CHAPTER 6 / Part 2


Table of Contents

Table of Contents




As in the United States and Great Britain, the early film in France was essentially a cinema of attractions (see Chapter 5.1) that developed out of the entertainment fashions of an emerging popular culture. As elsewhere, for example, the French cinema of attractions reflected the variety format that characterized programs in fairgrounds, vaudeville theaters, music halls, and café-concerts. Programs included actualités and religious subjects, trick films and comedies, staged dances, and melodramas and historical stories, all of which, especially after about 1904, were often combined on longer programs with live performances. The variety format was reinforced by the necessity of constant reel changes, which also empowered the exhibitor as the final shaper of the product that actually reached the audience.

A Cinema of Short-Term Sensorial Stimulation

As elsewhere, too, the variety format appealed to consumers who preferred diversion to contemplation. According to American film historian Miriam Hansen,


                        Jules Garnier,

       Panorama of Constantinople, 1880s

the rapid succession of seemingly unrelated films and live performances encouraged . . . a tendency toward “distraction” or “diversion.”. . . If the traditional arts required . . . concentration upon a singular object or event, the variety format promised a short-term but incessant sensorial stimulation, a mobilization of the viewer’s attention through a discontinuous series of attractions, shocks, and surprises. . . . [T]he principle of short-term and excessive stimulation had been elaborated by the media of an emerging consumer culture from about the mid-nineteenth century on, whether in advertising and shop-wwindow displays or in a whole range of consumption-oriented spectacles—from the World Fairs and Pan American Expositions, through the Panoramas and Dioramas [see Figure 6.13], to amusement parks like Coney Island.[40]

This view of the evolution of popular taste on both sides of the Atlantic is reinforced by a review of what Richard Abel identifies as the four principal characteristics of the cinema of attractions:[41]

  1. It equates the camera with the spectator. Rather than narrate a story to be followed and understood, it celebrates what the spectator sees—that is, the spectacle of imagery and technical ingenuity that the cinema delights in displaying.
  2. It presents its imagery in the form of independent tableaux. Rather than requiring the spectator to reconstruct spatiotemporal fragments, it prefers action that unfolds in the space given by a self-contained frame.
  3. It captures movement from a unified viewpoint, usually taken in long shot, and often stresses movement for its own sake. Rather than encourage the suggestion that human figures may be “‘characters’ with psychological motivations,” it reduces them to performers of physical actions.
  4. It is distributed in the form of “semi-finished products”—as packages of components that can be preserved intact or exhibited in re-edited form, perhaps colored and accompanied by music, by narrators, or both. Rather than insist upon the existence of a coherent “text,” it presents itself as a highly flexible product whose value lies in the variety of its conformations.

As we saw in Chapter 3.2, the cinema of attractions was a congenial forum for the type of motion picture of which Georges Méliès was the acknowledged master—namely, the cinema of “transformation views” and other genres which featured the powers of the magician and implicitly likened the illusions of the cinema to those of the conjuring act. Perpetuating the tradition of the male magician who manipulates the female subject according to his desires, this strain of the cinema of attractions also lent itself to voyeurism as a commercial spectacle. This issue is discussed in Reading 6.2, “In Theory: ‘A Riot of the Carnivalesque.’”

The System for Presenting Spectacle

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                       Georges Méliès,

              Le Royaume des fées, 1903

Starting in about 1903, Pathé féeries such as Don Quichotte (1903—Figure 6.14 [42]), as well as historical films such as Vie et Passion de Jésus-Christ (Life and Passion of Christ, 1903 and again in 1907—Figure 6.15 [43]) and trick films such as La Poule aux oeufs d’or (The Hen That Laid the Golden Eggs—1905), boasted another instrument in Pathé’s repertoire of techniques for enhancing the spectacular qualities of cinema-of-attractions genres—Pathécolor. Pathé did not invent the process of hand-coloring moving pictures, which was available as early as 1896, when delicate brushes were used to color one frame at a time. By 1903, Méliès had achieved some spectacular effects in such féerie spectacles as Le Royaume des fées (The Kingdom of the Fairies), but the process remained unreliable, with dabs of applied color often spilling off of images or wobbling when projected on the screen.

Pathécolor: The Process Au Pochoir
  In 1903, however, Pathé first introduced a process known as “au pochoir,” or stenciling, for applying color to positive prints. For each color that was to be used—usually blue, red, and yellow—a positive print of the film was struck. With a special scalpel or needle, every area in every frame that was to receive a certain color was cut out to create a stencil. Each of the three stencils was then sandwiched in turn with a black-and-white print, and both prints were run between rollers coated with the appropriate color. The process was patented in 1906 and mechanized in 1907.[44] Arthur Kingston, a veteran cameraman who worked at Pathé prior to World War I, has described the assembly-line process as follows (see Figure 6.16):

At Vincennes, Pathé employed about 300 women. Each worker sat at a bench. On her right was a ground glass projection screen and a handle. Each turn of the handle moved one frame of the film to be tinted. The frame was enlarged to 6½ by 9½ inches.

On her left was another copy of the same film, which was to be the stencil. In front of her was a pantograph [for copying a plane figure to a desired scale] with a ten-to-one reduction, to which an electromagnetic vibrating needle was attached. This [needle] . . . cut this stencil for each section. There were never more than three sections. One woman would work on the blue, another on the red, another on the yellow.[45]

Needless to say, even after it had been mechanized, the process was time consuming and expensive. Pathé, of course, compensated by charging more money for colored prints, which had by 1907 become a company trademark.

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   Segundo de Chomón, La Fée Printemps,

                   Pathé-Frères, 1902

Even earlier, color had already assumed a role in the enhancement of spectacle—and thus in the repertoire of the cinema of attractions. Abel, for example, notes that the spectacular quality of Pathé’s La Fée printemps (The Fairy of Spring, directed by Segundo de Chomón in 1902), hinges less on miraculous transformations (an old beggar woman into a fairy princess, winter into spring, flowers into children) than on the “marvelous changes in color” that embellish the cinematic contrivances (the fairy princess is adorned in a green dress dotted with yellow flowers that echo the massive yellow bouquet which she presents to a childless woodcutter and his wife).[46]

The Color of Dance; or, The Gendered Genre
  Recall that in Chapter 5.1, we described the cinema of attractions as a cinema distinguished by the medium’s self-conscious ability to show something that would attract the spectator’s attention. Recall, too, that in Chapter 1.2, we also characterized the earliest films of the Edison Company as the “first attractions”: the commercial attraction of a display such as Annabelle Whitford’s Serpentine Dance lay in the novelty of almost abstract movement, which Edison embellished with either color toning (the artificial application of an overall color to the black-and-white negative) or hand-tinting (see Figure 1.30). Indeed, the prevalence of the dance film in the catalogues not only of Pathé but of Méliès and Gaumont (half of whose production between 1900 and 1902 was given over to serpentine dances, short ballets, and international terpsichorean displays ranging from the Spanish and Bohemian to the Japanese) testifies to both the persistence of the cinema of attractions and to the role of color in expanding the variety of its spectacle. In 1904, for instance, Pathé’s Métamorphose du papillon (A Butterfly’s Metamorphosis), directed by former magician Gaston Velle—Figure 6.17), re-creates a popular dance number in which a paper chrysalis changes into what appears to be a butterfly but turns out to be a woman with huge wings shimmering in rose, green, yellow, and blue.[47]

As the prevalence of the dance film suggests, the cinema of attractions was gendered spectacle. Indeed, the cinema itself was—and basically remains—implicitly patriarchal: it exists through the prerogative of masculine invention and largely for the benefit of the privileged masculine gaze, as in films suitable for the “smoking concert and stag party.” In addition, because the cinema celebrates the artist’s skill in the illusion of creating “lifelikeness,” it’s a legitimate forum for metaphors (as in Métamorphose du papillon, in which a multicolored butterfly becomes a winged woman) that underscore masculine prerogatives in wielding the “reproductive” power of the camera.

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 Vincent Lorant-Heilbronn, Christophe Colomb,

                     Pathé-Frères, 1904

A Cinema of Tableaux and Intertitles
  Pathé’s historical films were indebted to the important French tradition of historical painting. From the theater they also borrowed the model of so-called “realizations”—of re-creating as spectacular tableaux well-known events or famous paintings.[48] Abel suggests that in constructing stories out of “series of spectacle attractions,” this reliance on the familiar catered to conventional “narrative” tastes in a medium that hadn’t yet developed its own principles of coherent narrative expression. Épopée Napoléonienne (Life of Napoleon, 1903), for example, used 15 tableaux to relate biographical essentials that would be known to virtually any French viewer. Similarly, Marie Antoinette (1904, nine tableaux) and Christophe Colomb (1904, eight tableaux) used intertitles to set off autonomous tableaux as if they were animated history lessons.

Produced as a “series of spectacle attractions” and often sold in a variety of lengths, such films could be purchased, organized, and projected according to the exhibitor’s needs. Pathé, for instance, released its 1907 La Vie et la passion in four separate parts, the last of which was further subdivided and made available on five short reels.[49] Such a film, as Abel puts it, “constituted not a ‘finished product’ or commodity, but a relatively malleable, multiple text.”[50] Meanwhile, the genres of the trick film and the féerie, especially those produced by Pathé, remained popular well into the middle of the first decade of the century. Programmers at both café-concerts and fêtes foraines still called for them because their format allowed exhibitors to control the makeup of their shows.

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               Ferdinand Zecca, Ali Baba

   et les quarante voleurs, Pathé-Frères, 1905

The Technical Ingenuity of Spectacle: Ali Baba et les quarante voleurs
  Pathé first made Ali Baba et les quarante voleurs (Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves) in 1902. The best-known version was that of 1905, which was made by Ferdinand Zecca in part to display the company’s stencil-coloring process. The earliest surviving Pathé film with intertitles was first issued in 1903, but it was not until a couple of years later that intertitles became a standard feature of the representational system typified by Ali Baba, which consists of seven tableaux, each introduced by an intertitle:

  1. “Sésame Ouvre-Toi.” Mounted on real horses and garbed in richly colored robes, the thieves approach their hidden cave and, overheard by Ali Baba, utter the magic words required to open it (Figure 6.18[1]).

  1. Le Trésor des Voleurs. After the thieves have gone, Ali Baba opens the cave. A cut reveals the interior as the passage opens. The hero enters, surveys the treasures stored there, and packs up a share for himself (Figure 6.18[2]).
  2. Enfin Riche. A cut reveals Ali Baba’s house as he arrives with his booty. He relates his adventure to his brother Cassim, who heads immediately for the cave, intending to partake of Ali Baba’s marvelous good luck (Figure 6.18[3]).
  3. Cassim Est Surpris et Exécuté. The tableau opens as Cassim enters the cave but, hearing the thieves approaching, is forced to hide behind a pile of treasure. The thieves enter and are entertained by a chorus of dancing girls. The unfortunate Cassim is discovered and beheaded—but only (we must infer) after he reveals the fact that his brother possesses the secret of the cave (Figure 6.18[4]).
  4. Brigands Découverts par la Servante. A cut reveals Ali Baba’s new palatial abode. Disguised as an oil merchant, the bandit chief uses large jars of oil to smuggle in his gang. They have decided (as we must again infer) to silence the man who knows the secret of their cave. Fortunately, a servant girl becomes suspicious, peeks into a couple of jars, and, her fears confirmed, extinguishes the hidden thieves by pouring hot oil into each jar (Figure 6.18[5,6,7]).
  5. Le Faux Marchand d’Huile. We cut to the interior of Ali Baba’s palace, where another chorus of dancing girls is performing. The servant girl enters, stabs the false oil merchant, and denounces him as the bandit chief (Figure 6.18[8]).
  6. Triomphe d’Ali Baba Apothéose. The household enjoys a sumptuous celebration (Figure 6.18[9]).

Although Ali Baba is a “story film,” its approach to storytelling is hardly characterized by the devices—pans, closeup inserts, point-of-view shots, alternation of sequences, and so forth—that were ultimately refined as techniques for clarifying and enriching narrative films. Ali Baba also fails—or rather ignores—some basic tests of what, in Chapter 4.1, we called representational strategy:

The governing structural principle in Ali Baba is obviously the autonomous tableau—a narrative element bracketed by intertitles—and its most obvious “rhetorical” device is Pathécolor (which is often striking). Clearly, the tableau system of presentation is not congenial to the principle from which the representational system of cinematic storytelling would gradually emerge—namely, the principle of matching action across adjacent spaces within a linear time frame. In addition, the color in this film is used not to enrich some aspect of this particular story, but rather because it’s an inherent component of its genre: the truly spectacular is, of course, very colorful. Color, in other words, reflects primarily the technical ingenuity of the production company in satisfying the demands of its chosen subject: as a self-conscious display of the cinema’s ability to show what will attract the spectator’s attention, it functions here within a cinema of attractions.

See the moving picture


       Albert Capellini, Aladin ou la lampe

          merveilleuse, Pathé-Frères, 1906

The Effect and Logic of Frame Changes: Aladin ou la lampe merveilleuse
  The same quasi-representational system at work in Ali Baba is at work in Pathé’s Aladin ou la lampe merveilleuse (Aladdin or the Marvelous Lamp), which was directed by Albert Capellani in 1906. There is, however, a significant difference: Aladin is composed of sixteen episodes—or shot-scenes—but uses only six intertitles. In the following description, the items in the numbered list correspond to the episodes introduced by intertitles and the bracketed numbers { } to the separate shots through which the action of the whole film is represented:

  1. La Rêve d’Aladin. {1} As he sleeps, Aladin dreams—by means of in-camera matting and superimposition—of making love to a beautiful princess (Figure 6.19[1]).

  1. Aladin Recontre la Princesse. {2} We cut to a bazaar, where the princess enters and is recognized by our hero from his dream. A bearded man accosts Aladin and (we must infer) makes him a proposition (Figure 6.19[2,3]).
  2. À la Recherche de la Lampe. {3} Another cut takes us to the desert, where the bearded man reveals himself to be a magician by conjuring an explosion that reveals a passage in the desert floor. Aladin descends into the passage. {4} A cut places us in an underground grotto, where Aladin encounters some coin-spitting urns before venturing, left to right, into another chamber. In an alcove at the far right sits the golden lamp, which Aladin eventually spies (Figure 6.19[4,5]). He takes it with him back to the passageway leading to the surface but is confronted there by the magician, who tries to seize the lamp. They fight and the magician retreats, magically resealing the passage behind him. The entombed Aladin inadvertently rubs the lamp while in the process of wringing his hands. A genie tumbles forth like an acrobat out of a comic turn by Méliès and (apparently at Aladin’s bidding) causes the passageway to reappear. {5} A good match cut shows Aladin as he emerges from the grotto, which is sealed in another puff of smoke. {6} A more awkward cut depicts Aladin’s return home, where he rubs the lamp again, this time summoning a tall lumpy genie who provides him and his mother with elegant food, clothes, and furnishings (Figure 6.19[6]). Some soldiers enter and bid Aladin to go with them. {7} Another good match cut takes Aladin out the door and into the street, where more soldiers are waiting for him with a magnificent steed.
  3. Aladin Obtient la Main de la Princesse. {8} We cut to the sultan’s throne room, where Aladin demonstrates his worthiness by producing from the lamp an army of black slaves bearing gifts for the sultan and his daughter. The sultan bestows the princess upon Aladin (Figure 6.19[7]). {9} We cut back to the exterior of Aladin’s newly refurbished abode and then {10} to the interior, as Aladin enters with the princess. {11} Another cut takes the couple into a private chamber, where they sit down to their bridal feast.
  4. Le Magicien Vole la Lampe. {12} We cut back to the exterior of the house, where we see the magician. {13} With another cut, he enters, seizes the lamp, and summons the green genie, whom he orders to abduct the princess (Figure 6.19[8]). Aladin’s life dissolves into its prior state of squalor, but the sultan arrives to seek his help in recovering his daughter.
  5. Triomphe d’Aladin Apothéose. {14} Another cut returns us to the street outside Aladin’s house. There he gives an old beggar woman the last of the coins that he’d taken from magical urns in the grotto—whereupon she turns into a fairy, dresses him again in splendor, arms him with a knife, and points the way to the evil magician and his hostage (Figure 6.19[9]). {15} With another cut, we are inside the magician’s lair, where Aladin makes short work of the villain, rescues the princess, and recovers the lamp. {16} A final cut returns us to the sultan’s palace, where dancing girls and genies conjured in puffs of yellow smoke celebrate Aladin’s triumphant walk down the aisle with his bride (Figure 6.20).

               Aladin, Episode 3/Shot {3}

Like Ali Baba, Aladin is primarily a demonstration of the cinema of attractions. Color is again exploited as a display of Pathé’s technical ingenuity, and the exhibition of deep space in the arrangement of shots—the practice of keeping planes in focus as deeply as possible into the background—serves not to naturalize space, but rather to demonstrate the superiority of the cinematic presentation of space over that of the theatrical. And of course the film’s “representational” system is anchored in a series of autonomous tableaux introduced by intertitles. But the differential between the number of title-announced tableaux (6) and the number of shot-scenes (16) means that most episodes are composed of multiple shots. Ali Baba’s house, for example (especially in episode 3/shot {6}), is constructed of adjacent spaces, as is the desert site of the underground grotto (episode 3/shot {3}). Although the cuts depicting the characters’ movements among these spaces are not always adequately matched, the filmmakers clearly intend not only to create a coherent fictional space, but to reveal and use it according to the actions of characters in a story.

To this extent, the spectacle in Aladin serves what Abel calls “a double function, one in which its effect as an attraction comes close to being subordinated to, and redirected to accommodate, the demands of a parallel strand of narrative.”[51] By the same token, however, certain key devices that would gradually become integrated into a representational system of cinematic storytelling remain devices in the service of spectacle attraction.

In episode 3/shot {4}, for instance, we’re treated to what had by the time become yet another trademark display of Pathé’s technical capabilities. Trapped in the underground grotto, Aladin gradually moves from frame-left to frame-right, where an archway leads into an interior chamber; to the far right, we see the magic lamp in an alcove. The camera pans left to right with Aladin as he moves into the second chamber and, finally, to the alcove containing the lamp; it then pans right to left as he returns with the lamp to the outer chamber and the closed passageway to the surface.

Recall our definition in Chapter 5.2 of a pan as a lateral movement of the camera on an imaginary vertical axis. Among the rhetorical effects of the pan is keeping a moving subject within the frame, thus confirming the subject’s placement in a space that spills out of the frame without the need to cut and edit discrete images of that space. In other words, when the camera pans, the frame changes, revealing hitherto offscreen space. The pan integrates or associates multiple components of an image within a single frame.

Now, in this case, these components are fairly obvious—Aladin and the magic lamp (the title, after all, is Aladin ou la lampe merveilleuse). Theoretically, the purpose of the pan would be to prefigure the importance of the connection between the main character and the all-important titular object, and it would also accomplish this purpose by underscoring a major narrative detail—namely, extending onscreen space to integrate Aladin’s gaze and what he sees (and toward which he also happens to be moving).


               Aladin, Episode 3/Shot {4}

Figure 6.21 shows six images from this panning shot, from the moment in which Aladin looks through a portal in the underground grotto (Figure 6.21[1]) to the moment when he sees the lamp (Figure 6.21[5]). He is obviously astonished by what he sees through the portal, but once he’s passed through it, we find that his attention has not been attracted by anything in particular (Figure 6.21[2]). Rather, he stops and looks around until he spies a tree laden with silver fruit, whereupon he turns his back away from the space to his (and our) right (Figure 6.21[3,4]). The camera, however, continues to pan to the right—completely independent of Aladin’s movement and gaze—in order to show us the lamp before Aladin turns again to look to his right and notice it in an alcove at the top of some stairs (Figure 6.21[5]).

We are forced to conclude that this elaborate pan shot functions largely as a special effect, merely making a display of its own mobility (and the filmmaker’s ingenuity); in fact, rather than introducing offscreen space for a valid narrative purpose, it actually ignores the obvious opportunity to do so when the camera clearly divorces itself from the gaze of the character through in whose persona we've been invited to witness the unfolding of the tale.

Note, by the way, that, under the system of découpage classique as it ultimately developed, a pan would not normally be used for the purpose of revealing what a character sees. The reason is suggested in Figure 5.24, where we observe that pan shots are not “naturalistic”: the “panning” human eye actually skips over space containing objects of little interest and comes to rest almost immediately on an item of relevance. For this reason, a point-of-view shot—one which shows instantly what a character sees—seems to the spectator to have greater psychological validity.

Second, there are very slight shifts in angle that differentiate the views of Aladin’s house, both interior and exterior, in those scenes when he is poor (episode/shot {1} and shots {13–15}, which cut across episodes 5 and 6) and those during which he is princely (shots {6} and {7} in episode 3). Abel suggests that these “differences in framing . . . seem to accentuate crucial differences in the mis-en-scène, according to the demands of narrative as well as those of spectacle.”[52] On the other hand, these “shifts” could be nothing more than inconsistencies due to the practice of shooting scenes out of sequence. It matters little: in either case, they’re almost imperceptible and do very little to manipulate our understanding of the space in which the characters go about their business.

Again, recall our discussion of découpage classique in Chapter 5.1, particularly our analysis of a shot schematic in Figure 5.12. We argued that if the camera enters a scene surreptitiously, establishing its own perspective and prerogative in narrating everything directly, it must also be capable of redefining space in order to solve the problem of locating some detail of interest in its setting. No such problem of placement or adjustment is posed here, just as no problem in naturalizing the view of space dictates the use of the pan in episode/shot {3}. In the absence of any problem, it’s not particularly useful to speculate on any success or failure in solving it (nor even on any motivation for doing so).

Reading 6.3, “In Theory: ‘Stupefying Evidence of This Is How It Was,’” begins by discussing the effect of intertitles in Pathé’s presentation of historical and fictional episodes in terms of “spectacle.” It then questions certain distinctions made by Pathé between “historical” and “fictional” events and traces them to the debate over vraisemblence—verisimilitude—in the depiction of events by photographic means.


[40] Babel and Babylon: Spectatorship in American Silent Film (1991; rpt. Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1994), pp. 29-30. See also Angela Miller, “The Panorama, the Cinema, and the Emergence of the Spectacular,” Wide Angle 18:2 (1996), pp. 34-69; Erkki Huhtamo, Illusions in Motion: Media Archaeology of the Moving Panorama and Other Spectacles (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2013); Bernard Comment, The Panorama, trans. Anne-Marie Glasheen (London: Reaktion Books, 1999); Kristen Whissel, Picturing American Modernity: Traffic, Technology, and the Silent Cinema (Durham, NC: Duke Univ. Press, 2008), Ch. 3, esp. pp. 136-47; Anne Friedberg, Window Shopping: Cinema and the Postmodern (1993; rpt. Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ. of California Press, 1994), Ch. 1; Precursors of the Cinema: Shadow-graphy Panoramas, Dioramas and Peep-Shows Considered in Their Relation to the History of the Cinema (Philadelphia: Barnes Museum of Cinematography, 1967).

For Figure 6.13, see “Early Cinema,” in Oxford History, ed. Nowell-Smith, p. 14; Laurent Mannoni, “Raoul Grimoin-Sanson,” Who’s Who of Victorian Cinema (British Film Institute, 2016), at (accessed June 26, 2016).

[41] The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 60-61.

[42] On Vie et Passion de Jésus-Christ, see Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 84-85; Freek L. Bakker, The Challenge of the Silver Screen: An Analysis of the Cinematic Portraits of Jesus, Rama, Buddha, and Muhammad (Leiden, Netherlands: Brill, 2009), pp. 15-16, at (accessed June 26, 2016). Also consulted: “La Vie et la passion de Jésus Christ (1903),” French Film Site (2014), at (accessed October 11, 2014). On Lucien Nonguet, see Danya Oscherwitz and MaryEllen Higgins, The A to Z of French Cinema (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2007), pp. 320-21, at (accessed June 26, 2016); “Lucien Nonguet,” BFI Film Forever (n.d.), at (accessed June 26, 2016).

[43] See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 164-65. See also: Dwight H. Friesen, “La Vie et Passion de Notre Seigneur Jésus-Christ (Pathé-Frères, 1907): The Preservation and Transformation of Zecca’s Passion,” in The Silents of Jesus in the Cinema, ed. David J. Shepherd (New York and London: Routledge, 2016), pp. 78-97, at (accessed June 26, 2016); David L. Shepherd, The Bible on Silent Film: Spectacle, Story and Scripture in the Early Cinema (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge Univ. Press, 2013), pp. 41-43; Ivan Butler, Religion in the Cinema (New York: Barnes and Co., 1969), p. 33.

[44] Paolo Cherchi Usai, “Origins and Survival,” in Oxford History, ed. Nowell-Smith, p. 9; Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 20, 34. For more on color techniques in the early French cinema, see also “Colourful Stories No. 9—They Do It with Stencils,” The Bioscope (April 6, 2008), at (accessed June 26, 2016); Joshua Yumibe, “French Film Colorists,” in Women Film Pioneers Project, ed. Jane Gaines et al., Center for Digital Research and Scholarship (New York: Columbia Univ. Libraries, 2013), at (accessed June 26, 2016). For a discussion of color as a function of the cimema of attactions, see Tom Gunning, “Colorful Metaphors: The Attraction of Color in Early Silent Cinema,” Fotogenia No. 1 (1994), pp. 249-55; rpt. Living Pictures: The Journal of the Popular and Projected Image before 1914 2:2 (2003), pp. 6-9.

[45] Quoted by Kevin Brownlow, The Parade’s Gone By . . . (1968; rpt. New York: Ballantine, 1969), pp. 331, 334.

[46] See Joan M. Minguet Batllori, “Segundo de Chomón and the Fascination for Colour,” Film History 21:1 (2009), pp. 94-103, at (accessed June 26, 2016); Batllori, Segundo de Chomón: The Cinema of Fascination (Barcelona: Filmoteca de Catalunya, 2010); Lucy Fischer, “Invisible Design: Reclaiming Art Nouveau for the Cinema,” Film History 25:1-2 (2013), pp. 55-69; Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, p. 84.

[47] See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 78-81. On Métamorphose du papillon, see Joshua Yumibe, Moving Color: Early Film, Mass Culture, Modernism (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers Univ. Press, 2012), pp. 78-79. On Gaston Velle, see Matthew Solomon, Disappearing Tricks: Silent Film, Houdini, and the New Magic of the Twentieth Century (Urbana-Champaign: Univ. of Illinois Press, 2010), pp. 70-71, at (accessed June 26, 2016); Oscherwitz and Higgins, The A to Z of French Cinema, pp. 409-10. For a complete filmography of Gaston Velle, see Philippe Rège, “Velle, Gaston,” in Encyclopedia of French Film Directors. Volume 1 (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2010), pp. 993-95.

[48] See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 91-97.

[49] The Ciné Goes to Town, p. 166.

[50] The Ciné Goes to Town, p. 95.

[51] The Ciné Goes to Town, p. 176. On Albert Capellani, see Antti Alanen, “Albert Capellani: A Cinema of Grandeur II,” Antti Alanen: Cinema Diary (June 25, 2011), at (accessed June 26, 2016); “Albert Capellani,” Les Indépendants du premier siècle [in English] (2014), at (accessed June 26, 2016). Also consulted: “Albert Capellani (1874-1931),” French Film Site (2014), at (accessed October 10, 2014). For a complete filmography of Albert Capellani, see Philippe Rège, “Capellani, Albert,” in Encyclopedia of French Film Directors. Volume 1 (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2010), pp. 171-74, at (accessed June 26, 2016).

[52] The Ciné Goes to Town, p. 176.

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