by favoured criticism and tolerance of
attitude. If a few critics had consistently written the bitter truth
about the British film, if they had criticised it ruthlessly and
stringently according to its deserts, I am convinced that this country
would have revealed at least half-a-dozen thoroughly capable,
intelligent film directors and a group of perspicacious, courageous
producers. Well-merited castigation would have laid bare, and there-
fore more easily remedied, the root of the evil. Instead, there have
been British film weeks and national film campaigns which have
nourished the cancer in the industry. As it is, the British film is
spoon-fed by deceptive praise and quota regulations, with the un-
happy result that it has not yet discovered its nationality.

The British film has never been self-sufficient, in that it has never
achieved its independence. Leon Moussinac writes: 'UAngleteire
n 'a jamais produit un vrai film anglais,' 1 a remark that is miserably
true. The British film lacks conception. It has no other aim than
that of the imitation of the cinema of other countries. For its obscure
source it goes firstly to the American, and secondly, but more remote
to discern, to the German film. Of one thing I am assured, that the
British film will never prosper, save as the child of the American

1 Panoramique du Cinema, Leon Moussinac 1929.
226

THE BRITISH FILM

cinema, until our producers bring themselves to recognise the value
of experiment. Only on exceedingly rare occasions does a producing
firm in this country countenance a new form of technique, a develop-
ment of outlook, or anything that is alien to their traditional methods
of working. British studios are filled with persons of moderate
intelligence who are inclined to condemn anything that is beyond
their range. Producers, directors, scenarists, cameramen, art-
directors, and their confreres are afraid of any new process, in case
their feeble mentality is not sufficiently clever to grasp its significance.
We are slow to learn from other film-producing countries, but we
are always quick to imitate. But the danger lies in the disastrous
fact that we generally imitate without understanding, without probing
to the base of the ideas that we adopt (as for example, the mixed
technique of Asquith's Cottage on Dartmoor and the ill-designed
decor of Elvey's High Treason). For this reason there has never been
any school of avant-garde in England. I do not suggest that an
advanced school of cinematic experimentalism is essential, but I
believe that it would stimulate the directors of the commercial cinema.
There is, moreover, no school of thought for the furtherance of filmic
theory, such as is found in other countries. There is none of the
enthusiasm for the progress of the cinema which is so prevalent in
France, Germany, Soviet Russia, and even America.

On occasions, our studios burst into a flare of latent modernism
that is usually deplorable. In such a vein was the already mentioned
Gaumont-British film, High Treason, which was made by a director
with over fifty productions to his credit. It is not, moreover, as if
British studios were insufficiently equipped or inadequately staffed.
On the contrary, the technical resources of Elstree, Welwyn, Islington,
and Walthamstow are as good as, if not better than, those of almost
any other country in Europe, a point upon which every foreign
visitor will agree. The trouble lies in the way in which these excellent
resources are employed. A good film and a bad film pass through
the same technical process. The amount of good and the amount of
bad in each depends upon the minds which control the instruments.

It need scarcely be reiterated that England is the most fertile
country imaginable for pure filmic material. Our railways, our in-
dustries, our towns, and our countryside are waiting for incorporation
into narrative films. The wealth of material is immense. When recently
visiting this country, Mr. Eisenstein expressed his astonishment

227

THE ACTUAL

at the almost complete neglect by British film directors of the
wonderful material that lay untouched. Why advantage had not been
taken of these natural resources was exceptionally difficult to explain
to a visitor. Oxford, Cambridge, Liverpool, Shrewsbury, Exeter,
the mountains of Wales and the highlands of Scotland are all admir-
able for filmic environment. Nothing of any value has yet been made
of London, probably the richest city in the world for cinematic
treatment. Grierson alone has made, under Soviet influence, the
film of the herring fleet, the epic Drifters. This film, good as it was,
is but a suggestion of that which waits to be accomplished. But
what English company is willing to realise these things? British
International Pictures, it is true, have made The Flying Scotsman
under the direction of Castleton Knight, but what of it? Anthony
Asquith made Underground , but became lost in the Victorian con-
ception of a lift-boy, in place of the soul of London's greatest organisa-
tion. Instead, our studios give forth Variety, Splinters, The Co-
optimists, Elstree Calling, A Sister to Assist 'Er, and The American
Prisoner.

What has been done with the Empire? It is well, first, to recall
Epstein's Finis Terrce, Flaherty's Moana, Turin's Turksib, and
Pudovkin's Heir to Jenghiz Khan. The material lying unused in all
parts of India, Kenya, Nigeria, Malta, Cyprus, is vast. There have
been made A Throw of the Dice, Stampede, and Palaver, but what
did they tell of those rich countries, save a superficial rendering?
Without proper methods of film construction, without a knowledge
of the capabilities of the cinema, it were best for this wonderful
material to be left untouched.

The root of the trouble in this country lies in the conservative
and narrow-minded outlook of the producing executives. There are
not the men of broad vision, receptive of new theories and progressive
ideas. (I do not here refer to the general adoption of the dialogue
cinema, for that was a position forced upon British companies by
American domination.) When the industry suffered a revival some
years ago, after a decline period of inactivity, British producers
seriously considered that it was more necessary to erect studio-cities
than to train the young men who were to work in them. Every effort
at that time was concentrated on making the masses believe that
Elstree was the new Hollywood; but the public shrewdly reserved

228

british

DRIFTERS
John Grierson's film of the Lowestoft fishing fleet, admirably
constructed and the first of its kind to be made in England.

1928

british

british international

PICCADILLY
by E. A. Dupont, one of the best films made in this country on
American pattern. Anna May Wong and Jameson Thomas.

1927

THE BRITISH FILM
its judgment until it should see the product of this studio-

* Not only this, but producers lack the courage of their own con-
victions. When the dialogue film swept mto England by way of the
American-owned theatres in London, several directors mftM
studios were just beginning to grasp the rudimentary principles of
film construction. They were groping and slowly ^STwhS
themselves some ideas on the theory of the cinema. But the whole
studio organisation of this country was thrown into chaos by the
American revolution of the dialogue film. If only one firm had
remained level-headed when the tidal wave came I am convinced
that the best intelligences in British studios would have stood with
it and would have acted independently of the dialogue innovation
If one company had been content with small profits and a gradual
increase of its output, developing its knowledge of the silent
film there would have been some tendency, some initiative, some
independence in the British cinema of which to write. As it was the
studios tried to transform their inadequate knowledge of film-making
into 'the new technique,' and continued with their slavish imitation
of the American cinema.

The importation of foreign talent did not have the same in-
fluence in British studios as it did at an earlier date in Hollywood.
It will be remembered that the work of Lubitsch, von Stroheim,
Pommer, and Seastrom had serious effect on the minds of the
younger school of American directors. But in England, Arthur
Robison, E. A. Dupont, and Henrik Galeen, three directors of talent,
have had no effect on the British school. On the contrary, their
ideas were totally misunderstood and unappreciated in our studios.
Foreign directors failed to discover in England the collectivism and
team-work so vital to film production. They were unable to under-
stand our idea of picture-sense and we were at a loss to interpret
their filmic outlook. (E.g., Robison's The Informer and Galeen s
After the Verdict; yet these directors had earlier been responsible
for Manon Lescaut and The Student of Prague. The conclusion to be
drawn is obvious.) Dupont alone attained to some measure of
success in Piccadilly, but only because he employed a German
cameraman and architect. The importation of foreign talent was
due to the eternal craze for a picture of international appeal.
Producers were convinced that the inclusion of a foreign star would

229

THE ACTUAL

give a film an instant attraction in other countries. For this reason,
Lya de Putti, Lars Hanson, Hans von Schlettow, Anna May Wong,
Olga Tschechowa, Gilda Gray, and others have played in this country,
but the advantage is somewhat obscure, save that it has been success-
ful in the suppression of natural British talent.

Analysis of the output of British studios since the war is impossible
in the same way as has been done with that of other countries. Nor,
on the other hand, is it proposed to give even a brief survey of the
commercial development, for that has been lightly touched upon
at an earlier stage. I am unable to discern a realistic, expressionistic,
naturalistic, decorative, or any other phase in the development of
the British cinema. Added to which, there are no tendencies to be
traced, for British films do not have tendencies, unless allusion is
made to the prevalence of cabaret scenes and war themes. I propose,
therefore, to examine several isolated productions and the work of a
few individual directors, who demand some notice.

Without hesitation, there is one production that is pre-eminent in
the British cinema, Grierson's film of the herring fleet. As far as I
am aware, Drifters is the only film produced in this country that
reveals any real evidence of construction, montage of material, or
sense of cinema as understood in these pages. Admittedly, Grierson
was influenced in his work by the rhythmic construction of Eisen-
stein's Battleship 'Potemkin,' but, as has been pointed out elsewhere,
he gave to Drifters something that was lacking in the celebrated
Soviet film. As is now well-known, Grierson was connected with the
preparation of the American version of the Soviet picture, and had,
therefore, every opportunity to analyse the work of Eisenstein at
close contact. Although Grierson failed to understand completely
the construction of Battleship 'Potemkin,' he nevertheless contrived
to build a film of great strength and beauty in Drifters. Like
Epstein's Finis Terrce and Ford's Iron Horse, the theme of Drifters
was pure in filmic texture. The ships that sailed out at night, the
casting of the drifting nets, and the climactic race home to give their
haul to the markets of the world was splendid film material. The film
was filled with the beauty of labour and a sense of ships. It lacked,
possibly, a universal idea of the sea by its concentration on detail,
but it was so far in advance of normal British productions that to
write unfavourably of it would be ungenerous.

230

THE BRITISH FILM

There are several directors in and around British studios who
in my belief would realise interesting films were they afforded the
means. There are also, on the other hand, many directors who have
failed to make use of ample opportunities when they have had
them. And again, there is a large number of second and third-rate
directors on whose spasmodic work it is impossible to comment in a
book of this nature.

Although Miles Mander has been connected principally with
acting, he has made one film that provided evidence of his wit and
intelligence in filmic expression. The Firstborn, made at Elstree
two years ago, was almost entirely the product of Mander 's creative
mentality; the story, scenario, direction, and principal role being his
individual work, supported by Madeleine Carroll. In the copy of
The Firstborn shown to the public, however, the merits of the direc-
tion and the continuity were rendered almost negligible by the poor
assembling of the material by the distributing firm. It is under-
stood that the film was mounted without the control of the director
by a professional cutter, and hence much of Miles Mander's original
conception was destroyed. As a light commentary on married life,
flavoured with an environment of semi-political domestication, The
Firstborn was conceived with a nice subtlety of wit. The treatment,
especially of the eternal arguments and the dinner party, was sophis-
ticated and clever. Mander has obviously a shrewd knowledge of
feminine mentality and succeeded in transferring this into his handling
of Madeleine Carroll. Had the film been well assembled, according
to the original manuscript, I believe that The Firstborn would have
been a unique instance of an English domestic tragi-comedy in the
cinema.

Probably Anthony Asquith is the most fortunately situated of
British directors. He has certain ideas on cinematic representation,
and he is happily able to put them into realisation. He has been
concerned with four productions till now, Shooting Stars, Under-
ground, Princess Priscilla's Fortnight, and A Cottage on Dartmoor.
That he possesses a feeling for cinema was proved by all these films,
but that he is still groping and undecided in his mind as to how to
find expression for his ideas is equally plain. He has learnt varied
forms of treatment from abroad, but has not as yet fully understood
the logical reason for using them. He has studied the Soviet and
German cinema, but has failed to search deep enough. His technique

231

THE ACTUAL

still remains, after four productions, primitively on the surface.
In his last picture, for example, there were several instances of
quick cutting and symbolic reference, but they were employed because
of themselves and not as a contributory factor to the film composition.
For this reason, Asquith's work appears that of a virtuoso, whilst
in reality he is undecided in his mind as to what to do next. He is
legitimate in borrowing from superior directors only if he compre-
hends that which he borrows and why he has borrowed it. His
films seem principally to lack centralisation of purpose. This was
exemplified in Underground, which, instead of being a direct exposi-
tion of the spirit of an inanimate organisation (and what superb
material) degenerated into a movie of London 'types.' All his work
has been unbalanced and erratic, and it is essential for him to lose
his Victorian sense of humour (described, I believe, as 'Asquith
puckishness') before he can favourably progress. He has, on the
other hand, some feeling for the use of dramatic camera angle, some
ideas on dissolve shots, but an uneven sense of pictorial composition.
He needs to receive a course in architectural construction in order
to appreciate proportion; and to realise the relation that lies between
the visual images and the expression of the theme.

The accredited pre-eminent director of the British school is, I
suppose, Alfred Hitchcock, whose first dialogue film Blackmail has
been generally accepted as the best of its kind. I believe, however,
that Hitchcock's most sincere work was seen in The Lodger, produced
in 1926 for Gainsborough. In this thriller melodrama, he displayed
a flair for clever photographic angles and succeeded in creating an
environment of a London fog with some conviction. He continued
with a series of unpretentious pictures, Downhill, Easy Virtue, The
Ring, The Farmer's Wife, and The Manxman, but did not develop
along the lines indicated by The Lodger. The production of Black-
mail, although handicapped by poor narrative interest and the
inevitable restrictions of dialogue, nevertheless showed Hitchcock in
a progressive mood. His much commented upon use of sound as
an emphasis to the drama of the visual image was well conceived,
but inclined to be over-obvious. Incidentally, the silent version was
infinitely better than the dialogue, the action being allowed its proper
freedom.

Although not strictly the product of British studios, Dupont's
Piccadilly was undoubtedly the best film of its type to be made in

232

british

british instru&ional

A COTTAGE ON DARTMOOR
by Anthony Asquith, one of the few films to use natural material
in England, memorable for its exterior photography. 1928

mglo-german

gainsborough-greenbaum
THE RING OF THE EMPRESS
by Erich Washneck, with Lil Dagover and Vera Baranovskaia,
notable for its delightful costume designs. 1929

THE BRITISH FILM

this country. It was moderately well constructed and expensively
finished as such pictures should be, but was chiefly notable for the
wonderful camerawork of Werner Brandes and the delightful
settings of Alfred Junge. The action was slow where it should have
been fast, and fast where it should have been slow, but taking it as a
whole, Piccadilly was the best film to be made by British International
Pictures. Dupont's first dialogue film, however, was an unpre-
cedented example of wasted material. The theme was one of the
most dramatic that it is possible to imagine - the sinking of a great
liner. The film was based on a play called 'The Berg,' which in turn
was founded on the 'Titanic' disaster of 191 2. The facts available
to the director were these: the maiden voyage of the largest liner in
the world, supposed to be unsinkable; the striking of a low-lying
iceberg; the sinking of the ship in less than three hours, with the loss
of one thousand five hundred and thirteen persons. It was a tremen-
dous situation, calling for an intense psychological representation of
the reactions of the passengers and crew. It could have been one of
the greatest films ever made. It was one of the stupidest. Firstly,
the bathos of the dialogue was incredible; secondly, the acting was
stage-like, stiff and unconvincing; thirdly, the actual shock of the
collision was completely ineffectual. Technically, the photography
was flat and uninteresting; the (unnecessary) model shots were crude
and toy-like; and the mass of nautical errors was inexcusable, added
to which there was a complete discrepancy of the water levels as the
vessel sank. I can think of no other example where so fine a theme
has received such inadequate treatment.

Comparison can be made with point between Atlantic and Pudov-
kin's The Heir to Jenghiz Khan. Both had great themes; each con-
tained errors of detail. But whereas in the former, discrepancies were
brought into prominence by the weak direction; in The Heir to
Jenghiz Khan, the treatment of the film as a whole was so impressive
that mistakes (in military detail, etc.) tended to be overlooked.

There are three groups of films that merit inclusion. The series
of reconstructed war events made for New Era and British Instruc-
tional Films by Messrs. Geoffrey Barkas, Walter Summers, Michael
Barringer, etc., including Armageddon, Zeebrugge, Mons, The Somme,
The Battles of Falkland and Coronel Islands, and iQi Ships. All these
were excellent examples of the documentary film. Three extremely

233

THE ACTUAL

amusing comedies directed by Ivor Montagu, The Cure, Day
Dreams, and Bluebottles, from stories by H. G. Wells, with the ever-
delightful Elsa Lanchester, were the best instances of comedy
burlesque that I have seen. And the numerous nature films, made
by British Instructional, have always been admirable in conception
and execution. They are, in fact, the sheet-anchor of the British
Film Industry.

FILMS FROM OTHER COUNTRIES

1 here has been frequent mention in these pages of the Swedish
cinema, which is now almost non-existent. During the years immedi-
ately following the war, Sweden produced a number of films that
had great influence on the cinema of France and Germany. They were
realised with exceptional visual beauty, being characterised by their
lyrical quality of theme and by their slowness of development. For
their environment, full use was made of the natural landscape value
of Sweden, whilst their directors were marked by their poetic feeling.
The themes were for the most part tragically conceived and treated
from a heavy psychological point of view, two qualities that were
chiefly responsible for the half-hearted acceptance of the Swedish
cinema by foreign exhibitors and renters. In fact, it may be said
truthfully that the Swedish film declined and died a natural death
by reason of its national characteristics of poetic feeling and lyricism.
Of the directors, most of whom have gone to Hollywood, mention
must be made of Victor Seastrom (The Phantom Carriage, The
Tragic Ship, The Exiles), Mauritz Stiller, who died in Hollywood in
December of 1928 (The Atonement of Gosta Berling,Arne>s Treasure),
and John Brunius (Vox Populi, The History of Charles XII,).

Both Italy and Spain are producing films, though, so far as I am
aware, few of their recent productions have been shown outside their
country of origin up till the time of writing. Before the war, however,
Italian films were not unfrequently presented in England, ranging
from comedies to historical subjects. Of the latter, the most memor-
able is Cabiria, a classical theme from a scenario by Gabriele d'An-
nunzio. With its extensive cast and elaborate sets - such, for instance,
as the Temple of Moloch which anticipated the sequence of the
Heart Machine in Lang's Metropolis - this super production was a
remarkable feat for 191 3, even though its cinematic properties were
not pronounced. Hungary, Bulgaria, and Czechoslovakia have also

235

THE ACTUAL

entered the field of the film industry, but here there is as yet little to
record.

By way of contrast, there is at the moment a flourishing film
industry in Japan, where it is said that over five hundred productions
are realised yearly by some ninety directors. This high rate of
production, however, has only been reached of recent years, having
come about through the national urge to overcome the American
domination that took place during the war. Before the outbreak of
war, Japan relied on France and Italy for supplying her programmes,
but as was the case in all other countries, America took control of the
market when the European industry was suspended. Directly after
the war, Japanese production began to develop and it was not long
before several companies were formed.

Until the present, the Japanese cinema has been too closely allied
to the traditions of the theatre for there to have been any individual
cinematic tendencies. For a long time the film was regarded as
inferior to the stage, suitable only for the entertainment of the
lower classes. For subject-matter, also, the cinema relied largely on
traditional costume plays, resulting in a large number of stylised,
historical films adapted from conventional pieces of the past. These
were notable for their beauty of setting and their excellent photo-
graphy, being of particular interest as reconstructions of old Japanese
customs and traditions. Moreover, another reason for the pre-
dominance of the historical film is the vigilance with which the
censorship observes all pictures dealing with contemporary moral or
social matters. Despite this, however, there are a certain number of
modern themes produced, especially comedies, dealing with the
peasantry and the lower middle classes.

The two prominent producing companies are the Nikkatsu and the
Soetsiku, and although the latter was formerly the more important,
it has now been superseded by the Nikkatsu. As in Soviet Russia,
each concern has its own set of production units and players, there
being little interchange of personnel. The Nikkatsu is said to employ
the best acting material, having also at its command experts in
Japanese antiquity and historical matters to supervise the traditional
subjects. The Soetsiku, on the other hand, is more modern in its
outlook and attempts to produce films of the naturalistic type with
contemporary material, several of its technicians having learnt their
trade in Hollywood studios. The chief studios are at Kamata, with a

236

FILMS FROM OTHER COUNTRIES

staff numbering about a thousand (including fifty directors), where
only films on modern subjects are realised. The speed of production
is astonishing, a full-length picture being completed in anything from
a fortnight to a month, as compared to the usual six weeks or two
months in Europe and America. This high rate of production is due
to the Japanese desire to break down any attempt at American
domination, a lesson which England might well learn from this
courageous nation.

In India, also, there are a great number of films realised by purely
native production units. Although the indigenous product is tech-
nically far inferior to the American and European films shown in
India, nevertheless the former finds more favour with the vast
Indian public. The majority of pictures are versions of well-known
tales of Hindu mythology and religion, clumsily put together with
many long-winded titles in several languages. The average length
of a film seems to be about ten thousand feet, the audience being
apparently willing to sit through any amount of film so long as it
deals with a favourite subject. Moreover, owing to the differences of
religion, the censor authorities have great difficulty in granting
permission for exhibition in the various districts. There have also
been a number of Indian pictures made by European producing
companies, but most of these are singularly uninteresting (Nuri
the Elephant , Shirazy A Throw of the Dice).

237

PART TWO
THE THEORETICAL

THE AIM OF THE FILM IN GENERAL AND IN
PARTICULAR

Analysis of the film is, perhaps, more difficult than that of any
of the other arts. Since its beginning in the days of the Lumiere
brothers and Friese-Green, the film has grown, retraced its steps,
sprung in different directions at the same time, been hampered and I
impeded on all sides, in the most remarkable way, without any real
stock being taken of its properties and possessions. Its very nature
of light revealed by moving form defies systematic cataloguing off
its capabilities. Its essentially mechanical basis is apt to lead the
observer and the student up blind alleys. No medium of expression
calls for such a wide variation of technical accomplishment as does
the film. In literature, it is possible to check and to investigate new
developments with comparative ease in contrast to the cinema; and
as Mr. Arnold Bennett has pointed out more than once, it is an
insuperable task to keep abreast with modern literature. But even
in literature, works in libraries or in one's own possession can be
consulted, whereas when a film has had its limited run of a few weeks,
access to it for examination or reference is a difficult matter. So few
facts are actually put on record concerning current films that it is
quite conceivable that a time may come when such important pictures
as Mother and Metropolis will be but names at which future genera-
tions will wonder. Little record, even now, remains of some of the
earlier German films made shortly after the war, whilst copies them-
selves become scarce as time goes on, either through wear or through
accident.1 Personal experience, also, is necessarily restricted and
seldom put on record. El Greco's ' Agony in the Garden ' may be

1 For example, there is, I believe, only one complete copy of The Cabinet of
Doctor Caligari in existence, and certainly only one copy of Dracula, which is
never likely to be shown unless privately. Of The Peasant Women of Riazan there
is only a limited number of copies, the master negative being destroyed by fire.
The same applies to The Golem, The Mystic Mirror, and Destiny.
Q 241

THE THEORETICAL

consulted at almost any time with convenience, but in the case of a
film it is only possible to rely on memory for reference, a precarious
method of analysis.

Furthermore, even to see a film is not necessarily to observe all
its values, as Mr. Eric Elliott has remarked.1 Scientific tests have
shown that only sixty per cent, of a film is seen by an observer.
What then of the remaining forty per cent.? The difficulty has, of
course, been intensified by the introduction of the synchronised
dialogue film and its accompanying sound. The loss to the visual
image whilst the audience is trying to understand the dialogue must
be great. It follows naturally, as in criticism of painting and music,
that the better the dramatic construction of a film the more difficult
it becomes to analyse that construction. The critic himself is inclined
to fall under the power of the story and another and more impartial
viewing is necessary in order to appraise the numerous technical
values.

A tremendous handicap is also experienced in illustrating filmic
argument. It is possible only to suggest the different methods of
film technique, of montage and of continuity, by giving examples
that have been actually observed, taken from productions of all
dates. In some cases the quoted instances may have been seen by
others, but when the total film output for one year alone is considered,
chances are against this. Furthermore, mere verbal descriptions are
totally inadequate to convey the emotions excited by a film. It is,
perhaps, to a certain extent possible to analyse the cause of these
emotions, and from this point of view must examples be approached.
For instance, it is beyond the power of literary description to convey
the mental reactions to sequences of short-cutting and cross-cutting
in Eisenstein's October, but one is able, I think, to explain the use of
the method, how and why it was employed, and its place in the
continuity and rhythmic structure of the film as a whole.

At a comparatively early stage the cinema presented a range of
values far beyond the complete understanding of any one human mind.
For all intents and purposes a bad film passes through the same
mechanical processes of studio, camera, and laboratory as a good one.
The technical resources available to the film director when he is
making his picture are without number. He can choose between
rolling shots and direct cutting, between panning and flying cameras,

1 Vide, The Anatomy of the Motion Picture, by Eric Elliott (Pool, 1928).

242

THE AIM OF THE FILM IN GENERAL

between slow and ultra-rapid motion. He has available every con-
ceivable means for the exposition on the screen of his selected theme.
So wide are the resources in technical devices that theoretically
there should be no reason for the making of bad films save the sheer
incompetence of the director. He has gangs of (in most cases)
willing workmen to fulfil his orders, and in some studios almost
unlimited money to spend in order to achieve the desired effect.
Yet a survey of the film output since the war shows that the percen-
tage of films in which full use has been made of technical resources
is very small indeed. The reason probably is that before the child
has learnt the power of his new toy, he is presented with another by
the kind technicians. Moreover, there is no one to instruct him in
the use of this fresh device. He can only experiment, and watch out
of the corner of his eye how other people are using it. A director is
given a camera tricycle with which to play, and finding he can travel
his camera all round the set, proceeds to do so in the film he is making
at the moment, until he is interrupted by some more technicians who
have brought along another device. Seldom does a director realise
the absolute advantages to be derived from a new form of technical
accomplishment and employ them with restraint in the right place and
with the greatest effect. Instances of such virtuosity are innumerable.
Travelling shots were employed for the first time in a German film,
and almost immediately they became inevitable. They were used on
every occasion, with total disregard to the nature of the action
portrayed. Karl Freund once used a flying camera for a certain scene
in Metropolis, because the upward flying movement of the instrument
emphasised the struggle which Gustav Frohlich and Brigitte Helm
were experiencing in escaping upwards from the flood of water.
A few months later, flying cameras swooped like locusts around
Hollywood. Patient audiences were whirled across the room to look
at a boot, because Lewis Stone looked at it in The Patriot. More
recently, directors have been given the golden opportunity to let
their players speak. The babel that ensues at the moment is appalling.
It only remains for the stereoscopic screen and the all-colour film to
come into general use for the director to have no excuse at all for
producing a bad film. But there will be more bad films made than
ever before, because all the technical resources of the cinema will
form one great bundle of virtuosity, out of which only a few balanced
minds will be able to pick the good from the bad. Chaos will

243

THE THEORETICAL

be even greater than it is now, if such a state of affairs is conceiv-
able.

During the last few years there has been much diversity of opinion
as to what constitutes cinema in its purest form. Many believe
that the presentations at the Avenue Pavilion in London used to
represent true film art; others vaguely suggest Soviet films but call
them Russian. Some talk loftily of the avant-garde of the French
film and the numerous little Paris specialist cinemas; a few recall the
great middle period of the German cinema. Whilst on all sides,
from those who know, comes the mixed thunder of so many Potemkins
and Tartuffes, Bed and Sofas and Chien Andalous. Nothing is very
clear, which after all is quite understandable when we consider the
almost hopeless tangle of ideas which strangles the arts as a whole
at the present time. Conflicting opinions alternately cancel one another
out; groups propound theories quite enigmatical to any save them-
selves; whilst advanced schools of thought are found in almost every
country. That there is a new spirit moving in the theatre, in literature,
in painting, in architecture, and in the other arts is evident. It has
scarcely touched England at all, and is at its strongest in Germany
and Soviet Russia. But that it exists and is to be found in some
aspects of the cinema is beyond doubt. The film is inclined to reflect
the backwash of all these developments, holding up a mirror, as it
were, to the current theories of art, sociology, and culture. Occasion-
ally the spirit bursts forth into an outstanding and remarkable
film, as in the case of Bunuel's Le Chien Andalou and Erno Metzner's
Uberfall, but more often the cinema reflects the ideas of some two
or three years earlier, such as the American and British pictures
which have interior decoration taken direct from the Exposition des
Arts Decor atifs of 1925 (e.g., the decor by Cedric Gibbons in Our
Dancing Daughters and that by Hugh Gee for Teshd). But it is
perhaps possible to clarify the air by retrospection and to establish
some sort of idea as to the present position of the film in relation to
its surroundings.

It has been admitted that the silent film is essentially an indepen-
dent form of expression, drawing inspiration from the other arts.
With choreography it shares the power of movement; and with
painting, mental communication through the eye. The recent
dialogue film suggests comparison with the stage and its power of

244

THE CABIN EL Ob DR. CAE1GARI
by Robert Wiene. A remarkable angular pattern on the roof
tops ; note white line emphasising the course of Cesare. 1919

derla

' JT

BATTLESHIP ' POTEMK1N
by S. M. Ei ( hot cf the famous scene o: the

steps of Odes 1925

THE AIM OF THE FILM IN GENERAL

speech, i^sthetically, dialogue is in direct opposition to the medium,
unless pure sound as distinct from the human voice is utilised from
an expressionistic point of view.

But all art, whether painting, sculpture, music, poetry, drama, or
film, has at base the same motive, which may be said to be the
creation of a work in the presence of which an observer or listener
will experience either pleasure or pain as the mood of the work
demands. Moreover, it has been suggested that these reactionary
emotions are aroused in the mind of the observer or listener by
rhythm, either harmonic or discordant, which is determined by such
manifestations of the various media as linear design, contrast in
light and shade, metre, colour sensation, variations in light intensities,
counterpoint, editing and cutting. Whether the spectator be high-
brow, lowbrow or mezzobrow, provided the creator of the work
has expressed himself clearly in his medium, the appeal is the same
though its power must vary in accordance with the mental receptivity
of the spectator.

In the case of the film, it is this receptive power of the audience
en masse which the Americans and the Soviets, the Germans and the
French are trying to calculate, in order to render a work of art a
commercial success. That their methods should be different is
naturally obvious when their respective national temperaments and
the circumstances which govern production are considered. It has
been seen that whilst Hollywood relies chiefly on the star-system
and sex-appeal, Soviet Russia attempts to rouse the emotions of her
own public by having in her films a definite applied purpose, prefer-
ably of contemporary social importance, and by the creation of
rhythm - the basic motive of reactions - by means of a highly
developed process of cutting.

It has been written that 'in theorising about the cinema there are
certain points which must be borne in mind and which should form
the basis of all constructive criticism. In the first place, the cinema
is dependent for its life on the good opinion of the public, and the
average citizen is aesthetically indifferent.' (Vernon J. Clancey
writing in The Cinema, 4th September 1929.) This may be true, but
it should be remembered that the resources of the cinema, by which
good directors seek to gain their effect on the minds of the audience,
act unconsciously. An average citizen is naturally not expected to
appreciate, or even become conscious of the montage of shots that

245

THE THEORETICAL

appear before him on the screen, but he cannot help himself reacting
to their content if they have been employed correctly. Soviet films,
for instance, are made primarily to appeal to the mind of the working
man, the labourer, and the peasant, and are in most cases constructed
with the essence of simplicity. We know that it is only because
Soviet Russia has evolved her own theories of cinematography that
she has learnt how to use the properties of the film in their correct
manner and to extract the utmost out of them. I find it hard to believe
that any audience exists, taken at random in any cinema, which would
not react immeasurably to the double-exposed, interrupted cutting
of the machine gun in October. The reaction, however, would not
be caused only by the dramatic value of the machine gun and the
scattering crowd, but by the cinematic treatment of the incident.
It would thrill and hold any audience with tremendous intensity.
By way of contrast, it is only necessary to refer to similar scenes in
such films as What Price Glory?, The Big Parade, and Poppies in
Flanders, to realise how Eisenstein relied on the subconscious mental
qualities of the audience, qualities which he preconceived when
cutting this incident in the laboratory. Only by such means as these,
arising out of the attributes of the medium, can an audience be really
stirred from its accustomed lethargy.

There has not been as yet, however, any scientific inquiry into
the emotional effect produced by films on the public. It is well
known that the simplest effects on the human mind connote the most
subtle causes, being much more difficult to achieve than complex
effects. Nursery rhymes and limericks, for instance, need as much if
not more trouble to compose than a lengthy piece of heroic verse.
Chaplin alone is a superb example of the individual appeal to the
public. He has taken the trouble to think how and why audiences
throughout the world react to his individuality. All Chaplin films
are brilliant instances of timing that has been effected only by analysis
of the human mind, in the same manner as the Soviets' investigations
and Pabst's absorption in psycho-analysis.

'Art,' said the post-impressionists, 'is not truth, it is not nature;
it is a pattern or rhythm of design imposed on nature.' The analogy
to the film is at once apparent.
]! A film is primarily a dynamic pattern or rhythm (achieved by the
editing and cutting) imposed on nature (the material taken, preferably
the reality). It is governed pictorially by the use of light and move-

246

THE AIM OF THE FILM IN GENERAL

ment in the creation of visual images, and mentally by psychology
in the creation of mental images. Music and synchronised sound,
used in counterpoint and contrapuntally, heighten the emotions of
the spectator aurally and subconsciously. This dynamic mental
pictorialism is, I claim, the most powerful form of expression available
to-day to a creative artist.

In this theoretical portion of the survey we shall be concerned
primarily with two comparatively simple aspects of film creation,
to wit: the choice of a theme, which is to be a film's argument, its
raison d'etre; and the two steps in the expression of that theme,
firstly, by scenario representation in literary form, and secondly,
by the numerous orthodox technical methods peculiar to the cinema
for the transference of the matter contained in the scenario on to
the screen. This last step m*j be called the grammar of the film,
arising out of its self-developed properties, and will be the subject
of the two succeeding chapters. Investigation has already been made
of a great number of films and their individual directors, but ad-
mittedly we have examined little more than the themes (or thematic
narrative interest) of the films in question and the methods adopted
for realisation by their directors. We have, as yet, to understand
that there lies something beyond a theme and its technical expression,
namely, the conception, attitude of mind, or creative impulse of the
director himself.

It is fairly apparent that differentiation can be made between the
methods of expression employed by separate directors. For example,
it would not be difficult to distinguish between a film made by Lubitsch
and a film made by Pabst, although the theme in both films was
identical. It would simply be the matter of a distinction between
temperaments. Further, we know that Eisenstein constructs his films
by a process of impulsive editing (based on complex forethought),
according to his judgment of the material as being expressive of his
principles of tonal and over-tonal montage. That is to say, we
acknowledge that he selects his shots and determines their screen-
length by the physiological-psychological sensations gained from
their visual qualities and not (as does Dziga-Vertov) by a purely
metric process of the number of frames to a shot. These are merely
niceties of expression which are capable of being appreciated by
every intelligent observer who is familiar with the principles of filmic
representation.

247

THE THEORETICAL

But when we see and hear a film, or rather when we accept a film,
we are conscious of something beyond its theme and technical
expression. We become aware of the director. Our acceptance of
the director's creative impulse, however, is governed by our degree
of sensitivity, for we may or we may not be receptive to his inner
urge of expression. We are possibly going to achieve contact with his
creative impulse, whereby we shall appreciate his work to the fullest
extent, or we are possibly only going to receive his theme by the
simple technical methods adopted by him. In this way, we must
distinguish between, on the one hand, a theme and its filmic expression
and on the other, the creative impulse of a director. It is one thing
to accept The End of St. Petersburg and October as themes and
examples of film technique, but quite another to accept through them
the creative mentalities of Pudovkin and Eisenstein.

In this respect, therefore, it is clear that we are concerned not
with the collective acceptance of a film by a number of persons,
which is a matter of technical expression, but with the appreciation,
according to degrees of sensitivity, that arises in the individual
spectator. This is and must always be a matter of personal accept-
ance, governed by our own state of intelligence.

A film demands that a theme - either personal, impersonal or
inanimate - shall be presented to the mind through the eye by the
flowing relation and inter-relation of a succession of visual images
projected on a screen. It further requires the theme to be emphasised
by the full range of cinematic resources: by the use of the intimate
to reinforce the general at a similar moment or in development;
by the instantaneous pictorial vision of more than one idea at the
same time; by symbolism and suggestion; by the association of ideas
and shapes; by the varying high and low tensions caused by rhythmic
cutting;, by variation in the intensities of light; by the contrast and
similarity of sounds; by all the intrinsic properties peculiar to the
medium of the film. The film possesses the power of expanding and
contracting the centre of interest, and of comparison by rapid change
of the relationship of the trivial to the essential. By these means
may the audience be compelled to accept the dramatic meaning of
the theme and to realise its continually developing content.

Added to which, it is imperative that a film should be distinguished
by a unity of purpose and should be single-minded in intention.

248

hnrish instructional

THE FROG
a nature film by Percy Smith. Young tadpoles about to emerge
from spawn. One of the best of the. 'Secrets of Nature
Series.

SPRING
diredted and photographed by Kauffmann, showing the transition
from wmtsr to spring in Russia, by a pattern of shots. 1929

THE AIM OF THE FILM IN GENERAL

According to the treatment of the theme, the dramatic incidents of
the narrative may not be of primary interest to the audience, but
rather the effect of these incidents on the characters who have
provoked them by their behaviour. Again, the theme may be
inanimate, recording the soul of some great organisation or industry,
or indicative of some vast undertaking. And again, it may develop
the intimate personality of a single being by plaiting together as a
unified whole a continuity of selected incidents, which singly are of
little significance.

In this manner, by utilising the means arising out of the nature of
the medium itself, the film sets out to be a form of expression,
presenting persons, objects, and incidents in a way entirely different
from any other medium, and utilising resources unavailable in other
means of artistic expression. It will be seen also that such values asj
'acting' and sets become but raw material for assembly in the finali
film construction. The complete insignificance of the star-system in
this respect is obvious. In fact, I even suggest that there is no suchl
thing as 'film acting.'

Provided that it is conceived in a filmic sense, the subject-matter
of a film may be derived from anywhere. Every human thought,
every incident of life or imagination can inspire a theme. The
history of the world is a storehouse from which themes may be
drawn at will. Choice can only be governed by sociological reasons;
whether it be of interest or of no appeal to an audience. In the case of
the fiction film, it is necessary for the plot to be well balanced and
well constructed. Most good films are marked by the simplicity of
their themes and their logical development of action. The theme may
be found in a play, a novel, a magazine, a novelette, a newspaper,
a history book, a memoir, an encyclopaedia, a dictionary or a fifteenth-
century incunable. Better still, in the case of the semi-fiction picture,
it can be found in the street, in the trains, in the factories or in the air.

There is a wealth of cinematic inspiration, for instance, in the
paintings of the Flemish and early Dutch painters. For La Passion
de Jeanne d'Arcy Dreyer went to the best possible source of inspiration
in the mediaeval French miniatures, whilst in his crowd scenes
there was the influence of Bruegel. The atmosphere of Murnau's
Faust was gained through an intimate knowledge of the work and
feeling of Diirer, of his grand pictorial value, whilst again there was a
hint of Bruegel in the types of the townspeople in the plague-stricken

249

THE THEORETICAL

city. Bosch, the Van Eycks, Lucas van Leyden, Hans Baldung
Grein, and particularly the beasts of Lucas Cranach, have a definite
filmic feeling that may be sensitively used for inspiration. El Greco,
Goya, and more especially Honore Daumier are rich in influential
matter. The amazing types in Eisenstein's The Old and the New
and Turin's Turksib recall the heads of Diirer and Holbein in their
rich quality. In the film, it is possible to use such wonderful wrinkled
features and twisted beards with great dramatic effect. Nearly all
Soviet films are noted for their beautiful close ups of striking heads,
perhaps held for only a flash on the screen. But, as has been pointed
out elsewhere, this influence of painting and engraving does not
in any way signify the transference of a picture on to the screen.
The illustrious Mr. de Mille showed his sublime ignorance of this
in that travesty, The King of Kings.

It is obviously quite unnecessary to commission a celebrated
author to write a story 'specially for the screen.' In all probability
the celebrated author has not the least conception of the cinema,
being chiefly concerned with the writing of novels, which he un-
doubtedly does very well. Again and again the lament of novelists
is heard that their books have been ruined by adaptation to the screen.
In many cases, they claim to fail to recognise their own characters
and say that the plot has been distorted beyond redemption. This is
due, firstly, to the absolute necessity to transpose the theme of any
novel from literary into cinematic terms; and secondly, to the deplorable
habits of wealthy producing firms, which frequently buy best-sellers
at random without any consideration of their filmic value. Three
outstanding instances of this pernicious habit may be found in:
Universal purchasing the rights of All Quiet on the Western Front;
Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer trying to make The Bridge of San Luis Rey
into a film; and The Case of Sergeant Grischa being bought and given
to Herbert Brenon, a sentimentalist director, to make. Yet another
example, somewhat different, was Ufa's complete metamorphosis
of the psychological situation in Leonhard Franck's 'Karl and
Anna,' a book that was already filmic, into a film called Home-
coming. The greater number of film adaptations from literature
are failures simply because scenarists attempt to embody a large
amount of literary material in the relatively small space of a

film.

250

THE AIM OF THE FILM IN GENERAL

When it is said that the visual images from which a film is built
are light revealed by moving form, it is perhaps wise to qualify
this statement. It is clear that there are at least four different
movements present in the cinema, each of which has a definite
bearing on the construction and preconception of a film. These
may be said to be:

i. The actual movements of players, animals, and things (such as
trains, motor-cars, trees, lifts, shadows, clouds, smoke, waves), being
the movements of the material photographed in a single shot and which
are the elements of the pictorial composition of the visual image on
the screen.

2. The movement or mobility of the camera itself, being such
movements as panning, travelling, and flying shots.

3. The movement existing through time and space between one
visual image and the succeeding one in the progression of shots on
the screen, by which may be understood the term continuity or
fluidity of the development of the thematic narrative. This may
alternatively be called the theory of intervals existing between one
frame of film and another in direct cutting; giving rise to varying
reactions from sudden shock to smooth transfusion in the spectator.
By this means of assembling or mounting is the complete film com-
position constructed.

4. The movement of the screen itself, as has been publicly seen
in the magnascope, or enlarged screen, and in the triptych, which
is the ordinary central screen with a flanking screen on either
side.

Each of these movements plays an important part in the expression
of the dramatic content of the theme and in its construction.

Moreover, it should be understood that every visual image that
appears on the flat screen, on which a film is projected, is governed
by contrasted intensities of light. The screen itself has no real
interest, except in the final form of cinematic movement indicated
above. Light on the cinematograph screen is rendered significant
by means of form. It is form (i.e., the subject-material which is
photographically recorded on strips of celluloid by the camera) that
gives variations in intensity to the projected light. By means of such
visually satisfying images their content or meaning is conveyed to
the mind of the spectator through the eye. From a filmic point of
view, the significance of form of the subject-material does not lie

251

THE THEORETICAL

in its own properties but in its capability to reveal the variations of
the intensity of the projected light.1

These principles of movement and intensity of light are the
fundamental properties of the cinematic medium. Each will be found
considered at length as it arises in the sections that follow on the
medium as a means of expression of dramatic content. It is imperative,
however, to establish such degrees of movement and principles of
light before a general examination of the other properties of the
film is possible.

1 An admirable example of this was provided by Francis Brugiere and Oswell
Blakeston's film Light Rhythms, in which the material consisted of static designs
in cut paper over which various intensities of light were moved. The appeal of
the film lay in the changing light values, which were revealed by the cut paper
patterns.

252

THE PRECONCEPTION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT
BY SCENARIO ORGANISATION

A film is essentially characterised by a unity of purpose and a
singleness of idea which is present from the first to the last visual
image projected on to the screen. This unity of idea or central
purpose is unfolded shot by shot, sequence by sequence, and may be
called the theme, or in the case of the cine-fiction film, the thematic
narrative.

It is strictly necessary for an entire film to be preconceived in
almost exact anticipation of every detail, except in such cases where
sudden conditions (such as rain or mist) should occur during shooting,
when some alteration in the scenario is justified in order to take
advantage of natural occurrences. No single shot or individual
sequence may be regarded as an isolated fragment, but must be
reckoned as part of the moving pattern of shots and sequences out
of which the film is built as a unity. Every shot of the one, two or
three thousand that go to make up a complete full-length film
vibrates in harmony with the preceding and succeeding shots, so
that the complete film vibrates rhythmically.

A film is built, and the process of building has well been called
montage.1 This act of montage is present in the cinema in three
forms, being bound together into a whole by means of cine-organisa-
tion. The process of film construction is arithmetical in its precision.
It may be compared to building with a box of bricks. The unity
of a film is achieved by the combination of the three acts of
montage. Montage may be understood as the inclusive, creative,
and constructive unity that is present from the birth of the first
gleam of idea in the mind of the scenarist to the final act of
assembling the film strips by constructive editing and cutting.
A film is brought into being by the development of the

1 Literally = putting together, mounting.
253

THE THEORETICAL

preconceived theme by cine-organisation of the three forms of
montage, thus:

(a) The assembling of the thematic narrative, first in the mind;
secondly, in treatment form; and then in the shape of a scenario-plan;
including the reasoning employed in the choice of theme out of the
countless available (as indicated in the previous chapter).

(b) The assembling of the material (as dictated by the scenario-
plan) that is to be photographed in the studio or on location, based
on the power of observation and understanding of human nature
possessed by the director, and its expression by the. use of the full
resources of the medium.

(c) The assembling of the strips of film bearing upon them the
photographic images, in variations of length, light, movement of
material, and intellectual values calculated to produce the greatest
effect on an audience.

Cine-organisation is thus to be reckoned as the dominant factor
of film production, for it controls the three acts of montage which
create the film, make it a reality, and invest it with emotional power.
A film is not significant as a dramatic expression unless the three
acts of montage have been completely welded together.

The director is the sole controlling mind that organises the forms
of montage. It is he who commands the fulfilment of cine-organisa-
tion. If a mistake should occur during any process of the three acts
of montage, then the whole composition of the film will be thrown
out of order. The director is to be considered as the central organiser
of a number of workers (the scenarist, cameraman, architect, etc.),
all of whose actions are in direct fulfilment of his wishes. The team
work of a production unit is a natural outcome of the characteristics
of the medium of the film. Although the construction of a film
usually takes the following order of processes, viz.:

(a) The choice of theme, the treatment of theme, the scenario-
plan.

(b) The selection of types and acting material.

(d) The shooting of the material as indicated by the scenario-plan.

(e) The laboratory work on the material taken.

(/) The assembling of material (i.e., the strips of celluloid) by
constructive editing and cutting, as indicated in the scenario-
plan,

254

THE PRECONCEPTION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

it is not possible to divide this construction into independent stages,
as is frequently done in large commercial studios. The work of each
stage is directly contributary to the whole film composition, being
controlled, as stated above, by the director. Thus absolute collectivism
is an essential of efficient cine-organisation.

Examination may now be made of the first act of montage, that is
to say the assembling of the scenario. It has been seen in the
preceding chapter that the variety of themes available to the director,
scenarist or producer, is almost infinite, and that choice can only
be governed by sociological or political reasons, or, in cases of the
general commercial film, by whether a selected theme will be of interest
to a large number of persons. For the simplification of argument,
therefore, it may be assumed that a theme has been chosen. This
theme is to be reckoned as the root-basis of the scenario. It is the
motive for the realisation of the film and its entire justification as a
means of expression, other, that is, than the creative impulse of the
director. The theme indicates action, by which its meaning will be
propounded. The action of the scenario is built up from a number
of incidents and situations brought about by the characters and the
relationship that exists between them. This, obviously, is determined
by the imagination of the scenarist or director, being either a creative
product or an adaptation from a literary work. The actional interest
of the theme is set in an environment, which is either suggested by the
nature of the theme or is chosen as being suitable by the director. The
general colour or atmosphere of the film is determined by the environ-
ment, and must be present in the film from beginning to end.
Even a landscape, a piece of architecture, a natural condition of the
weather, is to be bound into the developing action. The action and
the environment are, in fact, inseparable.

At this stage, with the theme, the action and the setting decided,
it is possible for the treatment to be written. This will consist of a
descriptive narrative of the visual potentialities of the theme.
Although written in purely narrative form, it will suggest clearly
the filmic possibilities of the idea. It will not, however, be divided
into terms of sequences or shots, which is strictly a matter of the
organisation of the detailed shooting-manuscript, or plan. This
latter is the final stage of the scenario-organisation and is the key
from which the director will work.

255

THE THEORETICAL

In order that the completed film composition may be a unity, the
entire expression of the theme as it will eventually appear on the
screen is preconceived in the mind of the scenarist, and is set down
by him shot by shot, scene by scene, sequence by sequence, in the
form of a scenario-plan. This preliminary literary expression of the
concept contains the style, that is, the method of realisation, which
the director will adopt during the taking and editing of the material.
The film manuscript is thus built out of at least a thousand separate
shots, each dependent for effect on the other. By means of this
composition of shots (eventually consummated by the editing, or
final act of montage) the film is caused to vibrate as a whole, thus
giving rise to various emotional reactions in the mind of the audience.

The qualities needed for this literary expression of the theme in
filmic terms, the importance of which cannot be over-emphasised,
are intense concentration and clarity of perception and visualisation.
Preconception of the film shooting-manuscript makes exhaustive
claims on the creative mentality of the director or scenarist. In a
novel, a writer develops his theme by written descriptions; in a play,
an author makes use of dialogue and stage directions; but a film
scenarist thinks and works in terms of externally expressive visual
images. A scenarist must always visualise his thoughts in terms of
images on a screen in a cinema; he must, moreover, be able to control,
select, and organise the imaginary images as does a writer his words.
He must be continually aware that each shot he describes and includes
in his manuscript will eventually assume visual form on the screen.
It is, therefore, not his words which are of importance, but the visual
images that they define for the use of the director. The assembling
of the film manuscript is, perhaps, the most exacting form of expres-
sive writing. It demands without question even greater powers of con-
centration than the writing of a novel or the painting of a picture.
Comparison may well be made to the composing of a symphony.

The director-scenarist x has, firstly, to create his theme in the

1 Theoretically, the only possible writer of the film manuscript is the director,
who alone is capable of transferring to paper the preconception of the film he is
about to make. The theme, action, and environment may, however, be suggested
to the director, who will translate them into his own terms of filmic expression.
The combination of director-scenarist is rapidly becoming customary. The special
scenario departments for the mass production of films that are to be found in all
big studios are ignored here. Their work can only consist of sorting and cataloguing
possible material for themes, and the reader is referred, in this respect, to the
scenario-bureaux of the Soviet cinema.

256

mctro-goldwvn-raayer
WHITE SHADOWS
the film of the South Seas, with camerawork by Bob Roberts.
A wonderful example of panchromatic photography. 1928

THE HEIR TO JENGHIZ KHAN
better known as' Storm over Asia.' by V. I. Pudovkin. 1927-28

mejrabpom-russ

THE PRECONCEPTION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

form of mental imagery; then to express those images in literary
terms in the form of a treatment; and finally to compose them in the
scenario-plan by employing every resource peculiar to the film for
conveyance of dramatic content to the spectator. It is essential that
the director-scenarist should have the fullest knowledge of filmic
methods of expression, with which he can only acquaint himself by
the study of other films and by experiment. Every property of
pictorial composition, symbolism and suggestion, contrast and
similarity in the association of ideas and shapes, the drama of camera
angle, the rhythm achieved by various processes of editing and
cutting, the technical accomplishment of camera mobility, trick
devices, and the possibilities of studio architecture, must be in the
mind of the director, to be utilised in the right place, so that the
dramatic content of the theme may be expressed with the greatest
possible emotional effect. For the expression of every concept,
there are a thousand shots at the disposal of the director, and it is
assumed for the purposes of argument that there is no angle or position
from which an object, person or scene cannot be photographed,
both terminals of the shot (the object and the camera) being either
static or in motion. It is the duty of the scenarist to select from the
infinite number of shots in his imagination, those which are the
most vividly expressive, in order that they may bring out the full
significance of the scene, as required by the theme. The procedure
of the shooting-plan is the preliminary representation on paper of
the eventual visual images on the screen. Both the director and the
scenarist should think of all material, wherever they may happen to
be, in terms of visual images, from which they can select according
to their skill in filmic creation. It must be remembered that the
camera, by means of visual images, digs deep into the inner reality
of life; it penetrates the underlying currents of human emotions; it
brings what I have called the consciousness of the inanimate to the
spectator. The whole power of the film lies in the representation of
themes and motives, presenting them filmically for the pleasure
or boredom of the spectators, according to their degree of
sensitivity.

In the preparation of the scenario-plan, the director shall be
assisted by the cameraman and the architect, who are able to supple-
ment his technical knowledge with their specialised experience of
the capabilities of the camera as an instrument of expression and
r 257

THE THEORETICAL

of the designing of sets calculated to emphasise dramatic content.
I believe that the incorporation of draughtsmanship in the film
manuscript is of the greatest importance in perfecting the representa-
tion of visual images. The scenario is not only to be written but is
to be drawn. In the first place, purely architectural diagrams of the
lay-out of sets, travelling shots, panning shots, etc., should be
included in order that a clear visualisation of the action of the
characters in relation to the mobility of the camera may be possible.
Added to this, the shooting angles and set-up of the camera, as
dictated by the imagination of the scenarist and the technical
experience of the cameraman, are to be indicated. Secondly, it is
possible to emphasise the literary description of the selected visual
images by means of drawings, which will be clues, as it were, to the
actual shots on the studio floor or on location. At this point, a
difficulty arises, for the literary descriptions in the scenario are usually
concerned with movement of the acting material, which it is difficult,
if not impossible, to convey by means of a drawing, the nature of
which is essentially static. For this reason, therefore, the drawings
should be in the form of footnotes, pictorial indications of the actual
realisation, whilst the necessary movement of the players and the
camera can be indicated by diagrammatic plans. The scenarist or
director, as has already been stated, visualises the complete film
in his imagination before it ever enters the studio to be fixed on
strips of celluloid. It is only logical that there are many aspects of
the visual images, such as pictorial composition and contrast of masses,
that he cannot describe in his script by text. It is when the literary
medium fails that the scenarist should be helped to a clear expression
of his ideas by the draughtsmanship of the architect. When in the
studio, the director should be able to work from drawings as well as
from words in the realisation of the theme.

It will be understood, therefore, that three persons should have
the organisation of the film scenario in their control - the scenarist-
director, the cameraman and the architect. By means of their
collective talent, there will result the nearest absolute approach to a
complete film preconceived and set down on paper. Both visually
and textually, the scenario will indicate the exact course of events
in the studio, on exterior and in the cutting room. The textual
description will still remain the prominent feature of the scenario,
the draughtsmanship serving to augment the written description of

258

THE PRECONCEPTION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

visual images. It follows that with the aid of plans, diagrams, lay-
outs, and descriptive text, the three composers of the film manuscript
will be able to select more easily the best possible shots for the
representation of the scenes which express the dramatic content of
the theme. Moreover, the manuscript composers must continually be
conscious of the varying relations of the visual image lengths (i.e.,
the length of time that each shot is held on the screen), for it is their
rhythmic tension which ensures the increasing or decreasing con-
centration of the audience. This detailed shooting-plan will render
more simple the two further acts of montage, already sufficiently
complicated in themselves.

It is to be remembered that when shooting a film, a director is
seldom able to take shots or scenes in their consecutive order of
appearance. He cannot, for obvious practical reasons, begin by taking
his first shot and proceed according to his scenario. For this reason
alone, therefore, a well-organised scenario-plan is absolutely vital for
the final assembling of the film strips in the cutting room during the
last stage of montage. If the scenario-plan be indefinite, if every
problem raised by the theme has not been filmically solved in terms
of constructed shots, then the resulting film will be without com-
position and form. It must be clearly understood that a scenario-
plan is built up from sequences; the sequences from scenes; and the
scenes from shots. Conversely, shots are edited into a scene; scenes
into a sequence; and sequences into a unified filmic composition.
The drawings included in the film manuscript are clues to the pro-
gressive movement of the film itself. They are a graphic com-
mentary on the unfolding continuity of visual images. The basis of
film construction is the plastic welding of visual images, or shots,
into a complete vibrating whole. Each separate shot indicated in the
scenario becomes a strip of celluloid; out of these strips, conjoined in
varying order and length according to narrative and rhythm, is built
the film composition.

In 'every way, efficient scenario montage eliminates surplus
expenditure of time and money during the making of a film. With
preconceived knowledge of exactly what material is desired, only a
limited amount of footage of film need be taken. By competent
scenario organisation, twelve thousand feet of film is the maximum
amount that need be taken for an eight thousand feet picture.
Furthermore, it is obvious that for a film to be produced with any

259

THE THEORETICAL

commercial security, it must be constructed on a proper cine-
organisation basis.1

A film, in developing its theme, attains dramatic effect by a series
of visual images on the screen that succeed one another in a constant
forward movement from the first shot to the last. This dynamic
unfolding of the dramatic content of a theme by continuity may well
be described as being the course of the narrative from incident to
incident, from situation to situation, from mood to mood. Further,
continuity may be said to be the psychological guidance of the mind
of the audience to the different threads of the developing action of
the thematic narrative. The continuity of a film is quite independent
of the aesthetic value of any one scene. The development of the theme
must be continuous. Not for one moment during the showing of a
film can continuity possibly become exhausted. Although, as will be
seen, actual time continuity may be suspended for the purpose of includ-
ing shots of comparison, for parallel action or for reference to a scene
that has gone before (so as to heighten the effect of the central theme),
the continuity of the film continues to flow forward without cessation.

There exists no definite rule or form of control as to the order of
appearance of visual images on the screen, save the principles of
constructive editing and cutting. The importance of the last shot of
a film may well depend upon the image seen in the three-hundred-
and-forty-fifth shot. There is nothing but the mind of the director-
scenarist to put the shots in their right place and in their most
effective order of showing. This is preconceived in the manuscript
and takes material form in the final assembling work. It is a generally
accepted fact that David Wark Griffith originally determined that
the development of incident need not necessarily be unfolded in
the chronological order of happening. Continuity may be compared
to the unfolding of a plot of a novel. A close analogy is to be found,
in particular, in the style of Conrad. Generally speaking, however,
the change from one sequence to another is intended to indicate to
the audience the progress of the plot of the narrative, though this
can by no means be taken as a hard and fast rule. The arrangement
of the order in which sequences are shown depends entirely on con-
structive editing.

1 In passing comment, there is little doubt that the weak spot in the British film
industry is the inefficient organisation of scenarios.

260

THE PRECONCEPTION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

The length of each shot (j.e.t the duration of time that it will be
held on the screen until cut or faded into the succeeding shot) may
be taken approximately as varying from one-quarter of a second for
five frames of film (three and three-quarters of an inch) to twenty
seconds for four hundred frames (twenty-five feet). The time length
of shots should be roughly indicated in the scenario-plan, such
estimates naturally being based on observation, since the time length
of every shot is controlled by the mood of the dramatic content of
the scene in question. This variation in time length of a shot is
the basis of the rhythmic cutting, and such familiar processes as
short, long, and medium cutting are governed entirely by the required
mood. It may be well to add that this method assumes individual
acting to be of secondary importance; primary consideration being
given to achieving effect by image montage. Where acting is the
only means of conveying the mood of a scene, a shot may be held on
the screen for a considerable length of time, thus becoming akin to
the stage. This, of course, is the predominant characteristic of the
dialogue film, where image lengths are controlled by speech.

The continuity of time in the theme of all films is that of filmic
and not actually recorded time. That is to say, the imagination of the
spectator is very largely brought into play in the acceptance of the
narrative from incident to incident.

The differentiation between filmic time and actual time constitutes
the whole basis of cinematic representation. When it is grasped
that the formation of a scene or situation in a film is purely a matter
of the constructive editing of visual images, then it will be seen
that the film director creates his own time, as well as his own space.
A scene is built up from a series of separate shots, taken from various
angles, and, with the pieces of celluloid on which the shots are
recorded, the director constructs the scene as it will appear on the
screen. The very fact that the scene has been composed from various
separate shots proves that it is not a direct record of the actual,
and is therefore alien to the stage. The material with which the
film director works is not real in the sense that it is actually recorded
time or space, but is a number of pieces of celluloid on which real
actions have been recorded. By altering the relations of these strips,
filmic time is constructed. It will be remarked that between an actual
event and the filmic representation of that event on the screen there is
a wide difference; the camera, at the director or scenarist's bidding,

261

THE THEORETICAL

picks out only such significant portions of the event as are necessary
for its screen representation. This, in other words, refers back to
the scenarist's selection of the best visual images for the expression
of a scene. Suggested by the scenarist, recorded by the camera,
created by the director in editing, there comes into being an element
peculiar to the cinema - filmic time. This filmic time is controlled
entirely by the three composers of the film manuscript. Further, it
is clear that every situation in a narrative is characterised not only
by its duration of time, but also by the space in which it takes place.
It is perfectly possible for the ingredients of a scene to be taken
by the camera in several places remote from one another, but when
that scene is filmically composed, the various places will appear to
be one and the same.1 By editing, preconceived in the film manuscript,
there will have been created filmic space as well as filmic time.

Thus, the material from which a film is built consists of photo-
graphic images of persons, objects, and structures, either static or
in motion, which can be assembled in whatever manner the scenarist
likes, in order to express his theme. The elements of real persons,
objects, and structures, with their temporal and spatial conditions,
are recorded photographically, to be altered according to the desire of
the scenarist by the filmic process of editing. Actual time becomes
filmic time; actual space becomes filmic space; actual reality becomes,
on the screen, filmic reality. To quote Pudovkin: 'The film assembles
the elements of reality to build from them a new reality proper to
itself; and the laws of space and time that, in the sets and footage
of the stage are fixed and fast, are in the film entirely altered.'
{Pudovkin on Film Technique, Gollancz, 1929.) Thus it will appear
that filmic space and filmic time are the principles that primarily
govern the continuity of the scenario beyond narrative interest.

In the construction of continuity, it is of interest to examine
various methods of bridging a lapse of filmic time between the end
of one sequence and the beginning of the next. There are several
known methods of suggesting or representing this passing of time,
the most usual being the fade-in and the fade-out. The former
represents a dark screen, upon which the visual image gradually
assumes shape; the latter is the reverse process. It is common to
end a sequence with a fade, indicating a slow, restful departure; the
screen remaining dark until the first image of the succeeding scene

1 Cf. Ermler's Fragment of an Empire, page 172.
262

THE PRECONCEPTION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

is introduced. The speed of the fade is naturally controlled by the
mood of the scene upon which it opens or closes. Another process is
the dissolve or chemical mix.1 This may be said to be the gradual
fading of one image into another by the process of overlapping, so
that the forms of the last shot of one sequence become lost in the
emerging forms of the first shot of the next. It would be possible,
for example, to dissolve from a long shot of an object into a medium
shot and from the medium shot into a close up. This method of
approach (or retreat) can be very beautiful, and I would give as an
instance the opening sequence of The Heir to Jenghiz Khan. It is
not uncommon for the dissolve to be centred on a form of some object
or person common to both sequences, so that the bridging is less
harsh to the eye. This is a use of the association of like shapes.
It is permissible, for example, to dissolve from a person dressed in
sports clothes sitting on a chair, to the same person wearing evening
clothes sitting in an identical position in another chair in a fresh
environment. A definite lapse of time and change of sequence is
conveyed simply and restfully to the spectator in such a way. A
dissolve is never harsh or exciting. Its mood is smooth and har-
monious to the eye, involving a slow rhythm. It causes an instan-
taneous mental dissolve in the mind of the spectator. This has been
very well described as the momentary condensation of a train of
thought into another that has yet to serve its purpose. The aim of
the dissolve is to associate the old with the new in the mind of the
audience.

The customary method of dissolving has been explained as the
gradual fading of one pictorial composition into another, but it has
been rightly suggested that a process of rapid de-focus, cut, re-focus,
from one sequence to another would be more harmonious both to the
mind and to the eye. This would be the association between the latent
thought of the one sequence and the symbolism of the visual imagery
of the sequence about to appear on the screen. (Mr. L. Saalschutz
writing in Close Up, July 1929.) With this in mind, I would refer
to a scene in a film edited by Pudovkin, The Living Corpse, where an
experiment was made in using both dissolves and direct cutting as a
means of expressing the content of a scene. A company of gipsy
girls was dancing to the music of a band of guitars and mandolins.

1 See glossary in Appendix II for strict differentiation between a dissolve and a
chemical mix.

263

THE THEORETICAL

Pudovkin took a number of short flashes of the girls dancing, cutting
direct from one flash to another. He interspersed these with some
double-exposure shots of hands plucking at the strings of the instru-
ments, but dissolved from one shot into another instead of directly
cutting. This meant that when flashes of human movement were
being shown, it was permissible to cut from flash to flash, since the
mood was that of dancing; but when flashes of the musical instruments
being played were in question, the mood was melodic and hence
the dissolve was more suitable than the cut, for the latter would be
antagonistic to such a mood. It would not have been aesthetically
possible to cut visually from sound to sound, so the smoothness of
the dissolve was required. A rhythmic combination of these two
types of changing shots produced its own music in the imagination
of the spectator.

Other technical methods for bridging the lapse of time are the
employment of a written title, a direct cut from one scene to
another, or by the rare method of drawing the visual image itself
across the screen and following it with the next. This latter form
was well seen in Cavalcanti's Rien que les Heures. Titles employed
for the purpose of connecting sequences are, as would be supposed,
usually termed continuity titles. Their purpose is to give the audience
an explanation, a connecting link between one situation and another,
simply but effectively. There are also many familiar literary devices,
usually symbolic, such as those of showing candles burning, calendar
dates changing, full bottles dissolving into empty bottles, cigarettes
burning in an ashtray, etc., all of which are stock methods that
appear again and again, indicating lack of resource on the part of the
scenarist. As an example of almost perfect continuity and complete
fluidity of development, The Last Laugh, with a scenario by Karl
Mayer, was outstanding. Other films which can be mentioned in
this respect were Henry King's ToVable David, Room's Bed and Sofa,
and the films of Eisenstein and Pudovkin.

The main continuity development of the theme set down in the
first place by the scenarist is, as has already been explained, entirely
controlled by the constructive editing. But it is clear that its course
may be interrupted by certain episodes and sequences which help to
emphasise the whole effect of the content. Certain incidents and
scenes may be re-introduced, suspending the actional progress of the
main theme in order to explain, perhaps, their appearance at an earlier

264

["HE VIRGINIAN
•> Vidtot Fleming with dialogue. An example o1

an nal iralism o) ■•■- a /° !9

brirish

brmsh instruct!

UNDERGROUND
by Anthony Asquith. The final climactic scene iu the power
house. Melodramatic a>id unconvincing.. 1928

THE PRECONCEPTION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

stage in the continuity. There are various principles of relational
development, such as contrast and simile in the association of ideas,
which are commonly employed to heighten dramatic tension. The
exact meaning of the action taking place in the opening sequence of
a film may not be made clear to th< audience until the film is half-
way through, when a comparison is made by a flash-back. A
familiar method also is to emphasise dramatic suspense by means of
parallel action. Shots from two different scenes may be shown
alternately, though they are both of the same sequence and are
developing to the same end. This is a favourite method of drawing
a film to an exciting climax. The hero is on the point of being hanged.
The riders approach carrying his pardon. Alternate shots are shown
of each. The suspense as to whether the hero will be saved or not
is enhanced by quicker and quicker cutting, until at the moment he
is to be dispatched, the pardon arrives. The two sets of shots are
mingled into one and all is well. It is to be found in every western
film and in such old friends as The Orphans of the Storm and Don Q.1
The same effect can be gained equally well by composite shots on
the same screen.

From this it is but a step to the various other forms of interrupted
development of the theme by means of shots, or even whole sequences,
for the purposes of comparison, either for direct contrast or for
simile. It must, however, be clearly understood that although these
methods of comparison cause the suspense of filmic time continuity
in order to heighten dramatic effect, the continuity of the develop-
ment of the film itself still progresses.

Many examples of direct similes occur in the work of the Soviet
directors and in the early films of Griffith.2 Pudovkin is fond of
building an effect by comparing the content of a scene to some
object or person quite irrelevant to the narrative except symbolically.
A scene of love and happiness, for instance, is interspersed with quick
flashes of Sevres porcelain groups of shepherds and shepherdesses,
symbolic of the lightness and fragility of the love mood of the scene.
In direct contrast, some shots of waving trees and sunlit country
are cut in with a scene of combat and turmoil. Time continuity for
the moment is interrupted, the dramatic effect of the combat is

1 Cf. page 88 et seq., 'The last-minute-rescue. '

2 Elliott's Anatomy of Motion Picture Art analyses the films of Griffith well in
this respect.

265

THE THEORETICAL

strengthened, and the actual continuity flows forward. Mention has
been made at an earlier stage of Pudovkin's referential editing.1 It
is of point to remember that the drama of a thing lies not so much
in the thing itself, as in the comparison of it with other things. An
empty room is not so dramatic in itself as the thought of what that
room was like before it was empty.

Similarity of content recurring at intervals throughout a film also
appears as a form of comparison, but is strictly more connected with
the actual plot of the narrative than with the continuity of the
development. For instance, the recurrence of the same characters
in a similar situation, so well handled in Bed and Sofa, was a matter
of story construction. The exact balance of the recurring situations
was a matter of continuity. The plot demanded that three people
shared a room; a husband, his wife, and another man. The sleeping
accommodation was confined to one bed and a sofa. In the first
part of the film the other man had the sofa; in the middle of the film
the situation was reversed; and in the end the problem was solved.
There was a nicety about the presentation of the changed situations
that suggested careful balance and distribution in the continuity of
development.

Firstly, in his treatment and secondly, in his scenario-plan, the
scenarist has always to develop his action according to a design of
varying degrees of tension. It is this variance in tension, ranging
from high, exciting emotions to low, sad, and depressing emotions,
that forces the mind of the audience to follow the unfolding of
the film with interest. This attraction between the visual images
on the screen and the mind of the audience is governed not only
by the dramatic situations of the narrative (such as suspense, mystery,
explanation) but also by the purely filmic methods of construction,
i.e., editing and cutting. The use of crowds, of rapid physical move-
ment, of dramatic situations, is in itself emotionally exciting, but
this material is rendered doubly powerful by its filmic representation.
Thus, the arrangement of high-spots at suitable intervals throughout
a film is determined in the scenario organisation. Sequences of high
dramatic emotion (high-spots) must be balanced by sequences of
low emotion (low-spots). Exciting incidents are to be modulated
by sad incidents. Balance in the design of the film must be preserved
in order to establish rhythmic structure. Incidents of varying

1 Cf. pages 1 60, 161.
266

THE PRECONCEPTION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

dramatic intensity (or mood) must be distributed throughout the
film in terms of contrast. High-spots are to be related to low-spots.
Emotions are to be aroused in an up-and-down fluidity. Sequences
are to be arranged according to their dominants or moods. It is
possible to plot a graph of the dominants of a film, showing the
inter-relation between the points of high and low emotion. The
plotting of the graph of a film may be included as a further stage of
scenario montage.

267

Ill

THE METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC
CONTENT BY FILM CONSTRUCTION

It is proposed, for the purpose of simplification, to divide the
processes by which the dramatic content of the theme of a film is
conveyed to an audience into two separate sections. The first will
deal with the construction of the silent film by means of visual
images on the screen. The second will reason the uses of a com-
bination of sound, dialogue, and visual images on the screen.
Although these two processes may be considered as entirely opposite
forms of cinema (believing, that is, the dialogue film to be spurious),
certain properties are common to each and in places will be found to
overlap. For example, although visual images are employed in both
cases, basically different ideas lie behind their conception. An
intermediary stage has further been added, deliberating on the
advantages to be gained from the use of recorded sound (as distinct
from the recorded voice) as a resource of filmic exposition.

Although aesthetic principles render the silent film, reasonably
reinforced by symbolic sound accompaniment, the only acceptable
form of cinema, it is not to be denied that the dialogue film as seen
and heard to-day is a low form of cinema, its novelty and freakishness
being commercially lucrative to American and British producers,
and to those continental firms which take the same outlook. Beyond
this, there must be visualised in the near future the stereoscopic and
wider screen, the colour film, and the projection of coloured slides
or secondary films on to the walls and ceiling of the theatre, all in
combination with synchronised dialogue and sound, in an effort to
establish what has been called the compound cinema. That these
mechanical 'developments' will come into general use there is little
doubt, and in all probability they will be supported by a certain
section of the community who applaud novelty entertainment. I
am equally certain, however, that these new forms will never destroy

268

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

the original and highest form of cinema, the silent, flat film with
synchronised or orchestral accompaniment, which is indisputably
the most effective medium for the conveyance of the dramatic
content of a theme to the mind of an audience.

Examination may first be made, then, of the visual cinema.

(I) The Process of the Visual Cinema

The silent film, in developing the continuity or progress of a
theme, attains dramatic effect on an audience by a series of visual
images on the screen. Long shots and close ups, straight views and
angular views, combine to demonstrate the character of the content
of the theme. Only those images which have a definite bearing on
this content are shown, and these are represented by means of
carefully selected photographic angles, wholly or partially pre-
conceived and indicated in the scenario-plan. The greatest possible
emotional effect can be achieved in the smallest amount of time by
the arrangement of these visual images, the selection of which is
governed by various principles of image montage. This arrangement
is also included in the scenario-plan, being carried out in the final act
of assemblage. Complete freedom may be exercised in the choice of
photographic angles and in the length of the shot {i.e., its number of
frames). A film is not, by any stretch of imagination, a mere succession
of scenes taken at random, which can be described either singly or
consecutively. Rather it is the relation, inter-relation and juxta-
position of these varying lengths of scene which, when combined into
a whole, produce filmic effect.

Further analysis of these methods of expression of a theme may
be divided into five sections, a sixth being added to consider the
advantages, if any, to be derived from the stereoscopic screen and
colour film. These sections can be described thus:

(a) Film Psychology, being the expression of inner reality by out-
ward phenomena.

(b) The Expressive Capabilities of the Camera.

(d) Constructive Editing and Cutting,

(e) Titles, and the placing thereof.

(/) The Visual Addition of Colour and the Stereoscopic Screen.

m
269

THE THEORETICAL

(a) Film Psychology

The dramatic content of a fiction or semi-fiction film may be de-
scribed as being the psychological reactions and emotions of the char-
acters in a theme, resulting from narrative situations which arise from
the actions of the characters themselves or other material incidents.

The inner reality of the characters, their thoughts, desires, lusts,
and emotions, is revealed by their outward actions. It is, furthermore,
these outward phenomena which the camera photographs in order to
recreate and transfer to the mind of the audience the inner reality
of the characters in the theme. It is by the subtle arrangement of
the visual images (i.e., the editing) which photographically record
these phenomena that the dramatic content is conveyed clearly to
the audience. The camera itself is unable to penetrate the world
before it, but the creative mind of the director can reveal in his
selection of the visual images this intrinsic essence of life by using
the basic resources of the cinema, viz., editing, angle, pictorial
composition, suggestion, symbolism, etc. And, in particular, it is the
camera's remarkable faculty for the representation of detail that
makes it possible to build up situations and events by putting their
exact ingredients before the audience. Guided by the mind of the
scenarist and the director, the camera eliminates from the screen
everything but material absolutely significant to the exposition of
the dramatic content of the theme. Every visual image on the screen
registers an impression on the minds of the audience, as also do the
intervals that exist between the visual images, and out of a moving
series of impressions is the whole effect composed. Hence, the com-
plete attention of the audience lies at the director's will, and, therefore,
in actuality the camera is the mind of the spectator. In this respect,
there will be noticed the relevance of the Dziga-Vertov theory of the
cine-eye.1

It is not unnatural then that the principles of psycho-analysis play
a large part in the conveyance of dramatic content to the audience.
It will be shown later, for example, in dealing with pictorial com-
position, that the smallest movement on the screen is immediately
magnified in importance and becomes at once a source of interest to
the spectator. From this it will be realised that the so-called symp-
tomatic actions of Freud, the small, almost unnoticed and insignifi-

1 Cf. pages 66, 167 et seq.
270

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

cant actions of behaviour on the part of a person, are highly
indicative of the state of his mind, and are of the utmost value,
when magnified on the screen, for establishing an understanding of
that state of mind in the audience. For this reason alone, it will
be seen how essential it is for a film player to be his natural self, and
how detrimental theatrical acting is to film purposes. It is the duty
of the director to reveal the natural characteristics of his players
and to build these, by means of editing, into a filmic exposition of a
personality, as required by the scenario. That is why, when
approached from this point of view, the use of actual types is generally
considered preferable to professional actors, a method of working
adopted by the naturalistic directors. (Eisenstein, Pudovkin,
Flaherty, Turin, and Epstein in his later period.)

Moreover, there is no limit to the depth of cinematic introspection.
There is no state of mind which cannot be fully revealed by the
resources of the film. The expression of such content may be said to
be governed by the location of the camera when the shot is taken;
and the relation between the length of this shot (when shown on the
screen) and that of the other shots which make up the whole sequence,,
and finally the film as a unity. It should be remembered also that
both these two factors have been preconceived in the scenario-plan.

Added to which, there is to be considered the very important part
played by the presence of objects and things in the construction of
a scene. An object in itself is an immensely expressive thing. It
will possibly be symbolic. For instance, an aeroplane or a motor-car
is immediately suggestive of speed; a rifle or gun of death; and so on.
By reason of the camera's capacity for bringing detail to the attention
of the audience, inanimate objects assume a dramatic significance in
the establishment of mood. Their use is, of course, controlled by
the editing. (Recall the Sevres figures in The Living Corpse; the dirt
and litter in Greed; the gallery of gods and the detail of architecture
in October.) The film, more so than any other medium, forces the
spectator to realise the consciousness of the inanimate.

It is, therefore, the mood or tension of a scene created by the
characters which is to be transferred to the audience, or better still,
in which the audience itself is going to participate. The existence
and emphasis of this mood is established by the natural resources
of the film.

Emphasis of mood is to be gained largely by contrast of light

271

THE THEORETICAL

and of space, by angle, by symbolism, and by indirect suggestion.
A remarkable example of the contrast of space was to be found in
Bed and Sofa. The story was placed in Moscow at the time when
there was extreme shortage of housing accommodation. Out of this
state of affairs and rendered possible by them, arose the story.
It was necessary, therefore, to emphasise this shortage of room
throughout the film, in order to substantiate the incidents of the story.
Most of the action took place in a small room, too cramped for two
let alone three persons. But the atmosphere of this confined space
was not to be achieved only by shots of the litter and discomfort in
the room itself. One of the three persons went out to work. He was
seen working on the top of the roof of the Opera House, surrounded
on all sides by space. The width and breadth of the sky provided a
powerful contrast to the small room, where the three fell over each
other in an effort to keep out of the way. The director in this film
took advantage of natural circumstances to emphasise the content of
his film, and to render it logical to the audience.

As already indicated, a dramatic feeling of uncertainty, of perhaps
slight fear, is to be obtained by emptiness. Long, deliberate shots
of an empty room or corridor, after there has been a sustained
sequence of vigorous, highly emotional action, produce a strong
suggestion of tense atmosphere . Contrast of light and shade accentuates
the mood of such a scene. In The Joyless Street, in a room lit only
by the feeble rays of light filtering through the slats of a Venetian
blind, the presence of the murdered man was at once established
although no corpse was to be seen. Atmosphere was conveyed by
contrasted light; the mood of the dramatic content was achieved by
indirect suggestion. Many similar scenes appeared in The Cabinet
of Doctor Caligari, and, of course, in the often quoted opening
sequence in Karl Grune's The Street.

Throughout the course of Feyder's Therese Raquiny the audience
was aware of the content of the narrative by subtle indirect suggestion.
Therese went to see her lover Laurent in his studio. She leaned
back on the couch; he sat brooding at her feet; the scene was charged
with tension. On the wall" behind them were pinned carelessly some
of his drawings from the life, such sketches as are found lying about
in so many artists' studios. There was nothing uncommon in their
presence. But their meaning, although the direct effect on the
spectator may have been unconscious, showed clearly the sexual

272

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

reason for the meetings of these two. It was an example of the use
of the incidental to reinforce the general, instigated by the intelligence
of the director. In Greed, the central theme was the demonstration
of the horror of a human being's intense passion for gold. This was
emphasised by the presence of gold in every detail throughout the
film. From the grinding mill in the opening sequence, to the bars
of the canary cage, the teeth stoppings and the gilt picture frames,
the keynote of the film was gold. Unfortunately, in this case, it was
over-emphasised by the use of part colorisation, causing the effect to
be blatant.

It is then, by the flicker of an eyelash, the dropping of a cigarette
end, the relation of one thing to another, the association of ideas and
objects, that mood partially is suggested, emphasised and made
apparent.

(b) The Expressive Capabilities of the Camera

The capabilities of the camera as an instrument of expression are
almost unlimited. There exists practically no object or person that
cannot be photographed. The appeal of the film lies in a transient
series of visual images, presented to the eye on a screen flooded with
light in a darkened place. The camera is the actual medium, the
eye through which all movement and all phenomena are captured.
The camera swings here and there, catching unseen incidents and
unnoticed aspects of life. This was well instanced by the cine-eye
methods in The Man with the Camera. Flowers are observed to
bloom; insects to crawl; birds to fly. Every movement, however fast
or slow, in every direction, is recorded by the camera's eye. It noses
into every corner, ferrets out information, returns to a normal
position, and suddenly swings round on its own axis to observe the
fresh movement of another person.

The camera as an instrument of expression in itself may be con-
sidered from four aspects: (a) the position of the camera and conse-
quently the angle from which the shot is taken; (b) its power of dis-
tortion and of duplicating movement; (c) the movement of the camera
in order to include other objects in its range, without change of
scene by cutting and without movement of the actual position;
(d) the mobility of the camera in that it approaches, retreats or
encircles the object that it is photographing.

In the early days of the cinema all shots were taken from a standard
s 273

THE THEORETICAL

distance away from the object, the influence of the stage still being
uppermost in the mind of the director. It was deemed impossible
to show a portion of a person on the screen. The actors were made
to remain discreetly in the background, and gestured into the camera,
adjusting themselves to it, as it were, and being extremely conscious
of its presence. Griffith is claimed to have been the first director
to have broken down this barrier, being rightly convinced in his own
mind that facial expression was the all-powerful interpretation of
the thoughts in the actor's mind for the purposes of film drama.
This, as is well known, led to the introduction of the close up, an
element which altered the whole conception and outlook of the film.
It was not until much later, however, that the real use of the close up
was appreciated, not so much for the dramatic expression on an
actor's face as for the fact that it was a form of emphasis. Close ups
of objects and things became as important as the close ups of a face.
It was the idea of using the close up to draw attention to a certain
object that first threw a new light on film direction. An early instance
of this was the shot of the galloping hooves of the horses cut in with
shots of the riders themselves in the 'last-minute-rescue' of The
Birth of a Nation.1

It was not until after the war, however, that Germany realised
that practically anything, when lit from the right source, was more
dramatic if taken from a position different to the usual eye-level.
From that day onwards the camera developed its independence, to
be used rightly by a few directors for the strict emphasis of mood
and wrongly by many for the sake of sheer virtuosity. Even now,
there are lamentably few directors who have any real knowledge of
the use of camera angle, of when and how to employ it in order to
achieve dramatic effect. Of those few, so that reference can be made
to their work, mention may be made of Pabst, Pudovkin, Eisenstein,
Feyder, Clair, and Dreyer.

The first capability of the camera to be recognised, beyond the
obvious fact of its taking the picture, is its power of distortion.
Camera distortion is significant, for, by the very fact of throwing
the pictorial composition of a scene out of perspective, it emphasises
the mood of that scene. The angle from which a shot is taken must
be controlled by the image that is being visualised and not by the
position of the camera. The mood of the shot determines the position

1 Vide, R. P. Messel's This Film Business, p. 92 (Benn, 1929).
274

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

of the camera; not the artistic mind of a director who thinks the
shot would look well if taken from the ceiling. The examples of
misuse of camera angle, both for freakish and exotic reasons, are
countless, and can only be compared to the abuse of the camera's
own movements. They are present in nearly every American and
British film. There is, moreover, little excuse for the use of freak
camera angles. The choice of an angle cannot be a disputed point
or even a matter of opinion. Provided the mood of an image
and its connection with the sequence is clearly indicated by the
scenario-plan, there is only one position in which the camera can
be placed in order to render that shot most expressive of the
mood required.

The camera, moreover, possesses the faculty of concentrating the
eye of the spectator on some important detail on the screen, by
narrowing down the field of vision on to the centre of interest. An
old method was to mask over gradually the whole screen with the
exception of one particular detail; or to begin a sequence by the iris-in
method, starting on the most important object in the composition.
This was freely used in The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari and Doctor
Mabuse, and other early films. Camera mobility and the recognition
of the values of cutting have disposed of these methods, which were
clumsy at their best. It is common now to start a sequence on a
close up of some small object, the camera travelling away from it,
round the set, finally picking up the chief source of interest. Hoff-
mann exploited this idea in Nina Petrovna until it became wearisome
and smacked of virtuosity.

There are various properties of the camera, apart from the matter
of its position, which are valuable for the emphasis of dramatic mood.
The device of throwing a scene deliberately out of focus in order
to denote the misty state of mind of a character (and, of course,
the audience) is familiar. I have previously mentioned that several
effects of photographing through mica masks have also been attempted
with successful results. In American films the employment of gauzes
for softening the effect of lighting is not generally used so much
with the desire to emphasise the mood of the scene as to make it
look pretty. It is an offensive habit, and is to be found chiefly in
sentimental films of the calibre of Seventh Heaven. It was an un-
fortunate feature, also, of The Wedding March, but there at least it
was used to create atmosphere. The use of mirrors is also known,

275

THE THEORETICAL

being seen at its best in Metzner's Uberf all, for the brilliant representa-
tion of a man's subconscious thoughts.

Another form of pure cinematic resource is the projection of
negative film on to the screen, which gives an effect of reversed values
to the ordinary projection of positive. Instead of the screen image
being in terms of black on white, the result is white on black. This
was well used by Murnau in the rare version of Dracula, in order
to convey the macabre atmosphere of the dark woods surrounding
the Count's castle. A curious feeling of lifelessness is obtained by
the use of negative in this way, due probably to the suggestion of
the skeletons of the objects being photographed. Its effect in the
case cited above was sinister; the gaunt, white branches of trees
standing out in a ghostly manner against the black sky. It is a
camera device frequently used by the French experimentalists, and
in particular I recall it in A quoi r event les jeunes filles , La Marche des
Machines, and Le Mystere du Chateau de De. In Dracula, also, was
found the use of one-turn -one-picture, a device which produced
an effect of erratic, jerky movement, giving the phantom coach a
bizarre appearance as it moved through the woods.

Other devices of the camera connected with movement but ex-
pressive of mood are slow-motion, ultra-rapid motion, and the
abrupt cessation of movement. Slow-motion is often to be seen
employed in topical films to reveal the graceful actions of athletes
and racehorses. Its place in dramatic themes is more interesting.
Perhaps the best example was the opening sequence of Dovjenko's
Zvenigora, a scene which showed a band of cossack brigands riding
through some luxuriously foliaged countryside. Slow-motion was
used during the scene, the effect being peculiarly beautiful as well as
suggestive of the laziness, heat, and dust of the afternoon. It had
also the asset of deliberately concentrating the attention of the
spectator on the slowly moving horsemen, with their graceful,
fascinating actions. Fairbanks has employed slow-motion in order
to give his leaps and bounds added grace (in Don Q), but this can
hardly be classed as emphasis of mood. Ultra-rapid motion and the
abrupt cessation of movement, producing a petrified effect, have been
well used in some Soviet comedies {e.g. Barnet's House in Trubnaya
Square). For the extraordinary effects obtainable by cessation of
movement, one remembers in particular Dovjenko's film, Arsenal,
where its use was intensely emotional. It will be appreciated that

276

neofilm

EN RADE
by Alberto Cavalcanti, with Catherine Hessling. 1928

trench

societe generale de films
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
by Jean Epstein ; note theatricalise of arrangement. 192/

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

the effects of these devices cannot well be described in words. They
are utterly cinematic in texture.

Having considered the expressive properties of the camera at
rest, it is permissible to examine the capabilities of the camera in
movement. The mobility of the camera is an important factor in
filmic representation that has only come to be used to its full capacity
during recent years. But no sooner has the camera achieved its
independence than it is again curbed by the advent of the dialogue
film, which demands that the instrument be enclosed in a booth or
box of some considerable dimensions, seriously limiting its power of
movement. Some experiments are being made to remedy this by
enveloping the camera in a velvet cloak to keep out sound, but there is
no question that the dialogue film has thrown the recently liberated
camera back once more into slavery. Karl Hoffmann's lament: 'Poor
camera, alas, no more of your graceful movements, no more of your
happy-go-lucky shifts? Are you again condemned to the same bondage
and chains which you commenced breaking ten years ago?'1 is a stab
at the dominant commercialism of the American dialogue cinema.

At the time of the production of the first dialogue film, the camera
had just established its freedom. It must be put on record, also,
that the principal developments in the capabilities of the camera
took place in Germany, despite claims to the contrary by smart
American film writers. Practically every photographic device which
is used to emphasise the dramatic power of a theme saw its origin
in German studios. It was Fritz Arno Wagner, Karl Freund, Karl
Hoffmann, Gunthur Rittau, Guido Seeber, Gunthur Krampf, and
their confreres who gave the camera its independence from the
hampering tripod . Assisted by her unlimited finance and unparalleled
capacity for annexing any new development, Hollywood exploited
this freedom of the camera without any regard to its limits or correct
uses. It is seldom that camera mobility is used for any purpose other
than sheer virtuosity in American movies.

Camera mobility is completely justified in any direction and at
any speed so long as the reason for its movement is expression and
heightening of the dramatic content of the theme. Its motion can be
forward and backward, from side to side, or up and down. It can

1 'Camera Problems.' Karl Hoffmann. Close Up. July 1929. Hoffmann
photographed, among other films, Siegfried, Nina Petrovna, Doctor Mabuse,
Looping the Loop, and The Hungarian Rhapsody.

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THE THEORETICAL

move horizontally, perpendicularly, diagonally, circularly and in
combinations of these actions in curved or straight movements.
In Jeanne Ney, Wagner's camera was in motion practically throughout
the film. So strongly was the dramatic content brought out, however,
that the spectator was scarcely conscious of the movement. In
Paramount 's Forgotten Faces, a camera took flights round a room
whilst a hold-up raid was in progress. A fine view of the wallpaper
was obtained, but the drama of the scene was non-existent. The
same applied to certain shots in Vidor's The Crowd. In such wise
must sheer artistry be distinguished from shallow technical accom-
plishment.

Many instances of correctly used camera motion occurred in
Moana, where the camera swung to follow the swaying movement of
a tree; in La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc, where the quick, pulsating,
backward and forward motion denoted the hesitant trepidation in
Jeanne's mind; and in Metropolis, where a similar movement followed
the hammer of the great gong calling the workers together.

Obviously, the dimensions of the material forming the pictorial
composition on the screen change in relation to the movement of the
camera; but it must always be uppermost in the mind that the material
governs the motion of the camera. Furthermore, there is a close
relationship between the movement of the camera and camera angle,
both being controlled by the mood of the material being photographed.
All the properties of the camera itself, such as slow-motion and
masks, as well as camera angle, which have been considered previously,
have direct bearing on camera mobility. It should be remembered
that the camera can approach an object from a low angle, gradually
rising as it gets nearer, at the same time altering its course; arrive
at the object and encircle it; and photograph the whole time in slow-
motion. Each of these movements is justified, if it is emphasising
the mood of the object and its bearing on the dramatic content of
the theme.

As has been made clear, the expressive powers of the camera may
be considered from four points of view; the first two with the camera
at rest, the last two with the camera in movement. It is necessary,
therefore, to differentiate between the two forms of movement.
The first is that in which the camera position does not change, but
the camera itself swings either laterally or vertically, to include fresh
objects in its range. The second is that in which the camera moves

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METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

its position as a whole in order to approach or to retreat from the
object being photographed.

The first of these actions, when the camera pivots on its own axis
laterally or moves in an up-and-down motion, is generally termed
panning, the obvious reason being that this action produces on the
screen a panoramic view of the set or location in which the camera is
placed. Its customary use is to connect two persons or things on
the screen which are some distance apart, without entailing a separate
shot. The movement must necessarily be fairly slow if it is not to
offend the eyes of the audience, and hence it will be apparent that
panning from a person standing at one side of a table to a person at
the other, takes a greater length of time than would a direct cut from
one visual image to another. A pan shot tends to slow down the
action of a scene; cutting tends to quicken the pace. The only clue
as to whether panning or cutting should be used in a certain con-
catenation of shots lies in the mood of the scene. If the nature of the
latter is to be quick and staccato, then panning will be useless to
convey this tempo, cutting being the desirable method. If, on the
other hand, the action is slow, dragging, and sad, panning slowly
from one person or object to another will produce the required
emphasis of mood. Like every other form of camera movement,
panning is justified only by the mood of the scene being represented.
These remarks apply equally to the perpendicular form of panning,
which is more rarely used than the lateral. Both the merits and
demerits of panning were apparent in Werner Brandes's camera-
work, at Dupont's direction, in Piccadilly. Several highly dramatic
moments in this film lost their effect on the audience because the
camera dawdled in its panning, in the very place where direct, quick
cutting should have been used. It may be added that the technical
accomplishment of the camerawork in this film was of a high
standard and it was regrettable that it should have been misused.

The movement of the camera as a whole, in approach to or in
retreat from the material being taken, is usually known as a rolling
or travelling shot, or simply as tracking. Actually, the camera is
mounted on a trolley or a camera tricycle, which enables it to be
moved forward or backward or in an arc, as desired. Various apparatus
attached to the tricycle permit the camera to pan at the same time
as it is moving across the ground; thus almost any form of movement
in any direction is attainable.

279

THE THEORETICAL

Great care should be exercised by the director in the use of a
travelling shot, for the movement is apt to make the audience con-
scious of the camera's presence, which is absolutely undesirable.
The shot should always be seen on the screen with the camera in
motion the whole time, and not, as is usual, with the camera first at
rest and then in movement. This beginning (or ending) of movement
immediately makes the spectator conscious of the camera. There
were many instances of both good and bad travelling camerawork in
The Patriot, where the audience was never quite sure if it was
intended to be the camera (which was also Herr Jannings) moving
through the palatial corridors of Paramount Palace, or whether it
was just an onlooker who trailed after Herr Jannings as he wandered
about in a half-witted absent-mindedness, in order to show the
audience the artistic reconstruction of Imperialist Russia (Hollywood
version).

This problem inevitably raises the complicated question of camera
personification. Is the camera (as Chaplin insists) to be used as an
unconscious observer, a hidden eye, or is the camera to take on the
viewpoint of a character in the theme? When the camera moves
across the room and ends in a close up of a picture on the wall, is
the audience to understand that it has itself moved across the room
and is looking at the picture; or that the camera is personifying
one of the characters going across the room; or yet again, that the
camera may have followed an actor across the room, looking over his
shoulder. This is a problem on which each director has (or should
have) his own or somebody else's theory. Actually, it can only be
settled by the dramatic content of the scene once more. Camera
personification is to be used in certain shots where the dramatic
content (according to the director) demands its use without the risk
of the audience becoming camera-conscious. It is justified, for
example, where the screen is showing the thoughts of a character in
order to explain his actions. In most cases, however, it is preferable
to adopt the unseen eye theory, and therefore assume that the
camera is able to see anything anywhere without hindrance.

In considering the problem of the pictorial composition of visual
images seen on the screen, it should be remembered that a scene is

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METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

only photographic in its reproduction. That is to say, a certain
arrangement and composition is necessary before an object or group
of objects or persons, as the case may be, can be photographed.
This arrangement (which is in the hands of the director and not in
those of the 'art-director,' as is commonly believed) can only take
place in the studio or on location, when the material is capable of
being actually composed. It can, however, and should be indicated
by the draughtsmanship in the scenario-plan. In cases where real
material of landscapes is used, it is the task of the director to compose
much in the same way as does a painter. It is as well to recall, in
this respect, the creation of filmic space made possible by constructive
editing. Although the principles of linear design that are generally
accepted in regard to static composition in paintings and drawings
do not strictly apply to the cinema (where the material is in almost
constant motion), they are nevertheless invaluable in filmic com-
position for presenting forms, not only in a pleasant manner to the
eye, but for purposes of insinuation and suggestion in the expression
of dramatic content.

When a film is projected in a cinema, the visual image on the
screen represents a rectangular space which the camera has isolated
from all other possible points of view. Objects and persons within
the limits of this picture plane (formed by the four sides of the screen)
should be composed harmoniously so that balance and design are
maintained. Irrelevant matter is to be discarded and the remaining
important material is to be arranged with regard to its significance,
as demanded by the dramatic content of the scene. As with a static
composition, little things should be employed to lead the eye of the
spectator to big things. Attention should be drawn to the significant
object or person on the screen by the linear design of the composition,
as well as by contrast in lighting. This is of particular importance
in the conception and designing of studio settings, for the leading
lines of a set should emphasise and support the dramatic content of
the action taking place in it. The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari was an
object-lesson of this co-operation between the film architect and the
director.

Relation between the pictorial composition of visual images and
the dramatic content that the scene carries must in all cases be
insisted upon. There is a definite connection between the form of
the composition and the dramatic content of the scene. Pictorial

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THE THEORETICAL

composition in the film connotes the maintenance of a balanced
composition that is both in constant motion and in constant con-
nection with the ever-changing dramatic content of the theme. Just
as continuity has to be sustained in the concatenation of shots and
sequences, so has the balance of pictorial composition to remain in
constant harmony.

Paradoxically enough, although it should be the aim for the visual
image to be beautiful in design, nevertheless that design should never
be allowed to dominate the dramatic content of the image. It should
always be remembered that a single visual image is but one of the
great number which compose the whole filmic pattern; and that
effect is not gained by one shot but by a combination of shots. A
visual image is present on the screen primarily to express a meaning;
the quality of that expression is aided by the design of the pictorial
composition of the image. It will be recalled that the damning
fault of La Passion de Jeanne a" Arc was, strangely enough, the beauty
of the visual images, which were so pleasing in themselves that
they were detrimental to the expression of the theme. In other words,
I remember La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc as a series of very beautiful
compositions, but not as a film.

When one separate visual image is seen on the screen there is
usually movement present in some form, either of one or several
objects or persons, taking place at the same time or in rotation.
There are cases, however, when a series of purely static compositions
succeed one another in order to build up a solid atmospheric or
psychological effect.1 In these instances, the common rules of two-
dimensional linear design govern the visual composition; whilst their
order of appearance on the screen is a matter of assembling indicated
by the desired mood.

The attention of the spectator is drawn to the meaning of the
dramatic content of a theme principally by movement and contrast
of light and shade. It is common knowledge that a moving object is
apprehended by the eye very much quicker than a stationary one.
In a scene of complete rest, a single small movement immediately
attracts the attention of the spectator. Interest is at once aroused in
the mind as to why the movement is taking place, what is its direction

1 Refer to section of this chapter dealing with constructive editing and cutting,
and note examples cited in The Living Corpse , Camille, October, New Babylon, etc.
A series of static landscapes is also a favourite method of opening a film, e.g. The
Heir to Jenghiz Khan, Turksib, and A Cottage on Dartmoor.

282

french

societe generate de films
LA PASSION DE JEANNE D'ARC
by Karl Dreyer. Mme. Fakonetti as Jeanne: an instance
of natural panchromatic photography, without make-up. 1928

mfjrabpom russ

THE HEIR TO JENGHIZ KHAN
called also 'Storm Over Asia,' Pudovkin's him of natural,
raw material, Hippantlv referred to as a ' western. ' 1927-28

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

and speed, and what bearing has it or will it have on the other objects
in sight or whose presence is known? When we realise that the
spectators are focussing their whole attention on a rectangular space,
placed in the most advantageous position and the only conspicuous
thing in a darkened house, it is obvious that the slightest movement
on the part of an object or person on the screen at once compels the
spectators to watch it, fascinated by curiosity as to what is about to
happen.

The movement of the acting material that makes up pictorial
composition has been likened to the movement of the ballet. The
ballet demands simplified physical movement, both in balance and in
contrast. A dancer's first knowledge is that of rhythm. Rhythmic
movement of gestures is essential in the maintenance of the
harmonious pictorial composition demanded by the film. The
ballet has been described as the 'art of flowing movements.' A close
analogy is to be found in the cinema.

Perhaps the simplest, and incidentally the most impressive form of
movement in pictorial composition is a single repetitive motion.
Its limited and monotonous repetition has immediate fascination.
The knowledge that the movement can stray no further than its
given path holds the mind of the spectator. A typical instance of
this can be found in the motion of a crankshaft; a single allotted path
which is followed again and again. Confined movement of machinery
has been used with great power in many films (Berlin, Pits, and, of
course, La Marche des Machines). The constricted course and rhythm
of a machine is not only compelling to watch but symbolical, also,
of infinite though controlled power.

American movies have become especially notorious for their
'movement.' They certainly contain a great amount of movement of
material itself, but there the claim ceases. Fairbanks is the individual
hero of the movement school, for his amazing acrobatics charge his
films with a sense of speed. Movement is prevalent, too, in all films
of chase and pursuit, such as the westerns and the touch-and-run
comedies. Movement of this kind is stimulating and invigorating,
which accounts for the wide success of such types of film.

In movement of pictorial composition, the eye of the spectator
follows the direction of objects or persons in the space bounded
by the margins of the screen. Pleasure is obtained by watching the
moving objects or persons rhythmically changing their positions in

283

THE THEORETICAL

relation one to another. Simple examples of this abound in the
various abstract films of geometrical shapes, such as Sandy's Light
and Shade.1

When there are two or more moving units in a composition, then
the relative movements of these units as well as their individual
motion have to be considered, either in terms of contrast or symmetrical
balance. Two converging streams of movement naturally emphasise
the point of convergence. Symmetrical balance may be obtained
by circular movement, such as a ring of prisoners walking slowly
round a sentry, who is perhaps the centre of the circle, a fact which
is stressed by his being placed on the apex of a triangular shadow,
which stretches across the prison yard. This example was observed
in Mother \ a similar instance was found, but with lesser effect, in
Vaudeville. A more complicated form of circular movement was seen
in Murnau's Four Devils, where the camera itself was moving in an
elliptical path following a horse round a circus ring.

Direct lines of movement across the screen are affected by the
same principles of two dimensional design. The co-ordinated move-
ments of the crowds in that remarkable film, The Golem, have often
been cited in this respect. Seen at times through a window, the
crowds moved along narrow streets in straight lines and intersected
straight lines across the screen. The fact that their direction was
restricted and indicated by the walls of the streets added emphasis
to their destination and intent. Probably the finest examples of
streaming movement on various planes removed from the spectator
were to be found in Battleship 'Potemkin.' Eisenstein's use of crowd
movement is almost too well-known to be quoted again. It is sufficient
to recall the procession along the quay, balanced by the movement
of the small boat; the townspeople of Odessa when they came in
their hundreds to file past the dead body of the sergeant Waluckchuck;
the scene of the three streams of movement, the crowd passing across
the bridge in the distance at the top of the screen, the crowd on the
right coming down the steps diagonally, and the crowd in the road
in the foreground ; and many shots of simple one-directional move-
ment repeated again and again on the flight of steps. One recalls,
also, how Eisenstein achieved co-ordination between pictorial

1 The value of movement, both simple and complex, is always well seen in
absolute films, hence one of the reasons why they should be closely studied by
directors, and not dismissed, as is usually the case, as mere 'highbrow' fripperies.

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METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

Composition and overlapping of movement by cutting (see page 158).
It is of passing interest to compare the unforgettable scene on the
steps of Odessa with the procession in Martin Luther. The com-
parison shows more clearly than words the value of movement in
the hands of an intelligent and competent director.

Repetitive movements on more than one plane were well used in
The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari to establish the mood of the fair
scene. The units of movement were the two whirling roundabouts
placed at the same angle but at different distances from the audience,
who were introduced to the scene by a small vignette, the screen
gradually lightening in a circular movement to reveal the whole.
The isolated vignette of the moving roundabout, however, definitely
suggested the nature of the scene, preparing the audience for the
more important action that was to follow.

The film is capable of representing movement of material in the
most beautiful and stirring manner in order to establish and enhance
atmospheric drama. Choosing at random, I remember the wind-
swept clouds and the quivering branches of the solitary tree outside
the cottage where Kean lay dying, in the film of that name. The
storm scene in The Student of Prague, when Veidt as Baldwin raved
into the night to meet his second self at every turn, was filled with the
tortured bending of trees, symbolical of the anguish raging in the
student's mind. Again, the swaying earheads of corn, the hair of
the reapers blowing in the wind, the rhythmic movement of the
scythes, and the excited rush to the village at the sound of the bell,
suggested the power and movement of nature in The Peasant Women
of Riazan.

There are plentiful instances, also, of mood being emphasised by
contrasted movement in light and shade, the most celebrated being
in The Street. The bourgeois lay on the sofa in the darkened,
motionless room, fascinated by the flickering shadows of the passers-
by, indicative of the life and thrill that existed beyond the walls
of that dull chamber. The use of light and shade in Warning Shadows
is too classic to be recapitulated.

In the composition of large, heavy masses on the screen, it is
more difficult to maintain balance than in the handling of direct
lines of movement. The motion of a large mass may be considered
both as an individual action, indicated by the dramatic content, and
as a movement which alters the pattern of light and shade of the

285

THE THEORETICAL

whole screen area. These two results of one action must be allowed
for in the maintenance of the balance of the whole. The movement
of a heavy mass in one portion of the screen immediately produces
an unbalanced effect, which must be checked by a reciprocal move-
ment of another mass, or masses, in other parts of the screen com-
position. Elementary examples of this are again to be found in
experimental pattern films, such as those of the late Viking Eggeling.
Movement of small masses, particularly when aggravated by light,
produces emotions of excitement and action; whereas corresponding
slow movements of large masses, notably when in shadow, produce
emotions of depression, despair, and sinister dejection. The effect
of these movements is heightened and lessened, as the mood of the
scene demands, by the speed of the movement. With this in mind,
it is significant to recall the effect of Emil Jannings's broad back and
Pudovkin's use of sparkling points of light on running water.

Certain properties of the camera, such as the distortion created
by angle and concentration, have direct bearing on pictorial com-
position. These peculiarities of the instrument should be reckoned
with in the arrangement of the material being photographed. It has
been understood that camera angle is used to emphasise and reveal
dramatic content. There is, moreover, a relationship between the
choice of angle and the arrangement of the pictorial composition,
both of which are governed by the dramatic content of the theme.
For example, the opening shot of the film Blackmail will be
remembered by all. It was a close up, taken directly in elevation, of
the hub of a revolving disc-wheel. Circular motion covered the
whole screen area. There was little effect of movement. (People
have complained since that they thought it was a gramophone disc.)
Now this shot was intended to convey the feeling of speed, of the
flying squad with which so much of the narrative of the picture was
concerned, and the film was begun on this high note presumably to
emphasise this. But the shot was ineffectual, for the reason that
firstly, there was no contrast to the circular motion of the wheel;
and secondly, there was no suspicion of dramatic angle. The shot
was taken flat. Had the director pre- visualised the meaning of that
shot and its supreme importance as the high-spot beginning, he
would surely have taken it from an angle slightly above the wheel,
showing the fast-moving tyre on the road as well as the fleeting edge
of the curbstone. Thereby, he would have presented two contrasted

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METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

movements in the one composition, emphasised by the dramatic
position of the camera, which would have immediately suggested
speed and its meaning to the tense audience. Compare, for instance,
Fritz Lang's tremendously effective opening shot in The Spy with
the example cited above. The case of the Blackmail opening shot
was yet another instance of an enthusiastic director getting hold of a
good idea, and, in his enthusiasm, failing to extract the utmost
possible effect from it. It may be argued that a small shot such as
this does not make much difference one way or the other. But
these separate shots go to make up the whole, and in this particular
case, the shot in question was the keynote to the drama of the
important opening sequence. It was imperative for it to have been
as effective as possible. It is in these small matters that the work of
the greater directors, such as Pabst or Pudovkin, is flawless.
Instinctively, they select the most expressive and the most vividly
dramatic angle. Once more, it is a question of the wide difference
that lies between artistry and virtuosity.

When considering the mobility of the camera, we have found that
pictorial composition on the screen changed in relation to the move-
ment of the instrument, and further that the camera's movement
was governed by the material being photographed. Obviously, when
the camera travels up to an object, the latter increases in size, altering
thereby the pictorial composition. The reverse effect takes place
when the camera is in retreat. An effect of growth and diminution
in size is thus obtained, the whole screen composition altering in
proportion.

Conclusion may be made, therefore, that as with other cinematic
resources, pictorial composition is controlled by the dramatic
content of the scene which it expresses. It will be evident, also,
that dramatic effect during this second form of montage (i.e., the
assemblage of the material to be photographed) is obtained by the
use of movement in pictorial composition and camera position, as
well as by camera angle and the consideration of film psychology.

A further point which may be raised in connection with pictorial
composition of succeeding visual images on the screen is the unity
of light throughout the length of a film. Degrees of light values
naturally differ with the nature of the scene, but the quality of
light should remain of equal intensity throughout a sequence, unless
a change is dramatically indicated, such as by the switching off

287

THE THEORETICAL

of an electric light or the fading rays of the sun. It is common to
find that light values differ from shot to shot, which does much to
impair the desired effect of emotional completeness. This is some-
times due to the practice of inserting lengths of news-reel for atmo-
spheric effect or for crowd scenes, as well as for purposes of cross-
reference by cutting (see, A Cottage on Dartmoor and High Treason).
This practice seriously interferes with the uniform intensity of light,
which should be present equally in a long shot and a close up during
the same sequence. Powerful emotional effects, on the other hand,
can be achieved by the subtle interplay of light values, by increasing
and decreasing the intensity in accordance with the dramatic content.
(Therese Raquin, New Babylon , The Old and the New, and En Rade
were good examples of this nicety of light expression.)

Indirectly concerned with pictorial composition is the movement
of the screen itself, a function that is as yet only in an experimental
stage. From results already obtained, the magnascope may be
reckoned of greater importance than a mere good advertising trick
out of the bottomless box of the American showman. It has been
called 'a form of close up,' but although this is hardly correct it is
certainly a legitimate form of emphasis. To date, the magnascope
has been used in London on four occasions: for the elephant stampede
in Chang and for the sailing vessels in Old Ironsides, both at the
Plaza Theatre during 1927; for the exciting aeroplane sequence in
Wings and for the final desert fight in The Four Feathers at the
Carlton Theatre in 1928 and 1929, respectively. It may be added
that these were Paramount films shown at Paramount theatres, and
that the process exhibited was invented by Glen Allvine of the
Famous-Players-Lasky Company, which is, of course, the alter ego
of Paramount. The idea consisted of a supplementary lens on the
projector which magnified the scene from the ordinary screen area on
to an additional enlarged screen, so that the images almost appeared
to emerge from the screen on to the audience. Apart from its
unquestioned aid to the dramatic high-spots of a film, the magna-
scope involves no fresh principles of pictorial composition, being
merely an enlargement of the ordinary visual image. Its use, however,
is severely limited, for the change from the ordinary to the larger
screen necessitates a complete re-focussing of the eyes of the
spectator; whilst the change back from the large screen to the small

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METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

is a sharp anti-climax, requiring several minutes for the eyes to be-
come accustomed to the different scale. From this it will be seen that
the device becomes permissible only before an interval, or immediately
before the ending of a film, in order to avoid the change. Another
demerit of the magnascope is that it causes the frame of the screen
to become noticeable, which is undesirable, for it is the opening and
closing movements of the screen margins which make the device
possible. The fact of the screen altering its size during the progress
of a film not only interrupts the concentration of the audience, but
makes them conscious of the screen itself, instead of the visual
images upon it. The probable outcome of the magnascope will be
the general adoption of larger screens in the majority of cinemas,
for a larger screen area than that at present in use will undoubtedly
give an enhanced stereoscopic effect.

The triptych screen which has been seen only at the London
Tivoli for the presentation of Abel Gance's Napoleon, was not on
that occasion particularly successful. The effect was too over-
whelming for the receptive power of the audience and tended to
confuse rather than to impress the mind. For this device, the film
is projected in the normal way on to a central screen. When a high-
spot is reached, two side screens flanking the centre one are brought
into play, and two other films are projected in synchronisation with
the main film. For example, one instance depicted Napoleon
reviewing his armies. On the centre screen appeared a stream of
soldiers on a large scale, whilst on the side screens were two further
processions, the scene on the left being the same as that on the right,
but reversed. The troops at first formed three separate scenes, but
later they mingled, forming one great river of the Grande Armee.
The effect was dramatic but confusing.

I understand that this multiple screen theory is being developed
in New York, but I suggest that this 'progress of the cinema' is far
from achieving the unity of purpose demanded by a film. For normal
intents and purposes, the simple flat screen of customary proportions
is all that is necessary. It would be more satisfactory if these
enthusiasts spent their leisure in improving their knowledge of the
film itself rather than in evolving complicated methods of presenta-
tion. Mr. Harry Potamkin writes of a compound cinema, in which
the rational centre screen is used for the projection of the main film,
whilst slides or minor films are projected on to the walls and ceiling
t 289

THE THEORETICAL

of the theatre to enhance the atmosphere of the main theme on the
audience. The idea is admittedly novel, but it is doubtful if it tends
to establish the film as a unity.

(d) Constructive Editing and Cutting

When analysing the final act of montage, which is the assembling
of the various strips of film on which have been recorded photo-
graphically the incidents and material as indicated by the scenario-
plan, we can put aside all the resources of filmic representation
that have so far been discussed. Camera angle, pictorial composition,
movement of material and of camera, etc., have played their essential
parts in the transference of the dramatic content on to strips of
celluloid. It may be assumed that the content of the thematic
narrative has been expressed to the fullest possible advantage by
the resources of the film already utilised up to the time the picture
leaves the studio floor, or the exterior location, as the case may be.
There remains now the task of sorting out these strips of film and
assembling them in an order of continuity of dramatic content.
But it is essential to realise that a desired emotional effect cannot be
gained by the mere indiscriminate chopping of bits of celluloid.
The content that is photographically recorded on these strips must
have been borne in mind by the director from the origin of the
manuscript. Thus far, this final act of assemblage has been kept in
view throughout the whole procedure. Amongst the hundreds of
lengths of film that wait to be assembled, there will be many meaning-
less bits that are useless in themselves, but each will play its part in
the building of the whole. Frame by frame, shot by shot, sequence
by sequence, the film as a unity will be constructed. This final
relation, inter-relation, and juxtaposition of the varying lengths of
film will produce cinematic effect on the audience, causing them to
be roused in the most emotional degree.

It has been made clear that constructive editing is the matter of
arranging strips of film in an order that expresses the dramatic
content of the theme with the greatest reactionary effect. The
strength and mood of these reactions on the audience is affected by
the methods of cutting, by variation in number of frames x of each
separate length of film and by the rhythm of material.

1 For purposes of assembling, a strip of film should always be considered in
terms of frames.

290

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

The elementary principles of editing are as follows. Firstly,
it should be the aim of the director never to show a shot on the screen
more than once if it has been taken from the same angle of vision,
unless he should desire to emphasise a particular mood. The material
will thus be kept constantly fresh and interesting to the audience.
To show a thing more than once from the same angle is to invite
monotony. The means whereby this choice of angles is calculated
are determined by the changing dramatic content of the theme.
(Reference may here be made to the earlier section of this chapter
dealing with camera capabilities, in particular to the subject of
camera angles.) Secondly, a shot should be held only long enough
on the screen to be taken in by the audience during a medium tension
of emotion. The spectator should only be allowed sufficient time
to realise the significance of the image, which has been aided by the
pictorial composition. Thirdly, short cutting (being the use of small
strips of film varying from two or three to nine or ten frames,
usually close ups, but not necessarily so) should be employed to
create high and exciting emotions, by a succession of short flashes
in rhythmic order on the screen. Fourthly, long cutting (being the
antithesis of short cutting) should be used for obtaining sad and
soothing effects, which can be deliberately intensified by the time-
length of images on the screen. By varying combinations of these two
extreme methods of cutting, together with the practice of cross-
cutting by relation and contrast, almost any emotion of the human
mind can be reached and made to react.

The power of cutting in the hands of a capable director is un-
limited. By a proper understanding of the method he can cause any
audience to be sad, thrilled, pathetic, joyous, angry, sympathetic, etc.,
according to his will, and thus compel them to take interest in the
content of the theme that he is expressing on the screen. It is the
greatest resource of the cinema for stirring and holding an audience
en masse. Its force is not, perhaps, generally appreciated. A notable
instance was seen at the first presentation of Pudovkin's The End of
St. Petersburg at the Film Society on 3rd February, 1929. At
one portion of the film, the theme was worked by gradual short-
cutting to a crescendo with the title 'All power to the Soviets!' at
the peak of emotion. The audience was observed to start gradually
stirring, then muttering, until eventually many persons rose to their
feet, cheering and clapping. I do not believe that the word 'Soviets'

291

THE THEORETICAL

was of real importance, for had it been 'Royalists' or 'Monarchists,'
the effect would have been the same, due entirely to the emotions
raised by the cutting. Much the same course of events took place
among a working-class audience at the showing of Victor Turin's
Turksib, at the Scala Theatre on 9th March 1930. The spectators
in London were just as eager for the railway to be opened as were
the peasants in Russia! This advanced process of editing and cutting,
together with a remarkable use of the other properties of the medium,
renders Soviet films the most emotionally powerful in the world.

Pudovkin claims that every object, taken from a given viewpoint
and reproduced on the screen in the form of a visual image, is a
dead object, even though it may have movement, for this movement
is that of material and not that of film. The object does not assume
life until it is placed among other separate objects; until it is
presented as being part of a synthesis of separate visual images.
Every object brought upon th& screen in the form of a visual image
has not photographic but cinematographic essence given to it by
editing. 'Editing is the creative force of filmic reality. Nature
provides only the raw material.' {Vide, Film Weekly, 29th October
1928, translation by Ivor Montagu of the preface to Pudovkin 's
Manual of Film Direction, and later published in Pudovkin on Film
Technique [Gollancz, 1929].)

This, then, is the relation between the film and reality. An actor
at his best is but raw material for his future composition in visual
images when edited. He is only the clay with which the director
works. A landscape is but a mere photograph until it assumes its
place in the organisation of visual images. The extraordinary truth
of this shatters at one blow the whole idea of the star-system. Where
now is Clara Bow's 'it,' and Carl Brisson's sweet smile? In brief,
therefore, we are to understand that the film director works with
actual material, creating out of it a filmic reality. He composes, it
will be remembered, filmic time and filmic space out of real material.
The true aim of the film director is not realism, as is generally but
erroneously supposed, but a reality of his own construction.

Lev Kuleshov it will be recalled, logically maintained that in
every art there must be, firstly, a material; and secondly, a method of
composing that material arising out of the nature of the medium.1
In the case of the film, we are now able to grasp fully the fact that

1 Cf. pages 52, 155.
292

^(A kino

THE OLD AND THE NEW
called formerly ' The General Line,' by S. M. Eisenstein and

G Alexandrov, ienoivned for its montage

construction.

1926-29

sovkino

OCTOBER '

by S. M. Eisenstein ; note angle and lighting emphasising ■
dramatic effedt. Camerawork by Edward Tisse. 1927

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

the material is on the strips of film and the composing is the act of
editing, which has been relegated in this present survey to the final
act of montage.

In the assembling of the different strips of film, it has been seen
that it is necessary to be able to manipulate the number of frames
that make up each separate shot, for the combination of these varying
lengths creates the vibrating rhythm by which the film as a unity
achieves life and breath, slackening and tightening the attention
of the audience.

In brief, cutting resolves itself into the act of placing one strip
of film bearing certain photographic images upon it alongside
another strip recording either the same material seen from a different
angle or entirely fresh material. Two simple factors may be
brought to bear on this relation between the two strips, each based
on the recognisable external characteristics of the pieces. Firstly,
film strips may be joined together according to a formulated scheme
or metre, in harmony perhaps with the beats of synchronised music.
Changing effects may be achieved by variations in the number of
frames to a length, the balance of sequences (and consequently the
whole film) being maintained by a repetition of the metre. The
assembling may therefore be said to be a metric process of piece
lengths, achieved by 'tape measurement.'

From this elementary metric method it is but a step to as-
sembling according to the movement of the screen material (i.e.
the movement of the players, objects, etc., recorded on the film
strips). The assembling determined by the metric process may
be strengthened by a rhythmic relation of material movement
between the separate piece lengths. The movement contained
in one shot may be continued into the next. Further, the
predominant movement in a series of shots may be carried into
the predominant movement in the succeeding series (e.g. the rhythmic
movement of the soldiers descending the steps of Odessa in
Battleship 'Potemkin' merging into the rhythmic movement of
the perambulator ; the rhythm of the waving corn stalks in The
Old and the New becoming submerged by the downward movement
of the rain. Cf. also the bridge scene in October, page 158, and
the cutting of Jeanne Neyy page 187).

Beyond such assembling of shots by rhythmic and metric
relations, further factors may be applied to the conjoining of film

293

THE THEORETICAL

strips. For example, in a given sequence of shots, as well as
there being an increase (or decrease) in movement of screen
material and a formulated scheme for assembling according to
numbers of frames, there may also be increase (or decrease) in
the intensity of light values (from light to dark, or vice versa, as
the sequence unfolds), as well as increase (or decrease) in intel-
lectual values (as in the gallery of gods in October, which were
arranged in the order of a descending intellectual scale.)1 More-
over, as Eisenstein has pointed out, there is no difference between
the physical movement expressed by simple metric or rhythmic
assembling in a sequence and the movement of the intellectual
process within that sequence, save that one results in a physiological
effect and the other a psychological effect on the audience.

Although each frame is one of a number, which in succession
produces movement in a shot, it is possible also to use purely
static shots to build up effect with cutting. A series of shots, each
one static, achieves an emotional effect quite different in feeling to
a succession of shots showing movement. For example, Eisenstein
in October brought all the religions in the world to bear upon a
certain point, simply by a succession of 'still' shots of religious
symbols, such as the Buddha, the Cross, and savage heathen fetishes.
It was, so to speak, the director's comment on the action of the context,
exemplary of 'intellectual cinematography.' Again, when establishing
the environment of tradition and pompous imperial taste in art at
the Winter Palace, in St. Petersburg, he used a series of static shots,
taken from dramatic low-level angles, of cornices and capitals,
column-shafts and chandeliers - a solemn comment on wasted
magnificence. A sudden realisation of disgust was raised in the mind
of the spectator at this luxury, so useless and so meaningless, by a
simple, slow succession of silent, still, visual images. More recent
examples of this method were seen in Kozintsev and Trauberg's
New Babylon.

The effect of movement in cutting may be measured by contrast
with a stationary object, just as dark is given value by light. This
form of contrast may frequently be achieved by means of the process
of cross-cutting from a moving object to a stationary one, and
repeating the procedure. An admirable example may be taken in a
cavalry charge. In order to gain the greatest effect of this action on

1 See pages 158, 271.
294

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

an audience, alternate close ups are shown in rapid succession of
the hooves of the horses in fast movement over the cobble stones,
and of the still, bronze hooves of an equestrian statue. The alternate
cross-cutting from swift action to static rigidity, when repeated,
achieves remarkable dramatic intensity, far more powerful in every
way than a conventional shot of the charge as usually employed,
as for example in Balaclava. Many other examples of cross-cutting
abound. In the night-club scene in Crisis , Pabst wished to arouse in
the mind of the audience the emotions created by syncopation and
jazz. He obtained this by taking a shot, with his camera travelling
backwards, of a pair of exhibition dancers coming forward with
typical rhythmic movements, cutting alternately from close ups of
their heads to close ups of their feet. In this way he achieved a
cinematic result impossible with a straight shot of the pair. During
the opening sequence of Berlin, Ruttmann wished to express the
rhythm of an express train. He intercut short flashes of the wheels,
of the telegraph wires and of the rails with one longer shot of the
coupling between two of the coaches. Thereby he obtained an
effect of 'three shorts and a long,' as it were, causing the audience to
visualise an emotion that they had experienced themselves in reality.
Similar effects of cross-cutting to achieve rhythmic movement were
found in the railway scenes of Room's Bed and Sofa, and in Dziga-
Vertov's telegraph wire sequence in The Eleventh Year. Much of
the secret of arousing these feelings in the audience lies in the subtlety
with which emotions latent in their minds are awakened. Often it
is not desired to stir fresh emotions but to recreate old ones by
stressing the rhythm, which was probably unrecognised by the
observer before it was seen on the screen.

By constructive editing it is possible to convey the dramatic
content of an occurrence without even showing the actual happening.
Pudovkin gives an instance of an explosion, which he used in The
End of St. Petersburg. In order to render the effect of this explosion
with absolute fidelity, he caused a charge of high explosive to be buried
and had it detonated. The explosion was terrific, but filmically it was
quite ineffective. So by means of editing, he built an explosion out
small bits of film, by taking separate shots of clouds of smoke and
of a magnesium flare, welding them into a rhythmic pattern of light
and dark. Into this series of images he cut a shot of a river that he
had taken some time before, which was appropriate owing to its

295

THE THEORETICAL

tones of light and shade. The whole concatenation when seen on
the screen was vividly effective, but it had been achieved without
employing a shot of the real explosion. In another instance, in
Mother, he obtained effect by symbolic intercutting. The son was
in prison. He received a note, passed to him surreptitiously, in-
forming him that he was to be set free on the following day. The
task was to show his joy filmically, and to make the audience partici-
pate in it. The mere photographing of the boy's face lighting up
with joy would have been ineffectual and banal. Pudovkin showed,
therefore, the nervous play of his hands and a big close up of the
lower half of his face, his lips faintly twisting into a smile. With
these shots he cut in others of a brook, swollen with the rapid flow
of spring, of the play of sunlight broken into points of light on the
water, of birds splashing in the village pond, and finally, of a laughing
child. By composing these into a whole it was possible to give the
emotions which that boy felt in prison when he knew that he was to
escape. But it is, of course, to be realised that this constructive
editing of material is primarily a matter of preconception in the
film manuscript. The extension of the method is apparent and it
will be appreciated how wide is the scope opened up by its
potentialities.

An interesting point which arises in the rhythmic conjoining of
film strips, is the overlapping of movement of the material from one
shot into another. It is customary to find that when one visual
image succeeds another on the screen, both showing an object moving
in the same direction but each viewed from a different angle, the
movement in the second shot begins where the movement in the first
left off. But there may be an overlapping of movement, in that the
same piece of action is in reality seen twice by the audience from
different viewpoints. This is not by any means to be taken as an
instance of bad joining. On the contrary, it emphasises the move-
ment of the pictorial composition and enhances the dramatic effect
of that movement. Allusion has already been made to the fact that
the line of guards in Battleship iPotemkiri> descended over many
steps more than once when seen on the screen. The same effect was
experienced when the statue of the Czar fell to pieces and then
came together again in October, and also in the famous scene of the
raising of the bridge. It was seen again in the felling of the trees
in Turin's Turksib. This practice of overlapping movement

296

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

encourages and makes use of latent dramatic content in the mind of
the spectator. It serves to weld the images into a firm whole by a
process that can only be described as dovetailing. Its neatness and
precision is both comforting and stimulating. It adds, as it were, a
sort of double-kick to the movement.

In such pattern films as La Marche des Machines and Skyscraper
Symphony, it is common to find an effect of balance built up by a
series of succeeding shots, with the weight distributed diagonally
on alternate sides of the screen in each image. For example, a shot
is shown of a steam shovel on one side of the screen, followed by
the same shot reversed so that the steam shovel is seen on the other
side. This, in turn, is followed by a double-exposure shot com-
bining the two preceding shots, one top of the other, so that the
steam shovel appears on both sides of the screen simultaneously.
The same has been done with shots taken of a building from below,
the roof first cutting the screen diagonally from left to right and then
from right to left. It is a matter of balanced design. The same
method can equally well be applied to movement. A shot showing
an object moving across the screen from left to right may be
succeeded by a shot showing the reverse motion. This will reveal
the close connection that exists between editing and the pictorial
composition of the visual images. The use of dissolves and mixes
in cutting in sympathy with the mood of the content has been con-
sidered earlier, and the reader is referred to the example taken from
The Living Corpse cited on page 263 .

It will have been observed from these remarks on the building of
a unified film that every frame and every shot is of the utmost
significance to the composition of the whole. It can be understood,
therefore, how deep a resentment is felt by a director when many
shots and even sequences are removed from his completed film in
order to meet a censor's requirements. Theoretically, the removal
of one frame from a complete film throws out the unity of the balance,
even as pieces of stamp-paper stuck over the nude parts of pictures
in the National Gallery would destroy appreciation of them as whole
compositions. The outcry in the Press at such an act of vandalism
can well be imagined; but few realise to what an extent a film may
be damaged by an official board. It is not to be wondered that the
only course left open to the director so affected is to disclaim his own
work, a film on which he perhaps spent weeks of care and toil. Nor

297

THE THEORETICAL

is the injustice easier to bear when the crass absurdity of many
censorial restrictions is made known.

(e) The Placing of Titles

The literary value of titles or sub-titles (frequently miscalled
'captions') is strictly a matter of scenario montage. It has been seen
that a title is employed in a film to connect sequences in smooth
continuity and also to introduce characters to the audience. When
it is not mere superfluity, the general use of titles is mostly due
to an insufficient employment of the resources of the medium.
Theoretically, the use of a title from a literary point of view is
unwarranted if the full cinematic properties of the medium are
utilised by the director. That this is so has been conclusively proved
by The Last Laugh, Warning Shadows, and New Year's Eve. Titles
are only really justified in the cultural and educational film for
explanatory purposes.

A title should be visual as well as literary. Its place among the
concatenation of visual images must be decided by pictorial qualifica-
tions as well as by meaning. A well-titled film is one in which the
titles harmonise with the visual images so perfectly that their
presence as titles is not remarked. The length of a title must be
considered in ratio to the speed of the scene in which it is inserted.
Quick, exciting action needs short, succinct titles, at times simply a
single word flashed at the audience. For this reason, the Soviet
directors use split titles and repetitive wording. Slow, deliberate
action, on the other hand, demands slow, deliberate titles.

Titles may be used as a means of preparing the audience for a
scene by suggesting in advance the dramatic content that is to be
unfolded. A perfect example of this was quoted by Mr. Sergei
Nalbandov (writing in The Cinema, 7th August 1929) from the film
Mother. A title 'Waiting' preceded a shot of a cavalry platoon, which
was awaiting the coming of a procession towards a prison. The
meaning of this title was bound up with the close ups which succeeded
it on the screen, of the hoof of a horse pawing the ground and a rider
adjusting the buckle of his straps.

A title is often to be rendered more potent by splitting it into
sections among a series of visual images. A title begins with a few
words; it is cut to a series of visual images; the title continues; again
it is cut to a series of relevant shots; the title finishes; it is succeeded

298

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

by a further flow of images. Greater stress of meaning, of pictorial
rather than of literary value, is gained by this division. A case in
point was to be found in the introduction of the workers in the early
part of The End of St. Petersburg.

Simple repetition of a title at spaced intervals is also found to be
dramatically effective by its very rhythmic insistence. The same
title may punctuate a film at given moments, driving home not
the meaning of the title, but the meaning of the sequence and the
whole meaning of the theme. This was used with much feeling with
the title 'Mother,' in the film of that name, and was also a conspicuous
part of the construction of October, New Babylon, and Turksib.
This fact may be given support in that when I saw for the first
time a copy of Battleship 'Potemkin,' the titles were in Russian,
a language incomprehensible to me, and yet their pictorial quality
added greatly to the drama of the film.

An appreciation of the titling of Victor Turin's Turksib appeared
in the Sunday Observer, for 23rd March 1930, and is worth citing:
'. . . I have been waiting a great many years to see a film in which
the titles would play a definite part in the visual and emotional
progress of idea. ... In Turksib the titling is inseparable from the
sweep of the film. ... I cannot describe the curious assault on the
senses of those moving arrangements of letters, the cumulative effect
of the final titles with their massive cadences. The words of Turksib
are images; integral, triumphant, menacing. They are symbols of
disaster and determination, fear and terrific jubilation. They have
no longer sound or aural meaning - they are eye-images, mute, rapid,
and wrought from the emotional fibre of the film itself.' This
criticism is all the more interesting in that it comes from the pen
of an advocate of the dialogue film.

Other interesting experiments with the placing of titles have
been attempted, notably by Pudovkin, who makes a practice of
inserting spoken titles at the moment of utterance but not in con-
junction with the visual image of the speaker.

It may be remarked that the design and word lay-out of a title
should be as simple as possible. The quietest form of lettering
should be used; the wording should be of the briefest and clearest
nature; the ground should be dark, with the lettering a dull grey.
The customary title is positively sparkling, with white scrawly
lettering jumping about on an imitation leather background, which is

299

THE THEORETICAL

the exact opposite to the requirements of a visual title. Various
devices exist for the expansion of lettering, and may be used in
accordance with the dramatic need of the title.

(/) The Visual Addition of Colour and the Stereoscopic Screen

The novelty of colour has always been a trick out of the showman's
big box, and has been produced from time to time as an attractive
selling addition to a super film. The advent of the dialogue and
sound film is considered by some persons to make colour and
stereoscopic effect a necessity. It depends entirely from what point
of view we regard the cinema. The coloured stereoscopic film will
give, when combined with sound and dialogue, a sense of realism.
This, as has been explained more than once, is in the opposite direction
to the proper aim of the film, which is reality. At the present moment,
the marvellous decorative values that result from the use of pan-
chromatic stock are more than sufficient for the needs of a director
whose ambition is to convey dramatic content. It is necessary only
to recall the beauty of The Old and the New, White Shadows, and La
Passion de Jeanne d'Arc to realise this. But colour as an asset to
showmanship is a different matter altogether.

In the history of colour films an episode in bright tones has often
provided a novel attraction to jaded audiences, and its inclusion
has generally been a concession to the taste of the masses. It will be
remembered that Griffith used colour for certain of the sensational
portions of Way Down East in 1920, but as Mr. Eric Elliott shrewdly
observes, he had the discretion to restrict these coloured sensations
to irrelevant pieces of action that were of little dramatic value, such
as the dress parade (vide, The Anatomy of Motion Picture Arty
Eric Elliott [Pool], 1928). In 1922, Stuart Blackton made The
Glorious Adventure with the glorious Diana Cooper in colour,
achieving, I believe, considerable commercial success. A year later,
Metro- Goldwyn -Mayer's Toll of the Sea in technicolour, with Anna
May Wong and Kenneth Harlan, is said to have presented colour in
almost acceptable tone values; and later still, Stuart Blackton repeated
his success with The Virgin Queen. America produced The Wanderer
of the Wasteland and France a gaudy Cyrano de Bergerac. After a
time, it became fashionable to include a colour sequence, as often as
not the high-spot of the picture, and in this patchy vein are numbered
parts of Ben-Hur, Michael Strogoff, Casanova, The Fire Brigade ,

300

THE PEASAN I WOMEN OF RIAZAN
by Olga Preobrashenshaia . Noted toy the beautiful camerawork
of K. Kusnetsov : note low-level camera angle. 1925

SUV Kill*

PORI
an interest film of the African jungle. 1928

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

The Sea Beast, The Merry Widow, and The Wedding March. Douglas
Fairbanks 's The Black Pirate, which was entirely in colour, was more
successful, but it is understood that he will not repeat his experiment.
Since that date, colour films have been produced plentifully, but I
have seen none which has been satisfactory.

Although, up to the present, colours glow and pale at alternate
moments (reds are revolutionary, yellows are dirty, greens are sickly,
grass like that in fruiterers' shops, skies like aluminium, and flesh
tints jaundiced), there is definite promise that the mechanical process
will be soon perfected and generally on view. Assuming the possibility
of perfect colour reproduction, however, it is hard to see where its
use is of more value than the already existing beauties of panchrom-
atic stock. It certainly holds out no advantages for the purpose of
enhancing dramatic values. On the contrary, the most serious
objection to be levelled against the colour film is its tendency to
submerge the admirable photographic qualities of the visual image
on the screen and hinder it from fulfilling its proper functions. The
curious softness that will be produced by correct tone values all over
the screen area will lack contrast and will immediately deaden
dramatic effect, despite any resulting stereoscopy. Furthermore, it
will be an intense strain to distinguish the presence and movement of
separate objects in the coloured composition. Attempts will be made
to imitate the drama contained in static paintings, which will fail
miserably in the essentially dynamic medium of the film. There
will be a sort of pre-Raphaelite dullness about the colour film which
will deaden general appeal. The crispness of black and white, with
intervening tones, is eminently desirable for the dramatic expression
of filmic content. In the monochrome film of to-day, the natural
tendency of the eyes of the spectator is to flow from the dark parts
of the screen to the light. In the coloured screen composition, the
eyes will wander aimlessly over the various forms without discrimina-
tion. Colour will tend to slacken the concentration of the mind of
the audience. Spectators will eas ly be led away from the centre of
interest by colour emotions, peculiar to each person. No two people
see the same colour alike. The effect will be chaos instead of unity.
Finally, it is impossible to believe that colour will improve, either
dramatically or pictorially, films of the calibre of The Cabinet of
Doctor Caligari, with its terms of contrast; Siegfried, with its wonder-
ful striped and spotted decorations, its mists and black tree trunks;

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THE THEORETICAL

La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc, with its detailed textures and shimmering
backgrounds; and Therese Raquin, with its subtle intensities of light
values and sparkling points on the dress of Jean-Marie Laurent.
Practically the whole dramatic and decorative effect of these works,
perfect in their own class as they stand, would be lost by the use of
colour, granting every possible perfection of the technical process.

The use of amber or blue-tinted stock, which produces a pale
colour tint evenly over the whole screen area, is another matter for
consideration. This method of tinting the whole scene is justified
in that it enhances the dramatic effect, provided, that is, the tone
is kept even with the volume of light throughout the whole sequence
in which it is used. Both blue and amber tones are capable of helping
the atmosphere of night and sunlight. All-over colour tints are also
used to good advantage in certain silhouette films, where their in-
clusion has been a part of the decoration in the same way that colour
is part of a book decoration. The use here is not to attempt either
realism or reality, but for the purpose of pure decoration.

In the past, apart from, say, the early Pathecolor films which
were clumsily tinted all over with various hues, there have been
some curious experiments with colouring certain portions of a visual
image, such as a fiery cross or a blood-stained dagger. The idea
seems crude in the extreme and wholly unnecessary.

With the general adoption of perfected colour films will also
come the use of the stereoscopic screen, which purports to give
visual images three, instead of two, dimensions. Beyond promising
to present an illusion of solidity, without either advantage or dis-
advantage to the pictorial composition, it is difficult to see quite
what asset, beyond novelty, the stereoscopic screen will possess. Its
harm to the general conception of the film will, on the other hand,
be great. Firstly, it must be realised that three dimensions will not
enhance the pictorial value of the visual images except by suggesting
an illusion of depth, which the screen already possesses in the move-
ment of camera and players. Actual solidity of objects will tend to
enhance realism. Secondly, the stereoscopic screen is of much
larger dimensions than the customary screen,1 and this will influence
directors to adopt a more theatrical form of technique. There will

1 It is understood that the Spoor-Bergen process, which uses a film half an inch
wider than the present standard one and three-quarter inch material, demands a
screen forty feet wide, enabling a right illusion of depth to be given, and will
eliminate the close up. One more nail in the coffin of the real cinema !

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METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

be a tendency to hold the duration of a scene on the screen longer
and longer, already the pre-eminent characteristic of dialogue films.
Gradually the powerful resources of cutting and editing will be
forgotten and instead there will be long scenes lasting for minutes.
There will be movement of players, but there will be no movement
of film, a characteristic that already marks the American film. The
real functions of the resources of the film will no longer be possible
with the colour-stereoscopic-and-dialogue film.

I believe that, year by year, realism will usurp reality in the cinema.
Less and less imagination in the mind of the audience will be called
for by this 'progress.' As Mr. Elliott observes, 'An imaginary depiction
of a scene gives more reality in drama than does actual presentation/
The realistic effect aimed at by the colour-stereoscopic-and-dialogue
film destroys the pictorial, symbolic, psychological, and imaginative
properties of the film. Obviously the stereoscopic screen is capable
of presenting remarkable effects, but these will be catch-penny and
sensational as distinct from the function of the film as a medium of
dramatic expression. The new forms of the illegitimate cinema will,
of course, be heavily financed by America, who includes these
commercial opportunities in her vast scheme for capturing the
entertainment market of the world. On these lines will the film
retrace its steps, becoming a mechanical means of the theatrical
presentation of spectacles superior commercially to the stage.

These, then, comprise the means of expression of the dramatic
content of a theme by the visual form of the cinema. The natural
properties of the film, arising out of its limits and delimits, have
been considered at length. The projected addition of colour and
stereoscopic effect have been investigated for any value they may
bring to the cinema. It remains now to analyse the qualities of the
dialogue and sound film, both as an integral part of the visual images
on the screen and as an accompaniment in the form of the syn-
chronisation of mechanically reproduced sound.

(II) The Visual and the Audible Cinema

In the preceding sections it has been seen that a film is built by the
process of cine-organisation. This process has been divided simply
into three forms of montage. To recapitulate briefly, the first act of

303

THE THEORETICAL

montage is the assembling of the scenario by the preconception of
the selected theme, as it would be expressed by the resources of the
cinema. The second act of montage deals with these methods of
expression during the actual process of taking the film photo-
graphically, as indicated by the scenario-plan. The third and final
act of montage consists in the assembling or mounting of the pieces
of film bearing the photographic images, welding them in various
lengths and positions in relation to one another in order to form a
united whole. These three acts of montage are the means by which a
story or theme is translated into a succession of visual images on the
screen; which is capable of producing considerable emotional effect
on any given audience of people in any part of the world.

Further, a supplementary section was added in order to consider
the possible advantages that might be derived from two mechanical
inventions, the colour film and the stereoscopic screen, with a view
to adding them to the already existing forms of cinematic expression.
For the purpose of argument, perfection was assumed in the
mechanical process of these inventions, and it was found that neither
contributed in any degree of value to the powers of expression
already belonging to the film.

It is of urgent importance now to estimate the value, if any, of
synchronised sound and dialogue reproduction as a means of
expression of the dramatic content of a theme. Again, for all intents
and purposes, perfection of the mechanical device is to be assumed.

General agreement has been reached by writers and theorists on
this exceptionally interesting new invention, that the sound-dialogue-
visual film must be considered as a form of expression quite separate
from the silent visual film with which these pages are principally
concerned.1

It is necessary first to show, then, why this separation of the
so-called two techniques is impossible; secondly, why the combina-
tion of the two techniques, when including direct reproduced dialogue,
is equally unfeasible; and thirdly, how, with the use of synchronised
sound alone, it is possible to conceive a film as a unity, employing

1 The number of articles, arguments, discussions, lectures, manifestos, con-
versaziones and debates on the merits and demerits of the talking and silent film
has been positively amazing. The general public have had ballots; the Press have
had columns; and the atmosphere in the studios themselves has been unprecedented.
Probably no other invention for public entertainment has had so much free publicity
as the 'talkie.'

304

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

sound as a resource of the cinema, and incorporating it in the three
forms of montage out of which a film is built.

(a) The Sound-Dialogue- Visual Film

It will be agreed that the aim of the sound-dialogue-visual film
is the same as that of the silent visual film with musical accompani-
ment. To wit, to express cinematically the dramatic content of a
theme or story so as to produce the greatest possible emotional
effect on the mind of an audience.

The silent film seeks this effect by means of a succession of visual
images on the screen. The sound-dialogue-visual film seeks the
same end by means of a series of visual images on the screen
combined with the reproduction of the voices and sounds of those
images. In the first case, the appeal of the film lies absolutely in
the vision of the images on the screen, soothed and emphasised by
a musical accompaniment. In other words, the mind of the spectator
is appealed to through the eye, the music being a subconscious
supplement that by its apparent sympathy aids the smooth reception
of the images. In the second, the appeal of the film is divided
jointly between the sight of the images on the screen and the
reproduction of the spoken dialogue and sound of those images.
Screen and dialogue are seeking reception in the mind of the
audience through the eye and ear.

Now it is an accepted and established fact that illumination of
the mind by visual impression is practically instantaneous, whilst
the literary meaning of speech requires an appreciable amount of
time to produce its effect. The sensation caused in the mind by a
visual image is not only sharper, but more apprehensible and more
lasting than that caused by sound or speech. The eye is capable of
associating ideas very much quicker and of creating a more definite
impression in a given period of time than the ear. But when a visual
image is seen on the screen and dialogue is synchronised to its action,
although the visual image is received quicker than the dialogue, the
latter commands more attention, for it is literary and non-imaginative.
There results immediate confusion in the joint appeals of the reality
of the visual image and the realism of the dialogue. Continual
adjustment and readjustment of the senses occurs, which is an
inconceivable state of mind for the sympathetic reception of the
dramatic emotions of a film as a unity. Dialogue and the visual
u 305

THE THEORETICAL

image cannot thus be divided in their appeals if dramatic effect is to
be achieved. They can only be considered as a unity.

But it has been decided that the most dramatic possible method of
telling a story is by a succession of pictures. No power of speech
is comparable to the descriptive value of photographs. The attempted
combination of speech and pictures is the direct opposition of two
separate mediums, which appeal in two utterly different ways. If
the two are wedded, one must be subordinated to the other, and at
once division of appeal will occur. For this reason a silent visual
film is capable of achieving a more dramatic, lasting, and powerful
effect on an audience by its singleness of appeal than a dialogue film,
in which the visual image is, at its best, a photograph of the voice.
Blackmail, one of the so-called good dialogue films, will be com-
pletely forgotten in a few months by those who have seen it.
Battleship 'PotemkinJ seen four years ago, is as vivid in the mind now
as it was then. Immediately a voice begins to speak in a cinema,
the sound apparatus takes precedence over the camera, thereby doing
violence to natural instincts.

A theory, not without considerable interest, has been advanced
that any compound which relies on the joint appeal of the two senses
of sight and sound must utilise to the full the powers of its com-
ponent methods. The balance between sound and sight will vary
with the power of each to interpret the progressive development of
the dramatic content of the theme. The synchronised film is to vary
between sight accompanied by sound or silence, and sound accom-
panied by sight.1 But this again is directly opposed to the interests
of the film as a unity. If any sort of consistent dramatic effect is
to be made on an audience, division of appeal between sound and
sight is simply courting disaster. It has been evidenced over and
over again that a film must be a single united whole in order to
achieve strong emotional effect, and the moment that both eye
and ear are brought into conflict the success is negatived.

Of the resources of the cinema that are used during the process
of cine-organisation and out of which a film is built, it has been
clearly seen that the final act of montage (the assembling or mounting)
is the dominant factor of the construction. For the further
progress of the film, therefore, the only factors that need be taken
into consideration are those capable of emphasising the cinematic

1 Mr. Vernon J. Clancey, writing in the Cinema, 4th September 1929.

306

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

result produced by the assembling. With the advent of the
possibility of utilising synchronised dialogue and sound, it is necessary
to consider how these new values affect the assembling.

It will have been understood that the final act of montage attains
its desired effect by the conjoining of pieces of film into a whole.
That is, no single piece of film is of value without its surrounding
context. Now the addition of sound and dialogue to the visual
image on the screen will tend to emphasise its isolated significance
by reason of the fact that, as the sound and dialogue take longer to
apprehend than the visual image, the duration of time that the shot
is held on the screen will be determined by the sound and dialogue
instead of by the assembling. Dialogue, by very reason of its realism,
represents real time and not the filmic time of the visual image.
Obviously this is in direct opposition once more to all the dominant
factors that have been proved to achieve emotional effect by
visual images.

At once, it will be observed that synchronised sound and dialogue
impose severe restrictions on the process of film construction,
whereas before there was none. Moreover, it is quite impossible to
entertain the prospect of a film in which visual images play a part
without their being organised by montage. Added to this, dialogue
imposes such restrictions on the director that all forms of cutting
and cross-cutting become impossible. In fact, as has been realised
by 'Mercurius' in the Architectural Review (June 1929): 'The
significance of symbolism and (visual) imagery, the stimulating
and sedative effect of short and long cutting, the interplay of the
personal and the inanimate, the contrast between the general and
the particular; in short, practically all the attributions of the silent
film which make the reality of cinematic art are forced into sub-
jection by the illusion of synchronised speech.'

Again, it is found that the reproduction of dialogue demands
almost stationary action in its accompanying visual image, which
prevents freedom in the development of the action during any
sequence. Thus action has to progress step by step, destroying,
as it jerks forward, both rhythmic continuity and harmony.1 It
is no longer a film. It has returned to the early photo-play, of
theatrical tradition. Moreover, it is to this state of retrogres-

1 Heart-rending evidence of this was clearly instanced in what must be one of
the worst films ever produced, The American Prisoner.

307

THE THEORETICAL

sion that the stereoscopic screen and colour film are forcing the
cinema.

There can only be one legitimate use for the dialogue film and
that is the topical-news and gazette reel. Here the appeal to the
mind is quite different, for there is no aim at dramatic effect in news-
speeches. They are simply a record in which the interest lies more
in the speech than in the visual image. They are not constructed
films seeking to achieve the dramatic effect of a story. They are an
elementary form of the cinema 'without joy,' and, considered as such,
are only of casual and historic interest.

It may be concluded that a film in which the speech and sound
effects are perfectly synchronised and coincide with their visual
images on the screen is absolutely contrary to the aim of the cinema.
It is a degenerate and misguided attempt to destroy the real
use of the film and cannot be accepted as coming within the true
boundaries of the cinema. Not only are dialogue films wasting the
time of intelligent directors, but they are harmful and detrimental
to the culture of the public. The sole aim of their producers is
financial gain, and for this reason they are to be resented. Any
individual criticism that may be made of them may be considered
as having no connection with the natural course of the film. This,
as will be seen, lies in the plastic moulding of sound and visual
images.

(b) The Sound and Visual Cinema

The mechanical reproduction of sound, considered apart from
the audible properties of speech, is an added resource to the already
existing factors of filmic representation. Sound is to be included
among these factors, having its place in all three acts of montage,
and assuming final position as the basis of the musical score which
accompanies the film.1

Generally speaking, a musical accompaniment to a film is considered
desirable and has been customary through the years. It is essential,
however, for the musical score to be a part of the construction of
the film, and not simply an arrangement of popular pieces suited to
the theme by the leader of the orchestra in a cinema-house. Certain

1 Some indication of what will be possible is apparent from Arthur Honnegger's
musical composition, ' Pacific 231-'

308

I /

british international

PICCADILLY
the music room. A beautiful set design by Alfred Jiinge for
Dupont's sophisticated movie. 1928

MK1 ROPOLIS

by t'ntz Lang, the him of the future. A marvellous model shot
giving illusion of great spatial dimensions lqZ7

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

attempts have been made during the last few years to meet this
requirement of a specially composed score, notable instances being
Edmond Meisel's music for Berlin, October, and Potemkin, and that
by Darius Milhaud for l'Herbier's U Inhumaine . Herr Meisel has
also written a score for mechanical reproduction, The Crimson Circle y
which was a moderately successful experiment. The obvious
difficulties of circulating music for orchestras and the varying
quality of the latter have rendered these attempts limited, except
in the cases of the theme song, which was considered a part of the
popular appeal of a movie and has been exploited widely by American
firms. The mechanical reproduction of the sound film, however,
admirably fulfils this desire for a specially composed score, and on
this count alone is to be welcomed as a definite step forward in the
advance of the film. Assuming the perfection of mechanical
reproduction the synchronised score is better suited in every way
to the presentation of a film than the orchestral accompaniment of the
past.

Sound, then, has to be considered as a means of dramatic expression
of the content of the theme, in conjunction with the succession of
visual images on the screen. It must be realised, however, that in
the case of the sound film, the combination lies between sound and
sight, and not, as in the dialogue film, between speech and sight.
The differences are apparent. Sound has not to be understood
literally as has dialogue, and does not interfere with the visual
appeal of the screen. On the other hand, it inclines, if used rightly,
to emphasise and strengthen the meaning of the visual image. It is
essential to realise the importance of this difference between the
sound of objects and the sound of speech, for therein lies the essence
of the advance or the retardment of the cinema. It is to be clearly
understood, also, that the question of filmic time and actual time,
so damaging in the dialogue film, does not enter into the matter of
the sound film. Sound is the result of the action seen in the visual
image, which is not lengthened or altered in any way to suit the
sound, as must be the case with reproduced dialogue.

Thus, although built into the construction of the film, sound does
not interfere with the visual reception of the images. There are now
sound images as well as visual images, each of which will express the
same dramatic content in harmony, or in contrast, one with another.
Sound images that are recorded during the taking of the visual

309

THE THEORETICAL

images will be an integral part of the composed musical score, if
they have any significance as regards the visual image. Both sound
and visual images build up the same effect. They are united in their
appeal.

The wealth and richness of sound material available for dramatic
emphasis is almost unlimited. The sounds of the world are to be
combined with the sights of the world. Already Pudovkin has spoken
of the whisper of a man, the cry of a child, the roar of an explosion.
'It will be possible to combine the fury of a man with the roar of a
lion.' There is the sigh of a multitude to be heard in contrast to the
dropping of a pin. The sound of the wind and the sound of the sea.
The sound of rain, leaves, animals, and birds; of trains, cars,
machines, and ships. These are to be woven into a unity in counter-
point with their visual images, but never in direct conjunction with
them. Even as the camera's power of distortion is used for dramatic
emphasis, so will the distortion of sound be used. In the same way
as an effect is built out of pieces of film by the act of montage, so
will little portions of sound be built up into new and strange noises.
The process of short cutting in visual images will be paralleled in
the mixing of sounds. Even as visual images mix and dissolve one
into another so will sound images mix and dissolve, according to the
nature of the scene and as indicated by the scenario montage.
Similarly, in the same manner that overlapping of movement is used
in editing for strengthening and deepening effect, so will sound
images be overlapped with both melodic and discordant effect, as
the mood of the dramatic content of the scene demands.

Contrast of sound will be used in the form of the relationship
of sound volumes. It will not be possible, except in rare cases, to
cut direct from one sound to another as with the visual image,
unless there is a background of music to soften the contrast. For
instance, it will be possible to cut from the loud, angry sounds of a
turbulent crowd to the sound of the crowd when hushed, and to
strengthen that contrast not by the silence of the crowd, but by the
shuffling of one man's foot.

In order that the powers of editing and cutting may be used with
absolute freedom, the scenario-organisation must be arranged so
that the sound images may be synchronised, if desired, after the
taking of the incident. The sound images are to be fitted to the visual
images in the final act of assembling. Both are controlled by the one

310

METHODS OF EXPRESSION OF DRAMATIC CONTENT

aim. This indicates that it is essential for the sound images to be
included with the visual images in the preconceived scenario-
organisation.

Only in this way can synchronised sound images be wedded to
the concatenation of visual images on the screen in such a manner
that both go to build a film as a unity with a singleness of mind and
a centralisation of purpose. Thus will it be possible to construct
a film as a plastic composition, capable of achieving unprecedented
emotional effect on any given audience. By cine-organisation of the
three forms of montage; by use of the true resources of the cinema
which have arisen out of its nature; by preconception of the result
and the power of being able to achieve that desired result by means
of the film's capabilities of dramatic expression; by these means will
a film be made.

In retrospect, it has taken roughly twenty-five years (1900-25)
to discover the fundamental basis of film creation in the work of
Kuleshov and the Soviet directors. During this time, the film has
developed attributes and properties peculiar to itself; has become
completely alienated from the hampering traditions of the theatre;
and has succeeded in establishing itself as an independent form of
expression utterly representative of the spirit of the twentieth
century. From 1925, there have been realised practical examples
based on the filmic theories of Kuleshov and his fellow-workers,
resulting in the most momentous achievements of the cinema. And
now, in 1930, the film has returned to its original ideas; has become
in still closer relation to theatre; and aims once more at realism and
photographic representation. The advent of the sound and dialogue
film marks the opening of the second cycle in the history of the
cinema. Discoveries that have taken twenty-five years to evolve
are being thrown aside in the interests of showmanship and com-
mercialism; magnificently the film neglects its proper qualities and
returns to the confines of the theatre. But just as in the primitive
days the film developed despite the misconception of producers and
directors, so am I confident that the offending dialogue will pass
as soon as its showmanship possibilities become exhausted, and the
way will be left open for the great sound and visual cinema of the
future.

311

APPENDICES

APPENDIX I

THE PRODUCTION UNITS OF SOME OUTSTANDING FILMS,
WITH THEIR PLAYERS

Although every attempt has been made to check the authenticity of
the following data, no guarantee of absolute accuracy can be vouchsafed.
The author would naturally be grateful for any additions.

An asterisk (*) denotes that the film referred to has not been shown for
public exhibition in this country.

* ABSOLUTE and ABSTRACT films

A quoi r event les jeunes filles . (French.) 1924-25
Production . . . Comte Etienne de Beaumont.

Direction . . . Henri Chomette.

Cine-portraits . . . Man Ray.

Operas 1, 2, 3, and 4, made by Walther Ruttmann. (German.) 1923-25.
Symphonie Diagnole, made by Viking Eggeling. (German.) 1917-18.
Rhythmus, made by Hans Richter. (German.) 1922.
Filmstudie, made by Hans Richter. (German.) 1928. Camera by

Endrejat.
Vormittagspuk, made by Hans Richter. (German.) 1928. Camera by

Reimar Kuntze.
Rennsymphonie, made by Hans Richter. (German.) 1928. Camera by

Otto Tober.
Inflation, made by Hans Richter. (German.) 1928. Camera by Charlie

Metain.
Abstract, made by Marcel Duchamp. (French.) 1927.

(Several of these studies have been presented by the Film Society.)

* ADVENTURES OF PRINCE ACHMED, The. (Silhouette film.)

(German.) 1926

Production . . . Comenius Film.

Made by Lotte Reiniger.

Direction . . . Karl Koch.

Magic and Scenery . . Walther Ruttmann, Berthold Bar-

tosch, Alexander Kardan.
3i3

APPENDICES

Inspired by a musical theme by Wolfgang Zelzer. Shown to the Film
Society, 8th May 1927.

* ADVENTURES OF A TEN MARK NOTE, The

Production
Direction
Camera .

(German.) 1928

Fox-Europa.

Berthold Viertel.

Helmar Larski, R. Baberski.

Design .... Walther Reimann.
With Werner Fiitterer, Imogene Robertson, Walther Frank, Anna
Mieller.

* AELITA. (Soviet.) 1919-20

Production . . . Mejrabpom-Russ.

Direction . . . Y. A. Protasanov.

Design .... Isaac Rabinovitch, Alexandra Exter.
With Igor Ilinski, Konstantin Eggert, Solntzeva, and players of the
Moscow Art Theatre. Based on the novel by Count Alexei Tolstoi.

* ARSENAL. (Soviet.) 1929

Production . . . Vufku (Ukraine).

Direction . . .0. Dovjenko.

Scenario . . . Mliller, Spinel.

Camera .... Demutzkij.

AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD. (German.) 1926

Production .... Ufa.
Direction .... Karl Grune.

Scenario .... Karl Mayer.

Camera ..... Fritz Arno Wagner.
Design . . . . . A. D. Neppach.

With Brigitte Helm, Albert Steinriick, Wilhelm Dieterle, Jean Bradin.
Distributed in England by Gaumont-British Films.

ATONEMENT OF GOSTA BERLING, The. (Swedish.) 1923-24

Production .... Swedish Biograph.
Direction . . . . Mauritz Stiller.

With Lars Hanson, Greta Garbo, Jenny Hasselquist, Mona Martenson.
From the story by Dr. Selma Lagerloff. Distributed in England by the
Philips Film Co.

3i4

THE PRODUCTION UNITS
* BATTLESHIP ' POTEMKIN,' The. (Soviet.) 1925
Production . . . . 1st studio, Goskino.

Direction

Assistant direction
Camera .
Assistants

S. M. Eisenstein.
G. V. Alexandrov.
Eduard Tisse.

A. Antonov, M. Gomorov,
A. Levskin, M. Shtraukh.
Musical score composed by Edmund Meisel. Shown to the Film Society,
10th November 1929. Held in Great Britain by Film Booking Offices.

* BED AND SOFA. (Soviet.) 1927

Production .... Sovkino.
Direction .... Alexander Room.

With Nickolai Batalov as the Husband, Luidmila Semenova as the Wife,
and Vladimir Fogel as the Friend. Shown to the Film Society, 7th April
1929.

BERLIN. (The Symphony of a Great City.) (German.) 1927

Production .... Fox-Europa.
Direction .... Walther Ruttmann.

Scenario .... Karl Mayer.

Camera ..... Supervision by Karl Freund ;

Reimar Kuntze, Robert
Baberski, Lazlo Schaffer.
Musical score composed by Edmund Meisel. Distributed in England
by Wardour Films.

BIG PARADE, The.

Production
Direction
Scenario
Camera .

(American.) 1925

. Metro-Goldwyn.
King Vidor.
Harry Behn.
John Arnold.

With John Gilbert, Renee Adoree, Karl Dane. Based on the play by
Laurence Stallings. Distributed in England by Jury-Metro-Goldwyn.

BLACKMAIL. (British.) 1929

Production .... British International Pictures.
Direction .... Alfred Hitchcock.

3i5

APPENDICES

Camera ..... Jack Cox.

Design ...... Wilfred Arnold.

With Anny Ondra, Donald Calthrop, and John Longden.
production. Distributed in England by Wardour Films.

A dialogue

BLACK PIRATE,

The.

(American.) 1926

Production

Allied Artists.

Direction

Alfred Parker.

Scenario

Lotta Woods.

Camera .

Henry Sharp.

Design .

Karl Oscar Borg.

With Douglas Fairbanks, Billie Dove, Donald Crisp. In Techni colour
Process. Distributed in England by United Artists' Corporation.

BROKEN BLOSSOMS. (American.) 1919

Production . . . Famous-Players-Lasky.

Direction . . . . D. W. Griffith.

Camera ..... Hendrik Sartov.
With Lilian Gish, Richard Barthelmess, Donald Crisp. Based on a
short story by Thomas Burke. Distributed in England by Film Booking
Offices.

CABINET OF DOCTOR CALIGARI, The. (German.) 1919
Production .... Decla Film.
Direction .... Robert Wiene.

Scenario , Karl Mayer and Hans Janowitz.

Camera ..... Willy Hameister.
Design ..... Walther Reimann, Herman

Warm, Walther Rohrig.
With Conrad Veidt as Cesare, Werner Krauss as Caligari, Lil Dagover
as Jane, Hans von Tvaradovski as Francis, Friedrich Feher as Alan.
Distributed in England by the Philips Film Co.

Production

Direction and Camera

CHANG. (American.) 1927

. Famous-Players-Lasky.
Meriam C. Cooper and
Ernest B. Schoedsack.
Taken in the northern jungles of Siam. Distributed in England by
Paramount.

316

THE PRODUCTION UNITS
* CHIEN ANDALOU, Le. (French.) 1929

Production .... Private. -^

Direction .... Louis Bunuel.

Scenario .... Louis Bunuel, Salvador Daly.

With Pierre Batcheff, Simone Mareuil. A surrealist production.

CINDERELLA.

(German.) 1923

Decla-Bioskop.
. Ludwig Berger.

Gunthur Krampf.

Rudolph Bamberger.
Frieda Richard as the Fairy God-

Production

Direction

Camera ....

Design ....
With Helga Thomas as Cinderella,
mother, Paul Hartmann as the Prince, Herman Thimig as Baron Neverich,
Mady Christians and Olga Tschechowa as the Ugly Sisters, Georg John
as the Coachman. Distributed in England by Wardour Films.

CIRCUS, The.

Production

Scenario and Direction

Camera .

Design .

(American.) 1927-28

. Allied Artists.

. Charles Chaplin.

. Jack Wilson, Mark Mariatt.

. Charles D. Hall.

With Charlie Chaplin, Myrna Kennedy.
United Artists' Corporation.

Distributed in England by

COVERED WAGON, The

Production
Direction
Scenario
Camera .
Editing .

(American.) 1923

Famous-Players-Lasky.
James Cruze.
Jack Cunningham.
Karl Brown.
Dorothy Arzner.

Distributed

With Lois Wilson, J. Warren Kerrigan, Ernest Torrence.
in England by Paramount.

CROWD, The. (American.) 1928

Production ..... Metro-Goldwyn.
Direction . . . . King Vidor.

3i7

APPENDICES

Scenario .....

Camera .....
Design .....

With James Murray, Eleanor Boardman.
Jury-Metro -Goldwyn.

King Vidor, John V. A.

Weaver, Harry Behn.
Henry Sharp.
Cedric Gibbons, Arnold
Gillespie.
Distributed in England by

DESTINY. (German.) 1921

Production .... Decla-Bioskop.

Direction .... Fritz Lang.

Scenario .... Thea von Harbou.

Camera ..... Erich Nitschmann.
With Bernard Goetzke as Death, the Stranger, Lil Dagover as the Girl,
Walther Janssen as the Boy. Distributed in England by the Philips
Film Co.

DEUX TIMIDES,

Production

Direction

Camera ....

Design ....

Les. (French.) 1928

Albatross-Sequana.

Rene Clair.

Batton and Nicolas Rondakoff.

Lazare Meerson.

With Pierre Batcheff, Maurice de Feraudy, Jim Gerald. From the
story by Eugene Labiche and Marc Michel.

DOCKS OF NEW YORK, The. (American.) 1928

Production .... Famous-Players-Lasky
Direction .... Josef von Sternberg.

Scenario .... Jules Furthman.

Camera ..... Harold Rosson.
With George Bancroft, Olga Baclanova, Betty Compson.

DOCTOR M ABUSE.

Production
Direction
Scenario .
Camera .
Design .

(German.) 1922

Decla-Bioskop.
Fritz Lang.
Thea von Harbou.
Karl Hoffmann.
Otto Hunte, Stahl Urach.
318

THE PRODUCTION UNITS

With Rudolph Klein-Rogge as Mabuse, Paul Richter as Edgar Hull,
Bernard Goetzke as Inspector van Wencke, Alfred Abel as Count Todd,
Georg John as Peter, Hans von Schlettow as Mabuse' s Chauffeur, Lydia
Potechina as a Losing Lady, Aud Egede Nissen as Car a Carozza. Distri-
buted in England by Grangers.

DONNA JUAN A. (German.) 1927

Production

. Elizabeth Bergner Poetic Film Co.,

in association with Ufa.

Direction .

. Paul Czinner.

Camera

Karl Freund.

Design

. Erich Kettlehut, Leo Pasetti.

Costumes .

Leo Pasetti, Edith Gluck.

With Elizabeth Bergner, Walther Rilla, Hertha von Walther, Hubert
von Meyerinck, Elizabeth Neumann, Max Schreck. From the novel by
Tirso de Molina, Don Gil of the Green Trousers.

* DRACULA.

(German.) 1922

Production .

. Prana Film.

Direction

. F. W. Murnau.

Scenario

. Henrik Galeen.

Camera

Fritz Arno Wagner.

Design

. Albin Grau.

With Max Schreck as Dracula, Gustav von Wangenheim as Harker^
Alexander Granach as Renfield, Greta Schroeder as Mrs Harker. Shown
to the Film Society, 16th December 1928. A pirated edition based on
Bram Stoker's novel.

DRIFTERS. (British.) 1929

Production . . . British Empire Marketing Board.

Direction .... John Grierson.
Camera .... Basil Emmott.
Distributed in England by New Era Films.

DUBARRY. (German.) 1919

Production .... Decla-Bioskop.
Direction .... Ernst Lubitsch.
With Pola Negri as Madame Dubarry, Emil Jannings as Louis XV.

3i9

APPENDICES
* ELEVENTH YEAR, The. (Soviet.) 1928

Production .... Vufku (Ukraine).

Direction .... Dziga-Vertov.

Camera .... Kauffmann.

One of the several films commissioned by the Soviet Government
in connection with the tenth anniversary celebrations of the Russian
Revolution.

*EMAKBAKIA. (French.) 1927
A cine-poem by Man Ray.

END OF SJ

. PETERSBURG, The.

(Soviet.)

1927

Production

Mej rabpom-Russ .

Direction

Pudovkin.

Scenario

Zarkhi.

Camera

Golovnia.

Design

Koslovski.

With Vera Baranovskaia as the Wife, A. Tchistiakov as the Bolshevik,
I. Tchuvelev as a Peasant Boy, V. Obolenski as Lebedev. One of several
films commissioned by the Soviet Government in connection with the
tenth anniversary celebrations of the Russian Revolution. Shown to the
Film Society, 3rd February 1929. Distributed in England by the Atlas
Film Co.

EN RADE. (French.) 1928

Production . . . Neofilm.

Direction .... Alberto Cavalcanti.

Scenario .... Alberto Cavalcanti, Claude Heymann.

Camera .... Jimmy Rogers.

Design .... Erik Aess.

With Catherine Hessling as the Kitchen Maid, Nathalie Lissenko as

the Laundress, Georges Charlia as her Son, Philippe Heriat as an Idiot
Boy.

* ENTRA'CTE.

Production
Direction

(French.) 1923-24

Ballet Suedois de Rolf Mare.
Rene Clair.
320

THE PRODUCTION UNITS

Scenario .... Francis Picabia.
Camera .... Jimmy Berliet.
With Jean Borlin, Erik Satie, Marcel Duchamp, Man Ray, etc. Shown
to the Film Society, 17th January 1926.

* ETOILE DE MER, V. (French.) 1928

Direction and Camera . . Man Ray.

Assistant Camera . . . J. A. Boiffard.

With Alice Kiki, Andre de la Riviere, Robert Desnos. Based on a
poem by Robert Desnos. Shown to the Film Society, 3rd February 1929.

* EXPIATION. (Soviet.) 1926
Production .... Sovkino.

Direction
Scenario
Camera
With Fred Forell as Jack

. L. V. Kuleshov.
. Schklovsky.
Kusnetsov.
S. Komarov as Fred Nelson, A. Choklova as
Edith, P. Podobed as Martin, P. Goladshev as Fedor. Based on a novel
by Jack London.

FAUST.

(German.) 1926

Production

. Ufa.

Direction

. F. W. Murnau.

Scenario

. Hans Kyser.

Camera .

Karl Freund.

Design .

. Walther Rohrig, Robert Herlth.

With Emil Jannings as Mephisto, Gosta Ekman as Faust, Camilla Horn
as Marguerite, Yvette Guilbert as Marguerite's Aunt. Distributed in
England by Wardour Films.

FINIS TERRm. (French.) 1928

Production . . . Societe Generate de Films.

Direction . . . Jean Epstein.

Camera . . . -J. Barthe.

FLESH AND THE DEVIL, The. (American.) 1927
Production .... Metro-Goldwyn.

Direction

Clarence Brown.

321

APPENDICES

Scenario .... Benjamin Glazer, Hans Kraly.

Camera ..... William Daniels.
Design ..... Cedric Gibbons.
With Greta Garbo, John Gilbert, Lars Hanson. Distributed in
England by Jury-Metro-Goldwyn.

FOOLISH WIVES.

Production

Direction and Scenario

Camera

(American.) 1922

American Universal Jewel.

Erich von Stroheim.

William Daniels, Ben Reynolds.

With Erich von Stroheim, Miss Du Pont, Maude George, Mae Busch.
Distributed in England by Universal.

FORBIDDEN PARADISE. (American.) 1924

Production . . . Famous-Players-Lasky.

Direction .... Ernst Lubitsch.

Scenario .... Agnes Christine Johnson, Hans Kraly.

Camera .... Charles Van Enger.
With Pola Negri, Adolphe Menjou, Rod la Rocque, Pauline Starke.
From the novel The Czarina, by Lajo Biro and Meynhert Lengyel.
Distributed in England by Paramount.

FORGOTTEN FACES. (American.) 1927

Production .... Famous-Players-Lasky.
Direction .... Victor Schertzinger.

Scenario ..... Howard Estabrooke.
Camera . . . . -J. Roy Hunt.

With Clive Brook, William Powell, Olga Baclanova. Distributed in
England by Paramount.

FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE, The. (American.)

1921

Production
Direction

Scenario ....
Camera ....
With Alice Terry, Rudolph Valentino.
Distributed in England by Metro.

322

Metro Films.
Rex Ingram.
June Mathis.
John F. Seitz.
Based on the novel by Ibafiez.

THE PRODUCTION UNITS
* FRAGMENT OF AN EMPIRE, The. (Soviet.) 1928-29
Production .... Leningrad Studio, Sovkino,

Direction
Scenario
Camera .

F. Ermler.

Catherine Vinogradskaia.

E. Schneider.

With Nikitin as Filimonoff, an ex-N.C.O.

GENERAL, The. (American.) 1926

Production .... Allied Artists.
Direction .... Buster Keaton.

Scenario ..... Charles Smith.
Camera ..... Clyde Bruckman.
With Buster Keaton. Distributed in England by United Artists'
Corporation.

* GHOST THAT NEVER RETURNS, The. (Soviet.) 1929

Production
Direction
Scenario
Camera
Design
From the novel by Henri Barbusse.

Sovkino.

Alexander Room.
W. Afen.

Feldman, O. Jisneva.
M. Shtraukh.

GOLD RUSH, The. (American.) 1925

Production
Direction .
Scenario
Camera

Assistant Director
Technical Director

Allied Artists.

Charles Chaplin.

Jack Wilson, Roy Totheroh.

H. D'Abbadie d'Arrast.

Charles D. Hall.

With Charles Chaplin, Georgia Hale, Mack Swain. Distributed in
England by United Artists' Corporation.

GOLEM, The. (German.) 1920

Production ....
Direction and Scenario

323

Henrik Galeen, Paul Wegener.

APPENDICES

Camera . ... Guido Seeber.

Design ..... Hans Poelsig, Rochus Gleise.
With Paul Wegener. Distributed by Film Booking Offices.

GOOSE WOMAN, The.

Production
Direction
Scenario
Camera

(American.) 1925

Universal.
Clarence Brown.
Melville Brown.
Milton Moore.

With Louise Dresser. Distributed in England by Universal,

GRASS. (American.) 1925

Production .... Famous-Players-Lasky.

Direction and Camera . . Meriam C. Cooper and Ernest B.

Schoedsack.
Made in North- West Persia, among the Baktyari Tribe. Distributed
in England by Paramount.

GREED. (American.) 1923

Production . . . Metro-Goldwyn.

Direction .... Erich von Stroheim.

Camera .... Ben Reynolds, William Daniels,

Ernest Schoedsack.
Editing .... June Mathis.
With Gibson Gowland, Zazu Pitts, Chester Conklin, Jean Hersholt.
Based on the novel MacTeague, by Herbert Norris. Distributed in
England by Jury-Metro-Goldwyn.

HANDS OF ORLAC, The. (Austrian.) 1924

Production

Pan Film.

Direction

. . .

Robert Wiene.

Scenario .

Ludwig Nerz.

Camera .

Gunthur Krampf , Hans Andres-
chin.

Design .

Stefan Wessely.

With Conrad Veidt,

Fritz Kortner.

Based on the story by Maurice

Renard.

324

THE PRODUCTION UNITS

* HEIR TO JENGHIZ KHAN, The. (Soviet.) 1928
Production .... Mejrabpom-Russ.

Direction
Scenario
Camera .
Design .

V. I. Pudovkin.

O. Brik.

A. N. Golovnia.

S. V. Koslovski, Aronson.

With V. Inkishinov as the Mongol, A. Tchistiakov as the Partisan Leader,
L. Dedintsev as the Commandant, Anna Sujakevitch as His Daughter,
L. Billinskaia as His Wife. Based on a story by Novokshenov. Known
also as STORM OVER ASIA. Shown to the Film Society, 23rd
February 1930.

HOTEL IMPERIAL.

Production
Direction
Scenario
Camera

(American.) 1926-27

Famous-Play ers-Lasky .
Erich Pommer, Mauritz Stiller.
Jules Furthman.
Bert Glennon.

With Pola Negri, James Hall, George Siegman. Distributed in England
by Paramount.

* INHUMAINE, L\ (French.) 1923-24

Production . . . Cinegraphic.

Direction .... Marcel l'Herbier.
Scenario .... Georgette Leblanc.
Camera .... Specht, Roche.
Design .... Mallet- Stevens, Alberto Cavalcanti,

Fernand Leger, Claude Autant-
Lara.
With Georgette Leblanc, Jaque Catelain, Philippe Heriat. Shown to
the Film Society, 13th February 1927.

ITALIAN STRAW HAT, The. (French.) 1928
Production .... Albatross- Sequana.

Direction

Scenario

Camera

Design

Rene Clair.
Rene Clair.
Maurice Desfassiaux, Nicolas Ronda-

koff.
Lazare Meerson.
325

APPENDICES

With Olga Tschechowa, Albert Prejean, Jim Gerald. From the play by
d 'Eugene Labiche and Marc Michel.

* JOYLESS STREET, The. (German.) 1925

Production . . . Sofar Film.

Direction . . . . G. W. Pabst.

Scenario .... Willi Haas.

Camera .... Guido Seeber, Oertel, Lach.

Design .... Sohnle, Erdmann.
With Greta Garbo, Asta Nielson, Werner Krauss, Valeska Gert, Robert
Garrison, Agnes Esterhazy. Adapted from a story by Hugo Bettauer.
Shown to the Film Society, 16th January 1927.

KEAN. (French.) 1922

Production . . . Albatross-Sequana.

Direction . . . Nicolas Volkoff.

Scenario .... Volkoff, Mosjoukine, Foss.

Camera . . . -J. Mundviller, F. Bourgassoff.

With Ivan Mosjoukine as Kean, Kenelm Foss as Lord Melville, Nicolai
Kolin as Solomon, Mary Odette as Anna Danby. Distributed in England
by Pinnacle Films.

LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN. (American.) 1925

Production .... Famous-Players-Lasky.
Direction .... Ernst Lubitsch.

Scenario ..... Julien Josephson.
Camera ..... Charles van Enger.
With Ronald Colman, Bert Lytell, Mae MacEvoy, Irene Rich. Based
on the play by Oscar Wilde. Distributed in England by Paramount.

LAST COMMAND, The.

Production ....
Direction ....

Scenario .....
Camera .....

(American.) 1928

Famous-Players-Lasky.
Josef von Sternberg.
John F. Goodrich.
Bert Glennon.

With Emil Jannings, William Powell, Evelyn Brent.
England by Paramount.

326

Distributed in

THE PRODUCTION UNITS
LAST LAUGH, The. (German.) 1925

Production . . . Ufa.

Direction . . . . F. W. Murnau.

Scenario . . . Karl Mayer.

Camera .... Karl Freund.
With Emil Jannings, Georg John, Emile Kurz, Mady Delschaft. A
film without titles. Distributed in England by Wardour.

LOVE OF JEANNE NEY, The. (German.) 1927

Production
Direction
Scenario
Camera
Design
With Edith Jehanne as Jeanne

Ufa.

G. W. Pabst.

Leonhardt.

Fritz Arno Wagner.

Herman Warm.
Ney, Fritz Rasp as Count Zinajev, Uno
Henning as Andrew Lobov, Vladimir SokolorT as Zacharkevitsh, Brigitte
Helm as Gabrielle, Sigfried Arno as Gaston, Hertha von Walther as
Margot, Jack Trevor as M. le Blanc, E. A. Licho as Raymond Ney. Based,
without authority, on the novel by Ilya Ehrenburg. Distributed in England
by Wardour Films.

* MAN WITH THE CAMERA, The. (Soviet.) 1928

Production .... Vufku (Ukraine).

Dziga-Vertov.

Direction
Camera
A film of the cine-eye.

KaurTmann.

MANON LESCAUT. (German.) 1926

Production .... Ufa.

Direction .... Arthur Robison.

Camera . . . Theodor Sparkuhl.

Design . Paul Leni.

With Lya de Putti as Manon Lescaut, Vladimir Gaiderov as the Chevalier
des Grieux, and Sigfried Arno, Theodor Loos, Lydia Potechina, Frieda
Richard. Based on the celebrated romance by the Abbe Prevost.
Distributed in England by Wardour Films.

MARCHE DES MACHINES, La. (French.) 1928

Production and Direction . Eugene Deslav.

327

APPENDICES
MARRIAGE CIRCLE, The. (American.) 1924

Production . . . • . Warner Brothers.

Direction .... Ernst Lubitsch.

Scenario .... Paul Bern.

Camera .... Charles van Enger.

With Monte Blue, Adolphe Menjou, Florence Vidor, Marie Prevost.
Based on the novel Only a Dream, by Lothar Schmidt. Distributed in
England by Warner Bros.

The.

* MECHANICS OF THE BRAIN,

Production ....

Direction ....

Camera ....

A documentary film illustrative of
Under the supervision of the workers in Professor Pavlov's laboratory at
the Academy of Sciences, Leningrad.

(Soviet.)

Mejrabpom-Russ.
V. I. Pudovkin.
A. N. Golovnia.
comparative mental

1925

processes

* MENILMONTANT. (French.) 1926

Production and Direction . Dmitri Kirsanov.

Camera . . . . . L. Crouan.

With Nadia Sibirskaia. Shown to the Film Society, 30th May 1926.

METROPOLIS.

(German.) 1926

Production

. Ufa.

Direction .

. Fritz Lang.

Scenario

. Thea von Harbou.

Camera

Karl Freund, Gunthur Rittau.

Design

. Oscar Werndorff.

With Brigitte Helm as Mary, Gustav Frohlich as Erik, Rudolph Klein-
Rogge as Rotwang, Alfred Abel as John Masterman, Fritz Rasp as Slim.
Distributed in England by W. and F. films.

Production
Direction
Camera .
Taken in the South Seas.

MO AN A. (American.) 1926

Famous-Players-Lasky.
. Robert Flaherty.
. Bob Roberts.
Distributed in England by Paramount.
328

THE PRODUCTION UNITS
* MOTHER. (Soviet.) 1926

Production .

. Mejrabpom-Russ.

Direction

. V. I. Pudovkin.

Scenario

. N. A. Zarkhi.

Camera

. A. N. Golovnia.

Design

. S. V. Koslovski.

With A. Tchistiakov as the Father, Vera Baranovskaia as the M other y
Nickolai Batalov as the Son. Based on a story by Maxim Gorki. Shown
to the Film Society, 21st October 1928.

* NEW BABYLON. (Soviet.) 1929

Production . . . Sovkino (Leningrad Studio).

Scenario and Direction . G. Kozintsev and L. Trauberg.

Camera . . . .A. Moskvin.

Design . . . . Y. Yenei.

With E. Kuzmina as the Midinette, D. Gutman as the Boss, P. Sobolenski
as the Soldier, S. Gerasimov as the Journalist, A. Arnold as the Depute,
A. Kostrichki as the Shopwalker. Shown to the Film Society, 5th January
1930.

NEW YEAR'S EVE. (German.) 1924

Production . . . Rex Film.

Direction .... Lupu Pick.

Scenario .... Karl Mayer.

Camera .... Guido Seeber, Hasselmann, Wolff.

Design .... Robert Dietrich, Claus Richter.
With Eugene Klopfer as the Husband, Edith Posca as the Wife, Frieda
Richard as the Mother.

NIBEL UNGEN SAGA,

Production
Direction .
Scenario
Camera
Design

Part I.- SIEGFRIED.

1923

(German.)

Decla-Bioskop.
Fritz Lang.
Thea von Harbou.
Karl Hoffmann, Gunthur Rittau.
Otto Hunte, Karl Vollbrecht, Erich
Kettlehut.
With Paul Richter as Siegfried, Margarete Schoen as Kriemhild, Theodor
Loos as Gunthur, Hanna Ralph as Brunhilde, Bernard Goetzke as Volker,

329

APPENDICES

the Minstrel, Frieda Richard as the Reader of the Runes, Hans von
Schlettow as Hagen Tronje, Gertrude Arnold as Queen Ute, Georg John
as Mime, the Armourer, and Alberich, King of the Nibelungen. Distributed
in England by Graham Wilcox Productions.

NINA PETROVNA. (German.)

Production . . . Ufa.

Supervision

1929

. Erich Pommer.
Direction . . . Hans Schwartz.

Camera .... Karl Hoffmann.
Design .... Walther Rohrig, Robert Herlth.
Architecture . . . Alexander Arnstam.

Costumes . . . Renee Hubert.

With Brigitte Helm as Nina Petrovna, Franz Lederer as Lieutenant
Rostov, Warwick Ward as the Colonel. Distributed in England by
Gaumont-British Films.

*NJU. (German.) 1924

Production . . . Rimax Film.

Direction . . . Paul Czinner.

Camera .... Alex. Graetkjaer, Reimar Kuntze.
Design . . . . G. Hesch.

With Emil Jannings as the Husband, Elizabeth Bergner as Nju, Conrad
Veidt as the Stranger. Shown to the Film Society, 14th February 1926.

* NOUVEAUX MESSIEURS, Les. (French.) 1928

Production . . . Albatross-Sequana.

Direction .... Jacques Feyder.
Camera .... Maurice Desfassiaux, G. Perinal.
Design .... Lazare Meerson.
With Gaby Morlay, Henri Roussel, Albert Prejean. From the story
by Robert de Flers and Francis de Crosset.

* OCTOBER.

Production
Direction

(Soviet.) 1927-28

. Sovkino.
. S. M. Eisenstein.
330

THE PRODUCTION UNITS

Assistant Direction . . G. V. Alexandrov.

Camera ..... Eduard Tisse.
Musical score composed by Edmund Meisel. One of several films
commissioned by the Soviet Government in connection with the tenth
anniversary celebrations of the Russian Revolution. Known formerly as
THE TEN DAYS THAT SHOOK THE WORLD.

* OLD AND THE NEW, The. (Soviet.)
Production .... Sovkino.

1926-29

Direction

Assistant Direction
Camera
Design

S. M. Eisenstein, G. Alexandrov.
M. Straukh, M. Gomotov.
Eduard Tisse.
K. Burov, V. Kovrigin.

With Martha Lapkina as the Peasant Girl. Known formerly as THE
GENERAL LINE.

PANDORA'S BOX.

(German.) 1928

Production

. Nero Film.

Direction .

. G. W. Pabst.

Camera

Gunthur Krampf.

Design

. Andreiev, Hesch.

With Louise Brooks as Lulu, Gustav Diessl as Jack- the- Ripper, Fritz
Kortner as Dr. Schon, Franz Lederer as Aiwa Schon. Based on the two
plays by Wedekind, Erdgeist and Die Biichse der Pandora.

PASSION DE JEANNE D'ARC, La. (French.) 1927-28

Production
Direction
Scenario
Camera .
Architecture
Costumes
With Mme. Falconetti as Joan
Film Corporation.

Societe Generate de Films.

Karl Dreyer.

Karl Dreyer, Joseph Deltiel.

Rudolph Mate, Kotula.

Herman Warm.

Jean and Valentine Hugo.

Distributed in England by Alpha

* PEASANT WOMEN OF RIAZAN, The. (Soviet.) 1927

Production .... Sovkino.
Direction .... Olga Preobrashenskaia.

33i

APPENDICES

Scenario

Camera

Design

K. Kusnetsov.
D. Kolupajev.

With R. Pushnaia as Anna, E. Zeseerskaia as Wassilissa, E. Fabtrebitski
as Wassily, M. Savelieff as Nickolai, C. Babynin as Ivan. Portions shown
to the Film Society, 16th March 1930.

PICCADILLY. (British.) 1928

Production . . . British International Pictures.

Direction . . . E. A. Dupont.

Camera .... Werner Brandes.

Design .... Alfred Junge.
With Jameson Thomas as Valentine, Gilda Grey as Mabel, Anna May
Wong as Sho-Sho. Based on a story by Arnold Bennett. Distributed
in England by Wardour.

PILGRIM, The. (American.) 1923

Production . . . First-National.

Direction . . . Charles Chaplin.

With Charlie Chaplin, Edna Purviance.

POLITIC FLAPPER, The.

Production
Direction
Scenario
Camera .
Design .

(American.) 1928

Metro-Goldwyn.

King Vidor.

Agnes Christine Johnson.

John F. Seitz.

Cedric Gibbons.

With Marion Davies, Jane Winton, Marie Dressier, Lawrence Gray.
Distributed in England by Jury-Metro-Goldwyn.

POSTMASTER, The. (Soviet.) 1924

Production .... Mejrabpom-Russ.
Scenario .... Fiodor Otsep.

Direction . . . Jeliabujski.

With Ivan Moskvin as Simeon Vyrin, W. S. Malinovskaia as Douana,
and B. Tamarin as Lieutenant Vladimir Minsky. Based on the novel by
Alexander Pushkin. Distributed in England by Film Booking Offices.

332

THE PRODUCTION UNITS

* RASKOLNIKOV. (German.) 1923

. Neumann Film.

Robert Wiene.
. Willi Goldberger.

Production
Direction
Camera
Design

Andrei Andreiev.

With Grigor Chmara as Raskolnikov, Maria Krishanovskaia as Sonia.
Based on Dostoievski's Crime and Punishment. Shown to the Film
Society, 20th December 1925.

RIEN QUE LES HEURES. (French.) 1926

Production .... Neofilm.
Direction .... Alberto Cavalcanti.
Camera .... Jimmy Rogers.
Design . . . . M. Mirovitch.

With Nina Chouvalowa, Philippe Heriat, Clifford MacLaglen.

ROBIN HOOD. (American.) 1923-24

Production . . . Allied Artists.

Direction .... Allan Dwan.

Scenario .... Lotta Woods.

Camera .... Arthur Edeson.

Design .... Wilfred Buckland.
With Douglas Fairbanks, Enid Bennett, Sam de Grasse, Paul Dickey.
From a story by Elton Thomas. Distributed in England by United
Artists' Corporation.

* SCHINDERHANNES. (German.) 1928
Production .... Prometheus Film.

Direction
Scenario
Camera
Design

Kurt Bernhardt.
Bernhardt, Karl Zuckmayer.
Gunthur Krampf.
Heinrich Richter.

With Hans Stiiwe, Frieda Richard, J. Kowal Samborski, Lissi Arna,
Albert Steinnick, Oscar Homolka.

* SEASHELL AND THE CLERGYMAN, The. (French.) 1928

Production .... Private.
Direction .... Germaine Dulac.

333

APPENDICES

Scenario
Camera

Antonin Artaud.
Paul Guichard.

Shown to the Film Society, 6th March 1930.

SHOOTING STARS. (British.) 1928

Production . . . British Instructional Films.

Anthony Asquith, A. V. Bramble.
John Orton.
G. Harris.
Ian Campbell-Gray.
Donald Calthrop, John Longden. Distributed

Direction
Scenario
Camera .
Design .
With Anette Benson

in England by Pro Patria Films.

SPY, The. (German.) 1928

Production
Direction
Scenario
Camera .
Design .
With Gerda Maurus as Sonia

Ufa.

Fritz Lang.
Thea von Harbou.
Fritz Arno Wagner.
Otto Hunte, Karl Vollbrecht.
Rudolph Klein-Rogge as Max Hagi,

Willy Fritsch as No. J26, Lupu Pick as Dr. Matsumoto, Lien Deyers as
Kitty, Craighall Sherry as Miles Jason, Fritz Rasp as Colonel Jellusic,
Hertha von Walther as the Countess von Stiller. Distributed in England
by W. and F. Films.

STARK LOVE. (American.) 1927

Production .... Famous-Players-Lasky.

Direction .... Karl Brown.

Camera ..... Karl Brown.

With Helen Munday, Forest James, Silas Miracle. Distributed in
England by Paramount.

STREET, The. (German.) 1923

Production . . . Stern Film.

Direction . . . Karl Grune.

With Euegne Klopfer, as the Man, Aud Egede Nissen as the Prostitute.
Distributed in England by Artistic Films (now the property of F. Alfred,
Esq.).

334

THE PRODUCTION UNITS

STUDENT PRINCE, The. (American.)

Production
Direction

Scenario

Camera

Design

1927-28

Metro-Goldwyn.
Ernst Lubitsch.
Hans Kraly.
John Mescall.

Cedric Gibbons, Richard Day.
Distributed

With Ramon Novarro, Norma Shearer, Jean Hersholt.
in England by Jury-Metro -Goldwyn.

STUDENT OF PRAGUE, The. (German.) 1925-26

Production . . . Sokal Film.

Direction . . . Henrik Galeen.

Camera .... Gunthur Krampf, Erich Nitschmann.

Design . . . . Herman Warm.

With Conrad Veidt as Baldwin, Werner Krauss as Scapinelli, Agnes
Esterhazy as the Countess, Elizza La Porte as the Flower Girl, and Ferdinand
von Alten. Distributed in England by Film Booking Offices-

SUNRISE. (American.) 1927

Production . . . Fox Films.

Direction . . . . F. W. Murnau.

Scenario .... Karl Mayer.

Camera . . . Charles Roscher, Karl Struss.

Design .... Rochus Gleise.
With Janet Gaynor, George O'Brien, Margaret Livingstone. Based on
a story by Sudermann, A Trip to Tilsit. Distributed in England by Fox
Films.

TARTUFFE. (German.) 1925

Production . . . Ufa.

Direction . . . F. W. Murnau.

Scenario .... Karl Mayer.
Camera .... Karl Freund.
Design .... Walther Rohrig, Robert Herlth.
With Emil Jannings as Tartuffe, Lil Dagover as Elmire, Werner Krauss
as Orgon, Louise Hoflich as Dorine. Based on the celebrated play by
Moliere. Distributed in England by Wardour Films.

335

APPENDICES

THERESE RAQUIN. (French.) 1928
Production . . . Defu Film.

Direction
Scenario
Camera .
Design .

Jacques Feyder.

F. Carlsen, Willi Haas.

A. Andreiev.

With Gina Manes as Therese Raquin, Wolfgang Zelzer as the Husband,
Hans von Schlettow as Laurent, Jeanne Marie Laurent as Madame
Raquin, Paul Henkels as Monsieur Grivet. Based on the novel by Emile
Zola. Distributed in England, as THOU SHALT NOT—, by First-
National-Pathe.

THIEF OF BAGDAD, The. (American.) 1925

Production .... Allied Artists.

Direction .... Raoul Walsh.

Scenario .... Lotta Woods.

Camera .... Arthur Edeson, Kenneth Maclean,

P. H. Whitman.

Design .... William Cameron Menzies.

With Douglas Fairbanks, Julianne Johnson, Anna May Wong. From
a story by Elton Thomas. Distributed in England by United Artists'
Corporation.

TOVABLE DAVID. (American.) 1922

Production .... First-National.
Direction .... Henry King.
Camera .... Henry Cronjager.

With Richard Barthelmess. Distributed in England by Western
Import.

TRAGEDY OF THE STREET, The. (German.) 1928

Production . . . Pantomin Film.

Direction . . . Bruno Rahn.

Camera .... Guido Seeber.
Design . . . . C. L. Kirmse.

With Asta Nielson, Hilda Jennings, Oscar Homolka, W. Pittschau.
Based on the book by William Braun. Distributed in England by Cinema
Exclusives.

336

THE PRODUCTION UNITS
TURKSIB. (Soviet.) 1929

Production . . . Vostok-kino.

Scenario and Direction . Victor Turin.

Camera . . . . E. Slavinski, B. Srancisson.

The film of the building of the Turkestan-Siberian Railway. Shown
to the London Workers' Film Society, 9th March 1930. Distributed in
England by the Atlas Film Co.

* UBERFALL. (German.) 1929
Production, Direction and Camera . Erno Metzner.

Known in England as ACCIDENT.
5th January 1930.

Shown to the Film Society,

VAUDEVILLE

Production
Supervision
Direction .
Scenario .
Camera
Design

(German.) 1925

. Ufa.

. Erich Pommer.

. E. A. Dupont.

Leo Birinski.

Karl Freund.

Oscar Werndorff.

Distributed in

With Emil Jannings, Lya de Putti, Warwick Ward.
England by Wardour Films.

WALTZ DREAM, The. (German.) 1926

Production . . . Ufa.

Direction .... Ludwig Berger.
Scenario .... Robert Liebmann, Norbert Frank.
Camera .... Werner Brandes.
Design .... Rudolph Bamberger.
With Mady Christians, Willy Fritsch, Lydia Potechina, Julius Falken-
stein. Distributed in England by Wardour Films.

WARNING SHADOWS. (German.) 1922

Production ....

Direction .... Arthur Robison.

y 337

APPENDICES

Scenario . . . . R. Schneider.

Camera ..... Fritz Arno Wagner.

Design ..... Albin Grau.
With Fritz Kortner as the Husband, Ruth Weyher as the Wife, Gustav
von Wangenheim as the Lover, Alexander Granach as the Showman,
Fritz Rasp as the Man Servant, Ferdinand von Alten as the Second
Cavalier, Max Gulstorss as the Third Cavalier. A film without titles.
Distributed in England by Pinnacle Films.

WAXWORKS.

(German.) 1924

Production

Viking Film.

Direction .

. Paul Leni.

Scenario

Henrik Galeen.

Camera

Halmar Lerski.

Design

Paul Leni, Alfred Jiinge.

With Wilhelm Dieterle as the Poet, John Gottowt as the Showman,
Olga Belejeff as the Daughter, Emil Jannings as Haroun-Al-Raschid,
Conrad Veidt as Ivan-the-Terrible, Werner Krauss as J ack-the- Ripper .
Distributed in England by Cinema Exclusives.

WAY DOWN EAST. (American.) 1921

Production

Direction

Camera

. D. W. Griffith.
. Hendrik Sartov, G. W. Bitzer.
With Lilian Gish, Richard Barthelmessr

WEDDING MARCH, The. (American.) 1926-29

Production . . . Famous-Players-Lasky.

Scenario . . . Harry Carr.

Direction . . . Erich von Stroheim.

Camera .... Hal Mohr, B. Sorenson.
With Erich von Stroheim, Fay Wray, Zazu Pitts, Maude George.
Distributed in England by Paramount.

WHITE GOLD. (American.) 1927
Production . . . Producers' Distributing Co.

Direction
Camera .

William Howard.
Lucien Andriot.
338

THE PRODUCTION UNITS

With Jetta Goudal, Kenneth Thompson, Clyde Cook, George Bancroft.
Distributed in England by Producers' Distributing Co.

WHITE SHADOWS IN THE SOUTH SEAS. (American.) 1928

Production . . . Metro- Goldwyn.

Direction . . . W. S. Van Dyck.

Camera . . . Bob Roberts, Clyde de Vinna, George

Nagle.
With Monte Blue, Raquel Torres. Taken in the South Seas. Distri-
buted in England by Jury-Metro-Goldwyn.

WOMAN OF PARIS, A. (American.) 1923
Production . . . Allied Artists.

Direction .
Scenario

Assistant Direction
Camera

Charles Chaplin.
Charles Chaplin.
Monta Bell.

Jack Wilson, Roy Totheroh.
With Edna Purviance, Adolphe Menjou. Distributed in England by
United Artists' Corporation.

* ZVENIGOh

\A. (Soviet.) 1928

Production

. Vufku (Ukraine).

Direction .

. 0. Dovjenko.

Scenario .

. Iohansen, Yourtic.

Camera

Kosmatov.

Design

W. Kormardenkov

With Nicolas Nademski as the Old Man.

339

APPENDIX II

GLOSSARY OF TERMS USED IN CONNECTION WITH

THE FILM

Architect. - The technician in whose hands lies the design, erection, and
furnishing of sets in the studio or on the lot (an outside set in the
studio grounds). He is frequently misdescribed as an art-director,
a term indicating that he directs the 'art' of a film. This, of course,
is absolutely incorrect, except possibly when applied to the art films
of the middle period of the German Cinema.

Camera Angle. - The viewpoint from which a scene is photographed,
the position of the camera being governed by mood of the scene.
Normal angle is generally reckoned as being four feet six inches
above ground level. The position of the camera is always controlled
by material composing the scene which is being photographed.

Close up. - A detail shot of emphasis, taken at close range to the material.

Composite Shot. - Either several shots taken on the same strip of negative
or one scene taken through a prism.

Continuity. - The development of the thematic-narrative from point to
point during the showing of a film. In other words, the psychological
guidance of the spectator.

Cutting. - The action of a cut is to change direct from one visual image
on the screen to another in immediate succession; actually it consists
in the joining of one strip of film to another bearing a different
photographic image.

Dialogue Film. - The attempted synchronisation of the visual image on
the screen with its accompanying speech, the sound either being
recorded on a strip at the side of the frames, on discs, or by other
technical methods.

Director. - Actually, the creator of the film, the central organiser who
has complete control over the realisation of the theme.

Dissolve. - The transition from one visual image on the screen to another
by a process of the first slowly disappearing as the second appears in
its place, through the first. A dissolve, as distinct from a mix, is
effected in the camera, although the results of both are almost similar.

Double. - An extra used to impersonate a leading actor for the purpose
of some hazardous action, or for other reasons.

34o

GLOSSARY OF TERMS USED

Editing. - To be understood as the complete constructive building of the
film, through all the three stages of cine-organisation (the three acts
of montage).

Extra - A player employed by the day for crowd work.

Fade-in. - The gradual appearance of a visual image on a dark screen,
usually marking the opening of a sequence.

Fade-out. - The reverse process to a Fade-in.

Flash. - A short strip of film, of a few frames, resulting in a rapid visual
image on the screen.

Flat. - A piece of scenery, usually of three-ply wood, braced by stouter
struts, made in stock sizes, out of which the walls, etc., of a set in a
studio are built.

Focus. - The concentration of a light.

Frame. - In connection with a strip of film, one single picture recorded
photographically on the celluloid, which eventually enlarges when
projected in the cinema to fill the screen area. On the film strip,
a frame is three-quarters of an inch high by one inch wide (normal
stock). These sizes are, of course, considerably affected by allowance
for the sound strip in the case of synchronised reproduction. Various
movements are also on foot for the use of larger-sized stock in con-
nection with the use of larger screen areas.

Glass- Shot. - A shot taken partly of a constructed set and partly of a
representation of the desired effect on a sheet of glass, which is
placed in front of the lens of the camera so as to coincide with the
perspective of the built-up set.

Insert. - A slang term for any written or printed matter in a film other
than a title, such as letters, posters, newspapers, etc.

Iris-in. - The two-dimensional effect on the screen of an opening circle,
revealing a visual image.

Iris-out. - The reverse process to the Iris-in. (Both these methods are
old-fashioned, being displaced by the fade.)

Location. - An exterior site outside the studio grounds indicated by the
scenario.

Long-Cutting. - The use of long strips of film during editing for the
building up of a long, soothing or sad effect on the audience. A
series of visual images succeeding one another in slow deliberation.

Mask. - A vignette of gauze or metal placed in front of the lens of the
camera, isolating a certain portion of the visual image on the screen .

Mix. - Or Chemical Mix, causing the same visual effect as a dissolve,
but chemically constructed in the laboratory, in distinction to the
dissolve being a pure camera process.

Montage. - The act of assembling material, whether of scenario, of

341

APPENDICES

material in the studio or on location, or of the strips of celluloid
bearing photographic images during the editing.

One Turn - One Picture. - A single picture for every complete turn of
the camera handle, instead of the usual number. Consequently,
certain movements of the material are not recorded, and when the
film is projected on to the screen an effect of jerkiness is obtained.

Pan. To - The horizontal and vertical movement of the camera, the actual
position of the camera not altering.

Panchromatic Stock. - Film sensitive to larger range of light than
ordinary stock.

Pictorial Composition. - The picture plane provided by the screen,
bordered by the margins of same, on which material is grouped
according to accepted standards of linear design and cinematic
principles of movement.

Positive Film. - Film on to which negative is printed, and which is
projected on to the screen.

Producer. - The managing director of the producing company; the con-
troller of the policy of the picture.

Reel. - One thousand feet of film, taking approximately twelve to fifteen
minutes to show on the screen, according to speed of projection.

Rushes. - The day's 'takes' of film in the studio projected in the studio
theatre for examination on the part of the director, etc.

Scenario-Plan. - The manuscript of the narrative in terms of shots,
scenes and sequences, from which the director works on the studio
floor or on exterior. It should contain, beyond a complete literary
description of the visual images that compose the pattern of the film,
plans and drawings of the sets and of the camera positions.

Sequence. - A natural division of the narrative incident into sections;
a series of shots dealing with one phase in the development of the
narrative.

Set. - A structural erection of a room, a street, etc., in studio or on exterior,
specially built to meet the requirements of the scenario. The building
and furnishing of the set is under the supervision of the architect,
whose sole duty is to fulfil the needs of the director.

Shooting-Script. - See scenario-plan.

Shoot, To. - The act of taking the film, whether in the studio or on location.
It is customary to refer to material being shot, meaning photographed.

Short-Cutting. - The use of short strips of film during editing for
creating a quick, stimulating effect on the audience. A series of quick
flashes in rapid succession.

Shot, A - One separate visual image on the screen, its time length being
governed by the number of frames of film as determined in the editing.

342

GLOSSARY OF TERMS USED

Soft-Focus. - A picture taken through varying thicknesses of gauze or

focus disc, giving on the screen a soft, misty effect.
Sound Film. - A film composed of visual images and titles that has a
mechanically recorded accompaniment of sound images and music,
either in counterpoint or contrapuntally arranged in relation to the
visual images. It is imperative to differentiate between the use of
sound and the use of recorded dialogue.

Still-Photograph. - A static photograph of some separate shot in a film,
either taken during production or enlarged afterwards from the film
itself. Examples may be seen in the photographs with which this
book is illustrated.

Superimpose, To - Two or more scenes photographed on the same piece
of negative.

Synopsis. -A brief description of a proposed film in narrative form,
setting down for the approval or disapproval of the producer the
potentialities of the theme as a film subject.

Title or Sub-Title. - The textual matter included in the film, either
in the form of dialogue between the characters or as a continuity
title to explain the course of the narrative.

Throw. - The distance between the screen and the projector in a cinema.

Treatment. - A descriptive, literary rendering of the film, in narrative
form, indicating the full visual potentialities of the scenario as a
cinematic subject. Although suggesting the manner in which the
subject should be handled, the treatment does not include the con-
catenation of shots, which is strictly a matter of the succeeding detailed
shooting-script. The treatment stage of a scenario lies between the
brief synopsis and the shooting-script.

Visual Image. - A single shot on the screen, governed visually by the
principles of film pictorial composition and temporally by the act of
editing.

343

APPENDIX III

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Anatomy of Motion Picture Art. Eric Elliott. 1928. (Pool.)

Films: Facts, and Forecasts. L 'Estrange Fawcett. 1927. (Geoffrey Bles.)

This Film Business. R. Messel. 1928. (Benn.)

Pudovkin on Film Technique. Translated by Ivor Montagu. 1929.

(Gollancz.)
Let's Go to the Pictures. Iris Barry. 1926. (Chatto & Windus.)
Filmgegner von Heute: Filmfreunde von Morgen. Hans Richter. 1929.

(Berlin.)
Panoramique du Cinema. Leon Moussinac. 1929. (Paris.)
Le Cinema Sovietique. Leon Moussinac. 1928. (Paris.)
Le Cinema Russe. Rene Marchand et Pierre Weinstein. 1927. (Paris.)
The Art of the Moving Picture. Vachell Lindsay. 1922. (Macmillan.)
Film Problems of Soviet Russia. Bryher. 1929. (Pool.)
Der Kommende Film. Guido Bagier. 1928. ((Berlin.)
Russische Filmkunst. Alfred Kerr. 1927. (Berlin.)
Film Photos Wie Noch Nie. 1929. (Berlin.)
Behind the Screen. Samuel Goldwyn. 1924. (Grant Richards.)
Heraclitus. Ernest Betts. 1928. (Kegan Paul.)
Through a Yellow Glass. Oswell Blakeston. 1929. (Pool.)
Cinema. Scenario, etudes, et chroniques. Abel Gance, Jean Epstein,

Rene Clair, etc. ('Le Rouge et le Noir.') 1928.
New Spirit in the Russian Theatre. Huntly Carter. 1929. (Brentano.)
Films of the Year. 1927-28. Robert Herring. (Studio.)
Der Russische Revolutions film. 1929. A. W. Lunatscharski. (Berlin.)
Political Censorship of Films. Ivor Montagu. 1929. (Gollancz.)

Magazines, Periodicals, etc.

Close Up. Vols. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6. 1927-29.

Film Weekly. 1928-30. (London, English Newspapers.)

Pour Vous. 1928-30. (Paris,)

344

APPENDICES

Times: Special Film Supplement. February 1929.
Programmes of the London Film Society. 1925-30.
The Film Daily Year Book. 1926-28. (New York.)
The Kinematograph Year Book. 1928.

Various copies of The Cinema, Kinematograph Weekly, The Bioscope,
The Connoisseur, The Morning Post, and other periodicals.

345

INDEX

Abdulla, Achmed, 137

Abel, Alfred, 180, 204, 222

Abraham Lincoln, 93

Absolute films, 38, 59, 157, 211, 212,

284
Academy of Motion Picture Arts and

Sciences, The, 82
Adventures of a Ten-Mark Note, The,

205
Adventures of Dolly, The, 90
Adventures of Mr. West Among the

Bolsheviki, The, 154, 155
Adventures of Octobrine, The, 154, 162
Adventures of Prince Achmed, The, 63
Advertising, Methods of, 70-74, 117
Aelita, 45, 154, 171
Aesop's Fables, 63
Affiche, V, 217
After the Verdict, 203, 229
Alaskan, The, 139
Albatross-Sequana Film Company, The,

213, 218
Alexandrov, G. V., 156
Allegret, Marc, 224
Allgeier, Sepp, 191
Allied Artists' Corporation (see United

Artists')
'All Quiet on the Western Front,' 250
Allvine, Glen, 288
Alten, Ferdinand von, 200, 206
America, 89, 93

American Biograph Company, The, 25
American films, 33, 42, 50, 69-114, 152,

175, 210, 237, 245, 275 (see also

individual titles)
American Prisoner, The, 307
American Telephone and Telegraph

Company, The, 35, 36
American Venus, The, 142, 190
Andreiev, Andrei, 45
Anne Boleyn, 82, 113, 115, 204, 208
Annunzio, Gabriele d', 235
A quoi r event les jeunes filles, 60, 211,

212, 276
Arabella, 202
Arabesque, 224
Arab, The, 128
Architecture, film, 177, 178, 180, 181,

192, 194, 198, 199, 203, 208, 216
'Architectural Review,' The, 307

Argent, V, 188, 222

Arizona, 109, no

Arlen, Richard, 84, 137

Armageddon, 233

Armat, Thomas, 23

Armenkino, The, 153

Arna, Lissi, 208

Arne's Treasure, 120, 235

Arno, Sigfried, 201

Arrast, H. d'Abbadie d', 142

Arsenal, 163, 276

Arzner, Dorothy, 141

Asphalt, 49, 118, 178, 207

Asquith, Anthony, 227, 228, 231, 232

Asther, Nils, 76

Astoria Cinema, London, 29

Atlantic, 118, 233

Atlantide, L', 49, 221

'Atmospheric' Cinemas, 25

Atonement of Gosta Berling, The, 120,

235
At the Edge of the World, 180, 188, 202
Aubert Film Company, The, 224
Australia, 35
Avenue Pavilion, London, 29, 53, 209,

244

Baclanova, Olga, 119, 127

Bad Company, 141

Badger, Clarence, 141

Baggott, King, 141

Balaclava, 295

Balfour, Betty, 222

Ballade du Canart, La, 61, 214

Ballet Mecanique, Le, 60

Balzac, Honore, 196

Bamberger, Rudolph, 63, 180, 199, 200

Bancroft, George, 127, 210

Barbed Wire, 118

Barbusse, Henri, 166

Bardelys the Magnificent, 125

Barkas, Geoffrey, 233

Barnet, Boris, 62, 153, 170, 171, 276

Baroncelli, Jacques de, 218, 224

Barrie, Sir James, 139

Barringer, Michael, 233

Barrymore, John, 140

Barrymore, Lionel, 139

Barthelmess, Richard, 92, 131

Baruch, 208

347

INDEX

Batalov, Nicolai, 165

Batcheft, Pierre, 62, 210

Battle of the Sexes, The, 93

Battleship 'Potemkin,' The, 43, 65, 71, 79,

89, 105, 150, 154, 156-158, 177, 187,

230, 244, 284, 293, 299, 306, 309
Battles of Falkland and Coronel Islands,

The, 67, 233
Beau Geste, 84, 139
Beaumont, Harry, 77, 142
Bed and Sofa, 84, 105, 164-166, 244,

266, 272, 295
Beery, Noah, 137
Beery, Wallace, 28, 141
Beggar on Horseback, The, 134
Behrendt, Hans, 208
Belgoskino, The, 153
Bell, Monta, 77, 142, 184
Beloved Rogue, The, 140, 142, 215
Ben-Hur, 26, 37, 68, 71, 79, 84, 140,

215, 300
Bennett, Arnold, 241
Bennett, Belle, 131
Berger, Ludwig, 63, 76, 121, 180, 183,

198-200
Bergner, Elizabeth, 182, 195, 196
Berlin, 67, 182, 223, 283, 295, 309
Bernhardt, Kurt, 183, 205, 206, 208
Bernhardt, Sarah, 26
Bern, Paul, 142
Betrayal, The, 82
Bettauer, Hugo, 187
Big Parade, The, 37, 71, 84, 122-125

246
Birth of a Nation, The, 26, 71, 90, 92

274
Birth of the Hours, The, 66
Blache, Herbert, 141
Blackbird, The, 141
Blackmail, 34, 232, 286, 287, 306
Black Pirate, The, 84, 108, in, 144, 301
Blackton, Stuart, 300
Blakeston, Oswell, 61, 252
Blind Alleys, 142
Blind Husbands, 96
Blockbooking, 28
Blonde or Brunette, 142
Bluebottles, 234
Blue Danube, The, 205
Blue, Monte, 81
Boardman, Eleanor, 123
Bobbed Hair, 140
Bold Sea Rover, The (see Hurrah! I'm

Alive)
Bolshevism, 52, 147, 151
Border Legion, The, 138
Borzage, Frank, 140
Bosch, 250

348

Boucher, 198

Bow, Clara, 28, 84, 138, 140, 292

Brabin, Charles, 141

Brandes, Werner, 200, 233, 279

Brausewetter, Hans, 199

Brenon, Herbert, 139, 250

Brent, Evelyn, 126

Bridge of San Luis Rey, The, 250

Brisson, Carl, 292

British and Colonial Kinematograph

Company, The, 25
British Board of Film Censors, The, 37,

146, 205
British films, 43, 53, 226-234, 260, 275

(see also individual titles)
British Government Film Bill (1927), 33
British Instructional Films, 34, 66, 233

234
British International Pictures, 34, 35,

200
British Movietone News, 67
Broadway, 26, 68
Broadway After Dark, 142
Broadway After Midnight, 77
Broadway Melody, The, 68, 84, 86, 143
Broken Blossoms, 92, 144
Brook, Clive, 137
Brooks, Louise, 189-191
Brothers Karamazov, The, 205
Brown, Clarence, 122, 129, 130
Brown, Karl, 50, 136, 138, 144
Browning, Tod, 141
Bruegel, 198, 249
Bruguiere, Francis, 61, 252
Brumes d Automne, 61, 213
Brunius, John, 120, 235
Bryher, 57
Buchowetzki, Dimitri, 76, 117, 121,

205
Bulldog Drummond, 86
Bunuel, Louis, 62, 244
Burke, Thomas, 92
Burning Heart, The, 199, 200

Cabinet of Doctor Caligari, The, 43-48,
71, 88, 105, 106, 177-179, 202, 208,
222, 241, 272, 275, 281, 285, 301

Cabiria, 235

Cagliostro, 205

Calumny, 170

Camera angle, selection of, 220, 273-275,
278, 286, 287, 291

Camera, expressive properties of, 188,
269, 273-280

Camera, mobility of, 220, 243, 251, 273,
275, 277-280, 284, 286, 287, 290

Camera, panning of, 242, 251, 279

Camera personification, 280

INDEX

Camille, 282

Campaign for a Crop, The, 173

Campeau, Frank, 130

Canary Murder Case, The, 190

Capablanca, Jose, 155

Capitaine Fracasse, he, 68, 223

Capitol Cinema, London, 29

Carewe, Edwin, 141

Carillon de Minuit, he, 224

Carlton Theatre, London, 29, 288

Carlyle, Thomas, 92

Carmen (Chaplin version), 104

Carmen (Feyder version), 221

Carmen (Lubitsch version), 76

Carol, Sue, 75, 84, 210

Carpentier, Georges, 41

Carroll, Madeleine, 231

Carroll, Nancy, 84

Cartoon films, 63, 64

Carver, Richard P., 136

Casanova, 26, 49, 207, 215, 300

Casemate Blindee, La, 204

'Case of Sergeant Grischa,' The, 124,

250
Castleton-Knight, 228
Cat and the Canary, The, 204
Catelain, Jaque, 222, 224
Cavalcanti, Alberto, 61, 125, 212, 214,

215, 222, 223, 264
Censorship of films, 35-37, 186-188,

236, 237, 297, 298
Champion Charlie, 104
Chaney, Lon, 119

Chang, 50, 66, 133, 135-137, 144, 288
Chaos and Order, 173
Chapeau de Faille d'ltalie, he, 212, 218,

219
Chaplin, Charles, 50, 51, 57, 58, 64, 68,

72, 77, 81, 100-108, 112, 113, 122,

125, 134, 142-144, 184, 218, 219, 246,

280
Chaplin, Sydney, 143
Chappell, Messrs, 36
Charles XII, 120, 235
Charlie at the Bank, 104
Charlie at the Show, 104
Charlie the Perfect Lady, 104
Charming Sinners, 77, 86
Chasing Rainbows, 143
Chauve Souris, The, 216
Chavannes, Puvis de, 214
Cheriakov, Eugenij, 167
Chess Player, The, 155, 159
Chevalier, Maurice, 86
Chien Andalou, Le, 62, 244
Children's films, 150, 166
Chomette, Henri, 60, 211, 212
Christiansen, Benjamin, 120, 121, 219

Christians, Mady, 182, 199, 202, 206,

208
Chute de la Maison d' Usher, La, 217
Cigarette Merchant of Mosselprom, The,

.154, 171
Cinderella (Berger version), 63, 121, 180,

198, 199
Cinderella (Silhouette film), 63
Cine-eye films, 66, 167-170, 270
Cinema Commission (Leningrad), 147
'Cinema,' The, 245, 298, 306
Cinematographic Sans Jeu, La, 66, 167,

308
Cine-poems, 61
Cine-radio films, 66, 170
Circus, The, 10 1- 104, 108
City that Never Sleeps, The, 134
Clair, Ren£, 50, 51, 57, 63, 184, 210-213,

215,-219, 274
Clancey, Vernon J., 245, 306
'Close Up,' 60, 157
Cob Film Company, The, 205
Coeur Fidele, Le, 217
Cceur Magnifique, Le, 224
College, 143
College Days, 84, 143
Collier de la Reine, Le, 68, 215
Colour films, 35, 56, 243, 268, 269, 300-

304
Columbia Broadcast Company, The, 36
Columbia Gramophone Company, The,

36
Comedie Francaise, La, 41
Comet, 173
Compound Cinema, The, 178, 268, 289-

290
Compson, Betty, 127
Confessions of a Queen, The, 119
Conklin, Chester, 104
Conrad, Joseph, 260
Conscience, 207
Continuity, principles of, 260-262, 264-

266
Continuity titles, 264
Conway, John, 142
Cooper, Diana, 300
Cooper, Meriam, 50, 136, 137, 144
Co-Optimists, The, 228
Coquette, in, 112
Coquille et le Clergyman, La, 37, 62, 213,

224
Cottage on Dartmoor, A, 227, 231, 282,

288
Cotton States Exposition, Atlanta,

U.S.A., 23
Courtice, Michael, 121
Covered Wagon, The, 130, 133, 138, 141
Cradle, The, 168
349

INDEX

Crainquebille, 221

Cranach, Lucas, 250

Crawford, Joan, 75, 83, 210

'Crime and Punishment,' 46, 202

Crimson Circle, The, 309

Crisis, 184, 188, 189, 295

Crisp, Donald, 140

Croisiere Noire, La, 224

Crosland, Alan, 140

Crowd, The, 68, 122-125, 210, 278

Crozvn of Lies, The, 31, 121

Cruze, James, 50, 100, 113, 122, 132,

133, 134
Cubism, 43
Cumings, Irvin, 142
Cure, The (British version), 234
Cure, The (Chaplin version), 104
Cutting, 158, 160-162, 187, 214, 242,

245, 248, 251, 261, 269, 275, 279, 285,

290-298, 310
Cyrano de Bergerac, 300
'Czarina, The,' 114
Czerepy, A. V., 67, 205
Czinner, Paul, 195, 196, 208

Dadaism, 211, 212

Daddy Long Legs, 112

Dagover, Lil, 193, 197

Dana, Viola, 73

Danton, 82, 115, 121

Dark Angel, The, 141

Daughter of Destiny, A, 188, 203

Daughter of the Gods, The, 139

David, Louis, 214

Davies, Marion, 125

Davis, Harry, 24

Day Dreams, 234

Day's Pleasure, A, 104

Death Rav, The, 154, 155

Death Ship, The, 165, 166

Decla-Bioskop Film Company, The, 43,

192
Deeping, Warwick, 139
Defu Film Company, The, 221
Delluc, Louis, 224
Dempsey, Jack, 41
Desert's Price, The, 135
Deslav, Eugene, 60, 211 -214
Desnos, Robert, 61
Destiny, 49, 63, 67, 107, 180, 191-193,

208, 241
Deutsches Bank, 176
Deux Timides, Les, 68, 218, 219
DeviVs Circus, The, 121
Devil's Ring, The, 162
Diable au Cceur, Le, 222
Dialogue films, 34, 53, 56, 85-87, 143,

145, 183, 208, 213, 214, 225, 228, 229

242-245, 268, 277, 303-310
Diary of a Lost Girl, The, 185-190
Die Hose, 208
Diessl, Gustav, 189
Dieterle, Wilhelm, 205, 207, 208
Diplomacy, 141
Disney, Walter, 63, 64
Dissolve, uses of the, 263, 297
Divine Lady, The, 75
Divine Woman, The, 120
Dix, Richard, 73

Docks of Neiv York, The, 97, 126, 127
Doctor Fu Manchu, 86
Doctor Mabuse, 48, 179, 193, 275, 277
Doctor's Secret, The, 86
Dog's Life, A, 104
Dolinov, 171

Don Juan (American version), 140
Don Juan (French version), 222
Donna Juana, 182, 196
Don Q, 109, no, 140, 265, 276
Don't Play With Love, 184
Doronin, 154

Dostoievski, 45, 51, 163, 202, 205
Dovjenko, O., 62, 63, 153, 156, 163,

164, 276
Dozvnhill, 232
Down to Earth, no
Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan, 141
Dracula, 116, 197, 202, 208, 217, 241,

276
Dream of the Hawks, The, 61, 192
Dresser, Louise, 129
Dressier, Marie, 104
Dreyer, Karl, 51, 67, 179, 184, 210, 211,

215, 217, 219, 220, 249, 274
Drifters, 66, 228, 230
Drums of Love, 93
Dubarry, 30, 76, 82, 113, 193, 208
Duchamp, Marcel, 61, 211
Duchess of Buffalo, The, 142
Dulac, Germaine, 37, 62, 212, 213, 217

224
Dupont, E. A., 30, 76, 117, 118, 181,

208, 229, 232, 233, 279
Durer, Albrecht, 180, 198, 249, 250
Duvivier, Jules, 224
Dwan, Allan, 141, 142
Dyck, W. S. Van, 50, 81, 135, 136
Dziga-Vertov, 54, 66, 67, 70, 150, 153,

167-170, 171, 179, 247, 270, 295

Eagle's Nest, The, 90
Eagle, The, 129
Eastman-Kodak film, 22
East of Suez, 21, 140
Easy Street, 104

350

INDEX

Easy Virtue, 232

Edison, Thomas A., 21-23

Editing, constructive, 53, 155, 162, 246,
251, 254, 260-262, 264, 266, 269, 270,
290-298, 310

Eggeling, Viking, 59, 60, 286

Eggert, Konstantin, 153, 154

Ehrenburg, Ilya, 186

Eibenschutz, Lia, 206

Eichberg, Richard, 182

Eisenstein, S. M., 42, 52, 55, 65, 100,
106, 148, 150, 152-154, 156-159, 164,
171, 172, 187, 227, 230, 242, 246-248,
250, 264, 271, 274, 284, 294

Ekman, Gosta, 198, 208

El Dorado, 222

Eleventh Year, The, 150, 168, 169, 295

Elliott, Eric, 56, 60, 242, 300, 303

Elstree, 78, 196, 213, 228, 230

Elstree Calling, 228

Elvey, Maurice, 194, 227

Elizabeth Bergner's Poetic Film Com-
pany, 182, 195, 196

Elsom, Isobel, 224

Emak Bakia, 61

Emelka Film Company, The, 202

Empire Theatre, London, 28

Enders, F. A., 154

End of St. Petersburg, The, 52, 54, 65,
124, 150, 159, 161, 248, 291, 295, 298

End of the World, The, 224

En Rade, 177, 210, 214, 216, .223, 288

Entr'acte, 211, 212, 218

Epstein, Jean, 50, 55, 138, 210-212, 214,
216, 217, 228, 230, 271

Ermler, 52, 153, 156, 171, 172, 262

Essanay Film Company, 104

Esterhazy, Agnes, 186, 196, 205

Etoile de Mer, U, 61, 211

Evening Clothes, 190

'Evening Standard,' The, 116

Executioners, The, 154

Exhibitors, 24, 27, 28, 33

Exiles, The, 235

Expiation, 155

Expiation, The (scientific film), 66

Exposition des Arts Decoratifs, Paris
(1925), 210, 244

Expressionism, 43, 49, 208, 222

Exter, Alexandra, Madame, 155

Face on the Bar Room Floor, The, 1 04
Fairbanks, Douglas, 51, 58, 60, 63, 67,

71, 72, 81, 87, 106-112, 140, 144, 276,

283, 301
Fait Divers, 211
Falconetti, Mme, 220
Falkenstein, Julius, 180, 199

Fall of the House of Usher, The (Ameri-
can version), 78
Fall of Troy, The, 26
Famous-Players-Lasky (see Paramount)
Fanck, Arnold, 191, 204
Fantome du Moulin Rouge, he, 218
Farmer's Wife, The, 232
Farnum, Dustin, 133
Farnum, William, 133
Fashions for Women, 141
Fatal Mallet, The, 104
Faust (French version), 222
Faust (German version), 31, 63, 77, 82,

116, 117, 180, 197, 198, 205, 208, 249
Faust (Italian version), 26
Fawcett, L'Estrange, 118
Federicus Rex, 67, 205
Feks Group, The, 151
Felix the Cat, 63
Femme de Nulle Part, La, 224
Feraudy, Maurice de, 210
Fete Espagnole, La, 224
Feu Matthezv Pascal, Le, 222, 223
Feyder, Jacques, 50, 51, 121, 211, 213,

216, 217, 221, 222, 272, 285
Fievre, 224

Fight for the Harvest, The, 173
Film Booking Offices, 154
Film Criticism, 74, 75, 78, 79, 212, 226
Filmic space, 261, 262
Filmic time, 261, 262
Film Society, The (London), 24, 37, 53,

62, 165, 174, 209, 291
Filmstudie, 60
'Film Weekly,' The, 292
Finis Terrce, 63, 138, 179, 210, 213, 214,

216, 217, 228, 230
Fire Brigade, The, 300
Fireman, The, 104
Firstborn, The, 231
First Kiss, The, 84
First-National-Pathe Film Company,

The, 35, 104
Fitzmaurice, George, 141
Flaherty, Robert, 50, 58, 8f, 134, 135,

138, 144, 217, 228, 271
Flame, The, 31, 113, 116, 204
Fleming, Victor, 50, 84, 132, 140
Flesh and the Devil, 81, 129, 130
Flood, James, 142
Floorwalker, The, 104
Florey, Robert, 67, 78
Flying Scotsman, The, 228
Fogel, Vladimir, 165
Foolish Wives, 68, 96, 142
Forbidden Paradise, 68, 98, 106, 113,

114, 116, 144, 199
Ford, John, 50, 130, 132, 133, 230

351

INDEX

Forgotten Faces, 141, 278

For Heaven's Sake, 143

Forty-First, The, 171

For Wives Only, 142

Four Devils, The, 30, 77, 117, 198, 284

Four Feathers, The, 121, 133, 137, 288

Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, The,

71, 127, 128
Fox Film Company, The, 29, 35, 36,

116, 117, 198
Fox Movietone Follies, 68, 86, 143
Fox Movie tone News, 67
Fox, William, 24, 103, 116, 117, 140
Fragment of an Empire, The, 150, 171,

172, 262
France, Anatole, 221
Francen, 60

Franck, Leonhard, 207, 250
Franklin, Sydney, 142
Frdulein Else, 196
Frederick, Pauline, 73, 129
French films, 25, 30, 49, 53, 175, 176,

209-225, 244-245 (see also individual

titles)
Freud, Dr. Sigmund, 156, 270
Freund, Karl, 47, 181, 192, 196-198,

204, 243, 277
Friese-Green, 241
Fritsch, Willy, 182, 192, 199
Frohlich, Gustav, 199, 243
Frohman, Daniel, 26
Frolich, Karl, 205
Fugitive Lover, The, 205
Furth, Jaro, 186
Futterer, Werner, 205, 206

Gaiderov, Vladimir, 201
Gainsborough Film Company, The, 34,

232
Galeen, Henrik, 202, 203, 229
Gance, Abel, 65, 157, 212, 223, 224, 289
Garbo, Greta, 31, 76, 120, 121, 129,

142, 185, 186, 189
Garden of Allah, The, 127, 129
Gardin, V. R., 153, 154, 171
Gardner, Shayle, 129
Garrison, Robert, 186
Gaucho, The, 108- no
Gauguin, Paul, 211
Gaumont-British Film Company, The,

29, 34, 36, 227
Gaumont Film Company, The, 224
Gay Canary, The, 155
Gaynor, Janet, 116
Gebuhr, Otto, 205
Gee, Hugh, 244
General Crack, 26, 68, 215
General Electric Company, The, 35

General Line, The, (see The Old and the

New)
General, The, 84, 143
Gentleman of Paris, A, 142
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, 142
George, Maude, 99
Gerald, Jim, 210
Gerlach, von, 181

German films, 29, 30, 42, 47"49, 53, 76,
112, 113, 175-208, 210, 214, 226, 241,
243-245 (see also individual titles)
German Government, The, 30, 175
Gert, Valeska, 185
Ghost that Never Returns, The, 166
Gibbons, Cedric, 244
Gibson, Hoot, 133
Gide, Andre\ 224
Gilbert, John, 98, 129
Gish, Dorothy, 73
Gish, Lilian, 73, 89-93, 119, 120
Glace a trois Faces, La, 217
Glass Houses, 142
Glass, Max, 208
Glass of Water, A, 198-199
Glorious Adventure, The, 300
Glory, Marie, 222
Glyn, Elinor, 41
Godless Girl, The, 84, 140
Goetzke, Bernard, 180, 193, 207
Gogol, 51, 162, 163
Gold Diggers, 142
Golden Bed, The, 140
Golden Clown, The, 208
Gold Rush, The, 101, 103, 104, 142, 144
Goldwyn, Samuel, 131
Golem, The, 68, 180, 202, 241, 284
Good But Naughty, 142
Goose Hangs High, The, 134
Goose Woman, The, 129
Gorki, Maxim, 51, 159
Goskino, The, 154

Goskinprom, The, 153

Goulding, Edmund, 100, 119

Gowland, Gibson, 98

Goya, 250

Granach, Alexander, 180, 200, 207

Grass, 50, 65, 135-137, *44

Grau, Albin, 180-200

Graustark, 121

Gray, Gilda, 230

Great Bank Robbery, The, 24

Great Gabbo, The, 100, 133

Great Train Robbery, The, 24, 40

Greco, El, 241, 250

Greed, 92, 94"97, io5> M4, 185, 271,
273

Green Parrot, The, 204

Grein, Hans Baldung, 250
352

INDEX

Gremillon, Jean, 211, 212

Greville, Edmond, 66

Gribiche, 221

Grierson, John, 66, 228, 230

Griffith, D. W., 25, 26, 43, 71, 88-94,

96, 112, 119, 120, 122, 128, 131, 144,

157, 260, 265, 274, 300
Griffith, E. H., 141
Grounds for Divorce, 142
Grune, Karl, 48, 49, 179-181, 183, 201,

202, 206, 272
Guilbert, Yvette, 198
Gulstorss, Max, 199, 200
Gypsy Love (see Carmen)

Haid, Liane, 182, 202

Hale's Tours, 24, 25

Hallelujah!, 87, 122, 125, 144

Hall, James, 118

Halm, Harry, 182

Hameister, Willi, 44

Hands of Orlac, The, 202

Hanson, Einar, 186

Hanson, Lars, 76, 119, 120, 129, 230

Harbou, Thea von, 192

Harlan, Kenneth, 300

Hartmann, Paul, 181

Hart, William S., 71, 132

Harvey, Lilian, 182

Hatton, Raymond, 28

Haver, Phyllis, 93

Havoc, 141

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 119

Hays, Will, 32, 74

Heading South, 109

Headlines, 141

Heart of Asia, The, 173

Hearts and Spurs, 135

Hearts are Trumps, 128

Heart's Desire, 219

He Comes Up Smiling, 71, no

Heerman, Victor, 77, 142

Heir to Jenghiz Khan, The, 68, 69, 160-

162, 228, 233, 263, 282
Hell's Highroad, 140
Helm, Brigitte, 188, 189, 202, 207, 208,

222, 243
Henaberry, Joseph, 142
Hepworth Film Company, The, 25
Herbier, Marcel 1', 222, 223
Heriat, Philippe, 210
Herlth, Robert, 180, 197, 198, 201, 207
Hersholt, Jean, 93, 115, 131
Hessling, Catherine, 210, 223
He Who Gets Slapped, 119, 120
High Treason, 194, 227, 288
Hindu Tomb, The, 207
Hintertreppe, 205

His Hour, 125

His Master's Voice Gramophone Com-
pany, The, 35

His Son, 167

Histoire des Treize, L\ 196

Hitchcock, Alfred, 34, 35, 232

Hoffmann, Karl, 192, 201, 207, 275, 277

Hoflich, Lucie, 199

Hofmann, 163

Holbein, 250

Hollaman, Richard, 23

Hollywood, 27, 30, 31, 34, 69-145, 152,
181, 210, 213; importation of Euro-
pean talent into, 76, 77, 112 et seq.,
229

Hollywood, 134

Hollywood Revue of 1929, 26, 68, 84, 86,

143
Homecoming, 49, 118, 178, 182 207, 250
Homesickness, 208
Homme du Large, L\ 222
Honnegger, Arthur, 308
Horn, Camilla, 76, 198
Hotel Imperial, 73, 118, 119
Hot for Paris, 37

House in the Dragonerstrasse, The, 205
House in Trubnaya Square, The, 62, 171,

276
Howard, William K., 50, 136, 137, 144
Hoyt, Harry, 141
Hughes, Lloyd, 141
Hugo, Victor, 224
Human Sparrows, 112
Hungarian Rhapsody, The, 49, 118, 207,

277
Hunte, Otto, 180, 192
Hunt, J. Roy, 132
Hurrah! Fm Alive, 68, 183, 207

1 Ideological film,' The, 157

Idle Class, The, 104

Image, L', 221

Immigrant, The, 103

Impetuous Youth (see The Violinist of

Florence), 195
Ince, Ralph, 141
Ince, Thomas H., 71, 141
Indian films, 237
Informer, The, 200, 201, 229
Ingram, Rex, 122, 127-129, 191
Inhumaine, U, 222, 223, 309
Innocents of Paris, The, 86
In Old Arizona, 132
'Intellectual Cinematography,' 52, 157,

294
Interest films, 65, 66, 150, 173, 174
Interference, 77
International Workers' Relief, The, 153

353

INDEX

Intolerance, 26, 71, 90-92, 96
'Intransigeant,' L', 218
Iron Horse, The, 130, 133, 230
Isn'£ Life Wonderful? , 89, 93
Italian films, 25, 235
Ivanovski, 154
Ivan the Terrible, 171
Ivens, Joris, 60

J' Accuse, 224

Jackals, The, 207

James, Forest, 138

Jannings, Emil, 28, 31, 47, 76, 81, 82,
113, 116, 119, 121, 126, 127, 140, 180,
181, 195, 197, 198, 200, 203, 280, 286

Janowitz, Hans, 44, 45

Janssen, Walther, 193

Japanese Dagger, The, 207

Japanese films, 236, 237

Jazz, 133

Jazz Fool, The, 64

Jazz Singer, The, 86

Jealousy, 202

Jehanne, Edith, 189

Jeliabuski, 153, 154

Jennings, Hilda, 206

Jessner, Leopold, 205

Jocelyn, 224

Johnson, Mary, 208

Jolson, Al, 86

Jones, Buck, 135

Joueur d'Echecs, Le, 215

'Journey's End,' 124

Joyce, James, 59

Joyless Street, The, 31, 37, 97, 181, 184-
186, 188, 208, 272

Judgment, 141

Jugo, Jenny, 182

Julian, Rupert, 96, 140

Jiinge, Alfred, 233

Jungle Rhythm, 64

Kamerny Theatre, Moscow, The, 155

'Karl and Anna,' 207, 250

Kauffmann, 66, 153, 167-170

Kavaleridz£, 153

Kean, 224, 285

Keaton, Buster, 68, 77, 140, 143

Keith Albee Circuit of Theatres, 35

Kellerman, Annette, 139

Kennedy, Myrna, 103

Kerenski, 42, 157

Kerry, Norman, 96

Kessel, Adam, 103

Kettlehut, Erich, 180, 192

Keystone Film Company, 103

Kid's Auto Races, The, 103

Kid, The, 103, 104

Kinetoscope, The, 22

King, Henry, 51, 81, 131, 132, 264

King of Kings, The, 65, 84, 140, 250

'King Who Was a King,' The, 57

Kino-Sever, The, 154

Kirsanov, Dimitri, 61, 212, 213

Kiss for Cinderella, A, 139

Kiss Me Again, 77, 113

Kiss, The, 68, 81, 121, 222

Klangfilm-Tobis-Siemen Company,

The, 183
Klein, George, 26
Klein-Rogge, Rudolph, 193, 204
Kleinstadtsiinder , 206
Klock, Karl, 206
Klopfer, Eugene, 204, 205
Knickerbocker-Buckeroo, The, 109
Knight in London, A, 204
Kobe, 179
Koenigsmark, 215
Kolin, Nicolai, 183, 207
Kontingent Law, The, 176, 182
Kopaline, 168
Kopf Hoch Charley, 208
Korda, Alexander, 121
Kortner, Fritz, 200, 205
Kozintsev, G., 148, 153, 154, 162, 294
Kraly, Hans, 114
Krampf, Gunthur, 202, 207, 277
Krauss, Werner, 37, 180, 186, 197, 201-

203, 205, 223
Kron, Walter, 75
Kuleshov, Lev, 52, 153-156, 159, 162,

292, 311
Kyser, Hans, 205

La Boheme, 125

Lacombe, Georges, 212

Lady Hamilton, 205

Lady of the Harem, The, 140

Lady of the Pavements, The, 91

Lady Windermere's Fan, 113

Laemmle, Carl, 24, 83

Lamb, The, 109, no

Lamprecht, Gerhard, 208

Lamprecht, Karl, 205

Lanchester, Elsa, 234

Lang, Fritz, 48, 49, 60, 61, 67, 180, 182,

183, 191-194, 208, 235, 287
Lasky, Jesse, 103
Last Attraction, The, 167
Last Cab, The, 204
Last Command, The, 81, 82, 126
Last Laugh, The, 30, 44, 47, 48, 77, 78,

82, 115-117, 123, 175, 177-179, 181,

197, 209, 264, 298
'Last-minute-rescue,' The, 42, 53, 88, 89,

91, 92, 167, 220, 265, 274

354

INDEX

Last of Mrs. Cheyney, The, 77, 86

Latham, Woodville, 22

'La Tosca,' 90

Laurent, Jean Marie, 302

Lederer, Franz, 207

Lee, Rowland V., 141

L£ger, Fernand, 60

Legion of the Condemned, The, 84

Leloir, Maurice, 107, 11 1

Leni, Paul, 30, 31, 67, 76, 200, 202-204

Lenin, 52, 147, 148, 157, 161, 174

Leningrad, 147, 151, 153, 154, 161, 163,

172
Leningrad Academy of Sciences, The,

159, 173
Leontiev, 173
Les Miserables, 224
'Lev,' 168

Leyden, Lucas van, 250
Liedtke, Harry, 182
Life Is Beautiful, 53, 160
Life of an American Fireman, The, 89
Life of Buffalo Bill, The, 26
Life's Roads, 150
Light and Shade, 61, 284
Light, intensities of, 248, 251, 252, 287,

288, 294
Light in the Dark, The, 129
Light of the Western Stars, The, 138
Light Rhythms, 61, 252
Linder, Max, 224
Little Annie Roonie, 112
Little French Girl, The, 139
Living Corpse, The, 160, 170, 171, 263,

271, 282, 297
Lloyd, Frank, 142
Lloyd, Harold, 68, 77, 141, 143, 144,

218
Lodger, The, 232
Loew, Marcus, 24
London Film Company, The, 25
London Workers' Film Society, The,

172, 174
Lonsdale, Frederick, 77, 145
Looping the Loop, 200, 201, 277
Lord Jim, 140
Los Angeles, U.S.A., 135
Lost World, The, 141
Louis Blattner Film Corporation, The,

204
Lounatcharski, 154
Love, Bessie, 141
Love Lies, 141

Love Me and the World is Mine, 30, 117
Love of Jeanne Ney, The, 68, 97, no,

177, 179, 182-184, 186-188, 278, 293
Love Parade, The, 50
Love's Crucible, 120

Loves of Carmen, The, 140

Loves of Pharaoh, The, 82

Loves of Zero, The, 67, 78

Love's Sacrifice, 183, 207

Lubitsch, Ernst, 30, 50, 76, 77, 98, 106,

112-117, 134, 142, 144, 193, 204, 205,

219, 229, 247
Lucretia Borgia, 205
Lumiere Brothers, The, 23, 241
Lye, Len, 78

MacDonald, Farrell, 130

Mack, Max, 208

MacLaglen, Victor, 83, 210

Macpherson, Kenneth, 37

Madame Beudet, 224

Madame X, 86

Magic Clock, The, 63

Magic Flame, The, 131

Magician, The, 128, 129

Magnascope, The, 137, 251, 288, 289

Maitre du Logis, Le (see The Master of

the House)
Malaria, 174
Man and Maid, 141
Mander, Miles, 231
Mandrake (see A Daughter of Destiny)
Manes, Gina, 121, 210, 221, 222
Man from Painted Post, The, no
Manhandled, 142
Manheim, Louise, 204
Man in the Forest, The, 170
Man in the Iron Mask, The, 107, 108, in
Manolescu, 183

Manon Lescaut, 31, 200, 201, 204, 229
Man on the Box, The, 143
Man's Past, A, 31
Mantrap, 140

Man Who Laughs, The, 30, 31, 82, 204
Man Without a Country, The, 141
Man With the Camera, The, 168-170,

273
Man, Woman, and Sin, 77, 142
Manxman, The, 232
Marble Arch Pavilion, London, 29
Marchand des Plaisirs, Le, 222
Marche des Machines, La, 60, 213, 276,

283, 297
Mare Nostrum, 127, 128
Maria, Lia, 182

Mark of Zorro, The, 107, 109-111, 140
Marquis d'Eon, 183, 202
Marriage Circle, The, 50, 77, 106, 113,

116, 142, 219
Marriage of the Bear, The, 51, 1 54
Marriott, Charles, 40
Marseillaise, La, 68
Martin Luther, 65, 183, 205, 285

355

INDEX

Marx, Karl, 147

Mason, A. E. W., 137

Master of Nurnburg, The (see The

Meistersingers)
Master of the House, The, 219
Mater Dolorosa, 224
Maternity, 205
Matisse, Henri, 45
Matrimaniac, The, 109
Maugham, W. Somerset, 32, 77, 129, 139,

145,
Mauprat, 217
Maurus, Gerda, 192
Mayer, Karl, 44, 45, 47, 76, 116, 117,

181, 197, 205, 264
May, Joe, 118, 182, 207
Mazzei, Andrew, 194
Mechanics of the Brain, The, 66, 159, 160
Medical films, 173, 174
Meierhold, V., 156
Meighan, Thomas, 73
Meinert, Rudolf, 208
Meisel, Edmund, 158, 309
Meistersingers, The, 183, 199
Mejrabpom-Russ, The, 153, 154
Melies, Georges, 24, 60
Men, 121

Mendes, Lothar, 121, 137
Menilmontant, 214

Menjou, Adolphe, 28, 106, 114, 142, 224
Men of the Wood, The, 173
Menzies, William Cameron, no
Mercanton, Louis, 25
Merchant of Venice, The, 208
'Mercurius,' 307
Merry-Go-Round, The, 96, 140
Merry Widow, The, 98, 301
Merton of the Movies, 134
Merveilleuse Vie de Jeanne d'Arc, La,

215
Messel, Rudolph P., 83
Mess Mend, 170
Metric montage, 247, 293, 294
Metro- Goldwyn-Mayer Film Company,

28, 35, 96, 98, 114, 121, 123, 124,

127, 135, 136, 222, 250, 300
Metropolis, 26, 182, 188, 191, 193, 194,

235, 278, 241, 243
Metzner, Erno, 191, 244, 276
Michael Strogoff, 49, 207, 215, 300
Mickey Mouse Cartoons, 42, 63, 64, 87
Mickey's Choo-Choo, 64
Midnight Sun, The, 121
Milestone, Lewis, 141
Milhaud, Darius, 309
Mille, Cecil B. de, 91, 140, 250
Mille, William C. de, 142
Million Dollar Chaplins, The, 104

356

Miracle des Loups, he, 215

Miracle, Silas, 138

Mix, Tom, 133

Moana, 50, 66, 134-136, 138, 144, 217,
228, 278

Modern Dubarry, A, 121

Modern Musketeer, A, 108, 109

Mojuskhin, Ivan, 155

Molander, Gustav, 221

Moliere, 198

Molina, Tirso de, 196

Monkey Talks, The, 140

Mons, 67, 233

Montage, forms of, 55, 168, 253, 254,
269, 287, 290-298, 303-308, 310, 311 ;
tonal, 55, 159, 247, 293

Montagu, Ivor, 36, 60, 234, 292

Monte Cristo, 215

Montparnasse, 60, 211, 214

Moon of Israel, The, 121

Moore, Tom, 73

Moran, Lois, 131

Morena, Erna, 196, 205

Morning of a Healthy Man, The, 174

'Morning Post,' The, 35

Morosko, 63, 154

Moscow, 153-156, 163, 165, 167, 272

Moscow Art Theatre, The, 1 54, 202

Moscow State School of Cinemato-
graphy, The, 151

Moscow that Laughs and Weeps, 68, 150,
171

Mosjoukhine, Ivan, 222

Mother, 78, 150, 1 59-161, 241, 284, 296,
298

Mother and Child, 174

Motion Picture Board of Trade (191 5),

Motion Picture Producers and Distri-
butors of America Inc. (1922), 32

Moulin Rouge, 118

Moussinac, Leon, 149, 158, 226

Movement, forms of, 251

Mr. Fix It, no

Munday, Helen, 138

Murnau, F. W., 30, 47, 76, 116, 117,
123, 180, 181, 198, 202, 205, 217,
249, 276

Murphy, Dudley, 60

Murray, James, 123

Murray, Mae, 24, 73, 98, 121

Music Master, The, 141

Mutt and Jeff, 63

Mutual Film Corporation, 104

My Best Girl, 141

Mystere du Chateau de De, he, 214, 276

Mystic Mirror, The, 241

Mystic, The, 141

INDEX

Nagy, Kate von, 207

Nalbandov, Sergei, 298

Naldi, Nita, 73

Name the Man, 31, 119

Nana, 223

Nanook of the North, 50, 66, 134, 135,

144
Napoleon, 65, 213, 216, 224, 289
National Association of the Motion

Picture Industry (1917), 32
National Gallery, London, 297
Navigator, The, 140
Negri, Pola, 31, 73, 76, 113, 114, 118,

121, 140, 195, 196, 204
Neilan, Marshall, 141
Neppach, A. D., 202
Neumann, Alfred, 115
Neumann Film Company, The, 205
New Babylon, 68, 148, 150, 162, 282,

288, 294, 299
New-Era Film Company, The, 233
New Gallery Cinema, London, 29
News-reels, 39, 67, 150, 156, 288, 308
New Year's Eve, 49, 181, 204, 208, 298
Nibelungen Saga, The, 61, 67, 180
Niblo, Fred, 140
Nickelodeons, 24
Nielson, Asta, 180, 181, 185, 186, 189,

206
'Night in a London Club,' A, 103
Nikkatsu Film Company, The, 236
Nina Petrovna, 118, 178, 182, 207, 275,

277
Nissen, Greta, 76
Nitzchmann, Erich, 202
Nju, 49, 82, 195, 208
Noah's Ark, 26, 68, 91, 121
Noa, Manfred, 208
Nora, 205

Normand, Mabel, 104
Norris, Herbert, 96
Nouveaux Messieurs, Les, 68, 121, 221,

222
Novarro, Ramon, 115, 128, 136
Nox, Andre, 222
Nuits de Princes, 222
Nuits Electriques, Les, 60
Nuri the Elephant, 237

Obelenski, V., 153

Oberammergau Passion Play, 23

O'Brien, George, 116

'Observer, The Sunday,' 299

October, 42, 52, 65, 78, 148, 150, 156-

159, 242, 246, 248, 271, 282, 293,

294, 296, 299, 309
Odessa, 89, 153, 157, 158, 284, 293
Odyssey, Homer's, 26

Offenbach, 223

Old and the New, The, 55, 136, 150,

156, 159, 162, 250, 288, 293, 300
Old Ironsides, 133, 288
One A.M., 104
One Avenging Conscience, 90
One Exciting Night, 93
On the Red Front, 155
On With the Show, 86
Operas, film, 59
Orphans of the Storm, The, 89, 92, 128,

265
Oswald, Richard, 205
Othello, 121, 208
Ott, Fred, 22

Otzep, Fiodor, 153, 154, 170
Our Dancing Daughters, 37, 84, 142,

210, 244
Out of the Mist, 182, 206
Outsider, The, 141

Pabst, G. W., 36, 48, 57, 58, 97, i77,

181, 182, 184-192, 206, 208, 246, 247,

287, 295
'Pacific 231,' 308
Pagan, The, 136
Page, Anita, 84
Palace and Fortress, 1 54
Palaver, 228
Pamyr, 66, 173
Pandora's Box, 184, 189-191
Pan Film Company, The, 202
Pantelev, 154, 171

Pantomin Film Company, The, 206
Paramount Film Company, 29, 32, 35,

36, 41, 81, 93, 98, 99, 113, 115, 119,

126, 132, 136-138, 278, 288
Paramount News, 67
Paris qui Dort, 218
Parsons, Louella, 75
Passion (see Dubarry)
Passion de Jeanne d'Arc, La, 51, 67, 179,

213, 215, 219, 220, 249, 278, 282, 300,

302
Pathecolour, 224, 302
Pathe Film Company, The, 224
Patriot, The, 30, 68, 81, 82, 114-116,

243, 280
Paul, Robert, 23
Pavlov, Professor, 156, 159
Pawnshop, The, 104
Pay Day, 104
Paying the Penalty, 126
Peasant Women of Riazan, The, 150,

166, 167, 207, 241, 285
Pecheur d' I si and, 224
Peg o' My Heart, 125

357

INDEX

People's Commissariat of Education, Prisoner of Zenda, The, 128, 129

The, 147, 151

Pere Goriot, Le, 224

Perfect Alibi, The, 86

Peter Pan, 139

Peter the Great, 82, 121

Petit Chaperon Rouge, Le, 223

Petite Marchande d'Allumettes, La, 63,
216, 223

Phantom, 197

Phantom Carriage, The, 235

Phantom of the Opera, The, 140

Philbin, Mary, 96

Philips Film Company, The, 43

Phoebus Film Company, the, 196, 199

Picabia, Francis, 211

Piccadilly, 68, 81, 118, 229, 232, 233,
279

Pickford, Mary, 72, 81, 87, 106, 107,

111-113, 141
Pick, Lupu, 48, 49, 181, 204, 206, 208
Pictorial composition of visual images,
The, 157, 166, 199, 212, 214, 215, 269,
280-288, 290
Pilgrim, The, 101, 104
Pirandello, 222
Pits, The, 150, 166, 283
Pitts, Zazu, 98, 99
Plaza Cinema, London, 29, 288
Pluie, 60

Poirier, Leon, 216, 224
Polikushka, 154, 171
Politic Flapper, The, 122, 125
Pollock, Channing, 194
Polytechnic Institute, London, 24
Pommer, Erich, 30, 49, 58, 76, 11 7- 11 9,

177, 181, 182, 207, 229
Pont d'Acier, Le, 60
Pony Express, The, 134
Popoff, 153

Poppies in Flanders, 246
Popular Sin, The, 142
Pori, 66

Porten, Henny, 180, 205
Porter, Edwin S., 24, 26
Post-Impressionists, The, 246
Postmaster, The, 51, 154, 170
Potamkin, Harry Alan, 289
Potechina, Lydia, 180, 201
Powell, William, 126, 137
Pradot, Marcelle, 222
Preobrashenskaia, Olga, 153, 166, 167,

207
Pre-Raphaelites, The, 301
Pretty Ladies, 142
Prince Cuckoo, 204
Princess Priscilla's Fortnight, 231
Prison, 171, 172

358

Private Life of Helen of Troy, The, 121

Proie du Vent, Le, 218

Prometheus Films, 170

Protasanov, Y. A., 45, 153-155, 170,

171
Proud Flesh, 125
Provincial Cinema Theatres, 29
Psycho-analysis, 48, 186, 246, 270
Psychology, film, 164, 165, 172, 208,

246, 269-273
P'tite Lili, La, 61, 223
Pudovkin, V. I., 52, 53, 65, 100, 104,

152-162, 164, 171, 172, 228, 233, 248,

262-264, 266, 271, 274, 286, 287, 291,

292, 295, 296, 299, 310
Purviance, Edna, 104, 106
Pushkin, Alexander, 154
Putti, Lya de, 31, 76, 200, 202, 230

'Q' Ships, 67, 233
Queen Elizabeth, 26
Queen Kelly, 99
Quota restrictions, 33
Quo Vadis?, 26, 90

Rabinovitch, Isaac, 155

Racket, The, 141

Radio Corporation of America, The, 35

Radio Pictures, 35

Rahn, Bruno, 205, 206, 208

Rails Go Ringing, The, 173

Rail, The, 204

'Rain,' 32, 139

Raismann, 52, 153, 171

Ranger of the Big Pines, 135

Raskolntkov, 45, 202, 208

Rasp, Fritz, 200, 202

Ravel, Gaston, 215

Ray, Man, 61, 211, 212, 214

Razoumni, 154

Reaching for the Moon, 71, no

Rector, Enoch, 23

Red Army, The, 150

Rehman, Hans, 196

Reiber, Willy, 208

Reid, Wallace, 73

Reimann, Walther, 43

Reinhardt, Max, 208

Reiniger, Lotte, 63

Reisner, Charles, 143

Renoir, Jean, 63, 212, 216

Reveil, 224

Revillon Freres, 134

Revolt in Kazan, 150, 171

Rhythmic montage, 290, 293, 294, 296

Rhythmus, 59

Rialto Cinema, London, 29

INDEX

Richard, Frieda, 201

Richter, Ellen, 182, 208

Richter, Hans, 55, 58-60

Richter, Paul, 182

Rien que les heures, 223, 264

Rilla, Walther, 196, 207

Rimax Film Company, The, 195

Ring, The, 104

Rink, The, 232

Rio, Dolores del, 75

Rio Rita, 68

Rittau, Gunthur, 192, 207, 277

Rittner, Rudolph, 199

Road to Yesterday, The, 140

Robber Band, The, 208

Roberts, Alice, 191

Roberts, Bob, 135

Robin Hood, 26, 108-110

Robison, Arthur, 179, 180, 200,

204, 229
Rocque, Rod la, 114
Rogers, Charles, 84
Rohrig, Walther, 43, 180, 197,

201, 207
Romains, Jules, 221
Romola, 131
Rookery Nook, 68
Room, Alexander, 84, 105, 153,

166, 264, 295
Roscher, Charles, 116
Rosenkavalier, 68, 202
Rosita, 112, 113
Roue, La, 216, 224
Rouguier, 212
Royal Academy, The, 59
Royal Remembrances, 42
Russell, William, 133
Russian Ballet, The, 216
Ruth, Roy del, 77, 142
Ruttmann, Walther, 55, 59-61, 67,

192, 223, 295

Saalschutz, L., 263

Sabatini, Rafael, 128

Sack of Rome, The, 26

Sadie Thompson, 32, 139

Safety Last, 143

Sally, 68

Sally of the Sawdust Ring, 93

Salvation Hunters, The, 31, 97, 125

Sandberg, A. W., 208

Sandys, 60, 283

Santschi, Tom, 130

Sardou, Victorien, 90

Sa Tete, 217

Say, Young Fellow, no

Scala Theatre, London, 292

Scaramouche, 68, 128, 129

Scarlet Letter, The, 119, 120

Scarlet Woman, The, 31

Scenario-bureaux, 150, 256

Scenario, preparation of, 253-267, 311

Schertzinger, Victor, 141

Scheufftan process, The, 198

Schinderhannes, 68, 183, 206, 207

Schlettow, Hans von, 206, 208, 230

Schneider, Rudolph, 210

Schnitzler, Arthur, 196

Schoedsack, Ernest, 50, 136, 137, 144

Schwartz, Hans, 118, 183, 207

Scientific films, 65, 66, 150, 153

Sea Beast, The, 301

Seastrom, Victor, 30, 76, 117, 119, 120,
229, 235

Sea Warrens, 173

Secrets of the East, 26, 63, 207
201, Secrets of the Soul, 182, 184, 189

Sedgwick, Edward, 142

Seeber, Guido, 206, 277

Sefir-Choub, 153
I9°> Semenova, Luidmila, 165

Sennett, Mack, 71, 84, 103, 104, 218

Sensation Seekers, The, 141

Serenade, 142, 144

Service for Ladies, 142
l64" Seurat, 211

Seventh Heaven, 140, 275

Severin-Mars, 224

Sevsapkino, The, 154

Sex in Fetters, 77

Shakespeare, in

Shanghaied, 104

Shearer, Norma, 115

Shepherd's Bush Pavilion, London, 29

Sheriff's Baby, The, 90

Shinel, 162

Shiraz, 237
J82, Shooting Stars, 231

Shoulder Arms, 103, 104

Show Off, The, 142

Show People, 125

Side Show of Life, The, 139

Siegfried, 61, 63, 67, 107, 180, 191-193,
208, 277, 301

Siegmann, George, 118

Silhouette films, 63

Silka, 61, 214
126 Silver, Marcel, 143

Sin, 221

Singing Fool, The, 24, 34, 86

Sins of the Fathers, The, 82, 121, 200

Sister to Assist 'Er, A, 228

Six et Demi x Onze, 217

Sixth Part of the World, The, 168

Sky Pilot, The, 125

Skyscraper Symphony, 297
359

INDEX

Slezack, Walther, 219

Slow-motion, use of, 163, 164, 168, 212,

242, 276
Smouldering Fires, 129
Societe Generate de Films, 213, 221
Society Scandal, A, 208
Sodom and Gomorrah, 91
Soetsiku Film Company, The, 236
Sollen, Maurice, 61
Somme, The, 67, 233
Sorcery, 121
Sorrell and Son, 39
Sorrows of Satan, The, 193
So This Is Paris, 113, 144
Sound films, 64, 169, 183, 208, 305-311
Soviet films, 29, 37, 49, 5i"53, 62, 65,

89,93, 105, 120, 146-174, 178, 192, 193,

211, 214, 217, 236, 244-246, 250, 265,

311 (see also individual titles)
Soviet Fordism, 173
Soviet Government, The, 52, 147-152,

156, 159, 162, 166, 171, 174
Sovkino, The, 149, 153, 171
Speyer, Jaap, 207
Spite Marriage, 143
Splinters, 228
Split titles, 298, 299
Spoor-Bergen process, The, 302
Spring, 168, 169
Springtime, 64

Spy, The, 68, 182, 183, 192, 193, 287
Stabavoi, Georgi, 153, 170
Stage-plays, adaptation of, 28, 86, 145
Stallings, Laurence, 124
Stampede, 228
Starevitch, Stanislas, 63
Stark Love, 50, 135, 138, 144
Starke, Pauline, 114
Star-system, The, 27, 41, 69, 71-75, 144,

245, 249
St. Clair, Mai, 77, 142, 184
Steinriick, Albert, 180
Stella Dallas, 131
Stendahl, 181
Stereopticon, The, 35
Stereoscopic, films, 35, 56, 243, 268,

269, 300-304
Sternberg, Josef von, 31, 97, 119, 122,

125-127, 210
Stiller, Mauritz, 76, 1 18-120, 235
Stoker, Bram, 197
Stone, Lewis, 115, 128, 141, 243
Stone Rider, The, 191, 204, 208
Storm Over Asia (see The Heir to

Jenghiz Khan)
Strand Theatre, New York, 26
Street Angel, The, 140
Street of Sin, The, 31, 82, 119, 126, 127

Street, The, 49, 178-180, 201, 202, 206

208, 272, 285
Strike, The, 52, 150, 156
Strindberg, August, 221
Stroheim, Erich von, 51, 92, 94-100,

112, 122, 134, 140, 142, 144, 210, 229
Struggle under Czarism, The, 168
Stuart-Davis, 209
Stuart, Henry, 186
Student of Prague, The, 31, 68, 82, 177-

179, 202, 203, 229, 285
Student Prince, The, 11 4-1 16
Studio '28,' 212

Studio des Ursulines, 212

Studio Diamant, 212

Sturmfleet, 208

Sturm group, The, 43

Stiiwe, Hans, 205

Suderman, 116

Sue, Eugene, 156

Summers, Walter, 233

Sumurun, 82, 107, 113, 116, 180, 205

Sunflower Industry, The, 173

Sunny side, 103, 104

Sunrise, 30, 77, 116, 117, 198

Surrealism, 59, 62

S.V.D., 150, 162

Swain, Mack, 104

Swanson, Gloria, 72, 81, 87, 99, 100,

119, 139, 142
Swan, The, 121
Swedish films, 30, 42, 47, 49, 76, 175,

176, 210, 214, 235 (see also individual

titles)
Sylvester (see New Year's Eve)
Symphonie Diagnole, 59

Tailor of Tor j ok, The, 154
Talmadge, Constance, 73, 142
Talmadge, Norma, 73, 121
Taming of the Shrew, The, 86, 108, 110-

112, 141
Tartuffe, 30, 68, 82, 115, 116, 175, 178,

180, 197, 198, 244
Taylor, Sam, 141
Tchekov, Anton, 51
Television, 35
Temptress, The, 140

Ten Commandments, The, 26, 68, 91,

360

140
Ten Days That Shook the World,

(see October)
Ten Years of Soviet Medicine, 173
Terra Film Company, The, 202
Terry, Alice, 127, 128
Tesha, 244

Tess of the d'Urbervilles, 141
Thalberg, Irvin, 124

The

INDEX

Theatre Robert Houdin, The, 24

Theme, choice of, 247-250, 255

Therese Raquin, 51, 68, 121, 210, 213,
216, 221, 222, 272, 288, 302

Thief of Bagdad, The, 60, 63, 67, 107,
109, no, 140

Thiele, Wilhelm, 207

Thimig, Herman, 204

Thomas, Helga, 199

Three Bad Men, 130, 133

Three Hours, 142

Three Musketeers, The (Fairbank's ver-
sion), 108, 109

Three Musketeers, The (Italian version),
26

Three Passions, The, 127, 129

Three Thieves, The, 171

Three Weeks, 140

Three Women, 113

Throw of the Dice, A, 228, 237

Thunderbolt, 126

Thunder Mountain, 141

Thy Soul Shall Bear Witness, 30, 120

Tillie's Punctured Romance, 104

Tin Gods, 141
Tisse, Edouard, 156

Tisserands, Les, 205

Titles, placing of, 159, 204, 269, 298-300

Tivoli Cinema, London, 29, 289

Tol'able David, 131, 179, 264

Toll of the Sea, The, 300

Tolstoi, Count Alexei, 155

Torgus, 177, 208

Torments of the Night, 206

Torres, Raquel, 81

To the Ladies, 133

Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri, 211, 223

Tour au Large, 214

Tour, Le, 214, 218

Tourjanski, 183, 207

Tournoi, Le, 223

Tower of Lies, The, 119, 120

Trader Aloysius Horn, 50, 135

Tragedie de Lourdes, La, 224

Tragedy, 205

Tragedy of the Street, The, 206

Tragic Ship, The, 235

Trail of a Meteorite, The, 173

Trail of '98, The, 129

Trapped by Bloodhounds, or a Lynching

at Cripple Creek, 24
Trauberg, L., 148, 153, 154, 156, 162,

294
Travelling cinemas, 149
Trespasser, The, 87, 100, 119
Trevor, Jack, 182
Trial of Donald Westhof, The, 205
Trifling Women, 128

361

Trip to the Moon, A, 24, 60

'Trip to Tilsit, A,' 116

Triptych screen, The, 251, 289

Trotsky, 148

Trumpet Call, The, 140

Truth of Lenin, The, 168

Tschechowa, Olga, 207, 230

Turgenev, 51

Turin, Victor, 52, 150, 153, 156, 164,

171-173, 228, 250, 271, 292, 299
Turkestan- Siberian Railway, The, 150,

172, 173
Turkmenkino, The, 153
Turksib, 66, 150, 164, 171-173, 228, 250,

282, 292, 296, 299
Tusylava, 78
Tuttle, Frank, 77, 142
Two Arabian Nights, 141
Two Brothers, The, 181, 202
Two Days, 170

Uberfall, 244, 276

Ufa Film Company, The, 176, 186, 195,

196, 207, 219, 250
Ukraine, The, 150, 151, 153, 163, 167
Underground, 228, 231, 232
Under the Lantern, 208
Under Two Flags, 141
Unholy Three, The, 141
United Artist's Corporation, 35, 104,

125, 139
Universal Film Company, 29, 35, 82,

117, 204, 250

Vadja, Ernst, 142

Vagabond King, The, 200

Valencia, 121

Valentino, Rudolph, 73, 127-129

Van Eyck's, The, 250

Van Gogh, Vincent, 211

Vanina, 177, 181, 208

Variety, 228

Vaudeville {Variety), 68, 82, 117, 181,

195, 208, 284
Veidt, Conrad, 31, 76, 82, 180, 195,

202, 203, 285
Velasquez, 222
Velez, Lupe, 75, 93, 210
Venus of Venice, The, 141
Verdun, 216, 224
Verne, Jules, 24
Vertige, Le, 222

Victor Gramophone Company, The, 35
Vidor, Florence, 210
Vidor, King, 51, 78, 94, 122-125, 144,

278
Viertel, Berthold, 205
Viking, The, 68

INDEX

Vinci, Leonardo da, 156
Violinist of Florence, The, 182, 195, 196
Virginian, The, 68, 87, 132, 140
Virgin Queen, The, 300
Visages d'Enfants, 221
Viskovski, 154
Vitaphone, The, 85
Vitascope, Armat's, 23
Volga Boatmen, The, 140
Volga-Volga, 81, 207
Volkoff, Nicolas, 207, 224
Vollbrecht, Karl, 180, 192
Vormitaggspuk, 60
Vorticists, The, 48
Vostok-kino, The, 153
Vox Populi, 235
Voyage au Congo, 224
Voyage Imaginaire, he, 63, 216, 218
Vufku-Kino, The, 66, 149, 153, 163, 167,
168, 170

Wagner, Elsa, 199

Wagner, Fritz Arno, no, 188, 192, 193,

197, 200, 202, 277, 278
Waiter's Daughter, The, 171
Walsh, Raoul, 113, 139, 140
Walther, Hertha von, 189
Waltz Dream, The, 199
Wanderer of the Wasteland, The, 300
Wanderer, The, 140
Wangenheim, Gustav von, 200
Waning Sex, The, 142
Wardour Films, 186
Warm, Herman, 43, 180, 203
Warner Brothers Film Company, The,

34-36, 85, 103, 121
Warning Shadows, 178-180, 200, 285,

298
Washneck, Erich, 207
Wasmann, Hans, 206
Waterloo, 183, 202
Watteau, 198
Waxworks, 30, 31, 67, 82, 107, 179, 202,

203, 208
Way Down East, 88, 300
Way of All Flesh, The, 28, 82, 140, 145
Way to India, The, 173
Weber, Lois, 141
Wedding March, The, 94-96, 98, 99,

210, 275, 301
Wedekind, 189
Wegener, Paul, 129, 181, 202
Wellman, William, 77, 142
Wells, H. G., 57, 194, 234
Welwyn, 227

Wendhausen, Fritz, 182, 205, 206
Werndorff, Oscar, 192
Western Electric Company, The, 36, 183

362

'Western' films, 25, 50, 77, 83, 84, 132-

135, 144, 283
Weyher, Ruth, 200
What Price Glory?, 79, 84, 139, 246
Wheel, The, 141
Where the Pavement Ends, 128
Whitaker Film Company, The, 196
White Eagle, The, 171
White Gold, 50, 135, 138
White Hell of Pit z Palii, The, 185, 191,

204
White Shadows in the South Seas, 66, 81,

122, 125, 136, 210, 300
White Sister, The, 131
Whitman, Walt, 91
Wiene, Robert, 43, 44, 88, 178, 202
Wife of the Centaur, The, 125
Wig, The, 205

Wild Duck, The, 49, 181, 204
Wilde, Oscar, 105, 113
Wild Orchids, 81, 142
Will Day Collection of Cinematograph

Equipment, 23
Wind, The, 120
Wings, 84, 138, 142, 288
Winning of Barbara Worth, The, 131, 132
With Cobham to the Cape, 66
Wolff, Willi, 182, 208
Wolf's Clothing, 142, 144
Wolheim, Louis, 141
Woman Disputed, The, 131
Woman in the Moon, The, 192, 194
Woman of Affairs, A, 31
Woman of Paris, A, 50, 68, 81, 103, 105,

106, 113, 142, 144, 219
Wonderful Lie, The (see Nina Petrovna)
Wong, Anna May, 230, 300
Wood, Sam, 142

Wrath of the Gods, The, 191, 204
Wray, Fay, 84, 119, 138

Xe Symphonie, La, 224

Yellow Pass, The, 1 70
You Never Know Women, 142
Youri-Taritch, 153, 154, 170, 171
Youth of Queen Louise, The, 202
Yvette, 223

Zarkhi, Nathan, 154
Zeebrugge, 67, 233
Zelnig, Frederick, 205
Zelzer, Wolfgang, 221
Zola, Emile, 121, 221-223
Zone de la Mort, La, 224
Zone, La, 214

Zukor, Adolf, 24, 26, 41, 103
Zvenigora, 62, 63, 163, 164, 276

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