Tuesday, April 21, 2015

The Dawn of Television

The image to the left is a single frame from the earliest known television recording of a human face, made by the inventor John Logie Baird. The subject, a Mr. Wally Fowlkes, was a young lab assistant undistinguished save by his willingness to sit for lengthy periods under the bright, hot lights required to make television recordings. And, amazingly, these recordings were made almost entirely using mechanical means -- a giant disc with glass lenses was linked directly to a Columbia Records turntable equipped with a cutting stylus -- and predate any electronic images of humans by several years! They were preserved on discs that look much like audio recordings, and the frequency of the image data is so low that, if played through speakers, a sound in the audible range is produced. Indeed, Baird claimed that he could distinguish, just by listening to them, a recording of a face from say, a recording of a pair of scissors or a soccer ball. Baird called his process Phonovision, and although he abandoned it as offering too brief, and posing too many technical obstacles, it was nevertheless the first system of recorded television in history.

These recordings were little-known until a few years ago, when recording engineer Donald McLean collected several of them, and transferred their analog signal into digital form. Once this was done, he was able to correct for all kinds of problems that plagued Baird's engineers -- mechanical resonance ("rumble"), pops and scratches on the disc, speed irregularities, and problems with frame registration. The earliest recordings are still quite primitive, but one can at least recognize the faces. 

Even more remarkably, in addition to these laboratory discs, there exist home recordings, made using "Silvatone" aluminum discs (one of these was referenced recently in The King's Speech). Silvatone discs used a heavy, weighted cutting stylus, and could record any sort of signal, whether of the human voice or a radio broadcast. And, due to the relatively low frequency of the signal, they could be used to record television broadcasts as well. During the brief period from the late 1920's through to the early 1930's, when Baird was able to send out television signals with the BBC's co-operation, a number of amateur recordings were made; these, too, have been restored by Mr. Mclean. There are about a half-dozen different snippets: dancing girls (of course!), a marionette show, and a singer by the name of Betty Bolton. McLean actually located Miss Bolton, by then 92 years old, and she was able to personally identify herself as the subject of the recording!

During this era -- in 1930 -- the BBC broadcast the very first television drama, an adaptation of Pirandello's play "The Man with a Flower in his Mouth." Although this does not survive, there is a re-enacted version, using the exact same script, the original music and title cards, and an identical 30-line Baird camera system -- you can watch it here, along with comments on the original broadcast and the recreation.

Mr. McLean has kindly permitted me to show his restored original Baird recordings to you -- but in class only -- as he is concerned to protect his rights in the restored versions. So look for some haunting images at Tuesday's class! 

SIDEBAR: Here's a chart I've prepared showing the relative frequency and bandwidth of television signals, from the days of the Baird discs to HDTV.


• The excellent Television History site, packed with adverts and images of sets.

• The 1936 opening ceremony for the BBC's improved television service, featuring the official TV theme song, with its curious lyrics:
A mighty maze, of mystic, magic rays
Is all about us in the blue
And in sight and sound they trace
Living pictures out of space
To bring this enchantment to you ...
• But wait, there's more: You can see a modern 32-line mechanical TV in action; a 1938 Nazi TV station ident (they named the station after Paul Nipkow, inventor of the Nipkow disc, so as to claim TV as an "Aryan" invention); and lastly, a TV advert for Dumont TV featuring Wally Cox, later a "Hollywood Squares" regular and voice of Underdog.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Color and Sound

The history of the development of cinema after the early portion of the silent era is largely -- though not entirely -- a question of the gradual progress towards both sound and color. Each of these, as we've already seen, started much earlier than generally imagined; sound began with Dickson's "Experimental Sound Film" of 1894, and hand-painted color had already reached a high-water mark with Georges Méliès's 1900 version of Joan of Arc.

With sound, the great problem was synchronization; there were all kinds of schemes for keeping sound -- as a phonograph record, an optical code, or any other pre-recorded substrate -- in time with image. When it came to color, hand-painted films -- even with stencils, and armies of (mostly female) colorists, it remained a premium mode without a premium payback. The main use of color in commercial film, in fact, was with tinting -- a process in which certain segments of film to be edited were run through chemical baths. An emotional scene might be bathed in red, while another encounter would be shown in blue or purple. The advantage of tinting was that all the varied colors could be achieved in post-production, at the director's discretion. Such scenes as the "mellow yellow" of the frame from an unknown film of this era, were common indeed. In some cases, tinted prints survive and have been restored; in others, the indications for tinting have been recreated in restoration.

At the same time, efforts progressed toward a technology that would bring about the appearnce (at least) of full color. The pioneer in this field was Charles Urban, an American expat in England who had already achieved success with his black-and-white films in the era of the "Cinema of Attractions." Urban realized that persistence of vision, the same principle that enabled the illusion of motion, could enable an illusion of color as well; this was the basis of his "Kinemacolor" system. Black-and-white was shot through a special camera using a spinning filter which filtered alternate frames in red and green. After developing the film, it was played back through alternating color filters, so that the "red" frames were tinted red and the "green" frames green; the result was something very close to the feeling of full color (though in fact the process missed part of the spectrum -- with dark blue being very imperfectly reproduced). Urban's process also had the huge technical advantage that, although special cameras and projectors were needed, the film was just ordinary black-and-white stock. Urban promoted his system through ambitious, epic-sized films shown in specially built, luxurious cinemas. Unfortunately for Urban, he was sued by cinema pioneer William Friese-Greene, who (falsely) claimed he had had the idea for this kind of color alternation before. As has happened with modern patent lawsuits, the British judges had no grasp of the technology on which they were ruling, confusing concept with practical art, and Friese-Greene's scheme of staining alternate frames (which produced only a muddy mess) with Urban's far superior pictures. They ruled in favor of Friese-Green, and Urban was eventually forced into bankruptcy. Friese-Greene was never able to bring his system to the point commercial success, though his son Claude, using a process much more like Urban's system than his father's, made a number of exceptionally fine early color films.

Ironically, it was to be one of William Friese-Greene's original concepts -- dyed film which was glued or bonded together -- which would ultimately be the precursor of modern color processes. The Technicolor company started out with a red/green system much like Urban's; they called this "System 1." Films made with this system have a haunting, greenish-yellowish hue which, while perfect for horror features such as "Dr. X" (1932) was less well suited for dramatic or comedic subjects. They next developed "System 2," a subtractive color process in which two dyed films were cemented together, but the finished film was prone to bubbling and cupping. A third system transferred the dyed prints to a fresh single film, but was still limited to two colors.

By the mid-1930's Technicolor shifted to a three-strip system, which was shot on three separate films, which were then dyed and transferred to produce the final prints. This offered the first commercially successful full color image, although red and green still had the most zing -- thus Victor Fleming's choice of ruby slippers and green witch's makeup for 1939's The Wizard of Oz. Not many people realize it, but "Color by Technicolor" was a licensed process not owned by the studios; directors had to hire Technicolor's camera operators and technical consultants, as well as entrusting post-production to their facilities.

Now, as to sound: at nearly the same time, different technologies were being tried to synchronize sound with moving pictures. Emile Berliner was involved with a disc-based system; Edison offered a cylinder-based one, but neither achieved real success. All the various attempts at sound stumbled with the issue of synchronization until the development of optical soundtrack systems, which in turn had to wait until amplified electrical recording became possible in the mid-1920's. These, because they could be recorded on to the actual film, and duplicated along with it, were both reliable and economically feasible, though of course exhibitors would have to invest in new equipment. Although hailed as the first sound picture, 1927's "The Jazz Singer" in fact only had sound in certain portions of the film, and still relied on the old sound-on-disc system. Rival technologies -- RCA's "Photophone" system, Western Electric's variable density system -- vied for the new industry standard. 

The introduction of sound to film brought with it a host of technical problems: microphones had limited range, and had to be hidden in potted plants and tableware; camera noise was too easily picked up, and cameras had to be encased in sound-proof coverings. Mary Pickford, one of the greatest stars of her day and a founder of United Artists, had a terrible experience with her 1929 sound film, "Coquette"; she had to strain her voice to get it picked up by the microphones, and the results were far from complimentary (just after the 3-minute mark, look for the imperfectly hidden microphone wire coming from the box of flowers!!).

Pickford's UA partner Charlie Chaplin, though he eventually embraced the idea of using musical scores on his soundtracks, put off the use of voice; aside from a phonograph recording, a one-liner ("Get back to work!") and a nonsense song in 1936's "Modern Times," Chaplin did not use spoken dialogue in any of his films until "The Great Dictator" in 1940, though some years later he recorded narrative voice-overs for many of his early features. Nevertheless, sound, well before color, became a standard feature of film very soon after its introduction.

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Georges Méliès and the Dawn of Fantastical Cinema

In an age when innovation was everything, the French film maker Georges Méliès was the greatest innovator in a pantheon of greats. With a studio -- literally -- in his back yard, and his wife, family, and neighbors as his most frequent cast, he made a vast variety of films -- "trick" films, comedies, farces, and especially films of discovery and adventure -- far beyond anything else made in his era. His background as a stage magician was surely of some help, but so was his sense of fun, his stage presence, and his showmanship. More than anyone else, he bridged the gap from stage to screen.

Legend has it that, in the mid-1890's, he saw a demonstration of film by the Lumière Brothers, and approached them to ask how he could do what they did. He was told that this new art was "merely a fashion of the time," and that in a few years there would be no money in it -- don't waste your time. Perhaps the Lumières were being facetious, but in any case, Méliès bought a camera on his own and in 1896 made his first film, "Une Partie de Cartes" (A card-playing party). Further fancies followed: a woman (his wife) was placed in a chair under a sheet -- with a flourish, she was a skeleton! A lodger checked into a haunted hotel; his coat was stolen, the hat-rack vanished, and he was plagued by enormous bedbugs. Soon, no tale was too wild or strange: a man sang a quartet with his dislocated heads; he inflated his head until it exploded; sailors brought up bodies from the USS Maine as magnified goldfish swam before them. Most famously, a voyage from the earth to the moon was filmed, complete with a crash landing in the "Man in the Moon's" eye; Joan of Arc revived the Kingdom of France, and a bearded explorer -- Méliès again, as usual -- conquered the North Pole (above).

Nearly 200 of Méliès' films survive, out of perhaps 500 that he made. After World War I, the market for his kind of cinema spectacles decreased with the rise of narrative, multi-reel films. By the early 1920's, his company collapsed, and the great director was reduced to selling magic trinkets from a stall at a Paris railway station. Happily, in the 1930's, shortly before his death, he received fresh accolades, and was awarded a pension from the French government, which enabled his widow to live out her days in comfort. Most recently, he was portrayed by Ben Kingsley in Martin Scorsese's brilliant Hugo, which includes both actual footage and re-enactments of some of his most famous films.

Monday, March 30, 2015

The Origins of Cinema

Although its basic technical details are clear enough, the origins of cinema are shrouded in doubt, dispute, and even death. As with other media technologies, among the earliest uses of sequential images were in scientific projects, such as those of Marey and Muybridge. The technical problem confronting them both was how to get a series of images in quick, measured sequence. Muybridge used timers and tripwires to obtain sequential images; Marey, more direct, invented a cinematic gun which "fired" a cylinder of small photonegatives; it looked somewhat like a Thompson submachine gun but was limited to 12 exposures. What was really needed was some kind of double movement -- a shutter which would open and close quickly and repeatedly, and a mechanism which would advance the photosensitive material. When the material in question was glass plates, the problem was overwhelming -- but with the invention of celluloid photo "film" by George Eastman, a solution was in sight, and the prize belonged to the inventor who could best employ it.

Louis Augustin Le Prince (above) is my personal favorite among the many candidates for first filmmaker. He had gotten his start working on great-circle panoramas, where his job was projecting glass plate photos onto the canvas for artists to trace. Arriving in Leeds, England, in the late 1880's, he married into a well-off family, and his father-in-law financed further experiments. Le Prince's first design was a 16-lens camera, using a series of "mutilated gears" to fire off 16 frames in short order on two strips of film. He later designed a single-lens camera, with a mechanical movement using smooth rollers (sprockets not yet having been tried) to advance the film. He planned to stage a grand début in New York City, and had rented a private mansion for his demonstration; his equipment was packed into custom-made crates, and his tickets were purchased for crossing on a luxurious Cunard liner. And yet just then, as he was returning from visiting his brother in Dijon, France, he vanished from the Dijon-Paris express and was never seen again, alive or dead.

As with many early cinematographers, Le Prince's films do not survive. Eastman's celluloid turned out to be volatile; it could disintegrate into a brown powder, burst into flame, or even explode without warning. However, at some point, paper prints were made of three of his films, and these have been reconstructed into short, viewable sequences. The films were made in 1888, earlier than any others. His first film, "Roundhay Garden Scene," shows his family dancing about in his father-in-law's back garden; his second, "Leeds Bridge," shows traffic and pedestrians crossing a bridge in the city where he worked; the third, untitled, shows his young son playing an accordion as he dances upon a set of stairs. The only question is: with what camera were these shot? Distortions and perspective problems with the frames, as well as the fact that there are rarely more than 16 of them, suggest that the 16-lens camera is the most likely source, but some believe he used his single-lens camera for some or all of the films. If so, he was certainly the first person in the world to make what we have come to regard as cinema film.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

The Rise, and Fall, and Rise of Panoramas and Lanterns

Old mass media never dies, it seems -- it just shrinks away 'till we can't quite see it, disguising itself as a nursery-room toy, only to rise again when you least expect it.

Public panoramas faded away in the 1880's and '90's, even before the invention and exhibition of film. But as they vanished from the eyes of the paying public, they re-emerged in the form of miniature scrolling views, designed for home exhibit, or sold as toys for children. An enterprising draughtsman by the name of Milton Bradley offered toy-size box panoramas for sale, and these became the foundation of the later Milton Bradley Company (now part of Hasbro), which brought baby boomers such classic games as Battleship, Twister, Operation, and even Hungry Hungry Hippos. Panoramic toys, alas faded from view over time, although the same idea was used in some later toys, such as Mattel/Disney's "Mickey Mouse Scrolling Television." It was left to the early twenty-first century for panoramas to be revived in modest scale by "crankies," a new form that has taken the world by storm in the past few years, thanks in part to notable artists such as Katherine Fahey, Anna and Elizabeth, Sue Truman, and Dejah Leger (please click on all of these links -- you will not be diappointed!).

The Magic Lantern, in contrast, never really went away at all, but simply changed form. The magic lantern evolved into the Stereopticon, the last big public-lecture system, which was used extensively well into the early decades of the twentieth century. Lanternist Terry Borton recently compiled a study of the Chautauqua Lecture Circuit, compiling a table of all those lecturers who used the Stereopticon. To give some idea of how many lectures on this circuit were given, Borton notes that one man -- "Sunshine" Dietrich -- who over the course of 14 years delivered 3,333 lectures in 35 different states! At the same time, lantern lectures were re-packaged for home use, bringing them back into the domestic sphere, with the domestic version bringing what had been a public entertainment into the private sphere (a move that has later been repeated with audio, film, and video entertainments).

Eventually rechristened the "slide projector," it reached its zenith in the Kodak Carousel. The Carousel stopped production years ago, but today's PowerPoint and Prezi systems, among others, are still based on the exact same idea of sequential images. In recent years, the original Magic Lantern, with its brass-mounted lenses, dissolving views, and period slides, has been making a comeback as well.

Friday, March 20, 2015

Camera Lucida

In French, it's "La Chambre Claire" -- the clear (or empty) chamber. The term was originally coined to describe an optical device invented in 1807, which reflected and refracted the image of a solid object onto paper. But for Barthes, it's a metaphor for the larger re-arrangement of our ways of seeing ushered in by the invention and popularization of photography.

When first announced by Daguerre, photography was claimed as the "pencil of nature," with photographs the work of the Sun itself. And yet, were that true, where could art possibly enter in -- one is reminded of Joshua Reynold's reassurance to Robert Barker that his newfangled "Panorama," though very realistic in its effect, was still "within the purview of Art." There must, then, be some human agency in how a photograph is "taken" (what a curious verb we use!), how it is developed, edited, printed, and reproduced, and how then received by its viewers.

This is what Barthes sets out to investigate, beginning with his own, seemingly subjective, responses to a series of photographs. He uses, at first, the classical French structuralist terms: the photograph is the "signifier," its seeming subject the "signified," the actual source in reality the "referent." And yet, in order to account for the experience of seeing a photograph, he finds he must introduce two new terms, the punctum and the studium. The studium simpy put, is what the photograph "says" it is about -- which might be "I am a photograph of some poor people," or "This is the Sphinx at Gizeh." There are, doubtless, illustrations in textbooks and works of reference that are, in essence, nothing more. But then there is something else, something which Barthes sees as "piercing" the viewer, the punctum. It might be a crooked tooth in a boy's mouth, or the glint in one eye of a man about to be hanged. Once seen, it shatters the distance that the studium can only gesture towards, and hurls us into the immediacy of the scene: we cannot look away.

Monday, March 2, 2015

The Fiendish Mirror of Daguerre

The arrival of photography was not, as we conceive of it now, the arrival of the possibility of accurate representations of reality. The eyes of the times were as yet untrained to decipher the "real" within photographical realism. The Duke of Wellington complained that his nose looked too big (never mind that his nickname in the Army had been "Old Nosey"), and many public figures avoided photography as though it were the plague. In the cartoon shown here, Punch magazine satirized the "Interesting and Valuable Result" of a family photograph; to many at the time, the camera's eye seemed a lie, almost an instant caricature of the sitter's worst qualities.

The Daguerreotype, the very first commercial process, was expensive and time-consuming; early sitters had to remain still for at least three minutes, assisted in this task by a metal neck-brace. The cost of the photo was based on the size of the copper plate from which it was made; a "sixteenth plate" was the smallest, and cost the modern equivalent of more than $100; a quarter- or half-plate such as was ideal for a family portrait could cost well over $500. Daguerreotypes were also "one offs," in that the plate was the positive and (because opaque) could not be printed off. Yet at around the same time, William Henry Fox Talbot developed his "Talbotype" process (also known as a Calotype), using sensitized paper to produce a negative image. From this paper negative, any number of positives could be made, although since their medium was paper, the outlines were far less sharp than with Daguerreotypes. Finally, the invention of glass-plate negative processes such as the Ambrotype (also known as a Collodion Positive) created a medium in which many excellent copies could easily be made from a single negative. By the era of the American Civil War, inexpensive photographic processes such as the Tintype meant that very few soldiers went off to battle without leaving a photo behind, and quite often took a family photo with them. The final step in cheapness and availability was George Eastman's invention of flexible celluloid film, which was used both in still and in moving picture cameras; with its inexpensive "Brownie" box cameras and rolled film that could be processed anywhere, Eastman and Kodak (who later merged) made the "snapshot" a part of the American, and the world, landscape.

Friday, February 27, 2015

The Magic Lantern

In some ways, it's the original optical medium, the lanterna magica, the method behind the madness of Robertson's Phantasmagoria, the first device ever to "throw" an image on a screen. The great-granddaddy of the slide projector and the PowerPoint presentation, the technology that made the 'carousel' of life go 'round for Kodak, a mass medium and later a home entertainment system.

And, as Don Draper observed, it's about coming back to where we began, and feeling that strange 'twinge' of nostalgia -- which is why, I think, the Magic Lantern is presently enjoying a new life, a new vogue, and a new kind of magic. It began with folks such as Terry and Deborah Borton, who quit their day jobs to form the American Magic Lantern Theatre, and to write the first comprehensive account of the work of Joseph Boggs Beale, the premiere American lantern slide artist. It began with Joe and Alice Koch back in Tacoma, Washington in the 1960's; it began with Bill Douglas, Bob BishopOldřich Albrecht, Judith Thurman and Jonathan David, Julius Pfranger, John Barnes, and Steve Humphries -- all of whom rediscovered this lost medium and helped retrace its history even as they brought it back to life. For, as it turned out, audiences today were as readily enthralled -- though perhaps for different reasons -- as were their grandparent and great-grandparents in the heyday of the Magic Lantern. Old lanterns could be found and collected, as could old slides; put the two together, add a top-hat and a booming voice, and all the ingredients were there for a revival of this lost art.

In class today, we'll see the lantern demonstrated for us by Carolyn Gennari, the creator of such multi-old-media entertainments as The Wonder Show, which used magic lantern slides, crankies, music, and readings to re-create the perils and perplexities of an Arctic voyage of exploration from 1819. She's one of a new generation of such artists, who all around the world today are both curating and creating old and new shows of every imaginable kind. For in that darkened room, when the lights go down, it's the lantern that led the way for the cinema, and for every other kind of visual entertainment that has followed.

Thursday, February 19, 2015

A Nation on the Move

For a young nation yet to celebrate its centennial, the moving panorama gave the United States a perfect means of self-representation.  Russell & Purrington's Whaling Voyage 'Round the World dramatized the whaling trade, which for much of the nineteenth century provided the most common household illuminant of the time, whale oil. Transportation and trade were also dramatized in the various Mississippi River panoramas, as well as in amusements that replicated the experience of a passenger on a train, such as Hale's Tours of the World.

The exploration of the Arctic regions was the subject of dozens of panoramas, many of them detailing the career of Dr. Elisha Kent Kane, who'd sailed north twice in search of the lost British explorer Sir John Franklin, before returning home and dying young. Many of these were actually narrated by members of Kane's crew.

Western expansion was another common subject, with panoramas extolling the virtues of California and Oregon, and dramatizing some of the challenges emigrants would meet along the way. Some specific groups, such as the Mormons, used panoramas to embody the sense that their westward journey was guided by divine providence.

Natural wonders, such as the Great Falls of the Niagara, or Mammoth Cave, were popular, as were political subjects; the former slave Henry "Box" Brown traveled with a panorama known as the "Mirror of Slavery," though eventually he switched to more general subjects. Still, it was to be the Civil War which, above all else, was the most popular and enduring subject, both of fixed great-circle panoramas and cycloramas, as well as of moving panoramas, from shortly after the end of the war through to the 1880's.

Thursday, February 5, 2015

Illusions in Motion

From the 1820's through to the 1890's, a new form of visual spectacle swept the world: the "moving" panorama. Unlike its circular and static namesake, the moving panorama actually did move, with new scenes emerging one by one from the right-hand side of the painting, while old scenes scrolled away. It was, above all, a narrative form, perfectly suited for journeys from one place to another, as well a for representing current events or familiar stories, ranging from Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress (a panel from a panorama of which is shown above) to the military campaigns of Garibaldi (this panorama is preserved at Brown University) to journeys up (or down) the Mississippi River.

Unlike great-circle panoramas, these scrolling painting required a narrator, typically a man in a top hat and tails who used a pointer to direct attention to specific parts of the canvas, and who served as a sort of conductor for this virtual journey. Most were professional showmen, but sometimes the attempt was made to have someone actually involved with the scenes depicted appear at, or even narrate, the painting. The pre-eminent Scottish firm of Messrs. Marshall & Co. hired a survivor from the wreck of the Medusa to appear with their depiction of the subject; the combined effect was so dramatic that it forced the exhibition of Géricault's great painting of "The Raft of the Medusa" -- then exhibiting in the same town -- out of business. Similarly, exhibitors of panoramas about Arctic exploration often hired the explorers themselves to narrate the scenes.

And it was not just the canvas the moved. Most had music, and employed a variety of special effects: lantern images were projected from behind the canvas; smoke was blown through holes in the cloth when the painted "cannons" were meant to fire; colored lights and sometimes even the shaking of the fabric were also used. Moving panoramas also had the advantage that they were far more portable than their fixed cousins, and could travel from town to town via horse-drawn carriage or train; in this manner they criss-crossed the UK, the US, and many other countries, sometimes being shown for more than a decade, until the pain began to chip off.

In their later years, attendance declined, and showmen had to resort to such 'captive' audiences as churches and schools. In his parodic story "The Scriptural Panoramist," Mark Twain made great fun of a showman with a Bible-story panorama who, his regular accompanist unavailable, hired the piano player from a local saloon, who ruined one religious moment after another by playing popular drinking songs.

With the emergence of film though, the days of moving panoramas were numbered. In 1903, the veteran panorama showman Rufus C. Somerby reflected on his career in the pages of The Billboard, a showman's periodical that later became Billboard Magazine. Writing as "The Old Panoramist," he reflected on the decline and fall of a medium which had once been well-known in nearly every town in America.

Prompt: Watch one of the two panoramas available online -- in the links above, there's a video of the Panorama of Pilgrim's Progress, and via Brown's website you can view the Garibaldi Panorama with its original narration. Then read Charles Dickens's tongue-in-cheek "Some Account of an Extraordinary Traveler," in which one "Mr. Booley is praised for his virtual-reality globetrotting.

Then respond with your comment: What do you think made this medium so popular in its day? Do we have any contemporary entertainments that parallel it? Who are the Mr. Booleys of today and what are they watching? Think through a wide range of media -- television, film, the web, etc. -- as you frame your thoughts.

Thursday, January 29, 2015

A Virtual Week

Thanks to this week's snow, our class has been obliged to find its way in today's 'virtual' world -- which in some ways is as klunky and awkward as any Victorian version of the same. Still, we must make the most of the situation -- and so I've placed both the list of early London Panoramas and the excerpt from The First Panoramas online here on our blog (see the right-hand sidebar) where we can peruse them at our leisure. I encourage everyone to comment, both on the Oetterman materials in our first posting, the excerpt from Oleksijczuk's The First Panoaramas, and the selected panorama programmes.

I hope that the forecast for next Monday will be for modest amounts of snow -- modest enough, at least, to enable us to meet in person and continue the lively discussion that I hope will begin in the comments field of these posts; if, on the other hand, the college does close, I will continue to make all our materials available here.

Update: Classes have been cancelled for tomorrow, February 2nd! Watch this space -- I will have a fresh post and some prompts to respond to shortly!

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

The Panorama

Our collective appetite for visual spectacles has a history which long predates the projections of the earliest film, back to the early nineteenth century, when crowds lined up across Europe and America to see massive depictions of spectacular disasters, ranging from the Battle of Waterloo to the Great Earthquake of Lisbon to the burning of Sebastapol. If our own time can be characterized, as it was by Guy Debord, as that of the 'Society of the Spectacle,' then its timeline must be extended to include the Panorama, where the very sense of society self-seen in the mirror of media was born, and whose technology was as characteristic of its age as the cinema is of the twentieth century.

For the "panorama" was not found, but invented, and patented as well, by Robert Barker in 1794. The technical challenge was to create a painting on a curved surface that looked like the view from a great distance, and in every direction. Some geometrical calculations were involved to ensure that the landscape did not seem distorted, a problem Barker was said to have solved by looking at the lines made on the floor of his prison cell by the grid of bars. A small one was first exhibited in Edinburgh, to which Barker invited the eminent authority Sir Joshua Reynolds. There was a feeling, at that time, that things which merely mimicked reality did not count as art -- Barker wanted very much to have his paintings considered as art -- a desire to which Sir Joshua gave his seal of approval. A purpose-built structure -- which still stands (see this GoogleEarth view) -- was erected in London's Leicester-square, and the first Panorama, of 'London from the Roof of the Albion Mills,' was unveiled. This was soon followed by a view of the British fleet at Spithead, was unveiled. The effect was said to be so realistic that it made Queen Charlotte seasick.

The phenomenon spread all around the world; by the mid-nineteenth century there was hardly a major city in Europe or America without at least one Panorama rotunda; many had several. Here in the United States, there were dozens, beginning with Vanderlyn's Panorama of the Palace and Gardens of Versailles (the building is long gone, but the painting survives at New York's Metropolitan Museum), the recently-restored Gettysburg Cyclorama in Gettysburg, and the Cyclorama of the Burning of Atlanta in Atlanta (A "Cyclorama" is a Panorama with the addition of false scenery and other special effects). Boston had one too -- a so-called "Cyclorama" of the Civil War -- but its case is the opposite of Vanderlyn's; the painting is gone but the building still stands.

Stephan Oetterman insists, and perhaps rightly so, that one should not seek to understand the Panorama primarily as the predecessor of the cinema. He emphasizes instead its historical disjunction, and cites Adorno's cautionary admonition that "nothing is more detrimental to a theoretical understanding of modern art than attempts to reduce it to similarities with what went before." Yet the kind of history at stake in the Panorama seems not to be the "progressive" history of which Adorno was so suspect, but rather a kind of Borgesian history, in which the present casts its shadow upon the past, and artists 'invent their precursors.' And now, as the "Panorama" option on the iPhone enables everyone to create all-encompassing views, we can look back to the original London Panorama as a shadow of ourselves, one which we should be perfectly free to regard as an early Victorian version of 'virtual reality.'

Saturday, January 3, 2015


Welcome to the blog for our Spring 2015 graduate seminar. The field of visual culture has been a rapidly expanding one, growing with our awareness of the complexities of human production and perception of images, and their relationship to cultural norms and notions of identity, nation, gender, and place. The history of our mass media goes back, it turns out, long before the invention of television or film, and is tied up in the earliest productions of theatrical and artistic spectacle.

We'll start with the Victorian era, in both Britain and the United States, a period in which visual culture began to take on its modern form. Beginning with the 'virtual realities' of panoramas, moving panoramas, dioramas, and optical toys, we began to educate the eye, as well as to deceive it. Victorian technologies of sight next brought to the public an incremental series of wonders, beginning with the invention of photography in 1839, and progressing through the mass-production of prints, glass lantern slides, stereoviews, and illusory motion -- as with the phenakistoscope disc shown above: when it spun, before a mirror, the figures seemed to move, a form of animation that preceeded cinematic cartoons by more than fifty years. We'll look at some of these ourselves, and use our own digital technology to see and reconstruct other pre-cinematic media. Our journey will continue through the birth of motion pictures, and the invention of television, both of which -- I suspect -- you'll find were invented much earlier than you'd imagined. Along the way, we'll read short critical texts by historians of mass media and visual technology, and work to understand how our ways of seeing have, over time, become ways of believing.