Inspired by this week’s Public History seminar discussion of dramatizing history, I wanted to continue the conversation of historical films. As you may recall in a previous, Halloween-themed post, film is one of the most powerful mediums. Even from the earliest uses of film, but specifically during the First World War, many nations quickly learned of the importance for creating and collecting film as a means of social memory and propaganda. They recognized the ability to record and document monarchs, politicians and the true image of war, providing visual context for those studying in the future.
One of the most unsettling facts for historians is that the majority of people learn history from the movies, which is not necessarily a new concern. In 1935, Louis Gottschalk of the University of Chicago wrote to the president of MGM:
If the cinema art is going to draw its subjects so generously from history, it owes it to its patrons and its own higher ideals to achieve greater accuracy. No picture of historical nature ought to be offered to the public until a reputable historian has had a chance to criticize an revise it.
Gottschalk’s sentiment is acceptable, but history, Hollywood, ‘high ideals,’ has no place in the same sentence (unless the word exploit is somewhere snug in the middle). The bottom line, is that films may be inaccurate but so is our history. Historians are equally charged with being fictionalize, trivialize, romanticize people, movements, and events.
One of the major differences, however, is that professional historians are more or less regulated through peer review. Since 1935, there are historical experts, panels and boards who can help advise filmmakers, but there is no provision that says they have to follow the rules, and why should they? Hollywood’s job is to create entertaining moving pictures, whether they are historically themed or not. What I think is most disturbing is the nature in which people consume this ‘history,’ lacking any context, background interpretation, or ability to critically analyze what they are watching; it has become more apparent that we increasingly live in a post-literate society. People can read, but they choose not to.
For the filmmaker, their goal is to suspend the audience’s disbelief through Cinematic Realism. This notion that we are somehow looking through a window on the screen into the ‘real’ past. For historians, the major thing we have to accept are the creation, consolidation, falsification of facts. Historical movies do not shatter the standards of history (whatever they may be), nor do movies replace the written word. They must simply be accepted as alternative forms of discussing the past. Using this seminar discussion as a jumping off point, I want to highlight some of the concerns introduced above, while shamelessly promoting some of my past research.
Animated Documentaries
Screenshot from The Sinking of the Lusitania (1918)
One of the best films I can think of to illustrate the difference between historical films and academic history was inspired by the sinking of American passenger liner The Lusitania. Torpedoed by a German submarine in 1915, this event helped influence the Americans into active combat during the First World War. The film: The Sinking of the Lusitania (1918) was created by Winsor McCay, determined to present a definitive and authoritative animated documentary of the sinking of the Lusitania. There was no photographic evidence ever recorded of the sinking, giving McCay the opportunity to fill the void.
When the film was released in July 1918, it was featured in newsreels as a credible recreation of the real-life incident; however, because it was released only months before the end of the War, it was too late to play a pivotal role in the American propaganda machine. Nevertheless, the film is a dramatic, extremely detailed, and stunning piece of animated history. Like any film ripping its narrative from the pages of history, we cannot praise McCay’s technical and visual achievements without discussing the intended use of the film. It was presented as an authoritative reproduction, and modeled after newsreel footage of the time. Not a definitive replacement, this film should be seen as a reactionary piece first – influenced by emotions, art, and live-action documentary of its time. We can be critical of this work due to its brazen subjectivity, but we must embrace it as a product of its time and sociopolitical context. This film should be celebrated as one of the first expressions of the unlimited potential in the animated documentary genre, no doubt influencing future works such as Ryan (Chris Landreth, 2004) or Waltz with Bashir(Ari Folman, 2008).
Winsor McCay
Winsor McCay began a successful career, as a comic strip writer in 1903, working for both The Herald and The American. As a person, McCay was described as a flamboyant showman and otherwise public personality. This separated McCay from his contemporaries such as Emile Cohl, whose only personal appearance was the silent hand on the screen. Unlike Cohl, who changed his drawing style to appease a moving image audience, McCay’s newspaper comic strips transferred very well in the form of vaudeville performed ‘lightening sketches’ and eventually into cinema.
In his comics, McCay explored fantasy and dream worlds filled with extraordinary and entertaining adventures for ordinary individuals. For example, Dream of a Rarebit Fiend (1906), a popular comic strip converted into an early Edwin S. Porter film, employed live-action and trick photography. Even more important than McCay’s whimsical themes were his means of organizing the comic’s joke, closely resembling a film storyboard. For instance, in “Little Sammy Sneeze” McCay often showed a small change in each panel, creating a slow metamorphosis of Sammy until he inevitably sneezes at an inopportune time; a scene already tuned for animation. McCay successfully transitioned into the cinematic world with three very popular cartoons: Little Nemo (1911), How a Mosquito Operates (1912) and Gertie the Dinosaur (1914), however; with the introduction of new technologies, such as cel animation, his fourth film took on a very different style.
Screenshot from Gertie the Dinosaur (1914)
The Sinking of the Lusitania would require over 25, 000 drawings to complete, each painstakingly photographed and set in motion. Thankfully, new techniques in animation by Earl Hurd and John Bray made extreme detail in each frame possible. In films such as Gertie the Dinosaur, each frame had to be drawn onto a sheet of paper and photographed individually in order to create the appearance of movement, often creating a ‘jumpy’ effect if the image was slightly different from the one preceding it. With the introduction of various patents the ‘jumpy-ness’ of animated pictures would subside but it was the advancement of cel animation, which gave The Lusitania its beautiful and consistent backgrounds. This technique allowed for some parts of the frame to be repeated, without having to create multiple drawings. Although these technical advancements were meant to save production time and costs, The Lusitania still took four years to complete. The extreme attention to detail and realistic style combined with the rhythm of a documentary newsreel created a powerful and effective film but a difficult one to produce quickly.
The film begins by identifying McCay as the “originator and inventor of Animated Cartoons,” we are then introduced to a Mr. Beach, who brings McCay a large painting depicting the Lusitania and information concerning its sinking. One question arises immediately: who is Mr. Beach and why should he be considered an authority on the subject? The purpose of the scene is to show the audience that McCay researched this event, adding validity to the film’s content; especially after the title card tell us: “From here on you are looking at the first record of the sinking of the Lusitania.” For the audience, this cements the film as the closest accurate depiction of the event.
As the ship enters into the first scene, it is possible to see the immaculate detail McCay and his animators have devoted to the ship. Moreover, from the very first scene we see McCay’s inability to present the event objectively. The entire twelve-minute film is crowded with symbolism and overt messages to elicit an emotional response from the audience, a characteristic of effective propaganda. The ship sails past the Statue of Liberty, a symbol of freedom and international friendship, behind a stage curtain. This image is used to indicate the passage of time from its departure from New York to its final journey. It could also be interpreted as a curtain closing on a scene of normality and tranquility, only to have the scene re-open with a German U-boat speeding towards the audience, representing death and destruction.
Cutting to a shot within a white picture frame, again McCay is showing a passage of time and place within the film. Cutting again, this time focusing on the passenger ship sailing forward, the title card tells us the liner is close to its destination, however, the audience knows of its fate. We see the German U-Boat lurking in the depths and ready to intercept the ships travels (The U-boat in the film is described as a U-39; it was in fact a U-20, which is credited with torpedoing the ship). Moving to another white-framed scene, this time underwater where two fish alarmed by the torpedo swim away. This short scene is the only ‘cartoony’ aspect of the entire film and juxtaposed to the serious events that follow, it takes away from the emotional effect McCay is trying to create.
As soon as the torpedo hits the ship a fast cut is employed to show the effect the collision has on the ship (At the time of the film, many survival testimonies claimed the ship was struck by two torpedoes; however, we know now it was only hit once and the second explosion was caused by an internal eruption). As the smoke billows out from the damaged sea vessel, it fills the screen and acts as a transitioning device into the next scene, which details the various prominent passengers who perished at sea. It is no mistake that McCay lists only men who died, as it would have been easy to include women such as Alice Moor Hubbart, women’s rights activist and wife of Elbert Hubbart. McCay deliberately excludes women from this section of his film in order to employ the image of women and mother in a more dramatic and poignant way. Similar to war propaganda posters of the time, McCay uses the symbolic image of the mother and child as a chilling final impression.
Using the smoke to fade back into the shot, we are met with a gripping scene of hopeless victims bobbing in the sea, while others lower lifeboats filled with people. As the smoke continues to pour out of the damaged liner an interesting image is created, one that resembles a ghoulish figure.
Screenshot from The Sinking of the Lusitania (1918)
Remaining consistent with other contemporary depictions of disasters, McCay chose to show the ship from a distance, from the perspective of a distant observer. By allowing the whole ship to stay within the frame, the scale of the disaster is emphasized making the victims look tinier and more pitiful; furthermore, the angle adds dimension and depth to the ship. Another technique used to show depth is when the “block and tackle” swings directly in front of the ‘camera’ establishing the illusion of distance. Moreover, as we watch the slow progression of the sinking ship, the extreme level of skill required for this project becomes more apparent. Surprisingly, there does not seem to be any repeated or recycled images used. As the lifeless human figures fall into the ocean, McCay creates a truly shocking and realistic series of images. As the ship slowly descends into the water, and the shot switches from one angle to another, McCay purposely draws out the scene to evoke a stronger emotional reaction.
The film ends with the ‘camera’s’ plunge into the ocean; here an iris shot is employed to focus on a specific part of the scene without reducing in size. The scene is one of horrific symbolism – a mother falling under water, holding a baby above her head.
Screenshot depicting a sinking woman clutching her child
1915 Propaganda poster created by Fred Spear
It is surprisingly similar to a propaganda poster of 1915 by Fred Spear. Due to the wide distribution of this and other strong images of the time, it is safe to assume McCay was influenced by this poster. The similarity in images is no mistake; McCay borrowed the sentiment coupled with Spear’s poster and injected it as the final and lasting image of his film.
The final title card reads: “The man who fired the shot was decorated by the Kaiser and yet they tell us not to hate the Hun.” Needless to say, any resemblance to an objective form of representation is completely invalid by the end. Conversely, this film does present an effective and technically imaginative form of propaganda. With the introduction of cel technologies and other innovations in animation, the possibilities for representing an historical event became more apparent. McCay embraced these technologies and recreated an event without photographic evidence to assist him. Although there are excuses to view this film in a negative light due to its wholly subjective form, there is no reason to condemn its existence in animation history. The extreme attention to detail McCay paid to this film aids the overall emotional dimension; it validates the film and gives it authority, something not usually associated with cartoons or animated films. Winsor McCay created an impressive and effective film, which influenced future propaganda animators in the Second World War and laid the groundwork for recreating the real world in animation.
—————————————————————————————————
Some really great resources on the material above:
Bendazzi, Giannalberto. Cartoons: One Hundred Years of Cinematic Animation. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2009.
Crafton, Donald. Before Mickey: The Animated Film 1898-1928. Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1982.
Layton, Kent J. Lusitania: An Illustrated Biography of the Ship of Splendor. Atlantic Liners: Lulu Press, 2007.
Rosenstone, Robert A. “The Historical Film.” Visions of the Past: The Challenge of Film to our Idea of History.
Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995, 45-79.
Slide, Anthony. Nitrate Won’t Wait: Film Preservation in the United States. Jefferson: McFarland & Company, Inc., 1992.
Solomon, Charles. Enchanted Drawings: The History of Animated. Avenel: Wingsbooks, 1994.
