Ferdinand Zecca

The Entertainer

There is some discrepancy in the dates, but Ferdinand Zecca (1864-1947) first went to work for Pathé-Frères—or at least for Charles Pathé, who ran the motion-picture operations while his brother Émile directed the phonograph division of the company—in 1899 or 1900. By 1902, when Charles Pathé was building his studio at Vincennes and targeting the popular French fairgrounds with expanded output, Zecca was functioning as both director and head of production (see Figure B6.1).[1] As the supervisor of small, quasi-independent units of genre specialists, Zecca presided over the evolution of a “director-unit” system of production which would only later come to dominate the U.S. industry as well.

Copying Everything in Sight

  Zecca’s roots were in the entertainments of the café-concert, the French equivalent of the music hall, where he both wrote and performed comic and dramatic monologues on bills shared with a variety of stage acts. At Pathé-Frères, where he often performed as well as directed (see Figure B6.2), he relied on such entertainment staples—along with the imitations and inventions of other moviemakers—for his motion-picture subjects, and one historian of the French cinema reminds us that, as a “creator,” Zecca was primarily a borrower: once ensconced at Pathé, says Alan Williams, he “proceeded to copy everything in sight.”[2] The provenance, for example, of Dix Femmes pour un mari (Ten Women for One Husband—see Figure 6.24), which Zecca codirected with Georges Hatot in 1905, is particularly rich. Combining the attractions of comic and chase films, this story of a man whose advertisement for a wife attracts a pack of voracious husband hunters was first filmed by Biograph as Personal in 1904 (see Figure 5.18). By the end of the year, Edison had plagiarized a version and Lubin two; Zecca’s variation capitalized on the popularity of the premise in early 1905.[3]

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    Ferdinand Zecca, Par le trou de la serrure,

                Pathé-Frères, 1901/02, 1905

In the same year, Zecca revisited the conceit of a man who’s vouchsafed glimpses of various quasi-erotic goings on through a series of hotel-room keyholes. The idea of framing the images that he sees with a keyhole-shaped mask probably originated with the English filmmaker G.A. Smith (see Chapter 5.1), and in making Par le trou de la serrure (What Is Seen through a Keyhole or What Happened to the Inquisitive Janitor), Zecca was apparently remaking one of his own films from 1901 or 1902 (also titled Par le trou de la serrure and known as Peeping Tom). In both films, for instance, the hero witnesses what American film historian Richard Abel calls “a ‘deconstructive’ striptease” in which a woman removes (in order), her breasts (a couple of sacklike enhancements), nose, teeth, and hair. It would seem, moreover, that for each of his keyhole shots, Zecca scavenged the Pathé archives for even earlier one-shot comedies.[4]

Williams hastens to add, however, that,

artist or not, probably no other person in the history of cinema contributed as much or as fast to its evolution as did Ferdinand Zecca. Apart from his borrowings from other filmmakers, he proceeded systematically to adapt and transform material from other media. He looked almost everywhere for material: music-hall skits, soft-core postcard pornography, dance, sports, biblical illustrations.[5]


             Ferdinand Zecca in Le Portrait,

                        Pathé-Frères, 1904

Because competitors followed the same practices, it’s hard to attribute “originality” or any other conventional hallmark of “artistry” to the moviemakers of Zecca’s generation. Their major contribution, however, was the development of the new medium’s generic and stylistic flexibility. Abel points out that the spectrum of genres in the early French cinema tended to replicate “the range of acts making up the fairground and music-hall programs,” and as a veteran of Parisian popular entertainment, Zecca was especially well qualified to supervise Charles Pathé’s growing corps of moveimaking specialists, “many of them newly hired from the other spectacle attractions in Paris.”[6] In this capacity, argues Williams, Zecca, more than anyone else, fostered the practice of fusing the new medium’s broad range of source materials into experimental shapes.

Two early films, for example—one a fairy tale and the other a “realistic” melodrama—borrow theatrical devices to achieve effects like those often found in the contemporary trick film. In the first version of Ali Baba et les quarante voleurs (Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, 1902), the opening and closing of the thieves’ magic cave is simply a matter of a flyaway flat built into a painted backdrop.[7] In Histoire d’un crime (The Story of a Crime, 1901—see Figure 6.29), a sleeping man’s dreams are played out by live actors on a stage inserted into the backwall of the film set.

The Generic Approach to Moviemaking

To this approach to product development and corporate strategy can be traced, arguably, two of the most important formative tendencies in the early cinema. One is the practical concept of genre, which we’ll oversimplify by defining as any type or class of film. “[P]erhaps the most striking characteristic of early cinema production,” suggests Williams,

is how utterly distinct the various kinds of films could be. Among the “series” (as the studios called their film genres), performance styles, décor, camerawork, narrative structure, and so on varied widely, mainly because of their extremely diverse origins.[8]

Thus as early as 1902, Pathé had already organized its overall output into no fewer than twelve “series”:[9]

Eventually, when Zecca himself took a hand in the direction of a film, it was more often than not a “dramatic” or “realistic” scene—see Figure B6.3—but during the course of his career at Pathé, he proved a deft master at bringing ingenuity, entertainment value, and even occasional coherence to a number of genres.

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        Ferdinand Zecca, Histoire d’un crime,

                        Pathé-Frères, 1901

Reality and Dream (I): Histoire d’un crime

  Compare, for example, Zecca’s approach to “special effects” in Histoire d’un crime (The Story of a Crime, 1901) and Don Quichotte (Don Quixote, 1903). As we’ve already seen, Zecca embellishes the otherwise “realist” drama of Histoire d’un crime—the story of a man who commits a murder for which he’s arrested, convicted, and executed, all in seven efficient tableaux—by including dream sequences to depict the condemned man’s state of mind. The “trick” effect is achieved by purely theatrical means. The set of the fourth tableau is a prison cell with a rather high backwall. A medium long shot shows us the set in all of its physical detail, including two characters played by live actors—the condemned man, who is sleeping on his cot, and a guard, who’s dozing on a chair. On the wall above the hero is a large rectangular shutter which opens to reveal an enclosed life-size set inserted into the wall of the main set. On this stage, more real actors play out three of the condemned man’s dreams, including a blissful scene with his wife and daughter and a scene depicting the fatal moment when he loses all of his money in a card game (see Figure 6.29).[10] The hero has murdered an innocent man, and justice demands that he pay with his own life. Zecca, however, attenuates the harsh decree of reality by rendering the man’s interior life—thoughts of his family and regret over his human failing—on a visual plane that’s just as “real,” and just as human, as that of the main morality tale of sin and retribution.

Reality and Dream (II): Don Quichotte

  Like Histoire d’un crime, Don Quichotte is much concerned to represent moments from the main character’s interior life on secondary screen space; in fact, the film seems to revolve around a strategy of showing two different areas of space within the same shot-scene.[11] The hero of Miguel Cervantes’ renowned 17th-century novel is a man beset by delusions of chivalric grandeur—namely, the belief that he is a knight destined to seek errant adventure in a land of ogres and damsels in distress. Although Cervantes’ description of 17th-century Spain is generally realistic, Don Quichotte’s perception of that world is typically distorted. The result is the frequent interpolation of comic episodes occasioned by and burlesquing the hero’s delusions, and this is the aspect of the novel on which Zecca seizes in his féerie rendering of the tale.


           Ferdinand Zecca/Lucien Nonguet,

          Don Quichotte, Pathé-Frères, 1903

Because the hero’s perception of the world is at odds with its reality, Zecca ensures that the level of “reality” suggested by his interpolated depictions of screen space is intrinsically different from the level of reality suggested by his master narrative. Thus the main story and primary screen space, whether exteriors or studio interiors, are designed to suggest a context of “normal” reality: they rely on the convention that fictions played out on film are as concrete and immediate as fictions played out on a stage (or, indeed, in the real world). The action in interpolated secondary space, however, occurs on another plane of reality—one created by the insertion of a film within a film. For these insertions, Zecca employs the technique of in-camera matting—superimposing an inserted scene on an unexposed portion of a master shot (see Figure 5.32). Unlike the theatrical means that he employed for inserted space in Histoire d’un crime, the technique that Zecca uses in Don Quichotte is strictly cinematic.

Remember that both techniques are occasioned by the same narrative impulse—namely, the desire to depict a secondary level of reality associated with the main character’s state of mind. In Histoire d’un crime, Zecca set himself the task of equating primary and secondary levels of reality in order to impart the same quality of dramatic significance to both—thus the uniform theatricality of his presentation of both levels. In Don Quichotte, however, the issue of the main character’s state of mind is more complicated because much of the action reflects the effect of his distorted perceptions on the representation of the primary level of reality. The asociation of secondary screen space with Don Quichotte’s interior reality is made clear in the opening tableau, in which a portal in the wall of his study reveals a parade of the heroes who inspire him to undertake his benighted adventures. Much more complicated is the shot-scene in which Don Quichotte and his companion fall out of their boat on a lake next to a mill. The matte shot of secondary screen space shows the interior of the mill, where a group of workers hurries to the rescue. The hero’s signature confusion of levels of reality is ingeniously reflected in the subsequent action of the scene, as the mill workers exit a door located in their secondary space and reappear on a dock located in the contiguous primary space occupied by the two central characters.[12]

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      Ferdinand Zecca, Le Pêcheur de perles,

                        Pathé-Frères, 1907

A Fantasy of Moral and Gender Reversal: Le Pêcheur de perles

  An equally complex example of Zecca’s ingenuity in working within established genres is furnished by Le Pêcheur de perles (The Pearl Fisher or Down in the Deep, 1907—Figure B6.4 [13]), an elaborate fantasy in which the hero is seduced into the depths of the sea by five magical maidens. The film clearly recalls at least two earlier deep-sea fantasies made by Georges Méliès: La Sirène (The Mermaid, 1904—see Figure R3.5) and Jack le ramoneur (The Chimney Sweep, 1906—see Figure R3.14). In the first, a male magician orchestrates a libidinous fantasy of wish-fulfillment by transforming himself into the god of the sea and conjuring a delectable mermaid to share his undersea conch. In the second, a young man dreams that he’s transported across the waters and crowned her king by a princess on a seashell.

Zecca’s film opens on the scene of a young man lounging on a fountain under the arc of a rainbow. When the five maidens materialize, he leaps into the fountain and sinks into the blue waters of the sea, where he encounters a giant starfish that turns into yet another lovely maiden and directs him inside an outsized scallop. There, water sylphs dance for him as he appears to declare his love for their queen. He then awakens as from a dream, but we see immediately that it was no dream, for he’s sleeping on an underwater oyster, and although he’s missing most of his clothes, there is a great string of pearls at his side. The queen of the mermaids rises out of the shell and vanishes, leaving us to assume that the pearls have been left as payment for services rendered in an arcane ritual of a sexual nature.

Zecca, however, does not end the the film at this point. Rather, we follow the hero back to his terrestrial home and his real-life beloved. He bestows the pearls upon her, whereupon her dress turns to a gown of gold and the mermaid queen reappears, draping the whole house with pearls and performing what appears to be a marriage ceremony attended by the maidens who had danced for the young man the night before. With the addition of this epilogue, Zecca dramatically underscores a couple of elaborate ironies at work in his parable. First, the final scene treats us to the spectacle of a man seducing his bride with the fruits of services as a gigolo performed just the night before. (The French word pêcheur, by the way, means sinner as well as fisherman.) The jest, then, comes at the expense of conventional morality, and it also reverses the gender roles in the recurring melodramatic formula by which the heroine is offered compensation for her virtue that will simultaneously make marital bliss economically possible.

Second, the theme of role reversal is also central to the main plot, which enacts a thaumaturgic episode of sexual wish-fulfillment. As we saw in Chapter 3.2, the theme is a staple of Georges Méliès’ trick-film fantasies, in which male magicians typically wield implicitly sexual power over female subjects. In Zecca’s tale, however, it’s the woman who enjoys the power of wish-fulfillment while the male serves as little more than a necessary prop in its enactment: our hero, after all, sleeps through the magical moment while the mermaid queen seems to have been thoroughly satisfied.

The Bricolage Approach to Building a Movie

Closely related to the concept of genre is the concept—sometimes practical, sometimes theoretical—of what is often called bricolage. For our present purposes, we’ll borrow Williams’ definition—“the bringing together of bits and pieces of already known techniques to produce a new capability.”[14] Because its apparatus was a product of existing, separately developed technologies, the early cinema, says Williams, “was almost pure bricolage.” More importantly, he argues, its

creation of genres proceeded in a manner reminiscent of the development of its machinery—by various episodes of . . . bricolage. Forms and content areas from other media were systematically borrowed and adapted. Those that proved both marketable and capable of mass production at a predictable rate of expense would survive, if sometimes only briefly. Some would flourish beyond their creators’ wildest dreams and provide the bases for the worldwide industry that was beginning to stir.[15]

We’ll discuss the concept of bricolage in much greater detail in Reading 9.1. Here, however, we’ll settle for a few illustrations to observe its deployment at Pathé and to suggest that, in fostering and overseeing this strategy of constructing films Ferdinand Zecca might well be as important a figure in the development of cinematic content—indeed, in the development of the relationship between cinematic subject matter and its form—as Thomas Edison was in the development of cinematic technology.


          Ferdinand Zecca, Le Chien et la pipe,

                        Pathé-Frères, 1902

Consider, for instance, a film entitled La Soubrette ingénieuse (Ingenious Soubrette, Zecca, 1903). By pointing an overhead camera down at an actress standing on the painting of a wall placed on the floor, the director achieves the trick effect—or truc—of a woman who can walk up and down the wall. The result is a very simple trick film. Now consider a film entitled Le Chien et la pipe (Disagreeable Railroad Passengers, Zecca, 1902), which centers on the antics of a man and a woman in a railway compartment. She persists in moving his luggage around and complaining about his pipe smoke until he pitches her little dog through the window. A cut to the station at the end of the journey finds them both alighting from the train, and there sits the dog, calmly smoking the man’s pipe. This is, obviously, a simple comic film, and the extra twist at the end—the dog with the pipe—is the clou, or “high point,” of the gag (or at least the final joke). Finally, consider Le Chemineau (The Strong Arm of the Law or The Tramp, Albert Capellani, 1906), in which a burgeoning number of pursuers chases a thief who expedites his escape by comandeering a series of vehicles—a boat, a bicycle, a car—until he ends up dragging a chain of policemen down a hill. The action, of course, shifts from one space to another—a feature, as we saw in Chapter 5.2, of the chase film, which required filmmakers to develop techniques for managing the presentation of space across multiple shots.[16]

See the moving picture


     Ferdinand Zecca, La Course des sergents

                de ville, Pathé-Frères, 1907

An Adventure in Bricolage (I): La Course des sergents de ville

  By and large, each of these films exemplifies a single genre, and there’s very little spillage from one genre to another; Le Chemineau, of course, is also a comedy rather than a “dramatic” or “realist” chase film, but its appeal, both as cinema of attraction and narrative, lies in its use of the chase to show how cinema can present space in ways that theatrical productions cannot. In other words, none of these films reflects a strategy of bricolage in its construction.

Now consider La Course des sergents de ville (The Policemen’s Little Run), which Zecca directed in 1907 and which we discussed in some detail in Chapter 6.3. The framework of this six-minute film, in which a stationful of cops pursues a dog who’s stolen a ham, is the chase film—or, more precisely, “la course comique,” in which the technique of cutting for action across multiple shots is placed in the service of comedy rather than, say, suspense or some other “dramatic” premise.

Clearly, then, La Course des sergents de ville blends the chase film with the comic film, and there’s even an extended clou at the end: when the cops have seemingly trapped the dog in his doghouse, he suddenly turns on them and chases them all the way back to the station house. Finally, Zecca also manages one nod in the direction of the trick film. At one point during the chase, the dog confronts a building blocking his escape. Undaunted, he proceeds to scale the facade of the building in defiance of the laws of gravity. Arriving just behind him, the cops barely pause before clambering up the front of the building in order to continue the pursuit. The truc, of course, is achieved in the same manner as the in trick effect in La Soubrette ingénieuse.

See the moving picture


               Ferdinand Zecca, Slippery Jim,

                        Pathé-Frères, 1910

An Adventure in Bricolage (II): Slippery Jim

  Richard Abel points out that Pathé, unlike Mélies, preferred a formula of one truc per film,[17] but with Slippery Jim in 1910, Zecca pulls out all the stops when it comes to incorporating trick shots into virtually every stage of an extended course comique. Inspired by accounts of Harry Houdini’s feats of escape artistry, Zecca concocted a film about the efforts of the police to capture and confine a pickpocket whose devices for avoiding arrest and incarceration are ultimately even more uncanny than those of the popular Houdini must have seemed to live audiences of the time (see Figure B6.5 [18]).

Like Mélies, Zecca depends for most of his tricks on the technique of stop-motion substitution (see Chapter 3.2). In the opening of the film, for example, Jim is left in a locked prisonyard with his legs manacled. A closeup reveals puppet feet which unscrew themselves from his ankles so that the manacles slip off. Jim then replaces his feet and walks about the yard. When the astonished guards return, they resort immediately to more drastic measures, chaining Jim’s hands and stuffing him into a wooden box, which they lock before leaving again. Now a paper-thin Jim rolls out beneath the locked lid, recovers his three-dimensional shape, and resumes his walk about the prisonyard. Once the hero has escaped from the prison itself, Slippery Jim becomes a chase film, with Jim transforming one shapeless tire into a wholly formed magic bicycle on which he leads his two jailers on a frustrating pursuit about the city. Eventually captured, he’s stuffed into a ragpicker’s basket, only to transform himself into a snakelike strand of yarn, in which form he wriggles out of the basket, slithering into a nearby building and an office within. The comic-film clou reveals the office to be that of the prison warden, and when Jim rematerializes, he’s seized by the same cops who’ve been pursuing him all along and returned to the prisonyard (from which, of course, he escapes once again).

The Heritage of Bricolage

  Abel observes that, in France as elsewhere, several models of film construction developed as a result of filmmakers’ efforts to balance the cinema of attraction with a cinema dedicated to the development of narrative.The bricolage approach to building a movie was just one of these models—indeed, “the least successful, or long-lasting,” according to Abel.[19] This is undoubtedly true if we limit our understanding of “bricolage filmmaking” to the strategy of patching disparate generic conventions and expressive techniques, whether presentational or representational, into a single entertainment vehicle designed to mimic the format of the variety show. Certainly, more coherent narrative models would eventually prevail, particularly those that coalesced around the development of homogeneous genres—the Western, the crime film, and so forth. At this point, however, audience responses to cinematic narrative had not yet been molded by generic conventions, and as a result of its less than systematic experiments in developing models for attracting and holding audience attention, the cinema appealed to a broad variety of spectators’ interests—interests that were by no means confined to the homogeneous boundaries of genre.[20]

If we think of “bricolage filmmaking” in this sense—as the license of cinema to fashion narrative out of a warehouse of storytelling components designed and stored to manufacture a variety of generic products—then we must admit that it remains quite viable as a model for constructing novel entertainment vehicles. Is not Avatar (James Cameron, USA, 2009)—to take just one recent example—a sci-fi fantasy, war movie, and love story all rolled into one CGI-animated feature? Perhaps even more importantly, the bricolage approach to filmmaking also includes the amalgamation of presentational and representational modes of expression (see Chapter 4.1)—a strategy which continues to flourish along with the technological ingenuity that allows filmmakers to integrate everything from on-location shots to rotoscoped graphics into visual experiences that have no correlatives in our conventionally conditioned expectations.

The International Executive


            Pathé-Baby Ad, 1925

Except for one very brief period (see Figure B6.6 [21]), Zecca spent his entire career at Pathé, remaining in the dual capacity of director and general manager of motion-picture production until 1910, when he abandoned directing and limited himself to his supervisory role. In 1913, Charles Pathé dispatched him to the United States, where he oversaw the operations of the company’s American branch. During his tenure in Fort Lee, New Jersey, Pathé, through an independent import and production arm called Eclectic, initiated the wildly successful Perils of Pauline serial (the bricolage format par excellence).[22]

Zecca returned to France in 1920 to run Pathé-Cinéma, which continued to produce and distribute films until the late 1920s despite a steady decade-long decline in its fortunes. In 1922, he moved to Pathé-Baby, a division of the company founded to manufacture and market a film system designed for home use. Introduced in 1923, the 9.5mm Pathé-Baby was the first truly viable home-movie camera, and the brand became so popular in Europe that the 9.5mm gauge remained in use until 1960.

Zecca retired in 1939 and died in Paris eight years later, at the age of 83.

[1] For brief overviews of Zecca’s life and career, see Alan Williams, Republic of Images: A History of French Filmmaking (Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1992), pp. 44-47, at (accessed June 30, 2016); Georges Sadoul, Dictionary of Film Makers, trans. and ed. Peter Morris (Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ. of California Press, 1972), pp. 285-86; Dayna Oscherwitz and MaryEllen Higgins, “Zecca, Ferdinand,” Historical Dictionary of French Cinema, at (accessed June 30, 2016); Henri Bousquet, “Ferdinand Zecca,” Who’s Who of Victorian Cinema (British Film Institute, 2016), at (accessed June 30, 2016).

[2] Republic of Images, p. 44.

[3] See Richard Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town: French Cinema 1896-1914, rev. ed. (Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ. of California Press, 1994), p. 110.

[4] The Ciné Goes to Town, p. 118. On voyeurism and exhibitionism in the cinema of attractions, see Tom Gunning, “The Cinema of Attraction: Early Film, Its Spectator and the Avant-Garde,” Wide Angle 8:3/4, pp. 63-70; rpt. in The Cinema of Attractions Reloaded, ed. Wanda Strauven (Amsterdam: Amsterdam Univ. Press, 2006), pp. 381-88, at (accessed June 30, 2016). On “Peeping Tom” films, voyeurism, and exhibitionism, see also Miriam Hansen, Babel and Babylon: Spectatorship in American Silent Film (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Univ. Press, 1991), pp. 39-42, at (accessed June 30, 2016). On the theme of “keyhole spying” in the early cinema, see Don Fairservice, Film Editing: History, Theory and Practice: Looking at the Invisible (Manchester, UK, and New York: Manchester Univ. Press, 2001), pp. 39-40, at (accessed June 30, 2016).

[5] Republic of Images, p. 45.

[6] The Ciné Goes to Town, p. 21.

[7] See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, p. 82.

[8] Republic of Images, p. 45.

[9] Williams, Republic of Images, p. 45. See also Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 21-22.

[10] On Histoire d’un crime, see Williams, Republic of Images, p. 46; Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 97-98. See also: Remi Fournier Lanzoni, French Cinema: From Its Beginnings to the Present, 2nd ed. (New York and London: Continuum, 2005), pp. 42-43, at (accessed June 30, 2016); Noël Burch, Life to Those Shadows, trans. and ed. Ben Brewster (Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ. of California Press, 1990), pp. 186-88; Don Fairservice, Film Editing: History, Theory and Practice: Looking at the Invisible (Manchester, UK, and New York: Manchester Univ. Press, 2001), p. 28, at (accessed June 30, 2016). On Histoire d’un crime and Zecca’s dramatic and realist films, see Abel, “The Cinema of Attractions in France, 1896-1904,” in The Silent Cinema Reader, ed Lee Grieveson and Peter Krämer (London and New York: Routledge, 2004), esp. pp. 71-73, at (accessed June 30, 2016).

[11] See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 84-85.

[12] See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, p. 85.

[13] For Figure B6.4, see See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 291-92.

[14] Republic of Images, p. 9. On bricolage and the cinema of attractions, see Nanna Verhoeff, The West in Early Cinema: After the Beginning (Amsterdam: Amsterdam Univ. Press, 2006), pp. 183-85.

[15] Republic of Images, p. 47.

[16] See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 79, 88-89, 111.

[17] The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 78-79.

[18] Consulted for Figure B6.5: Matt Barry, “Slippery Jim, Zecca and the Trick Film,” The Art and Culture of Movies, March 9, 2011, at http://artandcultureofmovies (accessed November 4, 2012).

[19] The Ciné Goes to Town, p. 105.

[20] See Miriam Hansen, Babel and Babylon: Spectatorship in American Silent Film (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Univ. Press, 1991), pp. 47-48.

[21] For Figure B6.6: For a reliable account of Zecca’s tenure at Gaumont (including a brief working relationship with Alice Guy in 1904), see Alison McMahan, Alice Guy-Blaché: Lost Visionary of the Cinema (New York: Continuum, 2002), pp. 88-91.

[22] See Eileen Bowser, The Transformation of Cinema 1907-1915 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ. of California Press, 1990), p. 218; Richard Koszarski, An Evening’s Entertainment: The Age of the Silent Feature Picture 1915-1928 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ. of California Press, 1990), pp. 271-72.

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