When moving pictures made their first claim on popular interest, they did so in the form of an item to the programme of the ordinary music-hall or vaudeville theatre. In the front rank of this movement was T. J. West; in fact, he might be considered the pioneer of the travelling cinematograph show. He had seen the popularity of the cinematograph feature on the programme of Professor Treuwé, the French prestidigitateur, during his appearance at the Regent Street Polytechnic. The conjurer used a Lumière apparatus and operated it himself. When his engagement was concluded, West decided that the Polytechnic ought not to lose one of its greatest attractions; accordingly he offered a complete entertainment in motion photography. From this small beginning has grown up one of the largest individual cinematographic exhibition businesses in the world. West realised the possibilities of the craft, and with commendable enterprise organised a touring show, with which he travelled not only through the towns and cities of the British Isles, but even in the remote colonies. To-day he has no less than twenty permanent establishments devoted to the projection of moving pictures scattered throughout the British Empire, providing employment for over 600 people.

The touring cinematograph proved conclusively the popularity of entertainments devoted exclusively to animated pictures. Permanent exhibitions were then tried, at first in a somewhat unpretentious way. Empty shops in prominent thoroughfares, which could be rented at a low price, railway arches, and so forth were acquired, and converted at small expense into dark halls. A screen and apparatus were purchased; the seating accommodation comprised hard wooden seats similar to school forms. The show was continuous: it commenced about mid-day and continued without intermission for ten or twelve hours, sufficient pictures being secured to provide amusement for about one hour, and repeated throughout the day. The prices of admission were very low, averaging about one penny, or two cents; and as the expenses were trifling, it did not require very extensive patronage to ensure a substantial weekly profit upon the investment.

In the United States the same practice was adopted. The first steps there were taken just as warily as in Great Britain; empty buildings were hired at a low price and turned into temporary “store” theatres, as they were called. If the enterprise proved unsuccessful, the energetic showman simply closed down, vacated the building, and tried his fortune in a more promising situation. This practice is still followed extensively throughout North America and Canada, and the initiative of the showman knows no limits. He seeks to instal himself in a small community where there is no competition. The experiment invariably proves successful from the financial point of view, because in the outlying townships the cinematograph hall constitutes the sole centre of amusement for miles around. If there is no available empty building, the showman constructs a cheap wooden theatre. Often the frontier moving picture palace is only a shack built of logs, capable of seating 100 people or so, the price of admission ranging between five and ten cents—2½d. to 5d. The cinematographic entertainment in North America is known colloquially as a “nickel” or “dime” show, from the prices charged for admission. In Great Britain it became known in the early days as a “penny gaff,” which contemptuous colloquialism still remains in use, though the price has gone up.

I have seen some very amusing and interesting manifestations of the showman’s energy in remote districts of America. When I visited Cochrane, a town which has sprung up in the wilderness of Ontario within 175 miles of the shores of Hudson Bay, the picture showman had planted himself firmly in its midst. There was only one masonry building in the place, the majority of the 300 inhabitants living in wooden shacks or tents, because the town was in the formative stage. The showman had come up with the first settlers, cannily foreseeing that a little colony 150 miles from the nearest town would need some form of diversion to while away the long evenings. He acquired a site upon one of the main streets, and ran up a cheap wooden building with an attractive arched front, gaily bedecked with small red, white, and blue lamps. There was not a unit of electricity or a cubic foot of gas generated in the place, but the indefatigable showman overcame these difficulties by recourse to substitutes. The theatre was thronged the whole evening, a result due in a great measure to the fact that Cochrane was situate in the Prohibition Area, and the theatre consequently had not to compete with the lures of the liquor saloon. The ranks of the inhabitants were swelled every day by gangs of workmen passing to and from the great railway construction camps, and the theatre was a distinct success and source of profit to the enterprising operator.

I encountered another quaint outburst of initiative at a far more inaccessible spot—the town of Hazelton around the Hudson Bay post at the head of navigation on the Skeena River, in British Columbia. Prince Rupert, 186 miles away, was the nearest town, and that port is 550 miles from Vancouver. A cinematograph showman arrived in Hazelton, which at that time boasted a handful of white men, and several Indians. The operator took over an excavation in the side of the hill overlooking the town, which had been made for storing various goods, but which at that time was empty. In this cramped, unventilated cellar he rigged his screen and lantern. On the wooden door he nailed a large sheet of paper, on which was scrawled the name of the “Theatre” and the programme of films “now being shown.”

The preparations demanded only a few hours. Boxes, barrels, and logs sufficed for seats, while a good many patrons sat or sprawled upon the earthen floor. The little vault was packed to suffocation on the opening night. The Indians were amazed and the whites were amused, though the films would not have been tolerated in London or New York, having long since passed their span of usefulness. The show was kept going day after day until the audience became too small to defray the cost of the illuminant, when the “theatre” was closed, and the showman haunted the verandah of the hotel until he received some new subjects. His supply of films was both uncertain and irregular. He had to order them by post from Vancouver, whence they were brought up by boat. If the fates were kind he received an entire change of programme in about a fortnight; if the river were difficult to navigate, a month passed before they reached him, and often the boat came up without his goods, owing to lack of space. Probably no showman ever offered to amuse the public under more difficult conditions. It was doubtful if he would secure any films at all during the winter, as, the river being frozen, communication between Hazelton and Prince Rupert had to be maintained by dog trains, which carried letter-mail only.

In comparison with the luxurious conditions under which the triumphs of the art may be seen in London, New York, or Paris, the “Hazelton Picture Palace” was a half-pathetic, half-laughable spectacle—a strange link between civilisation and the aboriginal. I saw it after being immured for several weeks in the primeval bush; and though the pictures in the cellar danced and flickered on the screen, they seemed to me like a welcome handshake with the great world.

About four years ago the cinematograph theatre underwent a fresh change. The success of the “halls” extemporised from empty shops and railway arches induced a movement in favour of a theatre especially designed for the projection of moving pictures. Companies sprang up on all sides. At first empty buildings of all descriptions, disused slaughter houses, empty factories, roller-skating rinks, chapels without congregations, were taken over. Landlords who had despaired of ever receiving an income again from their vacant property reaped a golden harvest. In the first enthusiasm little discrimination was displayed in the acquisition of premises. The interiors, having been cleared down to the bare walls and ceiling, were redecorated, and provided with comfortable theatre seats.

The converted building was not entirely successful. Moreover, the cinematograph theatre needed established houses in order to compete with the vaudeville and legitimate theatres. Managers became more and more ambitious; and to-day rivalry is being displayed between competitive interests to eclipse one another in the elaborate construction and palatial appointment of the building.

Great improvement was made in the mechanical installations. Hitherto they had been more or less haphazard; but expert electrical knowledge naturally soon entered the field, and the electrical engineer has found a new opportunity for the display of his ability. Every large company retains a highly competent electrical engineer and an efficient corps of assistants, and the success of the twentieth century picture palace is dependent to a very great extent upon electricity.

Improvement in this particular field is probably responsible for the fact that, taken on the whole, the British picture theatre is the best in the world from every point of view, as an inspection of the theatres on the Continent and in North America will readily show.

The picture houses under the control of the Provincial Cinematograph Theatres, Limited, offer a good illustration of my point. This company has studied the tastes of the British public and has set the pace in elaborate and comfortable buildings. The day of the moving picture theatre comprising only the box office and the dark hall screened off from the street by heavy curtains is past; and the comforts and conveniences of the vaudeville house and the legitimate theatre have been incorporated.

Our illustration shows the Picture House at Briggate, Leeds, one of the chain of theatres belonging to the Provincial Theatre Company. The building is of fire-proof construction, as every moving picture theatre should be; the decorative details have been carried out upon a lavish scale, and the seating arrangements have every device of luxurious comfort.

The projecting hall has accommodation for about 600 people, and there is a lounge, a tea-room, and a smoking-room. Such a liberal policy brings the picture theatre on a level with the vaudeville house or legitimate theatre.

British law demands that the operating room shall be insulated by means of steel walls. In the early days a cupboard-like box built of iron met this requirement; but nowadays larger accommodation is necessary, because the compartment has to house far more than the mere projector. When a continuous show is given, and the programme lasts about an hour, the public insists upon full value for its money; consequently the interval between each film must be reduced to the minimum. Under ordinary circumstances 1½ minutes suffice, not only to enable the film to be changed easily, but to give sufficient time for the audience to change.

The projecting apparatus should be in duplicate, not only to provide a reserve apparatus in case of accident, but to permit alternate use, so that the lantern does not become overheated. Moreover, the advent of Kinemacolor has made the 2-lantern plan essential. In colour work the projector requires a special type of shutter with alternate sectors of red and green glass, or screens, with intervening opaque sectors; and thus, obviously, when black and white alternate with colour pictures in the programme, a second projector is essential, to obviate the necessity for repeated detachment and re-attachment of the Kinemacolor shutter. A third lantern is required for stationary projections, such as announcements, titles, and so forth. Under these conditions a commodious lantern room is indispensable.

The front of the operating house is provided with small sliding shutters through which the pictures are projected. If a film should catch fire these doors, by a single movement, close either from within or without the lantern room, the fire is confined to the lantern house, and the public within the theatre need receive no intimation of the mishap. As the lantern house is provided with an ample ventilating system, no smoke or gases find their way into the main building.

In the modern theatre, however, the lantern room has to fulfil other requirements beside merely housing the projectors. From it control of the various electrical arrangements is effected. The picture palace of to-day, instead of being entirely dark during projection, is suffused with the subdued glow of ruby lamps, which do not affect projection, or the brilliancy of the picture to any material degree. Under the old régime darkness prevailed from one end of the programme to the other, save, perhaps, during a short interval; but now the lights are turned up throughout the hall while the films are being changed. The conversion from darkness to brilliant light, and vice versâ, which is so detrimental to the eyesight, is not, however, carried out instantaneously, but gradually. When the end of the film is reached the hall is filled—for about five seconds—with a soft diffused light, followed by full illumination; darkness comes on in the same gradual manner when the next film is ready.

In the modern picture palace, such as we illustrate, the electrical equipment is of the most elaborate character. The supply of current is derived, as a rule, from the public supply service, and the pressure has to be broken down to meet the requirements of the projector and of the electric lighting arrangements throughout the building. The supply service is generally in duplicate to guard against the failure of one installation, while should the whole service break down some other form of illumination has to be in readiness for use until the fault in the electric system is repaired.

The electrical installation is essentially of technical interest, appealing mostly to the engineer. In many instances the projector mechanism is driven by electric power, a small motor being fitted for this purpose. For natural colour work, indeed, owing to the number of pictures projected per second, a motor drive is imperative to secure satisfactory results.

After a film has been passed through the lantern it must be re-wound upon another reel to bring the first picture into the starting position once more. This operation is carried out with a film-winder. A large number of these devices are on the market, all working upon the same fundamental principle, but the “Empire” winders have achieved a high reputation, being excellent machines for the work and capable of withstanding hard wear. The operation is so simple that there is no necessity to describe the apparatus, as the illustration, Fig. 12, conveys its design and method of working.

Occasionally when a film is being run through the projector it becomes severed by some means or other. Before it can be used again the break must be repaired by splicing the two parts together. This is a simple task. The broken edge of one film is cut off about one-eighth of an inch below the line dividing one picture from the next. The gelatine emulsion upon this small section is removed with a knife. The other part of the film is trimmed exactly at the dividing line between two pictures, and the two facing surfaces of the film are treated with film cement, applied by means of a brush, the overlapping edges then being pressed tightly together and allowed to dry for about three minutes. This cement is a combination of amyl-acetate and acetone in the proportion of two to one for ordinary celluloid films. When a non-inflammable film is used the constitution of the cement is varied. To facilitate such splicing a small clamping device is used generally, and, although it is not essential to effect a good joint, its use certainly enables the task to be performed more neatly and satisfactorily. Fig. 13.

Though the excellence of a moving picture display depends primarily upon the projector and the film, its brilliancy and clear definition can be made or marred by the screen. When the pictures are being thrown from the front of the house and the audience see a reflected projection, the screen must be opaque and prepared from a suitably woven cloth. It is stretched taut, and the surface is treated with a good whitewash or matt white paint. Recently, various preparations have been placed on the market to enhance the brilliancy of the picture. They may achieve the result; but often at the price of introducing other flaws, such as alteration of the tone values and occasionally the impoverishment of the pure whites in the picture.

If the audience is viewing the picture through the screen—that is, if the projector is placed at the back of the stage and out of sight—the sheet must be made of transparent material. This practice, however, has fallen into disuse. The screen must be set perpendicular to the horizontal axis of the projector objective and condenser, and if the machine is inclined slightly the sheet must be tilted in a corresponding degree, or it will be impossible to secure a picture which is clear and sharp all over, for the simple reason that some of the rays of light from the projector will be shorter than others. If the former are focussed sharp and clear the latter will be blurred, and vice versâ. In hanging the screen a certain amount of care must be taken to secure the best possible results. The edges are covered with a black material—velvet is the best medium—carried for a small distance on all sides of the sheet, giving the appearance of a white surface being set in a deep black frame. Such an arrangement improves the pictures by throwing them into stronger relief.

Within the past two or three years the idea has come into vogue of accompanying movements in the pictures with characteristic sound effects. When a horse gallops, the sound of its feet striking the road are heard; the departure of a train is accompanied by a whistle and a puff as the engine gets under weigh; the breaking of waves upon a pebbly beach is reproduced by a roaring sound. Opinion appears to be divided as to the value of the practice. Some more cultivated motion photography lovers are opposed to it, on the ground that unless every motion is given its distinctive sound, none at all should be audible; others contend that sound imparts an additional realism to the scene. There is no doubt that at times the sound effects come as an unpleasant and disturbing shock, especially when they are neither in time nor harmony with the motion—for example, when the realism of a mediæval battle is heightened by the vigorous rattling of a machine gun, or when horses galloping over the turf make a clatter that only a city pavement could cause.

But, on the other hand, since sound effects are indispensable to the legitimate stage, why should they not be extended to the moving picture theatre? What would Macbeth be without the crashing of thunder, and how could the impression of rattling hail, or the howling and shrieking of the wind, be conveyed without recourse to various devices in the wings? Even if the play be in pantomime, all sound is not suppressed. The players may be mute, but yet one hears the slam of a door, or the crash of an overturned chair as it strikes the floor, and so on. Accordingly it would seem that sound effects are perfectly justifiable in moving pictures, provided they are judiciously managed.

The first attempts to introduce sound effects provoked humorous situations. The boy deputed to the task enjoyed the chance to make a noise, and applied himself with a vigour of enthusiasm which overstepped the bounds of common sense. Nowadays such effects are employed with all the care and discrimination expended on the pictures themselves, and the result is harmonious and pleasing.

Of course, it has been necessary to devise all sorts of contrivances for realistic sound production, from the firing of a 12-inch gun to the squeak of a mouse. The most interesting of these is the “Allefex,” invented by Mr. A. H. Moorhouse. It is the most comprehensive and ingenious machine ever made for the mimicry of sound, for although it measures only four feet in height, by about three feet in width and depth, it produces some fifty characteristic sounds, including the howl of a storm, the rushing of waterfalls, the bark of a dog, and the twittering of birds. Every artifice for producing these noises is contained within a small cubical space, and the operation has been so simplified that one man is sufficient for the task.

A general impression of this machine may be gathered from the illustration. It appears to be a maze of levers, cranks, plug-holes, and bulbs, but each attachment performs some definite purpose and produces one or more distinct sounds. Another striking feature is that its operation demands the minimum of practice, for the majority of the effects are produced by straightforward action. It is only here and there that a little practice is required, such as, for instance, to imitate the bark of a dog, or the cry of a baby.

It would be impossible to describe in one chapter all the various effects produced by means of this apparatus. I will confine myself, therefore, to some of the more difficult sounds, many of them apparently beyond the reach of mechanical mimicry. The shot of a gun is imitated by striking a drum at the top of the machine, on which a chain mat has been placed, a smart blow with a felt drum-stick as near the centre as possible. The same device serves to represent successive shots. The interior of the drum is fitted with three drum-sticks, which are manipulated by the turning of a handle, the number of shots varying, with the speed, according to the picture. At the bottom of the machine is a large bellows worked by the foot. Their manipulation in conjunction with one or other of the handles will produce the sound of exhaust steam issuing from a locomotive, the rumbling of a train rushing through a tunnel, and so on. Running water, rain, hail, and the sound of rolling waves are obtained by turning a handle, which rotates a ribbed wooden cylinder against a board set at an angle from the top of which hang a number of chains. By varying the speed of the cylinder any of the above sounds may be obtained with accuracy. The puffing of an engine is made by revolving a cylinder with projections against a steel brush; the crash of china, pots and pans, &c., is due to the revolution of a shaft on which are mounted a series of tappets striking against hammers, which in turn come into contact with a number of steel plates. The crackling of a machine gun is caused by turning a shaft having tappets which strike and lift up wooden laths, subsequently releasing them to strike smartly against the framework of the machine. The same device also serves for imitating the crash attending the upsetting of chairs, tables, and so on. Pendant tubes serve to produce the effects of church bells, fire alarm, ship’s bell, and similar noises; the sound of trotting horses is caused by revolving a shaft carrying three tappets which lift up inverted cups. This shaft is slightly movable, so that by adjustment a trot can be converted into a gallop and vice versâ, while distance effects are obtained by a muffling attachment. Thunder is made by shaking a sheet of steel hanging on one side of the machine; the press of a bulb gives the bark of a dog; the bellows and another attachment operate the warbling bird; while the cry of the baby is emitted by the dexterous manipulation of plug-hole and bellows.

A machine like this is a distinct acquisition to the modern picture theatre, for when skilfully controlled it provides a scientific and perfect mechanical apparatus for the production of distinctive sound, correctly, and at the proper moment. At the same time, it is so simple that little practice is demanded to make the operator expert in the art of mechanical mimicry.

During the past two years special attention has been devoted to what is called “daylight projection,” i.e., the display of pictures in broad daylight. A method evolved by Quentin for accomplishing this end was adopted at the Cinéma Palace in Paris nearly three years ago. Here the practice was to show the pictures upon the screen with half the lamps in the theatre lighted, the projector being 66 feet from the screen, the size of the picture being 10 by 8 feet, and the arc lamp taking normally a current of 30 amperes from the supply mains of a 110-volt circuit. Another system to the same end was evolved by Antoine and Prosper Poch, the image being projected upon a translucent screen placed between the spectators and the projector. With this apparatus the pictures could be thrown upon a screen measuring about 24 by 30 inches, so as to be clearly visible in the middle of the day by people passing along the street.

For this work the screen demands special treatment. If it is to be used only temporarily, the tracing cloth used by architects is a very satisfactory material. One inventor produced what he called a “rainbow screen,” prepared by soaking a suitable white material with fish glue and attaching thereto a thin layer of tinted fabric. Moving pictures “without darkness” have been exploited in the United States upon a small scale, and on one or two occasions in this country. The object of the plan, however, is not quite clear, for moving pictures can obviously be seen at their best only in total darkness or a very slight suffused red glow. It is claimed by the advocates of the daylight pictures that the eyes are fatigued less under such conditions. The advantage, however, has not been recognised by the public, for daylight projection is no more popular to-day than it was in 1897, when the appearance of a method for accomplishing it appeared and sank into oblivion after causing a passing interest.

A prominent feature of the development of the cinematograph theatre is the formation of “moving picture circuits,” or chains of theatres controlled by one organisation. This practice was taken over, of course, from the music hall and the legitimate stage; and its application to the new field has been largely responsible for the improved status of the cinematographic industry. Keen and growing rivalry is displayed between the various circuits. Thus has developed a spirit of healthy competition, resulting in the improvement of the picture theatre as a building, and in the production of superior programmes. When two or more rivals in a single town are making a common bid for popular favour, the public naturally patronises the establishment which offers the most refined pictures combined with comfort in the seating arrangements. The inferior film is being driven from the better class of cinematograph theatre, where a programme is offered which is varied in character, and of the highest excellence from the photographic, dramatic, and educational point of view, as well as from that of sheer amusement.

In the United States the growth of the cinematograph theatre has been phenomenal. The success of the first displays with the Lumière machine at the Eden Musée prompted the proprietors of other places of entertainment to introduce the biograph in their programmes. The news of its success at the Alhambra in the English metropolis doubtless likewise influenced the development on the other side of the Atlantic. The first display in a New York music hall was at the Union Square Theatre in the Keith vaudeville circuit. It did not meet with an immediately enthusiastic reception; but in a few days it caught the public fancy, and thereafter the house was always well filled. The value of the moving picture machine to this house is reflected by the average weekly receipts. At the time of its introduction the average receipts were £600 ($3,000) per week; a month later they had risen to £1,400 ($7,000)—the cinematograph more than doubled the revenue of the theatre.

Within a year there was not a music hall of repute in the country which did not possess its bioscope. Then came the first movement towards the creation of a moving picture palace, in the same way that it occurred in England. Empty shops were taken on all sides, and within a few years there were no less than 600 of these “store” theatres, or “nickel” and “dime” shows, in New York alone, while about 30,000 similar establishments dotted the country between the Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans, and from the Gulf of Mexico to the Great Lakes.

Men who started with no more capital than was barely sufficient to purchase the outfit and rent the empty shop, found that they had discovered an El Dorado. The more energetic started theatre after theatre, and in a short time possessed “circuits” of twenty or more moving picture shows. One of these pioneers, Marcus Loew, starting unpretentiously in a suburban district, found himself in five years possessed of forty theatres, from which the money rolled into his banking account in forty steady streams. It must be borne in mind that this fortune was accumulated from the public in five and ten cent pieces.

At the present time the moving picture theatre in the United States is in a state of transition. The palatial character of the British cinematograph theatre has spurred ambitious spirits in the United States to like achievements. Loew has built two palaces, spending some $1,000,000 (£200,000) upon the buildings and appointments.

Moving pictures are rivalling all other forms of entertainment in the United States. As suitable buildings fall vacant exorbitant bids are made by rival factions to secure their acquisition, and the rents paid are very high. William Fox, a man very similar in character to Loew, who entered the field a year later than he, startled the cinematographic world by acquiring the lease of a legitimate theatre in the fashionable theatrical centre at a yearly rental of £10,000 ($50,000), and converting it to cinematography. Scarcely had the excitement died down when it was announced that he had rented the Academy of Music at £20,000 ($100,000) per annum. The price he is paying in rental to bring moving pictures before the public continuously throughout the day represents one-third of the original cost of erecting the building, so that the proprietors may be said to have profited handsomely in the transaction. Gambling in sites for the establishment of picture palaces in the United States has reached a far greater climax than was ever attained in Great Britain in the height of the enthusiasm. Here the bubble has been pricked, and the same outcome is anticipated in the United States. Probably the most luxurious picture palaces in the world are in South America; there they are palaces in the fullest sense of the word. That territory has scarcely been touched yet, and is one of the most attractive fields for development. It is in the “land of to-morrow” that animated pictures promise to attain their greatest heights of success.