No More Learning

The answer: he did not think much of them, because readers of Mallarme, unlike readers of Hoffmann, were not supposed to hallucinate, but rather simply to read; whoever needed illustrations should put away their books and go to the cinema instead (Mallarme, 1945, p. 878). In another interview, the same Mallarme was asked how art could improve technology, and he answered by suggesting that the driver's seat in the recently invented automobile be relocated to the rear, behind the automobile owners, who at that time were upper class, and the front windshield be enlarged as much as possible. Without perceiving their own move- ment at all, and without any visual obstacles such as the driver, these automobile owners would then be fully immersed in the illusion that the streets and landscapes in front of them were opening up and increasing in size as they rode past (Mallarme, 1945, p. 880).
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Mallarme had correspondingly written a prose poem that Immor- talized this automobile in the poetic or overly poetic disguise of a self-rowing boat. The aforementioned boat floats down the river where Mallarme's own country home in Valvins was located, slips through white water lilies (from which the poem takes its title), at first with the practical goal of carrying the rower, Mallarme, to a lady friend. The visual spectacle of a gliding perspective delights the poet so much, however, that he soon abandons his visit and instead celebrates the lady as the "absent one" - Mallarme's most solemn poetical category (Mallarme, 1945, pp. 283-6). Mallarme's poem thus does exactly what Meissonier (presumably his neighbor) did with his mobile railroad carriage, which proves that 15 years before the first tracking shots were made the dream of them already existed. The mobile images of film are inextricably linked with the new automobiles and the only slightly older railroad journey. Further evi- dence, namely from instantaneous photographer Ernst Mach and the originator of psychoanalysis Sigmund Frend, will follow later today.
The systematics of optical mobilization is in the first instance more important. First, the step from a static to a mobile camera had elimi- nated every similarity between film and the ancient art of theater. From Plato's cave to the peep show theater, spectators were and are fixed in place - not out of old Enropean sadism, but rather becanse before the invention of computers the calculation of moving gazes would have exceeded all computational capacities. Macroscopically, film does not actually alter the fixed position of the spectators' bodies. Microscopically, on the other hand, an apparatus representing their own eyes performs random cuts and movements, from which the spectators cannot distance themselves as they have no other possibili- ties of optical control in the darkness of the cinema. For this reason, according to Edgar Morin's brilliant formulation, "the spectator reacts before the screen as before an external retina telelinked to his
brain" (Morin, 2005, pp. 134-5; italics in original).
Before continuing with the actnal history of film, I wonld like to follow another thread through to the end. The cinema that the Lumiere brothers created on the Boulevard des Capucines in Paris was not simply an apparatus composed of the cinematograph and a projection wall, but rather it was one of the many child kidnappers of Hamelin. The question remains what raised the cinema as pied piper above the old desires of theater. This question leads us back to
lighting technology.
The peep show theater, this baroque translation of the lanterna
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wax candles, and the duration of its pieces were thus very limited. The wish for a brighter and cleaner light sonrce arose as soon as chemists first began mannfactnring flammable gases and Robertson discovered the carbon arc lamp for special effects. The introdnction of gaslight in nineteenth-centnry tbeaters not only had the effect of increasing the number of theater fires and deaths to an historically unheard of degree, until the introduction of the iron curtain, which was supposed to protect against such disasters, but it also posed a theoretical problem. It was no longer necessary to be stingy with ligbt, and the stage could be made as bright as desired. The question was thus whether there should still be chandeliers in the auditorium, which was a centuries-old tradition, even though they were no longer necessary for people to see the drama or the opera. The answer given
by the well-known architect Garnier as he was building the new Grand Opera House in Paris is noteworthy: according to Garnier, a dimming of the auditorium would be possible, as it already existed in a few Italian opera houses, but it was not feasible. First, opera visitors had to be able to read along during the dazzlingly incompre- hensible songs in the libretto of the cnrrent opera in order to under- stand at least some of the plot. Second, as a social event people go to the theater not only to see but also to be seen. (Princes, above all, were always illuminated in their boxes, because for them everything depended on conrtly representation or glamor rather than bonrgeois illusion. ) Third, Garnier argued that it is crucial for actors and the artistic quality of their performance that they see all of the audience's reactions; they thus perform in an optical feedback loop. Fourth, a darkened auditorinm would also have the disadvantage that it would not be controllable down to the last corner. Opera visitors who no longer read along in the libretto during a love aria might resort to quite different thoughts or actions.
The morality of the gaslight theater thus immediately bears com- parison to the new morality or rather immorality of the cinema. While the new technical light sonrces were not permitted to change anything in the auditorium at first, there were still experiments with new stage effects. I want to cite two particularly magnificent exam- ples to provide evidence of the training of a cinematic gaze.
In the nineteenth centnry, England had a very practical math- ematician. In 1830, Charles Babbage constructed a forerunner of the first computer, which he actnally did not complete but which he employed as leverage to bring British precision mechanics to the same industrial standards as Colonel Colt. In 1846, Babbage sat in the German Opera House in London next to a lady wearing a hat.
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The gaslight over the stage and auditorium went on, and the lady's hat and program changed color with a slight tinge of pink. This technogenic accident gave Babbage a revolutionary idea for a revolu- tionary theater lighting system. He got together with none other than Michael Faraday, the discoverer of the stroboscope effect that had made film possihle, to create together a simple new ballet. Babbage and Faraday illuminated the stage with dazzlingly brilliant limelight lamps, which an English lieutenant had invented for the purpose of sending military signals, and in front of each lamp they built rotating glass filters in various different colors. Babbage then wrote a ballet ahout natural science research and the rainbow, put all the dancers in white tricots for the duration of the piece, darkened the auditorium, and illuminated the white tricots with changing colors according to each phase in the ballet's narrative. You can and must imagine the result: the dancers' tricots could alternately shine in all the colors of the rainbow without a costume change. Long before Edison's Black Mary - his film studio illuminated by light bulbs - it was the first theatrical piece developed on the basis of spotlights. And unfortu- nately, Babbage's piece can only be imagined because the impressario dropped the ballet from the schedule shortly before its premiere for fear of a fire and an audience in flames.
For this reason, the history of spotlight effects, which introduced virtual and thus proto-cinematic movement into the theater, contin- ued in Germany. A dramatist and opera composer lived there who, for anarchistic reasons, loved the thought of a hurning theater and audience. I am speaking of Richard Wagner, and unfortunately I will have to spare you countless details. In short, Wagner's newly founded opera house in Bayreuth truly achieved the transition from traditional art to media technology. I will merely point to the many stage directions in the Ring that provide for smooth cinematic scene changes and for the burning of the entire theatrical fortress of the gods, Valhalla, at the end of the entire tetralogy, which recalls Bab-
bage's ballet. Another similarity to Babbage's piece is the rainbow that Wagner's gods conjure on the ceiling of the stage at the end of The Rhine Gold after a metaphysical fog had previously submerged them in the most terribly deadly grey. Nothing else signifies The Twilight of the Gods. In addition to the coloring of scenes through spotlights, there was also a kind of virtual automobility in Wagner's opera even at its first premiere in 1876: in the libretto, only the new Valkyries ride on old-fashioned, proto-Germanic horses; in techni- cal positivity, on the other hand, a moving lanterna magica projects automobile phantoms of Valkyries onto the rear backdrop. The same
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happens at the end of the second act of The Valkyrie, where Wotan and Briinnhilde appear as shadows on the cyclorama over the two fighters, Siegmund and Hunding (Ranke, 1982, p. 47- this scene is preserved in an image in the Illustrirte Zeitung of 1876). In the hal- lucination scenes, the controllability of theater light, which was first made possible through gaslight, escalates to iantema magica effects (Ranke, 1982, p. 42).
And because Wagner pushed both the acoustic and the optical effects of theater equally to the extreme, the opera house that he built on a green hill overlooking Bayreuth, which looks like an enormous factory for producing arts and crafts, represented a decisive step beyond the nineteenth century in general and Garnier's Grand Opera House in Paris in particular. In the words of a contemporary eye- witness (or rather earwitness) of the first Ring premiere:
In Bayreuth the darkened room became the objective. It was also an entirely surprising stylistic device at that time. "A completely dark night was made in the house, so that it was impossible to recognize one's neighbors, and the wonderful orchestra began in the depths. " (Wieszner, 1951, p. 115)
If media technology mnst first isolate and incorporate individual sensory channels and then connect them together to form multime- dia systems, then Wagner's Bayrenth opera was the first historical realization of this principle. To highlight the music of The Rhine Gold overture, there was nothing and no one to see either in the auditorium or on stage. Not to mention the fact that the opera musi- cians were not visible at all, as Wagner had sunk them in an invis- ible orchestra pit following the unique model of the theater built by von Claude-Nicolas Ledoux in Besan<;on around 1770. Even when the curtain was raised over the huge gas-lit stage, the lights in the auditorium remained off - a practice that still continues today. This no longer shocks contemporary cinemagoers, who only purchase Bayreuth tickets in exceptional cases. However, it was a scandal in 1876, as a newly crowned German Kaiser was among the audience at the first premiere. Wilhelm I thus had the privilege of being the first prince whose absolutist self-representation was confined to his box by Wagner's anarchism. The age of democracy, or rather the age of prevailing illiteracy, had begun. For spectators who wanted to continne reading the opera text, as Garnier suggested, Wagner had to distribute a flyer prior to the first premiere to warn them that they should already read through the text, as it would be too late
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and too dark during the performance. The Ring of the Nibelung thus ran as a total film, which was not once interrupted by superimposed intertitles as in old silent films. It was therefore no wonder that Wagner's notorious son-in-law Houston Steward Chamberlain sug- gested that symphonies should also be performed in the complete darkness of Wagner's opera house, meaning that even the actors who were not yet entirely invisible in Wagner's musical dramas should be cut out and instead only large-format lanterna magica effects should be projected, as had been done with the valkyries. Through the elimi- nation of all empirical human bodies, a multimedia show would thus emerge.
Hopefully, this overselling of the theater, which Babbage and Wagner had already achieved in the old peep show theater, sheds more light on Edison's light bulb and the Lumieres' film projection. It is clear that electric light made the difference between bright and dark consistently controllable, and therefore in this case it could be set absolutely; it is also clear that it had minimized the danger of theater fires or later also cinema fires. From then on, there were only explosions and catastrophes (provided that we are allowed to ignore the ending of Gravity's Rainbow) when celluloid films - whose chemistry is for good reason narrowly related to explosives - caught fire under the heat of projector light bulbs. However, the projection of electric light through an otherwise darkened room seems to be the most important thing. It not only established the aesthetics and social pathology of cinema, but it also created a new militaristic way of perceiving the world. It was not until the invention of klieg lights around 1900 that film studios, following the model of Edison's Black Mary, could finally bid farewell to daylight recording. After the rise of film, the theater could also shift its lighting to virtual
effects and klieg lights, as Max Reinhardt did in Berlin. The fact that actors today almost always stand in spotlights is therefore an imitation of cinema. And finally, light projection could also mod- ernize warfare. In the Russo-Japanese War, for example, the Tsar's army employed spotlights for the first time to protect Port Arthur, Russia's last eastern Siberian fortress. When the Japanese attacked at night, these spotlights transformed battlefields into lethal film studios (Virilio, 1989, p. 68). If bedazzlement, as I have already said, was a privilege of princes and the powerful during absolutism, enabling them to humble their subjects, it has since 1904 become an actively armed eye that no longer simply optimizes its own perception, like
the telescope and the microscope, but also reduces the perception of the enemy to zero.
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We will return later to the nexus between war and cmema. For the historical moment of silent film, however, it is sufficient to study the aesthetics of this actively armed eye and the sociology of its subjects. As we are pressed for time, I will skip over countless opmions on silent film that range from Georg Lukacs to Bela Balazs and limit myself instead to a very early silent film theory: Hugo Miinster- berg's slender book The Photoplay, which was published in New York in 1916 and which connects most elegantly to my questIOns about cinema, theater, and lighting. Our last session ended with Edgar Morin's aphorism that the cinemagoer catches sight of his own immeasurablymagnifiedretinaontheprojectIOnscreen Miinsterberg had proved precisely that already in 1916.
Hugo Miinsterberg, to introduce him briefly, was a lecturer in experimental psychology in Freiburg im Breisgau and thus a col- league of all those like Fechner, Helmholtz, and Marey, who were present at the birth of film. William James, the donnish brother of novelist Henry James, became acquainted with the young lecturer at a psychology congress in Leipzig, which at that time was still a leader in science thanks to Wundt. Out of pure enthusiasm, James offered him the directorship of the newly founded experimental psychology laboratory at Harvard. At the turn of the century, in other words, universities followed the solitary example of Edison, the self-made man. In his laboratory, for example, Miinsterberg had already taught the young student Gertrude Stein experimentally about automatic or surrealistic writing 20 years before she achieved literary fame. But writing was only one of countless cultural techniques that he measured according to all manner of psychological and physiological parameters, with the actual goal of optimizing all of these techniques ergonomically. The upcoming assembly-line work, as it was imple- mented by Henry Ford during World War I, required that every bodily movement, even inconspicuous movements like writing, proceed opti- mally. I would add here that Gilbreth, an American colleague of Miinsterberg's, conducted such ergonomic measurements with the help of slow-motion films. The ex-Freiburger was not as practical. He only went to film studios, which at that time were located in New York rather than under Hollywood's sun, and were as an excep- tion opened to him because of his fame in America. The book The Photoplay was Miinsterberg's last success, however, because one year later the German Empire declared war on the United States. Miinsterberg had tried to prevent this war through fireside chats with President Wilson, but his efforts were in vain. In 1918, he mourned the fact that no president, professor, or American would greet him any
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longer, and he died of a heart attack while presenting a lecture later that year.
His film book provides an example of applied psychotechnics, as Miinsterberg dubbed his new science. In order to explain a modern media technique, Miinsterberg cleverly employed an older counter- example: the peep show theater. The result of the aesthetic compari- son is that the theater can actually awaken many illusions among spectators, but none of them are physiological. The stage disrupts neither the physical place nor the physical time of the events; in fact, it must simply accept them. (This is the reason why the three unities became a theoretical problem for theater. ) On the other hand, the photoplay or feature film is a true psychotechnique, which attacks and modifies the unconscious psychological states of the cinemagoer using strictly technical means.
The examples for this thesis come from the realm of film tricks and montage techniques, which had already been achieved at that time. As if to prove the objective and not just the etymological connection between the notion of montage in film and the notion of montage on the assembly line, the first film theory deals with the effects that close-ups, flashbacks, flashforwards, and reverse shots have on spectators. In the unconscious and therefore uncontrollable act of spectating, psychic acts correspond to all of these effects. The most obvious is Miinsterberg's example of the close-up: the protagonist of a film wants to shoot someone, so he takes hold of Colonel Colt's revolver. However, the film camera - the historical descendant of this same revolver - is not satisfied with simply carrying on looking at the hero, which would be the only available possibility in the theater. In fact, as an actively armed eye it tracks in on the hero until only the hand and the revolver fill the entire image in the lens. According to Miinsterberg, all unconscious attention functions in the same way: it filters out completely irrelevant image components without noticing. In a similar way, the flashback realizes or implements unconscious memory (which Proust was investigating in literature at exactly the same time), the flashforward realizes or implements unconscious fan- tasies of the future, and the montage of temporally or spatially sepa- rated scenes realizes or implements the functioning of unconscious association in general. All the irresistible and uncontrollable shock effects unleashed by Lumiere, Melies, and Griffith are thus explained using psychotechnics.
Miinsterberg's theory thus completes, at least for us, a scientific- historical circuit. As I have repeatedly emphasized, media technologies emerged in the nineteenth century from psychological and physiological
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research on a very empirical and no longer transcendental human subject. When Miinsterberg was writing in 1916, on the other hand, these media technologies were perfect and could, in turn, provide models for psychology and physiology. If unconscious attention is nothing more than a film trick, then humans can be built and opti- mized instead of being further idolized idealistically. Pynchon's cited film director was indeed mistaken when he provided the comforting assurance that we do not yet entirely live in film. In technical actual- ity, the scientific experimental film above all changed the realities of life itself. People working on an assembly line perform movements taught them by a film.
Miinsterberg's admirable theory also completes a literary-historical circuit. As you may remember, romantic literature demanded - to quote Navalis directly - a "right reader" who develops a real, visual, and also audible inner world based on the words on the page. Navalis' wondrons novel Heinrich von Ofterdingen depicts this process, as someone tells the hero abont a wondrous blue flower, which the hero never gets to see throughout the entire novel. Under conditions of silent reading, however, the hero lapses into a dream upon hearing the tale, and this dream places the blue flower in front of an inner or hallncinatory eye. At the end of the dream, the flower's petals become clothing and the center of the flower becomes a woman's face. The hero cannot help but remain faithful to that hallucinatory beloved even after her death, for the duration of a romantic's life or at least for the duration of the novel.
Miinsterberg responds to this scientifically, and that means scathingly:
Rich artistic effects have been secured, and while on the stage every
fairy play is clumsy and hardly able to create an illusion, in the film we
really see the man transformed into a beast and the flower into a girl.
[. . ? JEvery dream becomes real. (Miinsterberg, 1970, p. 15)
If film, according to Miinsterberg's clear words, simply surpasses lit- erature and theater, then this new media aesthetic has consequences that people other than myself would call sociological. The fact that theater and novel publishing have experienced a crisis in popularity and profitability as a result of the rise of film is still harmless com- pared to another threat. If film tricks can actually appear to make flowers out of women rather than merely in the reader's imagina- tion, the ideal beloved of all romantic authors and readers dies out. Navalis' Mathilde and Hoffmann's Aurelia, who were only
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seducible as readers, disappear simply because they eXist in the nec- essary blurring of descriptions and thus as a single indistinguishable ideal figure. They were replaced, to put it simply and dramatically, with empirical-statistical women.
The film star - who, as Georg Lukacs already recognized in 1913, actually has no soul or doesn't need one, but who is simply an unmis- takable human anatomy - is naturally first and foremost an empirical woman. The Kinogirl, as starlets were called in the leading German film magazine in 1911, "constitutes a morally delightful companion to theater actresses, as they have vegetated in Europe since 1650 without receiving Christian funerals during the first centuries of their existence. " The magazine Kinematograph takes an opposing view:
How a young woman comes to the theater is clear to everyone inter- ested in either the theater or the young woman. People seldom worry about how a young woman holds her ground on the stage. But the public should know how many sad dramas of life the photograph hinders by showing dramas from the life of the public. Then the old accusation that the cinema restricts the life blood of the stage would no longer be heard for a long time, and those who perish on the stage would be offered a rescue. (quoted in Schliipmann, 1990, p. 19)
This grandiose argument is implicitly between women's bodies and the illustrations of women's bodies. Film stars are actually just as erotic as theater actresses, but they merely have to prostitute their images rather than their bodies. For media-technical reasons, there- fore, chastity or sanctity dwells within them, which in Hoffmann's The Devil's Elixirs was only true of the painted Rosalia and not of her fleshly double Aurelia. In other words, the cinematic pin-up girl deflects palpability just like three-dimensional technologies in two- dimensional space. For this very reason, however, the borders of palpability are no longer drawn. Everyone knows the famous story of how Howard Hughes, the multi-millionaire constructor of military aircraft, also constructed a special bra for Jane Russell's unmistakable anatomy for the purpose of making films.
What is more forgettable and more important, however, is that empirical-statistical women were also cinemagoers. At precisely the same time as Germany's universities first accepted women, and thus the Faustian ideal love, Gretchen, was historically set aside, early silent film cinema was considered to be women's entertainment. This is powerfully shown in Heide Schliipmann's habilitation treatise, which examines spectator statistics as well as the content of films
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m Germany pnor to 1913. I will only add that accordmg to quite a number of historical witnesses it appears that secretaries in particular went to the cinema. Women's emancipation had not only invented the student as a new profession for women, but also the typist. After the media-technical collapse of literary illusions, all that remained for these typists was the dry and - for male writers in general- too trivial task of working ten hours a day with bare, meaningless letters. Such secretaries escaped the daily grind of their office jobs, as they them- selves testified in magazine surveys in the 1920s, sImply by seemg a boyfriend andlor going to the cmema every evening, where they were guaranteed not to be threatened by any texts other than the intertitles.
If anyone wants to have printed evidence of the hIstorical primacy of women cinemagoers, they should read Jean-Paul Sartre's autobi- ography The Words. In this book, the old philosopher recalls the equally child-like and literary con-artist that he was as the grandson of an all-powerful writer. Of course, his grandfather, like all of his bourgeois friends, attended the Parisian theater as often as possible in order, as Sartre so beautifully formulated, to be "insidiously prepared for ceremonious destinies" (Sartre, 1967, p. 75). It would have been easy for Sartre to become a Stalinist revolutionary, however, if his young mother had not dragged him into her own passion for film. Women, children, and welfare cases - not only among the Sartres - were thus the principle audience for films until about 1910, when men developed such a fear of this literary desertion that they either introduced film censorship or they invented the masculine auteur film, which essentially amounts to the same thing.
Film censorship was demanded by diverse moral organizations and was ultimately anchored in the law of an empire, although its reigning technophile was naturally also a film fan. There were two different reasons for its existence: the content of films and the social space of the cinema itself. The social space of the cinema realized all of Garnier's fears and all of Wagner's hopes. A cinema in Mannheim, which was the subject of a dissertation written by an early female student of none other than Max Weber in 1913, advertised with the slogan: "Come in, our cinema is the darkest in the entire city! " My task is not to present a lecture on the social history of petting, but I would like to direct your attention to Gottfried Benn's enthusiasm for this darkness (in the early novella The Journey) and at the same time articulate a warning: early cinema can certainly be schema- tized as a feedback loop between erotic film content and the erotic practices of cinemagoers in the same way that romantic literature served as such a feedback loop, but we should always question, as
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Pynchon does, what authority programmed such loops.
As Zglinicki reportedly heard from the mouth of a direct participant, the most famous naturist film, which was made by the UFA (Universal Film AG) after World War I, was intentionally supposed to have only an indirectly eroticizing function; its main purpose was rather to show healthy souls in healthy bodies immediately after a lost war and thus contribute "to military fitness" (Zglinicki, 1979, p. 576). The armed forces had assisted in making the film.
But now I am getting ahead of myself. To understand how a UFA could come mto existence at all, we will return once more to the individual stages by which film fell again under state control.
The first stage, as I have said, was the auteur film, which did not emerge in Germany until 1913 at a time when the country was rather dependent on film imports. In France, the comedie franc;aise had already pounced earlier. After a few years of wild polemics, which Anton Kaes has replicated in his volume on cinema debates (Kaes, 1978), theater people and novelists decided to make peace with the new competitive medium just before the start of World War I. In 1912, the largest German film company and the writers' union signed a joint agreement concerning royalties and copyrights (Schliipmann, 1990, p. 247). One year later, in 1913, the famous actor Albert Bassermann, who had previously refused every photo- graphic portrait out of the same fear of the camera as Balzac, was persuaded to perform in the first German auteur film, Paul Lindau's The Other, in which he played his own double. This culturalization of cinema, in turn, was supposed to abolish everything that films had inherited from fairs and magic shows, as well as some aspects of the social space of the cinema that it had inherited from Wagner's opera and the chambre separee. Following the models of New York, Paris, and London, Berlin also began to develop film palaces, which were hybrid architectures that combined features of both the cinema and the theater. To provide appropriate film content for these palaces, in which both the educated middle-class and the cultural set were able to set foot, novelists had to write screenplays, and theater actors had to be filmed. The two most famous cases were the novelist Hanns Heinz Ewers and the actor Paul Wegener, who made the second German auteur film, The Student of Prague, in 1913.
The work of the screenplay consisted first of all in turning liter- ary hallucinations into cinematic positivities. With his typewritten screenplay - a text that was thus reduced to naked letter sequences - Ewers did this brilliantly, while Gerhard Hauptmann reportedly failed at the same task. Second, it naturally involved replacing all of
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the fallen or servant women of early women's films with a man - preferably an educated one. The sciences that had historically made film possible were thus incorporated back into it again. For example, Ewers' student suffers from a hallucination of a doppelganger that, as early psychoanalysis immediately recognized, can only be explained through psychoanalysis. Other auteur films, like The Other or The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, feature sciences like criminology, which since Bertillon focused on securing photographic evidence, and psv- chiatry, which had already in Marey's time produced the first serial photographic snapshots of patients. Miinsterberg would have had no problem in finding his own experimental psychological premises realized or even implemented in The Student of Prague.
Beyond the reconciliation between literature, science, and film, however, the auteur film also had to mend the rupture between film and theater. The famous theater actor Paul Wegener thus gave his first experiment in front of the camera the lovely title The Seduced. His cameraman Seeber, the son of a Chemnitz photographer, experi- mented systematically with Georges Melies' stop tricks and all sorts of double exposures to create what he called "absolute film":
Naturally [Seeber wrote in 1925 in absolute unison with Miinsterberg]
an entire film will never be absolute, but certain scenes within a large film that depict an internal procedure - a legendary, fairytale~like or fantastic procedure - can be produced on the way to absolute film. Such a film . . . demands a complete conversion of the screenwriter - for once the word "poet" can really be used here - and actually a poet who also understands how to translate his fantasies into technology. He must be able to conceive of the different parts of an absolute film image. He must not only specify the procedures objectively, but they must also be fixed temporally. The screenwriter of the future - and I am firmly convinced that absolute film has a future - will have to write like a musician writes his score. And just as a musician orchestrates his acoustic creation, the film author will also have to write a kind of technical score that enables the photographer to follow his fantasy.
(Seeber, 1925, p. 95)
In The Student of Prague, Seeber's "absolute film" consequently amounted to the presentation of film as film. All of the double expo- sures and stop tricks that Seeber had learned from Melies, which he augmented through his passion for American klieg lights, only served the goal of confronting the theater actor Wegener with himself as an "other" or double. This "other" looked completely the same, but he was missing any inwardness or facial expression. In this way, he
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seemed like the idiotic and that means cinematic negative of the posi- tive theater star. In other words, the doppelganger trick represented a film of making a film. A famous actor died simply because there was a copy of him on the screen. Remember why Garnier had refused to dim the lights in the auditorium: with invisible spectators the actors could no longer exchange any optical or gestural signs of approval or understanding. But this interruption of all feedback loops between a body and its doubles - whether in the mirror, in one's own internally stored body image, or in the approving eye of the other - precisely defines technical media. You do not recognize tape recordings of your own voice because only the acoustics of the exterior space remain, while the feedback loop between the larynx, Eustachian tube, and inner ear does not work in front of the microphone. The number of early horrified witnesses appropriately shows that people did not recognize their own moving doubles. Maltitz' comedy Photography and Revenge had already demonstrated how the camera replaces beautified portraits with the faces of criminals; cinema pushed this alienation effect even further. The protagonists of novels by Vladi- mir Nabokov and Arnolt Bronnen, who had become film extras or even stars, experienced the shock of seeing themselves on screen in the cinema. For men like Freud, who neither went to the cinema nor read about it in his books, the same experience could happen in a train compartment. As the mirrored door of a first-class bathroom, which at that time was still reserved for the upper class, suddenly moved, Prof. Sigmund Freud saw according to his own confession "an elderly genteman" whose appearance he "thoroughly disliked" yet only later painfully recognized as his own mirror image (Freud,
1953-74, XVII, p. 248).
Beyond all examples of historical scientific anecdotes, this fear of
the double functioned as the social Darwinist principle of selection. To begin with, the actors who survived it became film actors, while the others dwindled away together with their medium until they even- tually became the subsidized elite they are today. Second, Stevenson's novella about doppelganger, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, became one of the most frequently adapted stories of all time. Third, media-technical selection principles never remain limited to the art establishment. The conditioning of new technogenic perceptual worlds not only concerns producers, but also consumers. Michael Herr, the drugged war correspondent, reports that during the Vietnam War there were entire companies of an elite American unit, the marines, that were only prepared to go into battle on the rice fields, and that means to go to their deaths, when one of the countless television teams from
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ABC, NBC, or CBS were already there waitmg and ready for actiOn (Herr, 1978).
World War I had already invented this beautiful death of a double, which the evening news would then celebrate before the eyes of astonished parents. This was the second phase of the domestication of film. For literary scholars, I can only point out in passing that whenever Lientenant Ernst Junger describes an encounter With the enemy in his war journals and novels, which was extremely rare in the trenches, he names this enemy his own double. The historical reason for such hallucinations is even more significant: namely, Junger was only one of millions of other trench warfare soldiers that World War I made into the first masculine mass film audience (and into the first mass radio audience). The phase of women's films was thus in the past. In the communications zone located directly behind the three trench systems, entertainment films were shown for all of the armies during World War I, which also led to film stars like Henny Porten moving into dugouts as pin-ups (Virilio, 1989, pp. 25-6). Without film recordings, the sensory deprivation of soldiers, who were only permitted to see tiny sections of the sky over their trenches for four years (if they survived that long), would have resulted in very cin- ematic psychoses. It was only through the artificial storage and input of moving pictures that armies of millions were supplied with morale boosters.
Behind the new eroticism (the so-called male fantasies, to quote Klaus Theweleit) there was thus a new war technology. To begin with, it soon became clear to all of the participating nations that world wars could no longer be won without the support of world opinion, or at least pnblished opinion. This publicity dimension of world war strategy benefited the allies, because Great Britain, France, Italy (after 1916) and the leading film-makers, the USA (after 1917), all belonged to the opponents of the so-called central powers. Films
presenting a world-destroying and virgin-defiling image of Kaiser Wilhelm II were thus exported to all the neutral countries. These films did not really bother the Supreme Army Commanders of the German Empire, who were still very Prussian and proper, but it did worry the new, technologically savvy team of Hindenburg and Ludendorff, who were ordered to turn the deadlocked war around in 1916. As the strategic head of the Third Supreme Command, Ludendorff thank- fully took the advice of a Leipzig industrialist, who in the interest of the "Made in Germany" brand and his own Illustrirte Zeitung had already been demanding worldwide film propaganda for the emperor and the empire for years (Zglinicki, 1979, p. 389). Unfortunately, it
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still remains uncertain whether Ludendorff also Ilstened to Ewers, the successful novellst and screenwriter who was traveling in the USA during World War I and was eventually interned. In a long and still unpublished typescript, Ewers had criticized the idea of German foreign propaganda as pure idiocy. In 1917, however, things sud- denly changed: an office for images and films (Bild-ul1d-Filrn-Arnt) was founded within the Supreme Army Command - the most sacred Prusslan military tradition since Scharnhorst and Gneisenau - which was given the name BUFA dne to the fashion for abbreviations during World War I, which has since become the norm. In its 900 cinemas on the front line, BUFA commandeered all the films, projectors, and pro- jectionists that had delighted Lieutenant Jiinger in his Belgian base.
But that was not enough. In his capacity as Quartermaster General, Ludendorff wrote an official letter on July 4, 1917 to change BUFA to UFA through the omission of a single, unimportant letter (UIum- portant since the advent of film). In his general staff-like clarity, Lndendorff sent the following plea "to the Imperial Ministry of War in Berlin":
The war has demonstrated the overwhelming power of the image and of film as instruments of enlightenment and propaganda. Unfor- tunately, our enemies have exploited their advances in this area so fundamentally that we have suffered heavy losses. For the further duration of the war, film will not lose its significance as a tool of politi- cal and military propaganda. To ensure a happy ending to the war, therefore, it is absolutely necessary for film to have the greatest impact everywhere that German influence is still possible. [, . . JWhat means are to be employed? Because only the absolute majority is required to influence a corporation, it is not always necessary to purchase all of the shares [of a company]. It must not be known, however, that the state is the buyer. The entire financial transaction must be performed by a competent, influential and reliable bank that is unconditionally loyal to the government. The negotiators should not be permitted to know the true identity of the agent's client. (Zglinicki, 1979, p. 394)
Nothing more carne of Ludendorff's strategic goal - a happy ending to the war - even though Junger's world war novels rave about pre- cisely such a resolution. However, the tactical goal of the Supreme Army Command was achieved. Without the state being recognized as the string puller, two apparently private institutions - the Deutsche Bank and the gramophone company Lindstrom, where Kafka's eternal fiancee Felice Bauer had risen np the ranks from typist to authorized representative - created a company out of various private
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German and Danish film companies, whICh they named "Umversal Film AG" or UFA for short. The military industrial complex thus per- formed its own metamorphosIs: BUFA, a branch of the general staff, became UFA, a large-scale industrial film company that appeared to be privately owned on paper, yet was at the same time always half state-owned. UFA continued to produce war and peace propaganda in Babelsberg just south of Berlin until March 1945, when Marshal Zhukov's last offensive at dawn at the Oder front began to blmd the remaining German defenses witb antI-aircraft spotlIghts (a tactIC reminiscent of the Russo-Japanese War). But even after the Red Army marched into Babelsberg, UFA only needed to change two more letters in its name to start producll1g film propaganda for the German Democratic Republic as DEFA. That is how long-lived or lifeless the power of the state is . . .
So much for propaganda or the face of a war that did not end until November 1989. The history of propaganda, which we have traced from a papal institution in 1662 to a military agency in 1917, still does not deal with the real problem of war and cinema. The fact that it was ever necessary to entertain soldiers in their dugouts or influence neutral countries in their indecision is only a negative and therefore indirect way of saying that modern wars are no longer visually reproducible. At the same historical moment when film made the motion of a bullet in flight visible, no matter how fast it was going, the technologies that had made film itself possible in the first place disappeared into strategic invisibility. It was the machine gun, this generalization of Colt's revolver, which imposed this invisibility dUl'ing World War I. This serial killing machine, which had originally been developed and employed only against reds, blacks, and yellows, now turned on its white inventors. Due to the danger of being imme- diately shot in the head, soldiers were forced to disappear under cam- ouflage and into trenches, and they no longer saw anything between the fronts except for their piece of sky and possibly hallucinations of a Madonna or pin-up figure. The epoch of silent film thus comprised not only millions of spectators, but also millions of invisible people. A world war that demanded worldwide and thus analphabetic and thus silent film propaganda, had no propaganda material to offer at all. To film its material battles, one would also have to be able to film white noise.
This fact frustrated Griffith, the most famous American director of his time. He landed in Europe, planned one of his crowd scene propaganda films, went to the trenches, and saw that the battle- fields were empty (Virilio, 1989, pp. 14-15). So Griffith then built a
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gIgantIc studio wIth gIgantIc but perfectly filmable trenches and simu- lated a world war as if national or civil wars were still the order of the day. From the very outset, the fictional battle scenes Griffith recorded from the obsolete panoramic perspective of a field com- mander laid themselves open to the jndgment of Schlieffen, who had already prophesied in 1909 as chief of staff of the imperial German army that there is nothing more to see in contemporary wars: the front had become vast and mcalculable, and for security reasons field commanders had already had to exchange their hill for a bunker.
In Germany, the sltnatton was much the same for the Berlin entre- preneur and film director Oskar Messter,8 an "old master of cinema technology" as ZglmickI so old-masterfully describes him. Messter came to film as the son of a precision mechanic and optician, who had constrncted (entirely in our sense of the words) electrical spotlight installations for military parades and theaters. Messter himself began mannfacturing the newly invented X-ray equipment for invisible light that was beyond even ultraviolet. After becoming acquainted with the Lumiere apparatus, Messter proceeded to set np a German film industry and an artificial light workshop, acquired 70 patents, and founded various firms that were ready to go into production, which all merged into UFA in 1918. While it was normal in the age of silent film to record films at horribly slow speeds and then project them in the cinema at much faster speeds to save time, Messter fonght for a standard frame rate of 24 hertz for recording as well as playback, which sound film was then supposed to enforce (Zglinicki, 1979, pp. 256-66).
Oskar Messter's film company became historically significant when World War I broke out, as Messter's various firms were made into snbdivisions of BUFA. Their rather monopolistic orders from the gov- ernment were to film newsreels of the war front and then project them on the home front to boost the morale of workers and the wounded. This order led to similar difficulties as Griffith had experiences. Even though there was nothing to see or film in the trenches, the military prohibited shooting on location simply because they did not want to supply the enemy with free intelligence reconnaissance. Like Griffith,
therefore, Messter's newsreels had to simulate battle scenes at the base, which unfortnnately lacked the desired propaganda effect. As a military hospital chief wrote to Ludendorff, "watching the German war newsreels has an important medicinal effect on the wounded.
8 In the original German text, Kittler incorrectly refers to Oskar Messter as "Oskar Meester. "
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These gentlemen tell me that they have never heard such thunderous laughter as when those cinematographic images from the trenches and 'from the front' are shown - but laughter is an important remedy" (Zglinicki, 1979, p. 390).
Unlike Griffith, however, Messter learned a lesson about experi- mental film from this propaganda film disaster. If the trenches simply could not be perceived optically and were also not permitted to be perceived militarily, the only remaining path for film was the vertical path. With the failure of Schlieffen's plan at the battle of the Marne, French Marshal Joffre led a successful counter-strike in August 1914 on the basis of photographic records made bv reconnaissance air- craft. After this battle, when the enemy armies disappeared into their trenches, the need for air reconnaissance became even more pressing. A few photographic and film records from the vertical could disclose invisible soldiers, camouflaged artillery positions, and unnoticed rear- ward connections to the enemy. For this reason, the reconnaissance pilots of World War I represented the origin of all air forces long before bombers and fighters.
In order to help German reconnaissance pilots, Messter constructed his patented "target practice device for the detection of deviations by means of photographic records" (German Reich Patent Office, Patent Specification No. 309108, Class 72 f, Group 7, July 18, 1916). According to the patent, this device was placed in the exact position of the machine gun in a fighter plane, with the aim of helping to monitor the precision of the machine gunners in real time for each individual shot. As Messter put it so beautifully, he employed "a cin- ematographic recording apparatus whose running gear was propelled by clockwork and whose visual field carries crosshairs, whereby a targeting set-up like that of the machine gun is to be arranged paral- lel to the visual axis. " As you can see, the structural correspondence
between perspective and ballistics became a technological reality by World War I at the latest. Messter's ingenious construction, which photographed at least 7. 2 million square kilometers of combat area using millions of kilometers of roll film' (Zglinicki, 1979, p. 273), could only be improved by combining shooting and filming, serial death and serial photography, into a single act. This was accom- plished by a French reconnaissance pilot who relocated the visual and ballistic axis of both the machine gun and the camera to the axis of the propeller (Virilio, 1989, p. 18).
9 Kittler misquotes Zglinicki when he says that "millions of kilometers" of film were used in World War I. Zglinicki's actual figure was only 950,000 km,
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This coupling also took place in Germany. Guido Seeber, who built the Babelsberg studios in 1911 and filmed The Student of Prague there in 1913, was drafted two years later in 1915 and sent to the experimental seaplane station in Warnemiinde (not to say Peen- emiinde). There, he established at the same time a central educational film and photography hire service. Their first successful scientific film showed with the help of X-ray photography that countless airplane crashes were caused by lead balls built into the wooden propellers for balance; at high speeds these balls fly out and smash through the airplanes like bullets.
In a positive inversion of this negative test result, so to speak, Seeber also constructed a machine gun sight for fighter planes, which was supposed to optimize the machine gun firing rate. And just like the French reconnaissance pilot, Seeber combined this machine gun sight with a small film camera, which also shot film frames whenever the machine gun fired.
Strategically, therefore, filming and flying coincide. McLuhan sums this up succinctly in Understanding Media: "It was the photograph that revealed the secret of bird-flight and enabled man to take off" (McLuhan, 1964, p. 174). There was a reason why Marey had also studied the movements of bird wings and why photographers like Nadar had taken pictures from hot-air ballooons and passionately fought against zeppelins, supporting instead bird-like - or "heavier than air," as it was called at that time - plane constructions. Gabriele D'Annunzio, the decadent novelist and fighter pilot, already dem- onstrated in 1909 to a woman sitting next to him on an airplane that by approaching from the air the cathedrals and castles of Italy could be magnified or reduced by any amount and thus also visu- ally destroyed. This discovery, just before the outbreak of the First World War, which D'Annunzio himself only turned into a novel, also unleashed the tracking shots of the first world-famous period film Cabiria, which D'Annunzio contributed to as adviser and allegedly also screenwriter. During the war, his flight squadron "La Serenis- sima" proceeded to fly from Venice across the Alps (which was quite dangerous at that time) to mount an attack on Vienna. These attacks did not consist of bombs, as D'Annunzio explained to the Viennese on propaganda flyers dropped on the city, but rather the Austrians were permitted to remain alive so that they would be able to over- throw their emperor more effectively.
Historians only later recognized that the Viennese-Venetian air war scenario had already been attempted half a century before D'Annunzio, only I I I reverse. You will recall that Field Marshal
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Lieutenant Baron von Uchatius started projecting stroboscope draw- ings in 1841, and somewhat later he also began manufacturing explo- sive Uchatius powder. In 1849, after a civil revolution that also promised freedom to the Italian and especially the Venetian subjects of Austria-Hungary, an Austrian General based in Mestre besieged the rebellious Venetian republic of Serenissima. To the general's chagrin, it appeared that Venice's lagoon prevented it from being captured or even fired on by the artillery. That is, until Uchatius and his brother, two artillery lieutenants from Vienna, then made the world-historical suggestion of attacking from the air: bombs "were to be carried over the city in hot-air-filled balloons made of paper, which would be made to rise if wind conditions were favorable. Prior to being released from the balloon, the 30 pound bomb was supposed to be set [with a time fuse] according to the strength of the wind at that moment. If everything went according to plan, therefore, the impact of the explosives had to take place ronghly where it was expected," becanse the "range" of the bombs "far exceeded the range of artillery at that time" (Knrzel-Runtscheiner, 1937, p. 48). The wind actually very rarely helped, bnt between June and July 1849 a few of the 110 Uchatins bombs manufactured in Vienna did indeed explode over the astonished Venetians.