Celebrating 120 years of horror cinema!

If you celebrate Rosh Hashanah, may you have a marvellous holiday!

Welcome to a month of celebration of vintage horror films with special anniversaries this year! Throughout October, I’ll be fêting Faust (1926), L’Inferno (1911), Homunculus (1916), The Phantom Carriage (1921) (my thousandth silent!), Der Müde Tod (1921), The Bat (1926), Midnight Faces (1926), Frankenstein (1931), and Dracula (1931). We’re starting off with the great-granddaddies of horror, three Georges Méliès films from 1896.

Georges Méliès, as some of you might know, was one of the pioneers of both French cinema in particular and film in general. Prior to becoming a filmmaker, he was a magician and illusionist, and put all those skills to wonderful use in creating special effects. His films span the years 1896–1912, and his best-known film is Le Voyage Dans la Lune (1902).

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Une Nuit Terrible (A Terrible Night) is one of only six currently known surviving 1896 Méliès films (out of eighty he made that year). It was advertised as a scène comique, and Méliès typically plays the protagonist.

At barely over a minute long, the plot isn’t very complex. A man is trying to fall asleep when a large bug (a pasteboard prop controlled by wires) crawls over his bed. Méliès does battle with the anthropod, and when it’s finally offed, he puts it in his chamber pot. While making sure it’s really gone, another bug appears!

It was filmed in Méliès’s garden by his home in Montreuil, Seine-Saint-Denis (a commune in the eastern suburbs of Paris), with a cloth backdrop and natural sunlight.

In 2013, Méliès’s great-great-granddaughter Pauline published evidence that a film commonly entitled A Terrible Night and available on several DVDs is actually Un Bon Lit (A Midnight Episode) (1899). The original Terrible Night has the same plot and bed, but much simpler scenery and different camera angles.

 

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Le Manoir du Diable (The House of the Devil), released 24 December 1896, is considered the very first proper horror film. It’s a comic fantasy that opens with a bat transmogrifying into Mephistopheles (i.e., the Devil), who then conjures up a cauldron and an assistant. Together, they conjure up a woman in the cauldron.

They all disappear before two cavaliers arrive, but not for long. A series of spooky tricks are played, including the conjuring up of a skeleton and furniture magically moving around. When one of the cavaliers attacks the skeleton, it transmogrifies into a bat. The bat in turn transmogrifies into Mephistopheles, who conjures up four ghosts.

More tricks are played, until the last confrontation between Mephistopheles and one of the cavaliers.

This was also filmed in Méliès’s garden, with painted scenery. Though film actors were never credited in this era, we know Méliès’s future second wife, Jehanne d’Alcy, played the assistant. It’s also speculated that Mephistopheles was played by magician Jules-Eugène Legris.

At the time, its length of over three minutes was considered very ambitious.

The film was considered lost for many decades, until its miraculous 1988 rediscovery in the New Zealand Film Archive.

 

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Le Cauchemar (The Nightmare) was advertised as a scène fantastique, and also filmed in Méliès’s garden. Painted scenery was used. As in many of his films, he himself plays the protagonist.

At barely over a minute, the story is pretty simple. A sleeping man has several strange visions who transmogrify into one another. He awakes all twisted around, searches the bed, and is relieved it was just a nightmare.

 

I absolutely love 1890s cinema. It’s like looking back in time at a long-gone world, this precious time capsule of cinema in its infancy. Whether the films are actualities (i.e., snippets of everyday life) or fictional stories, it’s so amazing to see these preserved moving images that didn’t need CGI, graphic violence or sex, several hours, or even intertitles to tell fascinating, complete stories.

Celebrating 120 years of going to the movies

Exactly 120 years ago, on Saturday evening, 28 December 1895, in a cellar room of the Grand Café’s Salon Indien, at 14 Boulevard des Capuchins, Paris, Auguste and Louis Lumière projected ten of their pioneering moving images to an audience of about one hundred paying patrons. These films included La Sortie de l’Usine Lumière à Lyon (Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory), L’Arroseur Arrosé (The Sprinkler Sprinkled), and Repas de Bébé (Baby’s Meal).

Charles-Émile Reynaud actually had the first showing of moving pictures, starting 28 October 1892 at the Musée Grévin in Paris, but his Théâtre Optique was just a successor to his Praxinoscope and the zoetrope, not an actual film projector such as the Lumières used.

Using highly-flammable nitrate film (the industry standard until about 1952), at a 35-millimeter width, the Lumières used their own version of a device known as the Cinématographe, which worked as projector, camera, and printer. Unlike the films made by Thomas Edison’s studio, which had four circular perforations on each side of the frame (the industry standards which continues to the present day), the Lumières’ films only had one set of circular perforations per frame.

Though today we understand just how volatile nitrate film stock can be, with the evidence of many silent and early sound films being presumed lost forever due to devastating vault fires, the Lumières actually used open flames to project their moving images, and even set up their projector in the middle of the room, among the audience. They wanted the patrons to have a good look at the magical new toy and wonder just how it worked.

Only after the first devastating nitrate fire, on 4 May 1897, did people really begin to understand just how dangerous nitrate could be. Though this particular fire was due to the projectionist lighting a match while putting ether into the tank of illuminating fluid, not the nitrate itself, the film industry regardless implemented some very heavy, serious restrictions on its transportation, handling, and storage. The projector also needed to be in a fireproof booth, and multiple projection rooms per theatre were called for. These rules persist to the present day.

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Over the last 120 years, rumors have spread about how the audience reacted to this first public showing of true moving images, such as claiming they screamed and fainted. However, the reality probably isn’t nearly as extravagant as what the legends depict. For example, L’Arivée d’un Train à la Ciotat (Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat) wasn’t shown till January 1896, and isn’t listed in the December 1895 program, but many people cite that as one of the ten films shown.

The problem with historical rumors and urban legends is that they often start with a grain of truth, and then become exaggerated over the years. Before long, people don’t investigate what really happened, and sources all start quoting one another and taking unverified stories as established historical truth. You can find the same lack of attention to accuracy and game of telephone regarding a lot of myths about the silent era and the transition to sound.

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Though film industry standards to this day still follow the Edison Kinetoscope standard of four circular perforations on each side of the frame, the Lumières’ Cinématographe set another established industry standard. Because their magical projector only used intermittent motion by equally resting and moving the film, this produced better image clarity. Projectors 120 years later still do this.

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Who in that cellar room 120 years ago, including Auguste and Louis themselves, could’ve ever predicted moving images would not only become a lasting part of the culture, but also develop by such leaps and bounds? The Lumières didn’t think cinema had a future, and thus refused to sell their Cinématographe to other filmmakers, such as Georges Méliès.

Yet the people gathered there so long ago didn’t care these films were just snippets, in black and white, without a synchronized soundtrack or dialogue, without plots. All that mattered was the exciting, amazing novelty of seeing moving images on a screen. Filmmakers today constantly up the ante with bigger and better special effects, but there’s no substitute for the good old-fashioned sense of wonder and awe coming from a simpler, more innocent era.

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Though my favorite period of the silent era is the 1920s, I’ve always had great love for these early snippets from the dawn of film in 1887 to about 1910. Watching these films is like literally looking back in time at beautifully-preserved time capsules, with people who are long since deceased, buildings that are long since torn down or radically changed, money no longer in circulation, clothes long since out of fashion, modes of transportation which are now obsolete.