Early cine filmmaking

Could you ever imagine anybody in our club, or any other club, saying with conviction: "I never make mistakes!’ It’s laughable to think about, though small mishaps will often cause a laugh. But a bloomer not realised till after an event that you thought you had covered is not funny - just frustrating!

Have we got any better at making movies? Somehow, it does not seem to have anything to do with equipment. For now that the equipment has reached some kind of a peak, the only problem is how do we achieve a stunning film. There were so many wonderful films created by famous directors in those far off silent days of hand cranked cameras. They were true works of art! Now the emphasis is more on making money. The amateur has the obvious advantage; that is having something to say and expressing the subject in true art form rather than having to make a lot of money.

Thinking back through the years to my childhood days, I sometimes try to remember at what age I first was taken to the cinema. All I can recall, and I must have been just a small toddler, probably sitting on my mother’s lap; “what are those people doing up there mummy?” That is the very earliest memory I have of seeing moving pictures on a screen. I was probably aged about 2 or 3. But even at that time, though silent, the cinema was well established, for the silent era of movies lasted almost 40 years. That is if you count the early 1890s when the first cinematograph films were no more than a matter of seeing a train puffing into a station, a horse jumping, or a girl dancing. The audiences in those far off days found it very exciting to see moving photographs.

By the time I was eleven years old; a little more recently, though going back a year or so, I became extremely fascinated by movies. That Christmas I received an exciting present: a 9.5mm Pathe Bingascope Projector, and with it a number of short films in well-made mini Pathescope cartridges. It was hand operated and the films only lasted about one and a quarter minutes (something like the early 1890s). My brother and I lay in bed and projected the films onto the ceiling; we watched with excitement as a lion came towards us in the jungle closer and closer and we cranked the projector more slowly as the face filled the frame! When, at a later date, I was asked what I would like for my birthday, I said: “Oh! I would like a longer film!” My Aunt sent me a four minute spool of 16mm film, but I couldn’t run that on the Bingascope! The mistake I made was not telling her it was 9.5mm, apart from forgetting that it would only take the mini cartridges. From then on I became interested in a larger gauge, especially when I saw a friend of my parents with a 16mm camera in a smart leather case. I could only think about it, for it was a very expensive hobby in those days, but the mechanics of film fascinated me.

Once, a friend of my father gave us a 35mm projector, which was a huge, beautiful piece of equipment in smooth black oxidised finish; the fireproof boxes took thousand-foot reels. It had a strong stand and a large transformer that got quite hot. Being silent it was surplus to the association

who used it because they had purchased a 16mm sound projector. I began collecting 35mm films from various sources including dingy places in Wardour Street piled high with film cans. But it was so big. I also got a few electric shocks and the very flammable films made me nervous. Realising it was a museum piece and I hadn’t the space for a museum, it had to be sold!

I don’t know what happened to the reel of 16mm film, but a very long time went by and my next venture took me back to 9.5mm and I purchased a Coronet camera. I was fascinated by the mechanics, which had a Maltese Cross mechanism. This is normally a very efficient device for a smooth intermittent film pull down. So I took it on holiday with several cans of Boucher 9.5mm, each containing three thirty-feet rolls of film. This I loaded into the 9.5mm camera cassettes in dead of night, and I sometimes crawled under the bedclothes. I had about a thousand feet all together. That was my big mistake! I didn’t test the camera on a short length of film first. The Maltese Cross mechanism was worn and the result was jumping up and down as if on a trampoline!

So I sold the Coronet and bought a Dekko, a nice neat little camera which produced a steady picture. I took this camera on holiday and it was quite exciting to use. Next I purchased a Specto dual 9.5mm/16mm projector (which I still possess), although I was really hankering after a 16mm so, in anticipation, it had to be a dual machine. I browsed in various camera shops and picked up a very sturdy 16mm Bell Howell camera. It was so simple to use. By pressing the one button down a little way it ran continually, or right down then releasing quickly caused it to keep running (normally on a tripod) for up to 30 seconds, or a quick press would expose a single frame. The picture produced was very steady; I almost wish I had kept it now as an interesting exhibit, but I still hadn’t got room for a museum! I decided that it would be interesting to examine the clockwork mechanism and give it a service and clean up. What a mistake to make! I somehow managed to dislodge the spring and it flew out dangerously to form a three feet spiral. It took me some time, with difficulty, to get it back into place again!

I sold that camera in part exchange for a 16mm Bolex with a three-lens turret and variable shutter. One could even do lap dissolves in the camera. It was the flagship lightweight camera both for amateur and professional use at the time. But, even in those days, colour film was so expensive that I had to make most films in Black and White. The picture definition was extremely good and it was a joy to edit.

Oh for those exciting times when film would break and you couldn’t find your splicer, the cement went off and, if not careful, your shooting ratio clocked up in pounds per second.

Happy days! Video seems almost boring after all that.

Carry on movie making!

Jon