The grandstand of the Sheepshead Bay race-track, one spring afternoon,
was packed solidly with people, and the broad, terra-cotta-coloured
track was fenced in with a human wall near the judges' stand. The famous
Suburban was to be run, and people flocked from every direction to see
one of the greatest horse-races of the year. While the band played
gaily, and the shrill cries of programme venders punctuated the hum of
the voices of the multitude, and while the stable boys walked their
aristocratic charges, shrouded in blankets, exercising them sedately--in
the midst of all this movement, hubbub, and excitement a man a little to
one side, apparently unconscious of all the uproar, was busy with a big
box set up on a portable framework six or seven feet above the ground.
The man was a new kind of photographer, and his big box was a camera
with which he purposed to take a series of pictures of the race. Above
the box, which was about two and a half feet square, was an electric
motor from which ran a belt connecting with the inner mechanism; from
the front of the box protruded the lens, its glassy eye so turned as to
get a full sweep of the track; nearby on the ground were piled the
storage batteries which were used to supply the current for the motor.
As the time for the race drew near the excitement increased, figures
darted here, there and everywhere, the bobbing, brightly coloured hats
of the women in the great slanting field of the grandstand suggesting
bunches of flowers agitated by the breeze. Then the horses paraded in a
thoroughbred fashion, as if they appreciated their lengthy pedigrees and
understood their importance.
At last the splendid animals were lined up across the track, their small
jockeys in their brilliantly coloured jackets hunched up like monkeys on
their backs. Then the enormous crowd was quiet, the band was still, even
the noisy programme venders ceased calling their wares, and the
photographer stood quietly beside his camera, the motor humming, his
hand on the switch that starts the internal machinery. Suddenly the
starter dropped his arm, the barring gate flew up, and the horses sprang
forward. "They're off!" came from a thousand throats in unison. The band
struck up a lively air, and the vast assemblage watched with excited
eyes the flying horses. As the horses swept on round the turn and down
the back stretch the people seemed to be drawn from their seats, and by
the time the racers made the turn leading into the home-stretch almost
every one was standing and the roar of yelling voices was deafening.
All this time the photographer kept his eyes on his machine, which was
rattling like a rapidly beaten drum, the cyclopean eye of the camera
making impressions on a sensitised film-ribbon at the rate of forty a
second, and every movement of the flying legs of the urging jockeys,
even the puffs of dust that rose at the falling of each iron-shod hoof,
was recorded for all time by the eye of the camera.
The horses entered the home-stretch and in a terrific burst of speed
flashed by the throngs of yelling people and under the wire, a mere blur
of shining bodies, brilliant colours of the jockeys' blouses, and yellow
dust. The Suburban was over, and the great crowd that had come miles to
see a race that lasted but a little more than two minutes (a grand
struggle of giants, however), sank back into their seats or relaxed
their straining gaze in a way that said plainer than words could say it,
"It is over."
It was 4:45 in the afternoon. The photographer was all activity. The
minute the race was over the motor above the great camera was stopped
and the box was opened. From its dark interior another box about six
inches square and two inches deep was taken: this box contained the
record of the race, on a narrow strip of film two hundred and fifty feet
long, the latent image of thousands of separate pictures.
Then began another race against time, for it was necessary to take that
long ribbon across the city of Brooklyn, over the Bridge, across New
York, over the North River by ferry to Hoboken on the Jersey side,
develop, fix, and dry the two-hundred-and-fifty-foot-long film-negative,
make a positive or reversed print on another two-hundred-and-fifty-foot
film, carry it through the same photographic process, and show the
spirited scene on the stereopticon screen of a metropolitan theatre the
same evening.
That evening a great audience in the dark interior of a New York theatre
sat watching a white sheet stretched across the stage; suddenly its
white expanse grew dark, and against the background appeared "The
Suburban, run this afternoon at 4:45 at Sheepshead Bay track; won by
Alcedo, in 2 minutes 5 3-5 seconds."
[Illustration: BIOGRAPH PICTURE OF A MILITARY HAZING SCENE
These pictures are not consecutive. The difference between those that
follow each other is so slight as to be almost imperceptible because of
the rapidity with which they are taken. These pictures were probably
taken at the rate of thirty to forty per second.]
Then appeared on the screen the picture of the scene that the thousands
had travelled far to see that same afternoon. There were the wide,
smooth track, the tower-like judges' stand, the oval turf of the inner
field, and as the audience looked the starter moved his arm, and the
rank of horses, life-size and quivering with excitement, shot forth.
From beginning to end the great struggle was shown to the people seated
comfortably in the city playhouse, several miles from the track where
the race was run, just two hours and fifteen minutes after the winning
horse dashed past the judges' stand. Every detail was reproduced; every
movement of horses and jockeys, even the clouds of dust that rose from
the hoof-beats, appeared clearly on the screen. And the audience rose
gradually to their feet, straining forward to catch every movement,
thrilled with excitement as were the mighty crowds at the actual race.
To produce the effect that made the people in the theatre forget their
surroundings and feel as if they were actually overlooking the
race-track itself, about five thousand separate photographs were shown.
It was discovered long ago that if a series of pictures, each of which
showed a difference in the position of the legs of a man running, for
instance, was passed quickly before the eye so that the space between
the pictures would be screened, the figure would apparently move. The
eyes retain the image they see for a fraction of a second, and if a new
image carrying the movement a little farther along is presented in the
same place, the eyes are deceived so that the object apparently actually
moves. An ingenious toy called the zoltrope, which was based on this
optical illusion, was made long before Edison invented the vitascope,
Herman Caster the biograph and mutoscope, or the Lumiere brothers in
France devised the cinematograph. All these different moving-picture
machines work on the same principle, differing only in their mechanism.
A moving-picture machine is really a rapid-fire repeating camera
provided with a lens allowing of a very quick exposure. Internal
mechanism, operated by a hand-crank or electric motor, moves the
unexposed film into position behind the lens and also opens and closes
the shutter at just the proper moment. The same machinery feeds down a
fresh section of the ribbon-like film into position and coils the
exposed portion in a dark box, just as the film of a kodak is rolled off
one spool and, after exposure, is wound up on another. The film used in
the biograph when taking the Suburban was two and three-fourth inches
wide and several hundred feet long; about forty exposures were made per
second, and for each exposure the film had to come to a dead stop before
the lens and then the shutter was opened, the light admitted for about
one three-hundredth of a second, the shutter closed, and a new section
of film moved into place, while the exposed portion was wound upon a
spool in a light-tight box. The long, flexible film is perforated along
both edges, and these perforations fit over toothed wheels which guide
it down to the lens; the holes in the celluloid strip are also used by
the feeding mechanism. In order that the interval between the pictures
shall always be the same, the film must be held firmly in each position
in turn; the perforations and toothed mechanism accomplish this
perfectly.
In taking the picture of the Suburban race almost five thousand
separate negatives (all on one strip of film, however) were made during
the two minutes five and three-fifths seconds the race was being run.
Each negative was perfectly clear, and each was different, though if one
negative was compared to its neighbour scarcely any variance would be
noted.
After the film has been exposed, the light-tight box containing it is
taken out of the camera and taken to a gigantic dark-room, where it is
wound on a great reel and developed, just as the image on a kodak film
is brought out. The reel is hung by its axle over a great trough
containing gallons of developer, so that the film wound upon it is
submerged; and as the reel is revolved all of the sensitised surface is
exposed to the action of the chemicals and gradually the latent pictures
are developed. After the development has gone far enough, the reel,
still carrying the film, is dipped in clean water and washed, and then a
dip in a similar bath of clearing-and-fixing solution makes the
negatives permanent--followed by a final washing in clean water. It is
simply developing on a grand scale, thousands of separate pictures on
hundreds of feet of film being developed at once.
A negative, however, is of no use unless a positive or print of some
kind is made from it. If shown through a stereopticon, for instance, a
negative would make all the shadows on the screen appear lights, and
vice versa. A positive, therefore, is made by running a fresh film, with
the negative, through a machine very much like the moving-picture
camera. The unexposed surface is behind that of the negative, and at the
proper intervals the shutter is opened and the admitted light prints the
image of the negative on the unexposed film, just as a lantern slide is
made, in fact, or a print on sensitised paper. The positives are made by
this machine at the rate of a score or so in a second. Of course, the
positive is developed in the same manner as the negative.
Therefore, in order to show the people in the theatre the Suburban, five
hundred feet of film was exposed, developed, fixed, and dried, and
nearly ten thousand separate and complete pictures were produced, in the
space of two hours and fifteen minutes, including the time occupied in
taking the films to and from the track, factory, and theatre.
Originally, successive pictures of moving objects were taken for
scientific purposes. A French scientist who was studying aerial
navigation set up a number of cameras and took successive pictures of a
bird's flight. Doctor Muybridge, of Philadelphia, photographed trotting
horses with a camera of his own invention that made exposures in rapid
succession, in order to learn the different positions of the legs of
animals while in rapid motion.
A Frenchman also--M. Mach--photographed a plant of rapid growth twice a
day from exactly the same position for fifty consecutive days. When the
pictures were thrown on the screen in rapid order the plant seemed to
grow visibly.
The moving pictures provide a most attractive entertainment, and it was
this feature of the idea, undoubtedly, that furnished the incentive to
inventors. The public is always willing to pay well for a good
amusement.
The makers of the moving-picture films have photographic studios
suitably lighted and fitted with all the necessary stage accessories
(scenery, properties, etc.) where the little comedies shown on the
screens of the theatres are acted for the benefit of the rapid-fire
camera and its operators, who are often the only spectators. One of
these studios in the heart of the city of New York is so brilliantly
lighted by electricity that pictures may be taken at full speed, thirty
to forty-five per second, at any time of day or night. Another company
has an open-air gallery large enough for whole troops of cavalry to
maneuver before the camera, or where the various evolutions of a working
fire department may be photographed.
Of course, when the pictures are taken in a studio or place prepared for
the work the photographic part is easy--the camera man sets up his
machine and turns the crank while the performers do the rest. But some
extra-ordinary pictures have been taken when the photographer had to
seek his scene and work his machine under trying and even dangerous
circumstances.
During the Boer War in South Africa two operators for the Biograph
Company took their bulky machine (it weighed about eighteen hundred
pounds) to the very firing-line and took pictures of battles between the
British and the Burghers when they were exposed to the fire of both
armies. On one occasion, in fact, the operator who was turning the
mechanism--he sat on a bicycle frame, the sprocket of which was
connected by a chain with the interior machinery--during a battle, was
knocked from his place by the concussion of a shell that exploded
nearby; nevertheless, the film was saved, and the same man rode on
horseback nearly seventy-five miles across country to the nearest
railroad point so that the precious photographic record might be sent to
London and shown to waiting audiences there.
Pictures were taken by the kinetoscope showing an ascent of Mount Blanc,
the operator of the camera necessarily making the perilous journey also;
different stages of the ascent were taken, some of them far above the
clouds. For this series of pictures a film eight hundred feet long was
required, and 12,800 odd exposures or negatives were made.
Successive pictures have been taken at intervals during an ocean voyage
to show the life aboard ship, the swing of the great seas, and the
rolling and pitching of the steamer. The heave and swing of the steamer
and the mountainous waves have been so realistically shown on the screen
in the theatre that some squeamish spectators have been made almost
seasick. It might be comforting to those who were made unhappy by the
sight of the heaving seas to know that the operator who took one series
of sea pictures, when lashed with his machine in the lookout place on
the foremast of the steamer, suffered terribly from seasickness, and
would have been glad enough to set his foot on solid ground;
nevertheless, he stuck to his post and completed the series.
[Illustration: DEVELOPING MOVING-PICTURE FILMS
The films are wound on the great drums and run through the developer in
the troughs as the drums are slowly revolved.]
It was a biograph operator that was engaged in taking pictures of a
fire department rushing to a fire. Several pieces of apparatus had
passed--an engine, hook-and-ladder company, and the chief; the operator,
with his (then) bulky apparatus, large camera, storage batteries, etc.,
stood right in the centre of the street, facing the stream of engines,
hose-wagons, and fire-patrol men. In order to show the contrast, an
old-time hand-pump engine, dragged by a dozen men and boys, came along
at full speed down the street, and behind and to one side of them
followed a two-horse hose-wagon, going like mad. The men running with
the old-time engine, not realising how narrow the space was and unaware
of the plunging horses behind, passed the biograph man on one side on
the dead run. The driver of the rapidly approaching team saw that there
was no room for him to pass on the other side of the camera man, and his
horses were going too fast to stop in the space that remained. He had
but an instant to decide between the dozen men and their antiquated
machine and the moving-picture outfit. He chose the latter, and, with a
warning shout to the photographer, bore straight down on the camera,
which continued to do its work faithfully, taking dozens of pictures a
second, recording even the strained, anxious expression on the face of
the driver. The pole of the hose-wagon struck the camera-box squarely
and knocked it into fragments, and the wheels passed quickly over the
pieces, the photographer meanwhile escaping somehow. By some lucky
chance the box holding the coiled exposed film came through the wreck
unscathed.
When that series was shown on the screen in a theatre the audience saw
the engine and hook-and-ladder in turn come nearer and nearer and then
rush by, then the line of running men with the old engine, and then--and
their flesh crept when they saw it--a team of plunging horses coming
straight toward them at frightful speed. The driver's face could be seen
between the horses' heads, distorted with effort and fear. Straight on
the horses came, their nostrils distended, their great muscles
straining, their fore hoofs striking out almost, it seemed, in the faces
of the people in the front row of seats. People shrank back, some women
shrieked, and when the plunging horses seemed almost on them, at the
very climax of excitement, the screen was darkened and the picture
blotted out. The camera taking the pictures had continued to work to the
very instant it was struck and hurled to destruction.
In addition to the stereopticon and its attendant mechanism, which is
only suitable when the pictures are to be shown to an audience, a
machine has been invented for the use of an individual or a small group
of people. In the mutoscope the positives or prints are made on long
strips of heavy bromide paper, instead of films, and are generally
enlarged; the strip is cut up after development and mounted on a
cylinder, so they radiate like the spokes of a wheel, and are set in the
same consecutive order in which they were taken. The thousands of cards
bearing the pictures at the outer ends are placed in a box, so that when
the wheel of pictures is turned, by means of a crank attached to the
axle, a projection holds each card in turn before the lens through which
the observer looks. The projection in the top of the box acts like the
thumb turning the pages of a book. Each of the pictures is presented in
such rapid succession that the object appears to move, just as the
scenes thrown on the screen by a lantern show action.
The mutoscope widens the use of motion-photography infinitely. The
United States Government will use it to illustrate the workings of many
of its departments at the World's Fair at St. Louis: the life aboard
war-ships, the handling of big guns, army maneuvers, the life-saving
service, post-office workings, and, in fact, many branches of the
government service will be explained pictorially by this means.
Agents for manufacturers of large machinery will be able to show to
prospective purchasers pictures of their machines in actual operation.
Living, moving portraits have been taken, and by means of a hand machine
can be as easily examined as pictures through a stereoscope. It is quite
within the bounds of possibility that circulating libraries of moving
pictures will be established, and that every public school will have a
projecting apparatus for the use of films, and a stereopticon or a
mutoscope. In fact, a sort of circulating library already exists, films
or mutoscope pictures being rented for a reasonable sum; and thus many
of the most important of the world's happenings may be seen as they
actually occurred.
Future generations will have histories illustrated with vivid motion
pictures, as all the great events of the day, processions, celebrations,
battles, great contests on sea and land are now recorded by the
all-seeing eye of the motion-photographer's camera.