Professional Documents
Culture Documents
CULTURE
IN TRANSITION
Cine−Dispositives
E ssay s in
Epistemology Across M edia
E D I T E D BY
FRANÇOIS ALBERA
MARIA TORTAJADA
Cine-Dispositives
Cine-Dispositives
Essays in Epistemology Across Media
Cover illustration: Still from the lost film Voyage de noces en ballon (Honeymoon in a
balloon) directed by Georges Méliès (1908).
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Contents
Acknowledgments 9
Foreword 15
François Albera and Maria Tortajada
I. Dispositives: Programs
The editors are grateful to Thomas Elsaesser for making this publishing pro-
ject possible. They would like to emphasize that the University of Lausanne
(UNIL), the Faculty of Humanities of the UNIL and the Réseau/Netzwerk
Cinema CH contributed to the realization of this project. They would also
like to thank the editors at AUP, and especially Jeroen Sondervan, for their
help with producing this book.
Questioning the Word “Dispositif”
Note on the Translation
Since the nineteenth century, the term “dispositif” has been used extensively
in French, from the most trivial sense to the most theoretically sophisti-
cated. Its function as a concept developed within what has been called
“French theory” in the anglophone world – and more specifically within
the work of Michel Foucault, where it appears next to that of “archeology” in
The Archaeology of Knowledge, before taking hold in Discipline and Punish.
In film studies, the notion of “dispositif” was central to the theorizations
referred to as “apparatus theory” that emerged in the 1970s.
In French, however, the term frequently designates a technical setup
– the basis for a mechanical arrangement, a small appliance or the most
complex machinery – while also pointing to any concrete or abstract system.
It also shares its original meaning in the legal domain with the English
“dispositive,” which, unlike its French counterpart, is rarely used. As for
“dispositif” in its technical sense, in English it is translated as “appliance,”
“device,” “setup,” “system” or, in some cases, “apparatus.” Finally, some of
the theoretical senses of the term appear as “apparatus” in English, nota-
bly in the discourse of ideological film criticism in the 1970s and in some
translations of Foucault. Still, some other translations of the philosopher’s
work simply repeat the French “dispositif,” a choice fully justified by the
specificity of the Foucauldian concept, which implies both a method for
discursive analysis supported by an epistemological practice and a concep-
tion of processes involved in power.
The present collection of essays sets out to explore different uses of the
term “dispositif,” starting from its polysemy in French, and aims to open the
field to new forms of theorizations of viewing and listening dispositives by
exploiting the rich potential of the notion. One particular aim is to move
away from the historically circumscribed use of “dispositif” by apparatus
theory – not to overshadow it, but rather, to revitalize the concept by open-
ing it up to new approaches.
During the translation of most of the studies in this book into English,
we met with several difficulties. The first is the complex history of the
translation of the term “dispositif” in English, a translation wavering
12 FR ANÇOIS ALBER A AND MARIA TORTA JADA
enough to underscore the French origin of the word “dispositif”: the plurality
of notions tied to the term in English also had to be taken into account.
English synonyms for “dispositifs” have thus been added to the English term
“dispositive” when specification was imperative. In short, with this dual
choice, we sought to keep explicit the tension between two aims whose
contradiction is only apparent: an emancipation from the historical uses
of the French term and the development of new uses and methods with
regard to these historical uses.
In our view, this liminal choice, on the edge of two languages, presents
yet another advantage. Freeing the translation of “dispositif” from its his-
torical uses, “dispositive” accounts for the very diverse work of the authors
within their own practices. They cooperated at every stage, beyond even
the translation of texts, since Charles Musser and Thomas Elsaesser agreed
to subject the original versions of their articles to the global project of the
book’s translation, ensuring its overall coherence.
From a practical standpoint, and by way of recapitulation, we proceeded
as follows.
In keeping with the distinctions we wished to maintain or establish
between the different notions linked to “dispositifs,” the French dispositif
has been kept in English but italicized when referring to the Foucauldian
notion, itself distinct from the psychoanalytical apparatus of 1960s and
1970s film theory. Still, in many of Foucault’s texts involving the notion, the
English translation is “apparatus,” as some quotations in several chapters
make clear. We opted to preserve the integrity of these quotations, even
though their choice of terminology was at odds with ours. Conversely, even
though the word “apparatus” is frequently used in English in the sense of a
machine, a set of equipment designed for a particular function – especially
in the context of early cinema – we preferred “device” or “appliance” in these
cases, for the sake of clarity.
Because the other concern of the editors was to preserve the polysemy
of the French word “dispositif” while clearly signaling a shift away from
apparatus theory in film studies, we have accordingly used the English term
“dispositive,” whose legal meaning in English overlaps with one definition
of the French “dispositif.” In this volume, “dispositive” refers to simple or
complex mechanical arrangements, that is, as a synonym for “appliance” or
“device” in that sense; and to a spatial organization of elements, mechanical
or not, producing a specific position for an observer, user or spectator. This
concerns technical arrangements, scientific experiments and scenic setups
(exhibitions in museums or galleries, scenic arrangements in the theater or
scenic situations in literature, to name but a few).
14 FR ANÇOIS ALBER A AND MARIA TORTA JADA
“Dispositive” was also used to translate the editors’ own, more recent
development and specification of the notion. Finally, in passages of the
text where the authors transition from one inception of the term to another
(which occasionally corresponds to a change in the English word used as
an equivalent), the French “dispositif” appears as such, between quotation
marks. For further information, see “The Dispositive Does Not Exist!”
The translations that are not referenced in the English edition are the
translator’s own.
Foreword
François Albera and Maria Tortajada
the notion, which for some had become a “meta-concept,” while for others
the “dispositif” had supplanted “structure” or was close to the Deleuzian
rhizome.4 A philosopher also asked the radical question of what a “dispositif”
was.5
The confrontation between the researchers attending the conference,
who came from different disciplines and “schools of thought,” gave rise to
exchanges that proved fruitful and convinced us of the renewed vitality
and fertility of a theory of “dispositifs.” Most of the papers presented at the
conference have been rewritten to form the substance of this book. A few
later contributions have been added; they were part of a cycle of lectures
around the issue of “dispositifs,” which started in 2011. Open to international
scholars, the cycle was also connected to the doctoral school and to ProDoc
programs financed by the FNS.
The studies included here have been divided into three parts: Programs,
Issues and Histories. The first part presents two types of programmatic
projects related to two institutions of higher education that collaborate with
each other while maintaining their distinctive characteristics: the depart-
ment of Film History and Aesthetics at the Université de Lausanne (François
Albera and Maria Tortajada, “The Dispositive Does Not Exist!”) and the
department of Visual Studies at the University of Amsterdam (Thomas
Elsaesser, “Between Knowing and Believing: The Cinematic Dispositive
after Cinema”).
The second part questions the notion of the dispositive by confronting
it with one or several objects: spectacles in the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries (Patrick Désile), the stereopticon (Charles Musser), the praxino-
scope-theater (André Gaudreault); the theoretical corpus of a thinker such
as Bergson (Elie During) and a scientist like Marey (Maria Tortajada); or its
own theoretical elaboration (Omar Hachemi) and the relation it establishes
between two fields, for instance with the “dispositive effect” in film nar-
rative (Philippe Ortel).
The third part brings together studies that start from a concrete technical
object or set of objects, such as the crank in different viewing or listening
machines (Benoît Turquety) or the dispositives of early serpentine dance
films (Laurent Guido); from imaginary objects, telephony as imagined by
Robida (Alain Boillat) and Raymond Roussel’s machines as seen through
Five ways to approach the dispositive emerge from the texts that appear in
this volume; none is exclusive of the others, some are conjoined or articulat-
ed, some are separate. In French, the term ”dispositif” refers to a plurality of
meanings, from the simple mechanism of a device, instrument or machine,
to the epistemological construction liable to produce effects of power and
knowledge – the disciplinary dispositif or the dispositif of sexuality. From
its most concrete to its most abstract definition, the “dispositif” involves
the common signification of arrangement. Still, the different meanings of
the notion subject it – and its users – to a considerable conceptual stretch,
between empiricism and epistemology. We thus propose to examine these
meanings so as to explain our own “programmatic” proposition, which is
epistemological in nature.
The most common definition refers to “the way in which the organs of a
device are placed” (circa 1860), soon supplemented by another meaning, that
of sets of mechanical elements combined with a view to an effect, a result
(Littré, 1874). Until then, the word had only assumed its (original) meaning
in the judicial domain (as the part of a legislative text that settles a type of
case imperatively); and, more recently, in the field of military science (as a
set of measures, of means organized towards a strategic end).1
As it appeared in the technical field, the word thus pointed to a degree
of complexity, the relation of elements constitutive of a device, assembled
and arranged, and the pursuit of an effect. Within this usual definition, a
“dispositif” differs from a tool (pliers, be they universal), an instrument (the
dentist’s drill), a machine (a band saw) or even an appliance (the telephone),
in spite of the fact that it tends to substitute metonymically for this latter
1 Quite evidently, these levels are not hermetic, which from a methodological standpoint
represents one of the difficulties of our approach. Even the genealogy of the word may shed
light on later uses: the “military,” and more particularly the “strategic” dimension, is present
in Foucault’s appropriation of the notion; similarly, Giorgio Agamben has re-appropriated the
legal aspect of the notion.
22 François Albera, Maria Tortajada
object. Indeed, all of these examples are given “in one piece,” as a whole, in
a linear relation to their user (as an extension of the hand) or, in the case of
complex machines (even more so nowadays with computers), as what Bruno
Latour calls “black boxes.” This is not to say that they may not constitute a
“dispositif” or involve one or several internal “dispositifs” (the on/off switch
being one example); or that they may not become a part in a “dispositif”
we call external in senses we will specify further on. It all depends on the
perspective adopted, on the object produced by the scholar.
In early cinema, the term “dispositif” recurred quite frequently in re-
ported speech or in writings by the Lumière brothers themselves: patents,
descriptions of their invention, various narrations. Its characterization
as a combination of several mechanisms is evident in Auguste Lumière’s
evocations of his brother Louis’ invention. Louis, in his view, did not come
up with a device in one piece, a machine; rather, he reused some preexisting
systems, improved on others, and ended up combining Edison’s kinetoscope
and the system ensuring alternate immobilization and advance in sewing
machines.2 The system of intermittent stops allowing the projection of a
chronophotographic strip of film could thus be found within the appliance
called the “cinématographe.”3 Yet when the appliance – and its internal
systems – were in operation at the time of shooting or, conversely, in a
theatrical space in front of a screen and in the presence of spectators, it
instituted a dispositive connecting different agents: the cinematograph.
Two technical levels in the definition of ”dispositifs” thus emerge: 1. the
systems internal to the machine, a number of mechanisms operating with
2 Mechanisms are mentioned throughout the main patent (nº 245 032, dated February 13,
1895). On page 4, the sentence “it ensues from this disposition” indicates the positioning of
different elements as part of the mechanism. This term, “disposition,” is repeated in patent nº
323 667 for the continuous-run projector registered in 1902, in which the term “dispositif” also
appears: “[…] we claim as our own the invention […] of a dispositive designed to stabilize the
projection of each frame on the screen and, reciprocally, to form images of each point in space
on the same points of the mobile film, the said dispositive consisting in two flat mirrors forming
a right angle […].” In later texts, patents as well as catalogs, the term frequently appeared: “the
dispositives introduced in the latter in order to obtain negatives and print positives” (1904);
“We shall see how, thanks to the dispositives used in the frame, the cinematograph fitted with
claws can drive the film in one direction or the other […]. Another particularity of the appliance
[…] is the dispositive that makes it possible, simultaneously, to move the viewer in which the
operator follows the scene being photographed, and the frame bounding the image on the film”
(Patent nº 410 495, Appliance to make cinematographic views with a reversible frame, 1910,
signed Carpentier; our emphasis).
3 “I have devised a special dispositive of pins fitting into the perforations of the film…” See
Louis Lumière, Sciences et voyages [1921], quoted in Bernard Chardère, Le Roman des Lumière
(Paris: Gallimard, 1995) 284.
The Dispositive Does Not Exist! 23
One day, however, walking in the Contrà Nova pretty early in the morn-
ing, I saw, through a shop window, a young tradeswoman with such good
grace and appealing air that, despite my timidity with ladies, I entered
without hesitation. […] She was doing embroidery by a window, facing
the side of the room in front of the door. She could not see me come in,
nor could she hear me because of the noise of wagons in the street. Her
finery came close to coquetry. Her attitude was graceful, her slightly
lowered head let her white neck show; she wore her hair up elegantly
and had adorned it with flowers. Her whole figure was pervaded with a
charm which I had the time to consider, and which put me beside myself.
I threw myself on my knees at the entrance of the room, stretching out my
arms in a passionate movement, quite certain that she could not hear me,
doubting that she could see me: but by the fireplace stood a mirror which
betrayed me. Which effect this transport had on her I do not know; she
did not look at me; but, half-turning her head, with a mere movement of
the finger, she pointed at the mat at her feet. Startling, letting out a cry,
rushing forward to the spot she had marked for me were all but the same
thing to me: what is more difficult to believe, however, is that from then
on I did not dare to take further initiatives or say a single word or look at
her or even touch her to lean for one moment on her knees, even as I was
in such an uncomfortable position. I was struck dumb, I kept still, though
assuredly there was nothing quiet about me: everything in me spoke to
agitation, joy, gratefulness, ardent desires uncertain in their object and
5 When Apollinaire stated that one had “to mechanize poetry as the world has been mecha-
nized” (Selected Writings, New York, New Directions, 1971, p. 237), he was playing on the different
meanings assumed by the word by moving the artistic “machine” (“a composition in which the
painter introduces a number of objects whose felicitous combination requires genius,” according
to an eighteenth-century dictionary) onto the side of the industrial machine and technology:
the world being arranged or mechanized by railroads, the telegraph, electricity grids, etc. See
Claude-Henri Watelet and Pierre-Charles Levesque, Dictionnaire des arts de peinture, sculpture
et gravure, vol. 3, entry titled “Machine” (Paris: Prault, 1792) 355.
6 Jurgis Baltrusaïtis, Le Miroir, essai sur une légende scientifique (Paris: Le Seuil, 1978).
The Dispositive Does Not Exist! 25
The scene does not put viewing and listening machines into play, even as
it has a place in the “new regime of imagination” which, according to Max
Milner, “only the optical devices perfected during the eighteenth century
and transferred by Robertson and others from the domain of ‘amusing phys-
ics’ to that of spectacle made it possible to describe.”8 Still, the scene does
show the construction, the disposition to which a subject may be assigned in
a setup that involves seeing, a pre-technological one in this instance. All in
all, though indirectly technical, these examples fall within the third level of
our definition, which makes the functioning of the mechanical “dispositif”
(machine, appliance) more complex by including its user and its effect,
linking them together according to the relation to the mirror, for instance.9
Indeed, within literary representation, fiction often takes as its objects
dispositives organized around viewing or listening (the notable representa-
tives of this vein are Cyrano de Bergerac, Villiers de l’Isle Adam, Jules Verne,
and so forth). Besides the question of the seeing subject involved in these
mechanical or specular dispositives, a second aspect whereby the setup is
implied in literature – at the level of the very production of fiction – also
belongs in this third level of our definition. The book becomes a dispositive
like the exhibition and organizes the text on the model of an arrangement
including the reader in a “machine” not limited to the textual, as Structural-
ism did postulate. Paul Valéry already wrote of a dispositive as he looked at
the pages composed by Mallarmé for Un coup de dés; there the book became
a “brand new machine”10 put into play by the poet on the occasion of his
readings as part of a spectacular “ideographic” dispositive founded on the
voice, light and occlusion behind a curtain (“Dernière visite à Mallarmé”).11
When in turn Francis Ponge used the term “dispositif” about Lautréamont
in 1946, he was thinking of a genuine machine to transform text – that of
Lautréamont’s Poésies, which turned the statements of great authors inside
out – with extra-textual effects as a consequence (the library, literature as
an institution). Ponge parodied an advertisement for a mechanical device
12 “Fit your personal library with the only device making it possible to scupper it and refloat it
at will. […] Open Lautréamont! And there you have literature turned inside out like an umbrella!
Close Lautréamont! And everything immediately falls back into place… To enjoy complete
intellectual comfort at home, try and adapt the MALDOROR/POEMS device to your library.”
See Francis Ponge, “Le dispositif Maldoror-Poésies,” reprinted in Méthodes (Paris: Gallimard,
1961) 210-11. Chance alone presided over the encounter, or the proximity, of this umbrella and
the Lumière brothers’ sewing machine above.
13 Translator’s note: in its English version, however, the term chosen to translate “appareil”
and “dispositif” was the same: “apparatus.” Baudry’s text was translated by Alan Williams and
published as “Ideological Effects of the Basic Cinematographic Apparatus” in 1974. See Film
Quarterly 28.2 (Winter 1974-1975): 39-47. His article titled “Le Dispositif” appeared as “The
Apparatus,” trans. Jean Andrews and Bertrand Augst, Camera Obscura 1.11 (Fall 1976): 104-26.
14 See La Réalité figurative (Paris: Gonthier, 1965), La Figure et le lieu. L’ordre visuel du Quat-
trocento (Paris: Gallimard, 1967), as well as his courses at the Institut de filmologie, with which
he started collaborating in 1947.
15 “Placed at the point of view of the perspectival apparatus [“dispositif perspectif”], the
immobile spectator receives and may contemplate only one moment in the narrative which
the painter has staged. […] In classical history painting, the spectator is structurally included
The Dispositive Does Not Exist! 27
Propositions
19 Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. Steven Randall (Berkeley, Los Angeles:
The University of California Press, 2011) xiv. Translator’s note: in the English edition quoted here,
the word “apparatus” is the translation for the French “appareils” (in the plural in the original
text).
The Dispositive Does Not Exist! 29
20 André Berten, “Dispositif, médiation, créativité: petite généalogie,” Hermès 25 (1999): 35.
30 François Albera, Maria Tortajada
21 See Les Annales 36 (30 Nov. 1935): 531-35. This renewal started in part with authors like
Simondon, Dagognet, Ellul, Beaune and Latour, to name a few, but has not concerned film studies
in spite of some efforts – far too rare and tending towards vague extrapolations or, conversely,
empirical description.
22 Simon Schaffer, “Une science de l’éclat. Les bulles de savon et l’art de faire de la physique à
l’époque victorienne,” and Andreas Mayer, “Faire marcher les hommes et les images. Les artifices
du corps en mouvement” [2004] in Terrains 46 (2006), “Effets spéciaux et artifices.”
The Dispositive Does Not Exist! 31
24 On these figures, we refer the reader to our respective contributions in Cinema Beyond Film.
The Dispositive Does Not Exist! 33
25 Viewing and listening dispositives involve three essential terms: the spectator, the represen-
tation and the machinery which, while it implies the viewing machine as technical object, also
refers to all the means implemented to give the representation to see and to hear. The means in
question may play a part at the very moment of reception by the spectator or in the making, the
production of the representation. The cinematographic machinery thus includes the screen and
the projection, the chemical process of photography, and even institutional, economic and social
arrangements. The definition allows for the widest range of practices, from the theater to the
scientific use of the microscope. See François Albera and Maria Tortajada, “The Episteme 1900,”
in Albera and Tortajada, Cinema Beyond Film. Thus phrased, the definition further specifies
what we have called the third level in the definition of dispositives. We intend to develop it by
apprehending the three terms (spectator, representation, machinery) within their network of
relations. In that sense, the notion of dispositive is supported by a method.
34 François Albera, Maria Tortajada
derived from the approach; they concern three types of notions calling for
explanation.
First, what we call the concrete elements of the dispositive. For instance,
when it comes to the machinery, it should be possible to think what the
notions of film frame, the run of film in the camera, the projector, the
instant photograph or projection are at a given historical moment. Second,
the abstract notions associated with the dispositive or with the concrete
elements constituting it: notions of series, repetition, periodicity should be
questioned in relation to the film frame, but also to the decomposition and
synthesis of movement, for example. So should instantaneity, which implies
a constituted dispositive, that of photography. These notions themselves
presuppose other concepts, which underlie them.
The third level is that of key notions or types-notions, abstract or concrete,
which at a given historical moment come to define a given dispositive:
they are then instituted as references. They convey a certain idea of cin-
ema or photography, the phonograph, television, the radio, and so forth.
The key notion consists in the crystallization of a specific definition of a
dispositive based on its quality or function. It appears primarily as what
is known and admitted about a given dispositive. Recurrent in discourses,
this crystallization is presented as self-evident most of the time, because
it is widely acknowledged, either in a discipline or a field, or sometimes
with a mainstream audience. Still, the type-notion has a history, which
is that of its “making”: as a consequence, its use should be historicized
and de-naturalized. A number of key notions may be isolated in cinema:
truthfulness, one of whose particular instances is the authenticity of the
film image, and which is tied to the idea of the indexicality of photography.26
The principle of automation and the mechanical character of the process
also come to mind. Still another example is the crystallization that as-
sociates cinema and imagination in a famous equation between cinema
and dream or hallucination. Epistemological work precisely consists in
making apparent what founds these notions. These concrete, abstract and
key notions should be reconstituted in their relation to a series of concepts
sampled from analyzed discourses. Schemas of dispositives may then be
constructed. To describe dispositives in this manner is already to borrow
26 François Brunet has written about the historical construction of photography as a figure
of accuracy. He uses the term “paradigm” to refer to what is called key notion, type-notion or
idea here, to be distinguished from the paradigm as a complex term, which for Thomas Kuhn
involves several definitions linked to an epistemological approach. See François Brunet, La
Naissance de l’idée de photographie (Paris: PUF, 2000) 281.
The Dispositive Does Not Exist! 35
from Foucault, who analyzed his favorite objects, knowledge and power,
by reconstituting networks of relations.
Foucault’s Dispositifs
[…] at the periphery, an annular building; at the centre, a tower; this tower
is pierced with wide windows that open onto the inner side of the ring;
the peripheric building is divided into cells, each of which extends the
whole width of the building; they have two windows, one on the inside,
corresponding to the windows of the tower; the other, on the outside,
allows the light to cross the cell from one end to the other.29
27 Michel Foucault, “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History” [1971], in The Postmodern History Reader,
ed. Keith Jenkins (London: Routledge, 1997) 124-26.
28 Panopticon or The Inspection-House. The Works of Jeremy Bentham, published under the
Superintendence of his Executor, John Bowring, Edinburgh, William Tait, 1838-1843. 11 vols. See
vol. 4, available at http://oll.libertyfund.org/title/1925 as of October 28, 2012. This is the source
Foucault refers to.
29 Foucault, Discipline and Punish 200.
30 Foucault, Discipline and Punish 200.
36 François Albera, Maria Tortajada
The source itself specifies the architectural conditions and the advantages
they entail.31 Foucault draws the principles and creates a system out of them.
Let us mention that power operates from the very fact that the prisoner is
the object of the gaze of the controlling agent located in the tower, but that
the prisoner is also a point of view on this center where she or he knows
that a gaze may be positioned. This bi-directionality of the gaze is what
guarantees the automaticity of the effect of power, whether or not there is
someone in the tower. What produces the effect of power is the dispositif,
not the effective presence of a guard.
The user-spectator is not placed in front of the dispositif; she or he literally
belongs in it. Each term is defined by the place it occupies in the dispositif
and its relations with other elements. When Foucault defines the positions
of the gaze in the Panopticon, he refers to the information provided in the
very source defining this specific dispositif. At this point he does not refer to
the legal codes in force at the time. If Foucault’s commentary is to serve as
a model in the elaboration of a method to analyze dispositives, then merely
reading contemporary theories on the subject or techniques of construction
of a given machine is clearly not enough to define the spectator in a specific
dispositive. The presuppositions associated with the spectator postulated in
these dispositives and in the very sources evoking these dispositives have
to be considered first.32 The Panopticon and the analytical method applied
to it offer an excellent example for the development of an epistemology of
viewing and listening dispositives.
Foucault himself refers to the Panopticon as a dispositif. The term, which
he started developing in the mid-1970s in Discipline and Punish and The Will
to Knowledge, allowed him to identify the disciplinary dispositif, a dispositif
of alliance and a dispositif of sexuality, all having the particularity of produc-
ing effects of power. What interested Foucault quite specifically at the time
was to show that power is not one but is instead derived from a network
of relations and may be traced through its effects. Still, the Panopticon is
not the equivalent of the large schemas producing effects of power: it is
not by itself the disciplinary dispositif, even as it is certainly emblematic of
33 Michel Foucault, “The Confession of the Flesh,” in Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and
Other Writings 1972-1977, ed. Colin Gordon (London: Vintage, 1980) 194.
34 Gilles Deleuze opted for the term “diagram,” which he advanced in his Foucault, trans. Seán
Hand (London, New York: Continuum, 2006).
35 “What I call an apparatus [“dispositif”] is a much more general case of the episteme.”
Foucault, Power/Knowledge 197.
38 François Albera, Maria Tortajada
36 Michel Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge, trans. Rupert Swyer (London: Vintage,
1982) 191.
37 Foucault, Power/Knowledge 195. See also how the dispositif of sexuality is conceived in terms
of a “cluster of relations” in The History of Sexuality, vol. 1, The Will to Knowledge, trans. Robert
Hurley (1978; London: Vintage, 1990) 139-41.
38 Foucault, Power/Knowledge 197.
39 Even then, Foucault establishes a link between Barker’s panorama and the Panopticon
without further developing the idea (Foucault, Discipline and Punish 317, n. 4).
The Dispositive Does Not Exist! 39
Foucault devised his own method with reference to the French tradition of
the epistemology of sciences, represented by Bachelard and Canguilhem,
and defined as a historical epistemology. In The Archeology of Knowledge,
he outlined his own area of research in relation to this epistemology, and
prefacing the English edition of Canguilhem’s The Normal and the Pathologi-
cal, he described it as a philosophy of rationality, knowledge and concept,
referring once more to Bachelard. 40 Foucault clearly inscribes his work
in this tradition when he attempts to produce a form of rationality (or
positivity, as he calls it). What these thinkers share is the ambition to write
the history of the “formation of concepts.”41
Bachelard’s rationalism is not only an explicit reference to the epistemo-
logical history of sciences with regard to which Foucault could define his
40 Foucault opposes this philosophy to the philosophy of experience, meaning and the subject,
represented by Jean-Paul Sartre and Maurice Merleau-Ponty. See “Introduction by Michel
Foucault” [1978], in Georges Canguilhem, The Normal and the Pathological, trans. Carolyn R.
Fawcett (Brooklyn: Zone, 1991) 7-24.
41 Michel Foucault, “Introduction by Michel Foucault,” in Canguilhem, The Normal and the
Pathological 9.
40 François Albera, Maria Tortajada
The same word can at the same period in time have within it very many
different concepts. What misleads us here is the fact that the same word
both denotes and explains. What is denoted stays the same but the
explanation changes. 43
42 In his article on “reflex movement,” Canguilhem starts from the common definition of
the concept: “We know that we have encountered a concept because we have hit upon its
definition – a definition at once nominal and real.” See “The Concept of Reflex” [1964], in Georges
Canguilhem, A Vital Rationalist: Selected Writings from Georges Canguilhem, ed. François De-
laporte, trans. Arthur Goldhammer (New York: Zone, 1994) 188.
43 Gaston Bachelard, The Formation of the Scientific Mind, trans. Mary McAllester Jones
(Manchester: Clinamen Press, 2002) 28.
44 Summarizing Bachelard’s thought, Canguilhem writes: “The synthesis within which the
concept lies – that is, both the conceptual context and the intention presiding over experiments
or observations – this synthesis has to be reconstituted.” See “Gaston Bachelard,” Etudes d’histoire
et de philosophie des sciences (Paris, Vrin, 1990) 177.
45 Gaston Bachelard, Le Rationalisme appliqué (1949; Paris: PUF, 1994) 145.
The Dispositive Does Not Exist! 41
Though minimal, this effective example makes the second essential point
in the definition of the concept very concrete: the concept is intrinsically
linked to the practice defining it. In short, the telephone is about com-
municating through speech, or setting up a connection between lines, or
calculating equations. Depending on which option is considered, the idea
of the telephone may be completely different.
According to this model, the constitution of a body of knowledge associ-
ated with viewing and listening dispositives may be defined as unthinkable
50 Defining the two terms in relation to each other, Foucault says more specifically: “If you
like, I would define the episteme retrospectively as the strategic apparatus [“dispositif”] which
permits of separating out from among all the statements which are possible those that will
be acceptable within, I won’t say a scientific theory, but a field of scientificity, and which it
is possible to say are true or false. The episteme is the ‘apparatus’ which makes possible the
separation, not of the true from the false, but of what may from what may not be characterised
as scientific” (Foucault, Power/Knowledge 197). Deleuze works most particularly through this
difference between the discursive and the non-discursive, the episteme and the dispositif,
knowledge and power, in short between The Archaeology of Knowledge and Discipline and Punish.
He articulates the distinction in a very illuminating manner: “What The Archaeology recognized
but still only designated negatively, as non-discursive environments, is given its positive form in
Discipline and Punish, a form that haunted the whole of Foucault’s work: the form of the visible,
as opposed to the form of whatever can be articulated.” He continues: “If knowledge consists of
linking the visible and the articulable, power is its presupposed cause; but, conversely, power
implies knowledge as the bifurcation or differentiation without which power would not become
an act” (Deleuze, Foucault 28, 33). However, the Deleuzian terminology, introducing the term
“visible” in comparison to the Foucauldian “statement,” risks masking the constant heterogeneity
of the two domains. This is the case for the example in which the Panopticon, given as a visible
The Dispositive Does Not Exist! 43
The detour through Bachelard also shows that the notion of power should
be kept separate from the questioning of viewing and listening dispositives,
even if it means reintroducing it at a further stage. The Panopticon and
its analysis by Foucault may have been referred to as a model: yet effects
of power are indeed being constructed there. Foucault is often reread
and quoted in analyses that mechanically apply the notion of power to
viewing and listening dispositives, as though these were representatives
of dispositifs-epistemes. But if we turn to the analysis of Bentham’s text by
Foucault, it appears that the constitution of the idea of power is inscribed as an
aim in the source itself. When Foucault describes a dispositif to reconstruct
the notion of power, he teases out the practice and the project in which the
description of the dispositif is caught up. For Bentham, the Panopticon is a
prison indeed – not only an instrument of power but the means to rethink
the exercise of power from a utilitarian and economic standpoint. To be
sure, as his whole analysis shows, the disciplinary dispositif also aims to free
the individual from the direct, brutal power that obtains through chains
and through the whip (Foucault’s “Great Confinement”) what disciplinary
power obtains through a technique of incorporation by the subject of the
automatic effects of power. At stake in Discipline and Punish is this paradox:
to free the individual from a power, another way for power to operate is cre-
ated, insidious, indirect and apparently in the service of the greater freedom
of the subject. Nevertheless, it is a process of constraint, a remarkable model
of which Bentham explicitly constructs with the Panopticon.
Foucault may be said to apply Bachelard’s method to the letter.
Power is tied to this specific viewing dispositive, and it is even the reason
why it belongs to Foucault’s corpus. Yet any viewing and listening dispositive
is not at once inscribed in a practice and a finality that turn it into an
instrument or a relay of power. It is essential that this finality not be defined
mechanically for any viewing and listening dispositive. Rather, the finality
of each dispositive should be drawn from the context of its use as expounded
by the sources mentioning it. Effects of power may eventually prove to be
decisive in a given practice; but they are to be constructed epistemologically
at first.
arrangement, is from that standpoint opposed to criminal law, which is linked to the order of
the statement. Deleuze omits the fact that the Panopticon, before being a visible architectural
arrangement, is a discourse describing this arrangement and implying utterances of a discursive
order that make it possible to build this instance of the disciplinary dispositif. This being said,
on the question of practices, Deleuze’s formulation remains relevant: “There are only practices,
or positivities, which are constitutive of knowledge: the discursive practices of statements, or
the non-discursive practices of visibilities” (Deleuze, Foucault 59).
44 François Albera, Maria Tortajada
Thomas Elsaesser
Introduction
ferent agents offer a rich field of investigation for cultural analysis, posing
methodological challenges and requiring specific case studies.
As far as the earlier period is concerned, our research has identified a
number of iconic figures and their historical contexts: Filippo Tommaso
Marinetti and Italian Futurism (Marinetti and Marconi: speed; radio and
the wireless; cinema as the “destroyer” of art and of the museum; cinema,
war and aviation as major agents of modernization); 1 Oskar Messter and
the three S/M practices of early German cinema (the chief promoter of a
film industry in Germany since the 1910s, as well as the first systematic
proponent of what I have elsewhere called the three S/M practices of the
cinematic dispositive2 – science and medicine, surveillance and the
military, sensor and monitor – all of which play their part in the formation
of early German cinema, obliging us to recast what we consider to be its
particular identity);3 and Eadweard Muybridge versus Etienne-Jules Marey:
photography in motion versus the visualization of data, a project where we
compare Muybridge, who initially devoted himself to the art-historical
issue of how to represent movement in the still image, and Marey, who was
one of the first scientific photographers to capture, record, measure and
represent living phenomena and processes (i.e. biological, atmospheric,
geological) in real time, graphically as well as iconographically, with the
aid of the cinematic dispositive. 4
Finally, our overall project is driven by another consideration: we see nei-
ther the need nor the wisdom of making the history of the cinema begin in
1895 and end a hundred years later with the dominance of the digital image.
In other words, we do not endorse the much-discussed “death of cinema,”
which assumes the break between photographic and post-photographic
cinema to be fundamental. No more than in earlier times, when such breaks
1 See Wanda Strauven, Marinetti e il cinema: tra attrazione e sperimentazione (Udine: Cam-
panotto, 2006).
2 Thomas Elsaesser, “Digital Cinema and the Apparatus: Archaeologies, Epistemologies,
Ontologies,” in Cinema and Technology: Cultures, Theories, Practices, Marc Furstenau, Bruce
Bennett and Adrian Mackenzie, eds. (London: Palgrave, 2008) 226-40; and Wanda Strauven,
“S/M,” in Mind the Screen, J.Kooijman, P. Pisters and W. Strauven, eds. (Amsterdam: Amsterdam
University Press, 2008) 276-87.
3 The German cinema of the silent period is usually identified with Expressionism and fantasy
subjects. For a revision of this perception, see Kino der Kaiserzeit, Thomas Elsaesser and Michael
Wedel, eds. (Munich: edition text + kritik, 2002); and Michael Wedel, Der deutsche Musikfilm
Archäologie eines Genres 1914 – 1945 (Munich: edition text + kritik, 2007).
4 Thomas Elsaesser, “Kontingenz und Handlungsmacht,” in Unmenge - Wie verteilt sich
Handlungsmacht? Ilka Becker, Michael Cuntz and Astrid Kusser, eds. (Munich: Fink, 2008)
157-90.
Between Knowing and Believing 47
were posited (several such deaths of cinema have been foretold) – notably
with the coming of sound, the emergence of television or the invention of
the video-cassette – do we believe that a new technology introduced in one
specific area (of what is always a constellation of overlapping, mutually
amplifying but also interfering dispositives) is the cause of radical change
by itself. Insofar as such ruptures (in technology or cultural practice) do
occur, we believe that they are also welcome opportunities to revise one’s
habitual ways of thinking and to test one’s implicit assumptions.5
To give conceptual muscle and a body of empirical evidence to our
particular perspective, we are engaged in three kinds of “revisionism.” The
first we call “media-archaeology,” which entails a re-investigation into the
“origins” of the cinema and the cultural context of so-called pre-cinema,
while also pushing for a history of the discourses generated by the different
debates around the cinematic dispositive.
The second revisionism is of a more theoretical and conceptual kind.
Re-reading key thinkers on the cinema, such as André Bazin and Siegfried
Kracauer, but also Hugo Münsterberg, Béla Balázs and Rudolf Arnheim,
Sergei Eisenstein and Jean Epstein, we attempt to recover a more compre-
hensive view of the cinema – whether based on notions of Gesamtkunstwerk
or “anti-art,” on cinematic anthropomorphism or animation; whether com-
mitted to formalism and abstraction, or to an aesthetics genuinely belonging
in the ephemeral, the instant, the contingent and the multiple (elaborating
on Baudelaire’s “riot of details” as well as on Walter Benjamin’s “optical
unconscious”). In short, our second revisionism re-maps the semantic field
of relevant concepts as well as methods in our discipline. Evidently, we
can only conduct such a review in the light of the present, which is to say,
mindful of the media environment of the twenty-first century.6 Thus, the
reading of the “classics” is complemented by similarly “holistic” or crisis/
emergency-driven attempts at reading the cinema from within the digital
domain by contemporary scholars such as Friedrich Kittler, Lev Manovich,
David Bolter and Richard Grusin, Sean Cubitt, Mary Ann Doane, Jeffrey
Sconce, Garrett Stewart and others.
Classic texts, as we know, have to be re-read: they have to be put in
dialogue with contemporary practices and re-assessed in a wider conceptual
5 For an extended argument, see Thomas Elsaesser, “Early Film History and Multi-Media:
An Archaeology of Possible Futures?” in New Media, Old Media: A History and Theory Reader,
Wendy Hui Kyong Chun and Tom Keenan, eds. (New York: Routledge, 2005) 13-26.
6 One of the results has been a new approach to (classical and modern) f ilm theory. See
Thomas Elsaesser and Malte Hagener, Film Theory: An Introduction through the Senses (New
York: Routledge, 2010).
48 Thomas Elsaesser
be to highlight the role it played as both symptom (of the division between
education about the world and entertainment extracted from the world)
and cure (in that it seemed to heal the breach between work and leisure),
a role also played by the large world fairs in London (1851), Chicago (1893),
Paris (1889, 1900) and St. Louis (1904), which sought to reconcile the split
between industry, technology, the public sphere and everyday life.
Thus, our third revisionism tries to track a trend that, from the 1970s
onwards, has seen these divisions between high-tech, entertainment and
information – but also between the avant-garde and the mainstream – as
increasingly blurred and merging, “returning” us to the period prior to the
1890s. Although we have not yet fully conceptualized the dynamics and
forces that are bringing style, design, advertising, technological break-
throughs, avant-garde and the mass market together, we note that the result
is infotainment, advertising-driven education, design following technology
and “theory” becoming design.
To the extent that we are concerned with often counter-intuitive as-
sociations, heterogeneous networks and non-convergent connections, we
are sympathetic to the idea of re-investigating the concept of “dispositif.” Its
capacity to think in terms of bricolage and assemblages, its renewed regard
for the conditions of reception (envisaging “agents” with different roles and
functions) and its interest in new pedigrees and genealogies all reaffirm
the concept’s value and uses. For instance, the proposal to draw upon gene-
alogies that can “distinguish between successive mechanical and military
paradigms and theatrical, libidinal models” 7 would seem to be quite close
to our aims as well. It is by attending to non-technological factors, drawing
connections between agents, sites and practices usually not associated with
each other, that the more recent term dispositive, central to this volume,
opens up valuable discursive space, by identifying common denominators
between and across media. However, “dispositif” – if merely translated as
cinematic apparatus in British or American English – is less useful to our
research, since it fails to account fully for what we think is the complexity
of the present situation. The same goes for the historical period preceding
“the cinema”: only if we think of “dispositif” as neither synonymous with
the technological apparatus nor analogous to the Freudian psychic Apparat,
and retain Jean Louis Baudry’s distinction between “appareil de base” and
“dispositif,” with the latter signifying different kinds of assemblages and
arrangements, can we adequately understand the nature of the interac-
7 François Albera and Maria Tortajada, call for papers, conference on “Viewing and Listening
Dispositives,” Université de Lausanne, Switzerland, May 29-31, 2008.
50 Thomas Elsaesser
In what follows I want to stress one of the main lessons to retain from the
history of “apparatus theory,” the name by which the discussions around the
“dispositif cinéma” have come to be known in Anglo-American criticism.
Rather than repeating the well-known definitions8 and subsequent polem-
ics9 surrounding this particular ocular-centric arrangement of screen,
projector and spectator, we need a more comprehensive understanding of
the complex interactions that bring different media together into relations
of interdependence, competition and complementarity, as they appear
to us in the twenty-first century. Therefore it cannot be our purpose to
conf ine ourselves primarily to a given (audio-visual) technology and
construct around it a new “dispositif” without also elaborating a coher-
ent and historically sound model for grasping their mutually interacting
dynamics. Put differently: it is clearly desirable to have a better account of
what constitutes the character and historical specificity of the “dispositif
cinéma,” “dispositif photographie,” “dispositif vidéo,” “dispositif télévision,”
“dispositif téléphone.” At the same time, however – and mindful of the
phrase that “technology is the name for stuff that doesn’t yet work” – one
should remember that the study of a “dispositif,” theorized around a basic
technology, cannot by itself specify its cultural impact and consequences.
Rather, media technologies tend to be culturally most productive where,
besides their performativity, their disruptive and failure-prone dimensions
are also taken into consideration. Borrowing from systems theory, one
might argue with Niklas Luhmann that an “irritant” (Störfaktor) can act as
stabilizing or energizing element in a given system.10 Hence the attention
paid in Imagined Futures to dystopias, anxieties and panics as cultural
indicators of media change.
If we want to understand the place of cinema in the digital environment
today – as just such an irritant, stabilizing force and counter-practice –
8 Representative collections in English are The Cinematic Apparatus, Teresa de Lauretis and
Stephen Heath, eds. (London: Macmillan; New York: St Martin’s, 1980) and Narrative, Apparatus,
Ideology: A Film Theory Reader, ed. Philip Rosen (New York: Columbia UP, 1986).
9 For a useful summary of the polemics, see Richard Allen, Projecting Illusion: Film Spectator-
ship and the Impression of Reality (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1997).
10 Niklas Luhmann, Die Wissenschaft der Gesellschaft (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1990).
Between Knowing and Believing 51
amidst the expanded field of the media interaction typical of the episteme
2000 (and retrospectively also making a good case for the episteme 1900),
then we need to study the constitutive parts of the classic “dispositifs”
in their separate developments, as well as identify their analogues or
functional equivalents across a range of media technologies and practices.
With this in mind, we have been undertaking separate studies of the “ar-
chaeology of the camera,” the “archaeology of the screen and frame,” the
“archaeology of projection and transparency,” the “archaeology of motion
and stillness,” the “archaeology of sound and color,” and so forth. Such stud-
ies are the methodological consequences of speaking of media “transfer”
or media “change” in the context of what I have termed a Medienverbund,
that is, a tactical alliance of media practices: not a “transfer” or “change”
of the properties of one medium into another, be it photographic, video
or digital, nor the assumption that these are historically successive modes
of production, be they hand-crafted, mechanical, electronic, replacing
each other in a trajectory of linear progress.11 Rather, what the idea of a
Medienverbund requires is the ability to bring to the debate a different level
of generality or abstraction, on the strength of which fresh comparisons
can be made and new genealogies generated. Lev Manovich has done this
in his book The Language of New Media (2001); Edward Branigan has tried
to do it in Projecting a Camera (2006), as has Sean Cubitt in The Cinema
Effect (2005). None of them use the word “dispositif,” but their efforts (just
as ours in Amsterdam, around the archaeologies of screen, projection,
camera, frame) are consonant with re-situating “apparatus theory,” still
valuable and an indispensable reference point, not least because it was the
first attempt at a comprehensive theoretical-philosophical articulation of
the cinema.
In the same spirit, the Imagined Futures project has as its working as-
sumption the notion that a viewing and listening dispositive is predicated
on several dimensions, working together: it implies a spatial extension, it
involves a temporal register and it has a subjective reference as historically
variable but conceptually indispensable elements. Our approach specifies
that a dispositive is a dispositive only when it entails a – material – medium
(most often a combination of technologies), an image (a representation,
including a sound representation) and a spectator (liable to be solicited,
11 Thomas Elsaesser, “Archives and Archaeologies: The Place of Non-Fiction Film in Contem-
porary Media,” in Films that Work: Cinematic Means and Industrial Ends, Vinzenz Hediger and
Patrick Vonderau, eds. (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2009) 19-34.
52 Thomas Elsaesser
12 Each of these terms refers to a different theoretical paradigm: “subjectified” belongs to the
psychoanalytic terminology of miscognition or disavowal; “addressed” recalls Marxist cultural
studies, via interpellation and negotiation; while “affectively and cognitively engaged” comes
from studies of narrative comprehension and cognitivist film theory.
13 Hans Belting, “Image, Medium, Body. A New Approach to Iconology,” Critical Inquiry 31.2
(Winter 2005): 302-19, 302.
14 Discussions around “agency” seem to point to the influence of Bruno Latour, Reassembling
the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network Theory (Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press,
2005).
Between Knowing and Believing 53
The problem, here, is perhaps a broader one, namely the need to reflect
once more quite fundamentally about what is cinema/what was cinema,
and to try and locate its place or purpose within human history in general
and the history of what is called “modernity” in particular. My sugges-
tion is that we should, for the sake of clarification, differentiate between
anthropological, philosophical and aesthetic theories of the cinema, if we
are to find a level of generality where dispositives are not defined solely
15 Christian Metz, “Problems of Denotation in the Fiction Film,” in Film Language, trans.
Michael Taylor (New York: Oxford UP, 1974) 145.
54 Thomas Elsaesser
by their basic technology. Evidently these are not mutually exclusive ap-
proaches. Anthropological theories, for instance, comprise a wide range of
views, including André Bazin’s ideas about the cinema as photographically
based, and of photography being related to the bodily imprint: hence his
references to mummies, the Turin shroud, plaster casts and other forms of
effigies. But it also encompasses Walter Benjamin’s ideas about cinema and
modernity, his influential concept of the optical unconscious and his notion
that cinema “trains” the senses, in order for us to cope with the shocks
and traumata of modern urban life. Also under a broadly anthropological
perspective, one can count the implications drawn from Foucault’s theories
of the disciplinary and self-monitoring effects of vision machines, notably
his theory of the Panopticon, which has been revived – around surveillance
– as a generalized paradigm of vision in the twenty-first century, replacing
both window and mirror as the “epistemes” of the twentieth century.
The epistemological theories already alluded to would fall under the more
generally philosophical approaches to the cinema. Film philosophy ranges
from phenomenological theories to cognitivist ones and also includes various
ontologies of the cinema (as attributed to Bazin, as proclaimed by Stanley
Cavell or as imputed to Gilles Deleuze), while the third general category
would be aesthetic theories of the cinema, whether these call themselves
“poetics” and are derived from Aristotelian theories of drama, or “formalist”
as influenced by Russian semiotics, whether they stem from “theatricality” as
first defined by Plato, or more specifically have to do with Romantic theories
of play, of appearance and presence, and concern themselves with the status
of the image in the arts or with the representation of movement and motion.16
In most theories of the cinema proposed over the past eighty years or so,
there is an overlap between epistemological and aesthetic categories, as in
the different theories of realism, or in the different ideological critiques,
where epistemological questions and anthropological concerns are not eas-
ily kept apart. Likewise, ontological theories tend to overlap with aesthetic
ones, as do phenomenological ones. But the advantage of making such
distinctions at all is that they encourage another look at existing theories
16 The publications alluded to here are André Bazin, “Ontology of the Photographic Image,”
What is Cinema? vol. I, ed. Hugh Gray (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967) 9-16; Stanley
Cavell, The World Viewed: Reflections on the Ontology of Film (Cambridge: Harvard University
Press, 1971); Gilles Deleuze, Cinema I. The Movement Image, trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Barbara
Habberjam (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1985) and Cinema II. The Time Image,
trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Robert Galeta (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989);
David Bordwell, Narration and the Fiction Film (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985);
and Sam Weber, Theatricality as Medium (Fordham: Fordham University Press, 2004).
Between Knowing and Believing 55
17 Thomas Elsaesser, “A Bazinian Half-Century,” Opening Bazin, ed. Dudley Andrew, with
Hervé Joubert-Laurencin (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011) 3-12.
18 François Albera and Maria Tortajada, call for papers, conference on “Viewing and Listening
Dispositives.”
19 See for instance Lev Manovich, “Cinema as a Cultural Interface,” http://www.manovich.
net/TEXT/cinema-cultural.html (last accessed on February 4, 2013) and Seung-hoon Jeong,
Cinematic Interfaces: Film Theory After New Media (New York: Routledge, 2013).
56 Thomas Elsaesser
the basis of the cinematic dispositive in its classical articulation: namely, the
photographic image, projection and the fixed spectator. Accommodating
its importance without being limited by the specificity of the dispositive,
such an ontological approach places greater emphasis on “belief” or “trust”
rather than on “knowledge” or “truth.” Such trust in the “image” (as a field
of forces and intensities, rather than a “representation” with a particular
“reference”) is secured either as an existential choice or as an interpersonal,
pragmatic value, and does not depend on a particular “essence” of cinema
or on photographic indexicality in explaining what binds the film spectator
to the world (of images).
Recent work in aesthetics has challenged the ocular-centric geometry of
the cinematic dispositive on several fronts, as part of yet another critique of
perspectival projection, with “infinity” as the implied vanishing point and
the “singular source” or solitary observer as the necessary point of view.20
Other objections concern the fact that the cinematic “cone of vision” privi-
leges space and stasis (“staging in depth”) over time and process; that it relies
too much on the bounded frame (off-screen/on-screen) or on the centrifugal
frame (in cinema) versus the centripetal (picture) frame (in painting); that it
assumes as a given the upright, frontal orientation of human vision and the
image, and that it tends to “freeze” the individual frame, thus reducing the
cinematic image to the still image, mechanically animated, rather than start
from the moving image, temporarily stilled in the photograph. The “new art
history,” in particular, turned to cinema as a vital element of visual culture in
the late 1980s.21 In the 1990s, however, overtly Marxist and/or psychoanalytic
epistemological critiques of apparatus theory began to give way to ideas
about vision and the observer that revived the multi-perspectival theories
of the different avant-gardes, while also acknowledging the influence of
video and installation art and the general opening up of museum culture
to include the moving image. In the process, the “archaeological” interest
in early cinema gained new traction and topical relevance: its dispositive –
once considered “primitive” because it focused more on performance and
less on narrative – could now be understood as a kind of “deconstruction”
of monocular perspective, as if a return to the origins of cinema would be
20 Among the many critiques of the “Albertian window” applied to the cinema, see Victor
Burgin, “Geometry and Abjection,” Public 1 (Winter 1988): 12-30; and Anne Friedberg, The Virtual
Window: From Alberti to Microsoft (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006).
21 Norman Bryson, “The Gaze in the Expanded Field,” Vision and Visuality, ed. Hal Foster
(Seattle: Bay Press, 1988) 87-113.
Between Knowing and Believing 57
a case of reculer pour mieux sauter, of stepping back for a new leap forward,
towards cinema and the moving image in the twenty-first century.
The turn/return to early cinema has proved fertile in many different ways.
Besides documenting the enormous variety of entertainment and scientific
uses of the Cinématographe in the urban environment of evolving modernity
(the anthropological aspect) and identifying a different aesthetics, whether
called a “primitive mode of representation” (Burch) or “the cinema of attrac-
tions” (Gunning and Gaudreault),22 early cinema studies also recovered an
epistemological dimension that tended to be lost in the negative epistemol-
ogy of the 1970s: the close alliance of chronophotography with the empirical
and observational sciences. As already noted, pioneers like Jules Janssen,
Etienne-Jules Marey and even the Lumière Brothers (who from 1902 onwards
devoted their best energies to experiments with color, with echographic
topology and with medical appliances for war veterans) have returned as
important figures in a genealogy of new media and expanded cinema. In
France, a belatedly recognized hero has emerged in Georges Demenÿ, who
dreamed up, explored and tested many applications of the moving image
for sports training, teaching lip-reading to the deaf and more generally for
educational, military and medical uses. In Britain, the multi-talent of R.W.
Paul is beginning to be recognized,23 and in Germany, it was Oskar Messter
who received special attention from scholars working on documentary and
non-fiction film, but also on more adventurous aspects of the dispositive
such as sound-image synchronization, color and 3-D projection.24 Messter
holds a special place in our project and his extensive oeuvre allowed me
to speak of the S/M practices of the apparatus, meaning: the scientific and
medical imaging dispositive (his work for hospitals touched upon by Lisa
22 See the essays by Burch, Gunning and Gaudreault in Early Cinema: Space Frame Narrative,
ed. Thomas Elsaesser (London: British Film Institute, 1990) and a new contextualization of these
positions in The Cinema of Attractions Reloaded, ed. Wanda Strauven (Amsterdam: Amsterdam
University Press, 2007).
23 See Ian Christie, sleeve notes, biography and filmography in R.W. Paul, The Collected Films
1895-1908 (London: BFI DVD Edition, 2006).
24 Oskar Messter, Erfinder und Geschäftsmann, ed. Martin Loiperdinger, KINtop 3, special issue
(Basel: Stroemfeld/Roter Stern, 1994).
58 Thomas Elsaesser
25 Lisa Cartwright, Screening the Body: Tracing Medicine’s Visual Culture (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1995).
26 Paul Virilio, War and Cinema: The Logistics of Perception (London: Verso, 1989).
27 Siegfried Zielinski, Audiovisions: Cinema and Television as Entr’actes in History (Amsterdam:
Amsterdam University Press, 1999).
28 Harun Farocki – Working on the Sight-Lines, ed. Thomas Elsaesser (Amsterdam: Amsterdam
University Press, 2004) 17.
29 Harun Farocki, Auge/Maschine (video-installation, 23 mn, 2000) http://www.farocki-film.
de/augem1.htm (last accessed on February 4, 2013).
30 See Harun Farocki, Reconnaître et poursuivre (Paris: Théâtre Typographique, 2002).
Between Knowing and Believing 59
New media theorists, on the other hand, have benefited from another
look at Marey, whose work can now be re-appreciated as part of the archae-
ology of data-visualization and pattern recognition, which is beginning to
get close consideration not just in the analysis of surveillance footage, but
also among film scholars and theorists of the articulations of cinematic time
and the management of real-time data.31 Imagined Futures has a number of
projects that investigate time and temporality in relation to mainstream
cinema and installation art, as well as looking at the locative aspects of
film history and the archive.32 One of my own attempts at an epistemo-
anthropological analysis is an essay on so-called “Rube” films (or Uncle Josh
films), arguing that earlier views of the phenomenon might have missed a
crucial aspect, a double layer of reflexivity and agency. Uncle Josh films – in
which a simpleton mistakes the representation on the screen for physically
present objects and people and personally intervenes in the action, only to
destroy the spectacle – pose several questions to the modern viewer.33 Are
they intended, as is often claimed, to be didactic parables, teaching a rural
or immigrant audience how not to behave in the cinema, by putting up to
ridicule someone like themselves? Yet it is doubtful that there ever existed
such an audience, or a moment of “infancy” and simplicity in the history of
the movies, where such an ontological confusion with regard to objects and
persons might have occurred. To me, then, these films imply a meta-level of
self-reference, in order to explore, not the epistemic conundrum of reality
versus representation or truth versus fiction, but the anthropological one,
namely of how to “discipline” an audience through comedy and laughter.
Do the Rube films not teach their audience how not to use their bodies as
spectators by allowing them to enjoy their own superior form of spectator-
ship, even if that superiority is achieved at the price of self-censorship and
self-restraint? The audience laughs at a simpleton and village idiot, thereby
flattering itself with a self-image of urban sophistication. The punishment
meted out to Uncle Josh by the projectionist is both allegorized as the reverse
side of cinematic pleasure (watch out, “behind” the screen lies the figure of
the “master”) and internalized as self-control: in the cinema – as elsewhere
31 Mary Ann Doane, The Emergence of Cinematic Time (Cambridge: Harvard University Press,
2001).
32 Among the various projects of the Imagined Futures group, see especially Jennifer Steet-
skamp, “Specters of Lessing: The Time-Spaces of the Moving Image Installation,” doctoral diss.,
University of Amsterdam, 2012; Pepita Hesselberth, “Chronoscopy: Affective Encounters with
Cinematic Temporalities,” doctoral diss., University of Amsterdam, 2012.
33 Thomas Elsaesser, “Discipline through Diegesis: The Rube Film between ‘Attractions’ and
‘Narrative Integration,’ ” in Strauven, The Cinema of Attractions Reloaded 205-26.
60 Thomas Elsaesser
38 Some of the landmark exhibitions were “Spellbound” (Hayward Gallery, London, 1995), “Art
and Cinema since 1945: Hall of Mirrors” (Moca, Los Angeles, 1996), “Notorious – Alfred Hitchcock
and Contemporary Art” (Museum of Modern Art, Oxford, 1999), “Hitchcock et l’art: coïncidences
fatales” (Montreal/Paris, 2000/2001), “Into the Light: The Projected Image in American Art,
1964 – 1977” (Whitney Museum, 2001), “X-Screen – Filmic Installations from the 1960s and 70s”
(MuMoK, Vienna, 2004).
62 Thomas Elsaesser
into play. However easy it might be to project a film inside a gallery with
just a few mobile walls and lots of dark fabric, the museum is no cinema and
the cinema no museum: mainly because of the different time economies
already alluded to, which oblige the viewer in the museum to “sample” a
film, rather than make it the occasion for “two hours at the movies.” Time
is thus one of the reasons why cinema and museum constitute two quite
distinct, and in the past often mutually exclusive, dispositives.
The fact that cinema and the gallery space are, both historically and philo-
sophically, two antagonistic visual arrangements and spatial dispositives is
usually expressed in the juxtaposition of “black box” and “white cube.” Each
space is culturally pre-determined, has its own historically conditioned but
deeply ingrained traditions, and follows particular architectonics, ordering
principles or “logics” which amount to distinct ontologies. As we saw, the
classical (or “black box”) cinematic dispositive requires a unique layout and
geometry, in the way that screen-space, auditorium space and projector
are aligned in relation to one another for the “cinema-effect” to occur. The
museum/gallery (or “white box”) is itself a specific dispositive. With its
white walls, its preference for “natural” light and its emphasis on smooth
surfaces, it organizes space in such a way that the objects visible to the
spectator are brought close and maintain their distance at the same time.
The placing and hanging of pictures subtly privileges the upright, forward
orientation of our gaze, directed at the formation of an “picture,” distinctly
framed and positioned at eye-level. Still paying tribute to the “open window”
of Renaissance perspective, the white wall into which the image space
is cut allows for generous margins and empty surfaces to surround each
picture, while the heavily gilded frames are a reminder of the fundamental
difference between the picture, what it contains, the look it retains and
the space that surrounds it. In the museum, there is never any off-screen
space, to speak in the language of cinema: the classical oil painting is wholly
contained – self-contained, indeed – within the frame, while cinema lives
from the tension between off-screen and on-screen, what the frame delimits
and what it creates a passage for. As I already pointed out, it was André
Bazin who famously distinguished the “centrifugal” cinema frame from
the “centripetal” painting frame.39
The difference between these vectors helps explain why the gallery and
the cinema are distinguished by the mode of attention they afford their
respective viewers. The kind of presence produced by standing in front of
39 André Bazin, “Painting and Cinema” [1959], What Is Cinema? vol. 1, trans. Hugh Gray
(Berkeley: University of California Press 1967) 164-69.
Between Knowing and Believing 63
40 Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida. Reflections on Photography (1981) and Roland Barthes by
Roland Barthes (1977), trans. Richard Howard (New York: Hill and Wang, 2010).
41 One may recall the famous scene in Hitchcock’s Vertigo, where Scotty watches – in the sense
of “spying on” – “Carlotta”/Judy looking at – in the sense of “contemplating” – the painting of
her “ancestor.”
64 Thomas Elsaesser
Yet the salient argument to make here is that these apparent incompat-
ibilities (and the many contradictory relations that obtain between the
respective dispositives) are precisely among the theoretically most fruitful
and in practice most productive factors about the fine arts and visual cul-
ture today, not only enabling but necessitating the new kinds of encounter
alluded to, as moving image and museum enter into sustained and no doubt
permanent contact and alliance with each other. For is it not the case that
these starkly distinct dispositives are themselves “on the move” and in flux,
each in its own way undergoing internal transformation, and for reasons
that at first glance do not seem to be interconnected or mutually dependent?
Take as one example the upright forward orientation, the prevalence of the
wall, the rectangle cut out like a window: modern art, at least since the
1950s, has subverted or ignored this arrangement with artists like Jackson
Pollock, Carl Andre, Andy Warhol, Joseph Beuys and many others. In very
different ways, these artists have made the floor, rather than the wall,
the site of display, not least because it challenges the canonical model of
bodily-perceptual orientation and thus creates a new “moment” of art: a
challenge only very gradually taken up by the cinema.
More drastic, but also more banal (because they are so often commented
upon) are the changes that the cinematic dispositive has undergone: tel-
evision long ago subverted it, merely by substituting the small screen for
the movie theater and phosphoric glow for projection, provoking in turn
different kinds of re-assertions of the power of the projected image, whether
through Cinemascope (in the 1950s) or the Dolby surround-sound design
(in the 1970s). Since then, screens have become both bigger and smaller,
but above all, they have become more “mobile”: in their proliferation as
monitors on every table top, in the home and at work, in their locations
Between Knowing and Believing 65
42 See, for instance, Sven Lütticken, “The Story of Art According to Jeff Wall,” in Sven Lütticken,
Secret Publicity: Essays on Contemporary Art (Rotterdam: NAi Publishers, 2005) 69-82.
Between Knowing and Believing 67
an un-pulsed time of “too much” and “not enough.” Elements that appear
to my eyes as contiguous in space may have to be read as successive in
time, or vice versa: their succession has to be retroactively reconstructed
as spatially distinct. In any case, there is no longer a “norm” by which to
measure the deviations, the extremes or the excesses, while any sense of
the work’s overall shape and extension necessarily escapes me, forcing a
radical reconsideration of the relation between fragment and totality so
crucial to Western aesthetics, but also to the cinema (“montage”/editing),
and challenging any notion of spatial capture or closure, even as the black
box mimics the darkened movie theater. Yet in some ways this anxiety of the
“too much/not enough” of installation art, turned into an aesthetic effect,
is reminiscent of one of the panic discourses in early cinema, when movie
theaters switched from short programs to full-length features, with doctors
warning about eyestrain, physiological damage and nervous disorders that
might result from watching a continuous action on screen for more than
a few minutes.
The detour via the museum and installation art has been necessary in
order to explain – including to myself – where I think the term “dispositif”
might be problematic, and where it offers scope for clarifying the situation
we find ourselves in, the episteme 2000, when compared to the episteme
1900. With the emphasis now on parameters such as temporality, dura-
tion, process, “relationality,” contact, mobility, event and encounter, the
traditional definitions (and translations) of “dispositif,” even without the
question of “technology,” become problematic because they are too fixed
spatially (beholden to Euclidian geometry) and too vague epistemologi-
cally (what is the status of film as semiotic object, if time intervenes and
bridges the binary pair absence/presence?). Furthermore, the “dispositif”
thus conceived still keeps the “subject” in a disciplinary-libidinal double
bind (the “subject effect” of fetishism and disavowal, as theorized by Lacan,
being replaced by the “subject effect” of power, knowledge, discourse, as
analyzed by Foucault).
What might nonetheless make it worth adopting the term dispositive is
its semantic flexibility and metaphoric openness (compared to “apparatus”).
If I am right in thinking that, besides being defined by “image,” “medium,”
and “body” (Belting) and “the machine, its location and the place given to
the spectator/hearer” (Albera/Tortajada), the cinema today should also be
68 Thomas Elsaesser
43 Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2001) 86. See also http://
www.manovich.net/TEXT/cinema-cultural.html (last accessed on February 4, 2013).
Between Knowing and Believing 69
organized, yet still accommodates the “body” and gives the impression of
“virtual presence”? What forms of indexicality (material link, pointer) or
iconicity (mimesis, resemblance) are available, for combinations of sounds
and images to credibly mark a “here” and “now,” while also relating them
to a “me”?
In other words, I am looking for a term that captures this “here-now-me”
as the variable “grounding” of my cinematic experience. Whether I watch a
Hollywood blockbuster on my iPod or see a mere five minutes of Douglas
Gordon’s 24 Hour Psycho in a gallery, I can call either a “cinematic” encounter
and event, not because of questions of LCD-screen vs. projection, digital
vs. photographic image, black box vs. white cube, film vs. video, optical vs.
haptic, fragment vs. totality; but because in each case, I can specify that
the relation of a “here,” a “now” and a “me” constituted a consistent spatio-
temporal world, whose “rules” I understand and whose effects I experience
as “presence,” under conditions of assent that I can call “belief” (which, of
course, includes the “suspension of disbelief” as well as the “as-if” belief
of the fictional contract). What is also clear, however, is that with such a
definition of “dispositif,” I am no longer in the realm of epistemological ques-
tions to put to the cinema. Rather, I am on the road to “(re-)ontologizing”
the cinema: experiencing it not as a way of knowing the world, or seeking
to attribute to it a specific meaning, but instead, living the cinema as a
particular way of being-in-the-world, and participating in its disclosure, its
unfolding, its becoming-present: with all the affects, cognitive dissonances
or bodily states that this might entail.
If this sounds unexpectedly Deleuzian, I feel bound to point out that
for me, such a def inition of the “dispositif” actually rests as much on
media-archaeological foundations as it does on philosophy, and that it
has its own genealogy and pedigree in early and pre-cinematic practice.
Suppose we went back to the laterna magica of Athanasius Kircher, as the
agreed ancestor of cinematic projection. Yet instead of tracing its mode of
representation via Renaissance perspective to the rigid geometry of the
cinematic apparatus, where do we arrive at, if we choose an alternative
route? What if, from the laterna magica, we derived in the first instance
Étienne-Gaspard Robert’s (or Robertson’s) phantasmagoria as the most
popular, but also conceptually most challenging precursor of cinema? We
might then find ourselves in a position to argue that a direct line runs from
phantasmagoria to Pepper’s Ghost and other spectral productions of pres-
ence in the nineteenth century to certain genres of cinema, mainly those
featuring special effects, with horror and fantasy, but not only: the lineage of
phantasmagoria also initiates a form of cinema that does not project itself as
70 Thomas Elsaesser
a window on the world, nor requires fixed boundaries of space like a frame.
Rather, it functions as an ambient form of spectacle and event, where no
clear spatial divisions between inside and outside pertain, and where there
are strong indices of presence, while its temporality reaches into past and
future (calling up the dead, soothsaying and predicting events yet to come),
while the senses are anchored and the body situated in a “here and now.”
As such, phantasmagoria would be the dispositive that also most closely
approximates the genealogical ancestor of what I described as installation
art above, one that does not depend on the frame or even on the upright
forward orientation, one that furthermore takes “sound” into account, but
also the one whose epistemological effects are, as it were, grounded in an
aesthetics of appearance as presence, rather than the other way round.
However, the modification I am proposing has not one, but two nodes
in the nineteenth century: besides that of the phantasmagoria, as it comes
down to us via Robertson’s adaptation of the magic lantern, this cinematic
dispositive also includes the work of Marey, notably insofar as he pioneered
the non-human, dare I say “spectral” visualization of data, both photograph-
ing and graphing statistical (mathematical, numeric), optical (visible to
the machine eye, but too fast or too slow for the human eye) and dynamic
phenomena (emanating from organisms and sentient beings). I can here
only hint at this aspect – which might involve reconsidering the Kantian
“sublime” as a crucial dimension or property of this dispositif. Still, as I said
at the beginning, Marey remains a key reference point for our project, due
to its inherently ontological scope. Although his efforts, experiments and
ambitions would normally be called “epistemological” (aimed at producing
new knowledge about the world), considered from the standpoint of making
all emanations of life manifest, Marey’s thinking also introduces a new
taxonomy of things, of what exists and what does not, of what is visible and
what is not, and of what is actual and what is virtual – linking him, with
Bergson, to Gilles Deleuze.
I come to my conclusion. My initial proposition has been that, in order
to understand what the episteme 1900 and the episteme 2000 have in
common, we need to overcome the division between photographic and
post-photographic cinema, and see it, not as a break, but as an occasion
for revising our previous notion of “what is cinema.” If for some thirty or
forty years, the answer to “what is cinema” has involved some version of
the dispositive cinema (such as “cinematic apparatus”), then the task inter
alia is to redefine this central concept. This is what my essay has attempted
to do: first I reviewed the canonical definition, as it has been specified
around the particular geometry of representation that Jean-Louis Baudry
Between Knowing and Believing 71
was the first to identify with the parable of Plato’s cave, with Renaissance
perspective and with the Freudian psychic apparatus. Following references
to the various critiques of this formation, I proposed and discussed several
other possible articulations of the dispositive cinema, whose properties
were more institutional than technological, more time-based than geo-
metrical, more anthropological than ideological and more “ontologizing”
than epistemological. Starting out from early cinema, making a leisurely
detour via installation art and the museum and a brief one through digital
media and interface, I ended up by returning to pre-cinema: the double
and possibly improbable pedigree of Robertson’s phantasmagoria joined
to Marey’s chronophotography. The trajectory has provided me with a
set of parameters and priorities that in my opinion need to inform our
definition of the “dispositif,” for which notions of space, time and agency
(the “here-now-me”), as well as of “belief,” “appearance” and “presence” play
as great a role as the semiotics of absence and presence, the dynamics of
voyeurism and disavowal or the notion of “vision-knowledge-power” (voir,
savoir, pouvoir).
This “perspective correction”44 has led me to posit a further proposition
or rather, to formulate a challenge, namely that we may have to supplement
our traditional epistemological interest in the cinema (around “realism,”
the subject-object split, questions of ideology, illusionism, power) with a
tentatively ontological view (as well as a renewed aesthetic investigation) of
the cinema – here called, perhaps somewhat imprecisely, “cinema as event
and encounter, taking place.” Another way of highlighting the difference
of emphasis, again in a somewhat rough-and-ready fashion, would be to
suggest that whereas our Renaissance ocular-centric orientation has infinity
as its vanishing point (the all-seeing God of the Dollar Bill, or of Bishop
Berkeley’s esse est percipi: to be is to be seen) and the singular source as
its point of view, the orientation I am trying to identify has as its salient
feature, not Euclidean space, but ubiquity. I would define ubiquity as the
felt presence of pure space, whose temporality is neither chronos nor kairos,
but an “indefinite,” reversible time, and whose ocular counterpart would
be not be surveillance as sight, knowledge, power, but as the unlocalizable
experience of sight without an eye and as the human-machine equivalent of
Nicolas de Cusa’s God: “to be at the centre of the world and yet at every point
of its circumference,” i.e. the paradox (or mystery) of an un-located situated-
ness. Such ubiquity, in other words, produces its own forms of embodiment
44 I borrow the phrase “perspective correction” from Rod Stoneman, “Perspective Correction:
Early Film to the Avant-Garde,” Afterimage 8/9 (Spring 1981): 50-63.
72 Thomas Elsaesser
Patrick Désile
– but it may also consist of a layout in a garden, a mirror such as the Claude
glass used by painters and walkers in the eighteenth century, or even a
prescriptive description. In fact, while my subject essentially has to do
with collective, established spectacles designed for an audience that has
expressly convened or gathered, I do not believe these can be dissociated
from the tight network of innumerable spectacles offered by the world.
In the last decades of the eighteenth century and the first decade of
the nineteenth century, a number of spectacles thus appeared in Europe.
Limiting myself to the case of Paris, I will attempt to describe and trace
relations between several of these spectacles considered as novelties by
their contemporaries.
At the end of the eighteenth century, Paris was the city-world, “round
as a pumpkin,”5 an expanding city seized by the “frenzy of building,”6 in
Mercier’s words. It was a complicated city, rife with crooks and nooks, often
presented at the time as muddy, stinky, noisy and dark; that is, still poorly lit
and poorly known (the first accurate map of Paris by Verniquet appeared in
the last years of the century). It was an unstable city as well, with a changing,
unpredictable population. It was a violent city: fights were frequent, an
integral part of the spectacle of the streets. The blood of oxen slaughtered
in public flowed onto the pavement7 and people enjoyed watching a goose
hanged on a gallows being clubbed to death by men,8 or mastiffs tearing a
donkey to pieces in amphitheaters dedicated to animal fights.
In this dubious city, as we might call it, procedures of organization, regu-
lation and control were put into place: the population was monitored, more
or less, by commissioners-examiners who served as the “judges’ eyes,”9
by inspectors, and above all by “observers,”10 in other words, informers.
Moreover, maps were drawn up, street names were inscribed, gradually
houses were numbered, urban lighting was improved. Some of these initia-
tives gave rise to hostility, to the degree that some operations, such as house
numeration, had to be carried out at night.11
What did the spectacle of circus consist of during the first three or four
decades of its existence? It should at once be mentioned that the circus
was considered a theater in Paris, and that before long a stage was adjoined
to the ring. A part of the show involved a theatrical performance. I have
already touched on the military character of the circus: as a matter of fact,
the plays often reproduced episodes from wars, and under the Empire they
were sometimes directly inspired by the bulletins of the Grande Armée.
However, the circus was above all a pure equestrian spectacle whose main
purpose was to display the ascendancy of man over animal, the mastery
by man of the movements of the animal body – through free dressage
exercises with the ringmaster standing at the center of the ring, or haute
école exercises exhibiting the absolute submission of the horse to the rider.
The circus originated in the figure of the horse, which is central to it: the
daily companion of man, immensely useful socially, the horse is the animal
of movement, perfectly controllable for anyone with the proper skills, but
it may also prove stubborn as well as powerful and skittish, liable at any
moment to rear up, bolt, become uncontrollable again.
The presentation of wild animals that are further removed from man
may be an even better illustration of the project of dominating animal life
and channeling its instinctive movements: these animals were trained to
adopt behavior that was the opposite of that supposedly dictated by nature.
Thus the stag, a fearful animal par excellence, would remain impassive as
gunshots were fired close by;18 and the massive, frightening elephant would
delicately stroke the cheek of an infant, then play music and dance.19
Still, the intent was not just to show the control of man over beast, but
also the control of man over himself, the mastery he may acquire over his
own body and his fear when performing acrobatic exercises. The comics
themselves were riders and acrobats who amused mainly through the
incongruity of their physical prowess. Yet the bird-man could fall and the
performing animal become fierce again: the circus was the spectacle of
the – always precarious – mastery over movement and life.
Other spectacles contemporary with the emergence of the circus focused
on movement and its mastery, but quite differently: scientific or para-
scientific spectacles presenting phenomena tied to electricity, an object of
fascination in the last decades of the eighteenth century. Demonstrations
18 See Mme B**, née de V**, Les Animaux savants ou Exercices des chevaux de MM. Franconi,
du cerf Coco, du cerf Azor, de l’éléphant Baba, des serins hollandois, du singe militaire… (Paris:
Didot l’aîné, 1816) 47.
19 Mme B**, née de V**, Les Animaux savants 49-53.
“You Do Not Even Know Where You Are” 79
Armed with this theory, Comus treated patients, mainly epileptics and para-
lytics. Indeed, these cases presented the highest chances that a treatment
would prove effective, by his account and those of other demonstrators.22
The goal was in effect to reestablish through electricity the fluidity and
regularity of the universal movement there where it was being upset or
held up.
Upholding his thesis of “the Analogy of Electricity with the nervous
fluid,”23 Comus also operated on dead bodies, to which he restored a fleeting
appearance of life – this before Galvani’s works were published and the
experiences of galvanism in turn appeared in the program of spectacles
such as Robertson’s.
20 Denis Diderot, letter to Sophie Volland, 28 July 1762, Correspondance II, in Œuvres complètes,
vol. 19 (Paris: Garnier frères, 1875-1877) 83.
21 “Médecine,” Journal de Paris 22 Jan. 1784: 97.
22 Father Sans thus announced in 1784 that from then on he would treat “only two types of
diseases, Paralysis and Convulsions” in his Versailles “electric practice.” “Médecine,” Journal de
Paris 17 Nov. 1784: 1349-50.
23 “Physique,” Journal de Paris 9 May 1782: 514.
80 Patrick Désile
24 See Léonard Snetlage, Nouveau Dictionnaire français (Gottingen: Jean Chrêtien Dieterich,
1795) 183.
25 See Bernard Vouilloux, “Le tableau vivant, un genre ambigu,” 48-14, La Revue du musée
d’Orsay 11 (Fall 2000).
26 See Kirsten Gram Holmström, Monodrama, Attitudes, tableaux vivants. Studies on Some
Trends of Theatrical Fashion, 1770-1815 (Stockholm: Almqvist och Wiksell, 1967).
27 Mercier, Tableau de Paris, vol. 3 (1782) 269.
28 Daniel Arasse, The Guillotine and the Terror (New York, London: Penguin, 1991).
“You Do Not Even Know Where You Are” 81
point almost invisible. Yet this passage without duration from life to death
was unsettling on several accounts.
In the 1780s the Journal de Paris reported one case after another of ap-
parent deaths and resurrections, notably after asphyxiation or drowning.
The Encyclopédie describes death as a process slow enough that someone
might come round from it and, like the Journal de Paris, mentions cases of
premature inhumations. This was one of the time’s great anxieties, and
the figure of the individual buried alive, scraping the dark, narrow coffin
where she or he lay dying served as the antithesis to the individual of the
Enlightenment, yearning for clarity, transparency and circulation. There
was such a thing as an uncertain death, then, a death that could be cured:
a partial death. In 1801 Bichat put forward the notion that bodies had two
lives in them, animal and organic; while the former worked from without
and was voluntary, the latter operated from within and was permanent.
As it happened, “the organic life to a certain point may subsist, the animal
life being extinct.”29 Life and death, in the end, were not a matter of all or
nothing.
As a consequence, there were legitimate grounds for asking whether
the guillotined person was absolutely killed on the instant or whether the
severed head might still feel for some time, with the subject happening
to know the unknowable as a witness of his or her own death. There was
talk of heads continuing to speak or Charlotte Corday’s face blushing. The
spectacle of the guillotine was thus a singularly troubling one, as instant
death substituted for or overlapped with the process of ordinary death,
which was stretched in time.
Finally, the third phase of the spectacle, the headsman holding up the
severed head dripping with blood, was the subject of many engravings. The
spectacle of the guillotine was therefore not only the spectacle of death, but
also the spectacle of the head, separated from the body and bearing the most
individual traits. The spectacle of death as the end of the individual also
proved to be the spectacle of his/her identity, represented by his/her head.
Other, less dreadful spectacles may be viewed as spectacles of identity
without being completely extraneous to the theme of death. A play titled
L’Heureuse Pêche, whose manuscript is dated 1767, was presented as a “com-
edy for shadows with changing scenes.”30 In the preface, its anonymous
29 Xavier Bichat, Physiological Researches on Life and Death (Boston: Richardson and Lord,
1827) 175.
30 L’Heureuse Pêche, comédie pour les ombres à scènes changeantes (1767), Rondel RO théâtre
d’ombres, BnF (French national library).
82 Patrick Désile
31 L’Heureuse Pêche 3.
32 L’Heureuse Pêche 4.
33 Friedrich Melchior Grimm, Correspondance littéraire, philosophique et critique, 1753-1773,
vol. 9 (Paris: Garnier frères, 1877) 110.
“You Do Not Even Know Where You Are” 83
34 On physiognomy, the physiognotrace and transparency, see Antoine de Baecque, The Body
Politic. Corporeal Metaphors in Revolutionary France (1770-1800) (Stanford: Stanford University
Press, 1993).
35 Julius von Schlosser, History of Portraiture in Wax [1911], in Ephemeral Bodies. Wax Sculpture
and the Human Figure, ed. Roberta Panzanelli (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2008).
36 Mercier, Tableau de Paris, vol. 3, 42.
37 On the Morgue, see Bruno Bertherat, “La Morgue à Paris au XIXe siècle (1804-1907). Les
Origines de l›Institut médico-légal ou Les métamorphoses de la machine,” diss., Université de
Paris 1, 2003.
84 Patrick Désile
Fig. 1. To restore through electricity the universal fluidity… (Abbé Sans, Guérison de la paralysie par
l’électricité, ou Cette expérience physique employée avec succès dans le traitement de cette maladie… ,
Paris, Cailleau, 1772).
I have said that other spectacles did in a sense raise the question of truth:
they did so by contrasting it with illusion. Towards the mid-eighteenth
century, conjurers became physicists. The Paysan de la Noort-Holland, and
more importantly Pinetti a little later, resurrected birds and made trees
blossom: palingenesis was one of the favorite themes of these demonstra-
tions. Physicists sometimes also showed automatons, which raised the
question of the secret of life as much as they illustrated the theme of the
mastery of movement.
“You Do Not Even Know Where You Are” 85
Fig. 2. Enthusiasm at last, seeing everything, dominating everything… (Balloon ascending the Tuileries,
1784: To lovers of physic, Bibliothèque nationale de France).
These ghosts created on demand, which can move, these false appear-
ances amuse the common herd and make the philosopher dream. What
is the specter of the mirror, or in the mirror? Does it exist, or not? What
a prodigious subtlety of colored rays! What an amazing intermediary
between the matter we feel and the spirit we cannot touch!39
Even though in both cases the point was to create an illusion, it may be
argued that the panorama contrasts with the phantasmagoria: both ap-
peared at about the same time in Paris, but while the former relied on a
perfect image of the real, tangible world, the latter invoked imaginings and
ghosts. The panorama pertained to new relations between the subject and
the perceived world, with the dominating subject assuming an omniscient
look. Aerostatic flights thus elicited enthusiastic and proud descriptions on
the part of aeronauts: “It seemed as though I held sway over everything,”40
Lallemand de Sainte-Croix declared after his September 1791 flight. How-
ever, what the subject dominated was but an autonomous world from which
she or he might just as well have been absent. Saint-Preux, describing the
“theater” of the Alps with rapture, ended up disappearing, dissolving in it:
“the spectacle has something indescribably magical, supernatural about it
that ravishes the spirit and the senses; you forget everything, even yourself,
and do not even know where you are.”41 The spectator of the panorama was,
in a certain way, both imperial and evanescent.
The circle of the panorama leads back to the circle of the circus. While
the gaze of the spectators converges towards the ring where, under the eyes
of the master, horses move around in an orderly manner, in the panorama,
the eyes of the – potentially lonely – spectator, who performs a circular
movement, scan the still representation of a section of the world.
The play with circles and the gaze are reminders of the prominent place
of the figure of the circle in the last decades of the eighteenth century; it
also points to the omnipresence of the figure of the eye, and the associations
between the circle and the eye in Bentham’s panopticism and in other
places are well-known. The circle is the perfect figure in that it is the most
simple, the least false, the most natural; a figure of equality and serenity,
of unimpeded circulation, of the universal movement of stars, of harmony.
“Everything is a circle in nature,”42 Claude-Nicolas Ledoux wrote, citing the
concentric circles made by stones falling into water, satellites, planets… As
for the eye, itself a globe, it stands at the centre of circles and spheres drawn
by the looks it casts. In revolutionary iconography, it was notably the eye
of radiating reason, but also that of surveillance. “I have a thousand eyes,
a thousand openings, a thousand telescopes,”43 the first issue of Rougyff ’s
journal read. Rougyff, an alias for Armand-Benoît-Joseph Guffroy, depicted
himself as a sentinel ever on the alert.
I suspend my description at this point without bringing it to a close. As suc-
cinct and incomplete as it may be, it should allow us to begin answering the
40 Lallemand de Sainte-Croix, Procès-verbal très intéressant du voyage aérien qui a eu lieu aux
Champs-Élysées le 18 septembre 1791, jour de la proclamation de la Constitution (Paris, 1791) 5.
41 Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Julie, or the New Heloise. Letters of Two Lovers Who Live in a Small
Town at the Foot of the Alps [1761], Philip Stewart and Jean Vaché, trans. and ed. (Lebanon, N. H.:
Dartmouth College Press, University Press of New England, 1997) 65.
42 Claude-Nicolas Ledoux, L’Architecture considérée sous le rapport de l’art, des moeurs et de
la législation, vol. 1 (Paris: 1804) 223.
43 Rougyff, ou le Frank en vedette 1 (July 1793).
“You Do Not Even Know Where You Are” 87
What I’m trying to pick out with this term is, firstly, a thoroughly het-
erogeneous ensemble consisting of discourses, institutions, architectural
forms, regulatory decisions, laws, administrative measures, scientific
statements, philosophical, moral and philanthropic propositions – in
short, the said as much as the unsaid. Such are the elements of the
apparatus. The apparatus itself is the system of relations that can be
established between these elements. 44
44 “The Confession of the Flesh” (1977), in Power/Knowledge. Selected Interviews and Other
Writings, ed. Colin Gordon (Brighton: The Harvester Press, 1980) 194.
88 Patrick Désile
Farther on, the spectacle of riders jumping and juggling is said to “constitute
the best explanation of the Copernican system.”46 What is at stake here is
the order of society and the order of the world.
Similarly, as we have seen, demonstrations of electricity did not only
have therapeutic or orthopedic qualities: they also had symbolic power. The
neologism électriser (“to electrify”) entered political vocabulary47 and it is
worth remembering Benjamin Franklin’s immense fame in France, equal
to that of Voltaire or Rousseau. In a well-known formula variously ascribed
to Turgot and d’Alembert, “Eripuit coelo fulmen sceptrumque tirannis,” “he
seized lightning from the heavens and the scepter from tyrants,” an obvious
allusion to his dual role in science and politics.
Aerostatic spectacles also had an explicit political dimension. Lallemand de
Sainte-Croix, from whom I have already quoted a few words, took off to great
cheering from “a huge crowd”48 with the 1791 Constitution in hand, the very
day it was proclaimed. There, again, the event actualized a general project.
This project, characterized in a few words and in a necessarily incom-
plete, crude, and in fact provisional manner, could be said to consist in
giving the spectator the spectacle of himself or herself, his/her situation or
limitations. A free and sovereign subject, capable of surveying everything
with a dominating look, of telling truth from falsehood, of taming the forces
of nature, s/he also became an isolated individual from then on (“isoler
quelqu’un,” “to isolate someone,” or “s’isoler,” “to isolate oneself,” were new
expressions at the time49), held to human nature (s/he is neither a machine
nor an animal), assigned to an obscure body, susceptible to the order of the
world and participating in the great universal movement whose flow s/he
should not hamper, bounded on all sides, marked by his/her identity even
beyond death, and compelled by the countless gazes of others.
Such would be, in the first analysis, the project of the dispositif relative
to the spectacles I have begun to describe. Talking of a “strategy” does seem
relevant in this case, since what is involved is one of “the great anonymous,
almost unspoken strategies,”50 “for which it is no longer possible to identify
a person who conceived it.”51
The fact remains that a dispositif, as it appears notably in the examples
given by Michel Foucault, seems to present a rather strong unity. The point is,
at least initially, to obtain a given effect through given means – preventing the
mobility of workers through the implementation of a number of techniques,
for instance.52 And yet the ensemble I have described is fragmented, scattered;
the project assigned to it remains very general and does not preclude internal
tensions. It would of course be possible to identify several dispositifs in it, each
of which would then be easier to characterize and would have its own coher-
ence: the circus, the panorama, the guillotine or the Morgue thus admittedly
constitute full-fledged dispositifs, and one could investigate how they are
articulated and perhaps mesh with one another. However, this would clearly
leave many more isolated, more ordinary spectacles unexamined and would
amount to ignoring a complexity that appears only if researchers agree to
consider the vast numbers of spectacles and the vast numbers of their relations.
53 Gilles Deleuze, “What Is a dispositif ?” in Michel Foucault Philosopher, trans. Timothy J. Arm-
strong (New York: Routledge, 1991) 159. Available online at http://www.scribd.com/doc/44431489/
Deleuze-What-is-a-Dispositif as of February 9, 2011. Translator’s note: “which are homogeneous
in their own right” should be understood in the conditional (“supposedly homogeneous”). Also,
“…trace balances” is very likely a typographical error and should read as “…trace processes.”
Finally, while the translator of Deleuze’s text starts with the word dispositif and goes on to use
“apparatus,” both words do refer to the same word, “dispositif,” in French.
54 Bernard Vouilloux, “La critique des dispositifs,” Critique 718, “Pensée du style, style de
pensée” (March 2007): 165.
55 Vouilloux, “La critique des dispositifs”: 165.
56 Foucault, “The Confession of the Flesh,” Power/Knowledge 203.
“You Do Not Even Know Where You Are” 91
monitored and heavily taxed, their content may not be said to result from
coherent, rational decisions, nor may their effects be taken as premeditated,
particularly with regard to the – mostly – spectacles of curiosity dealt with
here. And while institutions such as the guillotine or the Morgue were all
the more strictly controlled and the decisions involving them presented as
coherent and rational, it is obvious to everyone how obscure and uncertain
were both their operation as a spectacle and the craze they gave rise to.
Spectacles are not the hospital, the barracks, the school, the prison or
the factory, and while they count normalization as one of their effects, this
is not due to any coercion they might exercise directly over bodies. They
attract without forcing, they please and, at least for recreational spectacles,
they have to appeal if they are to survive. Contractors do not seek to bring
spectators into subjection but to allure them. In a way, spectators do make
the spectacle, grabbing the mirror held out to them, but their motivations,
like those of promoters, are largely irrational. If I sought to explain a project
earlier, it was not without some artifice, for all this remains not only implicit
but also mysterious. Spectators make the spectacle, and their steps lead
them not only towards what entertains or instructs, but towards what
troubles and disorients as well.
The circus was without a doubt a spectacle of order, but it was an inse-
cure order: it was also a spectacle of danger, of the danger of death, and it
showed the ascendancy of man over animal only by humanizing the animal
and blurring the limits of the species. The demonstrations of electricity
presented something about which almost nothing was known, save for the
fearsome power observed by all, and to which cripples and children were
still subjected. The spectacles of physicists claimed to bring out the truth
through the play of fascinating deceptions. And what to say of the sublime
spectacle of the guillotine, which gave rise to the impossible thought of a
being both alive and dead; or of the murky spectacle of the Morgue, which
brought wrecked, naked, nameless bodies back into a blunt light? Even the
clear spectacle of the panorama initially created confusion, a perceptual
indecision, and an almost physical malaise, as noted in 1800 in the report
of the Institut national des sciences et des arts: “The first impression upon
entering a Panorama is that of a vast but confused view, all of whose points
present themselves to the dazzled eye at once and in no order…”57
Does the necessity of allowing this obscure and ambiguous dimension
to play out still make it possible to speak of a dispositif in relation to the
57 Rapport fait à l’Institut national des sciences et des arts sur l’origine, les effets et les progrès
du panorama, 28 fructidor an VIII (15 Sept. 1800) 5.
92 Patrick Désile
Fig. 3. The EYE of reason, the EYE of surveillance (engraving, 1793-1795, de Vinck collection, Bibliothèque
nationale de France).
This very clean definition, which preserves the essential but prejudges as little
as possible, does seem to allow us to think of the ensemble I have described
as a dispositif – without obscuring its specific traits, but by considering it as
a proliferating network, never completed, shot through by enigmatic desires.
Still, a question remains.
The modern spectator issued from anxiety, doubt and uncertainty about
the world and the self. From dizziness – a physical dizziness brought by
heights, infinite space, indefinite perceptions; but a dizziness that may
just as well be called existential when so many limits have become inde-
terminate. Accordingly, how may the concept of dispositif do justice to such
dizziness, which has something inaugural, foundational even, to it and
which may in many respects still be our own?
58 Giorgio Agamben, What Is an Apparatus? (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2009) 14.
Marey and the Synthesis of Movement
The Reconstruction of a Concept
Maria Tortajada
“Cinema is the moving image”: the idea, which has become a common-
place, coalesced around 1900 as photography was being referred to as
the still image. The opposition between photography and cinema made
it possible throughout the twentieth century, and to this day, to assign
distinct tasks in the representation of reality to each of these emblem-
atic dispositives of modernity. Still, the association still/moving also
structured the cinematographic dispositive as such as early as the late
nineteenth century. Indeed, photography was not the other of cinema at
the time, but a means used by “cinema” in its chronophotographic stage to
reconstitute movement: the moving image was the result of a preliminary
decomposition of the movement of a moving object or body into a series
of instantaneous photographs. Chronophotography – most particularly in
its scientific inception, which Etienne-Jules Marey contributed through
his work – established the regularity of intervals between frames as the
condition of possibility for the synthesis of movement. This technical
characteristic revealed two visions of cinema throughout the twentieth
century: on the one hand, the insistence on the centrality of the f ilm
frame, scansion, decomposition; on the other hand, the idea of a cinema
wholly defined by the continuous flow of movement whose projection
produces the illusion or reconstitution. Roland Barthes, an advocate of
the f ilm frame, may in that respect be opposed to André Bazin, who
structured his “ontology of cinema” through the division between the
two media along the question of the reproduction of movement, precisely.
Gilles Deleuze also emphasized the continuous flow with what he called
the “movement-image,” that is, the expression of Bergsonian duration in
its capacity for change. While the apology of continuity was dominant in
the film production as well as the theorization of film of the second half
of the twentieth century, the idea of cinema still remained structured by
the new, underlying opposition between synthesis and decomposition
– irreducibly so, it seemed. The synthesized image was thus conceived
through the repression of the part played by the film frame in decomposi-
tion or the explanation of its own construction as image: either way, this
synthesized image was indebted to the film frame and was opposed to
94 Maria Tortajada
it. However, the discontinuity inherent in cinema was not always limited
to the series of film frames. Discontinuity may be thought of differently,
as Marey’s work related to chronophotography shows. This leads us to
reevaluate the status of the synthesis of movement at the turn of the
twentieth century.
Synthesis as a notion def ines cinema, but one should ask on which
conditions. Does reconstituted movement refer to the continuity and flow
produced by the illusion of movement, as most often heard these days in “the
idea of the cinematographic”? Or could synthesis be thought of differently?
This is what was at stake in Marey’s work at the exact moment when the
very possibility of cinema was forming technically and conceptually.
Marey was both the historian of chronophotography and the scientist who
promoted it to the rank of a method for the decomposition and analysis of
movement. Marey’s images are famous; his chronophotographs document
different modes of human or animal locomotion: walking, running, leaping,
flapping wings or fins, and so forth. They present series of frames recorded
on a fixed plate or on a mobile strip of film. These images firmly anchor
Marey in the history of photography, but he also belongs in the history of
cinema.
Marey’s interest in the synthesis of movement is occasionally played
down on the grounds that he did not achieve the technical solution mak-
ing it possible to realize what he had imposed on a theoretical level: the
equidistance of frames, the condition of possibility for the reconstitu-
tion of movement. The solution chosen was Lumière’s, for it ensured the
regularity of the film’s run and the intermittent stop of frames in front
of the lens. Lumière opted for the claws to feed the perforated film and
the eccentric triangular cam, a piece that made it possible to transform
a continuous movement into a discontinuous one. This argumentation,
revolving as it does around technique alone, is perfectly suited for a
conventional, genealogical history of cinema justifying the date of the
“origin,” 1895.
While noting the technical peculiarities of Marey’s appliances, Laurent
Mannoni insists for his part on the importance of Marey’s “film work.”
Against the hegemony of the Lumières, he argues in favor of a rehabilitation
of the scientist as a “filmmaker” in the history of cinema. The importance
of the synthesis of movement is thus vindicated through the number of
Marey and the Synthesis of Movement 95
films made as well as their aesthetic value.1 Since the beginning of this
century, the issue of the synthesis of movement has clearly been at stake
in the debate on “the invention of cinema,” in which symbolic values in
the constitution of a history of the medium play out. From the moment it
appeared as the defining element of cinema, “the moving image” has been
a privileged site for argumentation, either in the competitive game for the
title of “inventor of cinema,” or at the center of a reflection problematizing
the issue of a “single” birth to advocate a progressive and collective process
of technical invention – an idea conveyed through the emphasis of various
“pioneers” of technical innovation, for instance.2
Starting from an epistemological concern, Michel Frizot argues differ-
ently to dispute the classic narrative of the “birth” of cinema. This leads him
to play down the importance of the synthesis of movement in Marey’s work:
chronophotography is primarily a method for the analysis of movement
and does not have as its aim to produce a moving image.3 The synthesis,
Frizot explains, is a part of the scientific method and only a control proce-
dure: Marey analyzed movement by breaking it down before checking the
result by synthesizing it. The reversibility of appliances was a guarantee
for scientific validation. François Dagognet had previously defended the
same position. 4 Within this logic, synthesis is not a finality.5 Marey’s very
1 See Laurent Mannoni’s reference work, Etienne-Jules Marey. La mémoire de l’œil (Milan,
Paris: Mazzotta/La Cinémathèque française, 1999), as well as his The Great Art of Light and
Shadow. Archaeology of the Cinema (Exeter: The University of Exeter Press, 2000), ch. 13, and
“Marey cinéaste,” in E.-J. Marey. Actes du Colloque du centenaire, Dominique de Font-Réaulx,
Thierry Lefebvre and Laurent Mannoni, eds. (Paris: Arcadia, 2006) 15-36.
2 In that respect, the title of the exhibition catalog of the Musée Marey in Beaune is significant:
Marey, pionnier de la synthèse du mouvement (Beaune: Musée Marey, 1995). See more particularly
Virgilio Tosi’s contribution, “Etienne-Jules Marey and the Origins of Cinema,” 13-20. The debates
on “the invention” have been commented on several times. Again, I refer the reader to Laurent
Mannoni’s previously mentioned work, but also to Michel Frizot’s exhibition catalog, E.-J. Marey:
1830/1904. La photographie du mouvement (Paris: Centre national d’art et de culture Georges
Pompidou/Musée national d’art moderne, 1977) 87-90; and to Marta Braun, Picturing Time: The
Work of Etienne-Jules Marey (Chicago, London: University of Chicago Press, 1992) 254-62.
3 Michel Frizot, Etienne-Jules Marey chronophotographe (Paris: Nathan/Delpire, 2001) 258.
4 Dagognet showed the originality of Marey’s approach, which is specific to the dispositive
founding his experiences: “a sensitive sensor, a transmitter whose inertia is negligible, an inscrip-
tion device adapted to sinuous writing, and a synthesizing device to be used for verification.
There was a leitmotif in Marey’s work taken from Marcellin Berthelot, the synthetic chemist:
we only have real knowledge of what we ourselves have reconstructed.” See François Dagognet,
Etienne-Jules Marey. A Passion for the Trace, trans. Robert Galeta, with Jeanine Herman (New
York: Zone Books, 1992) 56.
5 See Michel Frizot, “Les opérateurs physiques de Marey et la réversibilité cinématographique,”
in Arrêt sur image/fragmentation du temps, François Albera, Marta Braun and André Gaudreault,
96 Maria Tortajada
terms support this thesis since, well before chronophotography (in 1868),
he defined the two “powerful levers in the service of the human mind”:
“analysis, which is used for research, and synthesis, for the verification of
the results of the analysis or for exposing more simply a discovered truth.”6
Marey defines synthesis in more detail in the following chapter:
You already know that this is not a research method. You have seen that
a science that would tend to be founded on synthesis, starting from prin-
ciples established beforehand, would expose itself to much aberration.
Yet it is no longer the case when the analysis has completed its work and
has provided us with a great number of well-established facts. This is
when the role of synthesis begins. Synthesis is the opposite of analysis;
it reconstitutes what had been decomposed.7
eds. (Lausanne: Payot, 2002) 99-100. Concerning Marey, Frizot writes: “[…] synthesis is not one
of his objectives. On the other hand, synthesis is the practical consequence of a Mareysian
operator, the control over the method, and more precisely a reversible control that stipulates
that, to control the good progression of an analysis, the procedure must be reverted in order to
re-compose some parameters of the phenomenon out of the elements obtained in the analysis.
Marey calls this procedure ‘experimental synthesis’ and, further on, he writes that ‘visual
synthesis is only a control procedure’.” See also Frizot, Etienne-Jules Marey chronophotographe
110. Frizot reviews Marey’s practices from the standpoint of the issue of synthesis, including
the synthesis of movement.
6 Etienne-Jules Marey, Du mouvement dans les fonctions de la vie. Leçon faite au Collège de
France (Paris: Germer Baillère, 1868) 24. Michel Frizot quotes the passage.
7 Marey, Du mouvement dans les fonctions de la vie 40-41.
8 Marey, Du mouvement dans les fonctions de la vie 42. Berthelot writes: “From this we can
see that, while it is true to say that analysis provides chemistry with its starting point, it does
not mark its goal and its destination: chemistry is also the science of synthesis.” See Berthelot,
La Synthèse chimique (Paris: Germer Baillière, 1876) 2.
Marey and the Synthesis of Movement 97
15 It is also in this sense that Christian Pociello explains Marey’s position: if the scientist
“rejects projection,” “it is for scientific reasons.” See Christian Pociello, La Science en mouvements.
Etienne Marey et Georges Demenÿ (1870-1920) (Paris: PUF, 1999) 279.
16 “Préface,” in Eugène Trutat, La Photographie animée (Paris: Gauthier-Villars, 1899) V-VI.
Marey and the Synthesis of Movement 99
in the text written for the exhibition, Marey includes the machines that
reconstitute movement in chronophotography and whose history he re-
counts: the Lumière cinematograph is put on a par with the instruments
invented and perfected by Marey not only to decompose movement, but
also to synthesize it.17 It should be pointed out that, as late as 1898, he was
still working to improve chronophotographs with projection. The synthesis
of movement is part of chronophotography, in which Marey, with his global
approach, appears as a central figure. His position is thus ambiguous, to say
the least, and that is precisely what needs to be clarified.
In examining how the notion of reconstituted movement developed,
Marey’s great texts on chronophotography prove particularly useful. 18
Indeed, they show how he inscribes his research in a finality, redefines
his priorities, specifies the operating concepts and highlights the results
that appear the most significant to him. In short, Marey introduces his
own approach with some analytical distance, emphasizing what seems
most important to him. And not only does it appear that, from the very
beginning, the synthesis of movement was an integral part of his work on
chronophotography, but also that Marey rarely explains the methodological
function of control linked to synthesis.19 This is intriguing, since Marey was
17 The “Cinématographe de MM. Lumière, 1895,” n°12, comes after “Projecteur chronopho-
tographique, 1893” (nº10) and the “Kinétoscope d’Edison, 1894” (nº11). The “Chronographe
analyseur et projecteur; Marey, 1898” appears as nº16. See Étienne-Jules Marey, “Exposition
d’instruments et d’images relatifs à l’histoire de la chronophotographie,” in Musée centennal de
la classe 12 (photographie) à l’Exposition universelle internationale de 1900 à Paris, Métrophotog-
raphie et chronophotographie (Saint-Cloud: Belin, undated) 20-22. An English translation of the
text appeared as “History of Chronophotography” in the Smithsonian Report for 1901 (Washington,
DC: Government Printing Office, 1902) 326-28. Marey did not include any presentation of his
1896-97 analyzing-projecting chronophotograph, mentioned in Frizot, E.-J. Marey: 1830/1904. La
photographie du mouvement 68. It should be noted that, strangely enough, the text presenting the
exhibition does not have a nº13, as if there had been an “omission.” Number 13 does appear on the
reference illustration (fig. 1 in Marey, Musée centennal; fig. 9 in “History of Chronophotography”)
for strips presenting horse locomotion. Marey also mentions the previous use of the “electrically
operated” zoetrope for the synthesis of movement in his own research and his intention to
improve the results (that is, to shoot longer scenes). See Marey, “History of Chronophotography”
326.
18 Besides “Exposition d’instruments et d’images relatifs à l’histoire de la chronophotographie,”
translated as “History of Chronophotography,” already cited, these include Développement de
la méthode graphique par l’emploi de la photographie. Supplément à La Méthode graphique dans
les sciences expérimentales (Paris: Masson, 1885); Le Vol des oiseaux (Paris: Masson, 1890); Le
Mouvement (Paris: Masson, 1894; Nîmes: Jacqueline Chambon, 2002), which was published in
an English translation by Eric Pritchard as Movement (London: William Heinemann, 1895).
19 Concerning notation, let us still mention a passage from Movement about “the application
of the zootrope to the study of horses’ paces,” published in 1864 with drawn images: “This was
100 Maria Tortajada
very concerned about underlining the various aspects of his method and its
applications. It is therefore interesting to take another look at how his major
writings handle the synthesis of movement. In these texts, synthesis mainly
appears either as a means to present the results before several observers,
or as a heuristic process that makes it possible to ascertain some results.
It is in this sense that Marey systematically describes the various methods
for synthesis.
From the early stages of his chronophotographic work, Marey used devices
that synthesized movement, such as the phenakistiscope and the zoetrope.
These are founded on the principle of the persistence of vision and make
it possible to reconstitute movement out of still images, turning separate
images into the animated image of a continuous movement. So it goes
with Marey’s zoetrope, built for the observation of flight and in which the
scientist placed three-dimensional figures of the seagull or the pigeon (1887).
In 1885 Marey mentioned his use of the phenakistiscope to animate the
images obtained with the photographic gun. In a five-page note on the gun,
he exposed the finality of this reconstitution of movement:
the concrete demonstration of the sequence expressed by the chronographic charts.” See Marey,
Movement 308. In the text for the World Fair, he also wrote: “We sought to obtain through
Plateau’s method the reproduction of analyzed movements.” The formulation stresses prior
analysis. See Marey, “History of Chronophotography” 326.
20 Marey, Développement de la méthode graphique par l’emploi de la photographie 16.
Marey and the Synthesis of Movement 101
The instrument, once set in motion, gave the perfect illusion of a series
of seagulls flying one after the other following a closed circle. The very
great advantage of three-dimensional figures is that they make it possible
to see the bird from every possible angle. Indeed, thanks to the circular
arrangement of the small figures, each appears to the observer from dif-
ferent successive angles. […] So that, depending on the part of the circuit
you focus on, you see the bird moving away, passing or approaching: with
these three aspects, you may study the movement of wings at will, slow it
down as you wish by slowing down the rotation of the zoetrope to a greater
or lesser extent.24
21 Along the same lines, the beginning of paragraph 111 in Le Vol des oiseaux, “Adaptation
des f igures en relief au zootrope,” comes to mind: “To take the most advantage from these
three-dimensional figures, relatively to the analysis of the movements of the flight, they had to
be examined with Plateau’s device […].” See Marey, Le Vol des oiseaux 180 (my emphasis).
22 Or speeded-up movement, in fact – the change in the speed of the reconstituted movement
remained essential. In 1894 Marey mentioned “a curious line of research” proposed by Ernst
Mack: “the stages of a man’s existence would pass in review before the gaze of the onlookers in
the form of a strange and marvellous metamorphosis.” See Marey, Movement 312, 313; and his
“Préface” to Trutat, La Photographie animée VIII.
23 See Marey, Le Vol des oiseaux 182.
24 See Marey, Le Vol des oiseaux 181-82 (my emphasis).
102 Maria Tortajada
that “the illusion was complete.”28 In 1900 Marey distanced himself from
the term “illusion.” The issue of synthesis was then addressed only in the
description of appliances. It was still introduced through the description
of Plateau’s method, but in not so many forms: synthesis then was liter-
ally “the reproduction of analyzed motions,” which is the strict scientific
formulation of control synthesis.29 The notion of illusion came into play,
but in the presentation of the Lumière Cinematograph and after Edison’s
Kinetoscope! In 1900, and in this context only, “presenting a perfect illusion”
was the objective.30 Still, Marey’s interest in the synthesis of movement prior
to 1900 cannot be questioned. Marey did not reject the illusion of movement
as unscientific then; he even presented it as an aim because he still saw it
in relation to slow motion. Slow motion made up for a deficient sense – a
constant finality in Marey’s scientific approach. In itself, the observation is
admittedly not new. But it should be emphasized that slow motion is associ-
ated with an affirmed practice of synthesis. Until 1894, Marey underscored
slow motion as one modality of the synthesis of movement, as a form of
synthesis, defined as the illusion of continuous movement, as the appearance
of movement, whatever the speed of the observed subject.
He added:
[…] the true interest of chronophotography lies in the fact that it can
provide a complete picture of the bird in the various attitudes it assumes
during the act of taking a stroke with its wings.31
36 Marey, Le Vol des oiseaux 165-66 (my emphasis). The chapter on the synthesis of movement
begins with the training of the scholar’s eye and its function in scientific approaches. Chrono-
photography, according to Marey, presents series of attitudes in which “the object appears to be
motionless, and movements, which are successively executed, are associated in a series of images,
as if they were all being executed at the same moment. The images, therefore, appeal rather to
the imagination than to the senses. They teach us, it is true, to observe Nature more carefully,
and, perhaps, to seek in a moving animal for positions hitherto unnoticed. This education of
the eye may, however, be rendered still more complete if the impression of the movement be
conveyed to the eye under conditions to which it is accustomed.” Marey, Movement 304 (my
emphasis).
Marey and the Synthesis of Movement 107
First, in the scientific method itself, the moment of synthesis was also
a moment dedicated to “demonstration”: the demonstration of a well-
founded analysis, but also the demonstration as an argument liable to
convince peers. Moreover, research and the acquisition of knowledge
were coupled: as can be seen, the first educative result of the scientific
method concerned the scientist himself, as he learned to decompose
movement by observing it in its synthesis. However, the transmission
of knowledge and scientific popularization were never overlooked by
Marey, who was a man of his century in that respect, as was notably
shown in his publications in the periodical La Nature or in the 1894
presentation of the synthesis of movement in relation to the issues of the
communication of results, of publication or of “public demonstration.”37
2. A second thesis on vision was implicit in the approach. With the study of
phases, it seems as though what was to be taught to one’s own perception
was the direct integration of the decomposition of movement. What was
to be learned was the movement of the real phenomenon as a whole,
structured in various moments from the outset, just as the ability to
recognize it in its discontinuity should be practiced: in short, a sort of
analytical apprehension of the world should be reached. To that end,
the observer should have first trained his look in front of a mobile’s
movement synthesized in slow motion. Yet in the 1890 text quoted here,
the exercise is clearly explained; it involves a learning that assumes to
gradually reestablish the synthesized movement at a speed closer and
closer to direct perception: “Little by little, as the speed of the disc’s
rotation increases, the eye – familiarized with the movement it has just
observed – continues to make out its phases in spite of their shorter
duration.”38 The observer is then ready to apply analytical vision to the
continuous movement of reality, which he will then perceive in its inher-
ent and structural discontinuity. This exercise shows how the synthesis
of movement, without slow motion, just as it is “normally” perceived, as
the outcome of the gradual acceleration of the run of images – and once
it has itself become analytical through the faculties of the observer – is
also part of the process and is not dismissed as irrelevant. It is, one might
say, tamed, re-appropriated, reread according to the decomposition of
movement.
But of course, Marey did not hold the same position in 1900:
the issue of synthesis. Should we simply come to the conclusion that Marey
could no longer resort to a scientific method he had developed himself, the
synthesis of movement, from the moment when synthesis was used “outside
the scientific institution”? Was the institutional division between science
and spectacle the main explanation for his reversal? This is questionable.
Indeed, throughout the nineteenth century, the recourse to synthesized
movement was not limited to scientific circles. Marey’s first notion of syn-
thesis, in which synthesized movement itself was thought of as discontinu-
ous in the field of science, should be compared to contemporary practices
of play and spectacle in the nineteenth century, notably those involving
the phenaskistiscope and the zoetrope. The synthesis of movement then
flaunted the mechanics, the moment of composition and decomposition
of movement, the link between continuity and discontinuity, for the
enjoyment of spectators. The “analytical continuity” – the discontinuous
continuous – was part of the social context, in a way. Still, the circulation of
popular practices involving synthesis and the manipulation of movement
over the period did not dissuade Marey from enhancing the synthesis of
movement in his method. 42 Science and spectacle were not opposed in
the absolute when it came to the synthesis of movement, according to the
implicit reading Marey seemed to make in 1900 – though this opposition
may suit classical film history all too well in consolidating the idea of
the primacy of the Lumière cinematograph in the “birth” of cinema as a
spectacle, relegating Marey to the reserved space of science.
One explanation remains, however, and it goes beyond Marey himself,
even as the positioning of the scientist may have played a part in the context
and may now serve to shed light on it. The hypothesis in question is that
Marey’s reversal took into account a more global, diffuse change attested
in the generalization of the practice of “animated views.” The institutional
split affirmed by Marey – science vs. popular practice – may have drawn
on a decisive modification, the gradual transformation of the notion of
movement as it started to circulate in the social space. Marey’s rejection
of synthesis may indeed be interpreted as a sign of the transformation of
what was understood as movement, and more specifically as synthesized
movement, at the turn of the century. Marey no longer saw synthesized
movement as valuable because the said movement no longer appeared
as evidently as a decomposed, analytical movement. The beginning of a
change in epistemological status for the synthesis of movement seems
42 In Movement, Marey specified that “the original form of this instrument was a plaything” before
proceeding to explain the scientific interest of the phenakistiscope. See Marey, Movement 306.
Marey and the Synthesis of Movement 111
to have occurred in the last years of the century. Or rather, synthesis as-
sumed two statuses at that point, which Marey’s work articulated. In this
hypothesis, the opposition between science and popular practice, which
Marey seems to suggest explains his positioning, was combined with a
process of transformation of the notion of synthesis, noted by him just as
he made it concrete through his new stance.
This transformation, which cancelled the analytical dimension of synthe-
sized movement, was the premise of a process leading to the generalization
of a definition of movement whose radical formulation Bergson provided
and which was to have a strong impact in the arts and the thought on film in
the twentieth century. Bergson saw movement as the continuous, indivisible
flow of the reality of the world, which was completely incompatible with
the notion of movement in Marey’s first use of synthesis. Applying the
Bergsonian definition of movement to the synthesized, projected image
would have meant a shift to another epistemological model of the synthesis
of movement, something done by neither Marey nor Bergson – who wrote
little on the synthesized image as such. 43 The epistemological passage in
question was realized in the writing of André Bazin or Gilles Deleuze, for
instance, with the impact of their discourses in the field of cinema, but it
undoubtedly took place well before them.
Two polar notions of the synthesis of movement should be introduced at
this stage: one that still dominated at the end of the nineteenth century, that
of “the animated image,” in which synthesized movement was thought of in
relation to the decomposition of that very movement and its analytical ap-
prehension (there lies the first enthusiastic use of the synthesis of movement
by Marey as well as playful and spectacular uses of the animated image);
the other, that of “the moving image,” involved movement as a continuous
flow, by definition opposed to any decomposition. This second notion fully
crystallized in the twentieth century, but its gradual historical construction
43 Elie During stresses the importance of movement in the machine at the moment of synthesis
when he analyzes the cinematographic dispositive: “the emphasis is on the artificial continuity
of the uniform run of film and on the idea of time it commands, rather than on the discontinuity
tied to the fragmentation of film frames and their ‘stroboscopic’ (intermittent) reproduction.”
See “Notes on the Bergsonian Cinematograph” in this volume, as well as the entry on Bergson
in Dictionnaire de la pensée du cinéma, Antoine de Baecque and Philippe Chevallier, eds. (Paris:
PUF, 2011). This approach to the Bergsonian text sheds light on an aspect often forgotten in
commentaries on the question of film in Bergson: the interest in the machine and in the process
of production of images in the constitution of his cinematographic model. While the movement
involved in the projecting machine is indeed essential, the projected image itself, the moving
image, which belongs in simulated movement, remains “off” the philosopher’s concrete analysis
of the dispositive.
112 Maria Tortajada
We know how Gilles Deleuze turned the commonplace inside out: Berg-
son, so it went, had “missed” cinema, contenting himself with a critique
of its dispositive – the mechanism of the projecting device called the
“cinematograph,” to be specif ic. Before the critique of the “cinemato-
graphic illusion,” developed for the most part in 1907 in Creative Evolution,1
there was indeed the doctrine of real movement, whose touchstone was
the pure perception of movement as an act or progression rather than
as a relation distributed in the spatial order. Movement unfolds in time,
not in space. This bold thesis, exposed in Matter and Memory, gave a
very singular conception of the plurality of rhythms of duration within
an evolving universe. That Bergson thereby offered precious resources
for thinking about cinema or the cinematographic experience was what
Deleuze attempted to show in the brilliant analyses of Time-Image and
Movement-Image. In so doing, he sanctioned another commonplace con-
veyed by critics and philosophers – namely, that cinema was, in essence,
a Bergsonian art. One can see how far back the idea goes by looking at
debates between Paul Souday, Marcel L’Herbier and Émile Vuillermoz in
the late 1910s, at later texts by Elie Faure, Jean Epstein and Béla Balázs, or
even at this pronouncement by a young Sartre in 1924: “Cinema provides
the formula for a Bergsonian art. It inaugurates mobility in aesthetics.”2
More fundamentally, the assessment points to the musical paradigm
that drives certain discourses on the flow of cinematographic images,
but also on the contrapuntal or symphonic composition involved in edit-
ing. Deleuze chose the second direction and shifted the emphasis to a
metaphysical ground, irreducible to any aesthetic of the flow. On the way,
however, the dispositive was lost: it was about cinema, or rather about
1 In fact, the cinematograph was mentioned for the first time in the 1902-1903 Collège de
France lectures devoted to “the history of the idea of time,” alongside other optical devices such
as the magic lantern.
2 Jean-Paul Sartre, Écrits de jeunesse, Michel Contat and Michel Rybalka, eds. (Paris: Gal-
limard, 1990) 389.
116 Elie During
images and ideas “in” cinema, but no longer at all – or barely – about the
cinematograph.3
Beyond Deleuze’s reappropriation, it may be useful, questioning Bergson’s
actual contribution to thinking on cinema, to go back to the point of view
that was originally his, starting with a few obvious elements. First, it was
never Bergson’s ambition to think through cinema, a medium that he did
not actually know very well, besides attending screenings like everyone else,
so to speak. 4 This comes as no surprise for a philosopher generally prone
to approach metaphysical inquiry on the side of contemporary sciences
rather than artistic creation. A simple consequence ensues, which should
be kept in mind as a kind of methodological safeguard. In the analogy
introduced in the fourth chapter of Creative Evolution, the cinematograph
is in the position of a comparing element, not that of an element being
compared. Accordingly, it does not make sense to wonder which dimensions
Bergson missed in real cinema, in the actual uses of its dispositive – if the
said dispositive may even be referred to in the singular and univocally
over the very first years of the twentieth century, which remains to be
established. Bergson may just as well be criticized for not writing a book
on f ilm! In truth, it is exactly the opposite: what Bergson did not note
regarding the actual situation of cinema should instead be ascribed to
the remarkable work of invention that presided over the development of
the cinematographic analogy.5 With this device, the philosopher availed
himself of a kind of precision optical tool, a speculative instrument liable
to raise certain questions anew – questions that had seemingly nothing
to do with the art of “animated views” soon to be known as “cinema.” To
have a clearer understanding of this and attempt to describe the specific
problem that motivated the resort to the analogy of the cinematograph,
it may be useful to start by setting things straight. This should allow us
to understand in which direction the analogy may operate and suggest
new paths for research.6 Indeed, as Bergson evoked the operation of the
3 On this paradoxical relay between Bergson and Deleuze, see Paul Douglass, “Bergson
and Cinema: Friends or Foes?” in The New Bergson, ed. J. Mullarkey (Manchester: Manchester
University Press, 2006), as well as my entries, “Bergson” and “Travelling,” in Dictionnaire de la
pensée du cinéma, Antoine de Baecque and Philippe Chevallier, eds. (Paris: PUF, 2012).
4 On this aspect, see Michel Georges-Michel’s testimony, En jardinant avec Bergson (Paris:
Albin Michel, 1926) 13-14. See also Les Grandes Époques de la peinture moderne, de Delacroix à
nos jours (New York: Brentano’s, 1945) 47-8.
5 The analysis is so precise and follows the development of the image so closely that the term
“analogy” seems fully justified in this instance. Analogy, then, rather than image or metaphor.
6 On the function of the image in the definition of problems, see the interview with Bergson
reprinted in Lydie Adolphe, La Dialectique des images (Paris: PUF, 1951) 4.
Notes on the Bergsonian Cinematograph 117
imposed the constant speed of the famous 24 images per second.7 To be sure,
as early as 1901, Pathé catalogs advertised the merits of some automatized
devices for domestic use, equipped with a multiple-speed motor capable
of maintaining a regular run of images. Yet these were clearly meant to
relieve projectionists of a tiresome effort of attention rather than replace
them outright. Cinema overwhelmingly remained an art of the crank.8
One may certainly wonder about the part played by the high-precision
techniques of chronophotography or scientif ic cinematography in the
elaboration of the Bergsonian image. Bergson and Marey were colleagues
at the Collège de France, and this is not an insignificant fact.9 Other con-
temporary devices may have served as models – Edison’s kinetoscope in
particular, with its electric motor. But basically, what Bergson may or may
not have seen matters little. The cinematograph as he describes it is his own
invention and conforms to his method. The nodal point of the analogy, what
drives it from beginning to end, is the uniform character of the film run
made possible by the automatization of the device. Bergson did not even
need to evoke the presence of a motor explicitly to suggest uniform motion.
The decisive element was that the mechanism of the cinematograph only
had to be “set going.”10 Once the movement was launched, the hand no
longer had anything to do with it and the mind of the operator could attend
to something else, indifferent to the variety of real movements that the
machine, left to its own mechanism, reproduced on the screen by running
film frames before a beam of light.11
7 As a reference, let us mention Georges Sadoul’s Histoire générale du cinéma: “In 1920, the
largest French movie theaters still used hand-cranked projectors for film screenings. The rhythm
of the projection could thus be adjusted, and even devices equipped with an electric motor could
be slowed down and speeded up thanks to a rheostat.” See Georges Sadoul, Histoire générale du
cinéma, vol. 5, L’Art muet, 1919-1929 (Paris: Denoël, 1975) 84.
8 See Benoît Turquety’s text, “Forms of Machines, Forms of Movement,” in this volume.
9 The ambivalence of Marey’s chronophotographic experiments makes them all the more
interesting from a Bergsonian perspective. See Georges Didi-Huberman, “L’image est le mou-
vant,” in Intermédialités 3 (Spring 2004): 11-30; Georges Didi-Huberman and Laurent Mannoni,
Mouvements de l’air: Étienne-Jules Marey, photographe des fluides (Paris: Gallimard/Réunion
des musées nationaux, 2004); Pasi Väliaho, Mapping the Moving Image: Gesture, Thought and
Cinema circa 1900 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2010); Maria Tortajada, “Évaluation,
mesure, mouvement: la philosophie contre la science et les concepts du cinéma (Bergson,
Marey),” in Revue européenne des sciences sociales XLVI.141 (2008): 95-111.
10 Henri Bergson, Creative Evolution, trans. Arthur Mitchell (London: McMillan, 1911) 323
(online version available at http://archive.org/details/creativeevolutio00berguoft, last accessed
on February 18, 2013).
11 In that respect, a rather illuminating approach consists in situating the cinematograph
within the larger context of a kind of generalized cinema where, alongside the best-known
Notes on the Bergsonian Cinematograph 119
Thus, the emphasis was on the artificial continuity of the uniform run
and on the idea of time such continuity commanded, rather than on the
discontinuity linked to the fragmentation of film frames and their “stro-
boscopic” (intermittent) reproduction. I have already elaborated upon this
point in detail elsewhere,12 and will therefore limit the present argument
to the main insights which an attentive reading of the texts featuring a
cinematographic reference in the Bergsonian corpus may very simply yield.
But what is meant by the term “uniform,” to begin with? In the case
in point, the run of the celluloid filmstrip at a rigorously constant speed
proves rather secondary. As has already been pointed out, Bergson did not
explicitly mention a motor, though the description he gave of the device
clearly seemed to integrate the principle of the automatic run. What really
matters here is that the movement should be mechanical, that is, indifferent
or arbitrary. This intrinsic indetermination implies that arbitrary speeds
may be applied to it, that it may be speeded up or slowed down without
affecting in any way what is projected on the screen.13 In a sense, the device
represents a system isolated from the movements it is supposed to repro-
duce, a system that owes nothing to the variations in intensity accounting
for the singularity of these movements. The speed of the film’s run may
well be modified at will through a rheostat; for all that, the nature of the
projection will remain radically different from a hand-cranked projection.
Notwithstanding the variations resulting from tiredness, the natural lack of
precision of the gesture or economic pressures to cut screenings short, the
projectionist clearly speeded up or slowed down the run of the film strip
optical devices, one would find all sorts of “cinematic machines” developed in the field of artistic
techniques and methods, including literature. See Maria Tortajada, “Machines cinématiques et
dispositifs visuels. Cinéma et ‘pré-cinéma’ à l’œuvre chez Alfred Jarry,” 1895 40 (2003): 5-23; and
Jimena Canales, A Tenth of a Second (University of Chicago Press: Chicago, 2009).
12 See Elie During, “Vie et mort du cinématographe: de L’Évolution créatrice à Durée et Simul-
tanéité,” in Bergson, ed. C. Riquier (Paris: Cerf, 2012).
13 This holds, of course, only if one assumes the position of the screen, not as an exterior
spectator, but as an observer involved in the nexus of relations organizing concrete becomings.
The motif of a proportional increase of all speeds in the universe was an experience of thought
often discussed in Bergson’s time. Built on the model of geometric transformations by “similar-
ity,” it aimed to bring out the relative character of measured time to better emphasize – by
contrast – the absolute character of lived duration. Pushing this line of reasoning to its limit,
Bergson contemplated an infinite acceleration, where everything would be given at once: as he
observed, nothing would be fundamentally altered for the purpose of scientific analysis. See
Henri Bergson, Creative Evolution 9-10, 357; Duration and Simultaneity, trans. Leon Jacobson
(Manchester: Clinamen Press, 1999) 40-41; and La Pensée et le mouvant, published in English as
The Creative Mind. An Introduction to Metaphysics, trans. Mabelle L. Andison (1946; New York:
Citadel Press, 2002) 13.
120 Elie During
according to what took place in the projected scene or the action whose
unfolding he accompanied and scanned. On the other hand, it did not
matter whether or not the automatic device was set to the durations whose
artificial synthesis it presented; it uniformly subjected them to its own
duration, that of a mechanical system artificially isolated from universal
becoming and over which time could only glide, as Bergson wrote in the
first pages of An Introduction to Metaphysics. Indeed, this system conformed
to patterns of repetition in which duration was stripped of any efficiency.
This neutralized duration, it should be noted, also assumed the function of
a natural medium for the arbitrary cuts represented by the film frames.14
“Uniform,” then, connotes not so much the literal constancy or invariance
of speed as the homogeneity of a time indifferent to what takes place in it.
In short, what the cinematographic mechanism of thought performs – since
this is what mattered to Bergson, after all – is the extraction of a “single
representation of becoming in general”15 out of the variety of effective
becomings. “An infinite multiplicity of becomings variously colored, so to
speak, passes before our eyes: we manage so that we see only differences of
color, that is to say, differences of state, beneath which there is supposed to
flow, hidden from our view, a becoming always and everywhere the same,
invariably colorless.”16 In the analogy of the cinematograph, this becoming
“in general” (Bergson sometimes uses the expression “duration in general”
in the same – unfavorable – sense), this indefinite becoming that is not
the becoming of anything in particular (except precisely of an outside
mechanism, indifferent from the standpoint of images) corresponds to a
movement, “always the same, […] hidden in the apparatus.”17 The section
to which one should always return, because it provides the key to reading
Bergson’s montage, is the following: “The process then consists in extracting
from all the movements peculiar to all the figures an impersonal movement
abstract and simple, movement in general, so to speak: we put this into the
apparatus, and we reconstitute the individuality of each particular move-
14 See François Albera, “Pour une épistémographie du montage: le moment Marey,” in Arrêt
sur image, fragmentation du temps, François Albera, Marta Braun and André Gaudreault, eds.
(Lausanne: Éditions Payot, 2002) 40-41.
15 Bergson, Creative Evolution 324.
16 Bergson, Creative Evolution 321. Incidentally, this should stop us from identifying, without
further precision, Bergsonism to a sort of Heracliteanism celebrating the “flow” or “becom-
ing” in general (in contemporary literature, Heracliteanism takes the form of a defense of the
irreducible dimension of the abstract “passage” of time, which would have greatly amused
Bergson). Bergsonism is a philosophy of durations – of the coexistence of durations – and that
is a completely different matter.
17 Bergson, Creative Evolution 330.
Notes on the Bergsonian Cinematograph 121
interval itself.20 It was through the cinematograph that time became for
good a “fourth dimension of space,” in an operationally clear sense. Bergson
had announced this promotion of spatialized time as early as his Essai
sur les données immédiates de la conscience.21 Yet beyond the metaphors
assigned to suggest the “spatialization” of time, it is only with coordinate
time that the distribution of time over space is effected – and this implies
coordinating heterogeneous durations associated with movements that
can be brought together on one single plane of simultaneity, regardless of
their separation in space.
This frame-time, it should be noted, corresponds very precisely to the
scheme of four-dimensional space-time analyzed in chapter 6 of Dura-
tion and Simultaneity.22 In this sense, the cinematograph appears as the
technical allegory of the false movement by which we picture becoming
by animating instantaneous spatial configurations. Going even further,
one might say that the cinematograph provides the operating condition for
such an artificial recomposition of becoming – by giving an account of the
constitution of those instantaneous sections of becoming in which a class of
events or simultaneous states can be said to coexist in the same instant. The
sections are global: they define planes of simultaneity as vast in principle
as the universe itself. Still, the whole interest of the cinematograph lies in
its suggestion that, far from being self-sustained (who has ever “seen” the
scene represented on a film frame?), these ideal sections have no existence
independently of the milieu in which the succession of planes is ordered, no
reason to exist outside the “cinematography of the universe”23 as a whole.
This temporal milieu is made up of a foliation of states or configurations of
20 See Bergson, Creative Evolution 9, 23, 348, 355-58. What does it mean for time to be indifferent
to what occurs “in the interval”? The formula may seem imprecise. It is useful to view it in relation
to a specific mathematical concept Bergson did not necessarily have in mind, that of an exact
differential whose expression results solely from the datum of extremal terms. Relativity theory
thus distinguishes between the concept of “proper time,” always relative to the space-time path
connecting two successive events, and the concept of “coordinate time,” relative to a system of
reference – yet capable of providing, from that standpoint, a direct expression of the temporal
difference between two dates corresponding to two events, and of doing so independently
of the infinitely diverse movements which are liable to connect them “in the interval.” The
famous “twin paradox” associated with Langevin’s name only draws the conclusions from this
disjunction between two uses of time in physical theory. It amounts to the fact that “proper
time” cannot be expressed by an exact differential.
21 The essay appeared in English as Time and Free Will: An Essay on the Immediate Data of
Consciousness, trans. F. L. Pogson (1910; Whitefish, MT: Kessinger Publishing, 1995).
22 Bergson, Duration and Simultaneity 103-4 ff. See During, “Vie et mort du cinématographe”
and Bergson et Einstein: la querelle du temps (Paris: PUF, 2012).
23 Bergson, Duration and Simultaneity 108.
Notes on the Bergsonian Cinematograph 123
which may in fact be more directly suggestive. The examples that come
to mind are those of the fan snapped open30 and the pearls strung into a
necklace connecting them.31 These are two ways of expressing the same
fundamental fact: we tend to think of the successive stages of becoming
as so many images placed side by side along the film strip, waiting to be
unrolled. But what is the use of the cinematographic analogy if the fan and
the necklace already convey the idea?
As we seek to find out which singular dimension the cinematographic
analogy brings with it when compared to this series of competing images,
the idea of mechanical movement inevitably resurfaces: undetermined
movement, movement without quality, capable through its very abstraction
of making the most heterogeneous durations commensurate, of making
them coexist in the form of the simultaneous.32 Hence, in the image of the
pearl necklace, the problem does not lie with the pearls, but with the string.
The simultaneous states assume a consistency only through the temporal
weft supporting them. Let us be quite clear about this: it is true that the
motif of the uniform movement concealed in the device is in fact inseparable
from the stroboscopic – or “kaleidoscopic” – condition figured in the series
of instantaneous images. In the famous passage of Creative Evolution which
serves as our guide here, the image of the kaleidoscope very quickly relays
that of the cinematograph: it points to its phenomeno-technical condition,
equivalent in that respect to the process of photographic recording on which
the cinematograph as a whole depends.33 But from Bergson’s standpoint,
becoming, only positions in movement, and then reconstitute mobility artificially, combining
immobilities with one another. I did not qualify this process as cinematographic at that point,
but the cinematograph had not yet been invented. Regardless, and whatever the name given to
it, this mechanism inherent in our intelligence is, in my view, the true cause of our tendency
to eliminate concrete duration from the real, to take into account only mathematical time, to
see only arrangements, derangements, and rearrangements of parts there where an undivided
and irreversible becoming exists. This just shows how I put to use the second remark, like the
first, to demonstrate the artificial character assumed by mechanistic schemas when they serve
to represent the evolution of consciousness and life.”
30 Bergson, The Creative Mind 20.
31 “Introduction to Metaphysics,” in Bergson, The Creative Mind 185.
32 I could mention by way of example a given shading in the gradual transition from green
to blue (qualitative change), a given step in the process of transformation of the flower into a
fruit, or the larva into a nymph (evolutive change), a given phase in an activity such as drinking,
eating, fighting (extensive change). See Bergson, Creative Evolution 320.
33 Hence the proximity of the whole issue to the discussion of Zeno’s paradoxes on move-
ment. On this tangle of questions, see Maria Tortajada, “Photography/Cinema: Complementary
Paradigms in the Early Twentieth Century,” in Between Still and Moving Images, Laurent Guido
and Olivier Lugon, eds. (Herts, UK: John Libbey, 2012) 33-46.
Notes on the Bergsonian Cinematograph 125
following the logic of the analogy, the cinematograph comes first with
respect to photography because it opens the transcendental plane where
the issue of the coexistence of durations may be formulated – albeit in a way
fraught with illusion. Some time later, in Duration and Simultaneity, Bergson
was to refer to the same issue as the “simultaneity of flows,” pointing to a
different path towards the extensive weaving of durations. Contrary to
what an analytical understanding of the matter may lead one to think, the
analysis of movement effected in the recording phase (section, capture,
immobilization) presupposes, and in that sense anticipates the mechanical
synthesis effected by projection – even though the latter actually comes
second in the technical evolution of the dispositive. The historical dissocia-
tion of the recording device and the projector, the resulting autonomization
of the moment of projection, mark a decisive step in the purely mechanical
rendering of movement. They also indicate that, where photographic shots
could still paint from life, cutting out, so to speak, from the subject – one
may recall that photographic impression already served as a template for
the operation of perception in Matter and Memory – the images fixed on
the cinematographic strip are just abstract units, two degrees removed
from the real and condemned to be imparted movement from the outside,
through a kind of artificial animation.34
This slightly paradoxical relation of presupposition between photography
and cinematography may be better understood if one remembers that
Bergson’s concern is not so much homogeneous and mathematical time,
the abstract dimension underlying the uses of time as a parameter. Nor is
it length-time (“temps-longueur”) or spatialized time in general. Rather,
Bergson is interested in the particular intellectual illusion on which the
scientific mind must rely to make the coordination of flows effective: it is
frame-time as distinct from fiber-time; it is universal time as distinct from
the plurality of interlocking local durations, with their particular rhythms
or degrees of tension. Thus, cinematographic motion logically comes prior
to the photographic image, just as frame-time is presupposed by the cutting
out of frames as abstract units of becoming. The nature of the question, the
order of reasons underlying the cinematographic analogy, suggest that we
give up the common-sense maxim that rules out synthesizing anything not
Yet it is also necessary to check that the operation may indeed be general-
ized, and notably that it makes it possible to represent together a diversity of
movements in their parallel unfolding, following an order of simultaneities
that allows them to be brought together in their very dispersion. That is
what the cinematograph accomplishes, subjecting photographic sections to
the law of uniform run. In other words, it indexes them to a homogeneous
time that is not reducible to any of their proper durations or even to any of
35 Likewise, pure duration may not be measured, and yet we do measure something which
we call “time.”
36 Similarly, for us to measure anything beyond space, our measuring operations have to be
supported by some “real time” participating, in some sense, in the lived duration of a concrete
consciousness. This is a recurring theme in Duration and Simultaneity.
37 Bergson, Creative Evolution 322. See Henri Bergson, La Pensée et le mouvant (Paris: PUF,
2007) 7 fn. Author’s note: stunningly enough, all the footnotes appearing in the original French
edition have been omitted in the English translation.
Notes on the Bergsonian Cinematograph 127
infinitum (which amounts to the same thing), it is in virtue of its being ab-
stract and unreal in proportion. Leibniz intended something similar when
he observed that the continuity or infinite divisibility of mathematical time
was a sure mark of its ideal character. But in Bergson’s case it is the very
form of the problem that leads to this abstraction: cinematographic time
appears as science’s answer to the question of knowing by which means a
diversity of durations associated to heterogeneous changes – whose local
movement is only the most superficial manifestation – may be represented
and thought about together. Following Merleau-Ponty, Deleuze identified
this issue of coexistence as central to Bergsonism and showed that cinema
could take it up, this time positively, provided that one focused on the
moving image projected onscreen rather than on the mechanical function-
ing of the device. For Bergson himself, the cinematograph appeared in its
mediating function, at once a foil, a negative image, an epistemological
obstacle in Bachelard’s sense, 40 and an instrument of conceptual precision
designed to bring attention to the fine differentiation between two senses
of time, in conformity to a duality of tendencies running through the heart
of the scientific view of the universe: global time (homogeneous, absolute,
generic) and local time (differentiated, relational, individual).
Charles Musser
Today, many academics working in the Humanities and Social Sciences are
pursuing a broad interest in media studies. At least at Yale University, where
we have created an interdisciplinary seminar in this area, what we mean by
media studies – our actual focuses and concerns – differ substantially. In the
English Department, for instance, Media Studies foregrounds the study of
the book and the move from the scroll or codex. In the more contemporary
context, Michael Warner and Jessica Pressman are clearly interested in the
way the digital media and the Internet are impacting the book and print
culture more generally. Part of this re-orientation de-centers poetry and
literature and embraces the study of low and quotidian forms of culture for
which aesthetic concerns are far from primary: the sermon, the newspaper,
the broadside or even the form (typically a document with spaces for the
writer to fill in information).1
History of Art has sometimes moved in similar directions, as Oliver
Grau and others have investigated the history of the image.2 However, as
Thomas Elsaesser suggests, the field has also explored the ways in which
new media forms have entered and often transformed artistic practices as
presented in the museum and art gallery through installation art. These
approaches are connected only in a highly attenuated way with notions
of “the media” in political science and sociology. The media refers to the
press: the newspaper, the telegraph, then radio, television and now the
Internet – in short, the mass media. In this conception of media studies,
film is barely acknowledged.3 When talking about the nineteenth- and
twentieth-century dissemination of the news, newsreels and film more
generally are typically never mentioned.
1 Lisa Gitelman, “A Brief History of _____,” Theory and Media Studies Colloquium sponsored
by the Yale English Department, 12 Nov. 2009.
2 Oliver Grau. Virtual Art: From Illusion to Immersion (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2003). See
also David Joselit, Feedback: Television against Democracy (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2007).
3 In Sociology at Yale, an active interest in Media Studies has been pursued by Ron Eyerman
and by Jeffrey C. Alexander, who recently published The Performance of Politics: Obama’s Victory
and the Democratic Struggle for Power (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010).
130 Charles Musser
Film Studies, which perhaps started to fill a gap between History of Art
and Literature/Language departments, expanded to embrace television
and then, in a peripheral way, radio. Walter Benjamin, with his essay “The
Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility,” soon became
a touchstone, which allows for a more fully developed media studies that
includes photography and the phonograph. And now, it has expanded
again to include digital media, the Internet and an array of screens – on
cell phones and in airline terminals. 4 Although there are divisions in Film
Studies at Yale, Francesco Casetti and Thomas Elsaesser are among those
pushing Film Studies in a Media Studies direction.5 There is, however, yet
another approach to media studies that comes out of Anthropology and
Performance Studies – disciplines that are themselves closely aligned in the
United States.6 In fact, Performance Studies has its antecedents in Theater
Studies; and the move from Film Studies to Media Studies in one discipline
is matched by the move from Theater Studies to Performance Studies in
the other. Here, the broad field of performance includes oratory, theater,
sports, religious and state rituals as well as parades, demonstrations and the
performance of self in everyday life. Although this has sometimes led to a
certain fetishism of “liveness,” it brings attention to forms of communication
and artistic production in which the “dispositif,” or apparatus, of technologi-
cal reproducibility is less central and even absent. At Yale this orientation
is well represented by Joe Roach and Paige McKinley.7 When dealing with
the nineteenth century (but other time periods as well), employing a broad
conception of media – one that does not assume technological reproduc-
ibility as a prerequisite – and placing the media form under investigation
within a broader media formation are crucial.
Media Studies brings with it a new set of terms, most of which are am-
biguous and fraught (as the different approaches to Media Studies itself
might predict). The term “apparatus” has had a quite narrow definition
in the world of media and film – referring to a specific machine such as a
4 William Boddy, “Any platform. Any media. Anywhere: Targeting Contemporary Television’s
Dispersed Audience,” presentation, Yale University, 26 Feb. 2009.
5 Francesco Casetti, “Filmic experience,” Screen, 50.1 (Spring 2009): 56-66. Others working
in this direction include John MacKay, J. D. Connor and Aaron Gerow.
6 NYU’s Theater Studies Department, under the leadership of Richard Schechner, was
transformed into Performance Studies in the 1990s with the addition of faculty members such
as Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblet, who received her Ph.D. in Folklore, and Michael Taussig, who
received his Ph.D. in Anthropology.
7 Joseph Roach, Cities of the Dead: Circum-Atlantic Performance (New York; Columbia Uni-
versity Press 1996); Paige McGinley, “Sound Travels: Performing Diaspora and the Imagined
American South,” diss., Brown University, 2007.
The Stereopticon and Cinema 131
8 Giorgio Agamben, What is an Apparatus? and Other Essays (Stanford, CA: Stanford University
Press, 2009); Cinema Beyond Film: Media Epistemology in the Modern Era, François Albera and
Maria Tortajada, eds. (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2010).
9 Lisa Gitelman, Always Already New: Media, History, and the Data of Culture (Cambridge,
MA: MIT Press, 2008).
10 Anne Friedberg, The Virtual Window: From Alberti to Microsoft (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press,
2006).
132 Charles Musser
11 By way of comparison, an RWS of “stereopticon” in The New York Tribune generated only 24
items in the same period. For whatever reason, The New York Times covered photography and
other cultural activities more than the Tribune in the nineteenth century – as a comparative
search for news items mentioning Eadweard Muybridge makes clear.
The Stereopticon and Cinema 133
pre-1880 period, which would add significantly to these totals, but have
not figured them into this article’s calculations. Some word variants also
conceal the degree of usage. For instance, John L. Stoddard, perhaps the
premier illustrated lecturer in the US in the 1880s and early 1890s, used
the term “stereoptic views,” not “stereopticon views.”12 This suggests that
“stereopticon” was such a popular term that it could support affectionate
contractions – as “moving pictures” supported and generated the term
“movies.”
Although the terms “stereopticon” and “illustrated lecture” did not
appear in the same New York Times article or advertisement before 1880,
“stereopticon” and “lecture” appeared together 90 times (just over 30% of
the time when “stereopticon” appeared). This may well have been because
the term “stereopticon,” when employed with the term “lecture,” meant
“illustrated lecture” and the latter coupling would have offered unnecessary
redundancies. In contrast, “magic lantern” and “lecture” appeared together
nine times and typically were not directly linked. Thus John MacMullen
ran a school in which he gave “Familiar Lectures on History and Geography,
every Tuesday and Thursday” and “Magic Lantern and Microscopic Exhibi-
tions every Friday.”13
The English and the Americans may seem to speak the same language,
but our linguistic differences are underscored in this study. RWSs in The
Manchester Guardian and The Observer indicate that the term “stereopticon”
was not used in the UK. It did not appear in these papers until 1903 and only
then in dispatches from the US. Rather, the term “magic lantern” retained
its prominence, being used in these British publications 758 times between
1826 and 1879. Although the term “illustrated lecture” appeared in the Brit-
ish periodicals 42 times, the terms “illustrated lecture” and “magic lantern”
did not appear in the same item before 1880. In contrast, somewhat simpli-
fied searches found that the terms “magic lantern” and “lecture” appeared
together in 41 items, while the terms “lantern” and “lecture” generated 139
hits.
Subsequent RWSs have been broken down by decade: in the 1880s the
term “stereopticon” generated 297 hits in The New York Times, “illustrated
lecture” produced 890 hits, and the two were cited together a modest ten
12 “Amusements,” New York Times 20 Mar. 1881: 11. A search for the term “stereoptic” also
generated some uses of the term “stereopticon” which suffered printing imperfections.
13 Advertisement, New York Times 18 Dec. 1858: 3. Or, they might be used in reports from Europe
where the term Stereopticon was not employed. See “The Voltaire Centenary,” New York Times
16 June 1878: 4.
134 Charles Musser
times. Consistent with previous usage, the term “lecture” was linked with
“stereopticon” much more frequently – 122 times (about 40% of the time
that “stereopticon” appeared). The stereopticon was being used heavily for
lectures and these might involve wording such as “The Rev Dr. Eccleston
Will deliver his new lecture on ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL illustrated with 50
stereopticon views.”14 The term magic lantern appeared 58 times but once
again it never appeared in conjunction with the term “illustrated lecture.”
Indeed, “magic lantern” only generated six hits in conjunction with the term
“lecture” in the 1880s, as the magic lantern was more and more associated
with non-lecture uses.
As the accompanying table shows, the American newspaper used the
term “stereopticon” with increased frequency in the 1890s (generating 526
hits) and perhaps stabilized in the following decade with 405 citations
before its use began to decline. By the 1930s, the media formation in the
US had undergone profound transformations, including but hardly limited
to the arrival of sync sound motion pictures and the emergence of new
terms such as “documentary” in the late 1920s.15 The term “slide projec-
tor” began to appear in The New York Times at the same time – generating
three references in 1926-7. This included an advertisement for a “film slide
projector” accompanied by a letter from Douglas Fairbanks declaring “I
think the idea of using films in place of glass slides is an excellent one.”16
Writing to the Times, one educational film professional referred to “the
stereopticon slide projector.”17 Four more references appear between 1935
and 1939, including an article referring to the use of “lantern slide projec-
tors” – rather than stereopticons.18 Such usage suggests that writers were
becoming less comfortable with the term “stereopticon,” perhaps because
its nineteenth-century connotations did not adequately characterize the
specific configurations of the contemporaneous lantern dispositive. In 1940,
Macy’s ran advertisements selling the Keystone 35mm slide projector, and
from this point onward, the term “slide projector” appeared more regularly
with 127 mentions in The New York Times during the 1940s and 676 during
the 1950s.19 The term “slide show” appeared two or three times a decade
from the 1890s to the 1940s, suggesting its use as a chance description; but it
became popularized in the 1950s, and was used with considerable frequency
from the 1970s to the 1990s. Such shifts in technology and nomenclature
contributed to the rapid decline in the usage of “stereopticon,” its employ-
ment only continuing after World War II in a few residual categories.
Although discourse between the American Civil War (1860s) and World
War II clearly recognized that the stereopticon involved the same basic kind
of projecting device as the magic lantern and was one of its descendents,
it also made clear that the two possessed distinct characteristics. One
reporter, writing in 1869, explained:
The two terms were rarely confused. “Stereopticon” was the new, dynamic
and modern term that was explicitly connected to photography. The magic
lantern was pre-photographic and associated with painting and somewhat
related representation techniques (such as lithography). For instance, in 1886
a New York Times critic complained of “the injudicious use of the magic lan-
29 Valentine Robert has indicated that in France, the term “projections lumineuses” emerged
as an alternative to “lanterne magique,” to cover the use of the lantern with photographs and
illustrated lectures. E-mail to the author, 18 May 2011.
30 John Jones, Wonders of the Stereoscope (New York: Alfred A Knopf, 1976).
31 Jonathan Crary, Techniques of the Observer (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990) 9, 118.
32 “British Association for the Advancement of Science,” The Manchester Guardian 29 Aug.
1838: 1.
33 “Public Announcements,” The Observer 16 Nov. 1851: 1. See also “Public Announcements,”
The Observer 23 Nov. 1851: 1.
138 Charles Musser
34 The Baltimore Sun provides one example. An RWS of the terms stereoscope/stereopticon
yields: for 1852-1959: 75/0; 1860-1869: 285/42; 1870-1879: 293/33; 1880-1889: 9/74; and 1890-1899:
29/255. The overwhelming number of citations for the stereoscope were advertisements for
consumer purchase.
35 Patent no. 7,458, Improvement in Producing Photographic Pictures upon Transparent Media,
issued 25 June 1850.
36 Louis Walton Sipley, “The Magic Lantern,” Pennsylvania Arts and Sciences 4 (Dec. 1939): 39-
43+; Louis Walton Sipley, “W and F. Langenheim-Photographers,” Pennsylvania Arts and Sciences
(193?), 25-31. The crucial work on the magic lantern in the United States remains Xenophon
Theodore Barber, Evening of Wonders: A History of the Magic Lantern Show in America, diss.,
New York University, 1993.
The Stereopticon and Cinema 139
39 M. A. Root, “The Magic Lantern. Its History and Uses for Educational and Other Purposes,”
The Philadelphia Photographer 1 Dec. 1874: 11.
40 Frederick Langenheim to H. H. Snelling, 19 Sept. 1854, in “Personal and Fine Art Intelligence,”
Photographic and Fine Arts Journal 1 Oct. 1854: 319.
41 “The Stereoscope,” New York Tribune 9 Nov. 1858: 3.
42 “Photographic Inventions,” Scientific American 25 May 1861: 326.
The Stereopticon and Cinema 141
object. When the observer looks naturally at the object or picture, with
the two eyes, without help of any optical instrument, an extraordinary
phenomenon takes place – the picture is seen in perfect relief, as when
two different pictures are looked at through a stereoscope. […] By this
remarkable discover [sic], M. Claudet has solved a problem which has
always been considered an impossibility by scientif ic men – for the
stereomonoscope, by its very name, must sound like a paradox to the ears
of those who are versed in the knowledge of the principles of binocular
vision, until they have had the opportunity of repeating the experiments
by which M. Claudet has found a new fact which they had not noticed
or explained before. 43
the delight which one person has in looking through the stereoscope, a
thousand persons can have at once – so that there is sympathetic and
social pleasure. The Stereopticon, as it is called, takes the ordinary glass
stereoscopic view, and by fine lenses and the most intense of artificial
lights, throws and magnifies the miniature view upon a canvas to such
an extent that every one in a building as vast as the Academy of Music
can see with distinctness each scene. There is no straining of the vision;
there is no wearying of the eye as in the stereoscope, but one merely
sits and gazes upon the sublime scenery of the Alps, the renowned old
abbeys, the busy streets of London, Paris[,] Naples, and Grand Cairo;
the grand, awe-striking remains of Egypt, and the solemn instructive
scenes of Palestine. In the same manner and with the same ease that
we look upon a real landscape from the deck of a Hudson River steamer.
The distant and the rare are brought to us – or rather like a magic mat
of the Arabian tale we are borne on swift and brilliant wings to the ends
of the earth. The treasures of statuary art from the Louvre, the Vatican
and the Museo Borbonico are ours. Nothing seems so dream-like as the
Apollo Belvedere, the Venus de Medici, and the chefs d’oeuvre of the
great Thorwalden, which appear upon the scene in all their roundness
and beauty.52
Another reviewer echoed many of the same sentiments, remarking that “you
can imagine yourself borne away on the enchanted carpet of the Arabian
tale, and brought where you can look down upon the veritable Paris, and
Rome, and Egypt.”53 Leyland soon made almost daily program changes,
devoting each illustrated lecture to a specific country or region: Great
Britain, France, Switzerland and the Rhine, and Italy.54 For another popular
program, the “wall photographer” exhibited photographs of statuary. These
evening shows – with Wednesday and Saturday matinees at a reduced
fee – were “attended by the learned and scientific portion of society as
well as others.”55
A combination of factors contributed to the sense that the stereopticon
was a new and important media form. The powerful illusory effect of the
stereopticon was similar to the experience that spectators would have with
the first projected films – the sense of being transported to a different
52 The New York Journal of Commerce as quoted in Louisville Daily Journal 29 Apr. 1863: 1.
53 “Modern Miracles,” Brooklyn Eagle 15 Apr. 1863: 3.
54 Brooklyn Eagle 29 Apr. 1863: 1 and 15 May 1863: 1.
55 “The Stereopticon,” Brooklyn Eagle 7 May 1863: 3.
144 Charles Musser
place (and time). Commentators were impressed by the realism and the
immediacy of the image – with the sense of “being there.” These “wonderful
exhibitions” produced “brilliant and startling” effects as well as represen-
tations that were “singularly truthful.” “The Old World and the New, are
brought in all their beauty and grandeur to our very doors.”56 Francesco
Casetti has argued that a key aspect of media involves principles of reloca-
tion.57 And certainly this was an unprecedented aspect of the stereopticon.
Public spaces, sculpture and so forth were relocated onto the screen as
if from life. Statuary was particularly notable because the stereopticon
emphasized three-dimensionality and both were static in nature. The use
of a newly powerful projector and light source sharpened the image and its
distinctiveness, adding to a sense of a new media dispositive.
Why then did the stereopticon fail to be recognized as a new media
form over time? One way to address this question is by comparing its dis-
positive to that of motion pictures or the cinema itself. Put another way,
the stereopticon did not involve a sufficiently distinctive practice. Those
who made photographic slides for the stereopticon, artists such as the
Langenheims, were photographers. The making of stereopticon slides was
directly connected to the making of images for the stereoscope. A glass slide
for the stereoscope could be cut in half and turned into two stereopticon
slides. So the production of stereopticon slides was part of a larger practice.
And it was easy for these images to be used in other media forms. We have
significant records of nineteenth-century illustrated lectures because many
of them were relocated – reproduced – in heavily illustrated books. In
contrast, from the beginning, motion picture production was distinct. There
is also the issue of projection technology – of the stereopticon itself, which
was not as distinct as its enthusiasts would have it. The stereopticon was
a lantern that could easily project non-photographic slides – slides made
with lithography, those that were painted or hand-drawn or even slides
of things in nature placed between two pieces of glass (the wing of a fly, a
flower, etc.). It could be readily adapted to show a kaleidoscope or a narrow
aquarium. More generally, from the point of view of exhibition and also
reception, stereopticon presentations fell under the larger category of the
illustrated lecture and the illustrated lecture was part of a larger category
of lectures in general. That is, stereopticon presentations brought together
The stereopticon in general, and its use for the illustrated lecture in par-
ticular, played an active if previously unexamined role in the 1892 political
campaign in which the “Bourbon Democrat” and former President Grover
Cleveland was running against President Benjamin Harrison, a Republican.
As it turned out, the key battle ground states for electoral victory were New
York and, to a lesser extent, Illinois. The candidate who won New York had
won the presidency in previous elections – and would do so again in 1892.
Campaign activities in New York and its surroundings thus possessed a
relevance and urgency that make them an appropriate focus of study.
The magic lantern or stereopticon was employed for campaign purposes
in unequal ways.62 Republicans used it extensively to give illustrated lec-
tures that focused on a key feature of their party’s platform: tariffs and the
value of protectionism. These illustrated lectures functioned as an extension
of political oratory, but added a visual dimension that could bolster their
rhetorical effectiveness.
A number of different lecturers operated in the Northeastern states,
most of whom were coordinated through a central Speakers’ Bureau. By
mid-October Judge John L. Wheeler of New Jersey had been giving his il-
lustrated lecture on the tariff question for eleven weeks and had “nightly
At this point the hall was darkened and the pictorial illustrations of
Mr. Kennedy’s argument began. To show the less fortunate condition of
people in other countries, views were given which had been taken by Mr.
Kennedy with his own Kodak, showing women yoked in harness with
cows and dogs, to do the work of horses and oxen; also women carrying
enormous burdens through the streets of the most brilliant capitals of
Europe, acting as load-carriers in Vienna, and doing all the street-cleaning
in Munich. […] Then a portrait of Bismarck was shown, followed by a view
of Bismarck’s statement that “the prosperity of America is mainly due to
its system of protective laws.”
63 “Good Work Through the State: Judge Wheeler Uses the Stereopticon Effectively at Mid-
dletown,” New York Tribune 16 Oct. 1892: 2.
64 “A New Brooklyn Park Commissioner,” New York Tribune 31 Jan. 1888: 1. Kennedy was a
member of the insurance brokers’ firm of Weed and Kennedy.
65 “Protection Illustrated,” New York Tribune 25 Oct. 1892: 3. This rare, detailed description of
an early campaign documentary-like program deserves extensive quotation.
148 Charles Musser
66 “For the Stereopticon,” New York Times 28 Oct. 1892: 4. The New York Times editorial was
referring to a letter published as “Party Policy and the People,” New York Tribune: 9 Aug. 1890: 7.
The Stereopticon and Cinema 149
US this was only one of many commonly employed terms, including moving
pictures, movies, motion pictures and film). In this respect, the stereopticon
and the cinema involved the incorporation of innovations in photography
within (or onto) the lantern platform. Here again we may encounter an
interesting difference between French and American perspectives. The
French have tended to see “cinema” as a media form, while Americans have
tended to have more ambiguous and even contradictory notions, ones that
even depend on imprecision. The ubiquitous use of the term “movies” is one
sign of this. We might conceptualize at least one strand of American usage
as imagining motion pictures (or film) as a media form, with projection via
the lantern as one platform (undoubtedly the dominant one) and cinema –
projected motion pictures in a theatrical setting – as a further subcategory
(again dominant between roughly 1906 and the late 1940s).
If the stereopticon was never fully recognized as a media form, then
why, how and when did motion pictures or the cinema gain recognition?
One reason is that motion picture production and exhibition required their
own unique technologies, including motion picture cameras, printers and
projection equipment. All these required their own special knowledge.
Motion picture practices were not merely at the intersection of various
other established practices, they constituted their own practice from the
outset. As is often the case with so-called chicken and egg questions, it
is impossible to determine which came f irst. As the system of motion
picture production and exhibition was invented, motion picture practices
constituted themselves. In this respect, I disagree with André Gaudreault:
cinema, or at least motion pictures as a field, did exist from the outset. And
not only because it was a distinct techne: motion pictures transformed
many different fields of endeavor – photography, theater, sports, politics,
news and the newspaper, advertising, the arts and eventually religion and
medicine. Moreover, it transformed social mores and our daily lives, often
in an explicit and aggressive manner. Even during its initial introduc-
tion, cinema created a series of disruptions that anticipated these later
transformations.
Although cinema’s biggest immediate impact was on screen practices, the
stereopticon hardly disappeared over night, but in fact continued to expand.
How to best conceptualize and name this new practice and emergent media
form was not immediately evident. In the US, where Edison’s peep-hole
kinetoscope had enjoyed extensive media coverage, many saw projected
motion pictures as an adaptation of Edison’s motion picture system to the
lantern. Scientific American thus labeled its front-page article on various
early projecting machines as “The Kinetoscope Stereopticon”:
150 Charles Musser
Ever since the kinetoscope was brought to public attention and proved to
be so popular, inventors have been striving to perfect the apparatus for
successfully projecting these miniature images upon a screen by means of
a stereopticon producing the same effect of motion as in the kinetoscope.
[…] [T]he problem in the kinetoscope stereopticon was to successfully
magnify these little images several times and secure sufficient illumina-
tion on the screen to make them appear distinct and clear.67
71 See, for instance, “Film Deliveries Go On,” New York Times 30 Mar. 1939: 26.
72 This move from “machine” to “projector” preceded somewhat the consolidation around the
term “film projector,” which coincided with the emerging popularity of the term “slide projector”
in the 1940s and 1950s: thus citations in The New York Times for “slide projector” were: 1920-1929:
3; 1930-1939: 4; 1940-1949: 127; and 1950-1959: 580.
152 Charles Musser
because New York City was the center of the nascent film industry and
pivotal in terms of the election, this conjunction facilitated a dynamic
engagement. Certainly Republicans remained interested in exploring
innovative ways to use the lantern platform in their campaign. Bryan was
a renowned orator and one reason William McKinley conducted a front
porch campaign from his home in Canton, Ohio, was to avoid a head-to-
head comparison of their rhetorical talents. It was no coincidence that
the Republican candidate’s brother, Abner McKinley, was an investor in
the most ambitious of the new motion picture enterprises: the American
Mutoscope Company.
The Biograph had its “official” premiere on Monday evening, October 12,
at Hammerstein’s Olympia Music Hall on Broadway between 44th and 45th
streets, New York City, as McKinley at Home was shown for the first time.
But it was also going to be a political rally and that morning, The New York
Herald initiated the feedback loop between event and newspaper coverage
by running four line drawings “From Instantaneous Photographs Taken for
the Biograph. To Be Exhibited at the Olympia Theatre, Under the Auspices
of the Republican National Committee.” These images were said to illustrate
“Incidents in Major McKinley’s Life in Canton, Ohio.”73
While Biograph’s program of films at the Olympia consisted of a number
of “attractions” – and so seemingly conforms to Tom Gunning’s “cinema of
attractions” paradigm – it is hard not to feel that such a label conceals as
much if not more than it reveals. The filmmakers’ careful organization of
one-shot films produced a highly effective political rhetoric. Biograph’s
showmen not only constructed this film program around principles of
variety, but more importantly those of associational and contrast editing.
The final program has as much affinity to Eisenstein’s concept of “montage
of attractions” as it does to “cinema of attractions”: Eisenstein saw montage
of attractions as a new editing form “in which arbitrarily chosen images,
independent from the action, would be presented not in chronological
sequence but in whatever way would create the maximum psychological
impact.”74 As an exhibition service, Biograph programmed, sequenced
and edited these one-shot films. And they did so to powerful, calculated
effect–-including a test audience.
The program’s focus was on the McKinley films. The New York Tribune
reported that
Showing a film of the Empire State Express train was a brilliant conclu-
sion. It might be seen as Biograph’s version of the advancing brow of the
battleship, which concluded Sergei Eisenstein’s Potemkin. The Empire
State Express is moving full speed ahead for McKinley. Or, like the express
train, the Republican candidate was an unstoppable force. And yet – here
American film programs were already ambiguous and open to multiple,
often mutually inclusive interpretation – the train was also like the Bio-
graph motion picture system: an impressive technological marvel that was
hailed for the absence of flicker and “jump” noticeable in its competitors.
The repetition of The Empire State Express moved the program beyond
McKinley (without, however, leaving him behind) to reassert and equate
the power of American technology and industry with the Biograph motion
picture system – even as the superior technology was linked to the “Sound
Money” politics of the Republicans.
The fortunes of Biograph’s high-quality exhibitions and the business-
man’s candidate were linked. “No good Republican or upholder of sound
money doctrine can afford to miss the lifelike representation of their cham-
pion on the lawn of his home at Canton,” declared the Mail and Express.76
Theatergoers who had been distracted by politics were brought back into
the vaudeville house as paying customers to glimpse their candidate “in
the flesh.” McKinley’s front porch served as a modest counterpart to the
Olympia’s stage, which it seemed to momentarily replace. McKinley’s virtual
self served as a surrogate for his absent self. His absent presence could
miraculously appear on stage (on screen) at the front of the theater, acting
as a relay between the man in Canton and the spectators in the theater.
This was an astute and original way to promote both McKinley and the
Biograph exhibition service.
The Biograph’s debut at the Olympia Music Hall seemingly was a mixture
of careful planning and last-minute improvisation. A reliably Republican
newspaper only revealed Biograph’s coup on the very afternoon of the
event. McKinley, who was rooted in Canton, Ohio, was to make an almost
miraculous visit to New York City and be greeted by his in-the-flesh vice-
presidential running mate Garret Hobart. Moreover, the candidate’s beloved
homestead would travel with him. Hobart may not have attended in the end,
but many prominent Republicans were there. Some were associated with
New York Senator Thomas C. Platt, who had opposed McKinley’s nomina-
tion, which suggests that the event served as a public display of party unity.
Other patrons were associated with the New York Central Railroad – and
Empire State Express was certainly a film they had sponsored. These
people were more directly connected to this Republican event than one
might assume, since several of the prominent Republicans were also railroad
executives. The event thus brought together powerful business and political
representatives, who were often one and the same. To follow McKinley with
an image of the onrushing Empire State Express was certainly fraught with
meaning.
The Biograph left Hammerstein’s theater unexpectedly after a two-week
run (October 12-24) and promptly reopened at Koster & Bial’s Music Hall
on October 26–-again with little advance notice.77 As Election Day ap-
proached, political demonstrations reached a fevered pitch – inside as well
as outside the theater. McKinley’s silent, virtual self was once again one
of the candidate’s most effective surrogates and turned an evening at the
theater into a campaign rally.
If we consider the Biograph presentation in terms of the lantern platform,
the screening revived the sense of immediate presence that audiences
experienced when first witnessing the stereopticon. At the same time, the
program did not make use of a lecturer – something that was not always
the case with other film screenings in 1896-1897. In this and other ways,
the program broke from earlier Republican uses of projected images. Nev-
ertheless, it would be a mistake to isolate these changes within a narrow
genealogy of screen practice, something of which I have been guilty in
the past.
77 This offers a modest correction to The Emergence of Cinema, in which I mistakenly indicate
the Biograph reopened at Koster & Bial’s a week later, on November 2. Koster & Bial’s advertise-
ments and publicity notices running in the Sunday newspapers of October 25 failed to mention
that the Biograph would be on its bill in the coming week. It was obviously a last-minute addition.
The Stereopticon and Cinema 155
An Assessment
The new, 1896 media formation was transformative rather than additive.
One way to assess this is to consider the changed relationship between
political and theatrical cultures. Cinema moved political theater into New
York’s entertainment venues – a place where politicians had rarely gone
in previous elections. It was not only that McKinley’s virtual self made
appearances in these theaters – on the same programs as risqué dancing
girls, breaking down some of the distinctions between the platform of
political oratory and the realm of amusement. The dynamic between the
press and political culture was transformed as well, expanded to include
the theater in ways that would prove potent. Those who saw McKinley and
his front porch in the music halls might then read newspapers about him
and the delegations that came to express their homage.
One lengthy report in the New York Sun suggested McKinley was a humble
man, adored by citizens who made the pilgrimage to Canton. It is they who
provided the dynamism while he offered stability. These news items avoided
the specifics of policy and party, carrying such headlines as “M’Kinley
Preaches Hope. He Says He Has no Part in the Doctrine of Hate.” Predictably,
he embraced patriotism: “Stand up for America, and America will stand up
for you,” he told the Republication Press Association of West Virginia.78 The
mute motion picture of McKinley, its virtual but disembodied presence
had a vision-like quality that made him seem momentarily transcendent.
Properly contextualized – which was Biograph’s achievement – it provided
an effective icon which endowed the candidate with a new sincerity and
power.
More generally, the politicized feedback loop between vaudeville
screenings and the press, which McKinley at Home helped to establish,
had powerful consequences around events leading up to the Spanish-
American War.79 Newspaper mogul William Randolph Hearst – who
agendas addressing the tariff and other issues for which they continued
to have serious reservations. The move from political oratory to political
pageantry and the embrace of the bicycle, the first use of the telephone
for news gathering on election eve, and even the initial adoption of the
phonograph by the McKinley campaign contributed to a notable transfor-
mation of prior media practices in 1896. The move away from discourses
of sobriety and long forms is one dimension of this reformulated usage
of media forms.
81 See Charles Musser, Before the Nickelodeon: Edwin S. Porter and the Edison Manufacturing
Company (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991) 372.
158 Charles Musser
machines, in which the operator would swivel his media carriage back
and forth as he alternated between the two. Moreover, this meant that
post-production was physically occurring in the course of exhibition.
Even as the three-blade shutter was introduced in the US, the Edison
company began to sell its longer films – Uncle Tom’s Cabin (July 1903)
was the first – with head titles and intertitles. Post-production became
centralized inside the production company – a process that had begun
somewhat earlier but had been impeded by these established exhibition
procedures.
Once the projectionist was simply showing a reel of film, distributors
could rent said reels rather than a service (which included operator,
projector, slides and films). Again, this occurred in the later part of 1903.
It was also at this moment that narrative fiction began to dominate in
vaudeville and elsewhere. There were multiple reasons for this shift to
story films, but certainly reduced flicker facilitated the kinds of pleasures
one associates with fantasy and f iction. The moving picture houses
that soon followed could then be given names such as Bijou Dream and
Dreamland. This shift also meant that lanterns were redesigned just to
show films: they became motion picture machines. Although perhaps
not the only moment when “cinema” became “cinema,” the year 1903 was
a decisive moment – as projectionists in vaudeville houses only showed
films as part of the program. An equivalent moment never occurred with
the stereopticon. Exhibitors using the stereopticon could always show
non-photographic images as well as photographic lantern slides. In this
respect, although devotees of the stereopticon may have wanted it to
achieve a status as a media form, it remained in the end the intersection
of several media forms with the lantern platform, a particular kind of
screen practice. In contrast, motion picture technologies and practices
were separate and distinct from the outset but achieved a solidity and
coherence in the early 1900s, perhaps most dramatically between 1903 and
1908. Finally – and this is a topic for further research – the stereopticon,
unlike cinema, was never presented as a distinct art form. It remained
based in the discourse of sobriety, which has often been opposed to art.
As historians of media and culture, we should be sensitive to the ways in
which the dominant component of this new media form (“the cinema”)
was constituted as an art form – to the exclusion of ephemera (shorts,
trailers, newsreels, etc.), which for many years were not considered
worthy of serious study or even preservation. In fact, in the American
context, “cinema” was perhaps a term that defined a media form as an
art form.
The Stereopticon and Cinema 159
* The New York Times start publishing in 1851, but the first mention of the term “Stereopticon”
was in 1863. The Observer was first published in 1791 and the Manchester Guardian in 1821.
Table 2: Random Word Searches of Key Terms in Audio-Visual Media. Figures are
for the number of articles cited in the New York Times.
If we were Artists
We would not say the cinema
We would say the cine
At the conference at which this paper was presented, two participants made
a reference to Guillaume Apollinaire without consulting each other before-
hand. François Albera first pointed out that, according to the author of “The
New Spirit and the Poets,” poets wanted to be able some day “to mechanize
poetry as the world has been mechanized.”3 For my part, I projected an
excerpt of the poem used here as an epigraph and straightforwardly titled
“Before the Cinema.” No intention or planning, no machination should be
read into this coincidence, which is first and foremost the result of chance.
1 This text was written as part of the research work of the GRAFICS (Groupe de recherches sur
l’avènement et la formation des institutions cinématographique et scénique) at the Université
de Montréal. The GRAFICS receives funding from Canada’s Social Sciences and Humanities
Research Council and the Fonds québécois pour la recherche sur la société et la culture. The
GRAFICS belongs to the Centre de recherche sur l’intermédialité (CRI). The author wishes to
thank Jean-Marc Lamotte and the Institut Lumière for the photograph of the Lumière device
(fig. 1).
2 Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres poétiques, Marcel Adéma and Michel Décaudin, eds. (Paris:
Gallimard, NRF/Bibliothèque de La Pléiade, 1965) 362.
3 Selected Writings of Guillaume Apollinaire, ed. Roger Shattuck (New York: New Directions
Publishing Corporation, 1971) 227-37, 237. Apollinaire’s text comes from a lecture given in
November 1917, the very year when the poem “Avant le cinéma” was published (a few months
earlier, in April to be specific). In his talk, Albera referred to “The New Spirit and the Poets”
within a larger argument on the prevalence of the model of the machine in the arts at the end
of the nineteenth century, a time when the “machine ‘cinema’” was the driving force displacing
the old categories of creation (see his contribution in this volume).
162 André Gaudreault
Still, the coincidence has a certain necessity to it. Indeed, the cinema holds
an essential place in the work of the French poet, as Francis Ramirez has
shown in a particularly inspired article on the question:
Cinema long behaved like an illegitimate child, looking for fathers, find-
ing godfathers. Among them, Guillaume Apollinaire. At a time when
dominant artists, particularly in France, showed contempt for cinema,
the poet adopted it and emphatically greeted the art of movement in
what he called “the new spirit.” 4
In his poem (the one ending with the famous “My glass broke like a burst of
laughter”), Apollinaire lists the variety of terms used during the period to
refer to the cinema. In 1917, the vulgum pecus would have said “the cinema”
whereas artists (the particular kind that are actors and actresses) would
have preferred “the cine,” and “old professors from the provinces,” “the
cinematograph.” For the record, here is the complete poem:
If we were Artists
We would not say the cinema
We would say the cine
The Rhine the Rhine is drunk where the vineyards are mirrored
All the gold of the nights falls shimmering reflected in it
The voice is still singing, rattling itself to death
These fairies with green hair incanting the summer
This question of which term to privilege when referring to (and naming) the
new “medium” was topical in the second decade of the twentieth century.
Indeed, the year Apollinaire published his poem, Louis Delluc wrote a rather
enlightened opinion along the same lines: “We are in want of words, I mean
brief and precise words […] to replace cinématographe, which is heavy,
endless, ugly, and does not apply very well to what it is meant to refer to.”6
For the extoller of photogénie, the word cinématographe thus started
to sound stale. What the supposed inventor of the word cinéaste sensed
in 1917 was basically that the word had simply become outdated when it
came to designating film activity as a whole. It is as though Delluc had a
clear intuition that the situation had changed and that a new paradigm
had emerged; as though he had a vague impression that, as the process of
institutionalization of cinema irreducibly moved forward, the old term was
increasingly at odds with the course of events, the state of things.
The issue of naming the new media was obviously not just a French affair
at the time. Comparable questioning was taking place in the United States,
one example being the well-known hesitation in the 1910s between mov-
7 William Paul, “Uncanny Theater. The Twin Inheritances of the Movies,” Paradoxa 3.3-4
(1997): 321-47. On this question, see also André Gaudreault and Philippe Marion, “En guise
d’ouverture sur la problématique cinéma/bande dessinée,” Cinema e fumetto. Cinema and Comics,
Leonardo Quaresima, Laura Ester Stangalli and Federico Zecca, eds. (Udine: Forum, 2009) 23-29.
8 Hugo Münsterberg’s The Photoplay: A Psychological Study was first published by D. Appleton
and Company (New York/London, 1916). Most people working in the field of film studies know it
under the title of a new edition that appeared in the early 1970s, The Film: A Psychological Study
(New York: Dover, 1970), which omitted “photoplay” and replaced it with “film.” The latest life of
the work in question (in a recent, new publication) marked the return of the word “photoplay,”
though the title contains the word “film” so that the “customer” knows what the book deals with:
Hugo Münsterberg on Film. The Photoplay: A Psychological Study and Other Writings, ed. Allan
Langdale (London: Routledge, 2002). In a review of the book, Ann M. Gibb wrote, “Are movies
art, or entertainment? Does watching violent films encourage violent behavior in teenagers?
Should movies be censored? A new book, above, by art historian Allan Langdale, collects all the
writings on film by Hugo Münsterberg, an early film theorist. These questions are being debated
today, but they were also posed nearly 100 years ago by Hugo Münsterberg, a German psychologist
who came to America and fell under the enchantment of the new medium called the ‘photoplay’”
(my emphasis). See Ann M. Gibb, “Book shows that debates over the role of films are nothing
new,” UC Santa Cruz Currents Online 3 June 2002 http://www.ucsc.edu/currents/01-02/06-03/
film.html, last accessed on September 28, 2012.
9 In actuality, it is not always the same historical object which is being referred to, even when
only one term is available, since words never completely correspond to things and there never
is a total adequation between reality and language (but that is a whole other story…).
10 International conference “Les dispositifs,” Université de Marne-la-Vallée and École nationale
supérieure Louis-Lumière, France, 2006. See N. Dulac and A. Gaudreault, “Dispositifs optiques
et attraction,” Cahier Louis-Lumière (Les dispositifs) 4 (June 2007): 91-108.
On Some Limitations of the Definition of the Dispositive “Cinema” 165
11 See Frank Kessler, “La cinématographie comme dispositif [du] spectaculaire,” Cinémas 14.1
(Fall 2003): 21-34.
12 I would like to allow myself a short digression here, a “futurological” one, if you will. You
probably noted the care with which I choose my words when I write of the intellectual work
“that takes the cinema and moving images as its object.” Given the new context in which we
are currently immersed, with the proliferation of digital technologies and the dissemination/
multiplication of screens and media, I am convinced that this tendency toward caution in the
choice of words, which articulates the particular (cinema) with the more general (moving
images), will be more and more frequent – this until the day when the particular term “cinema”
is abandoned and only the generic term “moving images” remains. Already, the multiplication of
expressions such as “images mouvantes,” “images en mouvement,” or “image animée” in French
166 André Gaudreault
has become perceptible in written discourse over the past few years. From my point of view, it
is a clear symptom of the search for suitability between language and the new extra-linguistic
reality. The situation is slightly different in English, of course, as the use side by side of two
“clausulas,” both bearing on “pictures” which are “moving,” could amount to tautology. In
English, I noted a tendency to use expressions such as “moving image studies” or “scholars of
the moving image,” with the aim to avoid limiting discourse to cinema alone and excluding
other instances of images in movement.
13 Translator’s note: the italics in the indented self-quotation that follows, found in the original
source, refer to instances when the author uses the word “dispositif” in French.
On Some Limitations of the Definition of the Dispositive “Cinema” 167
Fig. 1. The Lumière brothers’ famous eccentric cam (on the left, the sliding frame that bears the claws,
and whose two alternative conveyance movements are performed by the triangular eccentric cam
placed at its center; on the right, the drum which, once assembled on the same axis as the eccentric
cam’s and interdependent with it, makes it possible – thanks to the ramps positioned on its rim – to
command the alternating coming and going of the claws in the sprocket holes of the film). Photograph:
Jean-Marc Lamotte (Institut Lumière).
This is far from simple, since the boundaries between each of these terms do
not always appear clearly when the moment comes to designate the object of
our thought. This may also be observed in English, as “apparatus,” also used
to translate “dispositif,” is a rather vague equivalent for the word, which also
translates as “device,” for instance. Some, like Frank Kessler,15 purely and
simply propose that the French word “dispositif” be maintained in English.
A “dispositif” may thus be a concrete thing, but it may also be abstract.
It may be a big or large thing, just as it may be a very small one. I asked
researcher Jean-Marc Lamotte, who is in charge of collections at the Institut
Lumière in Lyons, for further information on the “thingy that made all the
difference in the Cinématographe.”16 Here is what he answered:
This is all to say that we (in fact, almost everybody when speaking from
memory) slightly simplify when we speak only of the cam, when in
fact the Lumière system is a whole, a dispositive by which a continuous
movement of rotation (the axis bearing the cam, the drum and the shut-
ter) is turned into two alternating conveyance movements: a vertical
movement, controlled by the cam mounted on the rotating camshaft
15 Frank Kessler, “La cinématographie comme dispositif [du] spectaculaire,” Cinémas 14.1 (Fall
2003): 21-34.
16 I did write “bidule” (“thingy”) in my query to Jean-Marc Lamotte. At no point did I mention
the word “dispositif.”
17 E-mail to the author, 25 May 2008 (my emphasis).
On Some Limitations of the Definition of the Dispositive “Cinema” 169
apparatus in the sense given to the expression by French film theory. They
would certainly never have dared to claim as much, since they invented
neither the film apparatus described by Baudry nor the dispositive cinema.
Indeed, as I have been professing for a while, the Lumière brothers have
been abusively considered the inventors of cinema.19 Basically and quite
simply, the Lumière brothers only came up with a machine to shoot views
– extraordinary and brilliantly designed, to be sure, but a machine all the
same.
One thing is certain, we should acknowledge that the dispositive-thingy
of the Lumière brothers proved priceless for them. 20 Just as certainly, it
earned them their share of attacks. Over the past few years, many have
raised questions about the brothers’ primacy in the race to the so-called
invention of cinema. Some have even argued that what I identify as the
dispositive-thingy, the eccentric cam – whose invention dates back to
late 1894 – should in no way be considered an essential requirement for
a projection dispositive to become established as such. To those holding
this position, the dispositive-thingy is in the end a phony device, no more,
no less…
Still others consider the dispositive-thingy to be rather small to elicit
so much praise, given all the preexisting technologies used alongside it in
the Lumière device. Michel Frizot claims, for instance: “Still, [the] rather
complex description [of the Cinématographe] reveals but little invention
on the part of the Lumière brothers, as most of the processes comprising
it existed beforehand.”21
Those who made the year 1995 the terminal point of the first century of
cinema generally hold in very high esteem the device-thingy in question,
since it is really what made it possible to identify the starting point of the
“series” whose centenary was being celebrated. For some, as is well-known,
the “foundational” event is the invention of the Lumière device and the
registration of the patent on February 13, 1895, in the wake of the develop-
ment of the dispositive-thingy. On these grounds, speaking of “the century
of cinema” without elaborating further amounted to dispensing with the
demonstration that would justify the equivalence between cinematograph
22 The reader interested in this question may refer to André Gaudreault and Tom Gunning,
“Introduction: American Cinema Emerges (1890-1909),” in American Cinema, 1890-1909. Themes
and Variations, ed. André Gaudreault (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 2009) 1-21;
and to Deac Rossel, Living Pictures: The Origins of the Movies (Albany: State University of New
York Press, 1998).
172 André Gaudreault
Each of the devices that made these paying public projections possible
involved particular characteristics distinguishing them from one another
as well as from the Lumière Cinematograph (and of course, none was quite
as well designed as the latter):
1) The Latham family’s Panoptikon did not feature any mechanism for
the intermittent advance of the film, or any other system to make up
for its absence. Accordingly, the screening of each image had to be as
brief as possible to avoid any blur, which in turn required a larger film
surface, given the need to beam light more strongly on images. In fact,
the Panoptikon was not as efficient as hoped for, if we are to believe the
report of a journalist present at one of the demonstrations: “There is
considerable room for improvement and many drawbacks have yet to
be overcome.”23
2) As to Jenkins and Armat’s Phantoscope, which was equipped with an
intermittent mechanism, it gave much more satisfying results than the
Lathams’ Panoptikon. This quite evidently explains its fortune with
Edison the following year under a borrowed name (Vitascope).
3) Finally, the Skladanowsky brothers’ Bioskop, founded on a rather complex
projection system, did not enjoy much success. Everything came in pairs
in the German dispositive: light sources, driving mechanisms, films
(two prints of the same film, actually), lenses. The main concern was to
synchronize the two prints perfectly, since each of them was alternately
masked by a central shutter. Appearing on the screen in alternation,
then, were an image from print A and an image from print B. In a sense,
the systematic alternation between the two emulated the intermittent
movement lacking in the Bioskop. Due to the extreme complexity of its
dispositive, not offset with any other advantage over the systems using
the intermittent advance of a single film, the machine was short-lived
and did not have much of a legacy.
28 1925 is often reported as the date for the unveiling of the plaque, but the event did in fact
take place in 1926 (on March 17), a date confirmed in the March 18, 1926, issue of the periodical
Comœdia. See also the account of the ceremony in issue 520 of L’Écran, the journal of the French
federation of film theater owners, dated March 20, 1926. I wish to thank Jean-Marc Lamotte for
providing me with these details.
176 André Gaudreault
Fig. 2. Commemorative plaque affixed in 1926 on the façade of the building that housed the Salon
Indien of the Grand Café (14, boulevard des Capucines in Paris).
29 It should be noted that, contrary to expectation and – dare I say – without much regard
for the rules of punctuation, the text does not include any commas at all. One comma at least
would be indisputably called for – on the penultimate line, between the word “cinématographe”
and the word “appareil.” As can be observed, the text is printed exclusively in capital letters – a
frequent occurrence with this kind of exercise, in which a new line may in some cases give the
text its rhythm and substitute for possible commas. The rule of the new line as a substitute for
the comma does not hold throughout the text, however, since the shifts from line 2 to line 3 and
from line 3 to line 4 do not involve the replacement of any comma whatsoever. That is not the
case with the shift from line 4 to line 5, though: there may be a comma between “de photographie
animée” and “à l’aide du Cinématographe,” just as there may be none at all, depending on what
is meant. If a comma is introduced, the second signification I suggest does not hold water…
Could it be that the comma possibly missing here amounts to an acte manqué?
On Some Limitations of the Definition of the Dispositive “Cinema” 177
With the entry word “cinématographe,” the same edition of Le Nouveau Petit
Robert refers the reader to the Lumière-designed device while mentioning a
late occurrence of the word with a famous and not too dated author referring
to the art of film:
“O.” (“Vx” in French) stands for “old,” or “vieux”: “word, meaning or use in
the old language, incomprehensible or little comprehensible nowadays and
never used, except as a stylistic effect: archaism.”
30 “Cinéma,” Le Nouveau Petit Robert de la langue française, electronic edition (Paris: Le Robert,
2007).
178 André Gaudreault
1 In an article devoted to the way the concept of apparatus came into being, Guido Kirsten
situates the emergence of this “theoretical paradigm” between 1969 and 1972 and traces it back
to two sources: on the one hand, reflection on the perspective within the “optical system” (a
reference to Pierre Francastel); on the other hand, Althusser’s theory of ideologies. I find the
chronology as well as these references perfectly relevant, but here I will privilege the psycho-
analytic reference, which Kirsten does not deal with in much depth. See Guido Kirsten, “Genèse
d’un concept et ses avatars. La naissance de la théorie du dispositif cinématographique,” Cahier
Louis-Lumière 4, “Les Dispositifs” (June 2007).
180 Omar Hachemi
Apparatus/Basic Apparatus4
2 André Gaudreault and Nicolas Dulac, “Dispositifs optiques et attraction,” Cahiers Louis
Lumière 4: 92.
3 Bruno Latour put forward the concept of the “black box” to refer to the way in which, within
science and its operations, some units get used once developed without their mechanism being
called into question afterwards. See Bruno Latour, Science in Action (Cambridge: Harvard U.P.,
1988).
4 Translator’s note: in the film theory of the 1970s, widely translated in English, “dispositif”
and “appareil de base” were translated as “apparatus” and “basic apparatus.” Here as elsewhere
(with apparatus theory), and for reasons of historical continuity and overall comprehension
for the reader, we have opted to maintain these terms even as our own choices of terminology
for this volume differ substantially. See the “Editors’ and translator’s note” at the beginning of
this book.
5 In an article on the evolution of the notion of the “dispositif” in the f ield of sociology,
Jean-Samuel Beuscart and Ashveen Peerbaye observe, on the basis of a statistical study, that
The Moment of the “Dispositif” 181
“dispositifs” are “everywhere on the different f ields of social sciences.” The two authors do
mention Baudry’s article when tracing back the notion to its origins. See Jean-Samuel Beuscart
and Ashveen Peerbaye, “Histoires de dispositifs,” Terrains et travaux 11 (2006): 3-15.
6 Derrida formulated a similar question about the notion of structure: “To know why one says
‘structure’ is to know why one no longer wishes to say eidos, ‘essence,’ form, Gestalt, ‘ensemble,’
‘composition’ […]. One must understand not only why each of these words showed itself to be
insufficient but also why the notion of structure continues to borrow some implicit signification
from them and to be inhabited by them.” Jacques Derrida, “Force and Signification” [1963], in
Writing and Difference, trans. Alan Bass (London: Routledge, 1978) n301.
7 Jean-Louis Baudry, “Ideological Effects of the Basic Cinematographic Apparatus” [1970] in
Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology. A Film Theory Reader, ed. Philip Rosen (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1986) 286-98.
8 Baudry, “Ideological Effects”: 289. These thoughts, which imply that the homogeneous space
configured by monocular perspective assign the spectator a central position corresponding to
the modern conception of the subject, partly come from Pierre Francastel’s work on painting
(Peinture et société: naissance et destruction d’un espace plastique de la Renaissance au cubisme,
1951; La Figure et le lieu. L’ordre visuel du Quattrocento, 1967), as well as from Jurgis Baltrusaïtis
on perspective distortion (Anamorphoses ou Thaumaturgus Opticus, 1955) or Jean-Louis Schefer
(Scénographie d’un tableau, 1969). In France, these thinkers expanded on the work of Erwin
Panofsky on perspective, itself in a relation of continuity with Ernst Cassirer’s neo-Kantian
philosophy of symbolic forms.
182 Omar Hachemi
We might not be far from seeing what is in play on this material basis if
we recall that the “language” of the unconscious, as it is found in dreams,
slips of the tongue, or hysterical symptoms, manifests itself as continuity
destroyed, broken, and as the unexpected surging forth of a marked
difference.9
The term “language,” between quotation marks in the text, follows from
the slogan that summarizes the Lacanian conception of the unconscious:
“The unconscious is structured as a language.”10 This analogy with the
Lacanian unconscious situates the basic apparatus at the exact position of
the signifier insofar as, in Lacanian theory, the latter is the vector of the
unconscious on the surface of language. Far from marginal, this analogy
between the basic apparatus and the unconscious comes at the close of
Baudry’s article. After identifying the appearance of the instrument “in flesh
and blood” in film with the “return of the repressed,” Baudry concludes that
“to this unconscious would be attached the mode of production of film, the
process of work in its multiple determinations […].”11
In fact, the basic apparatus – whose primary function was to extend
the reflection opened by Cinéthique and once focused on the camera
alone to include cinematographic technique as a whole – squares with the
category of the signifier under the effect of the analogy with the Lacanian
unconscious. Namely, the “basic apparatus” interests Baudry only from
the angle of its visible manifestations within the finished product. This
reduction of technique to the Lacanian concept of signifier has theoretical
implications, one of which being that the distinction previously established
between apparatus and basic apparatus loses its relevance. Indeed, as the
article progresses, the moment of projection (apparatus) completely rules
out the genesis of the film (basic apparatus). Baudry was in fact to discard
the second notion and stick to the apparatus in the article he later published
in Communications.12
14 Jacques-Alain Miller, “Suture (Elements of the Logic of the Signif ier)” [1966], Screen 18
(1977-1978).
15 Jacques Lacan, Ecrits. The First Complete Edition in English, trans. Bruce Fink (New York:
Norton & Company, 2005) 694. This axiom is at the root of the theory of “intersignifierness”
[“intersignifiance”], which replaces the phenomenological notion of intersubjectivity.
16 Oudart, “Cinema and Suture” 46. It seems as though this topology of the cube was borrowed
from Pierre Francastel, who used a similar schematization to evoke painting founded on the
perspectival code of the Renaissance: “Founded on a thoughtful knowledge of Euclid’s laws – the
codification of the rules for ‘normal’ operating vision in humankind – the method, from that
point on, had images inscribed within Alberti’s window as within a cube open on one side. The
laws of physics and optics of our world govern within this representational cube, this kind of
miniature world.” See Pierre Francastel, Peinture et société (Lyons: Audin, 1951) 40. As to Panofsky,
he put forward the concept of “space box” (Raumkasten) to refer to the phenomenon by which the
materiality of the painting became secondary by comparison with its representation of volume.
See Erwin Panofsky, Perspective as a Symbolic Form, trans. Christopher S. Wood (Cambridge:
Zone Books, 1996) 39.
17 Oudart, “Cinema and Suture”: 46.
The Moment of the “Dispositif” 185
18 Jacques Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, ed. Jacques-Alain Miller,
trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Norton, 1998) 88. The text was established on the basis of the
seminar of February 26, 1964.
19 Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts 92.
20 Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts 89.
21 Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts 92.
22 Michel Foucault, “Las Meninas” [1966], in The Order of Things. An Archaeology of the Human
Sciences (London: Routledge, 2002) 15. On what this analysis of Las Meninas owes to Panofsky’s
theory, see Lucien Vinciguerra, “Comment inverser exactement les Ménines: Michel Foucault
et la peinture à la fin des années 1960, des formes symboliques aux dispositifs,” in Le Moment
philosophique des années 1960 en France, ed. Patrice Maniglier (Paris: PUF, 2011).
23 Foucault, “Las Meninas” 16.
186 Omar Hachemi
27 Serge Daney and Jean-Pierre Oudart, “Work, Reading, Pleasure” [1970], trans. Diana Matias,
in Cahiers du cinéma 1969-1972. The Politics of Representation, ed. Nick Browne (Cambridge:
Harvard U.P., 1989) 116. The first part, “On Salador,” on which I concentrate here, is by Serge
Daney.
28 Daney and Oudart, “Work, Reading, Pleasure”: 116, 117.
29 On photology, see Jacques Derrida, “Force and Signification” 27. The article as a whole turns
on Jean Rousset’s text “Form and Signification,” which Derrida considers a perfect example of
the Structuralism he sets about to critique.
30 Daney and Oudart, “Work, Reading, Pleasure”: 116.
31 This quotation, unreferenced in Daney’s text, comes from Maurice Blanchot’s Infinite
Conversation [1969]: “Light effaces its traces: invisible, it renders visible; it guarantees direct
knowledge and ensures full presence, all the while holding itself back in that which is indirect
and suppressing itself as presence.” Maurice Blanchot, Infinite Conversation, trans. Susan Hanson
(Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1993) 163.
32 Jean-Louis Comolli, “Technique and Ideology: Camera, Perspective, Depth of Field,” parts 1
and 2 [1971], trans. Diana Matias, in Cahiers du cinéma 1969-1972. The Politics of Representation,
ed. Nick Browne (Cambridge: Harvard U.P., 1989) 213-47.
188 Omar Hachemi
[…] the reduction of the hidden part of technique to its visible part carries
the risk of reasserting the domination of the visible, i.e. the ideology of
the visible (and what it implies: the masking and effacement of work).33
the new lexicon, then, would have had as its aim to hide a conceptual lack
with regard to cinematographic technique, since the lack in question could
not seem to be filled.
I could go even further and venture that the “theoretical paradox” pointed
out by Comolli at the center of the theory of the apparatus was identical to
that noted by Derrida in his “Force and Signification,” with one difference:
Derrida puts the paradox down to the structural method, whereas Comolli
remains more cautious on that account. Derrida spells out the paradox as
follows:
When Comolli points out “the reduction of the hidden part of technique
to its visible part”38 central to the theory developed by Cinéthique, he puts
42 See Louis Althusser and Etienne Balibar, Reading Capital [1968], trans. Ben Brewster
(London, New York: Verso, 2009) 110.
43 According to André Gaudreault and Tom Gunning, Comolli’s arguments contributed to
establishing the bases for the “new film history” with which they associate themselves. See
André Gaudreault and Tom Gunning, “Le cinéma des premiers temps: un défi à l’histoire du
cinéma?” in Histoire du cinéma, nouvelles approches (Paris: Colloque de Cerisy-Publications de
la Sorbonne, 1989) 53.
44 Jean-Louis Comolli, “Technique and Ideology,” in Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology 429, 425.
45 Nagisa Ōshima, The Ceremony (Japan, 1971).
46 Pascal Bonitzer, “A propos de ‘La Cérémonie,’ ” Cahiers du cinéma 231 (Aug.-Sept. 1971): 6-7.
47 Bonitzer, “A propos de ‘La Cérémonie’ ”: 11. Deleuze emphasizes the central function of
this “empty square” in structuralism: “Lacan invokes the dummy hand in bridge, and in the
admirable opening pages of The Order of Things, where he describes a painting by Velasquez,
Foucault invokes the place of the king, in relation to which everything is displaced and slides,
God, then man, without ever filling it. No structuralism is possible without this degree zero.” See
Deleuze, “How Do We Recognize Structuralism?” 275. Lacan does indeed refer to the “dummy
hand” in bridge, but in a very allusive manner. See Jacques Lacan, Ecrits 492-3.
192 Omar Hachemi
48 Jean-Pierre Oudart, “Notes for a Theory of Representation” [1971], trans. Annwyl Williams,
in Cahiers du cinéma 1969-1972. The Politics of Representation, ed. Nick Browne (Cambridge:
Harvard U.P., 1989) 203-12.
49 Translator’s note: this current use is translated as “dispositive” in this volume. See the
“Editors’ and translator’s note.”
The Moment of the “Dispositif” 193
Like the idea of structure, the notion of the “dispositif” does not pertain to a
single level of analysis: it applies to specific objects, such as the mechanism
of a watch, but also to large ensembles, as in Foucault’s work, where it came
to substitute for the episteme in the late 1970s. By contrast to the episteme,
focused too narrowly on the utterances produced by a society, Foucault’s
dispositif refers more widely to the totality of discourses, social practices,
technical inventions, architectural creations instituting, at a given time, the
partition between the true and the false in the domain of knowledge, the
legitimate and the illegitimate in the sphere of power.1 There now seems to
be general agreement on the term “arrangement,” used liberally to describe
“dispositifs,” insofar as it conveys both their constitutive heterogeneity
and their power of organization.2 For Bernard Vouilloux, for instance, a
“dispositif” is an “arrangement that actualizes and integrates elements with
an objective in sight,”3 which may apply to an administrative measure,
a military strategy, or a pedagogical practice; but also in a very different
context, as far as Foucault’s model is concerned, since the heterogeneous fac-
tors instituting knowledges and powers (this would be the arrangement) are
shot through by individual or collective, conscious or unconscious strategies
leading to the promotion of enunciable discourses and legitimized powers.
1 On this definition of the dispositif, see the interview given by Foucault to periodical Ornicar
in 1977, “Le jeu de Michel Foucault,” translated in English as “The Confession of the Flesh”
and published in Power/Knowledge. Selected Interviews and Other Writings, ed. Colin Gordon
(Brighton: The Harvester Press, 1980). Foucault developed the notion of the dispositif starting
with Discipline and Punish (1975), then with the first part of The History of Sexuality (1976). On
the subject, see Bernard Vouilloux, “La critique des dispositifs,” in Discours, image, dispositif,
ed. Philippe Ortel (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2008) 16-31, as well as Alain Brossat’s clarification, “La
notion de dispositif chez Michel Foucault,” in Miroirs, appareils et autres dispositifs, ed. Soko
Phay-Vakalis (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2008) 199-207. Brossat insists on the two scales of the dispositif
in Foucault’s thought, the network and the identified mechanism that enters this network (“large
dispositifs entail increasing the effect of a whole series of specific micro-dispositifs,” 205). For
example, social security could be considered as a part within a larger “security dispositif.”
2 See issue 25 of periodical Hermès (1999), which has come to serve as a point of reference, “Le
dispositif entre usage et concept,” ed. Geneviève Jacquinot-Delaunay and Laurence Monnoyer.
3 Vouilloux, “La critique des dispositifs”: 24.
196 Philippe Ortel
4 To give the model some plasticity, I am expanding it here to include any agency with a
visible conditioning power.
5 On this interaction, see Giorgio Agamben, What Is an Apparatus? (Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 2009).
6 Louis Delluc, “La foule au cinéma” (1920), in Le Cinéma. Naissance d’un art, texts selected
by Daniel Banda and José Moure (Paris: Flammarion, 2008) 506.
7 For the fourth part of The Imaginary Signifier (1977), he assigns himself the task of analyzing
the “primary operations floating on the surface of the ‘secondarised’ chain of filmic discourse.”
Christian Metz, “Film and Dream: Degrees of Secondarisation,” The Imaginary Signifier. Psy-
choanalysis and the Cinema (Bloomington, Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1986) 125.
The “Dispositive Effect” in Film Narrative 197
8 Jean-Louis Baudry, L’Effet-cinéma (Paris: Editions Albatros, 1978). For a synthesis of what
was sometimes called “apparatus theory” in the 1970s, see Guido Kirsten’s thorough analysis
“Genèse d’un concept et ses avatars. La naissance de la théorie du dispositif cinématographique,”
Cahier Louis Lumière 4, “Les dispositifs” (July 2007): 8-16.
9 “Dispositif(s) du cinéma (des premiers temps)” Cinémas 14.1 (Fall 2003).
10 On this type of approach, see for instance François Albera, “La position du voyeur couché:
Hitchcock avec Klossowski,” Cinémathèque 13 (Spring 1998): 91-100; and Maria Tortajada,
“Dispositifs de vision et modèles de pouvoir: ‘Devant la loi’ de F. Kafka,” Revue européenne des
sciences sociales 44.133 (2006): 37-52.
198 Philippe Ortel
Tensions in Representation
Narrative theories are still strongly marked by the linguistic model, at least in
France. Like discourse, which unfolds in a linear manner, carefully articulat-
ing the befores and the afters (“First…”, “then…”), causes and effects (but also
the means and the end, the conditions and their result, and so on), narrative
is approached from the standpoint of the logical and chronological model of
argumentation. This holds all the more true as a novel or a film often pro-
duces a discourse on the world through the indirect path of fiction. Without
denying the sway of the logical-discursive process (or its deconstruction),
the point in this instance is to de-center our point of view on representation,
narrative or not, examining the share of the dispositive in it prior to teasing
out any implicit discourse. This amounts to locating our three components –
technical, pragmatic and symbolic – on multiple levels in the representation
and examining how they are arranged together. Whereas the discursive
approach treats the film as a succession producing semantic and axiological
values, the “dispositive approach” ties up this symbolic level with the two
others and looks at the interplay occasionally appearing between the three.
The choral form provides a good example of poetic dispositive and, as I
have pointed out previously, a rather successful one at the moment. Techni-
cally, it is a type of composition (I) – in this particular case, an arrangement
of filmed traces fitted into one another at the editing stage. Like any enun-
ciation, this type of composition regulates the relations between author and
spectators, since the latter often perceive the expressive intention (II) that
also conveys values (III), which change from an artist, a film or a period to
another, but still result from this very choral form. Needless to say, for the
effect to take place the process should evidently not be a way to narrate
like any other. For the choral form to produce a marked dispositive effect,
a tension should occur between this scriptural arrangement (I) and the
two other levels in the dispositive of representation: on the pragmatic level,
the traditional narrative pact according to which the story should be told
to the spectator in a chronological and logical order; and, on the symbolic
level, the fact that the film should mark positively or negatively the events
narrated. Indeed, my hypothesis is that a dispositive becomes banal in the
absence of an internal disturbance, sometimes even ceasing to be perceived
as a dispositive because, despite its own form, it only conveys fictional
contents. While many films draw average effects from the interdependence
of these three levels, others found this effect on a crisis and have a stronger
impact on spectators. This is the case of Gus Van Sant’s 2003 Elephant,
which deals with the 1999 Columbine high school killing. More forcefully
The “Dispositive Effect” in Film Narrative 199
than in other films, the choral form impedes the sequence of events as
spectators expect them to be represented, since the construction keeps
returning to the hours preceding the slaughter rather than furthering the
action. It is not until the last fifteen minutes (out of a total of 75 minutes)
that the tragedy takes place before our eyes. Given the fact that the work
is inspired from a tragic news story generally known by the audience, the
tension between the choral composition and the spectators’ expectation
proves all the more intense. A discrepancy then arises between the writing
(I) and the set of values (III) the film is supposed to convey: filming from
behind the high school students who are to be subjected to the violence of
their peers, juxtaposing the sequences devoted to each of their movements
in the high school or nearby, the filmmaker imposes a horizontal perception
of the facts which not only suppresses causal relations between sequences
(since the drift towards the tragedy occurs out of the parallel schedules of
the students), but also has the effect of giving victims and killers the same
status, as all are filmed in the same way. This horizontality produces a form
of symbolic depression, underscored by other components of the film, such
as the choice of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata on the soundtrack. Performed
by one of the two killers, its insistent recurrence conjures up the nocturnal
side of a world that may have been thought of as without shadows or, on a
fictional level, the absence of responsible or understanding adults capable
of standing for a just social order.
It is tempting, as a consequence, to distinguish between two types of
narrative: the ‘narrativized’ plot, dominated by the traditional logical
and discursive order, and the plot ‘with dispositive’, in which the techni-
cal, pragmatic and symbolic components of representation are no longer
welded to one another but separate, as though laid flat, no matter the level
of analysis considered. Still, insofar as the dispositive effect may operate
at any time, including in the most classically narrative film, it would make
more sense, strictly speaking, to move the slide and place it within the
narrative itself, thus distinguishing two different narrative modes: transitive
narration, which is subject to the traditional logical and discursive order,
and intransitive narration, which occurs any time an arrangement disturbs
a sequence and brings succession back within the domain of contiguity.
Accordingly, there is no such thing as ‘plots that narrate’, on the one hand,
and plots with dispositives on the other (with choral films, for instance).
200 Philippe Ortel
11 Gérard Genette, Narrative Discourse. An Essay in Method (Ithaca: Cornell University Press,
1983) 86-112. These categories were devised for literary texts and deal with the relations between
the way of narrating (the plot) and the story to tell. They may still be useful in cinema, except
precisely when the plot is no longer the central element: do the comings and goings of the high
school students constitute pauses or scenes with respect to the story to be told? Put in these
terms, the question is not truly relevant when the transitive narrative ceases to be the dominant
norm.
The “Dispositive Effect” in Film Narrative 201
In this specific case, the disjunction occurs within time itself, between
two ways of living the same moment, as if teenagers circulated in parallel
worlds that could connect only objectively. The dispositive effect then
issues from the caesura introduced at the very heart of temporality, since
this temporality, previously unique, linear and unified, breaks down into
multiple, simultaneous, and juxtaposed temporalities.12
Not only does the topological composition of the film keep taking the
plot back to its starting point, but the motivations prompting the characters
to act remain undetermined, whereas in a classical narrative the causal
sequence of actions calls for psychological or sociological explanations as
guarantees for plausibility. Besides the labyrinth,13 a well-known topological
model structures Elephant: the map. Taking us from one point to another,
reducing the story to a series of short trips leading each character from a
random moment of his or her life to the fateful moment, the filmmaker
draws up the map of a news story based on the dual dimension of space and
time. The DVD of the film explicitly refers to this, providing the map of the
high school and the paths taken by the students. Yet this cartography hap-
pens to draw its power of fascination from the fact that, reducing the story
to a network of spatial, but also temporal points, it shows the events without
giving us any insight in the motivations of the protagonists of the tragedy.
In so doing, it stresses – among other things – the unfathomable nature of
chance, since the distribution of students between victims and survivors
hangs on whether or not their paths cross the murderers’. Crossroads and
intersections circumscribe this incomprehensibility 14 without explaining
12 Identifying our three agencies – technical, pragmatic and symbolic – whenever a caesura
is observed may prove rather tedious. In an example such as this one, it is enough to show how
the traditional sequence of time has become a spatialized arrangement of parallel individual
temporalities, and how contiguity increasingly competes with succession.
13 As Alexandre Tylski has shown, also evoking the model of the zoo because of the title, the
bull appearing on John’s t-shirt is a direct allusion to the Minotaur of mythology (John is the
blond teenager who serves as a thread throughout the narrative). See Alexandre Tylski, “Gus
Van Sant et le Minotaure,” Aug. 2003, Cadrage.net, http://www.cadrage.net/films/elephant/
elephant.html [last accessed on Apr. 28, 2011].
14 This is Stéphane Lojkine’s expression. Lojkine writes: “What has to be reduced is the uncir-
cumscribed. The structural stake of this kind of modelization consists in exiting narration as
the basic structure in the novel to consider setting up dispositives whose function is to identify,
to circumscribe the unforeseeable in the real, the rustle of circumstances.” See “Représenter
Julie: le rideau, le voile, l’écran,” in L’Ecran de la représentation. Théorie littéraire. Littérature et
peinture du 16e au 20e siècle, ed. Stéphane Lojkine (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2001) 37. Stéphane Lojkine
has since developed this point and now talks of a “narrative dispositive.” See http://galatea.
univ-tlse2.fr/pictura/UtpicturaServeur/Dispositifs/SeminaireED2009.php [last accessed on
Apr. 28, 2011].
202 Philippe Ortel
15 This dispositive-related dimension may be found in a part of the video installation derived
from her film by the filmmaker and titled “From the other side,” which is also the English title
of the film.
The “Dispositive Effect” in Film Narrative 203
intruded. The ritual of conversation with its glasses of whisky, the stations
near the pool tables which are not to be used, the armchairs in which one
sits down and from which one stands up again, comings and goings: all of
this, mixed with silences, creates prevarication and hesitation which slow
down the flow of confessions and revelations and thwart the expectation
among spectators that Ziegler will get more quickly to what he knows. Far
from revealing emptiness, this expectation forces the audience to grapple
with bodies, a setting, and social etiquette deeply contradictory to the
transgressive episode whose protagonists have such a hard time talking
about, and whose evocation is still necessary for the story to proceed. The
dispositive effect resulting from the conflict between theatrical form and
narrative dynamic also reveals its figurative value here, mimicking as it
does the act of unmasking. Indeed, the social ritual of conversation plays
the same role as the mask Doctor Hartford was asked to remove during the
famous evening when his presence was found out. In both cases a veil is
lifted, so that the hero of the story is unmasked twice: by the brotherhood
on the very evening of his intrusion, by his interlocutor by the pool table.
In this case, the aesthetic value of the dispositive comes from the fact that,
formally figuring the mechanism of unmasking, it implies spectators quite
intimately in the workings of the process. At first a mere theme treated in
the fiction, the mimicked process – unmasking, in this instance – becomes
an experience to be lived by the audience.
What holds true for a social ritual is also valid with a mere prop: instead
of blending into the movement of the narrative, its use may take over and
condition human relationships within the story rather than simply regulate
them – and accordingly disturb, once again, the expectation of spectators
at the upper levels of narrative structure and filmic communication. The
revolving door of the palace in Murnau’s The Last Laugh (1924), in front of
which the tragedy of the film plays out, occupies this higher position as the
prop becomes a narrative operator. Sacked from his prestigious position as
a doorman because of his age, the character played by Emil Jannings will
do everything he can to keep his shiny livery and his job at the entrance
of the hotel. The revolving door thus not only conditions his action and his
relations with his environment, but also introduces a kind of stagnation (one
always returns to the door). This stagnation is emblematic of the dead-end
that aging represents for the main protagonist, as well as the more positive
capacity of humankind to resist the ineluctable.
In a film such as Abbas Kiarostami’s Ten (2002), the effect is even more
powerful, since the ten dialogues to which the title refers (a nice enunciative
dispositive) take place in a car (a dispositive in the form of an utterance).
204 Philippe Ortel
16 Abbas Kiarostami, dir., 10 on ten, 2002, DVD, MK2 éditions, 2004, chapter 5/11, 25’57’’.
Translator’s note: this is the translation of a transcription of Mojdeh Famili’s oral translation
in French.
The “Dispositive Effect” in Film Narrative 205
In Ten, based on the subject, I tried to restrict the setting as much as pos-
sible. At the beginning, however, I did not plan to limit the dispositive to
two angles and two lenses. After viewing the first sequence, I understood
that any change in angle and focal length just for the sake of variation
would be harmful to the order or the structure of the film, which for me
17 I want to thank François Albéra for bringing to my attention the importance of the way an
object is filmed in enhancing its potentialities to serve as a dispositive. His comment and the
discussion in which it occurred are available online on the website of the University of Lausanne:
http://www.unil.ch/cin/page56362.html.
206 Philippe Ortel
is more important than the subject or the story. For this reason, I put the
camera back in its initial place and remained faithful to the stifling and
tense feeling generated by a room of two meters by two. The choice of
a closed space had been made in keeping with the particularly painful
situation in which the characters found themselves.18
Still, the mise en scène reinforces or reveals in the object (the car) generative
or organizational properties that are peculiar to it, even if daily life manifests
these properties in a more diffuse manner. Automobiles are, for example,
privileged places for confiding in someone, as one of his friends once told the
filmmaker: her most important conversations with her husband generally
took place in the car. Kiarostami also declared that he wanted to show
how the confined, moving space of the car fostered introspection among
passengers as they talked to each other: speech often occurred only after
deep absorption into oneself. “Dispositive films” thus play an analytical role,
breaking down the apparent homogeneity of phenomena (a mere ride in a
car) to reveal the hidden articulation of their various technical, pragmatic
and symbolic components – which, conversely, may not be reduced to the
mise en scène but are still revealed by it. These films also show the link
between all these components and the incomprehensible reality they are
meant to channel, the interiority of the characters in Ten, for instance.19
In a more traditional narrative, high school, doors, and cars generally are
realities among others. They are part of the setting without being the matrix
of the fictional content conveyed by the work.
More precisely, where does the mutual dependence of our three levels in
dispositives in fiction (or in utterances), such as those just analyzed, come
from? The dispositive effect is possible only if each level involves a variable,
that is to say, a principle liable to create variations in the other two, thus
opening up the field of possibilities. The arrangement of seats in Ten, for
instance, though physically fixed, makes a vast number of combinations
possible on the pragmatic level. The variable here lies in the reciprocity of
the exchange, which such a layout makes optional, but also susceptible of
gradation. Words may remain as parallel as the seats, which does happen
when each of the two characters, within the conversation itself, does in
fact engage in a monologue. Indeed, Kiarostami had initially thought about
centering the film around a psychoanalyst who had to see her clients in
her car after a complaint to authorities had forced her to close her practice.
The author eventually abandoned this idea for the script, precisely to avoid
reducing his film to monologues by patients. Yet words may also intersect
whenever a balanced dialogue takes place between the two participants,
as is the case in the discussion between the driver and the prostitute. At
other times, the driver has the upper hand in the exchange, as when she
gives a telling-off to a friend depressed by a break-up. At the crossroads
between the material world and human relations, the variable turns the
dispositive into a creative object: the structure of the places, with their
technical constraints, reveals the circumstances of a rich and diverse reality.
So it goes at a higher level, with the exchange between protagonists (II)
and the values this exchange conveys (III). The intonation of the voice does,
for example, involve a variable, the tone used, from which all axiological
marks may be expressed: approval, disapproval, detachment – again, with
all the imaginable degrees in between. Through the variation of tones and
attitudes, the fascinating instability of human relations is given for us to
see in the course of the same conversation, something that a writer like
Nathalie Sarraute turned into a theme in France in the 1950s under the
name “tropisms.”
the car in Ten is headed in the many trips it takes and whether or not the
young boy incensed at his mother will some day make peace with her.
Indeed, before probing the meaning of things, the “film with dispositive”
gives us their existence to see. In the absence of a structured chronological
narrative, we do not seek to anticipate or interpret but instead live the
performance of actors in the present. The meaning of words uttered and the
values asserted or suggested are themselves given to see: the hermeneutic
activity, if it never really disappears on the side of spectators, accompanies
the film but does not ultimately constitute its end. In the last dialogue of
Ten, the relation between the mother and her young son has not evolved:
to mark his disapproval, the child asks again to spend the evening at his
grandmother’s rather than with his mother. The filmmaker shows us the
tension between the two protagonists, not to bring it to a resolution as
would a transitive narrative, but to keep emphasizing it.
Accordingly, the dispositive invites a vertical rather than horizontal
reception of the work: in Ten, as I already pointed out, we are invited to
sense, under the appearance of perceptible phenomena, the interior world in
whose depths the hypnotic rhythm of the vehicle puts each character, and to
which the dispositive of a car conversation alone may here give access. This
is due to the impossibility for the filmmaker to represent the world of affects
directly. The consequences for the philosophy of the narrative as developed
by Paul Ricoeur have deep ramifications in this instance, for where Ricœur
shows the hermeneutic role of the transitive narrative (which makes time
human by configuring it and endowing it with signification22), the “filmic
narrative with dispositive” differs in its sensorial and existential function.
Framing the performance of actors within a given situation, it chiefly aims
to show what is. Moreover, whereas traditional narratives readily capture
our attention through the mise en scène of enigmas, events whose meaning
calls for elucidation, the dispositive, as we saw with chance and violence
in Elephant, reveals the incomprehensible, that which by definition will
never fully make sense.23
22 “Time and Narrative: Threefold Mimesis,” in Paul Ricœur, Time and Narrative, vol. I (Chicago:
The University of Chicago Press, 1984) 52-90.
23 On the novel, Marie-Thérèse Mathet notes: “Contrary to the secret and the enigma, the incom-
prehensible lurks in the heart of the story. It is not reliant on narrative strategies or modes, which
it transcends, even as it uses them.” “Incompréhensible et structure narrative,” L’Incompréhensible.
Littérature, réel, visuel, ed. Marie-Thérèse Mathet (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2003) 194.
210 Philippe Ortel
It is not rare, however, for a film to simultaneously lend itself to both types
of reading, one founded on anticipation and interpretation, the other sensi-
tive to dispositive effects. This is the case when a sequence of actions also
constitutes an almost autonomous performance with respect to the rest of
the story. In the most famous scene of Safety Last (1923), Harold Lloyd’s
vertical journey on the façade of a Los Angeles skyscraper initially follows
the linear and chronological order of the classical narrative, since it raises
the traditional question of the outcome of the chase: will the hero make it
to the last floor, the condition for him to receive the bonus from the store
whose publicity he ensures through his feat as he stands in for his friend Bill,
inconveniently chased by a policeman? However, the sequence emphasizes
the space of the façade to such an extent that the principle of variation
specific to some dispositives doubles and absorbs the principle of evolution
that characterizes transitive narration. As time elapses, we no longer only
project ourselves in thought towards the outcome of the amazing effort,
but we also remain fascinated by the relations emerging between the hero
and the building. Instead of blending into each other, the space (I) and the
action, which here is the interaction (II) between the main protagonist and
his immediate environment, are at odds. The façade is not a mere setting,
nor even an actant of the “opponent” type within an actantial model: it is,
rather, the matrix of potential interactions, the most spectacular of which
features Lloyd hanging from the hands of a clock. The narrative sequence,
while still anchored in a chronology, thus also poetically opens up the field
of possibilities: the paradigmatic axis of all the acrobatic feats this type of
situation is liable to produce gradually emerges in the minds of spectators
outside the chronology. As to the symbolic dimension, it feeds into our
fascination by casting light on the disproportion instituted in twentieth-
century cities between their residents and buildings no longer on their scale.
Transitive narration and intransitivity are also coextensive whenever
a f ilm is seen again. Once the outcome and the steps leading to it are
known, the perspective on the work becomes more tabular, as it would
in a critical analysis. The retrospective look makes the different stages
of the narrative simultaneous and, rather than considering them in their
succession, establishes a comparative relation between them that mediates
the passage from one to the other through the memory we have of the film
as a whole. Juxtaposed in the minds of spectators, then, are the transitive
filmic narration and an agency larger than the narrative – the ideal space
The “Dispositive Effect” in Film Narrative 211
of creation, where the parts of the work lie side by side rather than follow
each other because a global intuition of what she or he does is assumed
on the author’s part. Upon viewing The Duchess of Langeais a second
time, the role played by hangings is more noticeable, whether it is over
the gate separating the choir from the public area in the convent where
Montriveau meets the Duchess long after the Parisian years, or in Paris at the
heroine’s apartment. The monastic effect produced by these windows blind
to the outside world announces the Duchess’s future religious calling while
expressing her feeling of oppression at a passion of which she refuses to be
captive. These various screens may themselves be associated with the many
shawls, veils, and dresses the Duchess makes use of to seduce Montriveau
while keeping him at bay. To trained observers, the return of the same
places or props situates the latter at the intersection of two logics: within a
transitive narration, they serve as temporal marks, highlighting what has
changed from one instance to the next. An example is the living room where
the encounter took place, and which will also be the place of the break-up.
In the ideal space of creation, however, the return of places or props is the
source of poetic variations separate from spatial and temporal coordinates.
Superimposed, the different sofas on which the Duchess lounges may thus
retrospectively turn out to be as many traps whose effects vary according to
circumstances. The matrices of potential interactions, these props – when
considered retrospectively – function as dispositives.
Our two logics should therefore be organized into a hierarchy: either one
constitutes a dominant element depending on the author, the period or the
aesthetic involved; or on whether the film is seen for the first time or is the
object of subsequent viewings.
Inventing Dispositives
There remains the case of when the film single-handedly invents disposi-
tives without equivalent in social life. These then owe their existence solely
to the conjunction of a way of filming and realities to which the filmmaker
assigns a new, mysterious function destined to fade with the last images of
the film. Abbas Kiarostami magnificently achieves such magic in some of
the five sequences from Five (2004), a set of short films which prove closer
to video art than to traditional cinema. In the fourth sequence, the most
playful of all, some ducks are shown waddling in a row at different paces
on the seashore, first in one direction, then in the other. At once comic and
poetic, the performance arises from the conjunction of our three factors.
212 Philippe Ortel
Materially speaking, the horizon, the line of the water and the strip of sand,
shot frontally, outline the path taken by the feathered creatures (I). This
outline appears to condition the parade effect (II) that makes their passing
so comical, based on several variables lying at the intersection of material
reality and the intentionality that may be attributed to the protagonists
of the film. The speed of the web-footed birds, their number, the distance
between them, or the orientation of their stride – mostly rectilinear, at times
astray – thus all vary. In turn, starting from the principle of regularity, their
behavior opens onto multiple variations on the superior level of values (III):
alienation of the individual from the group, or on the contrary manifestation
of independence in the case of a deviation from standard demeanor, for the
message of this little film is subtly political. Lines of horizon and seafront
(I), alignment of animals (II) and lines of conduct (III) thus overlap in
a unified whole that has no referent in real life, since no specific ritual
corresponds to it. For this very reason though, this whole opens the minds
of spectators to the pleasure “without concept” (Kant) of analogies: these
ducks, who are as moving as they are laughable, walking over a backdrop
of infinity towards some mysterious destination before eventually turning
back chaotically and precipitately, are also a comical and poignant image
of human destiny, with its advances and its reversals, its arrogance and
its doubts, in a mix of the grotesque and the sublime resulting from the
unexpected encounter between the very limited world of animals and the
boundless space of the sea. If he does not narrate anything, Kiarostami
still rediscovers one of the traditional underpinnings of fables: speaking
of humans through animals, without even having to endow them with the
ability to speak, in this particular case.
Why is our time so sensitive to this dispositive effect, which may be found
at other moments in the history of cinema, but less intensely than today?
Probably because we are living in a time when mediations are shown and
the distinctive feature of a “dispositive aesthetic” is to have the components
of representation mediate one another, precisely, rather than merge them
into the movement of a transitive narrative. To be sure, this mediation
proceeds without any genuine tension, for social life always harmonizes
its means according to an end that is beyond them; yet this mediation
involves an omnipresence and a visibility never seen before. The politician
calling on a mediator to bring some conflict to a resolution explicitly puts
the symbolic sphere of power in a situation of dependence on a pragmatic
mediation. Whoever communicates through the Internet makes the same
pragmatic relation depend on a technical mediation whose constraints she
or he knows perfectly well. What society does on a large scale, mimesis does
The “Dispositive Effect” in Film Narrative 213
on a small scale, with its own means. The dispositive effect, which plays a
critical and poetic role with great filmmakers, is therefore not immune to
a certain conformism, in the literal sense of the word: it also conforms to
what society invents and shares the dynamism as well as the limitations of
this partly unconscious collective invention. It comes as no surprise, then,
that mainstream films are taking it over: the choral form is a good example,
as in the very typical Hollywood product Vantage Point (2008), which tells
the story of an assassination attempt on the President of the United States;
or in 11:14 (2003), a little thriller skillfully going round in circles by showing
the same spatio-temporal framework from the point of view of several
characters – this until the character seen at the beginning, apparently
exterior to the story, turns out to be its keystone in the last sequence.
In Vantage Point, which begins in a mobile television studio meant to
cover the President’s speech, the choral form perfectly follows, thanks to
its circularity, the 360-degree perception our society of control produces
of itself at this point. It simply expands to time itself the principle of an
all-seeing power performed by surveillance cameras in space, as it has us
relive the event several times. As to 11:14, though it uses the same method
as Elephant to show youths confronted with transgression and death, it
obviously has nothing to do with Gus Van Sant’s film. While Elephant
analyzes, suspends interpretation, lets loose the sequence of causes and
effects, the other film, on the contrary, synthesizes several chains of events
through the choral form to celebrate the magic of coincidences and create
spectacle.
The dispositive effect is thus not a guarantee of originality or depth, for
it is obviously not the method that makes the work, but the way in which
artists position themselves with respect to what they show us, in a position
so singular each time that no critical model could hope to account for it
entirely.
III.
Dispositives
Histories
The Social Imaginary of Telephony
Fictional Dispositives in Albert Robida’s Le Vingtième Siècle
and the Archeology of “Talking Cinema”1
Alain Boillat
1 Translator’s note: the French expression “cinéma parlant” (literally, “talking cinema”) is
usually translated as “sound cinema” in English, but given the focus of this chapter and the
existence of the term “talkies” in English, it is translated as “talking cinema” here.
2 The attention given to “talkies before (the institutionalization of) talkies” should be placed
in the context of recent research on “the archaeology” of the pairing between moving images
and synchronized sound. On this point, see Edouard Arnoldy, Pour une histoire culturelle du
cinéma. Au-devant de “scènes filmées”, de “films chantants et parlants” et de comédies musicales
(Liège: Céfal, 2004) as well as the contributions published in Le Muet a la parole. Cinéma et
performance à l’aube du XXe siècle, Giusy Pisano and Valérie Pozner, eds. (Paris: AFRHC, 2005).
3 This reflection, one dimension of which is being considered here, started in other places, in
particular in Du bonimenteur à la voix-over. Voix-attraction et voix-narration au cinéma (Laus-
anne: Antipodes, 2007); and in “The lecturer, the image, the machine and the audio-spectator.
The voice as a component part of audio-visual dispositives” and “On the particular status of the
human voice. Tomorrow’s Eve and the cultural series of talking machines,” both published in
Cinema Beyond Film: Media Epistemology in the Modern Era (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University
Press, 2010), 215-31 and 233-51, respectively.
218 Alain Boillat
Telephone Cinematograph
Listeners-Users Spectators
Domestic space, individual use Public space, collective participation
Simultaneous interactive communication Unidirectional, deferred transmission
Reversibility of the poles of communication: Reversibility of the Lumière appliance:
listener/speaker recording/projection6
4 Elisha Gray or Antonio Meucci have also been credited with the invention, and this disputed
paternity is indicative of the more general relation between research on the electric distance
transmission of a voice and the spirit of an era, when similar experiments were being carried
out concurrently.
5 On this account, I could make the following observation my own: “Classifications, it seems to
us, appear tenuous when their aim is to define media out of univocal functions, at all costs, even
if it means overshadowing both their hybrid nature and their uses, and precluding thinking on
their intersections, their geneses, and their developments.” François Albera and Maria Tortajada,
“Prolégomènes à une critique des ‘télé-dispositifs’,” in La Télévision, du téléphonoscope à YouTube.
Pour une archéologie de l’audiovision, Mireille Berton and Anne-Katrin Weber, eds. (Lausanne:
Antipodes, 2009) 39.
6 All the more so when considering, as Rick Altman does, the changeable character of experi-
ments with sonorization. See Sound Theory, Sound Practice, ed. Rick Altman (New York, London:
Routledge, 1992).
The Social Imaginary of Telephony 219
devices – gave rise to a wide variety of distinct uses and dispositives which
may not be reduced solely to the parameters mentioned above. A convincing
example could be the first Kinetophone, commercialized by Edison in 1895,
which resulted from a combination of the Phonograph and the Kinetoscope
previously exploited in the same parlors7 (if in a totally independent man-
ner: customers would listen to music on one side, watch animated views
on the other). These places of mass entertainment thus housed separately
two techniques meant for specific uses, and which were later combined in
a single system thanks to the synchronization of the Phonograph’s cylinder
and the film running in the Kinetoscope. Like the telephone booth, then,
the Kinetophone required the user to handle an audio receiver in a public
space. This type of convergence highlights the importance of diachronic
variations affecting different cultural series in which a given technology
may find a place (successively or simultaneously).8
7 See the illustration reproduced in Georges Sadoul, Histoire générale du cinéma, vol. 1 (Paris:
Denoël, 1946) 268.
8 The notion of “cultural series” is borrowed from André Gaudreault, and notably his “Les
vues cinématographiques selon Georges Méliès, ou: comment Mitry et Sadoul avaient peut-être
raison d’avoir tort (même si c’est surtout Deslandes qu’il faut lire et relire)…,” in Georges Méliès,
l’illusionniste fin de siècle? Jacques Malthête and Michel Marie, eds. (Paris: Sorbonne Nouvelle, 1997).
9 “Dispositive” here refers to a set of interactions between the poles of machinery, representa-
tion and spectator. On this conception, see Maria Tortajada and François Albera, “L’Epistémè
‘1900’,” in Le Cinématographe, nouvelle technologie du XXe siècle, André Gaudreault, Catherine
Russell and Pierre Véronneau, eds. (Lausanne: Payot, 2004).
10 “Le télégraphe parlant,” La Nature 198 (17 Mar. 1877): 251.
11 For a narrative use of this kind of application, see Alexandre Dumas’s Le Comte de Monte-
Christo (vol. II, chapters LX to LXVI).
220 Alain Boillat
the reading of daily newspapers, prefiguring news reports on the radio and
on television; questions addressed to the interlocutor by dumbfounded
observers, evoking the context of conjuring or séances (surprisingly, one
person did in fact ask the interlocutor to predict the future!); finally, the
transmission of music, “as if we had been in a concert hall.” This precision by
the writer echoes the function Philippe Reiss (Germany) had foreseen for the
telephone, and which was assumed by photographic technique, precisely.
In his praise of talking pictures, a form of filmed speech that introduced
the series of the first Vitaphone Shorts, William Hays also considered that
the primary function of sound cinema lay in a wider access to classical
music.12 These different media had clearly been devised for similar uses,
even as other directions more specific to each of them later developed.
The diversity of uses considered for the telephone in the 1870s and
the 1880s points to an intermedial phase in Rick Altman’s definition of
the term, that is, as a temporary “crisis of mediality” later resolved in
the autonomy gained by the media. Altman significantly brings up this
situation of intermediality in relation to the period when sound cinema
became widespread, which he distinguishes from the two previous decades,
more stable in that respect: “From the 1910s on, cinema appeared as such
in the great book of media, next to the telephone, the phonograph, and
the radio.”13 The mention of the telephone is interesting since there was
no clear-cut separation between the uses of telephony and those of the
cinematographic spectacle over the period 1895-1910. Indeed, as Patrice
Carré has underlined, the applications of this invention remained to be
12 On Hays’s oral performance in this film projected on August 6, 1926 in New York, see Alain
Boillat, Du bonimenteur à la voix-over 296-98. A transcription of the speech may be found in
The Dawn of Sound, ed. Mary-Lea Bandy (New York: Museum for Modern Art, 1989) 17. Here I
am referring more particularly to the following passage: “In the presentation of these pictures,
music plays an invaluable part. The motion picture is a most potent factor in the development
of a national appreciation of good music. That service will now be extended as the Vitaphone
shall carry symphony orchestras to the townhalls of the hamlets.” The films following this
introduction did in fact include only instrumental performances or opera singers. The choice
matched the substance of Hays’s address, since the president of the MPPDA never touched on
the talking cinema he was then “actualizing” through his recorded speech, only evoking the
possibility of reproducing the performance of great music. On the Vitaphone Shorts, see Edouard
Arnoldy, Pour une histoire culturelle du cinéma 63-73. As to Albert Robida, he pointed out in
his fiction Le Vingtième Siècle: “The spectator is not just one in a restricted Paris or Brussels
audience; all viewers, even in the comfort of their own home, are part of the great international
public.” See Albert Robida, The Twentieth Century (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press,
2004) 54.
13 Rick Altman, “Technologie et textualité de l’intermédialité,” Sociétés & représentations 9
(2000): 12.
The Social Imaginary of Telephony 221
defined, and as Ithiel de Sola Pool has shown, countless predictions were
made in the nineteenth century about telephony and the possible changes
it would involve for society 14 – many largely determined by the social space
of reception: “In the late nineteenth century, it was still unclear to what use
the telephone should be put. An auxiliary to the telegraph, a complement
to the phonograph? Consumers were to make the decision.”15
The combination of the telephone and the phonograph may seem
unusual if these technologies are considered only from the standpoint of
their autonomy as media: indeed, the telephone has been limited to direct
communication, while the phonograph was intended for keeping a record
of sounds. Still, this conception of an interaction between devices, which
was in fact recurrent at the time, reveals the lack of a strict division between
functions that later tended to be classified in distinct or even opposite
paradigms. According to James Lastra, the two major criteria governing
the reception of technologies since the nineteenth century and feeding
the social imaginary they generate (and which in return generates them)
have been inscription – the record of an (audio)visual manifestation on a
medium – and simulation (in the sense of the production of a representa-
tion that serves as a simulacrum).16 Properly speaking, the telephone does
not involve either in the dominant uses of it that became established in
the early twentieth century, since it mainly belonged in a third paradigm,
communication.17 However, to demonstrate the extent to which categories
allowing us to think about a technology at a given moment of its history have
an effect on the uses of that same technology, James Lastra brings up the
example of telephony,18 precisely, and more specifically, two ways in which
it was apprehended. On the one hand, the telephone was considered as an
extension of the ear, as a device mostly devoted to listening to a concert or
actualités in a program (a use similar to that of the recording of sounds, put
In the phase when uses specific to a media become defined, a whole set
of conditions of possibility is thus determined by what Flichy considers
– within a perspective akin to epistemology, though he does not openly
claim this influence – as an ensemble of “technical imaginaries.” One of the
privileged sites of this type of discursive formations happens to be novelistic
fiction, which can afford to integrate hypothetical devices and uses in the
counter-factual world it proposes. One of the objects of study recommended
by Flichy lies in what François Albera has tentatively called “projected
cinema”22 – the projection, in the form of technical extrapolations in literary
(or para-literary) texts of a cinema to come, or more largely, as I suggest
here, of a dispositive featuring a machinery as one of its components. As
such, one of the works by French novelist and draftsman Albert Robida,
The Twentieth Century (1883), constitutes a good object to approach the
“frames of reference” prevalent at the time telephony appeared, and which
shaped discourses and practices. Admittedly, the reference to this work
has become a topos in discourses on the archaeology of media because it
19 One could say that the aspects mentioned by Lastra are tied to a more general conception
of technology as a prosthetic development of the human. This conception already held true for
the telegraph, as the following citation (dated 1860) illustrates: “[You only need] to repeat this
movement in Strasbourg, absolutely as though the hand of the person located in Paris could
stretch as far as Strasbourg to set in motion directly the sounder of the receiver.” Le Magasin
pittoresque (1860), quoted in Carré, Télégraphes. Innovations techniques et société au 19e siècle 41.
20 Lastra, Sound Technology and The American Cinema 21.
21 Patrice Flichy, Understanding Technological Innovation: A Socio-Technical Approach (Glos,
U.K., Northampton, MA: Edward Elgar Publishing, 2007) 120.
22 François Albera, “Le cinéma ‘projeté’ et les périodisations de l’histoire technique du cinéma,”
in Le Età del Cinema/The Ages of Cinema, Enrico Biasin, Roy Menerani and Federico Zecca, eds.
(Udine: DAMS Gorizia, 2008) 393-400.
The Social Imaginary of Telephony 223
A Reticular Conception
23 “Subscribers ordering the new service could have the apparatus adapted to their telephones
for an extra monthly fee.” Robida, The Twentieth Century 51.
24 According to Joseph Libois, the f irst devices appeared in France in 1881 and numbered
no more than 3,500 units for the whole country in 1883. See Libois, Genèse et croissance des
télécommunications (Paris: Masson, 1983). The statistical table is reprinted in Perriault, La
Logique de l’usage 174.
25 A comparative study remains to be done on discourses on telephonic audition and visual
stimuli experienced in train travel in the first years of the twentieth century. On train travel,
see Wolfgang Schivelbusch, The Railway Journey: The Industrialization of Time and Space in the
Nineteenth Century (1977; Berkeley, Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1986); Livio Belloï,
Regard retourné. Aspect du cinéma des premiers temps (Québec/Paris: Nota Bene/Méridiens
Klincksieck, 2001); Mireille Berton, “Train, cinéma, modernité: entre hystérie et hypnose,”
Décadrages 6: 8-21.
224 Alain Boillat
We like to think that in the year 2000 the telephone will have the mag-
nitude of the much more simple invention that is the stove. This is the
most humble example that may be used. Let’s say that the large-size
generating telephone is in the Théâtre français for instance, near the
footlights. Through a hundred or a hundred and twenty wires it conveys
everything being uttered at the theater to a hundred or a hundred and
twenty telephone mouthpieces laid out in apartments like our current
26 Stephen Kern, The Culture of Time and Space: 1880-1918 (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson,
1983).
27 Robida, The Twentieth Century 3-14.
28 Robida, The Twentieth Century 48, 50.
29 Due to the need for refueling points for steam engines, the development of running water
was partly tied to that of the railroad.
30 Robida, The Twentieth Century 55n (my emphasis).
The Social Imaginary of Telephony 225
31 Henri Giffard, Le Téléphone expliqué à tout le monde (1878), quoted in Alec Mellor, La
Fabuleuse Aventure du téléphone (Paris: Montparnasse, 1975) 12.
226 Alain Boillat
32 This type of verbal interaction starts with the phone call, which linguist Catherine Kerbrat-
Orecchioni does not hesitate to characterize as a “territorial violation” and a “sound assault.”
See C. Kerbrat-Orecchioni, “Théorie des faces et analyse conversationnelle,” in Le Parler frais
d’Erving Goffman, ed. Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe (Paris: Minuit, 1989) 158.
The Social Imaginary of Telephony 227
33 These are Amore (Roberto Rossellini, 1948) and The Human Voice (Ted Kotcheff, 1966). I
would like to mention a few sentences in this one-act monolog by Cocteau, in which the condi-
tional is the last protection in the face of despair and where the life of the female protagonist,
brokenhearted by a separation, hangs by a thread, the wire of the telephone and the last contact
with her lover: “If you did not love me and were shrewd, the phone would become a frightening
weapon. A weapon that leaves no trace, a silent weapon…” Farther on: “This phone call became
like a real blow you were dealing me and I fell; or a neck, a neck being strangled, or […] I was
connected to you through a breathing device and I implored you not to cut it off […].” Jean
Cocteau, La Voix humaine, in Romans, poésies, œuvres diverses (Paris: Le Livre de Poche, 1995)
1104, 1108. Translator’s note: the original French text plays on words and their homophony in a
way that gets lost in English: “coup de fil” means “phone call,” “coup” means “blow,” while “cou”
is “neck.”
34 In a way, this is a literal application of Avital Ronell’s remarks on the schizophrenic dimen-
sion of the “tongue” in the Heideggerian sense, where it becomes one and the same with this
228 Alain Boillat
Fig. 3a-3c. Wes Craven’s Nightmare (Wes Craven, 1994) © New Line Cinema.
relayed by the television set as the vehicle for a passage from the real world
to the world of nightmares. In that respect, it should be noted that Robida
also has the young woman woken from a deep sleep by the device hidden
under her pillow. After being frightened by a flood of tragic wire stories,
Hélène “started to wonder whether she was dreaming or awake.”35 Tom
other human prosthesis that is the telephone. Avital Ronell, The Telephone Book. Technology,
Schizophrenia, Electric Speech (Lincoln, NE, London: University of Nebraska Press, 1991) 168.
35 Robida, The Twentieth Century 28. The dream provides access to a beyond – the baleful
creature created by Wes Craven is in fact dead in the “real” world – which makes a sequence
The Social Imaginary of Telephony 229
such as this one evoke the spiritualist imaginary of the electric transmission of a voice, further
reinforced with the generalization of wireless telephony. On this aspect, see Jeffrey Sconce,
Haunted Media: Electronic Presence from Telegraphy to Television (Durham: Duke University
Press, 2000).
36 Tom Gunning, “Heard over the phone: The Lonely Villa and the De Lorde tradition of the
terrors of technology,” Screen 32.2 (1991): 184-96.
37 André De Lorde and Charles Foley, Au téléphone (1902; Paris: Librairie Molière, 1909).
38 Claude S. Fischer, America Calling. A Social History of the Telephone to 1940 (Berkeley, Los
Angeles, Oxford: University of California Press, 1992) 25.
39 Quoted in Fischer, America Calling 165.
40 Robida, The Twentieth Century 31.
230 Alain Boillat
41 In another passage in the story, Mr. Ponto tells how, because of the mistake of a clerk at the
central office, he was able to catch a young woman as she was getting out of bed. Robida, The
Twentieth Century 66.
42 Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (1968; Cambridge: MIT
Press, 1994) 266.
43 In the French edition, the caption to plate nº31 (a full-page color drawing) reads, “Morality,
tranquillity, felicity. – Telephone courtship.”
44 Marc de Montifaud, “Le Téléphone,” Nouvelles drolatiques (Paris: B. Simon et Cie, 1889) 933.
The Social Imaginary of Telephony 231
resort to the metaphor of the telephone to achieve his ends. 45 The telephone
is associated with private secrets and intimate interpersonal conversation
– this relation of desire between two disembodied voices runs through
Duras’s Navire Night (1979) – and therefore pertains to an imaginary quite
removed from the cinematographic spectacle, destined for a large audience
gathered in the same space. 46 While some developments of the telephone
45 To his wife, who fears she may have “to learn how to use [it] the hard way,” the husband
answers, “No, your role could perfectly consist in listening to me; I will… speak to you first; you
will then answer me using the same method; and you will see, we will get along as though we
had done it our entire life.” De Montifaud, “Le téléphone,” Nouvelles drolatiques 959.
46 McLuhan stressed – failing to take into account the context of the period, def ined as
“strange,” as though institutional uses were self-evident – how telephony was oriented toward
other uses than those contemplated at the end of the nineteenth century because of the relation
of intimacy it establishes with the user: “Curiously, the newspaper of that time saw the telephone
as a rival to the press as a P.A. system, such as radio was in fact to be fifty years later. But the
232 Alain Boillat
were specifically tied to the commerce of eroticism (the sex chat lines with
the Minitel and the computer-telephone integration, for instance), a better
equivalent of this private use would be the home consumption of films.
Jacques Perriault indicates that in 1980, 75% of the VHS tapes sold in France
were pornographic. This type of production decisively contributed to the
creation of a video market, which quickly became diversified afterwards. 47
Films such as Videodrome (David Cronenberg, 1982), Next of Kin (Atom
Egoyan, 1984), Sex, Lies and Videotape (Steven Soderbergh, 1989), or
more recently Lost Highway (David Lynch, 1997), have problematized
this resolutely intimate aspect of the VCR, comparable in that respect to
the telephone.
telephone, intimate and personal, is the most removed of any medium from the P.A. form. Thus
wire-tapping seems even more odious than the reading of other people’s letters.” McLuhan,
Understanding Media 269.
47 Perriault, La Logique de l’usage 167.
48 Robida, The Twentieth Century 11. Translator’s note: the word “audition,” emphasized by the
author in Robida’s original text in French, is omitted in the English translation.
The Social Imaginary of Telephony 233
49 André Lange, “En attendant la guerre des ondes, les technologies de communication dans
les anticipations militaires d’Albert Robida,” Le Téléphonoscope 11 (May 2004): 8-10.
50 See my study “Faire pour la vue ce que le téléphone fait pour l’ouïe,” more particularly 84-88.
234 Alain Boillat
51 See the short story L’Encéphaloscope (Der Gehirnspiegel, 1900) by Kurd Lasswitz, trans.
Stefania Maffei, in La Télévision, du téléphonoscope à Youtube 99-106.
52 On the subject, see Henri Azam’s essay “Télégraphie sans fil et médiumnité,” published
monthly between March 1925 and December 1926 as a series of articles in La Revue spirite, and
whose first text was presented by the editors as follows: “With the breakthroughs of science in
the domain of radio-telegraphy, heeding the scientists specializing in this area becomes highly
interesting, as does – when they are also spiritualists – the study of the parallelism, the analogy of
physical and psychical worlds.” La Revue spirite. Journal d’études psychologiques et de spiritualisme
expérimental, Paris (Feb. 1925): 66 (my emphasis). Allan Kardec, the founder of La Revue spirite
in 1858, explained what the relation with the invisible world of spirits consisted in, comparing
it with what the transatlantic electric wire could have taught Europeans about Amerindian
peoples before the discovery of America. See Allan Kardec, Qu’est-ce que le spiritisme? Introduc-
tion à la connaissance du monde invisible par les manifestations des esprits (1859; Paris: Editions
Vermet, 2005) 51. On the relations between spiritualism and telephony, see my study of Villiers
de l’Isle-Adam’s novel Tomorrow’s Eve, “On the particular status of the human voice. Tomorrow’s
Eve and the cultural series of talking machines,” Cinema Beyond Film 240-42, and more generally
Jeffrey Sconce, Haunted Media: Electronic Presence from Telegraphy to Television.
53 These appear in increasing order of potential intersections with related systems of talking
cinema.
The Social Imaginary of Telephony 235
54 See Sandrine Doré, “Albert Robida, critique en image de l’actualité théâtrale des années
1870-1880,” in Albert Robida, du passé au futur, ed. Daniel Compère (Paris: Belles-Lettres, 2006).
55 See Tom Gunning, “The Cinema of Attractions. Early Film, Its Spectator and the Avant-
Garde,” Wide Angle 8.3-4 (1986): 63-70.
56 The term was proposed by Tom Gunning to refer to a first phase in the use of the cinemato-
graphic dispositive. See Tom Gunning, “The Scene of Speaking: Two Decades of Discovering the
Film Lecturer,” Iris 27 (1999): 67-79.
236 Alain Boillat
The telephone link not only makes it possible to connect subscribers to the
place of the show: it also connects two institutions internal to the produc-
63 See Laurent Guido, L’Âge du rythme (Lausanne: Payot, 2007) 404-408; and Boillat, Du
bonimenteur à la voix-over 92, n162.
64 A 1909 column on a specific projection system thus highlighted the interest of “bringing
the lecturer and the lantern projectionist closer” and “the ease for them to communicate during
the performance.” “Projections dactylographiques,” in Ciné-Journal 37 (29 Apr. - 5 May 1909).
65 “In front of the lecturer was a row of small knobs and a mysterious and silent dialogue existed
between the booth and him, a dialogue punctuated with red, white, green or blue lights. These
meant, ‘Show a still view, start the film.’ Or they indicated that the orchestra should stop, start
again, change the score.” See Rodolphe-Maurice Arlaud, Cinéma Bouffe (Paris: Editions Jacques
Melot, 1945) 79 (my emphasis).
238 Alain Boillat
saw in its success the possibility of combining the cinematograph and the
phonograph through a telephone wire.”66
In these experiences of projection of moving images with sound, trans-
mission does not occur between the representation and the audience – that
axis is still governed by the paradigm of simulation (of a diegetic world) – but
rather between two agents in the space of production of the representation.
This type of system was available at Pathé when the company commercial-
ized its Ciné-Phono around 1906: interestingly, one of the advertising posters
for this kind of spectacle (Fig. 5)67 features an egg-shaped projected image
(as in Robida’s illustrations of the telephonoscope, but in this instance
most certainly to refer to the firm’s logo, a medallion featuring a rooster).
The projection seems to result from a beam of light issuing from the pho-
nograph’s horn, as though sound came first (and in fact, the slogan puts
“to hear” before “to see”). The distinction proposed by François Albera
and André Gaudreault between the bonimenteur and the conférencier in
early cinema,68 displaced onto this context, suggests an interpretation of
this image as a phonographic audition accompanied with images rather
than a cinematographic projection with sound. Another contemporary
illustration, reproduced without commentary in Giusy Pisano’s book, fea-
tures the Pathé device designed for the projection of “cine-phonographic
scenes” (Fig. 6).69 It clearly shows that this system of live synchronization,
akin to the Phono-Cinéma-Théâtre presented by Clément-Maurice in 1900,
allowed a connection to the projection booth and the phonograph located
in the spectatorial space, thanks to a telephone receiver. The projectionist
set the projection speed to the sounds produced by the cylinder of the
phonograph. This representation of a film show in a 1905 Pathé catalog is
unusual in that it does not seem to be a public projection site but a screening
for a limited number of spectators. This is suggested by the paintings and
the chandelier, which, like the dress and the posture of spectators, point
to a bourgeois home or the privacy of a curio cabinet, and contrast quite
a lot with the commercial presence of the cinematograph in fairs. Since
amplification constituted a major problem for sound cinema at the time, it
is not surprising that the show would be imagined in a relatively cramped
space. An operator stands in each of the spaces; the person in charge of the
66 Giusy Pisano, Une archéologie du cinéma sonore (Paris: CNRS, 2004) 159.
67 The poster is reprinted in Jacques Kermabon, Pathé, premier Empire du cinéma (Paris: Centre
Pompidou, 1994) 22.
68 See François Albera, André Gaudreault, “Apparition, disparition et escamotage du ‘boni-
menteur’ dans l’historiographie française du cinéma,” Le Muet a la parole 169-70.
69 Giusy Pisano, Une archéologie du cinéma sonore 267.
The Social Imaginary of Telephony 239
phonograph becomes idle after the machine starts but may conceivably
intervene as a lecturer, or bonimenteur, in the absence of a phonographic
recording. A partition separates the place where the projectionist stands
from the space of reception, probably so that the noise of the projector does
not drown out the sounds emitted by the phonograph.70 Here the telephone
is reduced to a unidirectional transmission not addressed at the spectators
of the audiovisual representation, but used instead backstage to coordinate
the two sides of the machinery. This is to be distinguished from a system
such as the Phonorama (invented by Berthon, Dussaud and Jaubert in 1898),
which had spectators place a telephone receiver on one of their ears to be
able to listen to the sound accompanying the projected image and literally
integrated telephony into the cinematographic spectacle. Finally, on the
subject of these “Scènes Ciné-Phonographiques,” I should note that one of
the films commercialized by Pathé and mentioned by Giusy Pisano takes
on a particular signification, compared with the techniques involved in this
system. Titled Au téléphone and made in 1904, it showed and allowed one
to hear a monologue by music-hall artist Félix Galipaux. In this instance, as
70 Martin Barnier has noted that projection booths were common in early cinema and
that mechanical noise could have become a nuisance only as motorized projectors became
widespread during the First World War, not at the time when the projectionist turned a crank,
as is the case here. See Martin Barnier, Bruits, cris, musiques de films. Les projections avant 1914
(Rennes: PUR, 2010) 144-45. The issue of projector noise repeatedly comes up in discourses on
“silent” cinema: see Boillat, Du bonimenteur à la voix-over 130-48.
240 Alain Boillat
Since the usefulness of the “mere conversation” had not yet been acknowl-
edged, Edison thought of an association with the phonograph with a view
to a professional use of telephony, in particular in the domain of finance,
where the new device could play a role similar to that of the telegraph.
Robida himself imagined some combinations of these two techniques.
Despite the term used, his “telephonograph” has no relation to the recording
of sound, since the phonograph is limited to the function of a megaphone:
sound amplification simply allows the interlocutor to do without a pipe
connected to the device. It is a sort of “hands-free” system, as the expres-
sion goes today with respect to cellular phone capabilities (it is one of the
profiles for the Bluetooth standard). In other places, the novelist turns the
phonograph into a means of communication: for instance, after a shipwreck,
the captain throws six phonographs out to sea, with a distress message re-
corded on each of them.75 The phonographic recording thus mitigates spatial
distance, compensating it with a delayed transmission. In this case, the
recording of voices is subject to an objective, communicating information,
and thus appears in devices akin to voice mail or the Dictaphone. Robida
is rather critical of this semblance of communication, for several times he
emphasizes the lack experienced due to the absence of an interlocutor in
the flesh and the possibly deceptive simulation produced by techniques
76 Robida admittedly evokes the positive effects of the telephonoscope, since he mentions that
the device makes it possible to suppress absence. Nevertheless, that is an incidental comment by
a candid Hélène, which the narrative tends to contradict through the multiplication of negative
effects linked to the use of telecommunications. In fact, when Hélène brings up the fact that
“the telephonoscope reunites faraway loved ones,” the more experienced Mr. Ponto replies,
“Almost.” Robida, The Twentieth Century 65.
77 The representational nature of sound is rarely taken into account in media theories, probably
due to its less manifest character (except in the case of technical problems, which reveal it, pre-
cisely), and in any case less than the representational nature of the image, two-dimensional even
when monochrome. On the subject, see Alan Williams, “Is Sound Recording Like a Language?”
Yale French Studies 60 (1980); and Boillat, Du Bonimenteur à la voix-over 396-420.
78 Perriault, La Logique de l’usage 53.
79 For a more in-depth examination of this question, I refer the reader to my comments on the
“Android” in the novel Tomorrow’s Eve, “L’Eve future et la série culturelle des ‘machines parlantes.’
Le statut singulier de la voix humaine au sein d’un dispositif audiovisuel,” in Cinémas 17.1 (Fall
2006): 10-34; as for the links between “tele-vision” and “talking portraits,” see Boillat, “Faire pour
la vue ce que le téléphone fait pour l’ouïe”: 78-84.
The Social Imaginary of Telephony 243
not “welcomed with open arms and anxious hearts by their father and
mother,”80 as imagined by Hélène, the orphan accompanying them. On the
contrary, they are “surprised that neither their father nor their mother was
there to greet them”81 and learn coldly from a concierge speaking through
a telephonograph that their parents are not home yet. The father, who is
busy at the stock exchange, joins them later; to find out where his wife
is, he asks a servant to bring him “Mrs. Ponto’s phono.” The “dialogue”
between the young women and the recorded voice of their mother unfolds
as follows:
– Remember to change the flowers in the living room, said the telepho-
nograph.
– That’s Mama’s voice, exclaimed Barnabette, always the same.
– Go to the Trocadero for their samples of Régence satin and their noodles
from Colmar… Change the water in the aquarium… I’ll be back around
eleven…
– A h! exclaimed Barbe and Barnabette.
– … I am having lunch at the English Café with a few political lady friends.
The telephonograph stopped.
– That’s all? asked Barnabette. Nothing for us?82
The first sentence, whose grammatical subject is the machine, not the indi-
vidual uttering the words, produces a dehumanization that reinforces the
feeling of an absence of the mother, busy with other tasks. In a society that
has seen the emancipation of women, the wife of the rich banker, depicted
with a degree of misogyny by Robida, is very active politically. The dashes
signal that characters speak in turns, even though no genuine conversa-
tion is initiated, since the mother’s recorded speech does not allow for any
interaction. In fact, the lines of the young women act as commentaries,
allowing the novelist to signify their disappointment. While Barnabette
does find some pleasure in the recognition of her mother’s voice, which
brings a human dimension – the inalienable features of the voice’s texture
make it possible to reconstruct the presence of the speaker in part – she is
dumbfounded that no declaration is addressed to her, excluding her defini-
83 I want to point out that epistolary correspondence in The Twentieth Century also goes
through the phonograph, following a use that Du Moncel had contemplated. See Du Moncel,
Le Téléphone, le microphone et le phonographe 299-300.
84 The phonograph also provides quite a pathetic trace of the unfaithful Mr. Montgiscard to
his spouse-to-be, who in his absence has the device repeat the pledges of love he has recorded
with it. Robida, The Twentieth Century 217.
85 As to the phone conversation, it turns out to be a deception in the case of Jules Montgiscard’s
proposal, as if the absence of the interlocutor’s image enabled him to conceal his dishonesty.
Robida, The Twentieth Century 213-16.
86 Robida, The Twentieth Century 53.
87 Robida, The Twentieth Century 66.
88 Perriault, La Logique de l’usage 55.
89 “The project of realization [of an invention] is linked to the perception of an imbalance […]
[which] may be a lack of information, absence, loneliness, war, disability or handicap.” Perriault,
La Logique de l’usage 62.
90 De Lorde and Foley, Au téléphone 30.
The Social Imaginary of Telephony 245
95 See Martin Sopocy’s comments on James Williamson’s Are You Here: Martin Sopocy, “Un
cinéma avec narrateur. Les premiers films narratifs de James A. Williamson,” Les Cahiers de la
Cinémathèque 29 (Perpignan, 1979): 108-25.
96 François Albera, “Le cinéma ‘projeté’ et les périodisations de l’histoire technique du cinéma,”
Cinema Beyond Film 393. In a note, the author brings up the example of the “role of the telephone
in film narrative.”
97 Tom Gunning, “Fritz Lang Calling: The Telephone and the Circuits of Modernity,” in Al-
legories of Communication. Intermedial concerns from cinema to digital, John Fullerton and Jan
Olsson, eds. (Rome: John Libbey, 2004) 23.
98 See Eileen Bowser, “Le coup de téléphone dans les primitifs du cinéma,” in Les Premiers
Ans du cinéma français, ed. Pierre Guibbert (Perpignan: Institut Jean Vigo, 1985); Jan Olsson,
“Calling the Shots: Communication, Transportation and Motion Picture Technologies in the
Teens,” in Le Cinématographe 273-81; by the same author, on the technique of the split screen,
see “Framing Silent Calls: Coming to Cinematographic Terms with Telephony,” in Allegories of
Communication 157-92.
99 See Philippe Gauthier, Le Montage alterné avant Griffith. Le cas Pathé (Paris: L’Harmattan,
2008) 113-15.
100 Maurizio Ferraris, T’es où? Ontologie du téléphone mobile (2005; Paris: Albin Michel, 2006),
part I.
The Social Imaginary of Telephony 247
Fig. 8. The movie theater comes with the telephone. ®Etienne Lavallée.
101 Friedrich Kittler, Gramophone, Film, Typewriter (Stanford: Stanford U.P., 1999).
Between Paradoxical Spectacles and
Technical Dispositives
Looking Again at the (Serpentine) Dances of Early Cinema
Laurent Guido
When trying to grasp the complex relationships between dance and moving
images, during the emergence of the cinematic medium, one can hardly
avoid noticing the necessity of investigate, once again, the films dedicated
to the famous number of “serpentine” dance developed and started in 1892
by music-hall performer Loïe Fuller. The phenomenal craze created by
this original stage spectacle ended up imposing it as one of the motifs
characterizing artistic expression at the turn of the twentieth century.
Countless variations have attested to this, at least until the First World War,
in areas as diverse as sculpture, painting, architecture, furniture, or even
poetry and literature. Over the period, the serpentine dance continuously
exerted its influence over the most innovative aesthetic currents, from
the heirs of Symbolism through the Futurists to decorative trends typical
of Art Nouveau. Seeking to explain this stunning success, several studies
have shown how Fuller’s performances were made possible by important
epistemological changes following the emergence of a large ensemble of
scientific and technical dispositives.1 On the one hand, the serpentine
dance, like other spectacles designed by Fuller, featured a stylized apprehen-
sion of a form of mobility constantly tending toward abstraction, on the
model of new rationalized perceptions of the human body. On the other
hand, the same Fullerian shows expressed a symbiosis, unknown until
then, between artistic and technological dimensions of art and technology.
Indeed, through their incorporation of projections of artificial light with
multiple changing colors, of pyrotechnical effects, of complex mechanisms
1 On these questions, see Elizabeth Coffman, “Women in Motion: Loie Fuller and the ‘Inter-
penetration’ of Art and Science,” Camera Obscura, 17.1 (2002): 73-105; Rhonda Garelick, Electric
Salome: Loie Fuller’s Performance of Modernism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007);
Gabriele Brandstetter and Brygida Maria Ochaim, Loïe Fuller: Tanz, Licht-Spiel, Art Nouveau
(Freiburg im Breisgau: Rombach, 1989); Giovanni Lista, Loïe Fuller. Danseuse de l’Art Nouveau
(Paris: Réunion des Musées Nationaux, 2002), and Loïe Fuller. Danseuse de la Belle Epoque (Paris:
Hermann Editeurs des Sciences et des Arts, 2006), an expanded version of the first edition (Paris:
Somogy/Stock, 1994).
250 L aurent Guido
light. Indeed, none of these short films illustrates what contemporary texts
and iconography convey about Loïe Fuller’s work […].”4 To account for the
lack – in the current state of research – of any film recording of the creator
of the serpentine (by contrast, several photographs have come down to
us), Lista raises the issue of the limits of representation on film at the time,
compared with the richness and complexity of the grand spectacle offered
by Fuller: “Contemporary filmmakers could only acknowledge the technical
impossibility of filming the highly sophisticated Fullerian version of the
serpentine dance. For Loïe Fuller as well, cinema could only constitute a
substantial reduction of the magic of her spectacles.”5
While thoroughly describing most of these films, Lista minimizes their
specific potential.6 Nevertheless, he makes a point of qualifying his posi-
tion: “Loïe Fuller’s experimental project had moved completely beyond the
boundaries of cinema, in spite of the deep and secret similarities between
the two approaches.”7 If the medium of the cinematograph could not quite
match the innovative potential of the serpentine, it still involved underlying
relations with Fuller’s aesthetic, implicit but truly significant – or so the
argument goes. This idea, largely accepted within Fullerian historiography,
is founded on a common displacement according to which “similarities”
between cinema and Loïe Fuller’s spectacles should be grasped in the
artistic potential of either form of expression rather than in their shared
real conditions of 1900 – a teleological, or at the very least essentialist, devia-
tion. It has therefore been possible to identify experimentations exploring
abstract forms in movement, more or less modeled on the perspectives
opened up by Fuller’s spectacles of light, from the mid-1910s on and in the
following decade, mainly in avant-garde circles (Ginna’s and Corra’s Futurist
cinema, and later German filmmakers such as Walter Ruttmann and Hans
Richter working in abstract animation). Fuller has also been claimed as
a source of inspiration by various French avant-garde filmmakers, later
collectively labeled “Impressionists”: Louis Delluc, Marcel L’Herbier and
more particularly Germaine Dulac.8
Among the studies pointing out this lineage, the work of Tom Gunning
stands out with its attempt to bring out the more immediately contextual
relations between the Fuller phenomenon and the emergence of cinema.
According to Gunning, both seem to be part of a general questioning of
some scales of values, not only between the dimensions of art and science,
but also between a high-brow culture and popular culture.9 Still, Gun-
ning himself devotes just a few lines to the films concretely showing the
serpentine dance in action. Despite the constantly repeated claim of an
underlying connection between Fuller and cinema, early films of serpentine
dances have mostly been considered incidentally and in isolation. They
have not yet been approached as belonging in the specific dispositives
they involve, whether from the standpoint of their form or the multiple
conceptual frameworks in which they may be situated.
This is the gap I would like to help to fill through a shift in the object of
my research, from the individual figure of Loïe Fuller to the many cinemato-
graphic appropriations of her serpentine dance. The fact that the films in
question feature imitators, that is, artists whose activity largely operates
in a secondary relation of appropriation, makes a greater distance all the
more necessary toward the highly legitimized framework surrounding the
serpentine dance. This greater distance allows a better understanding of a
whole array of phenomena based on re-use, imitation, copying and varia-
tion. These connected principles all seem to characterize the mass culture
emerging and rapidly becoming institutional at the turn of the twentieth
century. As we shall see, the motif of the serpentine dance circulated not
only in the main film studios (Edison, Biograph, Lumière, Pathé, Gaumont
and Méliès), but also and simultaneously in the so-called “popular” forms of
spectacle available in music halls, theaters or circuses. Cinema initially grew
in a context of fairground attractions or variety shows, as an 1896 news item
from the spectacles page of daily newspaper Le Gaulois indicates. A new
conjuring number titled “The Flying Woman” is announced at the Alcazar
theater, an attraction which, in the eyes of the reporter, “goes beyond the
surprises of the famous serpentine dance and the cinematograph in terms of
novelty and originality.” The two media appear side by side, but they are also
explicitly placed on the same level, like two equal occurrences within the
same paradigm, that of attractions. In the very early period of the emergence
of this paradigm, generally referred to as novelty by historians, cinema
9 Tom Gunning, “Loïe Fuller and the Art of Motion,” La decima musa il cinema e le altri arti/
The Tenth Muse cinema and other arts, Leonardo Quaresima and Laura Vichi, eds. (Udine: Forum,
2000) 25-53.
Between Paradoxical Spectacles and Technical Dispositives 253
and the serpentine dance may indeed have been apprehended jointly, as
two forms of spectacle doomed to be replaced with even more impressive
propositions (such as “The Flying Woman”), at least in the opinion of some.
One of the aims of this study is to demonstrate that experimentation
with specific technical processes in early cinema paradoxically rested on
this kind of intermediality, that is, a constant relation to forms of expres-
sion situated outside the area of the cinematograph proper. This is not
simply to point out the existence of different systems for the mechanical
recording of movement that preceded and accompanied the emergence of
the cinematograph (the films produced for some devices projecting chrono-
photographic views, for the phonoscope, for the Edison kinetoscope, for the
Bioskop of the Skladanowsky brothers, etc.). Most importantly, I would like
to show how spectacles of moving images were then fully part of a genuine
“theatrical culture,” in Charles Musser’s words,10 that is, a common culture of
spectacle concerning film as well as performing arts like theater and dance.
As a consequence, focusing on films of serpentine dances means not only
examining per se the few extant prints and assessing them in relation to
production documents, but also comparing films with discourses of their
time. In the absence of a specialized film press, these may be teased out
in scientific publications or print sources related to music hall or theater
circles.
This study accordingly falls within the scope of the research program
proposed by François Albera and Maria Tortajada in the chapter open-
ing this volume. Indeed, the films devoted to the serpentine dance are
considered from the standpoint of dispositives they elicit in cinema,
taking into account not only a series of technical processes, but also “the
construction of the network of discourses, practices, institutions relating
them to representation.”11 The constant attention given to dances in early
cinema, far from being explained away through the emphasis on a single
conceptual framework, refers to complex set of relations that need to be
apprehended at the crossroads of several dispositives. These certainly relate
to aesthetics, yet they are also rooted in the domains of science, technique,
social utilitarianism and – first and foremost – the spectacular.
The corpus of serpentine dance films shot between 1894 and 1908 may be
divided into two distinct, successive groups.12 I will deal only with the more
important one here, around a dozen of moving views where the solitary
physical performance represents the only recognizable visual element.13 As
for the second group, which is more limited and much less known in spite
of its immediate attractiveness, it mostly involves films divided in several
tableaux where dance is one of several parameters (diegetic spectators, more
complex sets, the resort to tricks…) that depend on narrative or spectacular
motivations. These few films, some directed by Georges Méliès or Segundo
de Chomon,14 which I have discussed in another study,15 most often depict
situations of metamorphoses and doubles with a self-reflexive dimension.
Though they resort to a number of “tricks” characteristic of the genre, such
as stopping the camera to make a character appear or disappear, these
films also refer to numbers previously presented on stage. Méliès’s 1899
The Pillar of Fire (Star Film, nº188) thus features a serpentine dance,
echoing a show by Loïe Fuller herself, music hall spectacles offered by some
of her first-rate imitators, and aspects of a magic number once presented
at the Théâtre Robert-Houdin. According to the regime of spontaneous
intermediality theorized by André Gaudreault and Philippe Marion,16 which
defines early cinema prior to the institutional turn around 1908, this idea
of adaptation for the screen of a similar stage number was best expressed
in the first few films devoted to the recording of serpentine dances. The
primary dispositive of the stage never completely vanishes even as it is
reconfigured in the secondary form of the screen.
This idea did lead to the recording of Annabelle Whitford Moore’s par-
ticularly cheerful and youthful performances at Edison’s Black Maria studio
in August 1894 (Annabelle Butterfly Dance, Annabelle Serpentine
12 Giovanni Lista makes a distinction between “two kinds of images” (“deux genres d’images”):
“muscular prowesses of female dancers” (“exploits musculaires de danseuses”) and “phantas-
magorias” (“fantasmagories”). Lista, Loïe Fuller. Danseuse de la Belle Epoque 357.
13 See the precious filmography provided by Giovanni Lista in Loïe Fuller. Danseuse de la Belle
Epoque 616-36. It comprises more than 80 entries from before 1910.
14 Notably the outstanding Création de la serpentine (Chomon, 1908), which is closer,
in Lista’s opinion, to Fuller’s art thanks to its use of concealing, multiplication or abstraction
effects. Lista, Loïe Fuller. Danseuse de la Belle Epoque 367-369).
15 See the proceedings of the conference Méliès: carrefour des attractions (Cerisy, France, July
25 - August 1, 2011), forthcoming.
16 André Gaudreault and Philippe Marion, “Un média naît toujours deux fois,” Sociétés &
représentations, vol. 9 (Paris: CREDHESS, 2000) 21-36.
Between Paradoxical Spectacles and Technical Dispositives 255
17 These films bear the numbers 48 to 50 in the reference filmography, Charles Musser, Edison
Motion Pictures, 1890-1900 An Annotated Filmography (Pordenone: Le Giornate Del Cinema Muto/
Smithsonian Institution Press, 1997) 111-12. New versions of the three dances were shot with
Annabelle in February 1895, and again in the summer of the same year. On these, see Musser,
Edison Motion Pictures 173, 188-89.
256 L aurent Guido
a set reduced to a few lateral markers focuses the whole attention on the
performance of the body; finally, the profilmic subject is placed in a direct
and frontal position with respect to the camera. Even if these unipunctual
films, most of them lasting under a minute, are rather similar in their com-
position, it is possible to observe variations in angle, layout, set, tints, and so
forth, between films. Indeed, the absence of editing (in the sense of joining
several shots) does not necessarily entail stylistic and figurative deficiency.
The argument that dance films of early cinema are but passive recordings
of a profilmic reality entirely predefined, dear to some theoreticians who
came after the advent of editing,18 does not withstand an internal analysis of
the films. While it may seem evident in the case of recordings of serpentine
dances or other music hall numbers – typical early subjects for Edison’s ki-
netoscope, as we will see later – the assessment also holds for the first views
recorded “from life” by Lumière cameramen (Bal espagnol dans la rue by
Gabriel Veyre, Mexico City, August 6, 1896; Los Aïnos à Ueso by Constant
Girel in October 1897; Cynghalais: danse des couteaux by Alexandre
Promio, Paris, September 1897…). An astounding dance of contortions by
Ashantis filmed in 1897 on the occasion of an ethnographic exhibition in
Lyons thus belongs in the same spectacular logic, organized according to a
Western eye, as the Sioux dances of the Edison catalog featuring elements
from Buffalo Bill’s touring show.19 In Danse du sabre (Lumière, nº 441),
two Africans fight in front of their fellow men gathered around them in a
scene staged in depth. The audience commands one of the dancers to turn
his face towards the camera and alternately brandish his weapon in the
same way, that is, towards these Western spectators for whom the show
has been designed and staged. Similarly, the Danse tyrolienne (Lumière,
nº 31, September 1896) shot by Constant Girel in Germany20 does relate
to a model that was to remain untouched for the countless dance films21
produced by major film companies until their institutionalization around
1908: a unipunctual view in long shot partly reusing the frontal proscenium
18 Lev Kuleshov, for instance, was to devalue the single take for choreographic gestures in his
experiment on “created dance,” privileging instead a “dance of images” closer to the specific
demands of the medium of film, in his opinion. See Lev Kuleshov, “The Banner of Cinema” [1920],
in Lev Kuleshov. Fifty Years in Films. Selected Works (Moscow: Raduga, 1987).
19 Musser, Edison Motion Pictures 125-29.
20 Denise Böhm-Girel, “Constant Girel, Lumière-Operateur in Deutschland (1896),” KINtop,
vol. 5 (1996): 170-76.
21 See Laure Gaudenzi, “Une filmographie thématique: la danse au cinéma de 1894 à 1906,”
in Les vingt premières années du cinéma français, Jean A. Gili, Michèle Lagny, Michel Marie,
Vincent Pinel, eds. (Paris: AFRHC/Sorbonne Nouvelle, 1996) 361-64.
Between Paradoxical Spectacles and Technical Dispositives 257
of the scenic dispositive and aiming to address the audience directly. This
mode of recording the body in movement is not specific to these films: more
fundamentally, it is part of a direct lineage in ways of filming systematized
earlier by chronophotographers.
The connection to chronophotography appears in a series of images
made by Georges Demenÿ in 1893 and devoted to a ballerina from the
Paris Opera doing an entrechat22 and presenting exactly the same visual
characteristics. A closer look at the determinations shaping these films
brings a gradual awareness of the particular articulation between different
factors playing out in those same years. Beyond their scientific aspect (the
physiological research carried out by Demenÿ at the Station physiologique
in Paris with Etienne-Jules Marey23), these images refer to aesthetic factors.
One of the pioneers of the rational study of gesture, Georges Demenÿ was
not solely motivated by utilitarian and social perspectives. His artistic
convictions also ran deep: he was of the opinion that “both the minds of
the artist and the physiologist, starting from different points, should meet
before nature” and praised “rhythm” and “harmony” as ways to identify
the “perfect effort” as well as conditions for the “beauty of movement.” His
discourse matches that of various hygienist and body culture movements
at the turn of the twentieth century (hébertisme in France, Lebensreform
in Germany). Concerned with uncluttered representations (“the line and
the plane should prevail over teeming details”), Demenÿ pleaded for a
regeneration of bodies through a conformity to the physical canons of
ancient statuary, the key of a new “simplicity of gesture.”24 His theoretical
writings on gymnastics and body movements were thus explicitly part of an
emerging Neo-Antique rhythmic movement that was to mark a deep reform
of bodily expression some ten years later, favoring the appearance of modern
dance and various systems of musical-gestural expression (with Isadora
Duncan, Ruth Saint Denis, Emile Jaques-Dalcroze, Rudolf Laban and, more
22 See Laurent Mannoni, Marc de Ferrière and Paul Demenÿ, Georges Demenÿ, Pionnier du
cinéma (Douai: Cinémathèque française/Pagine/Université de Lille 3, 1997) 74.
23 On the utilitarian mission assigned to the Station through subsidies it received from the State
(the study of walking, running or jumping to improve the performances of soldiers or workers),
see Laurent Mannoni, Etienne-Jules Marey: la mémoire de l’œil (Paris/Milano: Cinémathèque
française/Mazzotta, 1999) 191.
24 Georges Demenÿ, L’éducation de l’effort. Psychologie - physiologie (Paris: F. Alcan, 1914) 129-32.
The scientist also states that “Humankind regains control of itself and comes back to itself as
it admires ancient masterpieces.” See Georges Demenÿ, Les bases scientifiques de l’éducation
physique (Paris: Librairie Félix Alcan, 1920) 160.
258 L aurent Guido
25 Hillel Schwartz, “Torque: The New Kinaesthetic of the Twentieth Century,” Incorporations
(New York: Zone, 1992) 71-127.
26 Maurice Emmanuel, The Antique Greek Dance, After Sculptured and Painted Figures (Charles-
ton, SC: Forgotten Books, 2012).
27 Stéphane Mallarmé, “Considérations sur l’art du ballet et la Loïe Fuller,” The National
Observer 13 May 1896, in Mallarmé, Œuvres complètes 314.
Between Paradoxical Spectacles and Technical Dispositives 259
28 The scheduled presence of dancers at the Station only elicited the comment by Marey that
they may bring “some gaiety” to the place. Letter dated Dec. 6, 1892, in Lettres d’Etienne-Jules
Marey à Georges Demenÿ 1880-1894, Thierry Lefebvre, Jacques Malthête, Laurent Mannoni, eds.
(Paris: AFRHC, 1999) 422. A session took place in July the following year. Letter dated July 14,
1893, in Lettres d’Etienne-Jules Marey à Georges Demenÿ 442.
29 Mannoni, de Ferrière and Demenÿ, Georges Demenÿ, Pionnier du cinéma 72-76.
30 Paul Hill, Eadweard Muybridge (London: Phaidon, 2001) 118-19.
260 L aurent Guido
ing month, then in Berlin in March 1895.33 A French publicity leaflet from
the company The World’s Phonograph Co., based in Amsterdam, points
out “the great variety of scenes” immortalized by the kinetoscope and the
fact that “the most famous artists and actors in the world are continuously
photographed to that end: dancers, fighters, boxers, etc.” Before the advent
of more imposing and more legitimate productions from the theater and the
opera, the number of short forms issuing from the music hall surged among
the films made at the Black Maria and later marked the first projections in
the United States. The inaugural show of the Vitascope at the Koster and
Bials music hall in New York City, given by Thomas Armat on April 23, 1896,
thus included – besides vaudeville and burlesque boxing routines – a Skirt
Dance and an Umbrella Dance, as well as a Butterfly Dance.34 The at-
tention of the press focused on these choreographic numbers. The New York
Daily News reported that the show started with a “lively air” played by the
orchestra before “there flashed upon the screen the life-size figures of two
33 In Berlin it was frequently compared with the chronophotographic work of Anschütz. See
Von Zglinicki, Der Weg des Films 206-7.
34 Musser, The Emergence of Cinema: The American Screen To 1907 (1990; Berkeley, Los Angeles:
The University of California Press, 1994) 122-24.
262 L aurent Guido
dancing girls who tripped and pirouetted and whirled an umbrella before
them.”35 This striking image was in fact the one that Raff & Gammon, the
company running the Vitascope, had chosen for its letterhead. The drawing
represents a packed orchestra with spectators riveted by a stage where the
projected moving image of a ballerina is shown, its size comparable to the
host of the show standing by the screen.
All public exhibitions of chronophotographic films and later of short films
evidently involved a spectacular aspect, whether they showed mechanisms
invisible to the naked eye through the presentation of a gesture broken down
in phases or produced the illusion of movement through the animation of
the same views by optical machines. This spectacular aspect depended on
both the fascination aroused by a technological novelty capable of bring-
ing a new type of images to the public and the sporting, choreographic or
acrobatic performance recorded by the camera, staged and framed through
a dispositive based on a frontal proscenium. The “attractional” value of the
subject was added to that of the process of animation itself, which literally
had “images dance.”36 In his reflection on the modes of filmic attraction in
early cinema, Frank Kessler expressed this idea very precisely.37 To account
for the way in which this kind of ambivalence runs through the films of
serpentine dances, and more specifically Edison films, it should be pointed
out that like most views devoted to the motif, they involve a privileged
relation between the attraction of the technical dispositive itself and the
attraction constituted by the unfolding performance, framed by the camera.
Two aspects, color and circularity, attest more keenly to this.
Indeed, Annabelle’s performances for Edison have come down to us in
hand-colored versions, like many serpentine dance films, which are some
of the first films in color in history. The fact that this particular motif
35 “Amusements,” New York Daily News, 24 April 1896. Quoted by Charles Musser, Before the
Nickelodeon: Edwin S. Porter and the Edison Manufacturing Company (Berkeley, Los Angeles:
University of California Press, 1991) 62.
36 The expression was to enjoy much currency in discourses on moving images. Edison already
used it to emphasize the playful dimension of the kinetoscope: “a silly little device for making
pictures that would dance.” Quoted by Joseph H. North, The Early Development of Motion Pictures
1887-1909, diss., Cornell University, 1949 (New York: Arno Press, 1973) 13. Within the film avant-
gardes of the 1920s, dance took the value of ideal metaphor for montage. See chapter 7 (“Du corps
rythmé au modèle chorégraphique”) in my book L’Age du rythme.
37 Frank Kessler formulated the division, between “cinematography as a spectacular dispositive,
within which the ability of the machine to capture and reproduce movement predominates;
and cinematography as a dispositive of spectacle, where the filmed spectacle itself constitutes
the main attraction.” See Kessler, “La cinématographie comme dispositif (du) spectaculaire,”
Cinémas 14 (Fall 2003): 21.
Between Paradoxical Spectacles and Technical Dispositives 263
38 See Jacques Deslandes and Jacques Richard, Histoire comparée du cinéma, vol. 2 (Tournai:
Casterman, 1968) 90.
39 L’Industriel forain 596 (January 6-12, 1901).
264 L aurent Guido
42 This film was shot a little later than other subjects for the Bioskop, which for the most part
were recorded in the summer of 1895 with natural light and in front of a white backdrop. See
Von Zglinicki, Der Weg des Films 242; and Joachim Castan, Max Skladanowsky oder der Beginn
einer deustchen Filmgeschichte (Stuttgart: Füsslin Verlag, 1995) 43-45, 57. With the original lost,
the film was reconstructed by computer in 1994-1995 from a contact sheet representing phases
of the action. The image is featured in C. W. Ceram, Archaeology of the Cinema (San Diego:
Harcourt, Brace & World, 1965) and in von Zglinicki’s Der Weg des Films, among other titles.
43 Quoted in Castan, Max Skladanowsky oder der Beginn einer deustchen Filmgeschichte 218.
Translator’s note: this is a translation from the author’s own French translation of the German
source.
44 Deac Rossell, “The Public Exhibition of Moving Pictures before 1896,” KINtop 14/15 (2006):
159-95, 168, 178-79.
45 An undated advertisement for The Zoetrope Wheel of Life presented a gymnast and an acrobat
among available subjects. See Deslandes, Histoire comparée du cinéma (vol. 1) 39.
46 Deslandes, Histoire comparée du cinéma 38.
47 See Laurent Mannoni, The Great Art of Light and Shadow. Archaeology of the Cinema, trans.
Richard Crangle (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2001).
266 L aurent Guido
57 See in this volume Albera and Tortajada, “The Dispositive Does Not Exist!”
58 L’Industriel Forain (dated 13 Oct. 1895) points out the “marvelous effects” of the Edison
kinetophone, and more specif ically of the “ballet lady dancing the serpentine. None of her
graceful movements went unnoticed and the orchestra’s music could be heard very clearly.”
59 An advertisement for Messter’s Kinematographisch-phonographische Vorführungen in
Berlin in 1896 opens with a “SerpentinTanz.” Reproduced in Von Zglinicki, Der Weg des Films
[Bildband, n. p.].
Between Paradoxical Spectacles and Technical Dispositives 269
more concrete spatiality than the extreme minimalism and the ghostly,
almost de-realizing character of the Edison films. In this Lumière view, it
is the scenic dispositive that is being explicitly imported in the cinema, in a
straightforward affirmation of theatricality. This still timid manifestation
of a closure may be found more clearly in other, later films. The serpentine
dance of Lina Esbrard (1902), produced by Gaumont and attributed to Alice
Guy, thus opens with the lateral entrance of the artists and concludes with
an insistence on her exit, as she greets and blows kisses to the audience.60
60 On the subject, see my analysis of the Danse Tyrolienne produced by Lumière in 1896: “ ‘Auf
die Bühne gezaubert, dass man erstaunt’: cinéma, danse et music-hall au tournant du 20e siècle,”
270 L aurent Guido
(Fig. 6) The logic of circularity noted about other titles, whether in the
construction of the films or in their public uses, is not present here: the ritual
of the number is respected in its adaptation for the screen. This concern is
a response to a dominant logic of the time, as films took place in programs
resolutely organized on the model of music hall shows, that is, in the form
of a sequence of numbers that by and large remained autonomous, even
as they were distributed in a larger structure that took into account their
respective atmospheres and dynamics.
This close relationship with the world of so-called “popular” stages
(circus, music hall, mime shows, etc.) brings many research prospects to
the study of early cinema, most uncharted at this point. One example could
be the more unconventional recordings of parodies of and variations on
the serpentine dance performed by comics or even quick-change artists
(Little Tich, Fregoli). Among the many oddities directly borrowing from
the world of the stage, a Danse serpentine dans la cage aux lions (1900)
explicitly refers to a famous number mentioned in contemporary accounts
and announcements. (Fig. 7)
in Moving Pictures, Moving Bodies: Dance in German and Austrian Film 1895-1933, Michael Cowan
and Barbara Hale, eds., Seminar 46.3 (Toronto) Sept. 2010: 220.
Between Paradoxical Spectacles and Technical Dispositives 271
61 Henri Bergson, Laughter. An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic, trans. Cloudesely Brereton
and Fred Rothwell (1899; Rockville, MD: Arc Manor, 2008) 46-52.
272 L aurent Guido
same years. In fact, the concept seems ideal, not so much to describe the
mechanisms at play in the production of laughter (were these films even
supposed to elicit laughter in the first place?) as to outline a larger situation
of de-hierarchization and of a crisis of ideas. This ambivalent juxtaposition
of opposites does indeed comprise the various conceptual pairs we have
continually come across in the present study: art and science, highbrow
culture and popular culture, archaism and modernity, the visible and the
invisible, the material and the immaterial, original and copy, specificity
and intermediality, and even human and animal. The serpentine dance, im-
mediately identifiable and effective, thus appears as the symbol of all these
interfering series, of these indistinct boundaries characterizing the turn of
the twentieth century. The explanation of its success and its durability as a
reference motif embracing the complexity of a period probably lies there.
More generally, the various cases studied here reveal that the “interme-
dial” connection between dance and cinema, which started out in the late
nineteenth century, cannot be apprehended only through the traditional
paradigms of recording, continuity or overtaking, which have for a long
time dominated reflections on stage/screen relations. A number of other
parameters should also be taken into account. The first are the obvious
constraints imposed by the chronophotographic and cinematographic
Between Paradoxical Spectacles and Technical Dispositives 273
62 The same ambivalent process occurs in slapstick (see studies by Henry Jenkins or Robert
Knopf on Buster Keaton) as well as in Hollywood musicals. Some technical, supposedly “specific”
innovations (in framing, editing or space design) often resulted from the wish to find cinematic
equivalents for ambitious effects achieved in Broadway. For instance, far from “avant-garde”
concerns, the main goal of choreographer Busby Berkeley was arguably to transpose on screen
the geometrical evolutions of Ziegfeld Girls placed on risers or mobile sets.
Forms of Machines, Forms of
Movement
Benoît Turquety
for Hadrien
Fac-similes
One of the major things in film is that you have 24 beats in a second, or
16 beats or whatever speed the projector is running at. It is a medium
that has a base beat, that is intrinsically baroque. And aesthetically
speaking, it’s just appalling to me to try to watch, for example, as I did,
Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin on video: it dulls all the rhythm of the
editing. Because video looks, in comparison to the sharp, hard clarities
of snapping individual frames, and what that produces at the cut, video
looks like a pudding, that’s virtually uncuttable, like a jello. It’s all ashake
with itself. And furthermore, as a colorist, it doesn’t interest me, because
it is whatever color anyone sets their receptor to. It has no fixed color.1
1 Brakhage on Brakhage, dir. Colin Still, 1996-1997, in By Brakhage: An Anthology, DVD set,
Criterion, 2003.
276 Benoît Turquety
[…] I wish and I hope that we will learn to improve and will continue to
make “better” facsimile reproductions. It is because of these advances,
and not despite them, that we will be increasingly adept at distinguishing
the original from its facsimile reproduction. Furthermore, it is because
of these advances, and not despite them, that we will increasingly regard
facsimile reproductions with benefit and, even, enjoyment.2
2 Erwin Panofsky, “Original und Faksimilereproduktion,” Der Kreis. Zeitschrift für künstler-
ische Kultur (Spring 1930), available in English as “Original and Facsimile Reproduction,” trans.
Timothy Grundy, in Res. Anthropology and Aesthetics 57-58 (Spring-Autumn 2011): 337.
3 On this question and some of its implications for film studies, see the “Statement on the
Use of Video in the Classroom” issued by the Society for Cinema Studies Task Force on Film
Integrity, chaired by John Belton, Cinema Journal 30.4 (Summer 1991): 3-6.
4 Panofsky, “Original und Faksimilereproduktion”: 337-38.
Forms of Machines, Forms of Movement 277
Indeed, each machine involves in its very form a certain conception of its
task, its ends and the means to achieve them, and in return, these means
have consequences on the nature of the result. Each machine is thus poten-
tially rich in theoretical lessons, be it through visual experience or through
an epistemological reflection on the historical conditions of its conception.
Taking into account the technical level, machines and practices, from the
camera to the script, from flatbed editing machines to the architecture of
movie theaters, is rather rare in film theory (except in archival literature,
for some aspects6) and raises specific methodological problems. The tech-
nological analysis of machines should be confronted with their production,
with the discourses around them and with their concrete uses, whether
dominant or marginal. When it comes to the evolution of technical objects
themselves, it should also relate the respective logics of conception, usage
and industrialization.
5 Jonathan Crary, Techniques of the Observer: On Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth
Century (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1990). Crary unfortunately does not apply this principle with
much precision, contenting himself with a general scheme of the camera obscura without
distinguishing its various historical concretizations. Also, when it comes to the nineteenth
century, he only particularizes the stereoscope, the kaleidoscope and devices for the analysis
and the synthesis of movement, merged into a third category.
6 Among these, I will mention the evolution of mediums (nitrate film, acetate cellulose film),
the chemistry of coloring processes or “natural” colors, projection speeds, aspect ratios, etc. See
for instance Paolo Cherchi Usai, Silent Cinema: An Introduction (London: BFI, 2000).
278 Benoît Turquety
7 Today the organization is called the SMPTE, or Society of Motion Picture and Television
Engineers.
8 First titled Transactions of the Society of Motion Picture Engineers, it later became the Journal
of the SMPE, then the Journal of the SMPTE.
9 Charles Francis Jenkins, “History of the Motion Picture,” Transactions of the Society of Motion
Picture Engineers (Oct. 1920), in A Technological History of Motion Pictures and Television: An
Anthology from the Pages of The Journal of the Society of Motion Picture and Television Engineers,
ed. Raymond Fielding (Berkeley, Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1967) 1.
10 Jenkins, “History of the Motion Picture,” in Fielding, A Technological History of Motion
Pictures and Television 1.
Forms of Machines, Forms of Movement 279
Fig. 1. “The Zoetrope,” in Charles Francis Jenkins, “History of the Motion Picture,” Transactions of the
SMPE, (October 1920): 37.
to the horizontal cylinder tied to the fact that most of the movements
presented – typically, the gallop of a horse – are horizontal. This is in no
way a technical constraint (horizontal movement can be represented on a
strip running vertically), but rather a matter of conceptual coherence. The
possibility of placing the cylinder vertically appeared in one model only, a
late variant developed by Ottomar Anschütz from Germany around 1890
under the name of Tachyscope or Schnellseher (Fig. 2) and featuring a series
of phototypes (Anschütz had come to these matters through an initial
interest in chronophotography). The cylinder could be placed horizontally
or vertically, depending on the band to be viewed. The copy preserved at
the Cinémathèque française comes with a box of ten strips, two of which
only run vertically.11 This choice has to do with the fact that some subjects
required a wider rather than a taller frame: the strip taken vertically thus
made it possible to arrange more images. It was also the result of an insight
described in Anschütz’s December 1891 German patent:
11 Collection of machines, inv. AP-95-1202 (Schnellseher) and inv. AP-94-0985 (box of strips).
See Laurent Mannoni, Le Mouvement continué. Catalogue illustré de la collection des appareils
de la Cinémathèque française (Milan: Mazzotta, 1996) 270-71.
280 Benoît Turquety
Fig. 2. Tachyscope, or Schnellseher, Ottomar Anschütz, after 1890, collection of the Cinémathèque
française (vertical layout).
Mentioning the flaws noted in the use of “usual” devices and describing
the solution brought to them are common developments in the rhetoric of
12 Ottomar Anschütz, German patent n° 60285, 19 Dec. 1891. Translator’s note: this an English
translation of the author’s own translation from the German to the French.
Forms of Machines, Forms of Movement 281
The speed of rotation transforms the twenty openings into a single circu-
lar opening through which you watch twenty dancing figures reflected in
the glass – all exactly the same and executing the same movements with
a fantastic precision. Each little figure has availed itself of the nineteen
others.13
The cylindrical form of the Zoetrope transforms this effect to some de-
gree, since the perspective of the viewer results in singling out a limited
number of animated figures, one of which is central, others more lateral,
being distorted by the drum. Anschütz was to confirm this evolution and
reinforce it, in relation to a more general observation: some types of move-
ments, “discontinuous and non-periodical processes,” have as their central
characteristic not to repeat themselves. It is thus disturbing – visually if
you will, but the criterion is cognitive – to see them occur several times
simultaneously. Placing these parasitic images vertically rather than before
and after horizontally thus represents a gain in comfort and solves the
problem. Indeed, for Anschütz, the machine does not have as its goal to
animate images, but to observe one animated image and one only, which
is a rather original conception. Besides, the criterion of non-continuity and
non-periodicity, which is the base for the importance of the uniqueness
of the image as spectacle, is in the end nothing else than a criterion of
narrativity: for the German inventor, when the animated image becomes
the source for a narrative (something unique occurs and breaks circularity),
it becomes imperative for that image to be the only spectacle and the device
has to be modified accordingly. Ultimately, the form of the movement to
be depicted commands the form of the machine.
The Tachyscope, it should be noted, did not have a crank; and the crank
happens to be the other characteristic distinguishing the machine featured
13 Charles Baudelaire, “A Philosophy of Toys,” original French text first published in Le Monde
littéraire (17 Apr. 1853), English trans. Jonathan Mayne (1970), in The Painter of Modern Life and
Other Essays (London: Phaidon, 1995) 202.
282 Benoît Turquety
One of them is epitomized by Georges Sadoul in the first volume of his 1946
Histoire générale du cinéma:
The Zoetrope is a new form of Plateau’s slit disc […]. The strip of images
is its most remarkable aspect, for this long piece of flexible Bristol board
pref igures f ilm. The idea of indef initely lengthening it certainly led
Reynaud, and perhaps Marey and Edison, to conceiving modern film.14
14 Georges Sadoul, Histoire générale du cinéma, vol. 1, L’Invention du cinéma. 1832-1897 (Paris:
Denoël, 1946) 21-22.
Forms of Machines, Forms of Movement 283
I will not further develop this issue of the disc/strip alternative here. Let
us just recall that it also structured the sound industry (including in movie
theaters) and the music industry, the industry of computer and digital
mediums, and that this alternative also carried economic, industrial,
mechanical and aesthetic options. Still, the topos of the shift from disc to
strip is one of the key points most strongly structuring the historiography
of “pre-cinema,” and will have to be revisited.
At any rate, neither the Phenakistiscope nor the Zoetrope involved cranks,
for the most part. We should dwell on this question of the crank a little
more at this point, as it is more central than it may first seem. Some view-
ing dispositives contemporary with the two already cited did have these
appendices: with the slides for “views set in motion,” which spread from
the mid-nineteenth century on, for instance, the crank made it possible to
produce colored, abstract rosaces or to animate a specific part of a projected
image. A remarkable example of optical machine using a crank was John
Arthur Roebuck Rudge’s magic lantern, manufactured around 1882, in
which the crank drove the change of view, along with a shutter system,
and through a triangular cam – supposedly a specific contribution of the
Lumière brothers’ own machine. Interestingly, when Will Day had a copy of
this lantern made in 1922 (now held in the collections of the Cinémathèque
française), the only license he took with the original was to move the crank
from its initial position before the lens to a lateral position, probably more
convenient in his view, and once again similar to that on a film projector.
Another fascinating machine comes to mind, even as it has been largely
neglected by history, the Anorthoscope, the first optical device invented by
Joseph Plateau before the Phenakistiscope. Through the combined move-
ment of a black disc with slits rotating in one direction, and behind it, a disc
with an anamorphic image rotating in the other direction, the device shows
a corrected image when looked at against the light. It is fundamentally
a crank-based machine, since the two discs have to be driven together
and at correlative speeds. Fascinatingly, in his instructions for using the
machine, Plateau did in fact recommend that the person turning the crank
and the person observing the phenomenon not be one and the same.15
15 See Joseph Plateau 1801-1883. Leven tussen Kunst en Wetenschap, Vivre entre l’art et la science,
Living between Art and Science, ed. Maurice Dorikens (Gent, Provincie Oost-Vlaaanderen, 2001).
Forms of Machines, Forms of Movement 285
Looking at something being difficult work, two things could not be done
seriously at once. Besides, Plateau was not just interested in optics, but
also in the statics of liquids. In that field, he carried out an experiment
that bears his name, founded on a machine that he had built and which
was operated by a rotating crankshaft. Depending on the speed imparted
by the experimenter/spectator, the form of the oil sphere in suspension in
the water solution was transformed…16 The attention given to the crank as
such re-establishes “Plateau’s machine” among nineteenth-century viewing
dispositives – a place it deserves considering that it was also relatively
widespread, notably in schools, until the first quarter of the twentieth
century. That the experiment was appreciated certainly had to do with its
visual dimension – or should we say to its dimension of attraction? At any
rate, the machine is completely absent from the entire historiography of
these dispositives, massively written from the standpoint of “pre-cinema.”
And indeed, the form of the movement performed in this instance through
these spheres in suspension radically differs from the medium to come:
no two-dimensional images, no analytical sequence of decomposition/
recomposition, etc. This is what actually makes it interesting today within
the perspective of an archaeological reconsideration of these machines
outside any teleological linearity.
In fact, there had been crank-operated optical machines for a long time
already, since some could be found in the first, 1646 edition of the famous
Ars Magna Lucis et Umbrae by Father Athanasius Kircher: the “metamor-
phosis machine,” for instance, in which the crank drove a series of images
laid out on a cylinder running vertically (even though with Kircher, one
can never be certain that the machines he described actually existed and
that their effects conformed to the descriptions given…).
So, if almost no Phenakistiscope or Zoetrope had a crank, the crank must
have been dispensable on these machines. Interestingly, there were not even
“de luxe models” of these toys that would have used a crank, unlike what
was to happen for the Praxinoscope a few years later.
after the Zoetrope was commercialized. The Praxinoscope has almost been
confused with the Zoetrope by traditional historiography and presented
as a relatively minor improvement on it. In truth, it seemed to be based
on the same principles: a (horizontal!) cylinder and a series of drawings
around it representing a decomposed movement, with the rotation of the
cylinder showing spectators the image in movement. Yet the principle
of the alternation of images was different: instead of slits, the machine
presented a central block comprising a prism of mirrors with as many sides
as there were drawings on the strip. The passage from one side to another
instantaneously replaced the reflection of an image with that of another
one in the same place, making the illusion possible. The idea was quite
clever and accordingly constituted an important step.
Indeed, it solved an internal antagonism inherent in the Zoetrope and
which also concerns the Phenakistiscope. An image continuously moving
normally appears blurry and streaked. To appear sharp, it should be per-
ceived as immobile by the eye. In that respect, the principle of rotation with
slits causes a problem: the finer the slits, the more briefly the image appears
to the eye (almost instantaneously in fact), and the more it is perceived as
almost immobile and thus sharp, without streaks – a necessary condition
in the reproduction of movement. But the more briefly the image appears
to the eye, the less time the eye has to distinguish its outlines precisely
and the less luminous the image is. In a way, the better the movement
is seen, the worse the image is seen. This fundamental problem for the
Zoetrope is repeated at another level: the faster the cylinder rotates, the
briefer the perception of each image will be. As a consequence, the rendering
of movement and luminosity, animation and the precision of outlines, find
Forms of Machines, Forms of Movement 287
17 See Étienne-Jules Marey, Le Mouvement (Paris: G. Masson, 1894), notably p. 308: “as the
sharpness of movements may be obtained only through the extreme brevity of instants in
which each image is disclosed, the quantity of light emitted is accordingly too low to provide
clear enlarged projections, even with a powerful source of light.” Marey returns to this problem
several times in the final chapter of the book on the “Synthesis of Movements Analyzed by
Chronophotography.”
18 Marey, Le Mouvement 303.
19 Indeed, before the passage from a mirror to the next replaces an image with the next one,
the rotation of the prism causes a slight rotation effect for each image.
20 This is the case of the copy preserved by the Cinémathèque française under the classification
mark AP-95-1720.
21 See Georg Füsslin, Optisches Spielzeug (Stuttgart: Füsslin Verlag, 1993) 92.
22 See the “Dessins annexés à la description d’une invention faite par E. Reynaud, professeur
de sciences, au Puy, 30 août 1877,” a document f iled with the patent application, in Jacques
Deslandes, Histoire comparée du cinéma, vol. 1, De la cinématique au cinématographe, 1826-1896
(Tournai: Casterman, 1966) 303 sqq.
23 Reproduced in Deslandes, Histoire comparée du cinéma 51.
288 Benoît Turquety
a simple, fine hand elegantly turning a small crank near the edge of the
frame; the bodies of the handler and spectator(s) are not represented in
the image.
Other variants for the driving mechanism appeared in imitations of these
objects, notably those made by Ernst Planck from Germany, sold around 1898
(which suggests that, two years after the success of the Cinématographe,
the Praxinoscope could still prove attractive to a counterfeiter). Copies of
what was called the Kinematofor remain – some with a crank, others with
a steam engine or even a hot-air engine!24
The issue of luminosity was to play a decisive role in the first machines
involving a moving photographic image: the dialectic was repeated in
exactly the same way between Edison’s Kinetoscope and the Lumière
Cinématographe. The principle of the Kinetoscope was in fact similar to
that of the Zoetrope: a strip moving continuously in front of which was a
shutter with a very narrow slit (each image was seen for about 1/6000 sec.).
As with the Zoetrope, the resulting moving image was too dark to allow
projection. The Cinématographe solved this tension by adopting the inter-
mittent movement of film for projection as well as for “the production of
the negatives,” as the Lumières put it. The image remained still a lot longer
before the lamp (roughly 1/25 sec.), which produced more than enough light
for the projection.
Interestingly, the Kinetoscope is not a crank-operated machine, which
is the case for the Cinématographe.
25 Very interestingly, Werner Nekes, demonstrating the Praxinoscope in Was geschah wirklich
zwischen den Bildern? ([Federal Republic of] Germany, 1986), the first film in his series Media
Magica, shows not only the strips coming to life, but also the whole assembly of the toy – opening
the box, placing the candle and, after a few other steps have been performed, the moment
when moving images finally appear. This whole operation of assembling the machine should
be considered as part of the dispositive.
Forms of Machines, Forms of Movement 291
contrast, the strip can still be seen even when the cylinder rotates, until
the eye is placed exactly at the level of a slit. The form of the Zoetrope
therefore involves a comparative vertical movement (of the eye or the hand)
between seeing the streak of the strip and seeing the moving image through
a slit. In fact, another detail should be pointed out here, since an important
difference between models of Zoetrope bears on this: Zoetropes with a
low cylinder emphasize this comparative effect, while those with a higher
cylinder tend to mask the strip to privilege a more important “effective”
angle of vision. This vertical comparative movement is incompatible with
the very form of the Praxinoscope.
Anschütz – again – was to take advantage of this vertical movement
of the spectator’s eye in an interesting model of his Tachyscope, whose
cylinder featured three series of slits at different levels and slightly different
intervals. In this way, if the strip represented a galloping horse, for instance,
the viewer could see the animal move forward through the top row of slits,
run without moving forward through the middle row of slits, and move
backward through the bottom row… The model is also one of the very few
Zoetropes with a crank and has another exceptional characteristic: it was
owned by Étienne-Jules Marey.26
The whole issue of the relation between still and moving image is thus
embodied in the choices made in the conception of the machines, the
question of the presence of the elementary image in the moving image.
This is also why filmmaker and artist Robert Breer, who early on became
interested in the status of the film frame27 in his own films, ended up
making Mutoscopes28 from the 1950s on, sometimes with the assistance of
Jean Tinguely… Essentially, the Mutoscope was an instrument with a crank
thanks to which the spectator, fascinated but always physically active, could
view the very composition given by the form of the gesture to animated
movement. Indeed, while Gaumont initially commercialized its version of
the Mutoscope in 1900 (one with a spring-loaded mechanism based on the
Kinora patent registered by the Lumière brothers in 1896), the company
soon opted for a crank-driven version…29
Fig. 5. Notice sur le Cinématographe Auguste et Louis Lumière (Lyon: Société anonyme des plaques et
papiers photographiques A. Lumière et ses fils, 1897) 19.
Other artists were to produce their own versions of these optical ma-
chines, starting from very different principles and sometimes devising
rather original driving solutions: the Mini Rotary Psycho Opticon, created
in 2008 by Canadian artist Rodney Graham, gets its power from pedaling!30
As to motor-driven systems, they involve yet a different balance: on the
one hand, with the possibility of a given duration at constant speed, they are
comparable to crank-driven systems; on the other hand, the intervention
of the handler remains punctual as the machine gets started and turned
off, making their use quite similar to that of machines operated by hand…
The issue of driving mechanisms remained central after 1895 and consti-
tuted a common problem for all the optical machines involving movement,
from optical toys to the cameras, projectors and flatbeds in a cinema on
its way to cultural institutionalization and industrial rationalization. As
I have already pointed out, the issue also represents one notable differ-
ence between Edison’s machines, with their electrical engines, and the
crank-operated Lumière Cinématographe (Fig.5). This should be related
to differences in exhibition modes and target audiences: the Kinetoscope
presented a spectacle while the Cinématographe was initially designed
30 This bicycle drives a series of abstract discs whose mechanism is reminiscent of Marey’s odo-
graph. It was presented during the exhibition HF/RG [Harun Farocki/Rodney Graham], curated
by Chantal Pontbriand, at the Jeu de Paume (Paris), April 7-June 7, 2009. It was unfortunately
forbidden to operate the machine on that occasion…
Forms of Machines, Forms of Movement 293
for the amateur photographer, unfazed by the crank and even likely to
appreciate the subtleties involved in handling it.
Machines manufactured by competitors generally favored the crank-
driven mechanism, and much effort went into finding the most suitable
place and shape. German inventor Max Skladanowsky set the crank for his
Bioskop at the front, under the shutter, which put the operator in the posi-
tion of looking after the machine rather than at the screen. Louis Lumière
positioned the crank of the Cinématographe at the back, slightly to the left
of the device. This choice may first appear as rather inconvenient, but the
machine has to be considered as a whole: the camera did not have a view-
finder and framing (like focusing) was set before shooting, with the camera
open, looking through the printing gate. The film was then positioned, the
camera closed back, and the operator stood while “cinematographing,”
looking directly at the subject. With this type of crank, the body was at a
good distance from the camera: the cameraman was not “glued” to it. As far
as I know, only the professional Pathé camera had its crank positioned at the
back afterwards. Popular from 1908 on and into the 1920s, it was adopted
by Billy Bitzer, D. W. Griffith’s famous cameraman.
Englishmen Robert William Paul and Birt Acres placed their own crank
on the side, a choice that later became the most common, and to the right,
which allowed the body of the cameraman to come much closer to the ma-
chine, particularly after viewfinders appeared. In the end, it would hardly
be an exaggeration to say that the history of cameras largely consisted
in gradually “merging” the machine and the body of the cameraman…
whereas the history of projectors and the disappearance of cranks from
projecting booths, by contrast, were about allowing projectionists to move
away from their machines, or exhibitors to have only one projectionist for
several machines.
Of course, other options for the placement of the crank were sometimes
adopted – under the machinery, for instance, and manipulated by three
people in the case of Raoul Grimoin-Samson’s panoramic Cineorama, in
which ten cameras were driven simultaneously to cover a total field of 360
degrees.
Here as elsewhere, Étienne-Jules Marey appears to have been the ex-
ception: he did not like crank-driven mechanisms very much, privileging
spring-loaded engines, weight engines or electrical engines, which ensured
more precision and made possible a wider range of speeds and prompter
starts. His machines sometimes had cranks, but these were meant to wind
up the mechanism, not to drive it directly (Fig. 6).
294 Benoît Turquety
Fig. 6. Dark room on wheels with cameras inside, Étienne-Jules Marey, La Nature 535 (September 1,
1883) 229.
The driving system which was adopted sometimes brought about sur-
prises: it so happened that the mechanism of the Lumière Cinématographe
was one of the few to work backwards. This fact every operator, Louis
Lumière being perhaps the first, was to discover as an unplanned oddity
in the machine allowing for rather amusing games – a demolished wall
rebuilding itself as if by magic, for instance.31 The form of his machine thus
led Lumière to leave behind the “paradigm of capture-rendering”32 that had
apparently been the framework for his thinking until then.
The position and proportion of the crank ended up stabilizing. It re-
mained the preferred mode for driving cameras and projectors for the entire
so-called “silent” era until the late 1920s. A lot of questions obviously came
up as to how it should be handled, emphasizing the tension inherent in
31 Démolition d’un mur is one of the views Louis Lumière credited himself in the catalog he
gave Georges Sadoul in 1946. The destruction of a wall in the Lumière factory may be seen in the
film, two versions of which are known today, dated early 1896 and numbered 690 and 691 in the
catalog published by Michelle Aubert and Jean-Claude Seguin, where several quoted accounts
confirm that they were frequently projected forward, then backward. See Michelle Aubert and
Jean-Claude Seguin, La Production cinématographique des frères Lumière (Paris: Mémoires de
cinéma, 1996) 215-16.
32 On this paradigm, see André Gaudreault, Cinéma et attraction. Pour une nouvelle histoire
du cinématographe (Paris: CNRS éditions, 2008) 102 sqq.
Forms of Machines, Forms of Movement 295
Until now many a cameraman has been criticized for having filmed a
running horse moving with unnatural slowness on the screen (rapid
cranking of the camera) – or for the opposite, a tractor plowing a field
too swiftly (slow cranking of the camera), and the like.
These are chance occurrences, of course, but we are preparing a system, a
deliberate system of such occurrences, a system of seeming irregularities
to investigate and organize phenomena.35
Observing machines in detail, taking into account their uses, the discourses
concerning them, but also their forms, does not necessarily lead to stress the
continuity of an abstract principle – the production of an illusion of move-
ment out of a series of still images – over time. Rather, it means identifying
as precisely as possible the conditions of perception produced specifically
by each machine, and discovering discontinuities between concrete viewing
situations, between forms of movement which these machines make visible.
From Phenakistiscopes to Zoetropes, from Zoetropes to Praxinoscopes,
from models using a crank to models dispensing with it, featuring an electric
engine or a spring-loaded engine, a wide or narrow cylinder, the diversity
of machines materializes divergences in the conception of what it is to see
36 Gilbert Simondon, On the Mode of Existence of Technical Objects [1958], trans. Ninian Mel-
lamphy (University of Western Ontario, June 1980) 3-4, available at http://english.duke.edu/
uploads/assets/Simondon_MEOT_part_1.pdf, last accessed on July 11, 2012.
Forms of Machines, Forms of Movement 297
The issue of the “amateur” or “amateurs” is more topical than ever these days,
because of the easier access to equipment produced by new technologies, its
miniaturization and availability, with mass industrial production making it
affordable for a large majority of people. The phenomenon has been widely
taken into account in the field of photography studies, where it always went
hand in hand with the other – learned, expert, professional – tradition,
from Foto-Auge in 1929 to the exhibition “Tous photographes” (Lausanne,
2007) or “From here on” (Arles, 2011). However, the same phenomenon is
now assuming a whole other dimension, in particular with sociologists.1
Despite the economic and social importance of cinema, this question –
which runs through the history and the “prehistory” of the medium – has
not been given a significant place so far in different discourses, whether
critical or academic. It should probably be rephrased in terms of private uses
or even “techniques of the self” to find a field of study that would liberate
it from the narrow range of its “object.”
Only in “utopian” literature – to which I would rather refer as “literature of
extrapolation” – has this issue been apprehended within a larger framework,
where “cinema” is considered not only as an art, but also as a medium.2
As a consequence, it may prove an “ideal” object when it comes to fully
developing the question of the “dispositif” – from the most humble me-
chanical device, the machine used for shooting with its accessories, the
1 See Patrice Flichy, Le Sacre de l’amateur. Sociologie des passions ordinaires à l’ère numérique
(Paris: La République des Idées/Éditions du Seuil, 2010).
2 The various audiovisual utopias (Jules Verne or Albert Robida, for instance) have in common
the availability of each “mechanical” means of communication, recording or representation, their
adaptation for the home, be it in the form of a domestic access to spectacles (war in Africa for
information, ballets and theater for entertainment), personal communication (dialoguing across
distances with another individual), announcements or public mobilization, or the control over
one’s body. With respect for the latter, for instance, all inhabitants in Verne’s The Floating Island
are equipped with Marey’s experimental machines: “Every inhabitant knew his constitution
exactly, his muscular force measured by the dynamometer, his pulmonary capacity measured
by the spirometer, his power of cardial contraction measured by the sphygmometer, his degree
of vital force measured by the magnetometer.” This availability, which implies miniaturization,
simplification and large-scale production, rests on a process which, starting from the collective
(the public) and a dedicated space (the theater), proceeds to the individual and to private space,
which are also obviously part of a social space. All prospective fictions follow this progression.
See Jules Verne, The Floating Island (Rockville, Maryland: Wildside Press, 2009) 57-58.
300 François Albera
projector, the way they operate, to a social dimension, with the role, usage,
and place of this machinery in family life, the intimacy of subjects, their
imaginary, and finally at the level of the general organization of viewing and
listening machines in society. It lies at the intersection between the general
norm, indexed on technical knowledge and the rules of representation, and
individual autonomy from this norm, which may still be verified in it and
feeds on it – neither one really preceding the other, each presupposed in the
other. The “paying public projection,” which was chosen as the beginning
of “the history of cinema,” summons a crowd, all the crowds in the world,
simultaneously if possible, by assigning them the place of the spectator:
this is a well-known narrative. But this axis, along which a whole series of
“moments” deemed relevant by historians line up – institutionalization,
theaters, the advent of narration, the recognition of film as art, and today, for
some, the entrance into the museum and the gallery, among other examples
– is “doubled” with another axis in which image and sound machines are
domestic, private, family-oriented, individual objects (optical toys, cameras,
gramophones, telephones, television, smartphones…). “Doubled” is the right
word, for all the appliances and dispositives mentioned in the second group
presuppose that the individual or the limited group using them belong to
collectivities, to a crowd. Symmetrically, these crowds do not merge their
constituents into a whole that would subsume them; on the contrary, they
require them to remain individuals. Boris Eikhenbaum already noted that
the film spectator was alone; unlike the spectator at the theater, he did
not blend in a collective entity. In short, audio and visual spectacles since
the nineteenth century (the diorama, the panorama, the Praxinoscope-
theater and the cinematograph), if they aimed at a mass audience, still
individualized the spectator in the theater, who as a consequence was not
different from his complement, the private user. The two are moments of
the same individual, two modes of subjectification.3 The economy of these
appliances aims at both: technological changes produce these individual
3 “Even the very concept of ‘mass art’ in connection with cinema needs a whole series of
qualifications. […] [I]f we force ourselves to think it over calmly then the mass art of cinema
is not a qualitative concept but a quantitative one which is not connected with the essence of
cinema. […] [C]inema does not in itself in any way require the presence of the mass, even if
theatre does. Anyone with a projector can watch a film at home and therefore be one of the mass
of cinema spectators even without entering a cinema. Apart from that we do not, in essence, feel
ourselves to be members of a mass at all, or participants in a mass spectacle, when we are sitting
in a cinema; on the contrary – conditions at a film-show induce the spectator to feel as if he were
in total isolation.” Boris Eikhenbaum, “Problems of Cine-Stylistics,” trans. Richard Sherwood,
in Boris Eikhenbaum, The Poetics of Cinema, ed. Richard Taylor (Oxford: RPT Publications/The
University of Essex, 1982) 10.
The Amateur-Dispositive 301
uses and the corresponding market while developing the spectacular and
collective dimension of film (Scope, 3-D, stereo sound). That the “theatrical
release” is now seen mainly in the private space (television, DVD) or on an
individual player (laptop, smartphone…) that may also be used in public
space (in the street or on the train…) shows this reversibility of places and
porosity of “boundaries.”4 Within this approach, the notion of “amateur” is
obviously “off,” and even out of date. The phenomenon exceeds the distinc-
tion between the professional and the dilettante from which it proceeds.
Still, the amateur is a “fact” and some of the questions mentioned thus far
may start being answered on that basis.
The Amateur-Dispositive
4 Gilles Lipovetsky and Jean Serroy refer to this phenomenon under the term “global screen.”
See L’Ecran global. Du cinéma au smartphone (2007; Paris: Seuil, 2011).
5 Auguste Lumière, narrating the invention of the cinematograph by his brother, spoke of
“dispositif” to refer to the decisive “detail” that made possible the development of the appliance:
“One morning, as I came to his bedside to see how he was doing, he told me that during his
insomnia he had kept turning the problem over and thought he had found a rational solution.
The idea was to resort to a dispositive gripping the film at rest, carrying it in a speeded-up, then
a slowed-down movement, until it came to rest again – at which time the projection had to take
302 François Albera
b) that by which a modus operandi comes with the appliance and has to
be implemented by the amateur following the instructions for use; c) the
cinematographic dispositive proper, which determines the relations of the
director or spectator to the machine and to the representation (aimed at
or perceived), and with which the amateur complies;6 and finally, d) the
social dispositive, which the cinematographic dispositive is a part of and
belongs to. In this case, the social dispositive is particularly easy to identify:
in the set of prescriptive discourses – technical (a) as well as normative
(b), referring to groups of values which are not only technical or even just
aesthetic – and in the procedures subjecting the amateur to the whole.
What surfaces here is the articulation characterizing “liberal” societies
according to Foucault, in which the autonomy, the individual freedom and
subjection play a part in the good integration and the good functioning
of the socio-economic system (liberal capitalism and the productivity it
seeks).7 It appears all the more clearly as the individual addressed by
this ensemble of discursive utterances and practices to implement is an
“amateur” combining unselfishness and chosen attraction, but also possibly
fickleness and even negligence.8
Indeed, the amateur is required to be free and sovereign, unlike the
professional, who has to abide by strict rules designed according to desired
effects established by other people (she or he only carries things out) and
place. This cyclical operation had to be repeated fifteen times per second. […] I immediately
understood that this dispositive was to perform the desired effect and left the problem to my
brother, who had just found the solution in one night.” See Auguste Lumière, Mes travaux et
mes jours, 1953, quoted in Bernard Chardère, Le Roman des Lumière (Paris: Gallimard, 1995)
286 (my emphasis).
6 As Louis Lumière explained: “I built an appliance of this kind [the kinetoscope] and, after
many attempts, I managed to implement a dispositive which allowed the image to stay still for
1/25 of a second and made possible the projection of these images on a screen – and in front
of several people. My dispositive was the cinematograph.” See Louis Lumière, interview by
Régis-Leroi, Minerva 31 Dec. 1935, quoted by Chardère, Le Roman des Lumière 284. Lumière moves
from the mechanical system in the appliance (the film stopping in front of the shutter) to the
dispositive of the appliance as a whole, to the screen and to the spectator (the cinematograph).
7 “The psychological subject [of panopticism, discipline and normalization] whose appear-
ance is attested at the time […] is but the other side of this process of subjection.” See Michel
Foucault, Résumés des cours 1970-1982 (Paris: Julliard, 1989) 49-50.
8 The 8th edition of the Dictionnaire de l’Académie (1932-1935) defined the amateur as follows:
“Someone who is fond of something, has a taste for it […]. It [the term] refers absolutely to
individuals who like the fine arts without practicing them or having them as their profession.
He is not an artist, he is an amateur. This is the talent of an amateur, the work of an amateur. It
is also used to refer to those who, having to do something, go about it carelessly. He studies
amateur[ishly]. Finally, it applies to those who practice sports without earning any financial
profit for it.”
The Amateur-Dispositive 303
9 Reproduced in Friedrich von Zglinicki, Der Weg des Films (Berlin: Rembrandt, 1956) 159.
10 Beyond the often unstructured comments in the discourses of art critics, curators, or artists,
Olivier Quintyn has been developing a theory that seeks to articulate textual dispositive and
social dispositive by relying on Lévi-Strauss’s notion of bricolage. His main concern is collage as
a dispositive always founded on disjunction and generating possible epistemo-critical tactics.
See Olivier Quintyn, Dispositifs/Dislocations (Paris: Al Dante, 2007).
304 François Albera
11 It is partly with a view to renewing artistic practices that exhibitions in museums or related
institutions (festivals) open themselves to amateurs or celebrate their “consecration,” actually
paving the way for their “canonization,” to use Shklovsky’s terminology. Despite its undoubtedly
unfinished nature, the Soviet effort of “de-professionalization” – in photography, literature, and
cinema, notably – started from different premises, since its aim was to transform everyday life.
See Maria Zalambani, L’arte nella produzione. Avantguardia e rivoluzione nella Russia sovietica
degli anni Venti (Ravenna: Longo Angelo, 1998).
12 Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley, Los Angeles: The University of
California Press, 1984) xiv-xv.
13 “The theater, a centrifugal art, an art of expansion, an open-air art, is marked by contagion.
But the cinema will always require this dark, closed space where spectators withdraw into
themselves and concentrate; an inner art, in which everything comes together and condenses;
the screen soon seems to be set up in the very center of the mind; there I contemplate the universe
in the innermost part of myself.” See Jacques Rivette, “Les malheurs d’Orphée,” La Gazette du
cinéma 5 (Nov. 1950): 2.
14 See François Albera and Maria Tortajada, “Prolégomènes à une critique des télé-dispositifs,”
in La Télévision, du téléphonoscope à YouTube. Pour une archéologie de l’audiovision, Mireille
Berton and Ann-Katrin Weber, eds. (Lausanne: Antipodes, 2009).
The Amateur-Dispositive 305
15 See Christian Metz, Language and Cinema, chapters 1 [“Within the Cinema: The Filmic
Fact”] and 2 [“Within the Filmic Fact: The Cinema”] (Berlin: De Gruyter Mouton, 1974).
16 “The theory and history of cinema serve as the key conceptual lens through which I look at
new media.” See Lev Manovich, The Language of the New Media (Cambridge, MA/London: The
MIT Press, 2001) 8-9.
17 Barthes noted this in his account of the first international conference on visual information
that took place in Milan (July 9-12, 1961), published in the first issue of Communications the
same year. He denounced “the imperialism of cinema over other means of visual information,” a
domination “doubtless justified ‘historically’” but which “cannot be justified epistemologically.”
See Roland Barthes, Communications 1 (1961): 223-24. The quotation appears in François Albera
and Maria Tortajada, “Introduction to an Epistemology of Viewing and Listening Dispositives,”
in Cinema Beyond Film. Media Epistemology in the Modern Era, François Albera and Maria
Tortajada, eds., trans. Lance Hewsom (Amsterdam: Amsterdam U.P., 2010) 22 fn.
18 Theodor Adorno, Max Horkheimer, Dialektik der Aufklärung [1944], published in English as
Dialectic of Enlightenment (Palo Alto: Stanford U.P., 2007); Gunther Anders, Die Antiquiertheit
des Menschen 1. Über die Seele im Zeitalter der zweiten industriellen Revolution [1956-1980],
published in French as De l’obsolescence de l’homme (Paris: Ivrea-Encyclopédie des nuisances,
2001; Fario, 2011). The idea of combination is inherent in technical invention and its explanation.
In his scientif ic column in Le Gaulois (1 Jan. 1896), E. Hospitaber, an engineer in “Arts and
Manufactures,” introduced the kinetoscope and the cinematograph as well as the animated
panorama, a “fortunate combination” of cinema and colonel Moëssant’s photographic panorama.
19 Indeed, this stripped-down model was founded on the diachronic as well as synchronic
repression of cinema’s entire intermedia dimension and of all the diversified forms of its uses
and functions (didactics, surveillance, mixed entertainment, documentation and archive, etc.).
20 See “Faktum Fernsehen” [“the television factor”], Magnum 34 [Cologne] Feb. 1961.
306 François Albera
Barely two years after the f irst public screenings, the first page of the
Easter issue of Le Gaulois (a newspaper where Raymond Roussel penned
the Sunday serials) featured the drawing of a huge egg that supposedly
contained twelve surprises to be given out after a draw from the newspaper’s
subscribers.23 The prizes were a house that could be dismantled, a steam-
powered tricycle, a bike, a Larousse dictionary in 17 volumes, an outdoor
gymnastics equipment and – ranked fifth on the list – a cinematograph.
“Everybody can do photography; the use of the cinematograph can be
learned quickly,” according to the newspaper. To this effect, the Lumière
appliance was chosen for its practical aspect (it could record, develop and
project). From today’s perspective, handling the cinematograph does not
seem as practical as the newspaper claimed, far from it: the appliance did
not have a viewer, it was operated with a crank, thereby requiring the use
of a tripod and a projective approach to the edges of the frame. In spite of
these aspects and the briefness of the films, Le Gaulois listed a series of
subjects that could be shot by “the amateur” (though the term was actually
never used in the text): a comic scene, an interesting movement, a ball, an air
show, a scene involving sea swimming, a comic scene at the castle, hunting
scenes (blowing the horn at the hunt to signal that the kill is near or that
21 As early as 1972, the Kassel Documenta (on the theme “today seen from yesterday”) devoted
a room to Robida, whose reference was to become central with the advent of intermediality. See
Jurgen Müller and William Uricchio, among other scholars, and Alain Boillat in this volume.
22 William Uricchio proposed to substitute the narrative of the advent of television (starting
from the camera obscura), founded on live broadcasting, for that of the advent of cinema (with
its antecedents and various manifestations), defined by recording, storage, and reproduction.
Yet this would still consist in distinguishing between media on the basis of the restrictive
specialization of their uses.
23 Supplement to Le Gaulois 17 April 1897: 1.
The Amateur-Dispositive 307
The Pathé-Baby
Ten years later, after the division of his “empire” (phonographs and
phonographic equipment on one side, Pathé Consortium Cinéma for the
distribution and exhibition on another and Pathé Cinéma for the production
of film as well as the manufacture of appliances for shooting and project-
ing), Charles Pathé had not given up on catering to the greatest number
of customers, as the gramophone had shown how lucrative this activity
could be. For Christmas 1922, he launched the “Pathé-Baby,” an appliance
designed for the projection at home of small-format films (9.5 mm). It met
with considerable success. The March 1924 issue of L’Informateur photo
stated that, “if we still lived in the time of fairy tales, all of us, adults and
children, should place the Pathé-Baby in the realm of dreams.” The projector
308 François Albera
24 See Aya Kawamura, “La création collective dans le documentaire soviétique: photographie,
cinéma et ‘correspondants-ouvriers’,” 1895. Revue d’histoire du cinéma 63 (Spring 2011).
25 Pierre Henry, “Le cinéma d’amateur,” Cinéa-Ciné pour tous 85 (15 May 1927): 26-27.
The Amateur-Dispositive 309
Yet beyond families and individual amateurs, schools and Catholic youth
clubs became the major players in this medium. The phenomenon resulted
in a genuine parallel distribution network for Pathé. The company became
aware of a very tangible reality: in the France of the 1920s and 1930s, rural
space was completely ignored by film distributors, who mostly relied on
theaters located in cities. Enthusiasm for light equipment, small formats
and amateur appliances in the countryside thus led to the Pathé-rural, a
distribution system for the 16 mm Pathé catalog.27
As can be seen, amateur practice, while it could prove true assertions
such as Roh’s, extolling outsiders in the renewal of professional photography,
was simultaneously regulated in two ways: first, by instructions for use and
their prescriptions (internal norm), which influences aesthetic choices;
second, by mediating social institutions, which dispense knowledge or
doctrines (external norm) that influence the choice of subjects and uses.
The first of these norms will be examined here.
26 Pierre Henry, “Le cinéma d’amateur,” Cinéa-Ciné pour tous 86 (1 June 1927): 14-15. These last
words, which Louis Delluc had had about amateur scripts a few years earlier, echo Franz Roh’s:
“The Werkbund exhibition [“Film und Foto,” Stuttgart, 1929], the most important event of these
last few years in the visual field, presented almost no productions by professional photographers,
so often petrified in conventional mannerism. Here we have more evidence of the fact that
outsiders free of any prevention are precisely often those who achieve the necessary progress
and rejuvenation in the most diverse domains of life, art, or science. And this new flowering
of the photographic art also belongs… [in] the unknown history of the general productivity of
amateurs.” See “Mechanism and Expression,” in Foto-Auge, 76 Fotos der Zeit, Jan Tschichold and
Franz Roh, eds. (Stuttgart: Akademischer Verlag Dr. Fritz Wedekind & Co., 1929). Translator’s
note: this translation from the French is my own. An English translation of the full text may
be found in Germany. The New Photography, 1927-1933. Documents and Essays, ed. David Mellor
(Arts Council of Great Britain, 1978).
27 This has to be added to the several thousand small-format f ilms circulated in families
by Pathé. Both phenomena show to what extent an important share of the cinematographic
phenomenon is not considered in commentaries concentrating on the period.
310 François Albera
28 We are referring to patent n° 608.815 here. It was registered by the company Pathé Cinéma
on December 30, 1925 and issued on April 30, 1926 (its publication occurred on August 3) by the
services of industrial property attached to the Ministry of Commerce and Industry of the French
Republic (a registration request was also filed in England in February 1925). The document
was signed (through a power of attorney) by Lavoix, Mosès, and Gehet. It was consulted at the
département des Appareils (Cinémathèque française).
29 See Benoît Turquety’s contribution in this volume.
The Amateur-Dispositive 311
[…] We even recommend that beginners shoot their first views with one
or more seated characters, in front of a table for instance, to simply make
an animated portrait.
A face photographed at a range of 2.5 ft or 3 ft will fill up the whole frame,
with the slightest changes in expression being perceptible, whereas the
pace, the gait, the gestures will be faithfully rendered in the case of
characters shot full-length. It should in fact be noted that movements
across the frame (lateral) are much less apparent than movements in
depth. Also, the foreground is much more expressive than subjects from
a distance and it is the art of the “filmmaker’s mise en scène” to alternate
properly between the two. To shoot panoramic views, the user will attempt
to move the Motocaméra in a smooth and regular movement. When too
swift, a movement makes all images completely blurry and produces
horizontal “streaks.”
In the course of making a film, for the shooting of still objects such as
statues, monuments, landscapes featuring no movement, etc., a second
take will be enough and will provide a dozen images, the best of which
will be immobilized thanks to a notch during screening.30
30 My emphasis.
The Amateur-Dispositive 313
2° It is not necessary to shoot with the sun behind you, on the contrary:
depth and the beauty of the result are emphasized with the sun on the side.
3° Do not shoot scenes with starkly different lights on the same film, as
it is impossible to develop a film other than as a whole.
available light thanks to very precise tables, but also along very normalized
notions of the types of possible “views.”
The posograph is a small calculation table designed to determine expo-
sure time and the speed at which the crank should be turned: on one side,
the information on the weather, the place, the nature of the contemplated
subject are “entered,” and on the other the number to select on the setting
ring then appears. This device reviews all possible situations in detail and
was a convenient way to calculate this parameter until the photo-electric
cell appeared.
These two types of discourse originating from the manufacturer (the pat-
ent and the explanatory leaflet, to which the promotional discourse of
advertising could be added; see fig. 7) were both confirmed and amplified
in critical or journalistic discourse as well as in popular books paraphrasing
them. Occasionally, these discourses also contested them: for instance, after
periodical Cinéa twice evoked amateur cinema, the industry’s organ La
Cinématographie française opened its pages to A. P. Richard, a technician
who tempered this enthusiasm: “Amateur cinema gave rise to enormous
hopes, but it seems that at the moment it is going through a slight crisis
which hinders its evolution.”
Besides the price of film stock, which made it “impossible to contemplate
an intense popularization of amateur cinematography,” technical difficul-
ties awaited the amateur, and these did not appear in the directions for use:
“Clever salesmen thought it was enough to turn a crank in any conditions
and in any way whatsoever,” Richard objected. “This unfortunate mistake
only produced disappointing results. It’s high time every camera buyer was
provided with a reliable guide with information on the do’s and the don’ts,”
a vade mecum that would feature “something else than sales patter.”31
The “sales patter” targeted by Richard is the promotional discourse of
advertising (“the moving image accessible to all,” “shooting a film with the
Caméra-Pathé is as simple as taking a random picture with the most simple
of standard photographic cameras”32), which points to all the instruc-
31 A. P. Richard, “L’opinion d’un technicien,” Cinéa-Ciné pour tous 1 Sept. 1927: 24-25, reprinted
from La Cinématographie française.
32 These formulas appear in advertisements for the Pathé-Baby (undated, département des
Machines, collection of the Cinémathèque française).
The Amateur-Dispositive 315
tions we have already examined. These set norms that facilitated the task
of amateur operators, but also led them to conform to a certain type of
representation derived from pictorial and photographic representation, to
an ideal of stability and duration of the image, to a measure of contrasts
and distances. In that respect, an aesthetic may be inferred from the advice
and the steps to follow provided by the expert-technician as well as the
manufacturer.33
The “dictatorship of posing time” which Richard laments was thus dealt
with by Pathé through explanatory tables appearing in the instructions and
with the posograph; these were supported by a reference to artistic genres.
33 This kind of demand, which runs against promotional discourse, may be found throughout
the history of amateur cinema. Here is one example: “Do not think there are other, apparently
more simple ways, even for a beginner, even equipped with the most automated appliances.
The satisfaction you will experience in cinema will be proportional to the care, the attention,
the efforts even, which you will bring to your pastime.”
34 See Ingebjørg Ydstie, “Les galeries d’art cinématographiques d’Edvard Munch et Halfdan
Nobel Roede,” catalog for the exhibition “Munch. L’Œil moderne,” Centre Pompidou, Sept. 22,
2011 - Jan. 9, 2012.
35 Pathé later commercialized a third model of Motocaméra with the motor integrated to the
case, whose elements had been made more compact. A single rewinding was enough to unwind
a whole roll of film. “As a consequence, the appliance is always ready for use.”
316 François Albera
near the operator’s eye (the eyepiece) when aiming the camera after placing
it against the cheek, “taking care to hold it in a vertical position.”36
The subjects Munch dealt with seemed to meet the “program” defined
for amateurs in the leaflets. His films include the urban views, automobile
traffic, tramways, carts and passers-by of the Lumière cinematograph,
as well as landscapes, houses, portraits of close relatives, a playlet, and a
self-portrait – but the results are different.
Was it a deliberate gesture of “transgression” of imposed norms on
Munch’s part? An “artistic” gesture similar to Man Ray’s when he delib-
erately handled the camera without conforming to accepted norms while
shooting Return to Reason – throwing the camera up in the air after turning
it on, for instance, exposing film directly on the model of the photogram
in photography and so forth, seeking out randomness and chance effects?
Or should these differences be imputed to the clumsiness of the begin-
ner, who did not master the machine? It is impossible to say, just as it is
probably pointless to try and determine it one way or the other. Indeed,
these sketches, these trials by Munch, shown end to end by the laboratory
that developed the films, attest to the ambiguity of the relations between
amateurs and innovators extolled by Roh and Henry. What does appear
in these “failures” (over- or underexposure, ghost images, blurs, blacks,
proximity making it impossible to identify the object, very swift movements,
etc.) is what characterizes the machine.
As we have seen, instructions made a type of relation explicit in the
handling of the appliance, defining a bodily discipline of the user: “place
the Motocaméra against the cheek as indicated in figure 5, taking care
to hold it in a vertical position”; “with the right index finger, pull back the
start-up lever to trigger rolling immediately. From that moment on, the
camera should no longer move…”; “at any rate, avoid movements that would
be too quick…”
Munch’s films do not show an observance of “technical” recommen-
dations, as the f ilming mode is primarily gestural, against prescribed
immobility. Following moving objects or panning on urban buildings or
spaces, he did not respect norms, be they about stability, focus, distance
or light. Each shot, often brief, involves an abrupt, sometimes back-and-
forth movement akin to the “tricks” of the kaleidoscope, this paradoxical
viewer which, far from allowing “to see better” like its model, the telescope,
opens onto imagination, as Baudelaire pointed out. To the reproduction
of things in their likeness, to this embalming of passing time, to all these
37 Félix Le Dantec, Le Conflit. Entretiens philosophiques (Paris: Armand Colin, 1901) 166.
38 Jules Claretie, La Vie à Paris, 1896 (Paris: Fasquelle, 1897) 58-60.
39 Jules Claretie, “Trop d’émotions! – Le cerveau moderne,” La Vie à Paris, 1896, chap. XXXVI,
416-17.
40 And as he subjected himself to the signifying effects spectators could not fail to produce,
as the skills they had acquired through the viewing of standard films allowed them to decode
any “straying away” from the norm. Due to this very set of body movements undoing the rep-
resentative order, of this overexposure “burning” the image or this underexposure shrouding
it in darkness, of this excessively “hasty” movement blurring it, associations surface across
films. Within the frame, a relation is thus instituted between an inscription (“Marie”) and the
coming and going of a woman, “a passer-by,” its continuation in the following image, shot from
a window; or this scathing framing of King Albert of Saxony, reduced to his spurs, the hooves
and the bellyband of his bronze horse on a square.
318 François Albera
The new gadget seems magical and mysterious. It arouses curiosity: How
does it work? What does it do to us? To be sure, when the television sets
will have appeared on the birthday tables and under the Christmas trees,
curiosity will abate. Mystery asks for explanation only as long as it is new.
Let us take advantage of the propitious moment.
Rudolf Arnheim, “A Forecast of Television,”1 1935
1 Rudolf Arnheim, Film as Art (1957; Berkeley, Los Angeles: University of California Press,
1997) 188.
2 Jack Gould, “Matter of Form, Television Must Develop Own Techniques If It Is To Have
Artistic Vitality,” in Watching Television Come of Age. The New York Times Reviews by Jack Gould,
ed. Lewis L. Gould (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2001) 36.
3 Flora R. Schreiber, “Television: A New Idiom,” Hollywood Quarterly (Winter 1949): 191.
4 Gilbert Seldes, “The Twist. Can Hollywood Take over Television,” The Atlantic Monthly, 186.4
(Oct. 1950): 51.
320 Gilles Delavaud
Television Proper
crucial moment when the television viewer learned that Thomas Dewey
had been chosen to face the Democratic candidate10 in the presidential
elections of the fall:
If, as Freedland points out, the director “edits in a spontaneous and continu-
ously improvised manner, following the syntax of parallel editing given
currency by Griffith,”12 it would be erroneous to conclude that the new
means of expression simply mimics cinema. The sequence of actions was
probably dictated by the strong influence of a cinematographic code whose
narrative and dramatic effectiveness had proved itself, and by the concern
not to challenge the spectators’ perceptive habits. Still, this description
should first and foremost be heeded for another essential characteristic of
the program. Besides the fact that the broadcast made it possible to follow
the event as it unfolded, the important aspect was that, as Freedland puts
it, one could “observe it better and with more details from a remote position
than on the very sites where it was taking place.”13
10 Harry Truman was chosen by the Democratic convention a few months later, also in
Philadelphia.
11 Freedland, “Télécinéma”: 123.
12 Freedland, “Télécinéma”: 123.
13 Freedland, “Télécinéma”: 123.
322 Gilles Delavaud
14 Produced by Edward M. Murrow and Fred W. Friendly, directed by Don Hewitt, See It Now
was the first live program taking advantage of the transcontinental coaxial cable connecting
the East Coast and the West Coast after AT&T put it into service. In his Good Night, and Good
Luck (2005), a film devoted to the figure of Edward R. Murrow, George Clooney, who played
the part of Fred W. Friendly, faithfully reconstructed the conditions in which the show was
produced.
T wo Versions of the Television Dispositive 323
REPORTER (voice). Hello, New York. This is the Golden Gate, the waters
of San Francisco Bay leading on to the Pacific Ocean. It’s rather hazy
out here, Mr Murrow. (The camera closes in on the blurry image on the
left-hand monitor.)
MURROW. That’s fine, San Francisco. May we have the San Francisco
Bay bridge, please?
REPORTER (voice). O.K. (The camera tilts up to reveal the suspension
bridge.)
MURROW. Now, San Francisco, could you use what you call, I think, a
Zoomar lens and close in on the bridge a little?
REPORTER (voice). Gotcha! (The camera zooms in until it gets to a close
view of the left pylon.)
MURROW. Ah, that’s fine, thank you, San Francisco. Just stand by for a
moment, will you? Hello, New York?
REPORTER (voice). Yes.
MURROW. May we have the Brooklyn Bridge, please?
REPORTER (voice). Coming right up, Mr Murrow. (A very long panning
movement to the right follows.) There she is. (The panning shot ends with
a slight zoom-in on the right pylon.)
MURROW. Brooklyn Bridge. Thank you very much, Eddy Scott. Hold it,
please, will you? Now, San Francisco, will you pan over Alcatraz for us,
please?
REPORTER (voice). Yes, sir… (The camera pans away from the Golden
Gate Bridge, to the left, slowly scanning the coast, then the surface of
the water to Alcatraz Island.) There it is. (A boat siren may be heard.)
MURROW. Can you move in on Alcatraz a little? (slow zoom-in) That’s
fine. Excellent. Hold it, please… Now back on monitor one. New York,
may we have the New York skyline, please, Eddie Scott? […] (The camera
pans away from the Brooklyn Bridge, to the left, revealing the Manhattan
skyline.) Now, New York, can you swing us out toward the Narrows, where
you look right out at the ocean?
REPORTER (voice). We’ll try, Ed… There, we’re going down beyond, by
Staten Island. Ah, there are the Narrows, right down that way. There’s
where the big ships sail out to Europe and all the ports of the world.
MURROW. Good. Thank you very much… Now, San Francisco, can you go
out to the Golden Gate Bridge and look straight out to the ocean there?
REPORTER (voice). All right… (The camera slowly pans from the build-
ings on the hill to the harbor; the city is in the foreground, the ocean in
the distance.) There it is.
324 Gilles Delavaud
MURROW (turned back, facing the two monitors). Thank you very much
indeed, gentlemen. We, for our part, are considerably impressed by the
first time man has been able to sit at home and look at two oceans at the
same time. […]
The fact that direct, “immediate” television does not go without mediation
or selection, and that the selection can be performed only out of a limited
number of points of view (four in the report on the Republican convention,
two in the opening sequence of See It Now) only stresses the singular status
of television viewers. In their private space, in front of a single “monitor,”
they are fundamentally observers. As such, they enjoy a double ubiquitous-
ness: occupying successively/simultaneously the different points of view
determined by the positions of the cameras on the scenes of the action,
they still remain the remote witnesses to whom images are individually
addressed as they face their reception screen.
Spectators of fiction are no less observers than spectators of news events
in front of the small screen. The direction of a live drama also falls within
reporting. To borrow from Freedland’s terminology, it consists of the remote
viewing of an event – not journalistic but artistic, and in this case televisual,
since this kind of event (the staging in the studio of a text written and
performed by actors who previously rehearsed it) only takes place to be
broadcast, in contrast to the Republican convention, for example.
On French television, the broadcast in 1954 of the drama Sixième étage,
directed by Marcel Bluwal, may be considered as a model televisual event.15
Sixième étage is a play by Alfred Gehri, which, through a sentimental plot,
depicts the lives of the tenants on the top floor of a building of furnished
apartments in a popular Parisian neighborhood. The main set involves a
corridor on which eight doors open, four on one side, four on the other. At
one end of the hallway is the staircase, at the other a window opening on
the street. While occupants come in and out of their rooms or apartments,
run into one another in the hallway, visit one another, the spectator has
“access” only to two private spaces, a room on one side and an apartment
on the other, leaving the six remaining living spaces off-screen.
The choice of this stage work by a director reflecting on the technical
potential of his instrument (the live television studio) and eager to explore
its aesthetic possibilities is easily understandable: rather than its intrinsic
qualities, the fact is that an action unfolding simultaneously in several
contiguous spaces lent itself perfectly to a direction devised in terms of
transmission. Two cameras operated in the hallway and could follow the
comings and goings of this or that character to one of the doors. Then,
either the character stepping into a room closed the door behind them and
temporarily disappeared from view; or, at the moment she or he stepped
into the room, a third camera already there showed him or her coming in
from inside the room. As with the broadcast of the Republican convention
described by Freedland, cameras ceaselessly took turns to build an orderly,
continuous visual unfolding akin to that customary in cinema, on the basis
of a given space and an imposed time (“real” time). While viewers are not
unsettled (visual continuity follows the codes of the continuity style, with
all takes impeccably linking up), something nevertheless becomes obvious
to them: on the one hand, all cameras operate simultaneously, in parallel,
so as to “cover” the ongoing action as well as possible; on the other hand,
the passage from a space to another one (from a take to the next) does not
involve a cut but a commutation. Put differently, all these characters moving
about under the spectators’ eyes, exiting the frame of a camera to enter the
frame of another one, create an increasing sense of surveillance.
A simplification of syntax will ensue from this, and it will reduce the
telecinematographic style to the simple work of the human eye, which
looks at what goes on around it through “tracking shots” when the indi-
vidual moves, suddenly interrupted by more or less bumpy still shots or
panning shots, with a constant subjective continuity. Television will thus
truly be what its name indicates, “remote viewing.”17
HITCHCOCK. No, no, but I made a movie called Rope, you know, which
was shot with one camera all the way through without any cutting. And
that in a sense was a kind of preview of television technique. […] That’s
what I tried to do in this Rope picture, to give some preview of what would
happen on television in the future […].
Film critics and theoreticians have often compared Rope and Lady in the
Lake because of the radical choices of very long sequence shots in both
cases (24 shots in the former and – exactly – eleven in the latter 20). Yet
what Freedland stresses is their common “attempt at a subjective narration.”
However, while the mise en scène of Lady in the Lake is indeed based on
the systematic use of the point-of-view shot, with everything seen through
the eyes of the protagonist (and told in first-person voice-over), the principle
guiding the direction of Rope is, by contrast, that of a recording that may
be described as objective insofar as the action represented is given to see
in itself, in a way, as if there were no narrator. Accordingly, why write of a
subjective narration? Probably because in Rope as in Lady in the Lake,
though differently, the fluidity of continuous takes and the permanent
mobility of the camera give the impression of dealing with the point of view
of a “subject” ever alert, seized in the very act of seeing. As it happens, this
subject is the spectator. Even as what she or he sees may also be seen by
one of the characters, what the spectator sees does not fade to the benefit
of what one character sees, any more than what a character sees substitutes
for what the spectator sees: at every instant, it is the spectator who sees.21
From a camera movement to the next, shooting proceeds. Until the
last minutes, the camera seems to “follow” the action, never to precede it:
its performance must remain unobtrusive. This choice of continuity and
camera mobility meets a strategy of intensification of seeing, hence the
insistence, in critical discourse, on “the camera” – a term that may be taken
as a synonym for “spectator”:
The camera never comes to rest, never skips from one character to
another. It wanders slowly, slowly, to the very rhythm of the action. […]
This calculated slowness, this meticulous attention, this commitment not
20 On the découpage of Rope, see David Bordwell, Poetics of Cinema (New York: Routledge,
2008) 32-43.
21 Rope still includes four cuts to a character looking, cuts that correspond to reel changes
during the projection. See Bordwell, Poetics of Cinema 33-36.
328 Gilles Delavaud
At once close and remote, spectators are the inevitable witnesses of the
inexorable progress of the action and the behavior of the characters, who
are never out of sight. They can watch out for the least reaction (are the two
criminals going to give themselves away, and will their hosts understand
that they are being manipulated?). At the same time, they do not see
everything: deprived of a feeling of ubiquity usually brought by editing,
their field of vision constantly remains in check, relative to the position
occupied in space, constrained by the uniqueness of a point of view that
appears embodied.
What the spectators of Lady in the Lake or Rope experience is thus
not so much attending a spectacle as seeing in action. This explains the
comparison with the “simple work of the human eye,” which is by definition
characterized by a “constant subjective continuity.” Confronted with these
two films, I am aware, in either case, of experiencing an “I see.” The look
of the camera both precedes and extends my own look (which “looks at
what goes on around it through ‘tracking shots’”). The expression “remote
viewing,” used by Freedland about telecinema, refers to this mediation.
The mediation of the (tele-vision or telecinema) camera did not only make
it possible to see far away, but also to see close by, and even very close by.
The consistency and recurrence of a metaphor in the discourse of televi-
sion professionals in the 1940s and 1950s can only impress: television cameras
are tirelessly compared to microscopes, radiography (X-rays) or scalpels. No
matter the variants, whether understood literally, physiologically or in a
psychological sense, the metaphor tells us clearly that the specificity of
television, and consequently its calling, lies with its power of penetration
22 A. F., “La Corde,” rev. of Rope, dir. Alfred Hitchcock, Le Monde 1 Mar. 1950: 9.
T wo Versions of the Television Dispositive 329
More than prose, more than the stage, more than motion pictures – oh,
so much more than radio – television, with its immediacy, gets to the
heart of the matter, to the essence of the character, to the depicting of
the human being who is there, as if under a microscope, for our private
contemplation, for our approval, our rejection, our love, our hate, our
bond of brotherhood recognized.24
Under the scalpel of television, one could see the personality of inter-
viewed authors reveal itself in an extraordinary way. I am convinced that
nobody truly remembered what the poor authors had said during their
introspection, yet we had become deeply familiar with their personality,
their heart, their soul, their brain. Hence the success of the program.25
The producer of the show, Pierre Dumayet, summed up the reason for the
success of Lectures pour tous in one word: television viewers were “face
readers.”26
All critics shared this idea, conscious that television both developed and
satisfied what François Mauriac called the “taste for faces” in his L’Express
column: “the taste for seeing them close by, for sight-reading them like
scores.”27 When Mauriac left the weekly newsmagazine in 1962, his suc-
cessor Morvan Lebesque revealingly felt the need to start anew from the
same acknowledgment:
23 I set out this idea in a previous text, “Le dispositif télévision. Discours critique et création
dans les années 1940 et 1950,” in La Télévision du Téléphonoscope à YouTube. Pour une archéologie
de l’audiovision, Mireille Berton and Anne-Katrin Weber, eds. (Lausanne: Antipodes, 2009). I
am developing it and expanding it here, using other examples.
24 Edward Barry Roberts, quoted by William Boddy, Fifties Television. The Industry and Its
Critics (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1990) 81.
25 Jean d’Arcy parle, thoughts collected and edited by François Cazenave (Paris: INA/La
Documentation française, 1984) 160.
26 Pierre Dumayet, Autobiographie d’un lecteur (2000; Paris: LGF/Livre de poche, 2001) 102.
27 “La chronique de François Mauriac,” L’Express 21 Apr. 1960: 30. Reprinted in François
Mauriac, “On n’est jamais sûr de rien avec la télévision”. Chroniques 1959-1964, ed. Jean Touzot,
with the collaboration of Merryl Moneghetti (Paris: Bartillat, 2008) 105.
330 Gilles Delavaud
Where did television hold this power to reveal? Pierre Dumayet answered
from his own turf – the situation of an interview, in which the interviewee
was completely exposed:
For the same reason – “the television camera reveals humans like no other
instrument”30 – André Bazin took an interest in all kinds of programs,
game shows for instance. Subjected to the test of the game, pressed with
questions, candidates still reveal to us, in spite of themselves, their strength
of character as well as their weaknesses.31 And when a candidate wins
the opportunity of playing on for several weeks in a row, this revelation
“becomes deeper and richer […] to the point of sometimes giving us the
feeling of an intimate discovery.”32 The same goes for politicians in an
electoral period: television viewers are not only sensitive to their arguments,
but they also assess the way in which these politicians try to convince them.
Without denying that “the powers of conviction of television may be used to
negative ends,” Bazin still thinks that the medium provides a kind of resist-
ance to being used as a means of propaganda: if, with television viewers
watching, politicians cannot help but reveal something about themselves,
then television “is in essence a technique of sincerity.”33
In 1956, coming from cinema, Pierre Cardinal was given the responsibility
of producing a documentary series featuring portraits of comedians in the
form of interviews.34 He had enough confidence in “the surprising power
of television to reveal”35 to let go of the convention of the interview, keep
to the background, and leave the comedians to themselves, alone in front
of the camera. The program, titled Gros plan [“Close-up”], was prepared
methodically: a text was written by the comedian, worked on again in
collaboration with the director, then, at the time of the shooting at the
home of the comedian, delivered informally to television viewers in a semi-
improvised mode.36 Each comedian, while talking about himself or herself,
evoking his or her career, work and encounters, was led not only to expose
himself or herself, but also to engage in an exercise in sincerity. This was one
of the lessons of the series: how each subject accepted – or not – the risk
of speaking genuinely through the fiction of a direct address (the program
was filmed prior to broadcast). At the beginning of the episode devoted to
him, Jean Marais thus points out the strange situation in which he happens
to be and how this “conversation” with television viewers puts him in an
awkward position:
I am at your place at this moment and [yet] I am not. You may be having
dinner and you are not inviting me. You are sitting and you are leaving
me standing… And as I speak, you may even be criticizing me and talking
about me as if I were not here. Is it not a false situation?37
In a more serious tone, smiling mildly to the camera but visibly unsettled,
Maria Casarès starts speaking:
34 As a f ilmmaker, Pierre Cardinal had directed Au cœur de la Casbah (1951) and Fan-
taisie d’un jour (1954). He had also taught at the IDHEC (Institut des hautes études cinéma-
tographiques).
35 Télé-Revue 351 (24 Sept. 1961): 15.
36 For an analysis of the series Gros Plan, see Gilles Delavaud, L’Art de la télévision (Brussels:
Ina/De Boeck, 2005) 164-70.
37 Gros Plan, program broadcast on March 21, 1959.
332 Gilles Delavaud
You see, I do not like to soliloquize. As for thinking, I would rather not
do it aloud. But I know you are there. Oh yes I do! It even takes my breath
away. Yet I also know that, while you can see me, look at me, hear me,
you still cannot interrupt me or even express through reactions or an
eloquent silence your rejection or your approval… It makes me feel ter-
ribly uncomfortable and hinders my ability to talk to you.38
Because of the roles I have played on screen for quite a few years, because
of films for which I have been honored to be used, some kind of mystery
hovers around my person. I have not sought it, but you have to admit that
mystery is addictive: you get caught in it, you start taking pleasure in it,
and soon you have become a captive of your persona.
Then, a few days ago, the eminent producer of this program, our distin-
guished friend Pierre Cardinal, came to see me and told me: “I beg you,
maestro, lift the veil on the mystery that surrounds you.” I accepted, I
understood that such was my duty, and I decided to reveal everything
to you, to reveal myself completely in front of you. 40
A double truth emerges from these few examples: sincerity is a test, sincerity
is a game.
In the late 1960s Pierre Schaeffer, referring to programs that notably aimed to
denounce the myth of an “authentic” voice, coined the expression “research
dispositive.” In many respects, this may be seen as a form of radicalization
of the conception of television commonly understood as an observation
dispositive in the 1950s.
The series Vocations (ORTF, national French public radio and television,
1969), created by Jean Frappat within the Service de la recherche headed by
Schaeffer, epitomized this approach. 41 Personalities interviewed by Pierre
Dumayet were invited to talk about their profession and analyze the birth of
their vocation. In the empty studio, with dimmed lights, the interviewer and
the interviewee (an actress, a psychiatrist, a lawyer, a philosopher, a priest,
a writer…) first had an informal conversation to prepare the interview. The
guests evoked some of the themes they wished to develop, provided one or
more facts they wanted to comment on. This first sequence was recorded
without their knowing. The studio would then light up, cameramen would
position themselves behind the cameras, and the interview proper would
begin. Finally, the interviewer would admit to interviewees that they had
been “tricked,” offering to watch and compare the recording of the prepara-
tory interview and the interview that followed to have them observe the
difference in behavior depending on whether they were aware of being on
the record or not, that is, whether they tried or not to control their own
image.
Discussing the series from the experimental approach that was his, Pierre
Schaeffer defined the dispositive as follows:
The dispositive may be compared to the trap set for the human animal
to be captured and observed. Television professionals have sometimes
invented dispositives with no other aim than spectacle in mind. La
Caméra invisible provides us with the best example of this and, despite
all the precautions taken, one of the most cruel. 42
The use of the hidden camera to observe ordinary people without their
knowing appeared with television itself. In the first installment of the series
Candid Camera (NBC, 1949), 43 one of the sequences took place in a New
York department store. Three female customers came one after the other
to return the hat they had bought and ask for a refund. Confronted with
the refusal of the employee (none other than the host of the show), they
found themselves pressured into a lengthy explanation and a justification.
The “spectacle” given to television viewers appeared in a simplified form:
three close-ups of several minutes each, three faces in tight shots seething
with increasingly sharp and embarrassed reactions. 44
Less “candid” (and more sly) was the spectacle proposed almost thirty
years later by Jean-Luc Godard and Anne-Marie Miéville’s documentary
series France Tour Détour Deux Enfants (INA, 1977-1978). Television, which
the authors proposed in some way to reinvent, 45 was explicitly presented
as an observation dispositive in the series. In several of the interviews
that constitute the core of most episodes, the two children (alternatively a
little boy and a little girl, both nine years old) were observed a first time,
not by a hidden camera, but by an invisible director questioning them
from a distance, through a monitor. Alone in front of the camera, deprived
of the presence and the look of their interviewer, unprotected, they were
“completely exposed,” sometimes for more than fifteen minutes. They were
then observed a second time by the two hosts in the studio who, facing
another monitor, commented on their behavior. As Godard put it, “We
42 Pierre Schaeffer, Machines à communiquer 2. Pouvoir et communication (Paris: Seuil, 1972) 158.
43 Imported in 1948 from the radio, produced and hosted by Allen Funt, the program was first
broadcast on ABC under the title Candid Microphone, changing to Candid Camera as it moved
to NBC in 1949.
44 Program broadcast on May 29, 1949.
45 By modestly doing what they called “de la télévision de quartier,” or “neighborhood television.”
T wo Versions of the Television Dispositive 335
46 Jean-Luc Godard par Jean-Luc Godard, ed. Alain Bergala (Paris: Editions de l’Etoile/Cahiers
du cinéma, 1985) 407 (my emphasis).
47 Godard and Miéville admitted to the restrictive dimension of interviews through the
commentary of the two studio hosts, in particular the pressure exerted on the little girl: “It
must have been difficult for her […], it is our fault.”
48 On the series, and more specifically on the mise en scène of interviews and the relation to
spectators implied by Godard’s conception of television as an observation dispositive, see my
article “La place du spectateur,” Godard et le métier d’artiste. Actes du colloque de Cerisy (1998),
Gilles Delavaud, Jean-Pierre Esquenazi and Marie-Françoise Grange, eds. (Paris: L’Harmattan,
2001) 121-38.
49 “Long Distance,” Lights Out!, season 2, episode 3, prod. Fred Coe, dir. Kingman T. Moore,
perf. Jan Miner, NBC, August 2, 1949.
336 Gilles Delavaud
Mrs Jacks is shown frontally, sitting at a table, and occupies the left side
of the frame. Behind her, a few books and a small clock marking 9 o’clock
may be seen on shelves. Mrs Jacks informs the director of the prison that
she has just found a letter clearing her husband. She begs him to halt the
execution, which is set to take place… half an hour later.
At the very moment when the director of the prison picks up the call, he
appears from the side, sitting at his desk, in the right side of the frame.
He explains to her that it is too late and that only the judge may stop the
execution at that point.
Mrs Jacks flips feverishly through the phone book, then dials the judge’s
number. A ring may be heard.
The judge’s wife picks up the phone, appearing in turn in the right half of
the frame, from the side, standing. She tells Mrs Jacks that the judge is in
San Francisco and gives her the phone number of his hotel.
In the right part of the frame, the chief operator, seen face on, appears
in the place of the first operator. Mrs Jacks has to reiterate her request
and spells out the judge’s name again. The chief operator encounters
some difficulties in setting up the connection with San Francisco… Stark
contrast between the professional calm of the operator and Mrs Jacks’s
growing anxiety…
T wo Versions of the Television Dispositive 337
Eventually, the image of the San Francisco operator appears in the left
part of the frame, replacing the image of Mrs Jacks.
For a moment, Mrs Jacks can no longer be seen, but she is still there,
intervening in the exchange between the two operators.
Mrs Jacks reappears on the left side of the frame. The operator asks her to
hang up and wait to be called back; her image then disappears. Anxious
wait for Mrs Jacks, who now appears alone in the frame… Behind her, the
face of the small clock marks 9:10.
At this stage in the story, ten minutes into the episode, there are twenty
more minutes until the execution takes place – and the program ends. The
protagonist will still meet many obstacles before she manages to reach the
judge… in the last minute.
For the first time on American television, an entire fiction was made
using the technique of the split-screen.50 On the screen, the alternation
and the swift succession of images went hand in hand with an absolute
continuity. Throughout the program, the tremulous face of the heroine
was visible to the viewers, except in a few rare moments when her image
on the left side of the screen was briefly “covered over” by that of a differ-
ent character. The greatest physical and emotional proximity combined
with both the geographic distance (the characters appearing in the right
half of the frame) and the distanciation imposed by the very process of
the split-screen (with its juxtaposition of two images). Spectators, placed
once and for all in front of a woman involved in a desperate struggle, were
maintained for an extended time in a relation of exteriority to the screen,
their attention wavering between adherence to the drama lived by the
character and detached observation of the performance of the actress.
In 1953, returning to the principle of point-of-view shooting with which
he had experimented from 1946 on, Fred Coe co-produced the series First
Person with director Arthur Penn for NBC.51 In all episodes, the action was
seen through the eyes of a character-narrator, out of frame but always
50 The New York Times critic then wrote: “By this method, used to show simultaneous action at
separated points, two different pictures are transmitted at the same time, each taking one-half
of the television screen.” Val Adams, “NBC Offers Two Series of Drama Shows, ‘Academy Theatre’
and ‘Lights Out’,” New York Times 7 Aug. 1949: X7.
51 Six out of the eight episodes were directed by Penn.
338 Gilles Delavaud
present in the scene, and whose interior monologue allowed the viewers
to share in observations and thoughts.
As the title of the episode “I’d Rather Be a Squirrel”52 indicates, its nar-
rator is a squirrel. Its first sentence defines the position of viewers: “The
nice thing about being a squirrel is that you can run up a tree anytime you
want to and get a sense of detachment.” When the squirrel moves down a
branch and approaches the nearby house, we observe “through its eyes”
the daily life of a couple through an open window. The man sympathizes
with the squirrel, gives the animal some nuts, talks to it, expresses yearn-
ing for a similar life. Because he does not share his wife’s taste for parties
and disdains the material comfort she aspires to (she wants to purchase
a television set), he eventually moves to the tree to isolate himself, read
Thoreau’s Walden, or Life in the Woods, and meditate. From his observation
post, he can in turn watch his wife’s guests come and go in his own house.
In “Tears of My Sister,”53 Cecilia, the narrator, is a young teenager worried
about the fact that her sister Bessie, who is about to marry a rich, older man,
cries at night. Her mother tells her that she will understand later that Bessie
cries out of happiness. Cecilia, who ignores that her older sister secretly loves
another man, always observes her, scrutinizes her face, interprets her least
expression, questions her, desperately trying to understand a behavior that
remains enigmatic to her. The camera occupies the place of Cecilia, who
remains invisible, at once amazingly watchful and effaced.
In “Crip,”54 Alan, the narrator, is a seventeen-year old disabled boy who,
as a consequence of an accident he had as an infant, can neither walk nor
speak. Since he cannot speak, his mother keeps treating him like a child.
From his wheelchair, he observes – through the front door – the house which
workers are renovating on the same street; and later, at night, through the
lit-up windows, the family who have just moved in. His young neighbor Jane
visits him and makes out his sensibility and his intelligence. She confides
in him and thanks to her, escaping the grip of his mother, he utters his first
words. Through Alan’s eyes, we see his mother and Jane, together or in turn,
leaning over him and talking to him, confined to his wheelchair as he is.
Even though the technique of point-of-view shooting may be deemed
contradictory with the classic film dispositive, its use in First Person proves
particularly relevant. Indeed, the point is not to reinforce, let alone impose,
52 “I’d Rather Be a Squirrel,” First Person, writ. Harry Muheim, dir. Bob Costello, NBC, July 10,
1957.
53 “Tears of My Sister,” First Person, writ. Horton Foote, dir. Arthur Penn, NBC, August 14, 1953.
54 “Crip,” First Person, writ. Stewart Stern, dir. Bob Costello, NBC, August 21, 1953.
T wo Versions of the Television Dispositive 339
Not only does a mise en scène ordered in this way assign a determined place
to spectators, but it also constitutes them as experimental subjects in their
55 In First Person, such projections arise with characters looking to the camera and regularly
approaching the lens, to the point where they appear in extreme close-up. In another series,
Cameo Theatre (NBC, 1950), producer and director Albert McCleery did away with the set and
had the performers act in front of a black background so as to give the impression that they
stood out against the screen.
340 Gilles Delavaud
own perceptual activity: they know that what is given for them to see is
given as (already) looked at.
The different examples considered, whether involving live or filmed
programs, reality of fiction, shed light on the way in which television was
apprehended in the early phase of institutionalization, first and foremost
by those who “made” it. Understood as a viewing (and listening) dispositive,
it did not exactly belong to spectacle as a category. Writers and directors,
trained in theater (in the United States) or in cinema (in France), invented
a mode of representation which, far from being a simple mix of one or
the other, escaped the logic – and the aesthetic – of either. On the one
hand, the dispositive for “remote viewing” cancelled distances, turning the
spectator in a privileged observer; on the other hand, it made a close vision
possible while allowing the observer to maintain a distanced look even in
the greatest proximity.
The author wishes to thank the Inathèque de France (Paris) and the Paley
Center for Media (New York).
Reality Television as Dispositive: The
Case of French-Speaking Switzerland
Charlotte Bouchez
1 The research concerned the totality of programs produced by regional channel TSR (Télévi-
sion Suisse Romande) and branded as “reality TV” in the Francophone Swiss press: Génération
01 (2001), Le Mayen 1903 (2003), Y’a pas pire conducteur en Suisse romande (2004), Super Seniors
(2005), L’Etude (2006), Dîner à la ferme (2008 and 2009).
2 François Albera, Maria Tortajada, “Epistémè 1900,” in Le Cinématographe, nouvelle technolo-
gie du XXe siècle, André Gaudreault, Catherine Russell and Pierre Véronneau, eds. (Lausanne:
Payot, 2004) 45-62.
342 Charlotte Bouchez
3 This was based on a corpus of articles from the general-interest Francophone Swiss daily
newspapers (24 heures, Le Temps, Le Matin, La Tribune de Genève, Le Nouvelliste, L’Express), the
week-end listings supplements and two magazines dealing with social issues (L’Hebdo and
L’Illustré). Articles were selected thanks to the search and indexation engine Swissdox, by
grouping sources that featured one or several of the following terms: “real TV,” “téléréalité,” “Big
Brother,” and “Loft Story” over a period running from 1996 to 2008. Translator’s note: all articles
referred to in the study were originally published in French, but their titles, which provide
information central to the author’s argument, have been translated in English here.
4 Introducing his field study on the role of conversations about television in the construction
of a local public opinion, Boullier writes: “A diff icult and radical reassessment then looms:
reception exists socially only in the form of discourses, and research on reception itself does
not proceed differently.” See Dominique Boullier, “La fabrique de l’opinion publique dans les
conversations télé,” Réseaux 126 (2004): 126. Indeed, field studies, conversations, newspaper
articles or television and radio reports and programs on reality television constitute many
socially determined situations in which discourses are produced on this object. While only print
articles are considered here, these situations as a whole give discourses a common finality: to
express, preserve or produce the social interaction deemed adequate by its protagonists – an
interaction elaborated through the mastery of social codes that allow protagonists to relate in
an appropriate manner some of the notions associated with the referent “reality TV.” More is
thus at stake in the study of discourses than the sole study of reception – in the restricted sense
of the recipient(s) of the program – since what is taken into consideration, more generally, is
both the way the object of study is socially integrated and the specific role discourses play in
these processes.
Reality Television as Dispositive: The Case of French-Speaking Switzerland 343
5 Albera and Tortajada, “L’Epistémè 1900”: 46. To avoid reading a causal logic in the sentence
(the dispositive as an “arrangement assigning a place to these protagonists”), I want to emphasize
the term “protagonists,” which refers to participants involved before the creation of the program
as well as from the moment it is distributed. This avoids privileging a modeling that would
approach the program as vectorized in a one-dimensional manner – from production through
representation to reception – to instead acknowledge the fact that producers position themselves
and are positioned by the dispositive. This leads to consider the dispositive as comprising the
program without being limited to it.
6 That the configuration of reality TV programs imposes a given attitude on the spectator is a
widespread idea in discourses thematizing the moral danger supposedly represented by a type
of program designed to place the audience in a voyeuristic position. A number of works take this
approach into consideration from a critical standpoint, including Olivier Aïm, “Une télévision
sous surveillance. Enjeux du panoptisme dans les ‘dispositifs’ de télé-réalité,” Communication et
langages 141 (2004): 49-59. This primary meaning of the notion of dispositive as what arranges
(“dispose,” in French) should be expanded as a concept to encompass the conditions for a given
dispositive to emerge and become concrete. On this specific point, taking up the perspective
outlined in “The Epistémè 1900” for cinema provides an opportunity to reckon with what exists
around the program and allows its reception, without limiting the explanation of its operation
to the description of its internal system (which is referred to as representation in this model).
344 Charlotte Bouchez
7 My argument is that the dispositive is polarized toward reception. However, this perspective
does not exclude cases where a dispositive is not actualized and remains in the state of a project.
Quite the opposite: given the way the production of this type of program works (what is sold
to television channels is a format, that is, a description of the program), it is also interesting to
analyze this mode of existence for a program – even as the format itself is structured precisely
with a view to reception.
8 For an overview of the structural changes in a globalized televisual economy, see Chris
Barker, Television, Globalization and Cultural Identities (1999; London: Open University Press,
2003) and Contemporary World Television, Sinclair John and Greame Turner, eds. (London: British
Film Institute, 2004).
9 In the glossary appearing at the end of their article, Guy Lochard and Guillaume Soulez
propose the following definition of the word format: “a set of parameters for a program, described
from a technical or economic standpoint (selection of candidates, process of elimination, living
rules for the candidates, diffusion and commercialization).” See “Une mondialisation inachevée:
limites, non-frontières de la télé-réalité. Essai de synthèse,” Médiamorphoses, special issue (Mar.
2003): 167.
10 François Jost has worked extensively on this issue of reality TV as a genre, showing that
these programs come within the tradition of other televisual genres from which they borrow
formal elements and use them as markers or indicators to guide interpretation. For Jost, the
particularity of reality television programs lies in their mobilization of elements traceable to
different genres, which as a consequence opens them to variable readings. See François Jost,
La Télévision du quotidien: entre réalité et fiction (2001; Brussels: De Boeck Université, 2003); Le
Culte du banal: de Duchamp à la télé-réalité (Paris: CNRS, 2007); and L’Empire du Loft (la suite)
(Paris: La Dispute, 2007).
11 Much research rests on an interpretation of reality television programs as particularly
representative of the cultural orientations of Western societies. According to Olivier Aïm,
“From reality TV to television series, exhibition and the mise en scène of the self, which go with
modern injunctions to visibility, transparency, free, unfettered speech, are the true distinctive
signs and the technical-economic foundation stone of an aestheticized operation of symbolic
Reality Television as Dispositive: The Case of French-Speaking Switzerland 345
expropriation.” See Olivier Aïm, “La culture populaire aux prises avec ses circuits: le cas de la
télévision,” Mouvements 57 (Jan.-Mar. 2009): 22.
12 Arjun Appadurai, Modernity at Large. Cultural Dimensions of Globalization (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1996).
13 The way formats of reality TV function led to a comparative study of the different versions
of Big Brother, published in a special issue of Médiamorphoses, “La Téléréalité, un débat mondial.
Les métamorphoses de Big Brother.” Médiamorphoses, special issue 3 (June 2003). Other publica-
tions adopting a comparable perspective include Les Temps télévisuels: “Big Brother”, ed. François
Jost (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2004); Elodie Kredens, “La téléréalité, entre adaptabilité des formats et
particularités nationales,” proceedings of the ICIC conference (Paris, 2006), available at http://
www.observatoire-omic.org/colloque-icic/omic_icic_atelier22.php [last accessed on July 28,
2012]; Frau-Meigs Divina, “Big Brother et la téléréalité en Europe, fragments d’une théorie de
l’acculturation par les médias,” in “Image(s) et Société,” Les Cahiers du Circav, Michel Chadelier
and Isabelle Roussel-Gillet, eds. (Lille: CIRCAV, 2004): 15-24.
346 Charlotte Bouchez
identif ied by its potential viewers.14 Indeed, programs are not born ex
nihilo: their producers as well as people receiving them situate them in
the lineage of other objects, other dispositives,15 whether televisual – as
with the relation between Loft Story (France, M6, 2001) and a sitcom like
Friends16 – or coming from other areas – as with the connections between
Big Brother and Biosphere II, a scientific experiment that reportedly inspired
it,17 or between the recording apparatus of Big Brother and its relation to
electronic surveillance.18 While these relations are present in the program,
14 One of the few systematic investigations carried out on the reception of reality TV in
Great Britain has shown that these programs are clearly perceived by their spectators from a
perspective that makes it possible to situate them in relation to other television productions.
See Annette Hill, Restyling Factual TV. Audiences and News, Documentary and Reality Genres
(London: Routledge, 2007). However, because the individuals interviewed for the research
discussed reality TV on the basis of a list of programs, it is impossible to determine whether or
not the programs in question would spontaneously have been placed in that category, or even
if the program is the most relevant unit to qualify reality TV (a criterion such as “the fact of
being filmed uninterruptedly” may be more decisive, and in that case webcams would have to
be included in the research).
15 This hypothesis may be put into perspective with some aspects of the notion of epistemic
scheme developed by Albera and Tortajada for the cinematographic dispositive. Reality television
would then be considered as “belonging [itself] in a network, a larger epistemic configuration,”
a definition “in inclusion” where the dispositive of reality television would be related to other
objects, concepts and practices which have existed before it, and which it would involve in a
new configuration. “As a scheme, it would then produce a use for a model, not only within the
restricted field of visual dispositives, but also beyond,” in the areas of telecommunications,
the theater, political life, etc., which would form an “expansive” definition of it. See Albera and
Tortajada, “L’Epistémè 1900”: 49.
16 In his book on Loft Story Olivier Razac gives a very detailed analysis of similarities between
the two programs with regard to sets and the “stereotyping” of characters, showing that Loft Story
borrows elements that already belong in a specific televisual tradition and can thereby be more
easily apprehended by audiences. Olivier Razac, L’Écran et le zoo: Spectacles et domestication,
des expositions coloniales à Loft Story (Paris: Denoël, 2002).
17 Sylvie Kerviel, “Aux origines de Loft Story,” Médiamorphoses, special issue 3: 10-12. While
this lineage with the Biosphère experiment has been established in a few sources, it is hardly
mobilized in this corpus as a whole – unlike the comparison of participants in these programs
to “laboratory rats” or the description of programs as “experiments,” frequent in these articles.
18 Many publications in scientific literature take as their subject the analogy between reality
television and electronic surveillance, and more largely between reality television and Bentham’s
panopticon as a dispositive. See Ctrl [space]: Rhetorics of Surveillance from Bentham to Big Brother,
Thomas Levin, Ursula Frohne and Peter Weibel, eds. (London: Routledge, 2002). According to
Pascal Froissart, “No matter the language or culture, the ‘panoptic’ dispositive predominates
[…]. This was to be expected: the surveillance apparatus is a constant in the game, to the point
of becoming a genuine rhetorical ploy in it. Unlike traditional audiovisual production, in which
the dispositive tries to play down its technical dimension, cameras here are shown, exposed
(and most of the time, they look down, as in a surveillance apparatus, precisely). One can say
with confidence that they serve as an identity marker, and even as a visual epitome.” Pascal
Reality Television as Dispositive: The Case of French-Speaking Switzerland 347
“engraphed”19 in it, they also result from discourses framing the program,
which make it possible for these associations serving as landmarks or guides
for reception to be reinforced and legitimized.
What allows us to define a given program as “reality TV” is thus not
necessarily indicated by the program itself, but also by discourses, “official”
or “private,” which through a set of descriptive as well as normative elements
contribute to elaborate a reception framework. What is to be understood is
how spectators localize what they see in a history/memory which they can
share in part with others,20 with the press acting as an available resource
to build this territorialized cultural sense of belonging.
For the scholar, these discourses are so many elements providing indica-
tions on the cultural imaginary with which reality television is associated,
and to the development of which it contributes.21
The examination of print articles in the corpus also points to the need for
a diachronic perspective: the gradual construction of a generic category,
“reality TV,” in French-speaking Switzerland may thus be shown in detail,
with its use by the main cultural players (the press and regional television)
as a medium to position themselves.
My analysis of the French-speaking corpus in Switzerland validates the
thesis that the perception of the global as a horizon of reference necessarily
comes with a symmetrical reinforcement of a position anchored in the
local. The integration of reality television in a local cultural imaginary
takes place in three main stages: the relation of programs with social
practices outside reality television, but which rest on a crystallization
of logics of social control; the characterization of a standard for reality
television (epitomized by Loft Story) concomitant with the emergence of
discourses constructing Francophone Swiss cultural identity as a reaction
to this production and the social excesses it represents; and the progressive
construction of a French-speaking Swiss standard for reality television
that respects the dual identity characterizing the channel producing the
programs in question (the status of a public service and the fact that it is
anchored in French-speaking Switzerland).
I should mention that, while it is possible to outline three main periods in
the reception of reality television in French-speaking Switzerland, these still
overlap to some degree. Discourses that articulate comparisons between
reality television and other dispositives more likely to be associated with it
(whether these are dispositives of social control or spectacular dispositives
like the theater) are frequent over the entirety of the period examined.
However, the stabilization of a standard for the genre mostly took place on
the occasion of the diffusion of Loft Story in France (April 2001), a period
when the first occurrences of the term “reality TV” appear in the sources
consulted. The notional content of the term, which was used mainly from
that moment on, had been elaborated over the previous years: the semantic
field of reality television thus partly overlapped with that of “real TV,” “real-
ity shows,” and concepts associated with the term “Big Brother.”
When the program Big Brother was launched in the Netherlands in 1998,
the term was already present in discourses to refer to some changes affecting
social practices, notably the increasing resort to electronic surveillance and
an intensification of modalities of control management applying to private
businesses as well as the state. The term “Big Brother” gradually became
pivotal in the semantic relation established between the program and
these practices,22 in particular for what was connected with the regime of
22 In that respect, the title of the first article on the Dutch program which appeared in Le
Temps is telling: “Nine people spied on day and night: a Dutch television channel reinvents Big
Brother,” Le Temps 22 Sept. 1999: 12.
Reality Television as Dispositive: The Case of French-Speaking Switzerland 349
23 “The nine “happy few” (there were 3,000 applicants in the Netherlands) will be spied on 24/7
by 24 cameras, including several infrared cameras operating at night, as well as 59 microphones.
No chance to elude the watchful eye of the camera: no blind spot, even in the shower.” “Nine
people spied on […],” Le Temps 22 Sept. 1999: 12 (my emphasis). An article on the Spanish version
of the program similarly refers to it as “this program celebrating voyeurism.” “In turn, Spain is
swept along by the ‘Big Brother’ effect,” Le Temps 9 May 2000: 21.
24 Without claiming to be exhaustive, I want to mention the following sources: “How the
media can lead to fascism,” La Tribune de Genève, 10 Nov. 1997: 2; “Wiretapping. Banks and
Far-Reaching Ears,” Le Matin 13 Jan. 1998: 12; “Surveillance: Thinking of Big Brother,” Le Matin
5 July 1998: 10; “From Vennes to Ecublens, Let’s Drive Smoothly: Big Brother Is Going to Take
Care of Us,” 24 heures 17 June 1998: 12; “Big Brother Opens the Mail. These E-mails That Give You
Away,” La Tribune de Genève 18 Nov. 1998: 22; “Eyes upon the Users,” La Tribune de Genève 4 Dec.
1998: 5 (the article deals with the installation of video cameras on Swiss trains); “Big Brother at
the Stewards’,” La Tribune de Genève 16 Dec. 1999: 26; “Buses in Annemasse Get Equipped, ‘Loft
Story’-Style,” La Tribune de Genève 4 July 2001: 28.
25 Le Matin, for instance, devoted 23 articles to Loft Story during the period of its diffusion,
from April 26 to July 6, 2001. In that respect, newspaper headlines – which function not only as
visual attractions, but also as ways to signal a phenomenon which readers/television viewers
should know about to express their belonging in the community – are one discursive element of
note. Loft Story was thus the subject of ten newspaper headlines, all mediums included. Sources
also show a kind of (sometimes indirect) injunction to the reader to take part in, or at least to
be aware of the existence of, reality television programs. An article published in Le Temps, for
instance, defined Big Brother as a “social phenomenon,” thereby also contributing to bestow
that status on the program. “In turn, Spain is swept along […],” Le Temps 9 May 2000: 21.
350 Charlotte Bouchez
26 As the program was being launched, most sources on Loft Story started with a brief formula
reiterating its main characteristics. An excerpt from an article published in 24 heures thus reads:
“The principle is well-known: five women and five men are locked inside an apartment for 10
weeks, without newspapers, radio, television or telephone. In short, without contact with the
outside world but under the permanent watch of 26 cameras (including three infrared cameras)
and of the public in charge of eliminating them week after week.” “Truth can be stranger than
affliction,” 24 heures 28-29 Apr. 2001: 34. Another piece explains: “Cameras are planted all around
the loft (except in the toilets), no fewer than 26 of them, including three infrared cameras, as
well as 50 mikes (11 clip-ons, one per participant), with 134 people mobilized 24/7 to run the
technology!” “French ‘Big Brother,’ ” Le Matin 26 Apr. 2001: 16.
27 Some articles draw a comparison between reality TV programs and circus games in ancient
Rome, pointing out the decadent character of the latter and, by analogy, of contemporary
productions.
28 By way of example, this article was published in 24 heures the day before the first episode of
Loft Story aired: “Loft Story represents the first version of this reality TV that has been invading
small screens all over the world for the past two years (see Big Brother). M6 is the first major
Francophone channel that dares to step into ‘keyhole television,’ that genre that turns us into
voyeurs.” “No to ‘keyhole television’ and to ‘trash programming,’” 24 heures, 24 Apr. 2001: 18.
I emphasize the use of the deictic (“this reality TV”), as it expresses the idea that the reader
already has some kind of knowledge on the type of program Loft Story belongs to. The journal-
ist’s statement also conveys the idea that the program is designed to place spectators (writer
included) in a voyeuristic position (“that genre that turns us into voyeurs”).
Reality Television as Dispositive: The Case of French-Speaking Switzerland 351
29 In his book on the history of public-sector television in Europe, Jérôme Bourdon deals with
this theme of the reception of reality television: “For channels, whether public or private in this
instance, it has been a frequent habit to define reality TV in national terms (even though the
genre quickly became global). This rhetoric of the national has functioned in both directions: to
reject the genre as ‘foreign,’ unsuitable in ‘our culture,’ or conversely, to stress the inferiority of
‘our television,’ engaged in reality TV where foreign televisions ‘resist’ better.” Jérôme Bourdon,
Du service public à la télé-réalité. Une histoire culturelle des télévisions européennes 1950-2010
(Paris: INA Editions, 2011) 200.
30 It should be noted, at the risk of exaggerating this factor of the competition from French
programs, that the period coincided with the arrival of Gilles Marchand at the helm of the
channel. The “event,” marked by a press conference, was covered in several articles that noted
the director’s will to assert the French-speaking Swiss identity of the TSR, as the following
excerpt shows: “[Gilles Marchand] stated how strongly he valued this relation of trust with
French-speaking television viewers, an ‘added value’ linked to an identity on which the TSR was
planning to rely in its ‘struggle against the competition of French channels, among others.’ This
regional localization should be found ‘in all programming.’ Not to worry: the cultural, political,
economic and linguistic identity Gilles Marchand advocates is ‘modern, tolerant, open on the
world, rife with projects.’” La Tribune de Genève 10 Aug. 2000: 18.
31 “[Gilles Marchand] has not changed his opinion and is sticking to his claim that the French-
speaking channel will not diffuse that kind of ‘real TV.’ To face the tough competition of French
channels, the TSR plans to keep trying to establish a long-term relationship with its audience.
Gilles Marchand underlined that it was going to highlight regional programming increasingly
352 Charlotte Bouchez
ethical terms, the TSR combined this identity of “public service” with its
localization in French-speaking Swiss culture, whose values its programs
purportedly reflected.32
However, this stance evolved in 2001 with the airing of Génération 01,
the first reality TV program produced by the channel.33 This provided the
TSR with an opportunity to defend a middle-of-the-road position, between
censuring the methods of reality television and adopting them. Indeed,
the program involved fundamental differences compared to what was
supposedly the standard of the genre.34 Only through discourses could
these differences be made to signify and be inscribed in an argument
presenting them as deliberate choices to “bend” the standard to the norms
of public-sector television. Functioning as the “signs” of the specificities
of public-sector television, these characteristics were also integrated at
a second level, in a discursive logic that made it possible to define and
proclaim an identity specific to the TSR as an institution: its status, not
only as a public-sector channel, but also as a channel for French-speaking
Switzerland.
In most sources, Génération 01 was accordingly described using a list of
similarities to and differences from Loft Story, which situated it within a
logic of continuity and distinction by comparison to reality television on
private commercial channels. These sources indirectly provide informa-
tion on the norm of reference holding sway in the press at the time. Their
analysis points to some invariants in the presentation of the programs: the
confinement of participants in a closed place, the uninterrupted recording
of their behavior, the organization of their living quarters according to the
modalities of recording, the daily diffusion of events having taken place
that day, the Internet version of the program, the audience’s vote to pick
so as to convey the cultural diversity of Francophone Switzerland.” “The TSR’s Overall Ratings
Declining. Loft Story Is Here,” La Tribune de Genève 27 July 2001: 91.
32 Among the strategies supposed to help construct this identity for the TSR, a form of an-
thropomorphic tendency may be noted in these sources, with moral positions as well as affects
being attributed to the channel. This aspect of discourses does not concern the TSR alone,
however, as expressions tending to construct television channels as unified agents, endowed
with intentionality and moral consciousness, are after all quite common in everyday speech.
33 I will privilege the reception of the program in the press here. For a thorough description
of Génération 01, see Gaëten Clavien’s detailed article, “La réplique du service public en Suisse
romande,” Médiamorphoses (June 2003): 109-15.
34 Génération 01 did not offer non-stop diffusion and the program aired once the shooting
was over. Though designed as a game show, the program did not feature internal elimination
between participants but a system of votes by television viewers, who elected the winner at the
close of the one-to-last episode.
Reality Television as Dispositive: The Case of French-Speaking Switzerland 353
the winner in the final. The TSR’s head of programming still insisted on a
point that was to allow the channel to take a moral stance: the rejection of
a principle of elimination of participants.
However, journalists at La Tribune de Genève soon revealed that Généra-
tion 01 was a fake, entirely scripted and performed by actors, designed to
stir a “debate” on reality television. The last scheduled episode began like
the final of the contest but, once the real nature of the program had been
disclosed, it continued as a debate between the representatives of several
European public-sector channels (France 2, RAI) as well as a sociologist
and a psychologist. The conclusion of this exchange between legitimized
participants was the affirmation that reality television programs were not
appropriate on television channels with a public service mandate. This
allowed the TSR to position itself against private channels but with other
public-sector channels reacting similarly in their own area of diffusion.
For the TSR, Génération 01 was thus clearly an opportunity to brand
itself as a company characterized by its identity as a public service provider
radically different from its French private competitors. This positioning
was to evolve in 2003, when the TSR aired Mayen 1903, a reality television
program whose presentation in the press offered an opportunity to build an
identity no longer defined in relation to alterity, but in and of itself, with the
program functioning as a medium to flaunt positive cultural specificities.
Following a logic similar to that of Génération 01, Mayen 1903 was introduced in
the press as an adaptation of the formal characteristics of reality television to
the institutional missions of public-sector television. The program, which was
supposed to foster reflection on the heritage of French-speaking Switzerland,
was defined in discourses through its sociological and historical purpose35:
The issue is twofold: historical, since the point is to reconstitute the living
environment and conditions of 1903; and sociological, because it will give
a family the chance to experience a life close to nature.36
37 “I looked for this Mayen all winter long!” Le Matin 12 July 2003: 21.
38 “Reality TV: French-speaking Switzerland takes the plunge,” Le Temps 10 Sept. 2003: 12.
Reality Television as Dispositive: The Case of French-Speaking Switzerland 355
42 From the standpoint of stereotyping identities, the TSR used an interesting argument to
justify its choice of a Jura family: “This living laboratory would be run by a family from outside
the Valais so as to avoid the cult of one’s own home and the nostalgia of the Vieux-Pays.” Béatrice
Barton, Le Mayen 1903 (Lausanne: TSR/Editions Favre, 2003) 5.
43 The fact that the family came from the Jura actually led to reactions by television viewers
in the press, with some criticizing the choice as undermining the authenticity of the program.
44 In Super Seniors, every Sunday represented the opportunity for a participant to organize
a day-long “field trip” in his or her canton. In Dîner à la ferme, farmers put together the meal to
which other participants were invited and systematically highlighted the specialties of their
land. The website did in fact feature a page listing the addresses of producers mentioned in the
program and suggested tourist activities.
45 “What works on the TSR, first and foremost, is programs for the Swiss, designed by the Swiss,
and made in Switzerland,” according to Raymond Vouillamoz, quoted in “La der de Raymond
Vouillamoz,” 24 heures 20 Aug. 2003: 10.
358 Charlotte Bouchez
Open Lautréamont! And there you have literature turned inside out like
an umbrella!
Close Lautréamont! And everything immediately falls back into place…
To enjoy complete intellectual comfort at home, try and adapt the MAL-
DOROR/POEMS dispositive to your library.1
This 1946 text implicitly refers to the famous umbrella of The Songs of
Maldoror, which reads: “as beautiful as the random encounter between an
umbrella and a sewing machine upon a dissecting table.”2 Yet Ponge, dis-
missing the fantastic element, extracts a domestic technique, a procedure of
mechanical standardization from the metaphor that served as a talisman for
Surrealism. Since a similar procedure informed Ducasse’s Poems, precisely,
composed as they were through the systematic recasting of classical max-
ims by Pascal or Vauvenargues, the Maldoror-Poems dispositive likewise
conceals a theoretical argument under its advertising patter: namely, that
the poetry of Surrealism and its metaphorical fantasticality had come to an
end by 1946, opening the way for the age of the “dispositive” in the postwar
period. That culture had become a matter of home furnishing, and literature
a matter of umbrellas, suggests that the intersection of the discursive and
the non-discursive, designated by the dispositif according to Foucault,
should be thought of in parodic mode. Indeed, starting in the 1950s, the
material rhetoric of Ponge’s objeu,3 and later the naturalism of language in
1 Francis Ponge, “Le dispositif Maldoror-Poésies,” in Oeuvres complètes, vol. 1 (Paris: Gallimard,
1999) 634-35.
2 Le Comte de Lautréamont, The Songs of Maldoror, trans. R. J. Dent (Washington, D.C.: Solar
Books, 2011).
3 Translator’s note: “objeu” is obviously a portmanteau word in French, combining “objet”
and “jeu” (“game,” or “play”) in a new, hybrid form. The second reference is to Francis Ponge’s
La fabrique du pré (1971).
360 Christophe Wall-Romana
4 Christophe Hanna defines “the textual apparatus” in Ponge as “…an arrangement of textual
elements of various forms and natures, sampled from a source-context and situated in a target-
context.” Poésie action directe (Paris: Al Dante, 2003) 91.
5 Laurent Mannoni, The Great Art of Light and Shadow: Archaeology of the Cinema, trans.
Richard Crangle (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2001); Tom Gunning, “Phantasmagoria
and the Manufacturing of Illusions and Wonder: Towards a Cultural Optics of the Cinematic
Apparatus,” in The Cinema, A New Technology for the 20th Century, André Gaudreault, Catherine
Russell and Pierre Véronneau, eds. (Lausanne: Payot, 2004) 31-44. Apparatus = projection +
spectator; basic apparatus = camera + editing + apparatus. These two terms tend to blend into
the equation apparatus = camera + editing + projection + spectator. See Jean-Louis Baudry,
L’effet cinéma (Paris: L’Albatros, 1978) 31, n. 1.
6 Max Milner, L’envers du visible. Essai sur l’ombre (Paris: Le Seuil, 2005) 400-1.
Dispositive and Cinepoetry, around Foucault’s Death and the L abyrinth 361
7 Max Milner, La fantasmagorie. Essai sur l’optique fantastique (Paris: PUF, 1982). See also
Marina Warner, Phantasmagoria: Spirit Visions, Metaphors, and Media in the Twenty-First
Century (Oxford: Oxford U.P., 2006).
8 Michel Viegnes, L’envoûtante étrangeté. Le fantastique dans la poésie française (1820-1924)
(Grenoble: PUG, 2006); Philippe Hamon, Imageries, littérature et image au XIXe siècle (Paris: José
Corti, 2001); Philippe Ortel, La littérature à l’ère de la photographie, enquête sur une révolution
invisible (Nice: Jacqueline Chambon, 2002).
9 Charles Baudelaire, The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays, ed. and trans. Jonathan
Mayne (London: Phaidon, 1964): 7.
10 Baudelaire, The Painter of Modern Life 8.
11 Baudelaire, The Painter of Modern Life 11.
362 Christophe Wall-Romana
But now it is evening. It is that strange, equivocal hour when the curtains
of heaven are drawn and cities light up. The gas-light makes a stain upon
the crimson of the sunset. Honest men and rogues, sane men and mad,
are all saying to themselves, ‘The end of another day!’14
Still, reading these lines, one cannot help but think that this might be
the beginning of a poem, as they are strongly reminiscent of the tone of
prose poems in Le Spleen de Paris – a title first used by Baudelaire a few
months after the publication of The Painter of Modern Life in November and
December 1863. Isn’t this “the poem” promised “virtually” in the preced-
ing paragraph, and which becomes reality almost unbeknownst to us?
Baudelaire goes on, describing how Guys sets about his work:
So now, at a time when others are asleep, Monsieur G. is bending over his
table, darting on to a sheet of paper the same glance that a moment ago
he was directing towards external things, skirmishing with his pencil,
his pen, his brush […]. And the external world is reborn upon his paper,
natural and more than natural, beautiful and more than beautiful,
strange and endowed with an impulsive life like the soul of its creator.
The phantasmagoria has been distilled from nature.15
Dimming the light of day, the dusk put an end to the collection of daytime
images, and “virtually” is then understood as the fact that Guys still had to
synthesize in a single work, in the darkened room and in the camera obscura
of his soul, all the sketches drawn from life. It is evident, however, that the
individual skirmishing with his pencil and his pen on paper is none other
than Baudelaire, just as he alludes to “ma fantasque escrime,” “my fanciful
skirmishing,” in his poem “The Sun.” When Baudelaire compares the image/
poem to “the soul of its creator,” then, we are entitled to think that this is no
longer, or no longer exactly, about Guys, but about the author of the poem just
read: Baudelaire himself. Baudelaire thus uses the term “phantasmagoria”
because he simultaneously has to maintain the reality effect of visual
reportage, acknowledge the virtual character of the painting-poem, and
explain, in the final sentence which glosses over his conclusion, that the
painting-poem is organized almost automatically, in the duration of the
memory of a ghost entity – the child:
All the raw materials with which the memory has loaded itself are put
in order, [ar]ranged and harmonized, and undergo that forced idealiza-
tion which is the result of a childlike perceptiveness – that is to say, a
perceptiveness acute and magical by reason of its innocence!16
They thought they would overcome the distance that separated them
by exchanging the most comprehensive traces of their persons. They
sent each other their photographs in series large enough for relief and
movement to be reproduced.
Glaux […] would lock himself up in a room and reproduce the moving
image of his beloved upon smoke or dust, an impalpable image made of
light alone.18
18 See also a recent translation in The Supreme Progress, ed. Brian Stableford (Hollywood
Comics, 2011).
19 See Monique Sicard, “Passage de Vénus: le revolver photographique de Jules Janssen,” Études
photographiques 4 (May 1998): 53. http://etudesphotographiques.revues.org/index157.html. Last
accessed on Dec. 16, 2012.
20 François Albera and Maria Tortajada, “The 1900 Episteme,” trans. Lance Hewson, in Cinema
Beyond Film, François Albera and Maria Tortajada, eds. (Amsterdam: Amsterdam U. P., 2010) 31.
Dispositive and Cinepoetry, around Foucault’s Death and the L abyrinth 365
remain narrow or monolithic. Let us also point out that the dispositif is
defined by Foucault as “the system of relations that can be established”
within “a thoroughly heterogeneous ensemble” that involves “the said as
much as the unsaid,” mainly consisting of “discourses, institutions, archi-
tectural forms.”23 A dispositif produces more or less predictable strategic
effects, such as the constitution of a delinquent environment handled by
the prison apparatus in the nineteenth century and which later appears
as such in political discourse. Foucault also explains that the dispositif
compensates for the episteme, which remains “a specifically discursive
apparatus, whereas the apparatus in its general form is both discursive
and non-discursive.”24 My analysis of the genealogy of Foucault’s idea of
dispositif involves this specific point, for the idea implies a clear, preliminary
distinction between the discursive and the non-discursive.
Foucault’s project to set up the literary text as pure discourse and pure
language – that is, to dispose of its other, the non-discursive, even if that
means recombining the two later in dispositifs – may be traced to his
admirable study on Raymond Roussel, Death and the Labyrinth (1963). It
seems to me, however, that Roussel’s texts resist; and at the same time that
Foucault himself acknowledges in fine that, to a certain extent, these texts
display non-discursive elements – and as such work like the lineaments of
a dispositif. The book on Raymond Roussel is at once presented by Foucault
as akin to a hapax. His only work of literary criticism, and what is more,
eponymous with an author (at least in French), the book came out in May
1963, just a few days after Birth of the Clinic (Foucault wanted them to be
released on the same day). Foucault curiously insists on the fact that “it
doesn’t have a place in the sequence of my books,”25 as though it could have
been written at any time, independently from his own theoretical evolution.
Still, the two books overlap, since Birth of the Clinic, the first attempt to
conceive a dispositif of power/knowledge (without naming it that way), is
“about space, about language and about death; it is about the act of seeing,
the gaze,”26 whereas in Death and the Labyrinth Foucault refers writing to
the formula, “things, words, vision and death, the sun and language make
23 Michel Foucault, “The Confession of the Flesh,” in Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and
Other Writings, 1972-1977, trans. Colin Gordon (Brighton: Harvester Press, 1980): 194.
24 Michel Foucault, “The Confession of the Flesh” 197.
25 Michel Foucault, Death and the Labyrinth: The World of Raymond Roussel, trans. Charles
Ruas (London, New York: Continuum, 2004):187.
26 Michel Foucault, The Birth of the Clinic: An Archaeology of Medical Perception, trans. A. M.
Sheridan Smith (New York: Vintage, 1994): ix.
Dispositive and Cinepoetry, around Foucault’s Death and the L abyrinth 367
a unique form […].”27 In both books, language alone has all the powers for
Foucault, for “[…] without names to identify them, things would remain in
darkness […],”28 another way to hint at “[…] the secretly linguistic structure
of the datum […].”29 In any case, these two statements, taken from each of
the books, seem perfectly interchangeable.
Foucault maintained that it was by chance that he had come across a
first edition of La Vue, a two-thousand-line poem published in 1902, in the
bookshop of publisher José Corti, and that he had never heard of Roussel
before. His book was reportedly written very quickly, in just a few weeks. All
this stresses the intended exteriority of the study, as though it lay outside the
great epistemological work, while suggesting that this is not the case at all.
The reading of Roussel’s writings by Foucault, who on this occasion would
give free rein to his most literary prose, comes down to a great intuition
or central thesis. Roussel’s secret, his famous metagram, by which letters
are substituted for one another, an open secret unveiled in How I Wrote
Certain of My Books, discloses but one thing: Roussel’s writing reveals the
profusion of language in the absence of a subject or function of author. It
is a literature of bare language, mechanically bare and without reference
to the real world, at once the totality of meaning and the nothing of death.
With Roussel’s suicide as a premise and perhaps haunted by it, Foucault
already draws up, if dimly, the logic of the end of man presented in The
Order of Things. Still, if Foucault manages, following a rather traditional
exegetic approach, to interpret all great novels and novellas relying on a
“process,” as he calls the Rousselian “machinery of language,”30 a form of
autopoiesis,31 he comes up against La Vue, which at first glance seems to
be the exception to this logic.
In La Vue, a narrator describes – in hyperrealistic manner, one might
say – the microphotograph of a panoramic beach scene inserted behind a
magnifying lens set in the body of a penholder invented by René Dagron.
A camera-pen of sorts before the camera-pen of Alexandre Astruc, the
microphotographic scene unfolds like the small Chinese paper dipped in a
bowl of water in Proust and, through this enlargement, gradually, hundreds
of lines, a monstrous change in scale, a demiurgic zoom give the landscape
the proportion, not only of a photographic panorama on a human scale, but
Foucault repeats this metaphorization of the lens several times and even
gives the title “The Empty Lens” to the decisive chapter on Solus Locus and
New Impressions of Africa, which confirms the definitive break with the
ontology of La Vue.34 Foucault is thus able to dismiss an embarrassing ge-
netic problem, namely that New Impressions of Africa was precisely thought
of by Roussel as “[…] a follow up to my poem La Vue.”35 The stakes are also
high when it comes to the genealogy of the dispositif. By transforming the
ocular-textual dispositive of La Vue into a figure or pre-figure of the process,
Foucault aimed to rid the textual of what he later called the non-discursive,
that is, in this instance, a panoptic architectural arrangement which, though
imaginary, distributes and regulates the sensible of the text from the inside,
as it were. This desire to isolate a pure literary discourse in a borderline text
thus assumes an eminently paradoxical character, since it foresees and in
a way circumscribes the outline of the non-discursive to come.
Still, it remains to be seen whether the originality of La Vue lies precisely
in this mix within the very text of the discursive and what exceeds it, that
is, of poetry and the cinema dispositive. This is where Foucault’s book, once
again, is engaged in a tacit debate with itself, a debate which suggests that
it is precisely against this possibility of the cinema as media and immersive
experience that the rise of the camera-pen to the status of a figure occurs.
Research on Roussel leaves no doubt as to the omnipresence of cinema in
his work.36 On the other hand, as is well-known, it is by pushing to the
extreme the instantaneity of photography – below the threshold of 1/20 of
a second – that the synthesis of chronophotographic prints may produce
the phi effect of cinema. Hence the paradox of photographic instantaneity
in La Vue, since describing the beach scene amounts to minutely mak-
ing visible the suspension of any natural, human and animal animation,
stumbling against each arrested movement, narrating the immediate past
and future of every gesture, in short, painting the kinetic and cinematic
picture from which the snapshot was suddenly snatched to be frozen. Let
us note that it is in large part the extreme length of the poem which re-
introduces duration in the photographic panorama: though anti-lyrical and
non-figural, the language of the poem ceaselessly leads back to movement
as the description progresses. From 1902 on, however, any photograph
could also be said to convey the potential shadow of cinema. Indeed, after
the emergence of cinema in its phase as “attractions,” that is, focusing the
attention of spectators on the very monstration of a film – not least by
launching a projection from a still image gradually set in motion by the
operator turning the crank – a potential of “becoming-film” was attached
to any instantaneous photograph. In fact, in 1902, a film was not yet called
a film, but a “moving view” or simply a “view,” and the title of the poem may
well refer to this expressly.
36 Michel Rebourg, “Entre graphe et scope: Roussel au cinéma,” Europe 714 (Oct. 1988): 131-38;
Kenji Kitayama, “Raymond Roussel et le cinéma des origines,” in Raymond Roussel 1, Anne-Marie
Amiot and Christelle Reggiani, eds. (Paris: Lettres modernes Minard, 2001): 157-81; Masachika
Tani, “La tentation du ralenti, l’image comme laboratoire de la mémoire roussellienne,” in
Raymond Roussel 2, Anne-Marie Amiot and Christelle Reggiani, eds. (Paris: Lettres modernes
Minard, 2002): 47-60.
370 Christophe Wall-Romana
The mobile panoramas of the 1900 World Fair come to mind: the maréorama
on a Mediterranean liner, the cinéorama with several film projectors repro-
ducing an ascent in an aerostat or Pyasetsky’s simple unfolding panorama
of a journey on the Trans-Siberian railway. 41 One may wonder whether
Foucault knew of these precedents and had them in mind. An answer in the
negative would indicate how sharp his reading is, since they almost con-
tradict his argument. However, Foucault makes no mention of two capital
dimensions of Roussel’s poem: the play of gazes and the meta-commentary
of the poem on itself, which are connected, in my view. Here is an excerpt
devoted to a boy throwing a stick to his dog:
Not only are we back to the jetty, from which the characters, now including
us, look at the boy who is and is not throwing his stick; the match is also
established with “the fictitious straight line […] described,” which once more
evokes the long poem, its long jetty of a text in verse. The dispositive thus
consists in this eyeline match, which connects to the meta-commentary
of the poem on itself through a new type of textual apprehension that may
be called cinepoetics. What is more, line 1461 cites the title of the poem,
“the view,” suggesting that it is a film since it is “blocked,” or frozen. By
flattening the language of the poem in a visible without depth, it does seem
as though Foucault overlooked its dimension of cinepoetic dispositive so
as to better conclude:
It is the pen of La Vue, and none other, that will write the works using the
process, because it is the process, or to say it more precisely, its rebus: a
machine to show the reproduction of things, inserted within an instru-
ment for language. 46
And especially not the other way round: the language which cinema, the
“machine to show the reproduction of things,” would open on a new order
of meaning and sensibility. Answering a critical article on Discipline and
Punish in 1980, and speaking of Bentham’s panopticon, Foucault insisted
on the fact that “the automaticity of power, the mechanical character of
dispositifs that embody it is absolutely not the thesis of the book.” He added
that what was “automatic” was “precisely the machines planned, thought
out, imagined, dreamed perhaps, by people who by contrast did have a quite
specific identity.”47 It seems that Foucault, as early as his Death and the
Labyrinth, was anxious to neutralize the prosthetic, autonomous character
of the machinery involved in a dispositive, in order to focus on the way his
“language machines” operated.
I outline Foucault’s notion of dispositif in relation to poetry and its new
cinepoetic imaginary to make the argument that to reject poetry and liter-
ary criticism in a secondary, refracted sphere would amount to truncating
any thinking on the dispositive in order to give a prime position to the
epistemological framework and posit viewing and listening dispositives
as the privileged schemes of this framework. The (relative) neglect of the
cinepoetic in Death and the Labyrinth served as a point of departure for
Foucault in a new articulation of language, the visible and the living thanks
to which he was to move away from a systemic Structuralism, towards a
post-Structuralism of discursive formations and dispositifs. Certainly, the
theoretical slippage out of Structuralism and the slippage out of the system-
language seemed to go hand in hand with the emergence, the necessity of
the notion of dispositif.
In the introduction to a recent text by Olivier Quintyn, poetry theoreti-
cian Christophe Hanna proposed a double genealogy of the “dispositif,”
starting from Foucault on the one hand, from Lévi-Strauss on the other,
with the notion of bricolage. In his text, Hanna affixes a micropolitical
and poetic “dispositif” for recycling, de-linking and re-assembling to the
macropolitical dispositif of constraint and dictation present in Foucault. 48
As it happens, these two complementary poles are present in the genealogy
of the “dispositif” going back to the critical transformation of the notion
of text separating post-Structuralism from Structuralism. This is, for
instance, where Jean-François Lyotard’s Des dispositifs pulsionnels (1973)
may be situated, as the work extends towards the affect the “reversal” it
47 Michel Foucault, Dits et écrits, vol. 2 (Paris: Gallimard - Quarto, 2001) 836-37.
48 Christophe Hanna, “Des collages comme tactiques critiques,” in Dispositifs/Dislocations,
ed. Olivier Quintyn (Marseille: Al Dante, 2007) 13-14.
374 Christophe Wall-Romana
saw at work between discourse and the materialism of the visible and the
corporeal in Discourse, Figure (1971), which openly broke with Structuralism.
It thus seemed that the line was thin between this stance and Jean-Louis
Baudry’s article, “The Apparatus: Metapsychological Approaches to the
Impression of Reality in the Cinema,” which revolutionized film studies
in 1975 and defined cinema as a paradigmatically technical, psychological
and ideological apparatus. 49
Still, this is perhaps going too fast, leaving aside the Nouveau Roman, in
particular Robbe-Grillet’s The Voyeur (1955), whose original title was to be
La Vue – as a tribute to Roussel, precisely – and whose influence Foucault
acknowledged several times. It is also often forgotten that Jean-Louis Ba-
udry is a novelist and literary critic. In 1964 for instance, under Foucault’s
direction and along with Claude Ollier, Jean-Pierre Faye, Philippe Sollers,
Marcelin Pleynet and a few others, he took part in a debate in Cerisy on
the issue of realism in the Nouveau Roman and in poetry, a debate that
seemed pervaded by the still vague realization that this new realism had
to do with a re-mediation through film. By Foucault’s own admission in
“The Language of Space,”50 published shortly after the event, the Nouveau
Roman represented a new type of text permeated by the film apparatus. He
thus detected a mobile gaze, a camera’s gaze in Claude Ollier’s Été indien,
for “some of these movements are extended, they reverberate, they are
displaced or frozen by photographs, still views, film fragments.”51 We should
in fact wonder what these “still views” refer to, as they are reminiscent of the
title of Roussel’s poem and strangely come in between photo and cinema.
Foucault continues:
For this gaze is not neutral; it seems to leave things where they are; in
fact, it “samples” them, virtually detaching them from themselves in
their thickness, in order to make them enter in the composition of a
film that does not exist and whose scenario itself is not chosen. These
“views,” undecided but “optioned,” between the things they no longer
49 Jean-François Lyotard, Discourse, Figure, trans. Antony Hudek and Mary Lydon (Min-
neapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2011), and Des dispositifs pulsionnels (Paris: Galilée,
1994); Jean-Louis Baudry, “The Apparatus: Metapsychological Approaches to the Impression
of Reality in Cinema,” trans. Jean Andrews and Bernard Augst, Camera Obscura 1 (Fall 1976),
reprinted in Film Theory and Criticism, Gerald Mast, Marshall Cohen and Leo Braudy, eds.
(Oxford: Oxford U. P., 1992).
50 Michel Foucault, “Le langage de l’espace,” Dits et écrits, vol. 2, 338-406.
51 Foucault, “Le langage de l’espace,” Dits et écrits, vol. 2, 410.
Dispositive and Cinepoetry, around Foucault’s Death and the L abyrinth 375
are and the film that is not yet, form the framework of the book, along
with language.52
Even as the work of the camera is called “prise de vues” (“taking of views”)
in French, the trade term would be “rushes” rather than “views”: one may
wonder whether Foucault, analyzing Ollier’s writing in the very terms of the
imaginary cinepoetics he had denied Roussel, is not acknowledging – after
the fact – that Roussel’s “view” already detached things from the thin layer
of the visible left or traced by language alone, to imagine this “virtual” and
this “not yet” as a filmic non-discourse, which would then compose “with
language” to form a proto-dispositif.
The early 1960s were to be marked by the publication of two important
works in the history of the place of the film dispositives in writing, Robbe-
Grillet’s “cine-novel,” Last Year in Marienbad (1961), and the published
and revised script of Hiroshima Mon Amour by Marguerite Duras, both
novelizations of films by Alain Resnais. This did not represent a major
innovation, however, as novelization was an old genre dating back to the
1910s and a f ilmmaker such as Jean Cocteau had authored a beautiful
novelization of Blood of a Poet in 1947.53 Moreover, the publication of a
script with a theoretical bent in the postwar period came from Lettrism,
as Maurice Lemaître novelized Has the Film Already Started? in 1952,
with a preface by Isidore Isou every bit as theoretical.54 The difference is
that Resnais’s novelizations were released by major publishers and reached
a wide audience. Accordingly, experiences of intermedial grafts of the film
“dispositif” on literature thus became a sign of the period; this, in my view,
led thinkers such as Baudry and later Foucault to expand the notion – as
“apparatus” and as dispositif, respectively.
Derrida should be credited with formulating this extension, or rather, dis-
semination of the “dispositif,” as well as complicating its putative historicity.
In “The Double Session” (1969), reprinted as part of Dissemination (1973),
Derrida engages in a complex and multivalent meditation centered on the
notion of the “dispositif” as a junction between the text and its outside.
Derrida questions the place and status of the preface with respect to the
text (in Hegel and Novalis), while prefacing his own cross-reading of the
works of Mallarmé and Philippe Sollers. To Derrida, the issue is also to dispel
the misunderstanding on the “outside of the text,” absurdly interpreted
as a denial of reality by his critics, as he writes for instance that “the text
affirms the outside […]” insofar as it refuses to be an “inside” tamed by
referential reduction and the ontological discrediting of literature. At issue
is the opening of the text to the outside of the text, but within the text, to
find “a different placement of the effects of opening and closing”55 between
the text and the outside. Derrida thus defends a view of the literary text
as a “dispositif” intervening between the text and the outside of the text,
contrary to thematic criticism for instance, in which any power to draw
the line between text and outside is reserved for the (outside) world of the
critic. In a sense, it is this new ontological status of the actantial text which
Derrida summarizes in his preface with the formula “the apparatus explains
itself.”56 More specifically, it is a self-quotation of his own commentary on
Sollers’s Nombres:
55 Jacques Derrida, Dissemination, trans. Barbara Johnson (London, New York: Continuum,
2004) 28. The emphasis is Jacques Derrida’s.
56 Derrida, Dissemination 38.
57 Derrida, Dissemination 299.
58 Albera and Tortajada, “The 1900 Episteme” 35.
Dispositive and Cinepoetry, around Foucault’s Death and the L abyrinth 377
the fourth side of the theatrical cube, as well as the veil, the hymen, the
projection of images and finally the screen, a word which bridges between
Mallarmé and Sollers. This leads Derrida to refer to a text by Mallarmé
on dance as “cinematographic acrobatics”59 and note Mallarmé’s 1897
statement on cinema, a statement overlooked by the entire Mallarmean
criticism. Without even being aware of the scope of the far-ranging medita-
tion around cinema as a dispositive in which Mallarmé engaged in his last
poetics,60 Derrida thus posited the film dispositive as the interface, internal
to the text and enabling it to negotiate its own relations with its outside.
My point here is not to explain Derrida’s dispositive-book further. I
simply want to suggest that his own notion of the dispositive allows him to
recognize in the cross-poetics of Mallarmé and Sollers what Foucault came
close to acknowledging in Roussel’s poetics: the interweaving of poetry and
techniques specific to the film dispositif as such – and consequently of the
discursive and the non-discursive. By way of conclusion, I would say, on the
one hand, that the interwoven cinepoetics in Roussel and its paradoxical
reading by Foucault fully belong in the genealogy and historicity of the
“dispositif”; and on the other hand, that this genealogy and historicity also
involves, with Cros and Baudelaire, a mode of epistemic inclusion of the
film dispositive inscribed in the archeology of “pre-cinema,” but which does
not solve the telic difficulties that the term keeps raising.
Viva Paci
To examine the notion of the dispositive and identify its place in contem-
porary practices at the intersection of two institutions, Cinema and the
Museum, this text proposes a progression through a few individual cases,
with the outlines of a study. This may appear as lacking in discipline with
regard to the call for papers for the conference “Dispositifs de vision et
d’audition” (Université de Lausanne, May 29-31, 2008), which was the first
step in the present work. The call underlined how the study of a series
of isolated cases would risk “perpetuating the ambiguity of encounters
in which epistemological questioning remains peripheral to descriptive,
factual presentations that do not allow us to get the measure of this new
configuration of knowledge involving our objects.” For my part, I see case
studies as a rather necessary approach when it comes to analyzing contem-
porary trends and more particularly the rich, booming trend of the cinema
“going to the museum.” A second step consists in analyzing how the bounds
of the cinematographic institution may more generally be exceeded; this
text constitutes an initial benchmark in this research program.
1 The talk presented in Lausanne in 2008 is part of a research project, “Entre attractions et
musée: cinéma, exposition et nouvelles technologies,” which was made possible by a two-year
post-doctoral fellowship (Aug. 2008-Aug. 2010) from the Fonds québécois de la recherche sur
la société et la culture (FQRSC). My research project is affiliated with the Department of Art
History and Communication Studies at McGill University, and more specifically with William
Straw’s work. This talk was also part of the research carried out at the GRAFICS (Université de
Montréal). I wish to thank Ernie Gehr, Ron Magliozzi (Film Study Center, Department of Film
and Media, MoMA) and Alberto Zotti (Università di Padova, Museo del precinema, Collezione
Minici Zotti), for the iconographic material necessary in the preparation of this article; and
Haidee Wasson and Martin Lefebvre (Concordia University) for their comments.
380 Viva Paci
2 In this instance, “category” refers both to a fundamental concept of understanding and the
common meaning of “class” (the expression “cinema of attractions” proposes a true class, albeit
one with irregular outlines, which I will be specifying throughout this research).
3 Viva Paci, “De l’attraction au cinéma,” diss., Université de Montréal, 2007.
4 It is a well-known fact today that one of the names proposed by Antoine Lumière for the new
appliance that was to be the Cinématographe was “domitor” (the “triumphant victor,” in Latin):
taming, and therefore subjecting and ordering a real that had remained wild and uncontrollable
until the advent of this regulative device. See Philippe Dujardin, “Domitor ou l’invention du
quidam,” in L’Aventure du cinématographe, proceedings of the World Conference on Lumière
(Lyons: Aléas, 1999): 265-77.
Archaeology and Spectacle 381
9 See Haidee Wasson, “New and Now: A Plea for Historiography and Technology,” Reconstruc-
tion 4.1, “Technology & Historiography, or, The Science Fiction of Everyday Life” (Spring 2004);
and Lisa Gitelman and Geoffrey B. Pingree, “What’s New About New Media,” in New Media
1740-1915, Lisa Gitelman and Geoffrey B. Pingree, eds. (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2003)
XI-XXII.
10 Incidentally, the museal institutions that organized these exhibitions are different in
nature: contemporary art museums, centers specializing in current art, private galleries. The
presence of cinema in all these usual spheres of contemporary art stresses the now inseparable
associations between the two worlds of cinema and art exhibitions, regardless of the judgments
placed on these associations.
Archaeology and Spectacle 383
11 On “exhibited cinema” (in the sense of a museum exhibition), see François Albera, “Ar-
chéologie de l’intermédialité: SME/CD-ROM, l’apesanteur,” in Cinémas 10.2-3, “Intermédialité et
cinéma” (2000): 27-38; Projections. Les transports de l’image, ed. Dominique Païni (Paris: Hazan/
Le Fresnoy, 1997); Dominique Païni, Le Temps exposé. Le cinéma de la salle au musée (Paris:
Cahiers du cinéma, 2002); Philippe Dubois, La Question vidéo. Entre cinéma et art contemporain
(Brussels: De Boeck Université, 2007).
384 Viva Paci
The pivotal idea in my reading of the notion of the dispositive, one that
is to give it specificity, is that the origins of cinema have been revived by
works that are apparently inscribed in a representation of the future. A
dispositive, which is more than a machine, also holds an imaginary; and
the archaeology of cinema does indeed belong in the imaginary of cinema.
Archaeology and Spectacle 385
12 See Heidee Wasson, Museum Movies. The Museum of Modern Art and the Birth of Art Cinema
(Berkeley, Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2005); and Ronald S. Magliozzi, “Film
Archiving as a Profession: An Interview with Eileen Bowser,” The Moving Image 3.1 (Spring 2003):
132-46.
13 The expression is borrowed from Roger Odin, who has proposed that the different kinds of
film production be approached in terms of “institutions.” See Roger Odin, “Sémio-pragmatique
du cinéma et de l’audiovisuel: modes et institutions,” in Toward a Pragmatics of the Audiovisual,
ed. Jürgen E. Müller (Münster: Nodus, 1994): 33-47.
386 Viva Paci
“Artscape” and “Zoetrope” are two original works conceived by Pixar Studios
to be shown in a large exhibition on the art of digital animation at the
MoMA (also promoted by the same studios), “Pixar: 20 years of animation.”
Seeing the event as the last word in merchandising would not be far
from the truth. After all, Pixar has been part of a discourse on the future
of images and has positioned itself at the cutting edge in the creation of
computer-generated images since the 1980s (not to mention the market
of tie-in products, from video games to toothbrushes…). However, on the
occasion of the exhibition, the representation of the company and museum
policy had Pixar’s brand of animation inscribed in an old tradition and
turned toward the past. Pixar was thus working towards its legitimization,
associating itself with the horizon of the craftsman-creator, the Bazinian
“do-it-yourself man” of the origins of cinema,14 to carve out a place for itself
in the space of the museum. The studio also went quite far back in a history
that had to do with the dispositive of cinema, its memory and its imaginary.
Any caesura between the strips of an 1833 zoetrope or the discs of an 1879
zoopraxinoscope, exhibited in any museum nowadays, and Pixar’s “cels,”
thus disappeared… While, on the one hand, optical toys are to be related
to animation, in a lineage which actually skips cinema and its projection of
15 In his talk at the Lausanne conference in 2008, Michel Frizot argued along the same lines,
pointing out that it was possible to draw a straight line from chronophotography to 3D images.
16 For video recordings of the animated work, see private videos such as the one available
here: http://youtube.com/watch?v=OrIgwSxZDcc&feature=related [last accessed on August
12, 2012].
17 A visual artist who had already worked on the same imaginary is Gregory Barsamian
(http://www.gregorybarsamian.com/). An heir to the zoetrope and an explorer of the phi ef-
fect, Barsamian made three-dimensional animated models with plaster figurines of angels,
helicopters and other objects in Putti (1993). Animation and continuity were produced for the
spectator thanks to the phi effect; 13 sculptures per second rotated above spectators in a dimly
lit space, with strobe lighting filling in the gaps between one image and the next to give the
impression of a continuous motion turning the little angels into helicopters. There, as in cinema,
sculpture became an art of time taking shape through rhythm. See my text, “Cinematographic
Traces,” in Images from the Future: Lost and Found in the Images du Futur collection (2004),
available at http://www.fondation-langlois.org/html/e/page.php?NumPage=690 [both sites
were last accessed on August 12, 2012].
388 Viva Paci
18 Tom Gunning, “An Unseen Energy Swallows Space: To Space in Early Film and Its Relation
to American Avant-Garde Film,” in Film Before Griffith, ed. John L. Fell (Berkeley, Los Angeles:
University of California Press, 1983): 356. Gunning also said that he had come to compare the
American avant-garde and early cinema because many of the experimental filmmakers he
was looking at included fragments of early films in their own work (again, Ken Jacobs, Ernie
Gehr, Hollis Frampton). He added that his own encounter with the underground also gave him
a different outlook on early films.
19 A seven-DVD set came out of the Anthology’s 2005 retrospective, as well as a publication
by the same title: Unseen Cinema: Early American Avant-Garde Film 1893-1941, ed. Bruce Posner
(New York: Anthology Film Archives, 2005).
Archaeology and Spectacle 389
20 Scott McDonald notes this in Avant-Garde Film. Motion Studies as he points out Mekas’s
interest for the imaginary field opened by home movies, notably the films featuring the Lumière
family, addressing a private sphere but whose use is both private and public. Views by Lumière
and Mekas are the views of do-it-yourself men. See Scott McDonald, Avant-Garde Film. Motion
Studies (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993) 11.
21 “Imagine an eye unruled by man-made laws of perspective, an eye unprejudiced by compo-
sitional logic, an eye which does not respond to the name of everything but which must know
each object encountered in life through an adventure of perception.” Stan Brakhage, Metaphors
on Vision (1963; New York: Film Culture, 1976): unpaginated. In short, this is cinema in which
the act of seeing is underlined by the emphasis on a “machine to see,” films before which the
spectator is confronted directly to the disclosure of the mechanical look that produced the film.
22 In Visionary Film: The American Avant-Garde 1943-2000, Paul Adams Sitney def ines the
formal characteristics of the structural film.
23 This seminal view of the Lumière brothers repeatedly left its mark on the imaginary of
experimental cinema. See for instance Harun Farocki’s film Workers Leaving the Factory
(1995) and his video installation Workers Leaving the Factory in Eleven Decades (2006).
24 On Gehr’s work, see Films of Ernie Gehr (San Francisco Cinematheque, 1993), with texts by
Tom Gunning, Daniel Eisenberg, Susan Thackrey, Robert Becklen and program notes by Ernie
390 Viva Paci
Gehr; and Bart Testa, Back and Forth. Early Cinema and the Avant-Garde, already mentioned.
25 Again, I refer the reader to Tom Gunning, “An Unseen Energy Swallows Space: To Space in
Early Film and Its Relation to American Avant-Garde Film.”
26 I presented a paper on the subject, “Taxidermie: réflexions sur cinéma et musée,” at the
Eleventh International Conference of the Research Center on Intermediality (CRI), “Muséalité
et intermédialité: nouveaux paradigmes des musées,” Oct. 28-31, 2009, Society for Arts and
Technology (SAT), Montreal.
27 See Carl Akeley’s dioramas of natural habitats in the late twentieth century. See also Mark
Alvey, “The Cinema as Taxidermy: Carl Akeley and the Preservative Obsession,” Journal of Film
and Media 48.1 (2007): 23-45.
Archaeology and Spectacle 391
Patrick Désile holds a doctoral degree in Art and the Sciences of Art from
the Université Paris 1 – Panthéon - Sorbonne. He is an associate researcher
at the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique (UMR - ARIAS, Atelier
de recherche sur l›intermédialité et les arts du spectacle, France). A member
of the AFRHC (Association française de recherche en histoire du cinéma),
he is the author of Généalogie de la lumière (2000) as well as several studies
on spectacles in the nineteenth century.
Charles Musser is Professor of Film Studies and American Studies, and Act-
ing Chair of the Theater Studies Program at Yale University. His debut book,
The Emergence of Cinema: The American Screen to 1907 (Scribners, 1990),
received the Jay Leyda Prize, the Theater Library Award and the Katherine
Singer Kovacs Prize. Others include Edison Motion Pictures, 1890-1900: An
Annotated Filmography (Cineteca del Friuli, 1997) and (edited with Pearl
Bowser and Jane Gaines) Oscar Micheaux and His Circle: African American
Filmmaking and Race Cinema of the Silent Era (Indiana University Press,
2001). His films include Before the Nickelodeon: The Early Cinema of Edwin
S. Porter (1982) and Errol Morris: A Lightning Sketch (2012).
396 About the Authors
Viva Paci is Professor of Film Studies at the École des médias (Université du
Québec à Montréal), where she also serves as the director of the MA program
“Cinéma et images en mouvement.” She is a member of the Centre for Re-
search on Intermediality (CRI) and the Groupe de recherche sur l’avènement
et la formation du spectacle cinématographique et scénique (GRAFICS).
Paci is the author of Il Cinema di Chris Marker (2005) and co-author (with
Ronald de Rooy and Beniamino Mirisola) of Romanzi di deformazione:
1988-2010 (2010). She is the editor (with André Habib) of Chris Marker et
l’imprimerie du regard (2008) and has co-edited an anthology on the street
in contemporary European cinema with Michael Cowan and Alanna Thain
(CiNéMAS 21.1, 2010). Her recent books are La comédie musicale et la double
vie du cinéma (2011) and La machine à voir. À propos de cinéma, attraction,
exhibition (2012).
Index of titles (films, pictures, journals, exhibitions, theater and ballet, novels,
poems, books-source – except references being only in footnotes)
Egil Törnqvist
Between Stage and Screen: Ingmar Bergman Directs, 1996
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 137 9; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 171 3
Thomas Elsaesser
Fassbinder’s Germany: History Identity Subject, 1996
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 059 4; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 184 3
Siegfried Zielinski
Audiovisions: Cinema and Television as Entr’Actes in History, 1999
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 313 7; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 303 8
Kees Bakker (ed.)
Joris Ivens and the Documentary Context, 1999
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 389 2; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 425 7
Egil Törnqvist
Ibsen, Strindberg and the Intimate Theatre: Studies in TV Presentation, 1999
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 350 2; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 371 7
Bernadette Kester
Film Front Weimar: Representations of the First World War in German Films
of the Weimar Period (1919-1933), 2002
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 597 1; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 598 8
Ivo Blom
Jean Desmet and the Early Dutch Film Trade, 2003
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 463 9; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 570 4
Alastair Phillips
City of Darkness, City of Light: Émigré Filmmakers in Paris 1929-1939, 2003
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 634 3; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 633 6
Thomas Elsaesser, Alexander Horwath and Noel King (eds.)
The Last Great American Picture Show: New Hollywood Cinema in the 1970s, 2004
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 631 2; isbn hardcover 978 905356 493 6
Kristin Thompson
Herr Lubitsch Goes to Hollywood: German and American Film after World
War I, 2005
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 708 1; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 709 8
Thomas Elsaesser
European Cinema: Face to Face with Hollywood, 2005
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 594 0; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 602 2
Michael Walker
Hitchcock’s Motifs, 2005
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 772 2; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 773 9
Nanna Verhoeff
The West in Early Cinema: After the Beginning, 2006
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 831 6; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 832 3
Anat Zanger
Film Remakes as Ritual and Disguise: From Carmen to Ripley, 2006
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 784 5; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 785 2
Wanda Strauven
The Cinema of Attractions Reloaded, 2006
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 944 3; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 945 0
Malte Hagener
Moving Forward, Looking Back: The European Avant-garde and the Invention
of Film Culture, 1919-1939, 2007
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 960 3; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 961 0
Jan Simons
Playing the Waves: Lars von Trier’s Game Cinema, 2007
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 991 7; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 979 5
Marijke de Valck
Film Festivals: From European Geopolitics to Global Cinephilia, 2007
isbn paperback 978 90 5356 192 8; isbn hardcover 978 90 5356 216 1
Asbjørn Grønstad
Transfigurations: Violence, Death, and Masculinity in American Cinema, 2008
isbn paperback 978 90 8964 010 9; isbn hardcover 978 90 8964 030 7
Pasi Väliaho
Mapping the Moving Image: Gesture, Thought and Cinema circa 1900, 2010
isbn paperback 978 90 8964 140 3; isbn hardcover 978 90 8964 141 0
Pietsie Feenstra
New Mythological Figures in Spanish Cinema: Dissident Bodies under Franco,
2011
isbn paperback 978 90 8964 304 9; isbn hardcover 978 90 8964 303 2
Eivind Røssaak (ed.)
Between Stillness and Motion: Film, Photography, Algorithms, 2011
isbn paperback 978 90 8964 212 7; isbn hardcover 978 90 8964 213 4
Tara Forrest
Alexander Kluge: Raw Materials for the Imagination, 2011
isbn paperback 978 90 8964 272 1; isbn hardcover 978 90 8964 273 8
Belén Vidal
Figuring the Past: Period Film and the Mannerist Aesthetic, 2012
isbn 978 90 8964 282 0
Bo Florin
Transition and Transformation: Victor Sjöström in Hollywood 1923-1930, 2012
isbn 978 90 8964 504 3
Erika Balsom
Exhibiting Cinema in Contemporary Art, 2013
isbn 978 90 8964 471 8
Christian Jungen
Hollywood in Canne$: The History of a Love-Hate Relationship, 2014
isbn 978 90 8964 566 1
Michael Cowan
Walter Ruttmann and the Cinema of Multiplicity: Avant-Garde Film ‒ Adver-
tising ‒ Modernity, 2014
isbn 978 90 8964 585 2
Temenuga Trifonova
Warped Minds: Cinema and Psychopathology, 2014
isbn 978 90 8964 632 3
Christine N. Brinckmann
Color and Empathy: Essays on Two Aspects of Film, 2014
isbn 978 90 8964 656 9