CHAPTER 6 / Part 3


Table of Contents

Table of Contents




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             Lucien Nonguet, Guillaume Tell,

                        Pathé-Frères, 1903

In the united states, pathé’s 1902 version of ali baba et les quarante voleurs was duped, cataloged, and widely distributed by both Edison and Lubin. In early November 1903, Edison offered Pathé’s Épopée napoléonienne (Life of NapoleonFigure 6.22), one of the earliest known two-reel films, in the same formats as Pathé—either as a full two-reel feature or as a series of separate scenes. At Pathé, the Napoleon epic had inaugurated a series of historical films that included a five-tableau Guillaume Tell and a nine-tableau Marie Antoinette, both of which appeared as Edison offerings in the U.S. in early 1904. Edison also successfully distributed Pathé’s immensely popular Le Chat botté (Puss in Boots, 1903), a fairy-tale adaptation in eight elaborate, colorful tableaux.[53]

By the end of 1903, about one fourth of Vitagraph’s advertised “spectaculars” were Pathé products, and in the Midwest and Far West, the Chicago based distributor Selig Polyscope was circulating Pathé products so widely that some local theaters “specialized” in them. From Des Moines, Iowa, to Portland, Oregon, features such as Vie et la passion de Jésus-Christ (The Passion Play, 1903), Christoph Colomb (1904), and Le Regne de Louis XIV (Life of Louis XIV, 1904) were each billed as “the latest Parisian film” through the winter and spring of 1905.

Interestingly, another popular Pathé feature was La Grève (The Strike, 1904), a stencil-colored melodrama about labor unrest at a French factory (see Figure 6.23).[54] The subject matter and the climax of the story—a mother who murders her husband’s boss in order to avenge his death is acquitted by a jury—made the movie an unlikely box-office success in the United States, and one U.S. distributor went so far as to bill it as one of the “greatest headliners since The Great Train Robbery.”[55] Its tinted titles and full range of color effects actually qualified it as a Christmas-week attraction in some theaters. Strictly speaking, La Grève was not a “radical” film. Though sympathetic to the workers despite their recourse to violence, it endorses a resolution within the existing social order: the enlightened, liberal-minded son of the deceased owner takes over and reunites labor and capital. As a general rule, the Pathé product was appropriate for the middle-class audiences targeted by American theater managers. Pathé, says Richard Abel, “generally sought to provide an . . . ideologically stable, moralizing discourse, one that sided with the . . . bourgeois family audience.”[56]

A Variety of Generic Attractions

The availability of a film like La Grève points to the diversity of output that Pathé’s operations had attained by the end of 1904. In June of that year, Pathé had arranged with George Kleine Optical of Chicago to serve as a U.S. sales agent. Kleine subsequently reached similar agreements with a number of European producers, including Méliès, Gaumont, and Eclipse, the French branch of England’s largest film company, Urban Trading (see Chapter 6.1). In its October catalog, Kleine warned exhibitors about the inferior quality of duped films, singled out “Pathé-Frères of Paris” as the producer most widely victimized by the practice, and extolled its new partner as the single most important contributor to the development of “the long subjects called ‘Feature Films.’”[57]

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              Poster for Indiens et cow-boys,

                        Pathé-Frères, 1904

  Beginning in the fall of 1904, when motion pictures had become a regular attraction in most major cities, Kleine offered a wide range of Pathé subjects.[58] In addition to La Grève, melodramas included Au pays noir (In the Mining District, 1905), in which a father grieves over a son killed in an explosion, and Honneur d’un père (A Father’s Honor, 1905), in which a bereaved father takes revenge on his daughter’s murderer. L’Incendiaire (The Incendiary, 1905), the story of a gypsy who is lynched for accidentally starting a fire in a haystack, incorporates an elaborate chase. Au bagne (Life of a Convict, 1906), which traces the fate of a convict from the time he enters a penal colony (where he is shackled and branded) to his death by firing squad, strives to cast the crime genre at the kind of emotional pitch normally reserved for the melodrama. Indiens et cow-boys (Cowboys and Indians, 1904), which probably owes something to The Great Train Robbery, crosses the “Western“ with the crime story, as Indians who attack a stagecoach are chased down by a posse of cowboys.

Comedies and Féeries
  Comedies abounded, many of them revolving around comic chases. Dix Femmes pour un mari (Ten Women for One Husband, 1905—Figure 6.24 [59]), in which a bachelor is pursued from one end of the movie to the other by a band of marriage-mad women, is an obvious borrowing from either Biograph’s Personal (see Figure 5.18) or Edison’s How a French Nobleman Got a Wife through the New York “Herald“ Personal Columns. There were also bad-boy shorts and comic transformations à la Méliès, and Pathé was one of the few producers who still made féeries, or fairy tale films. Tinting and stencil coloring, for example, enhance an adaptation of the well-known fable La Poule aux œufs d’or (The Hen That Laid the Golden Eggs, 1905—Figure 6.25), in which a magician transforms chickens into colorfully (and skimpily) clad women who lay an ample supply of golden eggs during a ballet interlude.


                  Segundo de Chomón

Trick Films
  By about 1906, Pathé’s practice of the trick film reached its apogee. In that year, a Spanish cameraman, director, and technical innovator named Segundo de Chomón (1871-1929) joined Pathé and took charge of the unit specializing in trick films and féeries.[60] Chomón extended the stage-bound magic of Méliès and gave an occasional twist to the gender conventions of the trick film. On the one hand, for example, Le Sorcier arabe (An Arabian Magician, 1906) rehashes the Méliès formula of masculine domination. Wielding his magical scimitar, an oriental sorcerer produces four dancing women out of brightly colored flames, makes them reappear beneath huge colored flowers, and dissolves them back into flames. He then conjures a couch, but when he finds one of the women lounging in his place, he gazes at her with stern admonition—whereby a stop-action cut permits them to reverse places. The woman hides her eyes, the sorcerer pitches her into the air, and she returns as a cascade of colorful flowers in which he is bathed.

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       Segundo de Chomón, La Scarabée d’or,

                        Pathé-Frères, 1907

The woman is treated here, as in so many trick-film fantasies, as an object of masculine creative powers, but a curious reversal occurs in Chomón’s La Scarabée d’or (The Golden Beetle, 1907). An elderly sorcerer tosses a golden beetle into a cauldron, and from bursts of yellow flame there emerges a woman in a golden beetle headdress who suspends herself in the air on dragonfly wings. The cauldron turns into a fountain, and when the woman descends into it, its jets of multicolored water give way to a display of brightly colored fireworks. The woman reappears with two companions and, when the cauldron goes dormant, throws the old sorcerer into it and hovers overhead triumphantly (Figure 6.26).

By fall 1905, Pathé was already advertising its imports into the U.S. as “photographically finer . . . and steadier than any other films,” capitalizing on the growing association in moviegoers’ minds of its patented stencil coloring with class and quality. By this time, Pathécolor enhanced not only trick films (L’Album merveilleuse [The Wonderful Album, 1905]), but comic chases (Les Petits vagabonds [Two Young Tramps, 1905]), sensational melodramas (Le Déserteur [The Deserter, 1906]), and even industrial documentaries (La Metallurgie au Creusot [Scenes at Creusot’s Steel Foundry, 1905]).[61]

Storytelling and Attraction in the “Course Comique”: La Course des sergents de ville
  Pathé also turned out a steady stream of literary adaptations, slapstick comedies, and crime and comedy-chase movies. Released in early 1907 (when Pathé was boasting “one novelty for each day in the week”[62]), La Course des sergents de ville (The Policemen’s Little Run, 1907—Figure 6.27) is a good example of this last category. First of all, it reflects Pathé’s principle of keeping comedies simple and accessible by dealing in recognizable stereotypes—here, the haughty urban policeman as a dubious figure of authority. When a pit bull steals a ham from a butcher shop, he’s soon under pursuit by an entire squad of Parisian cops wielding outsized nightsticks. The dog is chased (unsuccessfully, of course) through a combination of real outdoor exteriors and both exterior and interior sets until he is apparently trapped in his doghouse. Then, however, he turns on his pursuers and chases them all the way back to the station house.

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                Ferdinand Zecca, La Course

     des sergents de ville, Pathé-Frères, 1907

In addition, this little film combines the influences of the trick film and chase and rescue films. At one point, for example, the dog leaps onto a low ledge on the façade of a building (a real exterior). With a cut, the dog then charges straight up the side of the building: he is now being photographed from above by a downward-angled camera as he scurries across a horizontal painting of the building façade. The same trick allows the policemen (who struggle as if they were indeed scaling the vertical face of a building) to follow the dog.

Remember that the conventions of the chase film, whether comic or melodramatic, also contributed to the evolution of a new mode of spectator appeal—one that gradually displaced the cinema of attraction as a means of “organizing” viewer involvement. In the chase film, the spectator’s interest is held by the successful creation of coherent space: discrete, virtually self-contained theatrical attractions give way to spatial fragments held together by narrative logic and an appeal to the spectator’s appreciation of a reconstructed reality. According to American historian-theorist Tom Gunning,

this spatial synthesis of separate shots depended on narrative structure. The movement of characters through the frame, exiting, disappearing momentarily, and then reappearing in the next shot, set up a series of well-defined and quickly fulfilled narrative expectations and created a new involvement for the spectator. No longer simply observing the action or directly addressed by the attraction, the spectator [could now knit] together the space and time of the film following the logic of the narrative. The chase therefore plays a pivotal role in the transition from a cinema of attractions to a cinema organized around storytelling.[63]

This principle is evident in only the most rudimentary form in La Course des sergents de ville, which is an example of the “course comique”: a version of the comic chase “in which cutting for parallel action was combined with trick photography à la Méliès to achieve not suspense but laughter.”[64] This genre was yet another Pathé specialty, but not all courses comiques were as elaborate or as inventive as La Course des sergents de ville. In La Course de parasol (Lost Umbrella, 1907), a man chases an umbrella spirited away by a gust of wind. In La Course à la perruque (The Wig Chase, 1906), a woman chases a hat and wig to which some bad boys have tied balloons, and La Course des belles-mères (The Mothers-in-Law’s Race, 1907) features a race among matronly women vying for a “handsome son-in-law.”[65]

The Man Who Supervised the Movies: The Cinema of Ferdinand Zecca


                   Ferdinand Zecca

La Course des sergents de ville, a crude but clever amalgam of trick and chase film, is the work of Ferdinand Zecca (1864-1947), a onetime café-concert (or “singing café”) entertainer who entered the cinema as an actor in 1899. Shortly after he began directing at Pathé-Frères in 1901, Zecca pioneered the genre of the lowlife-crime drama with such films as Victimes de l’alcoolisme (The Victims of Alcohol, 1902—Figure 6.28), a five-tableau melodrama about the devastation visited upon a working-class family as the husband and father descends into alcoholism and madness. The painted-flat backdrops, both interior and exterior, are highly realistic, and real props are integrated into the décor of the family home. Victimes also displays Pathé’s first use of intertitles—black lettering on white strips—to separate each long-shot tableau from the next.[66]

Eight years later, the subgenre—which has since been labeled “the delirium tremens drama”—provided a point of departure for D.W. Griffith, who embellished the melodrama with the message of the temperance movement in his own vision of the family as an agency of personal redemption: as its title suggests, A Drunkard’s Reformation (1909) focuses on the protagonist’s salvation, and although Griffith devotes much of his growing technical virtuosity to developing the psychology of his hero, he also stresses the role of the family—the keystone of middle-class stability—in the individual’s spiritual deliverance.[67] In the first decade of the century, Zecca’s employers at Pathé and Griffith’s employers at Biograph shared at least one common goal: namely, to reassure middle-class audiences that the motion picture was committed to promoting domestic and public harmony.

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     Ferdinand Zecca, Histoire d’un crime,

                     Pathé-Frères, 1901

Aiming for Empathy in the Trick Film: Histoire d’un crime
  Similar in genre to Victimes but much more indicative of Zecca’s own technical ambitions is Histoire d’un crime (The Story of a Crime, 1901), which combines the crime story with the fait divers, or news-item story. Inspired by a waxworks exhibit, Histoire uses seven tableaux to trace the hero’s commission of theft and murder and his arrest, conviction, and execution. The execution borrows a truc from the trick film (the stop-action substitution of a dummy for the actor on the guillotine), but Zecca also does something highly unusual in depicting, first, the condemned man’s approach to the guillotine and, then, the execution itself: a pair of 180-degree reverse-angle shots made from opposite sides of the subject. At the very least, the switch from a painted-backdrop guillotine in the first shot to a physical prop in the second suggests the shock of expulsion from a world of temporary mental relief into a world in which a harsh fate is played out for real.

Even more conspicuous is the insertion of three “dream” images into the tableau depicting the hero’s wait in his prison cell. Instead of using superimposition (the strategy used, for example, by R.W. Paul in The Countryman and the Cinematograph—see Figure 3.13), Zecca borrows the theatrical convention of a small enclosed stage built into the main set (Figure 6.29). Strictly speaking, then, the technique is theatrical rather than cinematic, but clearly Zecca wants to tell a story within a story on the motion-picture screen. The “dream” sequence traces the series of events leading up to the hero’s tragedy—he’s a happy husband and father until he loses his money in a card game. In so doing, it adds some psychological complexity to an otherwise straightforward object lesson in transgression and punishment: a sense of regret and personal loss irrupts into the narrative almost as a mitigating circumstance. Apparently the film elicited enough sympathy for the criminal that Parisian authorities deleted the final tableau depicting his execution (presumably to avoid encouraging even greater empathy).[68]

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        Ferdinand Zecca, Rêve et réalité,

                     Pathé-Frères, 1901

Beginning in about 1900, Zecca, as head of production at Pathé-Frères, supervised a growing number of filmmakers who’d been hired as specialists in the different genres that were evolving from the most popular attractions at French fairgrounds and music halls. Zecca specialized in “realistic” melodramas, such as L’Honneur d’un père and Au pays noir—see Figure 6.30 [69]), but he also directed such féerie spectacles as Ali Baba et les quarantes voleurs (see Figure 6.18). In addition, as a writer-performer of café-concert monologues, he’d begun his moviemaking career by recirculating the entertainment vehicles that he knew best—namely, the kind of theatrical acts that were popular in his own days as a live performer, including comedic skits, magic acts, and dancing girls.[70] Rêve et réalité (Dream and Reality, 1901—Figure 6.31), for instance, uses a very basic cinematic truc—a single dissolve covering a stop-action substitution—to give life to a well-known café-concert joke. A man pours champagne for a costumed woman with whom he’s sharing a table. When he coaxes her to remove her mask, we see that she’s young and attractive. He then embraces her and moves in for a kiss. This scenario is the “dream”; “reality” asserts itself when the hero is transported back to his own bed, where he wakes to realize that he’s inadvertently aroused his homely wife.

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                Vie et la passion de N.S.J.C.,

                 Pathé-Frères, 1903 Version

The use of film gimmickry to enliven a simple conjuring trick not only suggests the influence of Méliès (who had of course mastered much more elaborate magic-act gags four years earlier), but also reveals a fascination with the apparatus of the trick film that goes back to Zecca’s earliest days in the cinema. The same impulse is evident in both La Course des sergents de ville, which adapts the truc to the comic-chase film, and Pathé’s second version of Vie et la passion de N.S.J.C. (Life and Passion of Christ or Passion Play), which Zecca directed in 1907 (having codirected an earlier version with Lucien Nonguet in 1903). In this case, the cinematic truc revolves around the use of color. As Jesus dies on the cross, Zecca uses dissolves and superimpositions to replace stencil-colored imagery with imagery bathed in a light blue tint. The tinting persists until Jesus is visited in the tomb by an angel, who’s stencil-colored a radiant gold.[71]

La Fée des roches noires (The Fairy of the Black Rock), Les Sept châteaux du diable (The Devil’s Seven CastlesFigure 6.32 [72]), and La Fée printemps (The Fairy of Spring—see Chapter 6.2), all directed or supervised by Zecca in 1902-1903, reveal the influence of Méliès and a fondness for the cinematic truc. So do such trick films as À la conquète de l’air (The Conquest of the Air [1901—Figure 6.33]), which features Zecca himself piloting a bicycle over the rooftops of Paris, and La Rêve à la lune (The Moon-Lover or Drunkard’s Dream, 1905), in which un voyage dans la lune is the final episode in a spectacular series of drunken hallucinations. In La Rêve, Zecca plays a drunk who passes out one night to a series of nightmares that climaxes with a climb up the side of a tall building, a crawl across the clouds, and a tumble into the mouth of the man in the moon.[73]

Interestingly, La Rêve à la lune, unlike Victimes de l'alcoolisme, makes no easy or overt statement about the evils of drink: it’s presented merely as an amusing spectacle of a state in which, at worst, certain dubious fantasies may be exposed. Here as elsewhere, Zecca, despite Pathé-Frères’ desire to appeal to middle-class audiences, does not automatically endorse middle-class values. In many of his comedies, for instance, as in La Course des sergents de ville, authority figures are made the butt of the jokes. Recall that Zecca also directed La Greve, a melodrama that declines to censure acts of labor violence. He’s also responsible for L’Incendiaire, in which a vagrant is lynched by a peasant mob for burning down a haystack. The spectator knows, however, that the act of “arson” is clearly an accident, and the film raises the troubling question of where true guilt in the case lies—with the vagrant or with the mob that represents “society.”

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    Ferdinand Zecca, La Révolution en Russe,

                       Pathé-Frères, 1905

Giving Narrative Meaning to Spectacle: La Révolution en Russe
  A similar ambiguity seems to underlie La Révolution en Russe (Mutiny on a Man-of-War in Odessa or Revolution in Odessa, 1905), which depicts the same events that the Russian filmmaker Sergei Eisenstein dramatizes in The Battleship “Potemkin” twenty years later. Following actuality footage of a real battleship, a fictional tableau records the shooting of a sailor who complains about bad food. In a second tableau, the sympathetic citizens of the city of Odessa gather at the harbor in support of the ship’s mutinous crew. There are then five shots depicting the consequences of the protest, which is dispelled when the citizenry is fired upon by another ship and attacked by Cossacks. Two of these shots—the second and fourth—represent the point of view of a Czarist officer who’s looking at the harbor-side events through a telescope. Richard Abel observes that these point-of-view shots, especially as they’re followed by reaction shots of the exuberant officer, perform two functions:

The officer’s reactions are therefore crucial to the narrative “meaning” of the two point-of-view shots. “Perhaps most interesting,” concludes Abel,

the officer’s privileged role as spectator (even more than narrative agent or character) seems to direct the cinema audience’s sympathies away from the townspeople—which the film initially seems to promote—and align them instead with the military forces of Czarist Russia (which, of course, would conform closely with France’s heavy capital investment in that country).[74]

Clearly the two impulses (that of the cinema of attractions and that of the narrative cinema) are potentially at odds here—as much so, in fact, as the political bias of the film’s producers and that of a good portion of its likely audience. The “meaning” of the sequence, however, seems ambiguous only if one lets the film’s tendency toward spectacle override its narrative tendency. The linkage between the point-of-view shots and the reaction shots of the officer demands a precise reading of the officer’s motives as a character rather than as a symbolic stand-in for the spectator. From this perspective, it’s difficult to see his motives as anything other than class-conscious pleasure of a professional and ideological—and even sadistic—sort (Figure 6.34).

In viewing the films directed by Ferdinand Zecca, it’s possible, as British critic Ian Christie puts it, to detect “a populist support for rebels and underdogs in films like The Incendiary [and] Revolution in Russia.”[75] As a director, however, Zecca was a jack-of-all-trades who seems to have responded more to the conventions of genre than to any impulse for meditating on his subject matter. As a producer, he’s often been characterized as a Méliès with a much better business sense—or at least with a much better sense of the French audience for popular entertainment. Moreover, we don’t know for certain what role Zecca played in the making of Révolution en Russe, and we can’t be sure whether La Rêve à la lune was directed by Zecca or by Gaston Velle, who specialized in féeries and trick films under Zecca’s supervision. On the other hand, we do know that, as the director Abel Gance remarked years later, “It was Ferdinand Zecca who supervised the films themselves,”[76] and if there’s a common denominator in films as varied as Révolution en Russe and La Rêve à la lune, it’s the gradual integration into spectacle-oriented genres of innovations developed at Pathé by filmmakers working in “dramatic” and “realist” genres.


          Ferdinand Zecca, La Rêve à la lune,

                        Pathé-Frères, 1905

A Psychology of the Fantastic: La Rêve à la lune
  Let’s return for a moment to La Rêve à la lune. As soon as our drunken hero has staggered into his room, he goes for another bottle, which happens to be standing in the middle of a table. Table and bottle both vanish, magically replaced by a woman with a bottle for a body (Figure 6.35). Two more similarly configured sirens appear and dance about the drunk until one of them turns into a barrel on which there is a menacing face. After these waking hallucinations give way to nightmares, the hero falls into the huge gaping face of the Man in the Moon, who smacks his lips as if relishing a terrestrial tidbit. The drunk then falls out, drifts downward through the heavens, and, by means of an abrupt cut, tumbles out of bed. Picking up an empty bottle, he hurls it at the moonlike face of a grandfather clock. Without much trouble, one could read the hero’s hallucinations—as well as his alcoholic propensity itself—as manifestations of psychological troubles, including fear of women and a sense of cosmic insignificance. But even without such specific interpretations, we can see a clear difference between this voyage dans la lune and that of Méliès (see Chapter 3.2): whereas Méliès’ film spoofs culturally conditioned fantasies of wish-fulfillment whose imagery is readily understandable by the average spectator, the Pathé film generates its fantastic imagery out of psychological disturbances that are no more accessible, either to hero or spectator, than the imagery in which they’re cloaked. (Thus, too, the reasonableness of withholding any judgments about the protagonist’s fondness for drink.)[77]

For more on the career of Ferdinand Zecca, see Biographical Sketch 6.1: Ferdinand Zecca. In particular, we focus on Zecca's contributions to genre specialization and the bricolage approach to filmmaking.

“Something New Every Week”

Unlike that of Méliès, who remained largely within the tradition of the theatrically bound trick film, Pathé’s strategy clearly called for diversity and quantity. By the middle of 1905, ads taken out by Pathé Cinematograph (the company’s New York sales office), Kleine Optical, and Miles Brothers Motion Pictures (a San Francisco-based sales agent) were boasting “Something New Every Week” (see Figure 6.36).[78] By the end of the year, Pathé’s French factories were capable of printing 40,000 feet of positive film stock every day—far more than any single U.S. producer could manage. Nine months later, that capacity had doubled, and Pathé was releasing between three and six new motion pictures every week.[79]

It was a propitious moment to be so productive. First, the exhibition of motion pictures in vaudeville theaters had reached the saturation point; George Kleine could say in September 1905 that “we know of no vaudeville house in the United States which does not fill one number of its programme with motion pictures.”[80] Moreover, demand was about to be further fueled by a change in the exhibition arena that would have both immediate and lasting impact on the motion-picture business in the United States—the advent of the nickelodeon.


[53] See Richard Abel, The Red Rooster Scare: Making Cinema American, 1900-1910 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ. of California Press, 1999), pp. 23, 200n32, 201n43. On Le Chat botté, see Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 84-85, at (accessed June 29, 2016).

[54] See Abel, The Red Rooster Scare, pp. 27-28; Musser, The Emergence of Cinema, p. 413.

[55] Quoted by Abel, The Red Rooster Scare, p. 28.

[56] The Ciné Goes to Town, p. 87.

[57] Abel, The Red Rooster Scare, p. 25.

[58] See esp. Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 102-78.

[59] On Georges Hatot, see Danya Oscherwitz and MaryEllen Higgins, The A to Z of French Cinema (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2007), p. 215, at (accessed June 29, 2016); Luke McKernan, “Georges Hatot,” Who’s Who of Victorian Cinema (British Film Institute, 2016), at (accessed June 29, 2016); Laurent de Forestier, “Hatot, Georges,” Encyclopedia of Early Cinema, ed. Richard Abel (Abington, UK, and New York: Routledge, 2005), p. 296, at (accessed June 29, 2016).

[60] This section is based on Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 169-71. See also Joan M. Minguet Batllori, “Segundo de Chomón and the Fascination for Colour,” Film History 21:1 (2009), pp. 94-103, at (accessed June 29, 2016); Eleanor McKeown, “The Spanish Weirdness of Segundo de Chomón,” Electric Sheep, December 2, 2010, at (accessed June 29, 2016). On the use of mechanically stenciled color in La Scarabée d’or, see Charles O’Brien, “Motion-Picture Color and Pathé-Frères: The Aesthetic Consequences of Industrialization,” in A Companion to Early Cinema, ed. André Gaudreault, Nicolas Dulac, and Santiago Hidalgo (Oxford, UK: John Wiley & Sons Ltd., 2012), pp. 298-314.

[61] Abel, The Red Rooster Scare, pp. 34, 44.

[62] Quoted by Abel, The Red Rooster Scare, p. 52.

[63] D.W. Griffith and the Origins of American Narrative Film: The Early Years at Biograph (1991; rpt. Urbana and Chicago: Univ. of Illinois Press, 1994), p. 67.

[64] David A. Cook, A History of Narrative Film (New York: W.W. Norton, 1981), p. 48.

[65] See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, esp. pp. 109-11.

[66] See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 97-98, at (accessed June 29, 2016). On Zecca, see also: Williams, Republic of Images, pp. 44-47; Henri Bousquet, “Ferdinand Zecca,” Who’s Who of Victorian Cinema (British Film Institute, 2016), at (accessed June 29, 2016); Dayna Oscherwitz and MaryEllen Higgins, “Zecca, Ferdinand,” Guide to Cinema (2000-2014) [from Historical Dictionary of French Cinema], at http://guide_to_cinema (accessed June 29, 2016).

On Histoire d’un crime, see 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 29, 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 29, 2016).

[67] See Gunning, D.W. Griffith, pp. 162-72; Kay Sloan, The Loud Silents: Origins of the Social Problem Film (Urbana and Chicago: Univ. of Illinois Press, 1988), pp. 94-96.

[68] On the dreamed insert in Histoire d’un crime, see Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, esp. pp. 97-98, 27; Marie-Louise Hillcoat, “New Thresholds of Perception: Representations of Altered States in Early Cinema,” Refractory 6 (2004), at (accessed June 29, 2016).

[69] See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 125-27.

[70] See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, esp. pp. 87-90.

[71] See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, esp. 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.

[72] See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 82-83.

[73] See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, esp. pp. 82-83, 170-71. For the Pathé catalog entry on La Rêve à la lune, see Charles Musser, Before the Nickelodeon: Edwin S. Porter and the Edison Manufacturing Company (Berkeley, Los Angeles, Oxford: Univ. of California Press, 1991), pp. 341-42, at (accessed June 29, 2016). Like Abel, Musser credits Gaston Velle as the director of the film. Other sources cite Zecca, and still others credit Zecca and Velle as codirectors, including Philippe Rège, “Velle, Gaston,” Encyclopedia of French Film Directors, pp. 993-94, at (accessed June 29, 2016).

[74] The Ciné Goes to Town, esp. p. 120. Again, directorial credit varies. Abel attributes La Révolution en Russe to Lucien Nonguet, as does the American Film Institute Catalog of Feature Films (2014), at (accessed June 29, 2016).

[75] The Last Machine, p. 37.

[76] Quoted by Brownlow, The Parade’s Gone By . . ., p. 608.

[77] See Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, p. 171.

[78] See esp. Abel, The Ciné Goes to Town, pp. 52-61. See also Musser, The Emergence of Cinema, p. 412; Abel, The Red Rooster Scare, p. 29.

[79] Abel, The Red Rooster Scare, pp. 29, 35.

[80] Quoted by Musser, The Emergence of Cinema, p. 371.

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