When the cinematograph made its bow to the public the latter were satisfied with the reproduction in animation of scenes and incidents associated with every-day life—rather trivial unrehearsed incidents which were void of newspaper interest. There was the shoeblack at work, the firing of a big gun, athletes at practice, and so on. Humour was presented in Mammy washing her young hopeful, a great favourite for many years, likewise in a set of films depicting a mischievous youth indulging in pranks with the garden hose.

But the popular taste changed in the course of time. The audience became fastidious, and demanded novelty. There was a clamour for picture-plays. The man in the street saw no reason why dramas, tragedies, comedies and farces should not be reproduced in pantomime upon the screen. This popular demand was by no means easy to meet. Obviously plays could not be photographed upon the ordinary stage in the theatre owing to difficulties of lighting. Special arrangements would entail a certain outlay, to be entered upon without knowing whether the results would justify the expense incurred. A further complication lay in the attitude of the showmen themselves. They wanted plays, but not with actors and actresses, or “anything theatrical”; and they protested against the incursion of the “legitimate” into their field.

Robert Paul decided to test the public taste with a little comedy which he called “The Soldier’s Courtship.” The roof of the Alhambra Theatre, in Leicester Square, was extemporised as a stage, and Mr. Moul, the manager, who had realised the possibilities of the cinematograph, acted as stage manager. Scenery and properties were brought up from the theatre below, and the assistance of one or two actresses and actors were enlisted. With much difficulty a film measuring 40 feet in length was obtained—the standard length of the time, though it appears insignificant in comparison with the films of to-day, which vary between 500 and 3,000 feet in length. In 640 consecutive pictures a pretty little “tabloid” comedy was expressed.

Some apprehension was entertained as to the reception the effort would receive. However, all doubts and anxieties melted instantaneously when the picture was shown for the first time. The audience gave it a hearty welcome, and a new era dawned in the history of cinematography. This initial effort—the first animated “picture play” produced in Great Britain—tempted Paul to more ambitious undertakings.

A plot of land was acquired at New Southgate in North London, and here the first building was erected designed essentially for the staging of picture plays. It was a combination of a theatre with an ordinary photographic studio utilised for portraiture, in a commodious lofty hall, with a proscenium opening measuring 18 feet in width by 13 feet in height. The stage level was about 8 feet above the ground, the under part being available for working effects from below, such as bridges, stage traps, and other artifices of the playhouse. The front wall, which faced the northern sky, was divided vertically so as to permit the sections to be opened out on either side to any required extent to reveal the interior. The front roof, set at a sharp angle was glazed to give top light.

A special platform, running on a wheeled carriage and track, the deck of which was level with the floor of the stage, was laid opposite and at right angles to the proscenium opening, to accommodate the camera and operator. Looking into the studio from this point, one saw a familiar theatre stage, with wings, flies, and other facilities. Such was the earliest venture in what is now one of the most important branches in the cinematographic industry. Upon that stage Paul himself produced several hundred plays of infinite variety, comedy, tragedy, melodrama, farce, and magic.

In the United States a crude attempt in the same direction was made by Thomas A. Edison in order to produce films for his kinetoscope. His building was unpretentious in the fullest sense of the word.

It was of the flimsiest character, with a movable top, and covered externally with roofing material. It became known colloquially as the “Black Maria,” a singularly appropriate name. A notable feature was its central mounting upon a pivot, and a circular track for wheels placed under the extreme edges of the building. The structure could thus be rotated in either direction like a turn-table, according to the position of the sun, so that the studio could be used at any time of the day. As the kinetoscope failed to arouse public enthusiasm, work in the studio was abandoned, until Edison, who had seen the tendency towards projecting pictures upon an enlarged scale before audiences, was able to perfect his projector.

At about the same time another American firm commenced work in the same field—the American Mutoscope Company. Their studio was open-air in the fullest sense of the word; the stage was the roof of their own building in New York City. A heavy network of steel beams was laid down, upon which the stage was erected. Opposite was a small hut built of corrugated iron, which housed the camera, its accessories, and operator. The stage could be swung round upon its track so that the bright sunlight fell squarely upon the scene, and similarly the camera house could be moved over its wheeled track to assume the desired position for taking the pictures.

American enterprise, however, grew dissatisfied with the short lengths of the picture films then produced. Certain interests in New York resolved upon a masterstroke. They cherished the idea of preparing something staggering in its sensationalism: the production of a gigantic film upon some striking subject which should startle the cinematographic world, and completely eclipse all previous efforts in the field. They succeeded to an extent which surpassed their own most sanguine anticipations.

After prolonged discussion it was decided that the “Passion Play” would prove a powerful magnet with the public. But where was the man to be found sufficiently daring to attempt to carry out the project? With the crude facilities available at that time the task was one not lightly to be undertaken. The New York interests approached Mr. Richard G. Hollaman, the President of the Eden Musée, who had been intimately identified with the popularisation of moving pictures ever since the days of the kinetoscope.

Mr. Hollaman was somewhat startled by the proposals, and at first considered the task entirely out of his province, and quite beyond him. However, he deliberated upon the suggestion, and at length consented to undertake the work. He secured the assistance of Mr. John Vincent as stage manager, and Mr. Albert Eaves as costumier. No expense was to be spared in its mounting—it was to be the most gorgeous production of the day. The Salmi Morse version of the “Passion Play” was prepared especially for the cinematograph, and the company was enrolled.

The next obstacle was in getting the play staged. No studio-theatre existed in America at that time, and the open air roof-stages were far from being suited to the work even if they had been available. As a result the producers had to make their own arrangements. The roof of the Grand Central Palace in New York was selected, and in the middle of November, 1897, rehearsals commenced. Several weeks were devoted to the preparation, and no less than $16,000 (£3,200) were spent upon the preliminaries. The film ran to three reels, or about 3,000 feet, and some 48,000 separate pictures. It was the first three-reel film subject ever produced in the United States, if not in the world.

The first exhibition took place at the Eden Musée, and required about 55 minutes to project. It created a tremendous sensation. Some idea of its popularity may be gathered from the fact that it ran continuously for six months. Copies of the film were printed off and sold broadcast throughout the United States, the success of the New York display ensuring it a warm reception wherever it was exhibited. Few films have created such enthusiasm as did the “Passion Play,” and it has never lost its popularity. As Mr. Hollaman was not associated with the film-manufacturing side of the industry, he accepted the first offer he received for the negative. Thus the “Passion Play” passed into the hands of Edison, who starred the production in his catalogue of films for a considerable period.

Meantime the movement went on in Great Britain. Shortly after Paul brought his studio stage into full swing, a second establishment came into existence at Hove, on the Sussex coast. The promoter of this enterprise was Mr. James A. Williamson, who, as the founder of the Hove Camera Club, had been introduced to the cinematograph in his official duties. He became fascinated with the work, and procured a projector, but at first confined his efforts to showing moving pictures for the edification and enlightenment of his interested club-fellows. Then he decided to participate in the taking of the pictures. The camera at that time, however, was so expensive that he resorted to an ingenious expedient. He took the lantern projector, which is similar in its design and operation to the camera mechanism, and fitted this into a light-tight box carrying the spools for the unexposed and exposed films. With this apparatus he secured many interesting albeit conventional subjects, with which the public was content at that time.

Meanwhile, Mr. Esmè Collings, the well-known portrait photographer, had entered into partnership with W. F. Greene, who produced the first model of a cinematographic or chronophotographic apparatus, as it was called. With his camera Mr. Collings secured an excellent varied series of pictures. But after a time he lost interest in cinematography, when his stock of films was acquired by Mr. Williamson. The latter now decided to enter the stage-picture film field, and a commodious and well-equipped studio was erected on the outskirts of Hove. His films, owing to their high technical or photographic qualities, attracted widespread attention, especially in America. In fact, the United States constituted his most valuable market, the Williamson productions being in great demand. Several of his pictures, as well as those of Paul, created a sensation, and these two producers practically controlled the play-picture film market of the world for many years. The period between 1896 and 1900 was most critical in the cinematograph industry, and it was due mainly to the perseverance of the two pioneers that it became firmly established. Lovers of moving pictures to-day realise little of the innumerable difficulties which confronted Paul and Williamson, and the puzzling obstacles which they had to break down. They were dependent upon their own resources and ingenuity, and had to learn by their own mistakes instead of by the example of others. They had to be photographic artists, scene painters, stage carpenters, and stage managers.

Both Paul and Williamson have now retired from the play-picture producing business, the first-named to revert entirely to his original occupation, and the second to the mechanical side of the industry, the manufacture of perforators, printing machines, and so forth. His studio was acquired for the production of Kinemacolor films, and is in active use to-day during the summer months of the year for the production of plays in natural colours.

Paul and Williamson led the way in the manufacturing of picture films, and for a time controlled the market. They were followed by several others, until about half-a-dozen studio-theatres were scattered over the country. The scope of their work was somewhat limited, yet their products commanded a wide sale. They dominated the American market; Williamson alone furnished some 60 or 80 films a week for the cinematograph theatres of the United States, and he was patronised also by the German public. Unfortunately, however, the industry in Great Britain did not develop so promisingly as these early achievements augured. The British producer does not appear to be able to gain the confidence of the capitalist; he is still as ambitious and as capable as ever, as witness the production of Tennyson’s “Maud,” but he is handicapped on every side. He finds it increasingly difficult to compete with his foreign rivals. To-day there are only two fields in which he reigns supreme—popular drama and comedy; and this slight modicum of success is due rather to the fact that the British public is somewhat insular in its tastes; it does not understand foreign humour, and will not tolerate foreign tragedy.

About six years ago the cinematograph play underwent a great change. Up to that time the productions were somewhat conventional both in plot and mounting. The scenery was commonplace, and the dramatis personæ, as a rule, comprised only about half-a-dozen persons. Moreover, the pictures betrayed a sad deficiency in stage technique, a result due entirely to the fact that the producers were not conversant with stage-craft.

The French producers saw a unique opportunity, and grasped it promptly. Foremost in the movement was the firm of Pathé Frères, which is to-day one of the largest and most enterprising film-producing establishments in the world. They launched out upon the most elaborate lines. Huge stages or studios, with the latest appliances, which from the technical point of view would rival the famous Drury Lane stage, were constructed at immense cost, eminent stage managers, versed in every phase of the technique of production, were obtained from the theatres, while the services of the foremost French actors and actresses were secured. The scenery was prepared upon an extensive scale, the mounting was lavish, and plays which hitherto had been considered beyond the scope of the picture-producer were taken in hand boldly. If the British producers introduced the stage-play to the cinematograph film, the French certainly perfected the idea, and set the elaborate production upon its feet. Some of the plays which the French producers have filmed are extremely bold in their conception, as well as being wonders of stage-craft, scenery, and photography. At the present moment the Pathé firm has no less than eight stage managers engaged in the production of picture plays of every description; the Gaumont establishment, which is pressing the Pathé hard for first rank, has six producers, while several other firms in the same country have elaborate organisations. Gorgeousness of production is the predominant key-note, associated with acting excellence; and the policy has been attended with merited success.

The triumph of the British and subsequently of the French film producers reached the United States. Like a huge wave the European films overwhelmed the country. In comparison, the American productions were trash. The native firms were confronted with extinction unless they made a bold and united stand, which was hardly to be expected, for at that time the American cinematograph world was in a state of chaos. Litigation was raging on all sides. Edison was engaged in a deadly struggle to maintain his position according to his original, or kinetoscope, patent. As a result of the turmoil, the industry became unsettled, and the money which should have been expended in the furtherance of the craft, simply went to fill the pockets of hungry lawyers. Edison triumphed at last; his claim was sustained by the Supreme Court. The establishment of this contested point cleared the air, and one outcome was the formation of a Cinematograph Trust or community of interests to resist foreign invasion. Several firms enlisted under the banner of the Edison patent—other interests which still disputed his claim combined to form a second trust.

The first move of the combination was to eliminate the foreign competition from which it was suffering so disastrously. Special terms were drawn up which European firms were compelled to observe under threat of their films being forbidden to the country. The European producers, foreseeing the loss of a valuable market, tried desperately to mitigate this drastic policy, but in vain. The American terms were: either limited sale, as stipulated by the trust, or else complete boycott. The British producers saw their most remunerative market eliminated at a stroke. Williamson suffered particularly from the decision, for all standing contracts were cancelled. As he never had made strenuous attempts to cultivate the British market, which was open to producers in all parts of the world without the slightest restraint, but had concentrated his efforts upon pleasing his United States clients, he concluded that retirement from play production was the wisest course, especially as the mechanical side of the industry was so full of attractive promise.

The American producers, entrenched firmly behind the wall of protection, set to work energetically to make up for lost time. The story of the automobile industry, which was similarly hindered in its infancy by patent wars, was repeated. The Americans imitated the French example and embarked upon the most elaborate enterprises. Keen rivalry was displayed between the various concerns to acquire the best managers of the legitimate stage, with the result that the theatre suffered heavily. Several stage managers, seeing the trend of events, and realising that cinematographic picture plays possessed a tremendous future, abandoned their old field and gave their energies to the new one, which offered such great scope for their abilities.

The American stage, like that of Great Britain, France, Germany, and Italy, had regarded the picture play with disdain, and had ridiculed the possibility of its ever becoming a spirited competitor to their particular interests. To-day the American stage is engaged in a struggle for supremacy with the moving-picture theatre. The American picture producers erected huge studio-theatres, with every convenience, capable of producing any type of play demanded, and giving the author greater opportunity for effect than ever the legitimate stage could hope to offer.

It is difficult to realise the proportions which these American studio-stages have attained, or the work they can carry out. Take the Edison Company for instance. We have seen the humble little “Black Maria” which sufficed to supply the film needs of the Kinetoscope in 1892. The present Edison studio, which cost something like $100,000 (£20,000) to build, is a huge glass building measuring 100 feet in length, by 60 feet in width, and has a height of 45 feet. The stage has a proscenium opening of 30 feet and an area of 2,400 feet. In addition there is a huge water-tank with a capacity of 130,000 gallons, which is used for aquatic spectacles.

The Edison establishment is but one of many. In Brooklyn the Vitagraph Company has a huge building, the Lubin films are produced in spacious studios in Philadelphia, while Chicago boasts the famous Essanay and Selig plants. The latter is especially noteworthy owing to its great size and the remarkable plays which it produces for the delight of moving-picture lovers in all parts of the world. It is devoted exclusively to making films, and finds employment for 400 hands. The main studio, in which are two stages, measures 179 feet in length by 80 feet wide. In addition to this indoor establishment, there are between two and three acres of surrounding land which have been enclosed for outdoor work. This field, if such it may be called, presents a strange sight. It is dotted with little groups of scenery. Here is a mediæval castle with ruined battlements; a few yards away to the right is a modern street; while on the left is the interior of a stately drawing-room. In one corner are a number of artificial hills fashioned by the dumping of earth, criss-crossed with paths and trails. It is an incongruous medley of periods and scenes, but one and all little assemblages of back-cloths and wings represent a stage, and one and all face the southern sun. Upon these little stages the plays are produced.

The Selig organisation is one of the largest in the United States, having, in addition to the Chicago establishment, another theatre at Los Angeles on the Pacific coast, devoted to the portrayal of pictures having a western setting. There is the Pacific Ocean on one side to form a background for marine incidents; the Sierras, frowning down upon the coast, provide a natural background for subjects set among the mountains; while within easy reach is the vast stretch of Nevada desert, where the atmosphere of the Sahara of Africa, or the great wastes of Australia, can be reproduced. The Chicago studio is provided with an artificial pool of 60,000 gallons, where a lake, lagoon, or swamp environment to a picture can be secured.

The modern cinematograph studio-stage is far more elaborately equipped for the production of effects than its counterpart behind the footlights, while the attendant plant is overwhelmingly extensive. The stage of Drury Lane Theatre in London and of the Opera House at Paris respectively are considered marvellous homes of stage-craft, and regarded as models of equipment. But compared with the great French, Italian, or American cinematograph studio-stages, they are insignificant. Large, well-lighted and spacious rooms are set apart for the stage carpenters and the scene painters to prepare the back-cloths, wings, and flats. This work alone, owing to the high pressure at which production is maintained, affords employment to a large staff. As the average output is three films per week—the Edison establishment produces four or five subjects in that time—the scene painters are kept busily engaged from morning to night. All scenery has to be painted in black and white, and the excellence of the work plays an important part in the effect of the picture, for the camera is ruthless in its exposure of indifferent work. The scene may be the interior of a shack, or a sylvan valley with a river winding like a ribbon of silver among the trees and a stately castle rearing above the foliage. In each instance the same artistic care is demanded, for it must be remembered that by the time the picture reaches the screen it is of the same dimensions as the original, or even larger.

As the picture-play producer roams through all the periods of history in all countries, a large stock of properties and an extensive wardrobe must be maintained. The Selig establishment in Chicago has a wardrobe in which are carefully packed and labelled ready for instant use no fewer than 7,000 costumes, of all countries and peoples scattered between the Arctic and Antarctic circles, and ranging from prehistoric times through the picturesque middle ages to the prosaic twentieth century.

From morning to night the studio-stage echoes the ring of hammers and the shouts of the stage carpenters as they set this scene or strike that. Frowning masonry castles are pulled down, and suburban villas rise up with greater speed than their jerry-built prototypes in bricks and mortar. The numerous dressing rooms are busy hives, where actors and actresses change swiftly from one costume, age, and clime to another, separated from it by centuries.

When the play is cinematographed indoors, a battery of powerful electric lights is placed overhead in front of the stage, corresponding to theatrical top-lights, and throwing a powerful glare upon the scene. They are controlled by switches, so that the light can be concentrated as desired. When the lights are in full blast, more than 80,000 candle-power may be thrown upon the stage. In addition, other lights are disposed for the purpose of producing different effects, so that upon a large studio-stage a body of well-trained electricians is indispensable.

The scene itself occupies but a small space, generally about 12 or 16 feet in width. As a rule the camera is brought within a few feet of the picture, in order that the actors may be photographed as large as possible. On the floor on either side battens are laid to indicate the limits within which actors and actresses must move. Beyond these confines is to vanish from the scene, and the stage manager may be heard over the whirr of the camera shouting peremptorily to one or other of the company to keep in the picture.

The large producer thinks expense is a secondary consideration in the preparation of plays. A simple conventional modern comedy costs about £50 ($250), while a gorgeous production runs well into £6,000 ($30,000). On the average, about 150,000 feet of film are placed on the British market every week, and this quantity is steadily increasing. It is computed that there are some 50,000 picture theatres scattered throughout the world, and as the number thereof is increasing daily the supply of films has by no means yet reached the limits of demand.