It seems like it should be easy to identify films that fall into the genre of horror. But at the beginning of cinema, beyond obviously having no sound, there were no editing techniques. Méliès’ Le Manoir du Diable, which we discussed in the previous episode, was produced a few years prior to even closeups being first utilized. And as I stated in the previous episode, artificial lights for motion picture production were not introduced until 1903.
Yet horror was already a popular literary genre at this time in the Western world—and had been for over 100 years. Beginning with Horace Walpole’s 1764 gothic novel, The Castle of Ontranto, horror had already seen contributions from Matthew Gregory Lewis, E.T.A. Hoffman, Mary Shelly, Edgar Allen Poe, Sheridan Le Fanu, and Sir Richard Burton, as discussed in the previous episode, by the time Georges Méliès began filmmaking.
It had already been a popular form of entertainment, as illustrated by the popularity of phantasmagoric spectacles during the Romantic movement of the late 18th and first half of the 19th century. And the 18th century English gothic novelist, Ann Radcliffe, had already had her essay, On the Supernatural in Poetry, posthumously published in 1826. In the essay, she analyzes what she believes is the difference between horror and terror:
“Terror and horror are so far opposite, that the first expands the soul, and awakens the faculties to a high degree of life; the other contracts, freezes and nearly annihilates them […] and where lies the great difference between horror and terror but in the uncertainty and obscurity, that accompany the first, respecting the dreaded evil … Obscurity leaves something for the imagination to exaggerate--confusion, by blurring one image into another, leaves only a chaos in which the mind can find nothing to be magnificent, nothing to nourish its fears or doubts, or to act upon in any way.” (Pietersen, 2019) and (Radcliffe, 1826)
With its black magic, bats, and witches, Méliès’ Le Manoir du Diable seems like an obvious horror film. But other films are more subjective. Some scholars believe Méliès produced two horror films prior to Le Manoir du Diable, though they were all produced in the same year of 1896. I disagree that these two prior films are horror. Indeed, it feels odd to me that anyone could perceive these films, which I am about to discuss, as horror—so horror is obviously more subjective than one would have initially thought.
I believe most horror films fit within the thematic parameters of horror that we discussed earlier. Again, Le Manoir du Diable seems to perfectly fall within these parameters. But what about subjects that are more ambiguous? Is the existence of bugs in a film inherently scary, no matter how the bugs are portrayed? Does a trick involving a skeleton mean that the film intends to cause fear and, therefore, falls into the genre of horror? What other ways can we judge how to perceive such subjects?
One way is by the mood created in the scene and the reactions and responses to the onscreen action by the characters in the scene. An audience ideally relates and empathizes with the characters onscreen, and their reactions cue the audience for how to interpret an action. A director can guide the audience to understand how to interpret characters’ reactions by utilizing reaction shots. As its name suggests, reaction shots are cuts from a shot of the main action to another shot of a person or people reacting to the previous shot. (Snow, 2001); (Escobar & O'Meara, 2022)
Though reaction shots were not yet utilized in the very early days of cinema, we can still discern how the events onscreen are meant to be interpreted by the audience by how the characters in the scene react to it. So, while Georges Méliès’ 1896 film, A Terrible Night, which is about a man who is sleeping in his bed being disturbed by a giant bug crawling around him, may sound like a horror film, we can tell by the man’s silly reactions to the giant bug that this film is meant to be a comedy, and that the mood created is light and comical. And while there are multiple genres within horror, such as horror comedy and psychological horror, the films of very early cinema had not yet advanced enough to display such nuance.
Trick Films
The experimentations with tricks of photography made by early filmmakers, like Méliès, led to the popularity of trick films. According to Matthew Solomon in his article, “Up-to-Date Magic: Theatrical Conjuring and the Trick Film”: “At the turn of the twentieth century, every major international moving-picture manufacturer offered a selection of what were variously termed “magic,” “magical,” “mysterious,” “mystery,” “mystical,” “phantasmagoric,” or “trick” subjects for sale to its clients.” We now refer to these types of films as trick films. Trick films were incredibly popular with audiences during the early days of film. According to Solomon, most trick films “are several minutes long and employ cinematic techniques such as substitution splices, dissolves, matte shots, multiple exposures, and reverse motion to enact fantastic new visual possibilities, while often anchoring film trickery in the figure of an on-screen conjurer.” Solomon notes that trick films were at their zenith prior to 1908 and worked in tandem with stage magic, as they were often being deployed by filmmakers who had also been stage magicians. (Solomon, 2006)
As we discussed in Episode 1, filmmaker Georges Méliès had been a stage magician, who had honed his craft at the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly, and, in 1888, took over the management of the Théâtre Robert-Houdin in Paris. By 1896, he was an innovative filmmaker, and his 1896 film, Le Manoir du Diable, was the focus of Episode 1.
Méliès was known for his early trick films, many of which were obviously influenced by his background as a stage illusionist. Méliès’ trick films often utilized what Solomon calls “the figure of an on-screen conjurer” as a foundation for why these tricks were occurring. In the film we discussed in Episode 1, Le Manoir du Diable, the character of Mephistopheles was such a figure. But I believe in addition to the figure of an on-screen conjurer, Méliès’ trick films, and especially those which contain a story beyond a simple trick being performed, also utilize the figure of an on-screen witness. The onscreen witness in Méliès’ films not only serves to witness the magical doings of the onscreen conjurer, but is, at times, the victim of the conjurer’s magic. The witness also serves as the character with whom the audience can identify and through whom they can empathize. So, in the film, Le Manoir du Diable, the figure of an onscreen witness would be the brave gentleman who interacts with Mephistopheles, witnesses his magical tricks, and is, at times, a victim of them.
So how do we determine which of these “magical”, “mystical”, “phantasmagoric”, “trick” films fall into the genre of horror? This is probably subjective and controversial, as many trick films use “phantasmagoric” elements that can be interpreted as horror, shrinking and/or removing heads, for example. Additionally, many trick films reuse similar “tricks” to create the arc, or “trick”, of the film. This is where the atmosphere, set by the mood and tone, becomes an important element in determining genre.
The Vanishing Lady (1898) dir. Georges Méliès
In 1896, the same year as Le Manoir du Diable was filmed and released, Méliès also released a film titled The Vanishing Lady. Indeed, these films were only two among the nearly 80 short films Méliès released in that first year of his filmmaking. “The Vanishing Lady” is actually a stage illusion, also called the de Kolta Chair, invented by French illusionist Buatier de Kolta and first performed in 1886—10 years prior to Méliès’ film. (Rein, 2021)
NOTICE: Please ignore the sexist remarks of the clip's narrator. This is an excellent description of how the de Kolta Chair trick is performed.
Born in Lyon in 1847 as Joseph Buatier, de Kolta, who worked under the Hungarian impresario Julius Vido de Kolta, was a world-renowned magician who toured internationally. (Ducreux-Portier, 2017) De Kolta’s magic act, “The Vanishing Lady” is, indeed, still a popular stage illusion, including being performed by David Copperfield and by Criss Angel in the Cirque du Soleil show “Criss Angel Believe” in Las Vegas. (Wikipedia, 2021)
Being born 14 years before Georges Méliès, de Kolta was a slight precursor to and influence on Méliès. Méliès had even previously performed de Kolta’s “The Vanishing Lady” stage illusion at Méliès’ theatre, the Theatre Robert-Houdin. For the performance of the stage illusion, “The Vanishing Lady”, or de Kolta’s Chair, theatrical mechanics are engaged to achieve the illusion.
In de Kolta’s original trick, a newspaper is first laid onto the center of the stage floor, ostensibly to illustrate that there is no trap door present, but to cover the existence of a trap door. A cane chair with a breakaway seat is then placed onto the newspaper. Then a beautifully dressed assistant appears and seats herself in the cane chair. A veil or shawl is then placed over the assistant, enveloping her. The magician then touches the veil slightly, only for the veil and the figure under it to have disappeared. The audience is astonished, and, perhaps, concerned about the assistant’s welfare. The magician then looks around the theatre for his missing assistant, only for her to reappear from the wings or to be sitting amongst amazed and relieved audience members in the gallery.
In Méliès’ 1896 film, The Vanishing Lady, like in the stage act, the performance of the illusion itself serves as the entire narrative arc. While the audience may feel excitement, bewilderment, wonder, and relief or satisfaction at the act’s conclusion, the characters act more as props to serve the stunt or illusion, versus having the audience have any real emotional investment in the characters as people. In this Méliès film, the “figure of the onscreen conjurer” is a magician, played by Méliès himself. His assistant is played by his mistress and future wife, Jehanne D’Alcy, who was also in Méliès’ A Trip to the Moon and in the film that we discussed in the previous episode, Le Manoir du Diable.
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After bringing out his assistant, Méliès lays a newspaper in the center of the floor and then places a chair on the newspaper, just as in De Kolta’s trick. He has his assistant sit on the chair in the center of the frame, and then holds out a sheer scarf or handkerchief, which Méliès drapes over his assistant, enveloping her in the fabric. Méliès then pulls the fabric to reveal that his assistant has disappeared.
Next Méliès deviates from de Kolta’s trick. With a few flourishes of his arm, he makes a figure reappear in the chair, but instead of it being his live, beautiful assistant, it is a skeleton. Méliès adds a bit of humor by seeming to apologize for his mistake and admonishes himself and again covers the figure in the chair with the fabric. He again pulls the fabric away to reveal that his assistant has returned, alive and good as new. The two bow, and return for an encore, before the film concludes.
Of course, Méliès had no need for trap doors or cane chair because he had a different set of trick mechanics at his disposal. His trick? The substitution splice, also known as the stop trick. The substitution splice is an editing technique where the camera is literally stopped or paused, and usually just one element of the scene is changed, while the framing and all other technical and scenic positioning remains the same.
For example, say one is filming a magician attempting to bring back his assistant. A director films the shot of the magician flourishing his arms, and then pauses everything about what is happening in the scene, which would include the magician freezing his arms in place, mid-flourish. The camera itself would also be paused or stopped at this moment. Then, as the scene is frozen, crewmembers place a skeleton on the chair. The director begins filming again, with the magician now able to complete his flourish. The change between those two shots, where all the elements of the scene and framing are the same except for the chair being empty in the first shot and containing a skeleton in the second shot, gives the illusion that the skeleton has magically appeared out of thin air.
A video showing the modern version of the substitution splice:
And for the film archivists out there (and the archive-curious), a vintage how-to on splicing 16mm film for repair:
While Méliès’s use of the substitution splice was indeed impressive and influential, it was not the first use of it. The year before The Vanishing Lady was filmed, 1895,Thomas Edison’s Edison Manufacturing Company already utilized the technique in the 18-second short film, The Execution of Mary Stuart. William Heise, who served as the director on the Edison Manufacturing Company’s 1895 film, The Kiss, which we discussed in our previous episode, served as the cinematographer on The Execution of Mary Stuart. (IMDB, 2022)The substitution splice was utilized at the end of the film to give the illusion of Mary, Queen of Scott’s decapitation.
Whether Méliès had been influenced by this film or had come up with the technique independently is unknown. Many assume that he invented the technique, as Méliès himself claimed in an article to have done so. However, considering that Méliès, in his writing, not only claimed to have invented this technique, but also pretty much every other cinematic trick of early cinema, it is hard to put complete faith in his claims.
Méliès detailed how he developed the substitution splice in the article “Cinematic Views”, which was published in 1907 in the General and International Directory of Photography:
It is impossible in this already long talk to explain in detail the execution of cinematographic tricks; a special book would be needed for that; and even practice alone could well make the details of the processes employed understandable, which involve unheard-of difficulties. I can, without boasting, since all the professionals are willing to admit it, say here that it was myself who successively found all the so-called “mysterious” processes of cinematography.
All the editors of composite views have more or less followed the path [I] laid down, and one of them, the head of the largest film house in the world (from the point of view of big production on the cheap), told me: “It is thanks to you that the cinema has been able to maintain itself and become an unprecedented success. By applying to the theatre, that is to say, to infinitely variable subjects, animated photography, you prevented it from [declining], which would have quickly happened with outdoor subjects, which inevitably look alike and would have quickly tired the public .” I confess without false shame that this glory, if glory there is, is that of all that makes me happiest.
Do you want to know how the first idea came to me to apply the trick to cinematography? Quite simply, my faith. A jamming of the camera I was using at the beginning (a rudimentary camera, in which the film often tore or snagged and refused to advance) produced an unexpected effect, one day when I was prosaically photographing the Place de l'Opéra: a minute was needed to unblock the film and restart the camera. During this minute, passers-by, omnibuses, cars, had changed places, of course.
Projecting the tape, reunited at the point where the rupture had occurred, I suddenly saw a Madeleine-Bastille omnibus change into a hearse and men change into women. The trick by substitution . . . was found, and two days later I performed the first metamorphoses of men into women, and the first sudden disappearances which had, at the beginning, such a great success.
It is thanks to this very simple trick that I executed the first fairy tales: the Manor of the Devil, the Devil in the Convent, Cinderella, etc., etc. One trick leads to another; Faced with the success of the new genre, I strove to find new processes, and I successively imagined the changes of melted decorations, obtained by a special device of the camera; the appearances, disappearances, metamorphoses obtained by superposition on black backgrounds, or black parts reserved in the sets, then the superpositions on white backgrounds already impressed (which everyone declared impossible before having seen it) and which are obtained by aid of a subterfuge of which I cannot speak, the imitators not having yet penetrated the complete secrecy of it.
Then came the stuff of severed heads, duplication of characters, scenes played by a single character who, by duplicating himself, ends up representing on his own up to ten similar characters, acting out with each other. Finally, using my special knowledge of illusions that twenty-five years of practice in the Theatre Robert-Houdin gave me, I introduced into the cinematography the tricks of machinery, mechanics, optics, prestidigitation, etc., etc. With all these processes mixed together and used with skill, I have no hesitation in saying that in cinematography today it is possible to achieve the most impossible and implausible things. (Méliès, 1907)
While Méliès had many enviable qualities, humility does not seem to be one of them. Nonetheless, even if Méliès did not actually invent the substitution splice, he certainly utilized it in inventive, impressive, and influential ways. According to Dr. Richard Neupert in French Film History, 1895-1946, “Méliès was more than a stage showman adapting his live spectacles for a camera. His planning and staging of fantastic tricks advanced early cinema in profound ways. . . He went far beyond simply filming live magic acts and tricks, as if he were in his theatre. From the start, he systematically exploited the stop-start potential of the camera, combined with editing, to cut out the substitutions and flash frames.” (Neupert, 2022)
But is the “magical” trick film, The Vanishing Lady, a horror film? Some scholars believe both The Vanishing Lady and the Georges Méliès 1896 film, A Terrible Night, which, as I mentioned earlier in this episode, is about a man who is sleeping in his bed being disturbed by a giant bug crawling around him, to be a horror film.
A Terrible Night (1896) dir. Georges Méliès
Again, I do not consider A Terrible Night to be a horror film. The tone seems to be light and comic. The gentleman in the film, who is trying to sleep and can’t because of the bug, makes silly, comic faces in response to dealing with the constant pest. The bug itself is not shown to be scary or frightening, but more of a nuisance. It never causes harm to the gentleman, other than disrupting his night of sleep. The gentleman is simply irritated by the harmless pest and makes comic expressions and actions while trying to rid himself of it. Involving a bug, especially a harmless one, in a film does not, in and of itself, make the film frightening. After all, the Pixar film, WALL-E, was able to make a cockroach cute and likeable. And the 1996 comedy, Joe’s Apartment, featured thousands of singing cockroaches, yet no one would consider this film to be a horror film.
The homage to Busby Berklee is quite inspired!
Nor do I consider The Vanishing Lady to be a horror film. For many of Méliès’ trick films, the trick of these films is more than a mere special effect in service of a larger narrative, as it functions as the structural arc for the narrative itself. What defines the film’s genre and separates it from mere spectacle is whether the spectacle itself is meant to be horrifying or comic and/or whether story or narrative is layered onto this trick. But, again, this seems to be subjective. Watch them here to make up your own mind.
Spectacle Films
Méliès has many trick films which I consider to be spectacle films; that is, the spectacle is the film. There is no story or plot in spectacle films beyond the performance of the illusion: there are no characters for which the audience can identify; nor is there any character investment at stake. The performance of the special effect is the entire point of the film and composes the entire narrative arc.
Of course, many spectacles were performed with the intent to be comic or horrifying, with no need of story to add to these genre elements, just as many magicians add humor and comedy or horror to their acts. An example of a horror spectacle which we discussed in the previous episode is Madame Tussaud’s figures of death from the French Revolution. As the intent of this type of spectacle is to frighten, if such a spectacle was filmed, it would fall into the genre of a horror spectacle film. Adversely, many of Méliès’ spectacle films include comedy—again, the film contains no plot beyond the performance of the illusion but has many comic and playful elements in the performance of the illusion. I would consider these comedy spectacles.
I don’t believe many of Méliès’ spectacle films fall into the genre of horror films. The way Méliès demonstrates the illusions commonly present no threat and are presented in the same vein as theatrical magic tricks. Usually, these films take place within the benign confines of illusion, for example, a magician on a stage. Méliès’ 1898 film, The Four Troublesome Heads, also known as Four Heads are Better than One, could sound like a horror film. After all, in the film, Méliès decapitates himself four times and places three of his heads on tables that are on either side of him on a stage.
The Four Troublesome Heads (1898) dir. Georges Méliès
As in The Vanishing Lady, The Four Troublesome Heads is framed as though Méliès is performing a magic trick on a stage. In the film, which runs for less than a minute, Méliès gestures and mimes broadly. After he removes his head the first time, he places the head on the table at the far left of the frame. He then waves his arms, and his head reappears on his body, though his previous head remains on the table. When his head reappears, he gestures in manner as to say, “ta-da.”
Méliès then gestures to the camera, as he might to a live audience, to hold up two fingers. This allows the audience to understand that he is about to add a second head or go to the second part of the act. For a moment he interacts with his head which is on the table, which responds with broad facial expressions. Méliès then crawls under the table, as he might in an actual stage show, to illustrate that the head is not secretly supported by anything, nor is anyone hidden under the table.
He again holds up two fingers, and proceeds to again remove his head, which he places next to the other head. Méliès then proceeds to do this one additional time, so that there are three heads placed on the tables on either side of him, two on the left side of the screen and one on the right, seemingly talking to each other and commenting on Méliès in his performance—and a fourth head that has reappeared on his own body.
Méliès then seats himself between the two tables, which is the center of both the stage and screen and takes out a banjo and begins playing and singing. The heads start singing along, with broad facial expressions to illustrate their wild singing. Méliès then grimaces and covers his ears, expressing dissatisfaction with what he is hearing. The heads keep singing, angering Méliès, who grows frustrated by the cacophony and slams his banjo over the two heads on the left of the screen.
He then removes his own head, tosses it off-stage and out of the shot, takes the remaining head on the right side of the screen and tosses it so that it reconnects onto his body. He again gestures as if to say, “ta-da”. He then bows, pats his face to communicate that it is fully connected again with his body. Méliès then bids adieu to the audience, and turns away from the camera, jauntily walking toward the curtain at the back of the stage.
This film is a good showcase for Méliès, as it demonstrates his likeability as a showman and his charisma on camera. He’s very playful in the construction of the act and in his performance, and he shows a lot of personality with his performance. Méliès’ interaction and singing along with his other heads is funny and is obviously intended to be light and comical, while displaying his mastery of special effects.
To further my argument of what early films belong within the genre of horror, I am going to discuss Mary Jane’s Mishap. This film is from 1903, much later in terms of the technical progress filmmaking had achieved from the 1896 and 1898 films we had been discussing. I won’t talk too much about the technical aspects, as I will discuss this more in the next episode when we get to that point chronologically. I am also not going to discuss the director in too much detail, as we will also be discussing him on the next episode.
But this film is a British film, running around 3 minutes and 45 seconds long, and directed by George Albert Smith. Mary Jane is played by the director’s wife, Laura Bayley, who was a filmmaker in her own right.
Mary Jane’s Mishap is a comic film, but if one only heard the plot, and didn’t take into context the tone of the film, nor the comic way in which the actress performs, one might assume it is a horror film. After all, poor Mary Jane attempts to light her stove with paraffin and blows herself up and straight through the flue. When mourners and a groundskeeper are at her grave, she frightens them away by reappearing as a ghost, to search for her bottle of paraffin.
The epitaph on her headstone, which we can read thanks to Smith’s ahead-of-its-time use of an insert shot, reads: “Here lies Mary Jane, who lighted the fire with paraffin. Rest in pieces.” Death, ghosts—all of this sounds like it would fall into the realm of horror—and yet it does not. This is a comedy, utilizing gallows humor, but not a horror comedy. It has no intent to frighten its audience; only to make the audience laugh through its use of dark comedy.
The film begins with Mary Jane having overslept and hurriedly lighting the stove. She then begins to polish a shoe, itching her nose and spreading the polish onto her face, giving herself a shoe polish mustache. By crossing her eyes and making other silly expressions, she realizes that she has made marks on her face with the shoe polish.
She fetches a mirror, and momentarily breaks the fourth wall to laugh at herself, in a manner as to say, “how silly of me!” to the audience. She then uses her apron to semi-clean her face, seems pleased as she gazes at herself in the mirror, and then smiles in an exaggerated manner, crossing her eyes in a comic fashion that would make Ben Turpin proud.
She then goes back to polishing the shoe, checks on the stove, attempts to encourage it to light by using a pair of bellows, and then returns to polishing the shoe again. When she realizes that the stove has still not lit, she grows frustrated and throws down the brush and shoe. She then decides to use paraffin to light the stove.
As she is pouring the paraffin, she again breaks the fourth wall and looks directly into the camera, smiling. She winks three times at the camera while she pours the paraffin. Though you know nothing good can come of this situation, the tone is very silly.
She then bends down and lights the stove. She blows herself up, going right up and out the chimney. I believe it is her burned apron that we can see fall back down onto the rooftops after it has flown through the chimney. For whatever reason, the stove itself seems to be unaffected by this and is still in pristine condition after this event.
Then, with the early use of a vertical wipe, we see her headstone, the image of a paraffin bottle lying above the epitaph. A groundskeeper in the cemetery is sweeping off her grave as mourners gather. Mary Jane then suddenly appears as a ghost, crawling up from the grave. The mourners run in fear.
Mary Jane then searches for her bottle of paraffin. When she finds it, she triumphantly displays it to the camera before climbing back into her grave. Incidentally, there is a cat randomly wandering around in both scenes—and this made me wonder whether this was the Smiths cat who was allowed to wander where it pleased while they shot the film—but I digress.
Though the subject matter is dark, the comedy is performed in a broad and exaggerated fashion. Indeed, because of its silly tone combined with a violent and exaggerated death, it reminded me a bit of the Looney Tunes cartoons—though I must admit, I enjoy the humor in Looney Tunes more than I did the comedy in this film, as silly faces and crossing eyes has never been my comic cup of tea.
Regardless, this is a film that I believe has no intention to cause fear. When one takes into the consideration the comic elements and exaggerated tone that defines the film, it is obviously a comedy and its possible horror elements only superficial.
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Sources
Ducreux-Portier, H. (2017, December 09). Kolta Buatier. Retrieved from Hjalmar Conference: http://www.hjalmar.fr/Buatier%20de%20Kolta.htm
IMDB. (2022). The Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots (1895): Full Cast & Crew. Retrieved from IMDB: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0132134/fullcredits/?ref_=tt_cl_sm
Méliès, G. (1907). Cinematographic Views. General and International Directory of Photography, 363-392. Retrieved from http://collections.cinematheque.qc.ca/articles/les-vues-cinematographiques/
Neupert, R. (2022). French Film History,1895–1946 (Volume 1). Madison: University of Wisconsin Press.
Rein, K. (2021). Illusion in Cultural Practice: Productive Deceptions. London: Routledge.
Wikipedia. (2021, August 09). Criss Angel Believe (Cirque du Soleil). Retrieved from Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Criss_Angel_Believe_(Cirque_du_Soleil)
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