In Chapter XVIII. I made some reference to early methods of producing a class of films in which the principal performers were diminutive figures scarcely six inches in height. This kind of picture has never lost its hold upon the public. Indeed, experience has proved that it constitutes one of the most popular subjects which it is possible to throw upon the screen, especially when the tiny actors and actresses are introduced into a play having a well-defined plot carried to a logical conclusion.

I have related how Paul obtained the effect of pigmy actors by combining the possibilities of superprinting and photographing at varying distances from the stage. This method is practised nowadays in somewhat modified form. The stage is made so deep that there is no need to move the camera.

Two of the most attractive films of this description produced during recent years were “The Little Milliner’s Dream” and “Princess Nicotine.” Curiously enough, they represent two widely divergent methods of achieving the same result, as practised by French and American producers respectively. Both are associated with many features of interest in cinematographic magic.

In “The Little Milliner’s Dream,” a young and charming milliner’s assistant is sent by her employer to deliver a creation to a customer. The girl sets out with the milliner’s hat-box on her arm. On the way she pauses to admire the glittering array of precious stones and gewgaws in a jeweller’s shop. While she is gazing at the articles longingly an old beau advances, makes himself known, and tries to force his company upon her. With a coquettish shrug of her shoulders she rebuffs him and resumes her journey, but presently, overcome by the heat, she sits down upon a seat in the street to take a rest. Presently she falls asleep.

In her dreams she sees the lid of the bonnet-box open, and from the interior steps the old gallant. At first he is no taller than a coffee-pot, but he grows until he has attained life-size proportions. Next, in the space occupied by the upturned lid of the bonnet-box, a bevy of dancing girls appear. They likewise are only a few inches in height, but they increase in size until they assume normal stature. To her astonishment each dancing girl proffers the apprentice a magnificent present. In an instant, as if under the magic spell of a fairy’s wand, she finds herself attired in the rich clothes of a lady of rank, and taking the arm of her admirer—who, by the way, shoulders the bonnet-box—they march off together. The bonnet-box is suddenly dropped and instantaneously becomes a luxurious motor-car. The apprentice passes through many startling adventures in the world of fashion and gaiety, but the final scene reveals her still seated upon the seat, and being roughly awakened by a gendarme from her delightful dreams.

The first essential in such a picture as this is a deep stage, so as to secure the impression of distance. The Gaumont Theatre, from which this film emanated, is one of the best designed and largest in the world, and the preparation of such scenes as “The Little Milliner’s Dream” offers them no difficulties. The street scene was merely a back-cloth painted to resemble one side of the street, with its shops, the roadway, and the kerb of the second pavement. Before this was set up an ordinary seat, such as is provided for the convenience of pedestrians along the highway, and it was upon this that the little milliner snatched her brief rest with the bonnet-box beside her, and but a few feet from the camera.

When she fell asleep the lid of the bonnet-box was opened by means of invisible wires, and the lid came to rest in a vertical position against the back of the seat, the top of the side of the box being level with the back rail of the seat. The inner surface of the lid was a dead black.

At this moment the “stop” call was issued. While the camera lens was closed the stage hands entered, took away the bonnet-box lid, and removed a panel in the back-cloth of the same shape and dimensions as the bonnet-box lid, and immediately behind it. This left a hole in the back-cloth, through which could be seen the stage behind. The lens of the camera, however, was on a level with the top of the bonnet-box, so that the floor of the stage behind the back-cloth could not be seen through the panel. At the extreme rear of the stage another back-cloth of black velvet was hung. Consequently, looking at the picture from the lens point of view, the black velvet, seen through the panel in the scenic back-cloth, appeared to be the inner surface of the bonnet-box lid; and the audience imagines that what follows takes place upon the inside of the lid, whereas it is, of course, seen through the back-cloth, and enacted upon the back or rear half of the stage.

The camera is started up again. Suddenly the diminutive figure of the old gallant is observed to rise from the interior of the bonnet-box. As a matter of fact, he is at the extreme rear edge of the stage, against the velvet back-cloth, but seated below the line of sight of the camera until he received his cue. The little milliner in her dream turns her head as if to gaze more closely into the lid of her box—in reality she is looking through the window in the back-cloth upon the scene taking place behind her. The old beau, having risen to his feet at the extreme rear of the stage, and six or more times as far away from the camera as is the milliner herself, appears, in accordance with the laws of perspective, to be no taller than a bottle, this peculiarity being accentuated by the distortion of the lens as in every camera.

The old beau lifts his hat and instantly commences to grow in size. This transformation was caused by his advancing towards the hole in the back-cloth, which, as the distance between him and the lens decreased, caused his stature to enlarge. At last the actor advanced to the limit of his forward movement, when his figure occupied the full depth of the opening, or of the supposititious bonnet-box lid. At this moment the camera paused to permit the actor to walk round the back-cloth, representing the street, and when the camera was re-started he was seen before the bonnet-box as if he had stepped out of that receptacle. Being as close to the camera as the milliner, he was now brought to life-size.

The spectacle of the dancing girls was carried out in the same manner. When the little milliner was urged to look into the lid of the bonnet-box once more, she peered through the back-cloth window. To her amazement she saw six diminutive dancing forms rise up as if from the interior of the box, but in reality from the floor against the black background, at the point where the beau had first appeared. They danced their way to the opening to a point marked on the floor of the stage behind the scenic back-cloth, thereby growing gradually in stature. Then the camera made pause to permit the girls to come round the back-cloth and to assume the required position before the milliner near the camera, where likewise they were brought to normal size. They presented their gifts to the delighted girl, and then there was another pause on the part of the camera.

During this stop the milliner changed her attire for that of a lady of fashion. At the same time the stage hands replaced the panel in the back-cloth, while the original bonnet-box lid was brought in and restored to its former position.

When the camera began again it recorded the beau closing the lid of the box, and while he picked it up with one hand he offered his other arm to his fair friend and escorted her along the street. Presently he dropped the box. Another “stop” call was given, during which the bonnet-box was taken away by the stage hands, and an automobile brought into position at the point where the hat-box was dropped. When the camera re-started it revealed the bonnet-box converted, like Cinderella’s pumpkin, into an automobile. Entering the vehicle, the couple drive off to the ball. The process of “stop and substitution,” which has been described already, is carried out from time to time to present sudden transformation effects; the audience sees only the continuity of motion as produced by joining the pieces of film together; and they marvel at the result. The film was produced very cleverly and skilfully, and it certainly ranks as one of the masterpieces of the Gaumont establishment.

Another favourite artifice, with which some truly bewildering effects can be produced, is known as the “stop motion,” or “one turn one picture,” movement. As may be imagined from the latter explanatory title, it resolves itself into a pause between each picture, instead of continuous exposure to record sixteen images per second.

This feature may be illustrated by reference to a popular film which appeared a short time ago, called “Animated Putty.” A lump of this material was shown upon a table. Suddenly it was observed to become agitated, and to resolve itself gradually into statues and busts of well-known people, so cleverly wrought as to be instantly identified. In a similar picture a rose was seen to detach its petals, which became scattered over the floor; and just as mysteriously the petals came together once more and assumed their former positions. Another picture shows “Boots” going to sleep at his task, and the foot-wear cleaning itself while he dreams, brushes running to and fro to remove the dust, apply the blacking, and to give a vigorous polishing off. Upon waking, Boots gives vent to a self-satisfied smile upon beholding the completion of his work without any effort on his part.

In reality this is one of the simplest of trick effects; but it is at the same time one of the most tedious to perform. The method can be best explained by taking the “Animated Putty” film as an example. The lump of material lies upon the table, to be fashioned into a bust of the King, of the American President, or some other illustrious personage. The camera is set up. The modeller advances to the table whilst the shutter is closed and moves the clay slightly towards the desired result. He then steps out of the picture, and the camera handle is turned sufficiently to expose one picture and to cover the lens again. The modeller comes forward once more and advances a little further with his work; after which he retires from the scene, and the second stage is recorded upon the next picture. Again the modeller approaches the material to mould it a further step, and upon his retirement the third picture is taken. This alternate process of shaping the putty a little at a time, and photographing every separate movement, is continued until the bust is completed.

It is essential that the progress should be very gradual, or else the material would look as if it took shape by spasmodic jumps, and the illusion would be destroyed. Some films of this character demand slighter movement between each exposure than others. It depends entirely upon the subject. It will be observed, however, that this magical effect is not produced in accordance with the generally accepted principles governing cinematography. It is merely a series of snap-shots taken at certain intervals, and could be produced just as well by a hand-camera if one had sufficient plates or film.

As may be supposed, the task calls for unremitting patience and perseverance, because it is so exasperatingly slow. Several hours and even days are often expended in producing a single film of this character. If, for instance, the film measures 200 feet in length, no less than 3,200 distinct operations have been carried out and photographed consecutively; yet when such a film is thrown upon the screen at the rate of 16 pictures per second, the successive snap-shots follow one another so regularly as to convey the impression of continuous motion.

The same operation is practised with the rose, the petals being torn apart a little for each successive exposure, while to convey the effect of rolling along the table they are moved a minute distance between each exposure, and supported from behind in the requisite position while the shutter is opened and the film exposed one picture at a time between each movement of the rose. In the case of the “Boots” who has his work done while he sleeps, the brushes are manipulated by invisible wires. The interruption in exposure can often be detected unless the task is carried out with consummate skill, because the movement appears to be jerky in the picture.

An amusing film of this type appeared some time ago, in which cotton and wool appeared to be imbued with life. The cotton arranged itself into fantastic designs upon the table, while a stocking was knitted before the eyes of the audience by unseen hands. So far as the cotton designs were concerned this was the “one turn one picture” movement in its simplest form, the design being furthered little by little between each exposure. With regard to the mysterious knitting, this was achieved by a combination of the “one turn one picture” and the “reverse action” artifices.

While the picture was being taken the producer stood behind a table, concealed by a black cloth somewhat after the manner practised in “black magic.” What the camera actually recorded was the unravelling of the stocking stitch by stitch, the needles being manipulated meanwhile in the opposite direction. As the stocking was unravelled the wool was pulled gently through a tube extending up the producer’s sleeve to his back, where it was secured by a confederate and rolled into a ball. In this way the length of wool between the needles and the ball was kept fairly taut, as would be the case if a person were knitting. Each movement of the needles was photographed, the operator setting the needles in the requisite position and then withdrawing his hands from the scene. The task was continued step by step until the sock had been completely unwound, the last stitch pulled out and the end of the cotton and the needles were shown lying on the table. The film itself was driven backwards through the camera while the exposures were made, so that when the picture was printed and thrown upon the screen the movements were reversed—the destructive action recorded by the camera became constructive movement in the projector. The public first saw the loose end of the wool and the needles. They observed the needles rise up, form the first stitch, and then watched the sock grow at an amazing speed until it was completed, the needles moving in a perfectly natural manner to form the stitches. Further realism was imparted to the picture by the needles and work being jerked every now and again to release a little wool from the ball.

The Americans have brought the “one turn one picture” movement to a high state of perfection, and have produced some astonishing pictures as a result of its application. One is introduced to a magic carpenter’s shop, where tools are manipulated without hands and where the wood springs from the floor to the bench, is planed, sawn, chiselled, and fashions itself into a box or whatever article is desired by an apparently mysterious and invisible force.

The apparently impossible is brought about in this instance by resort to a combination of the “one turn one picture,” the “reversal of action,” and manipulation by wires, strings, and threads. To secure the rising of the plank from the floor to the bench the camera is stopped when this incident is reached. The plank is laid on the bench and a string is attached to it. The camera operator runs his film forward a certain distance, say twenty-four inches, which is indicated upon the dial while the lens is covered. He then gives the signal, and the stage hand, by pulling the wire attached to the plank, causes it to fall to the floor. The operator of the camera meanwhile runs the two feet of film backwards past the lens, thus photographing the plank falling to the floor. But as he has advanced his unexposed film two feet forwards and runs it backwards during exposure, he has reversed the motion of the falling plank, and the first image records the plank, not as it moves off the bench, but as it strikes the floor, while the other images up to the thirtieth show it in the air; and the last exposure displays it lying flat on the bench. Of course, when the film is thrown upon the screen the last phase of the action is shown first, and the first movement is the last image, so that the plank appears to rise from instead of falling to the floor.

The movements of the saw, chisel, and plane are carried out upon the “one turn one picture” principle, the tools being moved a slight distance between each exposure. In planing, when the shaving rises after the tool has reached the end of its stroke, a piece of thread attached to the shaving is given a sharp jerk to flick it out of the way, simulating the natural movement of the carpenter, who invariably, as he draws the plane back with his right hand, whisks the previous shaving out of the tool with his left. The hammer, chisel, and screwdriver can be manipulated by means of threads to give the varying positions of the particular tool in the driving process, and so on.

A film which appeared some months ago aroused a lively interest and speculation. It depicted a mysterious banquet where viands and liquors were consumed by unseen guests. The knife came suddenly into action to cut the bread, the various dishes were served and disappeared, while glasses of wine were filled and raised into the air by invisible hands; toasts were given, the glasses were tilted for the act of drinking, and became empty. The effect was somewhat uncanny, but it afforded a striking instance of the possibilities attending the utilisation of the “one turn one picture” movement, in conjunction with wires and threads. Each glass of wine was lifted into the air by two invisible threads, one being placed around the stem of the glass, while the other was connected to the bowl. These threads were controlled by stage hands on the overhead bridge. The glasses were lifted a slight distance between each exposure and photographed, and when the drinking act was demanded, while the thread attached to the bowl was held stationary, the second, attached to the stem, was steadily raised, giving the desired tilt. The liquid as it escaped from the glass fell to the floor, but its escape in this manner was not shown upon the screen, for the simple reason that the liquid fell out and was caught in a vessel held by a stage hand while the lens of the camera was closed, the exposure being made after the slightest quantity had fallen from the glass, this process being repeated until the toast was drained.

In the early days of the art superprinting was the favourite subterfuge used by the cinematographer magician to produce strange effects; as I have described already in regard to the pioneer work of Robert Paul. The composite construction of pictures has not been abandoned by any means, despite the advances in cinematographic magic. Indeed, some of the most startling productions seen to-day are prepared in this manner, two or even three films being used for the purpose. One of the most telling recent examples of this method is evinced in the pictures of the “ski-runner.”

When first seen the actor is skating along a track in the usual manner. He approaches a towering factory chimney; but instead of avoiding the obstruction he crashes into it. The solid mass does not bring about the skater’s extinction, but instead collapses to the ground. In the last picture the demon skater is seen ski-ing through the air, over the clouds, into oblivion.

The first part of the scene was taken in the vicinity of the Gaumont factory, and the chimney seen in film A belongs to the works of the company. The skater seems to strike the side of the chimney, but as a matter of fact he glides behind it, as might be supposed, and the film is cut short at this point. If one examines the film B closely it will be observed that the chimney there shown under collapse is not the same as that depicted in film A. As a matter of fact, the scene was changed. When this film was taken in hand the producers had heard that a chimney was to be felled in a certain place by the method of cutting away the masonry base, and supporting the structure temporarily upon wooden members, which are afterwards burned through to raze the chimney to the ground. Accordingly a camera and operator were dispatched to the scene to film this interesting operation, and a striking picture of the falling chimney was secured.

The combination which presented the illusion that the chimney was knocked over by the ski-runner was carried out as follows:—A special back-cloth of a neutral grey tint was prepared for the studio stage. When the ski-runner ran across the stage before the camera only the actor himself was seen in the resultant film. When this film of the ski-runner was superimposed upon that showing the demolition of the chimney, the former was seen to be forging ahead through the air after apparently knocking the structure out of his way. It will be observed that the idea is so worked out that the ski-runner appears to pursue the chimney as it crashes over, conveying the impression that he is continuously pushing the crumbling mass out of his way.

For the final disappearance of the skater into thin air two similar films were prepared. One was exposed to a cloudy sky, the lens being stopped down very severely to give a small aperture and an under-exposed result. In the studio the skater once more rushed across the stage before the neutral-tinted background, the lens stop in this instance being more open so as to secure a stronger image, but when the end of his mad career was required, the closing diaphragm was adopted. The first film was superimposed on the second to print the positive, and the result on the screen is of the ski-runner moving like a spectre through the clouds, to disappear finally into a haze. This film proved a conspicuous success owing to its novelty and realistic appearance.