The achievements of Mélies and Paul set a very high standard of excellence in trick pictures. Their popularity precipitated a “trick film” fever. The market became inundated with so-called magic pictures, of which the majority were inane or conventional. The inevitable happened; the public appetite became satiated. Consequently, to-day, the popular taste demands extreme novelty. Unless the subject is original in theme, and the atmosphere of mystification is sustained, the effort is regarded with indifference, if not with absolute contempt. On the other hand, a first-class trick film commands the highest admiration, is regarded with as much satisfaction as were the products of the past masters in cinematographic magic of fifteen years ago, and when once seen is not forgotten very readily. There are certain producers who specialise in trick films with considerable success; but their number is small.

On the other hand, trick devices are introduced to a considerable extent into the ordinary picture play. I recall a film which depicted a scene at sea, where the vessel upon which the action took place was shown rolling and plunging in a truly appalling manner, and was swept from stem to stern time after time by the angry waves and scud. Wonder and admiration were expressed by the public at the daring of the producer in venturing upon a small boat under such terrible climatic conditions merely to procure a sensational picture.

That scene was produced in the serenity and quietness of the glass-covered studio under the glare of electric lights. The boat deck was a stage property, comprising a platform built to resemble the deck of an actual vessel, mounted upon rollers in such a way that when the latter were set in motion the boat was caused to rock, roll, and pitch in the most alarming manner. The angry waves seen on the horizon as the craft dipped its nose or rose upon a crest were no more than back-cloths and flats worked out by the scene painter, and set up by the stage carpenter, while the driving spray and water came from nothing more formidable than hydrants.

Behind the property boat deck, and disposed in concealed positions, were stage hands, equipped with hoses and nozzles. By manipulating these streams of water dexterously as the craft dipped, the jets of water were played upon its sides at varying angles, causing the foaming liquid to shoot into the air to produce the precise effect of a rolling boat dropping into the trough of the sea and smashing into an angry wave in its descent. The company suffered a severe drenching, it is true, and one of the actresses was afflicted with an acute attack of mal-de-mer provoked by the violent movement of the platform!

In another instance the public was shown a seaport town bombarded by a hostile cruiser. In the foreground were two big guns on the vessel’s deck, while in the distance was the town. There was a puff of smoke, and the next instant the buildings struck by the projectile were observed to crumble into heaps of debris. The illusion was produced very simply. The big guns were fabrications of wooden laths and painted canvas, the smoke was a cloud of steam, and the buildings collapsed because they were built up with hinged sections, which were pulled down at the critical moment by means of concealed wires and cords, controlled from the back of the stage.

Through the courtesy of the Gaumont Company, of London and Paris, who are in the front rank of masters in film magic, at all events as far as Europe is concerned, I have been allowed to go behind the scenes in their studio, and am in a position to explain to a puzzled public the secret of many an apparent miracle.

The film called “The Travelling Bed” is a typical subject of mystification. An aged tenant has fallen into arrears with his rent, and the long-suffering landlord at last commands his eviction. The bailiffs duly arrive upon the scene, but are spared all trouble by the fact that directly they appear the chairs, table, and other articles burst into life. They move about the room, and finally file out of the door, in the most methodical manner, to pass in a procession into the street. Meanwhile the unhappy tenant is reclining upon his bed in the depths of despair. He has no home and does not know where to search for one. The bed, however, promptly sets out to solve the problem. It bears its owner into the public highway. The owner is overwhelmed with fright and dismay at the unexpected development, and indulges in frantic gesticulations as the bed canters merrily down the centre of the road, with the passers-by pursuing the unusual spectacle. The mystery of the Travelling Bed is easily explained. It moves for the simple reason that it is pushed from behind by stage hands. These men are concealed from the camera, which merely records the movement of the bed, the alarm of the owner, and the excitement of the crowd.

This is the simplest and most usual means of imparting animation to a lifeless object. With such an article as a chair, which cannot hide a stage hand, recourse has to be made to wires or strings manipulated from a point in the wings, this being contrived in such a way as to be invisible to the public. For instance, a gendarme is astonished to see his sword whisked away from him. The accompanying illustration shows precisely how this is accomplished, the cords responsible for the action being made visible purposely to explain the mystery, whereas in the actual film these strings would be impossible of detection.

There is no limitation to the variety of effects which can be produced by the invisible medium of cords, strings, and wires. Probably their possibilities are revealed to the most pronounced degree in such a film as “The Magnetic Gentleman.” This unfortunate individual has been the victim of an attack by Paris Apaches, and forthwith vows never to venture through the streets again without a protective coat of mail beneath his conventional waistcoat. But he unintentionally comes into close proximity to a dynamo, with the result that his protective coat becomes highly magnetised. As he passes shops where metallic articles are displayed for sale, they jump towards him and cling tenaciously to his person. To one and all of these articles thin wires or strings are attached, the free ends of which are held either by stage hands or by the magnetic gentleman himself. At the critical moment the cords are pulled, and as the wires stretch across the path along which the magnetic gentleman is passing they appear to jump towards him. The articles which actually adhere to his person are connected to cords held by the actor himself, who merely pulls them to him as he passes the shops.

Presently the magnetic gentleman passes over a man-hole cover set in the middle of the pavement. To the amazement of the audience, the cover is seen to rise up on its edge and to bowl along the street in pursuit of its disturbing factor. The cover is a stage property made of wood, manipulated by wires controlled by the actor. When the cover is raised there is a short “stop” while a stage hand enters the picture to give the cover its hoop-like impetus necessary to start it rolling, the actor then pulling it along by means of a wire, so that the cover follows hard on the heels of the luckless individual, until its career is arrested by two workmen, who struggle with the strange runaway.

But the magnetic gentleman’s misadventures have by no means ended. He is passing a lamp-post, when suddenly the metal, attracted by the coat of mail, endeavours to jump towards him, with the result that the post snaps in twain. The lamp-post is a dummy or stage property, hinged at about half of its height so as to permit the upper part to heel over like a flap. Wires are attached to the upper half, and as the individual passes they are given a sharp tug from the stage hands stationed outside the picture, or by the actor himself, and it falls over.

In such instances as these the deception is improved by the scenes being enacted in the public streets. Every action appears to be carried out so naturally, and the properties are designed so well and manipulated so carefully at the critical moments, that the spectators are led to believe in the actuality of the episodes.

Of course, a film of this character demands considerable preparation, and photographing it occupies a long time. The picture is built up incident by incident, in the same way that a picture play is produced, there being an interval of time between each series of exposures to permit the arrangements for the next episode to be made; and each phase is rehearsed over and over again before being filmed. When the pieces of film are connected to form a complete band, the continuity in action is so perfect that the public is unable to detect the points where the sequence was interrupted.

A film which created a sensation when it appeared was the “Automobile Accident.” A workman, who has imbibed not wisely but too well, is homeward bound, and describes grotesque geometrical patterns as he advances along the thoroughfare. Presently he is smitten with an irresistible desire to sleep. Although the couch is hard and dangerous he lies down in the middle of the road, and in a few seconds is in the arms of Morpheus. While he is sleeping peacefully a taxi-cab comes along at a smart pace, and, not observing the slumbering form of the roysterer, the chauffeur drives over him, cutting off both his legs. The shock awakes the man rudely, and he is surprised to find his lower limbs scattered across the roadway. The chauffeur is horrified by the unfortunate accident; but his fare, on the contrary, a doctor, is not much perturbed. He descends from his carriage, picks up the dismembered limbs, replaces them in position, assists the afflicted man to his feet, and after shaking hands each proceeds on his separate way, the workman resuming his journey as if nothing had happened.

The requirements for this terrible calamity were very few. They consisted of three actors, to take the parts of the intoxicated workman, the driver, and the doctor respectively; a cripple who had lost both legs through an accident, and for properties a taxi-cab and a couple of artificial limbs. The legless cripple is, of course, the key to the whole situation. The great difficulty was to find such a luckless individual, and, when he had been discovered, to bribe him to participate in a picture play. Probably the unfortunate had never before found his misfortune so profitable to him.

In a trick film like this, success depends essentially upon what may be described as the “Stop and Substitution” action.

When the legless cripple was found, the leading actor was made up in such a manner as to be his exact counterpart. The company then proceeded to the scene of the accident, which was in the Bois de Vincennes. The camera was set up and the producer outlined the story to the participants.

In taking the film the operations were as follows: The leading actor, dressed like a French workman, ambled down the road simulating inebriation, and presently prepared his couch in the dust. While he was lying prone and asleep, the taxi-cab drove up quickly in such a way as to run over the sleeper’s legs just above the knees. Of course, this did not actually take place, the chauffeur drawing up a short distance from the prostrate form. At precisely this point the camera stopped working, and the cab slowly continued its way until its front wheels touched the prostrate man’s legs at the required point. The tracks of the vehicle’s wheels were plainly visible on the road.

At this juncture the producer stepped forward with the legless cripple mounted on his self-propelled wheeled truck, from which he was lifted. The principal actor now got up and left the scene. The cripple took his place in the road, and the artificial legs were laid against his stumps in a natural position. Care had to be taken that the cripple occupied exactly the same position as that of the actor he had displaced, so that no sign of the substitution could be observed on the film.

The cab was now backed to its former starting point and then re-started, the chauffeur making it follow the tracks made by his wheels on the former journey. As the automobile reached the point where it had stopped in the previous picture, the camera started working again, and the cab ran over the prostrate cripple, cutting off both his legs—in reality displacing the dummy limbs and tumbling them across the road.

Suddenly awakened in this rough manner, the sleeper beholds his severed limbs with dismay, and then hops after the vehicle which had been the cause of his disaster. The cab stops, the doctor alights, picks up the severed limbs, and, while the cripple is seated on the ground, restores the displaced artificial limbs to their natural positions.

The camera now stopped working once more. The cripple was restored to his wheeled carriage and transported out of the picture, while the dummy legs were thrown on one side. In the place of the cripple the principal actor reappeared, and when the camera started again it photographed him sitting upon the ground. He is helped to his feet and resumes his journey.

In this picture we have seen two “stop and substitution” movements, once when the principal actor was withdrawn from the scene to make way for the legless cripple, and again when the reverse change was made. Owing to the neat and skilful manner in which the change from the actor to the cripple, and back from the cripple to the actor, is effected, the public fails to observe either the stop or the substitution, and thinks that one man acted the rôle throughout. The fact that the accident occurs on the high-road, and the possibility of a man being run over in this manner, helps in the deception.

The “stop and substitution” movement is probably practised more extensively than any other artifice in cinematography. In picture dramas where a situation is presented such as the throwing of the villain over a cliff, or before an approaching train, or some other scene impossible to picture without sacrifice of life, the camera is stopped immediately before the incident. The actors engaged in the scene become rooted to the spot when the “stop” call is given, signifying the fact that the camera has ceased its purring. At this juncture the villain disappears from the picture, a lay or dummy figure being substituted for him. When the camera resumes operation the episode is completed with the dummy.

Perhaps the best example of this expedient is that represented in the film illustrating the “Fountain of Youth,” a version of the fable in which a beggar woman is transformed suddenly into a beautiful maiden by the kiss of a young gallant of good heart. A chivalrous young prince is strolling through a wood when he is confronted by an old and wrinkled witch, who makes supplication to him. In an instant the audience realises that her sombre garments have left her for brighter attire, and that the haggard face has been converted into youthful beauty. This wonderful transformation is worked by recourse to the “stop and substitution” action. After the “stop” call is given and while the lens is closed by the shutter the hag leaves the scene, a young actress, suitably attired, assumes her position, the actor retaining his position while the change is effected. As the new actress assumes the exact pose of the witch when the camera starts again, there is a complete continuity of action recorded, and the audience cannot detect that a pause and change has taken place between the two consecutive pictures.

The “stop” movement is, as a rule, the secret to all instantaneous disappearances. It enables people in the scene to vanish and reappear apparently from space. It explains the wrestling match, in which the audience is startled to see that the challenger has disappeared suddenly—leaving his antagonist wrestling with the air—only to reappear just as startlingly in another part of the picture. When the time arrives the “stop” call is given. The disappearing actor slips out of the scene, while every other holds the position in which he has been caught by the last exposure. When the camera is re-started and the actors continue their movements, the wrestler proceeds as if gripping an opponent. When the “stop” call is given again a little later, the elusive opponent steps into the picture once more, assumes a suitable attitude, and his movements are continued when the camera resumes operation.

The power to stop the camera and arrest the action at any point provides the trick-film maker with boundless possibilities which are denied to his contemporary behind the footlights. On the legitimate stage the sudden disappearance and appearance has to be made through a trap door, and, no matter how smartly the operation may be performed, the public nevertheless sees the action taking place. In the moving-picture record not the slightest trace of the movement can be noted. The actor is seen in one picture and is missing from the next. He appears to have dissolved into thin air, and his reappearance is just as magically produced. This mystification of the public is rendered all the more complete by the environment in which the action is photographed. When performed by a magician or illusionist on the stage, the public naturally thinks that it has been effected by the medium of a trap door or some other artifice. When the magic takes place in the public street, where no such trick facilities exist, the natural surroundings lend the last touch to the illusion.

Another class of picture which causes considerable speculation as to how it is contrived is that in which all natural action becomes reversed. Horses, cabs, omnibuses, motor-cars, and cycles run backwards, pedestrians walk backwards, and smoke, instead of escaping from a chimney, appears to flow into it. Everything is topsy-turvy: the laws of gravitation appear to be defied. This novel result is produced by “reversal of action.” The action may be photographed in the natural forward manner, but when the film is placed in the projector, the last picture taken by the camera is shown first, and consequently all movement becomes reversed.

Obviously the task could be simplified if the travel of the film were reversed through the camera during exposure, but in ordinary circumstances this would involve rotating the handle in the reverse direction, and cause unsteadiness in the picture. However, the camera manufacturer has solved this problem. When a reversed motion is required, the camera may be inverted upon its tripod, both top and bottom faces having facilities for screwing to the turn-table. When the camera is set upside down, the handle is rotated in the natural forward manner, but as the film is travelling backwards past the lens all movement is reversed. By this means the necessity to run the film backwards through the projector is avoided. It is not even necessary to turn the camera upside down now. Some manufacturers provide a second driving spindle, on to which the handle is slipped and rotated in the usual manner, the film being caused to travel backwards through reverse gearing.

Some astonishing and highly ingenious pictures can be obtained in this manner. For the purposes of illustrating the subject I have taken one of the most simple results. It depicts a “Pumpkin Race,” in which the vegetables are seen to roll up a slope, to give one or two preliminary bounces, and then to fly into the air through an open window. When this film was taken the pumpkins were thrown out of the window, bounced and rolled down the declivity in the usual manner, but as the film for the purposes of the exposure was run backwards through the camera, when shown on the screen the opposite and apparently impossible effect is produced.

Some years ago Mr. James Williamson produced a subject of this class which provoked remarkable hilarity. It was called “The Workman’s Paradise.” A building was in course of construction, and the bricklayer duly arrived upon the scene to carry out his task, but he never stirred a hand. As he stood on the ground the bricks jumped by invisible effort into the hod and set themselves side by side in the most approved manner. Then the load rose through the air to the scaffolding; the bricks fell from the hod to the scaffold floor, and finally leaped into the air one by one to settle themselves in position upon the growing wall. Meanwhile the bricklayer surveyed the scene with his pipe in his mouth and an air of supreme satisfaction.

When the photographs of this picture were taken, the action was just the reverse of that seen upon the screen. The wall was standing, and the camera in reality photographed its demolition and the transport of the bricks to the ground. But the film was run through the camera backwards, so that the last picture made became the first projected upon the screen, and so on.