Media Lost and Found (Communications and Media Studies)

3 io4q

Media Lost and Found

COMMUNICATIONS AND MEDIASTUDIES SERIES Robin K. Andersen, series editor

1. A. M. Sperber, Murrow: His Life m d 7inles. 2. Hy B. Turner, When Giants Ruled: The Story of Park Raw, New York’s Greut Newspaper Street. 3, William O’Shaughnessy, Airwaves: A ColEection of K ~ Editorio als from the Golden Apple.

MEDIA

LOST

AND FOUND ERIK BARNOUW With a Foreword by DEAN DUNCAN

FORDHAM UNIVERSITY PRESS New York 2001

All rights reserved. No part of this publicatlon may be reproduced, stored i n a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any mcans-electronic, mcchanlcal, photocopy, recording, or any other-except for brief quotations 111 printed reviews, without the prior pcrmission of the publisher. “€listorical Survey of Communications Breakthroughs” is reprinted from Gcrald Benjamin, ed., The Cornmuntcutiorls Revolution in Politics (New York: The Academy of Polit~calScience, 1982). “Introducing the Doggie Bag intv thc Soviet Union” is from the Class Notes sectlon of the Prmceton Alurntu Weckly (5/20/98). Communications and Media Studies, No. 4

ISSN 1522-385X

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Rarnouw, Erik, 1908Media lost and found / Erik Barnouw ; with a foreword by Dean Duncan1st cd. p. cm.-(Communicatlons and media studies series ; n o . 4) Includes bibliographical references.

ISBN 0-8232-2098-2-ISBN 0-8232-2099-0 ( l h k . ) 1. Mass Media. I. Title. 11. Communications and media studies ; no. 4 P91.25.R37 2000 302.23-dc2 1

Printed in the IJnited States o f America 0 1 02 03 04 0 5 5 4 3 2 1 First Edition

00-0476 14

CONTENTS Foreword

1 . I n the Flaherty Way: Memories of the Robert Flaherty Film Seminar

2. G.I. Guide to Holland (Excerpts)

vii

1 7

3. Torrentius and His Camera

17

4. The Fantasm of Andrew Oehlcr

33

5. The Sintzenich Diaries

39

6. The Place to Be

65

7, Radiator-Pipe Broadcasters

71

8. Mr. Greenback Goes to Town

79

9. Kitty Sullivan and Social Security

93

10. Columbia and the A-Bomb Film

101

11. The Zig-Zag Career of Radio Luxembourg

109

12. Historical Survey of CoInmunications Breakthroughs

119

13. Lives of a Bengal Filmmaker: Satyajit Ray of Calcutta

135

14. Games

149

15. Introducing the Doggie Bag into the Soviet Union

161

16. The Kaufman Saga: A Cold War Idyll

163

Index

171

This Page Intentionally Left Blank

FOREWORD Erik Barnouw, the dean of American broadcast and media scholars and one of our most distinguished historians, has made a career of bringing together things that ordinarily remain apart. As a chronicler of increasingly polarized times-and of some of our most divisive subjects-he has had occasion to clearly define a number of these fundamental difEerences. At the same time, andfor a long time now, his has becn a calm and reasonable voice that has, at least by implication,illurninated possible middlegrounds,suggestingcourses by which we may navigate and perhaps eliminate some of the distances between us. The present volume of misccllaneous writings constitutes both a continuation and a culmination of this work. Written over several decades, and treating an unusually wide range of subjects, Media Lost and Found touchcs on 111any of the concerns that have characterized Barnouw’s writing over the years. As such, the book also suggests the possibility of, a n d even gives some prescriptions for, a number of timely reconciliations. The first of t h e recor~ciliatior~s relates to the apparentpoles of survey and specialization in academic study, teaching, and learning, as well as to the sometimegulf that can separate professional and lay people. This book contains only the latest of a number of implicit statelncnts that Barnouw has n u d e on this important subject. Though there are sometimes tensions between the needs and 1x1ture of the general and thespecific, between initiates and neophytes, Barnouw has consistcntly dcmonstrated that such relationshipsnced not be adversarial. He sees gcneral inquiries and more specific investigations as two stages of the same process. In writing volu~ninously, effectively, and beautifully in both styles and for both constituencies, he has consistently reconciled the positions of those who enter all the way in, and those who only takc-or have-the time to look on appreciatively from the threshold. I n Media Lost and Found we find that, once again, Barnouw has clegantly considered both forests and

trees and is uniquely able to speak to botanists and bouquet-pickers alike. This idea of the two camps and their possible rapprochement is of more than just casual,or current, interest. Barnouw’s father, Adriaan Barnouw, was a n extremelydistinguishedscholar, especiallycelebrated for his many contributions to the study and understandingof his native Netherlands. Me spoke of such sunderings in the introduction to hissurvey of Netherlandish poetry, Coming After: “A nation’s poetry is a communing with itself. I n its music and art it speaks to all the world. But the medium of poetry excludes the foreigner, It comes out of the native scene and has no range beyond the native scene. No other art is so exclusively national and inaccessible to the outsider. Interpreters are needed to admit the foreigner into the national intimacy.”’ Clearly, such national realities still exist,but I wish to urge a more figurative notion of culture and poetry and barriers to our more intimate communion. It need hardly be pointed out that our world has become, through commerce and technology, much smaller. At the same time, it is difficult to dispute that we have also become much more economically and ideologically and disciplinarily balkanized. If media now constitute a nativescene to practicallyeveryone, then the outlinesof its landscape remain dangerously vagueto most. It is difficult to deny that manyof us are unaware of the implications of our media culture andof our relationship to it. If poetry can mean the use of heightened language to express complex thought, then I think it fair to adapt Adriaan Barnouw’s statement and say that academics are perhaps the media poets who most richly commune betweenour self and our setting, But to take up the other side of Barnouw’s statement, it can also justly be said that i n m a n y cases it is academic writing about media that has becornc most disastrously insular, excluding those who could most benefit fromits insights. Fortunately, there are certainly many scholars who resist this hierarchical, isolationist trend. For Erik Barnouw, accessibility has always been of the highest priority. However specialized or professional his teaching or his writing has been, he has always felt it important to remain comprehensible to the uninformed but willing reader, and not to throw upbarriers before him or her. But such comprehensibility has never comc at the expense of nuance or complexity. With this current book we see again that Barnouw’s work challenges ac-

cessibly, and thus simultaneously makes demands of and lights the pat11 for the lay readcr.It also effortlcssly mediates between that rcader 311d thc cruclitc professional, exposing the one to the wisdom and perspective of the dedicated scllolar, reminding the other that she or hc is not just working alone, nor just addressing colleagues. Though hc may bemostacclaimed for his magisterial surveys (Documentary [ 19741, 7’ube of Plenty [ 19751, and thc three-volume llistory of Broadcastit~gi n the United Stc~Ees [1966, 1968, 1970]), nwst of thc articlescontaincclwithinthisvolume clearly clemonstratc that Barnouw is as effective a miniaturist as he is at re~lderirlg thc long view. And indced, thc facility and frcqucncy with which he crosscs from pmor;ma to Dutch detail does den1onstrate the interdependence of the survey and the specific. Gcneralizations are only justified through spccific proofs, which never resonate ;IS n1uch as whcn they are applied to broader contcxts. Specialization sharpens the beginner’s relationship to the subjoct, as well as the teacher’s relationship to that beginnor. At thc same time, fundamcntaldiscussions can calm and give perspectivc to thc spccialist. Media studies at thc university lcvcl are i n little dangcr of sil-rll~lcmindedness(unless it is in occasional simplemindcdrcjcctions of things that are not prcscntly in fashion). But while acadelnics list in the opposite direction and map thc corresponding disciplinary landscapc, itis well to remember that ncophytcs can easily get lost. And evcn the most experienced and intuitive of travelers can lxncfit by occasionally reorienting themselves in relation to cardinal points and cardinal principles. As i n so much else, Erik Barnouw demonstrates exemplary balancc. This balarlcc c m at least partlv be ascribcd to another, similar set of binarics that arc harmoniously syntl~esizcd in Rarnouw’s work. If spooialists and gencralists within particular fields sonlctimes expcricnce tcnsion, then friction between ficlds can be even more heated. Onc reason is thatinitiatcs can be impatientwith a newcomer’s scholarly baby stcps and the outwardly banal insights to which they lead. But baby steps are essential to the bcginner; as one cnters a IICW discipline, undue attcntion to that discipline’s specialized cutting cdges may obscure its more fundamental, if unexceptionable, roots. Clcarly, without roots, connections that spring up are i n d m ger of withering quickly away. Rutit is not only t h c ~ ~ o w c o ~ nwho e r necds to step back from

elitist or even excessively specializedsensibilities.Spccialization’s inward look can mask the salutary effects of othcrs’ elementaryinvestigations. The fact is that even receivcd wisdom can be groundbreaking, when innovation occurs in new combinations of the received. Some of the best of these new combinations comc when a scholar begins to wander. As the most cursory glance at his various collectionsof notes, bibliographies, and the table of contcnts of this bookwill attcst, Erik Barnouw is a man of remarkable range and refcrencc. Because of his wide reading, he is able to find the key, clarifying connections between divcrse subjects. Thc result is real, unstrained coherence, notwithstandingapparent great gulfs in time and disciplinc and geography. As he crosscs these chronological a n d disciplinary boundaries,Bar~louwillurninatcsunsuspected and undeniable links and suggcsts to us that, in fact, all scholarship is one. Of course, this is not i n any way a justification for sloppiness, sentimentality, or thc dcnial of rcal diffcrcnce.Rarnouwccrtainly documents his subjects’ multifarious and sometimes cursed contradictions. But he does so with a refreshing lack of jaundicc or prcjudicc and with a willingness to see and even to celebrate an affinity when he sees it. An&@ Bazin, the pioneering French film scholar, those who split film history and exonce famously suggested that pression at the coming of sound in the late 1920s wcre, in fact, making a great crror. For Bazin, itwas not the coming of sound that should divideperiods,practices,andperceptions. He felt,rather, that there was a continuity of sensibilities that actually and easily leaped over that perceived dividing line, revealing abiding continuities and basic truths.’ We might well consider clisciplinary boundaries i n a similar light; affinity nut only gcts us over technological and disciplinary bumps, but it reveals how sccondary those bumps lllay bc. What characterizes such affinity is a certain openness and a fidelity to key questions, as well as a willingness to seek answers wherever they nay be found. Barnouw comes repeatcdly back to these same queries. W h a t are thc roots of media studics? What do t h e roots say about thepresentstate of the discipline? What does all this mea13 for the future? If these questions lead h i m to a Dutch paintcr and an obscure IJtopian sect,if they take h i m through the traditions

of theatrical magic and u p t o the cutting cdges of technology, then that is as it should be. Media studiesshouldnaturallybeintcrdisciplinarv. The media arts are culminations of all their ancestral forms and styles, and the extent of their reach rcally dcmands a basic acknowledgment: every field of cxpression and study is native to them. Thereis a final binary writing. This opposition that finds effective synthesis in Bar~~ouw’s focus the latent content that lies collcction brings into particular beneath every scholar7s explicit conlmunicatiolls. This morefrequently effaced element relates to the close, cvcn inextricable link bctwccn the historian’s craft and the historian’s life, betwecn the objects of invcstigations and the historian’s subjective, personal relations thereto. It is possible here to move into dangcrous territory. A certain distance and perspective in scholarship are virtues, and excessive personal investlncnt can lead to ratlwr dire distortions. Still, B a r n o ~ w ~ s work in general suggcsts, and his writings in this book dernonstrate, the realities of lineage and the salutary possibilities of a writer’s being directly connected to and descended-from the thing heor she investigates. For instance, Barnouw has elsewhere discussed how his Ncthcrlarldsheritagehaspredisposed himto all sorts of genrelike, documentaryinvestigations. I n connectiontothematerial in this book, he has also acknowledgcd that he wrotc his history of Anlerican broadcasting in part because he himsclf had observed and lived through much of the material. “I had touched on it all at various points, so the idca of drawing a private line through history was very cxciting to IIW.”; Though thc Ilistory of Broadcasting i n the United States is i n formed b y that personal linc, it is not indulged and remains safely in the background. I n Barx~ouw’smature hands, that trilogy’s personal elenlents led not to distortion and self-absorption, but to an authoritative rendering o f tllc material. More recently, however, Barnouw has morc pointeclly acknowlcdgcd and even foregrounded the personal. I n doing so, hc has brought important ideas to helpful definit ion. Ilouse with u Yust (1992) was the first of Barnouw’s books that actuaily lxgins with the personal rcasons for his interest in the subject. Thc provenance of his little old stone house in Verlnont fascinated him, and his investigations regarding it ultimately led him to

the LDS Church archivesinSalt Lake City. His discoveries there allowed him to uncover the origins of his house and, therefore, to understand and deepen his own association with it. Salt Lake, which boasts one of the world’s largest repositories of genealogical infornlation, is an apt setting for a shift in style that has continued to the present, from which we all might learn. Genealogists and historians both know that there are innumerable lines of family and culture, of experience and ideology that condition and form us, and of which we are victims or beneficiaries. Hard digging that leads tothe discovery and open disclosureof these determinants can elevate our writing and thinking and, ultir-n,J t e1y, our living. So it is that in his autobiography, Media Marathon (19961, which is built openly 011 private experiences and personal incidcnts, Barnouw explicitly uncovers the lines leading to most of his major professional involven~ents,as well as to his most celebrated writings. In doing this he is not simply indulging hiznseTf. Throughout the book Barnouw demonstrates the difficult discipline of telling personal stories that turn outward, thereby revcaling not just one perSOIYS experience but illuminating thefield on which that experience occurred. In Media Lost and Fuund we see in the morc casual juxtaposition of disparate statements this sanw effect. Barnouw’s writing expertly extends personal lines into public discourse. Speakingindocumentaryterms,this is a call to citizenshipwhich is to say that journalists and fihnakers andbroadcasters, academicsandteachersandstudents all convertprivate interestto positive public action, to the bencfit of and with sincere concern for all All of this is not to say, of course, that intimacy must precede historicaldoculnentatiun. But Barnouw’s work suggestsInore and more that it might do so, and that if we are not necessarily intimate, then we should certainly be sympathetic. It is that sympathy that has marked Barnouw’s work, and most particularly his recent books. As with the autobiography, Media Losf (2nd Found reflects his customary widc range, his customary calm enthusiasln, his customary modcsty. Through the articles h u e collected we see, beneath overwhelming technological shifts a d social chaos, the hunun factor. There is almost a picaresquesensibility too, as seeminglycasual crossings lead to abiding relationships andcmblen~ a t IC ’ events. So we find in Media Lost and Found both erudition and accessibil*

ity, f i r m focus and exciting interdisciplinary exploration, the public

and the personal. To highlight thesc crossovers and syntheses, this by a number of principles. First there is volume has been guided something of a doubly chronological order, a combination of history and indirect autobiography. This means that subjects treating the distant past will usually precede profiles of more recent vintage. I t also nleans that some attention has been given to the chronological development of the writer hinlsclf. Throughout the book we find the younger Barnouw writing cornmissioned, for-hire pieces with the partially imposed or conventional styles that we might associate with such assignments. Then, gradually, we move to the more individual and autonomous voice to which we have become accustomed. It is interesting to note that, notwithstanding the various contexts out of which these pieces emerge, the same confident and rcassuring tone attends them all. In addition to these dual chronologies, the essays are arranged to emphasize certain emblematic ideas. I n reading, we find that these ideas are introduced and developed and recapitulated in a way that not only tells us of Barnouw’s prcoccupations but also, as he would doubtlesshaveit, in a manner that reveals key thematic threads woven right through the fabric OE the century. This collection begins with an exemplary bit of Barnouw writing. “In the Flaherty Way,” a glimpse at the life and legacy of documentary f i l ~ npioneer Robert Flaherty, is modest and eloquent and concise, and it verv quickly introduces a number of central relationships that have emerged not only from Flaherty’s work, but that remain at the core of documentary discourse and media discussions in general. We have seen, and we will see, that these relationships-between representationand reality, traditionandinnovation,production and thcory, anhistorian and history,intellectual fashion and the verities-have been repeatedly addressedin Barnouw’s own work, and that his ability to reconcile such seemingly contradictory binaries is a key to that work’s wide range and unity. The Flaherty article is another effective piece of intellectual diplomacy.RobertFiaherty is 3 vivid and romantic figure, and he has tended to generate rather fierce advocacy and hostility in the documentary community. I n his documentary history, Barnouw has given us a definitive account, bothclear-eyed and affirmative, of Flaherty’s contributions and complications. I n this piece he avoids the hand-

to-hand aspects of thc contemporary Flahertv fray and in s o doing does him, and us, a service. Barnouw shows us the real beauty and importance of Flaherty’soriginal contributions. Then leaving thc documcntary specialists to debate (as they should) ovcr particulars of good and ill, he helps us to see what is most true and relcvant about the manand his lcgacy. Flaherty’s continuecl and indisputable relevancc is confir~ncdin those who’ve taken up his torch ancl kept laboring. Barnouw also, incidentally, rcveals how he himself is an hcir to that Flaherty way and how much his own work has honored and advanced it, Here is another motif that recurs throughout this compilation. The Flaherty way, as inflectcd by Barnouw, IIIcans that in tlw midst of industry-publishil~g a r ~ dacademic industries too-there are still artisanal, or artistic, values t o dcfcnd and maintain. It means that whcn we talk about ;I text or a person, we must also talk about deepcr structurcs. I t means that yreconccytion must be avoided, or at least acknowledged, if oursearch for answers a n d comcctions is to be fully fruitful. I t means that unique sensibilities, without coddling or romanticizing them, should be honored, and that we ought to protect the dreamcr and proliferatc what’s best about the dream. All of these charactcristics of the Flahcrty way are strikingly present in the comparatively early cssay “G.I. Guide to Holland” (1944). ljerc we Icarn, wit11 the solcliers to w11orn this w3s originally addressed, to look beyond the stercotypes and see the sulxtancc o f a situation. As he discusses in Medid Maruthon, Barnouw is originally a Nctherlandcr, and this is the o n l y publishccl piccc in which hc talks in such detail about his cultural origins, as well as suggcsting his feelings about those origins. Ilowevcr, it will be sotne timc before Barnouw will cxplicitly explore the personal in his writing. Ilcre, private convictions aremcrely mobilizccl to more cffcctively accomplish a public purpose. Barnouw demonstrates how thc Netherlandish sensibility is quietly and profoundly prcsent in all Wcstern culture and history. A s ~ n a l lcountry’s s n d forms lead us to consider a broad array of resonant things: mercantilism and the creation of the European middle class, non-superpower colonialism, genre painting as it relates to the cxaltation of the cvcryclay, and thc creative treatlncnt of actuality. This is propaganda, but it does not come at thc cxpcnse of complcxitv or humanity. I n tcrms of the history of documentary and

propaganda, “(2.1. Guide to Holland” bears fruitful comparison to Frank Capra’s celebrated Why We Fight films, also produced during World War 11 for the U.S. War Department. But i n his article, Barof his own subtlc nouw counters Capra’s fabled pugnacity with some tenderness. Documentary aficionados may associate this latter quality with thc work of English wartime documentarist Humphrey T e n nings, about whom Barnouw has also written a superlative profile. With this refreshing and, for the time, somewhat atypical tone, we SCC for the first time the conciliatory and leavening effect that this simultaneously A~nericana11d international writer was to have. As for relationship with an audiencc, we here find, fully formed, that authoritative, uncondescending, trustworthy voice now so fad i a r to us. We also find the weighty subject matter thatmakes that voice effcctive. 111 this piece a (future) scholar (not a politician or a nov vie star) tells a noisy, sclE-assured, and at least sonlewhat oblivious nation why it should pay attention to a quict, unassuming, and extremely substantial state, whichstruggles and abides. These are things, manifest i n individual lives or events, institutions or movemcnts, that riddle Barnouw’s later, more celebrated writing. After the general vicw provided by the Holland piece, we take out a magnifying glass and look at something more specializcd. In terms o f subject chronology, “Torrentius and His Camera,” with some of the material on Holland,reaches the furthest back of any in this book. It also resonates, subtly but resoundingly. Without forcing the issue, a study of an apparently obscure painter and his obscure convictions develops intoa contemplation of media magic and manipulation, the ideological depths beneath apparently realistic surhces, freedom and oppression and the deep draw of thc blacklist, as well as the ways that progress can risc out of the aslws of failure. Similar overtones ring out from the next essay, “Thc Fantasms of Andrew Oelder,” which also reaches fairly far into the past. Once again, though, this is not mercly a curio. Barnouw turns his attention here to the ancestry of currcnt f o r m and conditions. Since this is the case, we can see how this obscure magician’s life prcfigurcs quite clearly and remarkably the modern crcation of illusion and drcams h y technologies that appear magical and appeal to our fantasies, Barnouw also makes some passing points about how dream factories can run afoul of the powers and sponsors that be; censorship and deeper

suppressions often come out of nowhere, and they have always clone SO.

With “The Sintzenich Diaries,”modern t i n m bcgin, and the prellistories of cinemaandmedia and propaganda enter into living memory. The story of a forgotten motion-picturc cameraman dcmonstrates once again how a close look at surfaccs can reveal grcat and unsuspecteddepths. Barnouw’s 1981 book, The Magician und the Cinema, is about how stage magic was overtaken by industrialization and eclipsed by f i l m . This article shows an even more portentous eclipse: in film, and in manufacture gcncrally, artisanry and barnstorming-older modes of both making and selling-movc to the margins as Taylorism takes over. All of thc mcdia writing thatfollows in this collection turns on this very point. But thc victory of mass production leaves some remainders for which we must still account. Since the big guys have irrcvocably overcome, is there a way to maintain and prcscrvc somc of thc good out of that which thcy’ve replaced? “The Sintzenich Diarics” contains a kind o f double minutiae-not only the diary cntries themselves but the life they reflect. “Snitch” is one of the littIc guys, a footnotc i n fi1111 history, and one that wouldn’t seen1 to count for Inuch. But thc poignant details outlined here (see Mamic Sintzcnich’s inscription in the first of the diaries that shc gives tu her 11~sband) and thcintcrcsting cvcryday accountsthat we find are emblcnlatic of largcr truths. Like clocunlentarics, this articlcrcmincls us how important it is t o give a voice to the voicelcss, alld to renmnher how apparent banalities can, with thc propcr attention, I x as \veighty as convcntional affairs o f nlo~nent andconseclucncc. Where the Sintzenich article lcaves us considcring the evcnts and implications of thc past, “Thc Kauflnan Saga: A Cold War Iclyll” spins us into a time and place of furious revolutionary changu. This story of the Kaufman brothers takcs us through thc Russian revolution and the spectacular artistic ferment that acconlpanicd it.l h i s (Dziga Vcrtov) and Mikhail, the oldcr of thc Kaufnlan brothers, are in their ow11 way as important to documentary history as liobcrt Flaherty is. But this tale goes beyond the brilliant cuphoria o f Soviet film culture in the 1920s to powcrfully document some of the dcep travails that followed. Thc story o€ Mikhail and his youngcr b r o t h (and great film artist in his ow17 right) Boris is poignant and emblematic. Separated in 1917, and remaining so through thc carly 1970s)

free spccch-the students-through nwral justification and substantial consensus-Radio Luxembourg in World War 11-to the quagmires o f liccnse and duplicity that followed that war’s close. Something terriblc and confoundingseparatcstheCorporal Tom Joncsdescribedhere and U.S. relationswithCastro. This terrible thing is at lcast partly related to the ways i n which citizen initiative cangct sulallocvcd upand appropriated-not tomention pcrvertcd-ly the pcoplc behind the closed doors. I his also brings us to an important neutrality that Barnouw has illustratcd over and over again. He is not a n ideologue, a preacher, n o r even ;I propagandist, and hismessage is simple and salutary. Iiadio, telcvision, film, and scholarly writing too are not good or bad until someone clmoscs to use them for good or ill, or receives their messages in the same spirit. “Trickery in the use of media is a twoedgocl weapon.” Just as the media are neutral until used, so too can people convinced of the justicc of their cause suddenly find themselves thc 11ad guys. These last articles trace a trajectory of innoccnce lost and scruples mislaid.“IIistorical Survey of Co~nmunicationsBreakthroughs” is this lxmk’s most technical, scholarly, and thoroughgoing statement, and it sulnrnarizes thesc illsvery clearlv. It also makes far-reaching and evcn prophetic connections, demonstrating how rnedia issues can rcach t o the very hcart of a denmcratic society. We have seen how Barnouw quietly praises and gently criticizes, but here is the magisterial voicc of the authoritative media scholar, and of a good citizen 1,esiclcs. 1,ooking across the whole range of Barnouw’s writing, we see another strong recurring pattern, which this miscellany reveals with special vividness. For cvery time that he documents troubling trends (as in thcse prwious articles), Barnouw counters that caution with ;I portrait o f someone or something better. “Lives of a Bengal Filmmaker” is a11 appreciation of Satyajit Kay, the greatIndian f i l m maker, artist, composer, and publisher. Ray, like Flaherty, and much morc clearlv than Flaherty, is simply and indisputably a great man. And this affectionate portrait of the great man does whatBarnouw’s portraits most always seen1 to do. This is not just uncritical auteurism, o r thecelelmtion of a singleindividual at theexpcnse of context, complexity, and history. € 3~ concentrating on the particur

l

1ar”Ray“and on specific applications of thc particular, the resonances just accrue naturally, without any compulsory means. Ray, and this profile of h i m , rcsonatc in a nunlbcr of excmph): ways. They both trace a path fro111 romance to rcality. Rr~rnouwconsiders, through Kay, how the cschewal of villainy confounds those in search of easy answers, but how such complexity lxttcr represents and honors our lives. I-IC notes how the unInclodralnatic Ray is more of a social historian than a purveyor of popular plcasurcs. The link here between writer and subject is obvious, and it also leads to one of this collection’s most valuable lessons, and onc that is cspccially relevant for scholars and students. If, as he suggests, Ray bcgan with mere book knowledge of his country, then his long dedication to his art r d e hook knowledge flcsh. So too with thefar-ranging Barnouw. Scholarship and study, though they may at times go astray o r hordcr on irrelevance, need not insulate us from real lifc and experiencc and service. Approached with proper rigor, conmitnlent, and care, they may actually deepen allof these essential things. Referring to Kay, Barnouw also summarizes his own work. Work quieti!, and well, and good will follow. Erik Barnouw has bccn doing this good work for a vcry long time now. “Games,” a n article of recent vintagc, clemonstrates that our author’s clarity and authority remain unclinlmed, advancing age notwithstanding.Herc, Rarnouw delnonstratcs the con1plexit). of thc situation a t hand, but through his vast experience and the nunll,er of positions he cansympathcticallyreprcsent (cf. Ray’s antipathy towardvillains),it all seems eminentlygraspablc.Barnouw offers calm, responsible solutions to the problcnls of currcnt cultural warfare. This means that hc outlincs not only the hot topics-v-chip vigilance or censorship, syphilis or AIDS-but also the forms and dcvices (lobbying and special interest, license and rcprcssion) through which this cultural content is represented. The cunclusiun is simple: our attention, our patience, our plain plrticipation are always required. As it was at the beginning, so too at the e ~ l d Bar: nouw continues to be a good cxample. This collection concludes with another concise, dcceptively simple statcment. “Introducing the Doggie Bag into the Soviet IJnion” reflects and benefits from the increasingly pcrsonal tone that \IT have remarked i n Barnouw’s later work, This one paragraph, rcally a tiny epilogue, is of a piecc with the rest and thc best of this hook. It is

clcgant, self-dcprccating, affectionate, and rcdolent of great depths bclow. I n his writing and in his lifc, Barnouw has consistently modeled thesc very civilitics, I n doing so, hc has encouraged us to look for and foster them in o w ow11 livcs. And i n doing all this s o well, and for so long, he h a s COIIIC to convincc us that wc will actually find thCll1.

NOTES

For Betty

Robert Flaherty on location. Courtesy Seminars, Inc.

of International Film

1

In the Flaherty Way: Memories of the Robert Flaherty Film Seminar A HUNDRED OR so DEVOTEES of documentary will meet August 6-12 at Wells College, Aurora,N.Y., for the fortieth Robert Flaherty Film Seminar. As a survivor of some of the earliest of these seminars I have been asked to help plan a few of the sessions, looking back to the seminar beginnings, and to Flaherty himself. The main parts of this year’s meeting will be programmed by Somi Roy, formerly film coordinator for the Asia Society, who will present a selection of f i l m by Asian and Asian-American film makers. Many film makers from around the world have taken part i n Flaherty Seminars. Joris Ivens, I-lenri Storck, Louis Malle, Agnes Varda, Jean Rouch, Mira Nair, Susumu Hani and many others have come to show and discuss their works. Numerous other participants have experienced the seminars as a turning point in their careers. I count myself among them. The story began i n 1955 when Frances Flaherty, Robert’s widow and often collaborator, invited a group of cineasts to mcet at the Flaherty farm i n Dummerston, Vermont to look at films-by Flaherty and others-and to discuss the state of the medium. The hope that others would carry on “ i n the Flaherty way” by then dominated Frances F1ahert~’s life. The participants, stimulated by the give-andtake of the discussion, resolved to meet agaiu in ’56-then again i n ’57 and ’58. I was not at the first gathering but was at the second and third, which included SatlJajit Ray. Having just won the “best human document” award at the Cannes Festival for his Pather Punj d l i 7 Ray had come to the United States for its American premiere. Invited to Dunlmerston, llc brought with him not only Puther Punjuli but a test print of Aparajito, just completed but not yet released.

We saw both f h s that weekend and talked endlessly-about working methods, relationships, philosophy, equipment, fina~lce. I n a sense, Ray’s films epitomized what we werc reaching forwork done not in a n industry process but rather in an artisan tradition, by artists in control of what they wcre doing. Ray’s success, like Flaherty’s, challenged an establishment pattern. The Indian film industry, like Hollywood, had bcconw huge and hugely organized, split into hierarchies and categories. Film people had becomc producers,directors,writers,editors,actors, CoInposers, publicistsseparated professionally and socially. Ray himself was not any one of thesc and was all of them. Like Flaherty, he was a “film maker"-a term constantly used i n the Dum-nerston discussions. It was not an industry term: it had a rebel ring. The participallts realized what it implied: not only independence but the blessings and burdcns that wcnt with it, rangingfrom endless fund-raising to distribution dilemmas. One couldhardlytalk about “film making’’withouttalking about the structure o f society. FrancesFlahertyandDavidFlaherty,Robert’sbrothcr,spearheaded arrangements for thcse first meetings. By the end of the dccadc a n organization secnxd necessary to carry them on. There was talk of forming a non-profit corporation to be called International Film Seminars, Inc. I was askcd to head it as IFS’s first president. At thistirue, I was supervisor of a group of Columbia University Coursesdealingwith f i l m , radioand television-which nay have been a leading factor in m y appointment to IFS. I remained president for eight years. They provcd to bc an extraordinary education. The first Dumxnerston mcetings took place i n a magic setting: the huge studio/projcction room i n the converted barn that had become the Flaherty home. It had a swccping view of wooded Vermont hills. Nearby, across a field, was the Flaherty grave, topped by a boulder on which ;Ibrief inscription had been chiseled.There was a place for an additional inscription-forFrances. Also nearby was a disused chicken coop where outtakes from Louisicrnu Story were stored, perilously. One o f the scnlinar participants would make, from this materia1,‘the valuable ~ouisianaStory study Film, w ~ won 1 a sImwing at the Venice Film Festival. Within the house, in the upper reaches of the barn,were innumerable boxes of Flahcrty papers and nem morabilia,chroniclinga lifetin~e.Frances decided to donate 311 this to IFS, and IFS deposited it at the Columbia University Library. Many

scholars, over the years, havc spent hours and days in Colunhia’s Rare Book and Manuscript Division, poring over the rich contents of the Flaherty Collection. The future was always the focus of seminar discussions: the need for films not based on prcconceptions, not founded on studio artifice, but more directly emergingfrom lifeitself. W h a t would be needed-in equipmcnt, in social institutions, in new ways o f distribution-to move in that direction? Although such questions were the focus, the discussion tended to return again and again to Flaherty himself-hc who, a lone visitor among thc Inuit, enlisting their collaboration, had crafted one of the most enduring of all films. The film moguls had been condescending about it when they first saw it. They were even sympathetic, sorry he had gone to all that trouble, u p there in the north. But thcy assured him aucliences preferred people in dress suits. Later, astonished at its SUCCCSS under the Pathe banner, Paramount had financed a Flaherty cxpcdition to Samoa to bring back “anotllcr Nunook.” Mounu had won its sllarc of praise but was not, i n box office tcrrns, another Ncrnook. Paramount’s accountants said it lost moncy. It virtually ended Flaherty’s relations with IIollywood, and determined the patternof the rest of his career: a search for support elsewhere. Many of those who met at l)umnlerston-Ricky Leacock, I-klen van Dongen, Arnold Eagle, Virgil Thompsonand others-had worked with Flahcrty, and their talk becarnc fascinating when they talked about him: his ways of working, his ebullience, his brilliance as raconteur, his periods of black despair, his lovc/hate relationship with Grierson, his awareness on location of: every detail around h i m , the mystery of the Bob/Frances collaboration-he the hard drinker, the nomad; she the patrician, a bit puritanical. There were contradictions and mysteries, some of which seemed to reach into the mysteries of the film-makingprocess. I learnedmuchfromthe talk at DuInmerston, just as I learned a lot latcr, at the Columbia library, browsing through thc countless letters, contracts, menus, receipts and diaries in the Flaherty Collection. Curiously, one strand of Flaherty’s life became known to me not through these sources but through another much closer to home. It was a matter not mentioned in the biographies of Flaherty. It astonished me, and may interest others. My father, Adriaan 1, Barnouw, occupied a chair atColunlbia

named the Queen Wilhelmina Professorship. His courses and lectures focused on the history, language, and culture of the Netherlands. He had never taken particular interest in film, but one day in the 1950s, noting my growing interest i n Flaherty, he said, “I knew Bob Flaherty.” This puzzled mc. “In what connection?” I asked. He seemed reluctant to talk about it, and I didn’t pursue the matter. But after his death in 1968, I found among his papers a thick file marked FLAHERTY. To m y amazement, it began with a ten-page, single-spaced,carefullytypedletterfromFlaherty to my father, dated September 29, 1926. This was followed by three years of correspondence and other docuInents, 1926-29, some of which was in English, some in Dutch, Flaherty had apparently learned that Father had visited Indonesia, then known as the Netherlands East Indies. Flaherty explained that he was determined to make a film in Bali, which scemed to h i m , in its culture, ideal for a Flaherty film. “He was particularly attracted by the fact that nomissionaries were allowed there. This should obviate our working for months, as we did i n Samoa, to get beneath the veneer of missionary civilization.” Flaherty outlined, in the letter, a history of the making of Nanook of the North, which he said had cost a total of US$53,000, provided by RevillonFreres, and had already earned a world-wide gross of US$25 1,000, which meant a profit for both Flaherty and Revillon. The reactions from around the world were extraordinary. Flaherty quoted several, beginning with England. D d y Graphic: “I saw yesterday a film which will make history. Nanook of the North is a I ~ O tionpictureunexamplcd i n the history of thescreen.” Sunday Express: “It is the most remarkable film ever shown i n London.” He quoted similar comlnents about Moana, for which distribution receipts were not yet available. Flaherty emphasized what these films had done for world understanding of the Inuit and of the Samoans, and what a f i l m of this sort could also do for Bali. To make such a film possible, he hoped Father could provide ltim with introductions to officials both in I Iolland and the Indies, and letters of support that might enable him to win the backing of steamship lines and other possible sponsors. The long series of letters that followedmakeclear that Father complied, with succcss. Meanwhile Father received from Flaherty a letter that began: “At last it seems certain that we are goillg to do

the Bali picture, or rather, it is going to be done as a collaboration between F. W. hlurnau, whom you have undoubtedly heard of by reputation, the German director of The Last Laugh and Sunrise, and myself. He is disgusted and worn out by his work in Hollywood; he is leaving the American film scene for good and all, and departs on his yacht, with my brother David as companion, within three weeks.’’ His yacht was named The Bali, and Bali was its destination. Flaherty would soon follow. Meanwhile, he would be grateful if Father would write letters of introduction for Murnau, similar to those already written for Flaherty. Father did so. Aker this, there is only one short note, from Flaherty to Father, apparently scribbled i n haste. “Much has happened since you kindly sent those letters of introduction to Mr. Murnau.” Now there was a slightchange of plans.“For certain economic reasons” they were heading for Tahiti and would make a film there first. The yacht was en route; Flaherty would follow, sailing from San Francisco. They had not given up on Bali; they would make that f i l m later. “Bali is the Ultima Thule of our desires.” That was the end of the three-year file. In Tahiti the group made Tabu, Inore a Murnau than a Flaherty film. Soon after its completion Murnau died in an automobile accident. Nothing more was done about Bali. I added the correspondence to the Flaherty Collection at Columbia, and sent a copy of it to Frances, She wrote me: “I’m glad you found those letters . . , that dream of Bali , , . only one among so many!”

A street in the Netherlands, showing the canals and the distinctive architecture. (Author's collection)

2

G.I. Guide to Holland

(Excerpts)

HOLLAND VS. THE WATER

THE1-IISTORY

OF HOLLAND, its character, and its present strategic importance are all in m a n y ways related to the position of the country at the mo~~t11of a number of converging rivers. To make clear why you’re going there, and why it offcrs both advantages a n d clisadvantages to mechanized warfare, you’ll havc to understand its geographic character. Holland means hollow lund. It literally is hollow. The country is chiefly a low-lying delta region that centurics ago was sometimes under water, solnetimes not. To the west o f this region, the sea tended to throw up a barrier against itself; it raised a ridge of dunes. But this protection was like a Maginot Line. Look at the map and you can see how vicious seas could and did flank this line to north and south, tearing huge chunks from the land, and sweeping inland far bcyond the ridgc of cluncs. The Zuider Zee is a relic of sucha flankinginvasion.Evenwhcn the region was not flooded by the sea, it might be flooded by thc waters of swtdlcn rivcrs: Rhinc, Meuse, Scheldt, and others. In spite of these hazards, primitivepcoplcs settled there. Later Romans came, using it as an embarkation point to England. They may have taught local tribes about dikes. At any rate, dikc-building began about then, and llas gone on ever since. At first its purpose was defense against sea and rivers, But in late centuries IIolland has taken the offensive, and won from the water ~ m n new y areas. This offensive is still going on. The rnost recent peaceful conquest, which was going on while Hitler was screaming his way to power i n Germany, was the reclamation of parts of tho Zuider Zee. This was only the latest of a long series of similar projects that have enlargcd the country chunk by chunk through the centuries. When a certain area is to be dried up, it is first surrounded by a

dike. Then the water within the dike is pumped out, with pumps that, in times past, were generally powered by windn~ills. When the land is laid bare, itis then criss-crossed with drainage ditches, needed to take care of rainfall and seepage,The pumpingaway of water from these ditches, into a drainage canal outside thedike, and from there to a river or to the sea, is a process that never stops. Henry Ford, when visiting Holland, once remarked that Holland ought to fill up its canals and make motor roads. If it did, the land would soon be flooded. The dried up areas are called polders. Most of these polders are in the western part of the country, specifically in the provinces of North and South I-Iolland. This hollow part of the Netherlands is below sea level. The dikes that are found elsewhere in the Netherlands have, as their only €unction, the protectionof the land against overflowing of rivers. Along the North Sea, where the sand dunes present a natural protection against rising water, there is one low spot in this range of dunes northwest of the city of Alkmaar. The Dutch here built three parallel dikes which they called “Waker,” “Dreamer,” and “Sleeper,” each o€them to hold in succession the North Sea at bay. Dikes are wider at bottoln than at top. But the top is generally wide enough for a road, and is often paved for traffic. When walking or riding on a dike around a polder, you will nearly always see a canal to one side of the dike away from the polder, into which superfluous water that has been drained out of the polder is emptied. You can sometimes have the eerie experienceof standing i n the meadow of a polder and seeing just beyond the dike, the sail of a ship moving 011 a level higher than you. Holland, then, is a land that lives on intimate terms with water. This has had ~ n a n yimportant effects on the country. First, because of the rivers and sea, Holland is a fishing nation that, early in its history, supplied fish to much of Europe. I n 1400, €Iollanders learned how to cure herring so that it would keep, and could be sent great distances. This was one of Holland’s first great sources of wealth. Again because of sea and rivers, Holland became a trading nation, aland of ports andharborswhereoceanand river routesmeet. Helpcd by wealth made fro111 the herring she became a great ship builder, and sent her seamen throughout theworld in the interest of trade.HollandmarinershaveleftHollandnames in suchremote

places as Barents Sea, named after Barents, the explorer; Tasmania, after Abel Manszoon Tasman; Cape Horn,after the old town of Hoorn, in Holland; and Hudson Bay and Hudson River, named after Hendrick Hudson, an Englishman who had beenin the service of the Netherlands East Indies Company. Hollanders i n those days set up trading ports in North and South America, Africa, and the East and WestIndies. Even today, theNetherlandsEastandWestIndies make Holland look like a pinpoint on the map. Once more thanks toits rivers, Holland is a farming center. Its soil is rich in river mud and grows fine vegetables, as well as Holland’s famous tulip bulbs, shipped throughout the world. Holland is also the homeland of the Frisian cow. Incidentally, Holland’s rich, moist soil is also responsible for its extensive use of wooden shoes. For mechanized warfare, the land is conveniently flat, but crisscrossed with dikes, canals and ditches. It also offers the hazard of a soil that can grow soggy with any breakdown of the drainage system. Worse, it is a land that, i€ conditions are right, can be flooded by a retreating enemy. The idea of calling on its old enemy, the sea, as a n ally in wartime was first used by Holland in its eighty-year war against Spain. This was one of the most important periods i n Holland’s history, and one thatit has often remembered during itsdays under the Nazis.

HOLLAND‘S FIGHTFOR FREEDOM

I n the sixteenth century Holland came to be ruled by Philip 11, also King of Spain, who set himself to stamping out Protestantism in the Netherlands. In reply, Holland revolted under William the Silent. It had to fight eighty years to make that revolt stick. During this war, Hollanders drew up a document in which they stated that a sovereign was made €or the benefit of his subjects, not the subjects for the benefit of the sovereign. It is hard to appreciatenow how radical and bold that idea was in the sixteenth century.It was echoed two centuries later in America’s Declaration of Independence, and even then it was radical, In 1574, the city of Leiden was under siege by the Spanish armies. Cut off from all supplies, the townsmen lived on rats, mice, the grass i n the streets, the leaves off the trees. Any schoolboy in Holland can

tell you that when a rnitlority wanted to surrender because of hunger, the major bared his right arm and said, “Eat that, bcforc you talk of surrender.” Leiden held out for a year. Meanwhile, William tllc Silent cut the dikes near Rotterdam. By carrier pigeon he informed the Leideners, urging them to hold out. For weeks the people of Leiden watched from their walls, but nothing happened. The wind was from the cast, and it held the sca back. Only a thin f i l m of water was creeping northward over the land. Finally the wind changed, drove thesea water inland and northward. As it flooded the land IIolland’s navy of “sea-beggars” Inovcd with it, smashing more dikes as they went. ‘The Spanish armies, pursued by a n ocean and a navy, fled. ’The navy brought Leiden herring aril bread, and the townsmen ate. Every Octobcr 3 to this day, free herring and bread are given out on the stoop of the city hall i n Leidcn, i n memory of the triumphal end of a siege. On the same day all the people of Leidcn eat hutspot, a sort of beef stew, because that’s what they found in thc abandoned Spanish camp. The story of this siege illustrates that the flooding of the land is not as quick and easy as it sounds. Dikes must be opened i n many places to flood a large area. And winds are an unccrtain factor. The blitzkrieg pace of the Nazi conquest of Holland, and the usc of 1xu”dlute troops to scize strategic places, prevented successful use of this wcapon by Holland’s defenders.

THEPEOPLEAND THEIR WAYOF LIFE Homes

of

Holland

To you, everything in IIolland will look small, miniature. Hollanders have never gone i n I I I U C ~ for bigness. I-Iaving 110 bignesses to boast of, they just don’t revere bigness. There couldn’t be skyscrapers i n Holland anyway-they’d sink in the soggy soil. Yet with s a n e ingenuity Dutch architects succeeded in building a twelve-story apartment house i n one of the newer sections of Amsterdam, which is proudly referred to as “The Amsterdam Skyscraper.” T n Amtcrdanl cvcry house is built 011 piles driven deep into the ground. The city stands on an underground foresto f timber. You will IIC told the Royal Palace stands on 13,659 piles. To remember that number, take the days i n the year, add a 1 before it, a 9 after it.

You’ll findHollandersrestrained and intenselyreligious. They havc enthusiasms, but they don’t bclicve in showing them much. Thcy won’t tell you their life storics 011 a ~noment’s notice. Their newspapers don’t scream. When reporting crimes, they’re alnlost the exact opposite of American newspapers. They may not even rnention the names of the pcoplc involved. They’ll just say: “Last night Mr. J. G. killcd Mr. 11. M. by stabbing him many times with a pocket knife. Mrs. J. G. was present.” The papers doll? want to ernbarrass anyone. Instead of size and scnsation, IIolland goes in for neatness and cleanliness. It’s no acciclcnt that the I Iollander’s word schoon nlcans either clean or beautiful. I n Holland you will never sce, at least in peacetime, empty lots full of rubhish and tin cans, and you’ll scc practically no slums. Youwill see something you nlay nwcr have seen: housewivcs literally scrubbing the sidewalks in front of their homcs. Today, Nazi tanks in some towns pulvcrizcd lIolland’s brickpaved strcets and turned them into mediaeval mud-holes. But- you will probably still find in houses everywhcrc the pre-war neatncss. The wooden shoes used only by farmers-and by fishernlen-are never worn inside the house. The shoes are left at thc stoop as you cnter; you go around the house in stocking feet. By the shoes at the stoop you can tell who’s home. On Sundays, as a matter of gentility, leather shoes arc worn to church. Kids hate thc leather shoes and can’t wait to gct back into the wooden ones. But don’t get the idea you’ll find wooden shocs comfortable. Till your feetgctused to them, thcy’re agony. In city and town, leather shoes arc customary. But leather has been alnwst unobtainable under the Nazis. There h a s been an increasing use of wooden shoes, and of leather shoes that clack along 011 wooden soles.

If you go to a ~neal i n a home, you’ll find thecveningmeal like a dinner at home. In peacetimc it would be soup, Ineat, potatoes, vcgetalde, dcssert. But breakfast and lunch you would find strange. These two mcals consist largely of boterJza~nnzen.I n pcacetimc, you’d find a basket with quantitics o f bread in thc middle of the table. Everyone would takc a slice of l m x l , lay it 011 his plate, butter it ncatlv. (Etiquette note: don’t hcak the bread. Don’t hold it in vour

hand as you butter. Leave it flat on the plate.) Having finished buttering, you have a boterham-bread with butter on it. Now the Hollander would debate what to put 011 his boterhanl. There might be, on the table, a dozen or more choices: cheese, ham, jams, honey, and patented preparations made especially to be eaten on boterhams, like vanilla shot, anispowder, and chocolate shot. Chocolate shotwas sprinkled on boterhams in Holland long before it appeared on sundaes in America. Having made his choice, the Hollander spreads or sprinkles it carefully on his boterham, slices the boterham neatly i n four slices, and eats. He generally does the lifting with his fingers, but if he’s using conlpany manners, or if his boterhanl is sticky, he might use kniEe and fork. The Rotlander, restrained and economical, often has family rules about boterhams. For instance, a rule that the children must eat the first boterhanl with nothing 011 it, and that the second must have something not sweet on it. But war has brought much stricter rules to the boterha~n meal: no butter, margarine on occasion, hardly any jams, no meat. The bread has grown strange and grey, so that people suspect it of having sawdust in it. Two slices €or breakfast, two for lunch, has been about the rationed quantity. Holland’s boterhammen, before the war, were made of grain from the United States.

Life in Wartime Holland I n peacetime, Hollanders are greatcoffee-drinkers. They call their lunch Koffie-drinken. But of course the pre-war coffee came from Java and other overseas sources. Here is an account, by a Hollander who escaped to England late in 1943, that tells what Holland is doing about its coffee shortage. I an1 sitting in a cafe somewhere in England . , . I’m drinking coffee, real coffee, and in front of me lies m y third helping of apple pie . . . I think about hoI-ne, about the coffee substitute of ground tulips with skim milk and half a tablet of saccharin. The apple picmakes me think of the cakes of tulip flour and the sticky filling of whitc bcans and artificial sweetening. That’s how it was for me, and that’s how it still is for Mother and Sis, and for n~illionsof others . . . It is late. Better go to bed. I n Holland I would havc been in a heavy slumber hours ago. Everyone is so tired, over there.

Another escapee tells what some Hollanders have been using for tobacco: dried beet leaves and tree leaves. Holland’s tobacco came from the Indies and America. Others tell of the shortage of wool and cotton, and perhaps most serious of all, the shortage of fuel. Holland has some peat bogs, very little coal or wood. I n peace its homes were heatcd with anthracite from Wales. Because the people of Holland have consistently cheered United Nations aviators as they passed overhead toward targets i n Germany, the Nazis have taken revenge by looting homes in Holland of furniture, plumbing fixtures, and heating fixtures, for the restoration of Gcrman towns. You’ll find a nation badly housed, clothed, and fedcold andhungry,suffering fro111 skin ailments, eye aillnents,bad teeth.

Sports Soccer is popular in Holland. Cricket, and various games resembling baseball are also played. But the most popular sports are water and ice sports. Although the skating season is short, skating is the best-loved pastime in Holland. When the canals and ditches freeze over a whole new transportation networksuddenlyopens up. Hardyskaters go great distances from town to town, visiting spots they never reach i n other seasons. Even three-year olds are put on the ice, with a kitchen chair to push around and hang onto. Next year they will not need the chair. I n a few years they’ll go on long trips. I n Friesland, i n the northern part of the country, if you want to be counted a topflight skater, YOU’H have to prove it by going the “route of the eleven towns.” It has to be done in one day. I n Holland most skates are made of wood, with metal runners. They’re strapped to your regular shoes, whether leather or wooden. Holland has more bicycles per inhabitant than any other country. This is a means of transportation rather than a sport. Holland is, of course, ideal bicycling country.

the age of Rembrandt. I n the Kijksmusezm in Amsterdam, one of Renlbrandt’s mastcrpieccs, The Nightwatch, was awarded an cntire room to itself. If you should find the picture still there, you will learn how a chattering crowd can become suddenly silent as they enter a room and find themselves in front of one of the great paintings of the world. Holland is proud of the democratic tradition i n its painting. Its masters did not go in much forfilling huge canvases with scenes from ~nythologyor ancient history-fat Venuscs, nymphs, angcls and conquerors. Rembrandt, son of a miller,and kIals, son of a linen weaver, saw the beauty of the C O I I ~ I O I I people around then1 and painted thcln and their life. These Inen were not court painters, but painters OE the people. This runs through Holland’s art.

7ruditions Denlocracy is a strong force in Holland’s history. Don’t let the fact that they havea Queen instead of a President fool you: they are every bit as free and liberty-loving as you. This has made her people feel always a strong kinship with America. She feels this particularly because of her share i n A~nerica’sbeginnings. Although Nieuw Anzsterdum has changed its name to New York, Holland’s part in hcr story is recorded in many New York names: Brooklyn, named after B r e w kelen, in IIolland; IIarlenl, named after Iiaarlem, in the heart of the tulip fields; the Bowery, originally de boerderij, the farm, There are also the family names: Van Renssclaer, Van Buren, Roosevelt. And in Elolland you will often sec flying a flag of orange, white and blue. That is the same flag that still flies over New York’s City IIall. IIolland fecls kinship with you not only because she founded New York, but also bccause she shares with you a tradition of tolerance and human liberty. William the Silent, from whom Holland’s Queen Mlilhelmina is descended, led thc country’s early fight €or these ideals. He was a Catholic, but he stood for a Hollander’s right to be Protestant or whatever else hc chose. In the seventeenth century, an age of religious persecution, Holland Ixcame an asylum of the oppressed. Huguenots frolnFrance, Jews fromPortugal,Walloons andFlemings fromBelgium,Englishheretics like the Pilgrim Fathers, and Protestants €romGcrmany, all found refuge in I-lolland and made it the sort of melting pot America became in later centu-

ries. You’ll find in Holland names that stem from all those lands. You’ll find tolerance and a hatred of racism. When the Nazis started a mass deportation of Holland’s Jews to Eastern Europe, prominent I-Iollandcrs went to the station tocarry their luggage, and wcpt. They chalked on the walls, “Till you come back.” What they meant was, till sanity and tolerance and humanity come back. For those things they will welcome you.

IMPORTANT CITIES OF

HOLLAND

Amsterdam (AHM-stur-dahm). Ancient city of many canals, a Venice of the North. A historic place with countless old buildings, many with the stepping-stonc fronts so typical of Holland’s old architecturc. Amsterdam is Holland’s capital, though The Hague (see below) is the seat of governtnent. Rotterdam(KAWT-ur-dahm).Moderncolnmercialport city i n prewar days, third largest on the continent following Hamburg and Antwerp. Terminus of ocean and river shipping. Scene of desolation in the five-day war. Symbol of I-Iolland’shatred of the Nazis. Den IIaag (dun HAAK). Holland’s seat-of-government. We call it The Hague. A town of fine parks, trees, flowers. Comparatively unhurt in the fivc-day war. But the Nazis are reported to have cut a wide swath straight through the city, leveling countless homes, to makc a super highway parallel to the coast-part of their defensive plan for invasion day. Utrecht (EW-trekt). A university town. Leiden (MI-dun). Scene of the famous siege. Because it held out, it was offered a choice lxtween: (a) tax exemption for all time; (b) a university. It chase thc university, the oldest in Holland. The Pilgrim Fathers lived here while in Holland. IIaarletn (I-IAAR-lum). Beautiful garden town in the middle o€the famous bulh-field area. Delft (DELFT). Home of the fanlous Delft-ware, and Delft tiles. Burial place of Holland’s “Father of the Fatherland,” William the Silent. Alkmaar (AI ILK-maar). Fascinatingcheese-markettown, very photogenic.

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Torrentius and His Camera THEKNOWN FACTS about Joha~mcs Torrentius can bc briefly stated. Born in I-Iolland in 1589, he was a painter in the greatest age of Dutch art. A contemporary of Ilals a11d Rembrandt, Torrentius produced works that were hailed as among the most brilliant. They were bought b y collectors far and widc, including King Charles T of England. Hiswork came i n two sharply contrasting styles. He somctirnes painted nudes, tending toward the scatalogical and irreverent. Many pcoplc considered them not only offensive but very crudely painted. Ilis still lifes, on the other hand, won ecstatic praise from connoisseurs. The Swcdish ambassador i n The IIague, planning Dutch art purchases, sought advice from a leading engraver, Michel le Blon, who urged him to buy Torrcntius still lifes. Le Blon wrote to the ambassador: “ I know of nothing i n the world that can co~nparcwith these works, w l k h are helieved b y some of the principal masters, and not without reason, to be the work of magic . , , One sees nowhere any crust of paint, neither beginning nor end to the entire work. It sccms to have been poured or 11lown upon the pancl rather than painted.”2 Constantijn I-Iuygens, cosmopolitan litterateur and private secretary to thcPrincc of Orange, wrote memoirsin which he commented disccrningly 011tllc artists of his time. About Torrentiushe wrote: As to his art, I find it difficult to restrain m y use of words i n asserting that he is, in m y opinion, a miracle-worker in the depiction of lifeless oljects, and that no onc is likely to cqual h i m in portraying accuratcly and lxautifully glasses, things o f pewter, carthenwarc, and iron so that, through the power of his a r t , they scenl almost transparent, in a way that would have been thought impossible until now . . . Torrcutlus exasperates skeptlcs a s thcy look i n vain f o r a n y clue as to 1 1 0 he ~ uses, i n some bold manncr, colors, oil, and if the gods dcsire it, his brushcs.

According to I-Iuygens, Torrcntius had been heard to say that his gift had colne to h i m suddenly b y divine inspiration. I Iuygens ex-

pressed puzzlement that this inspiration should have fallen so far short in his painting of living people, ‘i. . . for he is so disgracefully incapable of painting hunlan beings and otllcr living creatures that leading connoisseurs consider their attention wasted on that part of his work. . . Torrentius did evcrythingin bravura style. His real name was Johan van der Beeck, meaning “of the brook.” I n latinizing it, hegavc himself a n aura of distinction and also transforrncd the brook into a torrent. ‘The addedintensityseemedto fit hin1. He dressodwith dash and was followed evervwherc by admirers. Whcn hc visited his barbcr, they werc said to go along to help bring water, towels, comb, and curling tongs. He delighted his entourage with ribald and anticlerical jests. He was said to have proposed a toast to the devil. He had married early, but his marriage soon broke up, and he subsequently lived a life that was described as dissolute. He was said to have boasted, on one occasion, that all the loose WOIIICI~ of Holland paid hinl tribute. Asked how hc painted his extraordinary still lifes, he gave cryptic, provocative answers. Me did not paint t l m c as other n ~ c npainted, he said. Neither easel nor brush were used. I k said that his panels lay flat on the floor and that as he worked, a musical sound would emerge from the panel,like that of a swarm of bees. He was once quoted as saying: “It isn’t I whopaint; I haveanother 111cthod for that.” Once, at a party, he said he had to rush back to his studio, or there night be a n explosion. IIe said he did not have to lock his studio, as the pungent odors kept people away. All his still lifes were small. A paintingowncd by Charles I of England was described as follows i n the catalog of the royal collcction: ‘‘Iten1in a black ebony frame two Khenish wine glasses wherein the reflexion of the steeple of Haarlem is observed, given to the king by Torrentius by the deceascd LordDorchester’s means. 7‘/2 X 6 .?’;

~IICIICS.”+

Torrentius infuriated some of his rivals; some charged h i m with and usingmagic or sorcery.Even morehearouscdthesuspicion anger of Holland’s Calvinist elders. I n 1623 they instigated an investigation of him. They charged heinous crimes against God and religion and hinted at collaboration with demonic forces. A campaign was launched to discredit him and to warn others not to associate with him, on the ground of his allegcd dealings with the devil. I n 1627 hc was arrested by authorities of the city of Haarlem, where he

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A W O I ~ I sitting I somewhat oddly with her hand under hcr leg. A W O I I I ~ Ipissing I in a man’s caras

Brought to trial, Torrentius heard testimony on curious and cryptic remarks IK had made over the years, all solemnly quoted as proof that he trafficked with the clcvil. He was convicted. Thc prosecution dcn~andcd that he be burned alive at the stake. I n prison he was r e p t c d l y tortured to force a confession of sorcery. Depositions by several torturers-four workcd i n relays-remain extant and make clear that he confessed to nothing and gave no infornlation beyond what he h a d said in court. Thc defense was not allowed a final statement, on the ground that it would be unsecmly for the public to hear a defensc of onc so infamouslyguilty.He was sentenced to twcnty years in prison, prol,al,ly the equivalent of a dcath sentcnce. 1hc trial caused wide agitation. A committee of three painters, onc of them Frans €3als, was allowed to visit h i n l i n jail; it reportedly found him i n woeful condition from his torture. The Prince of Orange urged the city of Idaarlem to rclease hi111 so that he might go to some other city or country to pursue his art; I.laarleln authorities dcclincd. ‘Thcn a lctter-in French-camc from King Charles I of England to Frederik Hendrik, Prince of Orange:

r-7

Ilcar Cousin,

I laving heard that onc ‘l’orrcntius, painter by profession, h a s for some years been in prison i n Haarlc~n, scntcnccd by a court of justice in that city for somc profmation or scandal uommittecl against thc namo

o f religion . , . bc assurccl that I do not scck to favor him as a challcngc t o the rigor o f that sentcncc . . . which \{T trust was justly imposcd for s o cnormous a crilne; yct nevcrthelcss, i n view o f the reputation he has won for h i s artistic talcnt, which it would bc tragic t o allow to bc lost or to pcrish i n prison, we are m o d b y the pleasure we havc taken i n the rare quality o f his work to beg you . . . to pardon h i m and to scnd him to us . . . whcrc wc shall take care to keep him within the bounds o f thc duty he owes to religion . . . that we m a y c~nployhim a t this court in the cxcrcisc of his art.

At our Wcstminstcr Palace, 6 May 1630, w.g. Charles R.‘)

The Prince forwarded the letter to authorities i n Haarlern. When they still declined to act, the Princetook matters into his own hands, sending an order direct to the Haarlen~ jailer to release Torrentius to the custody of the English ambassador, Sir Dudley Carlcton. This was donc, and Torrentius was quickly escorted to England. At Sir Dudley’s suggestion, he took with h i m one of his early still Iifes. Thus Torrentius became in 1630 a court painter i n the service of Charles I. Physically he s e e m to have been i n bad shape. There appears tohe IIO record of any work donc in England. I le llcver again produced any of the miraculous works that had made him famous. An English account speaks of him giving ‘‘1lm-e scandal than satisfaction.”’ I n 1442 he returned to IIolland, where he died two years later. These facts about Torrentius, with detailed documentation from surviving judicial and other records, were assembled in 1909 by the Netherlands art historian A. Bredius, long associated with Amterdam’s Rijksmuseum and a specialist on the Age of Renlbrandt. He published the assembled information in a booklettitled jolzannes ?brtentius, Schilder (lohunnes ‘Ibrrentius, Pdinter). A thought-proto find, anyvokingrevelation was that Bredius hadbeenunable where in Europe,a work by Torrcntius. Various obscene and irreverent works had apparently been destroyed at the time of the trial. But the still lifes too had vanished, a disappcarance that seemed extraordinary in view of their celebrity and the high prices paid for them. Bredius expressed hope that some might turn up. Far from closing the book on a mystery, the scholarly Bredius account proved only the beginning. Stimulating new research, the account set of€ speculations and inquiries of various kinds-technical, aesthetic, religious, political. The Torrentius story turned into a complex saga, a lens through which to view a turbulent age. The booklet prompted an immediate anonymous letterin a Dutch newspaper, suggesting that Torrentius must have used the camera obscura. Perhaps he had even, long before others, found a way to preserve its image-i.e., had invented photography. The disappcarance of his works might simply mean that he had failed to fix them permancntly. They may have gradually blurred and been discarded. The small size OE the pictures, and the choicc of subject matter, seemed tosupportthe photography idea. Torrcntius must have

needed long exposure periods, ruling out living subjects. With still lifes he could also keep his I-nethods secret. And he obviously pursued chemical experiments.x This letter was quickly followed by a n article i n a German periodical, Photographische Korresporzdenz, by one A. P. H. Trivelli of Scheveningen, l--Iolland, which made a surprisingcontribution. He pointed out that the Constantijn Huygens memoir that had been cited by Bredius, relative to the rare quality of the Torrentius still lifes, included a further passage about Torrentius that Bredius had not noted, a passage of unusual significance.‘ In 1621 Huygens had visited England and made the acquaintance of a n ingenious Holland-born experimenter, Cornelis Drebbel, who lived and worked i n England and whose experiments were financcd by fundssupplied by King Charles.Hisexperimentsapparently ranged froin optics to alchemy, and he was said to have invented a perpetual motion machine. Huygens’s father warned his son against Drebbel,suggestingthatDrebbelprobablyhaddealingswith the devil. But Constantijn Huygens passed off this warning and became fascinatedwithDrebbel.InDrebbcl’sworkshop hehad his first glimpse of a camera obscura. It was portable, box-shaped. I t showed its images upside down, but the images enchanted Huygens, and he took such an instrument back to Holland from Drcbbel’s workshop.1o I n Holland, as I-luygens recounts in his memoir, he demonstrated thc device at a gathering in his father’s house, to the delight of all. Among those present was Torrentius. And it seemed to Huygens that Torrentius was so exaggerated i n his expressions of amazement that IIuygens concluded that Torrentius already knew the device and had acquired“especially by this means . . . that certain quality in his paintings which the general run of people ascribe to divine inspiration.” Huygens mentioned an “astounding resemblance of Torrentius’s pictures to thcse images. . . .”I1 If Torrentius already knew and used the device, he may have bcen the first Dutch painter to do so. It had cvolved from observations of much earlier times. Leonard0 da Vinci (1452-1 519) mentioned in his notebooks that if, on a bright day, ;I pinhole is made i n one wall of a very dark roonl-mrnera obscura-images of the outside world will appear 011 a n opposing surface in the room. The images would “present themselves in a reversed position, owing to the intersection

seum, the one extant work considered by authorities the creation of Jol1annc.s Torrentius. Why had it-and it alone-survived?”. Thc resurrected still life now provided a focus for inquiry. Brush markings were not i n evidence. Thc subtlety of the shaclows and reflections caused considcrable amazement. It was notcd that the reflections i n the winc glass showed clearly-though the scale was minute-that the studio had leaded pane windows. The words of the song occasioned surprise. Instead of an ode to Racchus, it was a warmng agamst excesses. What gocs beyold restrain Soon turns to unrestraint.

The arrangcment of objccts in a circular setting caused speculation. Itseerncd to some observers to reprcscnt Rosicruciansymlmlism. The Rosicrucians wcre obsessed with circles, which could rcpresent thc hea\~ens, perfection, etcrnity, wholeness, o r inner unity. Butwhat did Torrentius mean b y his assernblagc?l+ The Rosicrucian colmection gradually became the center of interest. For the secret, mysteriousRosicrucian brotherhood, a storm tenter i n early seventeeIltl7-ccIltury Europe, was said to havebcun espccially strong i n Molland, and Torrentius was considered its leading figure. Curiously, this was never mentioned in the trial. But accumulatingcvidencehassuggcstcdthatthis was indeedthe key element i n the clecision of church authorities to lnovc against hi111 with crushing force. Thcrc wcrc re;1sc)ns for the trial that ncvcr app c ~ ~ r ci nd the trial. Until recently, the elusivc Kosicrucia~lshave been considered beneath the attcntion of serious scholars.Butrecentinvcstigations, such as the 1472 study by Frances Yatos, T h e Kosicrz~icl~z E~nlightenment, have changed this. And it h a s helpcd provide a new focus for the Torrentius storp.l’ The Rosicrucians burst on the consciousness of Europe with dramatic suddenness i n 1614. ‘That year s a w the publication in Germany of a manifcsto whose title page read: “Univcrsal and General Rcformation of the wholc wide world; together with the Fuma Fruternitas of the Laudable Brotherhood of the Rose Cross, addressed to all the learned Inen andrulers o f Europe; also a short statcmcnt contributed by IIerr I-Iaselmaycr, for which he was seized by the Jesuits and put in irons on a Callcy. Now put forth in print and conlnlunicatccl to all truc hearts. Printed at Casscl b y Wilhclm Wcssel, 1614.”’(1

This Rosicrucian proclamation, or Funzu, had circulated i n I ~ I I U script, but this was thc first time anything about thc Rosicrucians had appeared in print. The Famu was followed b y a second manifesto, known as the Confessio. Both were promptly translated from German into otherlanguagesandcausedcxcitcnlcntthroughout Europe-according to Frances Yatcs, “a frenzied interest . . . 21 river of printed words.” Scores of pamphlets were published during the following half-dozen years, in several languages, praising thc ideas of the brotherhood and expressing interest in joining their wonclrous work. Some of the authorssaid they had not yet succeedccl i n making contact with the brothers, but hoped to do So. The brothcrs seemed to be elusive.I7 The manifcstos ascribed the origin of the Kosicrucian n~ovemcnt to one Christian Kosenkreutz, whose name incorporates the linked Rosicrucian symbols of the rose a n d the cross. Today hc is considered a mythicalfigurc,since 110 historicevidence of hisexistencehas turned up; but the account of h i m in the manifestos was acceptcd at the time they were published. According to that account, he was born in the fourtccnth century of a noble b u t impoverished Gcrman family and raised in a convent. At sixteen he embarkcd on a pilgrimage to the € 101~ Land, But duringtllcjourney, in Dalnascus and elsewhere, he became aware of the scientific knowledge and age-old wisdom of the Arabs, which gave his life a new dircction. 1 Ee travelcd throughout the Arab worId, all the way to Fez, and was imprcssed b y the way its sages sharedtheirknowlcdge ancl findingswith each other. Returning via Spain to the Europeanworld, hc wanted to w i n its savants to a similar sharing. Thcy tcnded to hoard their sccrcts. In view of the rapidly accumulating knowlcdge about the world and the mysteries of nature, Rosenkrcutz proclaimcd that a sharing o f knowledgewould soon bringmankind to a morc glorious lifc on earth. This apocalyptic sense of being 011 the verge of great changcs in the condition of 1nan apparently comnunicated itself to n ~ a n y readers, who must have included a spectrumof scientists/alchemists, astronomers/astrologers, physicians/quacks, and diversc scholars and mystics. Some rulers also took notice. 111 Rosicrucian sy~nbolis~n the cross apparcntly reprcsented a pious dedication to the envisioned earthly salvation-not to religious hierarchies that had bccorne an obstacle to research. The rose represented the unfolding of the secrets of nature.

As ;I show trial, the action against Torrcntius appears to havc been an unqualifieclsuccess.Itvirtually snuffed outthe Rosicrucian movemcnt in the Nctl~crlands and'helpecl to weaken it elsewhere. 'l'here is littlecvidence of a Dutch Rosicrucian movement in the follouing years. Copies of the Dutch translation o f the Fuma disappeared. Apparentlv 110 copy now remains in existence. After the trial, Yrincc Fredcrik Hendrik seems to have given his protection to the Freemasons rather than the Brothers of the Rose Cross. I-Icre and in Englancl, a strengh~cnedFrcernason movernent seemed to rise from thc Rosicrucian crisis. I n France, too, the movement scemed to vanish. llcscartes, who had been rumored to be a Rosicrucian, made a point o f dcnving that he had ever been a ~nenlberof the brotherI ~ o o c l ?b . make clear he was not one of the invisibles, he made himself widely visible in Paris. I n 111anyW I ~ S , thc world of Johanncs Torrentius had bccn a microcosm o f the era. Microcosm-a favorite word of the Rosicrucians. To them, every human being was microcosmus. 7'hc rolc o f Torrentius as a Rosicrucian, nlenlber of a knowledgesharing brothcrhood,m a y help to explain his early acquisition o€ the camera obscura. Whatever his use of the camera, it also touched a central theme of Renaissancc art. It was a time when paintcrs became obsessed with perspective, and with that kind of realism we can now call photograpl1ic"an obsession unquestionably aided and abettcd l y thc evolving camera obscura. Its ec.olution was also a story of science, a ficld still hedged by perils. I11 the public 111ind it was still s o closely linked to necrol-nancy that probes into the naturc oE things wcre risky, bringing some to prison, othcrs to the stakc. Thc rolc of Charles I in the Torrcntius case raises interesting qucstions. IIc hac1 cl sister, the Princess Elizabeth, who i n 1613 married a Gcn-nan prince from the Palatinate, named Fredcrick. This couple l ~ c c a n ~for e , a brief season, 1619-1620, King and Queen o f Bohemia, reigning from Prague. There they were said to be among thecrowned hcads W\IO were rcceptive to Rosicrucianideas. When they were overthrown, with the king defeated in battle by Countcr-Refornlation forces, they fled to Holland. The young couple became popular arnongitssocialelitc.Theyare mentioned here a n d there i n the journal of Constantijn Iluygens. For many years Elizabeth, Queen of Rohcmia in cxile, held court in The Hague.20

Was King Charles 1’s rescue of Johannes Torrentius in a n y way related to Elizabeth’s espousal of the Rosicrucian lxotherllood? There is 110 evidence of it. Yet it is possible, perhaps even likely. Even more interesting questions revolvc around Constantijn HuYgens, Was he among those involvcd i n Rosicrucian gatherings i n the palace o f the Princc of Orange himself? Again,no answcr is available. But the story of the I luygcns family reflects dramatically the seventeenth-century transition in scientific research. Thc father of Constantijn Huygens, Cllristiaan 1-Iuygensthe eldcr, fcared that h i s ~011’s scientific inquisitiveness would lead to involwnent with tllc clcvil. Constantijn passed off these fears but witnessed the destruction of Torrentius amid similar terrors, No such fears would hound thc career of Christiaan Huygens thc younger (1429-1695), son of Constantijn. Born during thc timc Torrentius was experiencing prison and torture, this Christiaan Huygcns woulcl do his work in anothcr kind of age. I k woulcl perfect his lenscs and his tclcscapc, freely probe the lleavcns, unravelplanetarymysteries, and contribute to knowledge on carth with the magic lantcrn, the pcndulun~clock, thc spiral watchspring, and other wondcrs. So science madc its transit ion. Amid the transition lived thc haplcss, brilliant, flambo\unt Torrentius. It was a violent and devil-haunted time--a time \v11c11, ;IS Frances Yates put it, “the Rcnaissancc disappcars into convulsionsof witchhunting and wars, to emerge in the years to comc-when thcsc horrors were overcome--as eIllightenment.”~i

NOTES

31

24. Ibicl.. 141. 25-28. 25. Ibid.. p. 41. 26. A detailcd account o f thc “wmtcr King and Quccn of Bohemia” is i n Yates, op. cit., pp. 1-29. 27. Ibid., p. 224.

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The Fantasms of Andrew Oehler ANDREWOEHLER goes down i n history as the writer of the first book on magic published in the United States.’ He published it h i n d f , in 1811 i n Trenton, N.J., and it bore the charming title The Life, Adventures, und Unparalleled Sufferings of Andrew Oehler. Oehler wrote it at the ripe age of thirty, when he renounced his career as a magician-a successful career but also one of “unparalleled sufferings,” including a sojourn in a Mexican dungeon from which he was lucky to emerge alive. He decidcd to labor at the trade for which he had been raised-that of a tailor.’ Judging from the stir he created with his magic, Oehler was an impressive shownxm and an ingenious technician. A reading of his autobiography suggests that he deserves a place not only in the annals of magic but also in the pre-history of cinema. His main illusion was remarkably cinematic. Fortunately he gives us, in an appendix to his book, precise details on his most spectacular achievement. It utilized images of the magic lantern projected in a dark room onto smoke. The swirling smoke gave the still glass-slide images a weird, unearthly motion. This made the procedure especially suitable for such effects as “raising spirits from the dead.” Oehler had been i n Paris i n 1797 when the Belgian showman and scientific experimenterEtienneGasparRobert, calledRobertson,scoredresounding successes with this illusion, which he called Fantasnzagorie. I n the disused chapel of an old convent, amici ancient tombs, Robertson called u p the ghosts of leaders who had died in the French revolution.Thoughthiscreatedmoments of official alarm,the show remained the rage of Paris for six years and invited wide in~itation.~ Oehler helped bring the illusion across the Atlantic. But where Robertson had accompanied his performance with a voice-over commentary, Oehler added a new factor-synchronized speech. His ghosts talked.

Oehler’s autobiography reports he was bornnearFrankfurt-amMain i n 1781, into a family with five sons and hvc daughters. Andrew, the youngest of the boys, was expected to f e d for hi~nself at an early age. At ten he was apprenticed to a tailor, who treated him so cruelly that the boy decided, at thirteen, to setoff into the world. He worked as a tailor’s assistant i n various European cities, meanwhile pursuing an obsession with magic. I n every city he also studied all available scientific marvels, suchas a fa~noustower clock in Strasbourg in which a different figure popped out at cvery quarter-hour, culminating in Dcath with his scythe. Near Lausanne, Switzerland, he worked for a tailor who occupied a finc old mansion as a tenant. When it was ofkred for auction, the tailor was anxious to buy it, but it was expected to fetch a sumfar beyond his means. Andrew earned his undying gratitude with a bit of magic. Spreading rumors that thc old building was haunted, Andrew arranged automatic contrivances i n various parts of the building, Prospcctivc buyers touring the building heard strange nloans and clanking chains. The cmployer got the building for a pittance-a fraction of its worth. Later, in Paris, Andrew won a bonanza in a lottery. I n 1797, at sixteen, he formed a partnership with a much older tailor, and they prospered. They were able to invest their profits in so111e Paris buildings. The 60-year-old tailor had a 24-year-old wife, “handsonx and insinuating,” who wanted tovisit “every place of pleasure” in the city. T-Ier husband, not feeling up to this, was grateful to Andrew for escorting her. During monthsof outings they musthave become familiar withRobertson’s Funtasnzugorie, just beginning its triumphant run-and witheachother.Oehler’smemoir tells us that he was “caught in the snare of a fatal and unlawful passion.” When the old tailor realized what was happening he swore out a warrant that landed Andrew i n jail. The tailor apparently meant, by wayof damagcs, to take over Andrew’s share of their estate. But whiIe Andrew was in jail a conflagration wiped out 150 buildings, including the partners’ holdings. With the properties i n ashes, the incentive was gone. Andrew was released €roIn jail but was penniless, m d his notoriety blocked further Paris cmployment. It led to a decision to head for America. Years of wandering and dramaticups and downs followed. Andrew seemed always able to pick himself up by tailoring. His tailoring led to an interest i n balloons, a scientific excitement of the time that

Robertson had also taken up. Hallooning becamc the springboard for his magic career. Anticipating Houdini’s use of spectacular public magic performa11ces7 Andrew events to attract crowds to his launched his career as a show~nanin 1805 in the southern United States. He was 24. I n New Orleans an assistant absconded with $2,500 and fled to Havana. Andrew shipped out i n pursuit, lost the trail and cnlbarked for Vera Cruz. He decided to resumc his career in Mexico, and did so with mounting success. In Mcxico he acquired a magic lantern for his own Fmtusmagorie. Magic lanterns had existed since the seventeenth century as a parlor entertainn~entfor the privileged. Samuel Pcpys, in an 19 August 1666 entryi n his diary, ~nentionsseeing a de~nonstration and buying “the lantern thatshows tricks.” It made “strange thingsto appcar 011 a wall, very pretty.” But a ccntury later the device was still unknown to most people. In illusions like Fmtasmagorie the lantern was operatcd from a masked position, UIISCCII. The audience was unawarc that. any such device was involved in the effect. I n Mexico City, Oehler’s balloon flights won the enthusiastic attention of g o v e r n ~ ~ ~officials. ent The young wizard became thc rage of Mexico City. Thc autobiography tells us he dined with the Govcrnor and was treated “like a prince.” Fetcd everywhere, he invited the Governor and his lady, and an elite of forty to fifty government leaders, to a performance of his most spectacular illusion. I-Ie prepared his prcmises with extremc care. They included a series of adjoining rooms. The dignitaricsenteredthrough a room lined with black tapestry and hung with skcletons. The only light came from candles. The invitees procccdcd into an inner room, still Inore sepulchral in effect. The room was dominated by an altar covered with a black cloth, topped by a skull. Beyond the altar was a brazier of burning coals. This, along with some candles, provided a mere glimmer of light. Near the ceiling, around the entire perimeter of the room, ran a dark-colored string, invisible in the gloom. It had been rubbed with a finely ground gunpowdcr mixcd with “spirits of wine,” ready for a crucial ~ n o m e n in t the performance. From the altar Andrew addressed the assemblage. He announccd that he was going to seek to “raise a departed spirit“ and converse with it. This should not alarln anyone, he told them. There would

be no danger-on colnmand, thc spirit would vanish instantly. €le asked whether there was any departed soul whom anyone present cspecially longed to see again. Such longings were expressed. One grandee said he would dearly love to sce his father again. Now Andrew pronounced some incantations and called on the departed by name. Thunder was heard. Andrew dropped some chemicals on the burning coals, and a cloud of heavy, rolling smoke rose from the brazier. Then he stepped asidc. Now came an extraordinary moInent. Andrew touched a candle to the stringabove h i m . Inmediately what seemed like a flash of lightning went round the perimeter of the room. At the same moment the candles went out. As a cry of alarm rose from the spectators, they suddenly saw before them, i n the risingsmoke, an ancient face. It began to speak. I t asked-as Oehler tells it in his book-“why E had called him up from the dead, why I had disturbed his rest and repose. I answered him, and in an authoritative voice demanded of 11im to tell from whence he came; whether from the dismal anddeep!theinfernalpit! or from the happy regions of the endless felicity above! He immediately told us he came from ahovc.” The spirit’s voice, Oehler tells us, was dear yet %OI~OW and 1nour11fu1.”+ Andrew made a rcquest. Would the spirit, having extinguished the candles at the mon-~entof his appearance, kindly relight them when leaving. A moment later the ghostly image faded away The candle flames leaped up, Oehler’s book explains how they had been masked rather than stifled. The grandee said the spirit had indeed been his father. ITe was sure of that. Oelder’s account explains the technology of the effect. The magic lantern, nlaskcd by the altar, had sent its beam toward a slanted mirror,similarly masked, whichreflecteditupwardtoward the smoke. The smoke was close to a wall separating this room from a furtl~crrooln.In the furtherroom,oppositethe place where the ghost’s mouth would be seen, a tubc had been installed i n the wall. Through this tube an assistant spoke the ghost’s words. Oehler explains the synchronouseffect as follows. The assistant’sspeech, ‘‘coming out of the end of the tube, drives the smoke a little apart, and r a k e s an appearance like the moving of the lips of a person when he speaks.”i It may well have been a telling effect.

The elite audience departed quietly. Andrew was not sure what the silence meant. But at fouro’clock the following morning hewoke to find his bcdroonl full of soldiers. He was taken away and incarcerated in a round pit that the autobiography describesas 150 feet deep. He was led down vi3 steps hewed into the side of the pit. The floor was covered with straw, and furnished with a stone stool. The guard who took him down was in tears. “He advised me to make my peacc with God” and explained that theywould not see one another “until we met again in the eternal world.” During the following montl~s food was lowered to the prisoner by rope. It was mainly bread; fortunately, Oehler tells us, it was good bread. Still, after several months, he could hardly stand. Then, to his surprise, he was brought out, cleaned up, shaved, dressed, and taken to the Governor. He was told that a marquis visiting from Spain, perhaps familiar with Robertson’s Funtusnzagorie or one of the European imitators, had persuaded the officials that the illusion hadbeenscience,notnecromancy. The Governor explained, however, that Oehler’s imprisonment had been necessary to silence “the clamours of the Spanish monks and friars.” They had warned that Oehler’s €eats “would help the Deist to argue against the true miracles of the Son of God himself.” Oehler was freed. I-Ie returned to the United States, settled in New Jersey, and resolved to remain a tailor. His memoir is so beguiling, one must recall that Oehler was a magician, practitioner of creative deception. Yet the abundance of spccific detail wins confidence. His adventures remind us of how recently science and magic had been one in the public mind, with the pursuit of science regarded as a Faustian negotiation with other-worldly powers. To escape that linkage,magicperformers of the nineteenth century were to make a habit o€ stressing that their tricks were science, and nothing supernatural. The adventures also remind us of the magic lantern’slong involvenlent in the prehistory of cinema. Throughout the century, the efforts of those reaching for the moving image centered on the magic lantern. Others besides Oehler mounted spectral performances, usually titled Phantasmagoria afterRobertson’s Funfusmugorie. They projected images either onto smoke or, by rear projection, ontolayers of gauze. Between 1803 and 1810 such shows appeared in Baltimore, Boston, Providence, Salem, Savannah, and elsewhereah Ghosts were the main repertoire, but the same apparatus was used to reenact

NOTES

5 The Sintzenich Diaries ARTHURI I. c.“ F h L ” SINTZENICH-bCtter klloWl1 i l l the fill11 il1dUStrj’ as “Snitch”-’,ecan1e a motion picture cameraman in 1909 and remained activc for over h a l f a century. Early in Deccmbcr 1912 his wife gavc him a largc 1913 diary, the first of sixty-one such diaries, in which he procccdcd to record painstakingly periods of work, layoffs, triumphs, frustrations, carnings. He tells us precisely at what time he reported for duty each day, what time the shooting stoppcd, how manyscencs were shot, who clirccted,whatactors appcarcc1”and often, who said what to whon~.Thc diaries, which comprise a who’s who of the h11n world during its fornlative years, have recently been donatcd to the Library of Congress by his son Cedric 11. Sintzenich and arc housed i n the Manuscript Division. For “Snitch”-l~e encouraged the use of this name, as it made things easier-the high point of his career was unquestionably his work with D.W. Griffith, w h o n ~he served as cameraman on five films during the years 1923 to 1926. Rich in informative detail, the diaries for these years will especially interest students of the silent cra and of thc work of Griffith. But thc diaries throw light on many other chapters of f i l m history. Sintzenich’s first j o b was in England withKinenlacolor, the firstsuccessful color system, introduced in 1908; Snitch traveled far and wide as a Kinemacolor cameraman. He then spent eighteen months as a safari canleralnan in Africa, where he managed to f i l m a charging lion and was glad to escape with his life. I n New York during World War 1 he became a Univcrsal newsrcel canleraman, covering the stanclard gamut of early ncwsrecl assignments. He becarnc involved in the first successful vcnture in underwater cincmatogtaphy, which later led to work with IIoudini, but he meanwhile entered the U.S. Signal Corps and was rcsponsiblc for training army canleramcn for World War I. Aftcr the war he workcd on several films at Fort Lee studios and othcr studios in the New York area, photographing one of the most famous tearjerkers of the silent pcriocl, O W T the H i l l to the Poor Ilouse-saicl to have been

William Fox’s favorite among all Fox films.’ All this finally led to the work with Griffith and later assignments in Hollywood, India, the Soviet Union, and elsewhere. Sintzenich was no literary stylist; his mind was technical. Idis observations often seem naive. It is the precision of his jottings that give the diaries their value. Production procedures are often noted. There are c o n ~ n ~ e non t s various directors and on the work of other cameramen. Disagreementsaboutlightingareoftenmentioned. There is much financial information. We gather that early cameramen were paid for days of shooting but laid off during idle intervals. Snitch, pressing for such things as a duration-of-production contract, became involvedin early abortiveefforts to form a cameramen’s union. Film companies, including the Griffith company, were often far in arrears in salary payments. On the final pages of each year’s diary Snitch notes his earnings week by week, clearly revealing his periods of econonlic agony. Although the diaries are largely a record of professional activities, a fascinating human thread runs through them. Sintzenich, of German descent, was born in England, where thediaries begin. I-Iis wife, “Maimie,” apparently bought h i m the first diary because the Kinemacolorcompany was about to dispatch him to the West Indies and elsewherein the Americas for camera work and to checkon Kinemacoloroperations there. He was twenty-eight pears old and leaving behind a young wife and two small sons. She writes in the flyleaf of the diary: “Think & love me only-Mai~nie xxx Dec 13th 1912.” The diary entries begin the next day. “Left home at 7 a.m. arrived office 8:lO a.m. collected apparatus. Left Waterloo 9:30 arrived alongside RSMS Orotava at Southampton 12:30. Wrote postcards toPa, GdPa, Maimie and theboys. Sailcd at 2 p.m. Dropped anchor 30 miles out on South side of I.O.W. 11 p.m. boatpitching owing to very dirtyweather.Retiredat slightly.” (12/13/12) From then on,in diary after diary, he will record and received, and will also note-and lettersandpostcardssent quote-Maimie’s desperate cables: “PENNILESS URGENT.” These He sometimes arrivewhen he himself is unemployedandbroke. notes money borrowed, sums cabled to Mailnie, loans repaid. Reading the diaries, one cannot help wondering how such a marriage, punctuated by absences of months and years-often exceeding peri-

tion to the episode is satisfaction that he was able to keep u p with Grifhth. (9/21/23) Snitch and others have bouts with flu but the work continues at a grueling pace, seven days a weck, oEten until midnight. Occasionally Snitch misses his last train and sleeps in a studio drcssing room. A few times Griffith sends him home in his li~nousine. A Sundayentry:“WorkedInrduntilaftermidnightwhen the crowd went home but Mr. G. asked me to stay C(i work in the ‘White House’ in case Sartov caved in, as he was sick.” Snitch gets Imne at 2 A . M . (2/17/24) The following day they do Valley Forge close-ups, scenes at Washington’s headquarters, and other shots. “I took the last close-up with Miss Dempster at 1 A.M. Mr. Stitch made inserts with Billy Ritzer and Joe. When we finishcd the Governor told uswe could ‘go to the ~novies’but not to stay out late.” (2/18/24) The New York premiere is three days later; Maimic buys a new gown for the occasion. The diary sunm1arizcs reactions: “The first h a l f was tremendously received, but the crowd was evidently disappointed with the (2/21/24) A few critics considered it a Griffith mastcrpiece, particularly in its battle scqucnces. But there was criticism oE the long explanatory subtitles. And there was no stampede to the box office. The most poignant aspects of the diaries on the Griffith years are thc gradual unfolding of his financial situation and the erosion of his standing in the industry. We see him still getting worshipful attention, but theground is clearly crumbling under his fcct. After completion of The White KOSE, Sintzenich is surprised to receive notice that he will bc laid off until the ncxt film. He points out to Griffith that he was promised payment between picturcs, and that his salary-$175 a week-was predicated on this. Griffith seems troublcd, says he does not wish to lose Sintzenich, and that “I would be kept on salary between pictures.” (6/2/23) On the strengthof this assurance, the Sintzenichs nlove from Englewood to a n apartment in Pelham, not far from the Griffith stuclio. But Griffith, deeply in debt and carrying a huge studio ovcrhead, nccds a success on the scale o f ?’he Birth o f d Nation-or at least of Wuy Down Ihst-tostay afloat, and his staff becomcs pinfully aware of this. Toward the end of the work on America they are askcd to hold their checks “until after the end of the picture, so as to help Mr. Griffith with his terrific expenses.” (12/19/23) At the time of the

premiere, the studio is also four weeks in arrears in the issuing of salary checks. The mixed reaction at the premicrc becomes doubly ominous. A week later Snitch is asked to colne to the office, and is toldtheyare “shutting down Cli wouldhave to dispense with 111y services until the next picture.’’ Snitch is not surpriscd. The diary cvcn expresses appreciation for ‘WW n ~ a n n e ri n which it was done.’’ (2/2 9/24) Three montl~slatcr he hears that Griffith has chosen h i l n to go to Germany on ;I ncw film, evcntudly titled Isn’t Life Wonderfnl?A deal with Adolf Zukor of Paramount-it has bcen described as “an undercovcr d~al”?~’-apparcntl); made this projectpossible. But Griffith h a s mortgagcd his future to Paranwunt to stave o f f disaster. Snitch is told he will gct $175 a week while in Gcrmany, but $200 thereafter. (6/30/24) As the con~panysails for Germany aboard thc SS George Wushington, Grifhth seems in a good mood again, but on thc return trip he is seldom sccn, and the group is troublcd. I n Mamaroncck thc work on Isn’t Life Wonderfzd? is rcsurned, in sets built to Inatch the German locations. A diary entry records:“Received m y cheque today but not t17c pronlised incrcasc.” (9/30/24) Snitch raises the qucstion at thc c o ~ n p a n y office but gets evasive answers. As the shooting o€ Isn’t Life Wotzderful? is completed, Snitch againgocs o f f the payroll, but is 1x”mist.d 110 will positiveIy be on the next picture. (12/8/24) But tho final checks for Isn’t Life Wonderful are o n l y partial payments, accompanied by promissory notes. Sintzenich has problems at the bank with Griffith’s notes. At the bank a Mr. I-lcndriks tells him he wants “to investigate DW & askccl me to fill out a form.” (1/

29/2 5 )

But Griffith is again ahlc to launch a new film-SaIly of the Sawdust, withCarolDempstcr, W . C. Fielcls, Alfred Lunt, and 0thers-to l x Inadc for I’aramount. Griffith’sManlaroneckstudio is sold; the new film will be shot at the Paralnount studios, with Griffit11 as a Paramount staff employee. When Snitch inquires about his own status, with a reminder that Griffith promised he woulcl be 011 the film, Snitch is told: “Mr. Griffith has no right to nlakc promises.”

(2/18/25)

Ncvertheless Snitch gets an offer from Paran1ount--$150 a week. He is furious but accepts; hc continues with Griffith both 0 1 1 Sally of the Sawdust and That k y l e Girl-a story Griffith h a s tried to

reject. (7/16/25) But the old aura is gone. Snitch quotes one of the Sintzenich boys, after a fanlily visit to the studio: “Mr. Gri€fith is awfully quiet, he is always thinking of something else.” (1 1/9/24) With the completion of That Koyle Girl-again with Carol Dempster and W. C. Fields-Snitch asks Griffith what he thinks will be next. “DW said he did not know whether there would be any next.” ( 1/6/26) Two weeks later Snitch writes in his diary: “Things are certainly dead & from all accounts, with several companies packing up and going to California, it looksbadfor New York.” (1/20/26) A few months later Snitch himself is heading west.

POSTSCRIPTS Snitch has heard that Lady Mac has married again, but it apparently has not worked out. During work on Isn’t Life Wonderful she calls Snitch and wants to see h i m . He visits her at the Netherland Hotel. She asks him to lend her $500, which Snitch feels unable to do. Wc presently Icarn that Mr. Frisbee has also remarried. He engages Snitch for a new task: to removefrom Ileart of Africd all scenes showing Lady Mackenzie.2’ After 7’hut Koyle Girl Snitch has a try at independent production, shooting a low-budget comedy short abouta dog, titled A Short Tail. It wins h i m a contract for a series of such “novelty fil~ns”to be shot i n Hollywood and released through Paramount. The first is well received-Snitch has the satisfaction of seeingitat Grauman’s EgyptianTheatre-but on subsequent f;lms Snitch disagreeswith his backers and the project comes to a halt. Then Snitch falls ill and has major surgery, after which he is nursed back to health i n fIollywood by none other than “Mother Car? of Over the IIilI to the Poor House. There is no mention of what has happened to Mr. Carr. Returning to Maimic, Snitch gcts an offer from Eastman Kodak, which wants to send h i m to India to introduce Panchromatic film there. He spends two years, 1928 to 1930, i n India, building laboratories, training technicians, and indoctrinating major Indian film directors in the use of Panchromatic. When he leaves, Panchromatic film is “selling like wildfire.” Later he is engaged b y Carveth Wells, lecturer and explorer, to

‘1’1 IL:. SINl’%t;,NICI 1 DIARIES

61

accompany h i m as cinematographer on a 6,000-111ilejourney through the Soviet Union, and later through other countries. After that he joins the Commissionon Cartography of the Pan American Institute of Geography and History, and stays with it for twenty years. Thus a career in cine~natography comes to a gradual close. But thc diary habit is strong and entries continue, though in thc end they nay say little more than: “With Maimie, watched the Ed Sullivan Show.”

NOTES 1 . Upton Sinclair, Uptorz Sirzclair Presents William Fox (Los Angcles: Sinclair, l933), p. 59. 2. For Urlxln’s role in thc British fill11 worlcl and his troubles ovcr Kinemacolor, see espccially Rachael Low and Roger Manvcll, The Iiistory of the British Film, 1806-1906 (London: Allcn & LJnwin, 1948);Rachacl Low, ‘I’hc. History o f t h e British Film, 1906-1 91 4 (London: Allen c(r Unwin, 1949); and Rachael Low, ‘I’heIlistory of the British Film, 1914-1918 (London: Allen & IJnwin, 1950). Although British usage would call for “colour,” Urban followed Arncrican usagc with “Kinelllacolor.” 3. Low, British Film, 19/4-1918, lists a London FilmCoulpanythat operated from 1913 to 1921, and a [Jnion Film Publishing Colnpanv that opcratcd f r o m 1912 to 1914 using a converted slating rink as its studio. 4. Founded i n Flushing, Ncw York, in 1910, thc Solax Company moved to Fort Lee i n 1912 and was prominent throughout the tecns. Sec Paul C. Spehr, The Movies Begin: Muking Movies in New Tersey, 1887-1 920 (Ncwark: Newark MUSCUIII, 1977), pp. 80-84. 5. Launched in 1913) the LJniversal newsreel continued undcr various names until1967. U. K. Whipplc was one o f its first thrcc camcramen. Raymond Fielding, ?’he American Newsreel, 1911-1967 (Norman: IJnlversity of Oklahoma Press, 1972), p. 105. 6. At first known o n l y as “thc Biograph Girl,” Florence Lawrence defected to thc IMP Co~npanyunder hcr own namc-a key event i n the risc o f thc “star svstern.)’ 7 . The Moving Picture World (Junc 9 and 16? 1917). John Ernest W i l liamson’s pioneering work i n undcrwater photography is recounted b y him in his autobiography: John Ernest Williamson, ‘1’wenty Years under tlze Sed (Boston: T. R. €Me, 1944). 8. Thc EIoudini 1920 featurc film ’Ikrror Island had a n underwater clim a x involving a trcasurc chest (theheroine was locked in it but was rescued

“Lady Grace Mackcnzic was hailccl as the first wonlan cver to penetrate so far i n t o thc jungle and was said to have outdone Rainey and Roosevelt. Mackenzic Camp i n Kenya was r ~ a n ~ cafter d her. But shc ran into financial trouble, and both her Ilusincss management and her title came undcr suspicion. A lawsuit cndcd her courageous h t bricf cxcursion into pictures.” Kevin Brownlow, l‘lze War, the West, and the Wilderness (New York: Knopf,

1979), p. 415.

Berenice Abbott's photo of Wall Street showing the EastRiver from the roof of the Irving Trust Building, 1938. In 1929 Berenice Abbott, already celebrated for a book of Paris photos, was planning a similar book on New York. The WPA made its completion and publication possible in the 1930s. In 1997 it was republished in a definitive edition by The New Press. (0Museum of the City of New York)

6 The Place to Be IT WAS A SUNDAYAFTERNOON i n thc suI1mer of ’29, a few wceks postPrinceton. I n New York I had begun :I $?O-a-week job at TIME, Inc. But this being Sunday, I had used thc Colurnbia University tennis courts for a brisk two sets. (My father was a Columbia professor s o I had tennis privileges.) Now, swcaty i n m y t e m i s clothes, I returncd to thc family apartnwnt on Claremont Avenue, whcre I found Archie on duty on the elcvator. I generallv chattcd with Archie on the way to the c~cvcntllfloor. StrctcIIing aA moaning a bit, I said, ‘WIIew, I feel stiff.” Archie said, “1’111 going to be stiff tonight.” “Oh? How so?” “Going to a party. Friend of m i m , nr-lmed Clint. Gives great partics.” Archie seemed to want to tell morc. “He’s an intcllcctual. Has a private inconlc. IIe owns an apartnlent house, and uses onc of the apartments. So he gives these great parties.” “That should be nice for you.” “Would you like to go?” “You mean to the party?” “Sure. I can bring people. Any timc.” “You sure?” “Absolutely.” Archie hac1 never before made such a suggestion. It seemed odd but it piqued my interest. Allnost all m y Princeton fricnds had h e n on Harlempilgrimages, usually to places like the Cotton Club or other night spots. It was a thing to do-or at lcast, to h a w done. A rite of passage. I had never managcd it--my allowance was not set with nightclubs i n mind. But this was differcnt, anyway. Not a tourist thing but a private event. Someone’s home. It gave me somc sensc of one-upmanship vis-i-vis €ellowPrincctonians. I asked Archie, “You’re sure it would be all right?” “Absolutely.” ‘Well- I’cl like to.”

I was given a cash advance for taxi I I I O I I C ~ and incidentals. I was apparently in charge, financially speaking. The taxi trip to Brooklyn took allnost a n hour. My eyelids were so heavy that I feared I w o ~ ~ l d doze off. But the excitement of the job slowly took hold and tided ~ n cover.After a timc I no longcrfelt tired. Berenice Abbott was pleasantcompany.Not beautiful b u t poised,unpretentious, she seemccl totally intent on the job at hand. She askcd qucstions ahout places en route. She kcpt looking a r o u d , drinking i n everything. She hoped in future weeks to chronicle,with her camera, the prescnt moment in New York history. A city in rapid change. Glimpscs of old New York, of decay, juxtaposcd with the ncw rising out UE the rubble. All this exhilaratch her.’ I got in the spirit and decided I would survive. Finally we arrived at thc Brenzen. The rakish curve o f her prow, wherc it split thc waters, was astonishing. We checkedwith the North German Lloyd “P.R.”people, who gave me a shcaf of handouts, full of statistics, history, and so on. Finally we were aboard, moving from deck to deck,exploringwhercvercould.Shctook shot after shot, rapidly but not hurrying. Every shot was carefully planned. She was forever looking ;murid, weighing alternativcs, vistas, where to placc the carncra. At one point I suggested a vista I found interesting-fcelillg, as I did so, that I shouldn’t. It was a n impertinence on m y part. She said, “You have a good eye”“p1easing me immcnscly. Wc atc lunch on board, then worked two l~oursmore, Occasionally I remembered how tired I was but she kept on, relentIcssly. Finally w e were ready to leavc. We found a taxi and were on our way, back to TIME. 111 the taxi, at long last, shc seemed to wilt a bit. She put her head back, closccl her eyes and said, “Forgive me if I fall asleep. I hardly had a n y sleep last night. A fricncl took mc to a party up in Harlem. Crazy thing to do.” I askcd, “Somewhere near Lenox Avcnue?” “Yes, Why doyou ask? Some man called Clint. A grcat party giver, apparentlv. I got to bed about five. Crazy thing. But I-larlem-I didn’twantto miss that.” She murmuredagain,“Crazy. . . .” A moment later she scclned sound asleep. NOTE

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I

Erik Barnouw in 1928 at the entrance to Campbell Hall dormitory at PrincetonUniversity. (Author's collection)

7 Radiator-Pipe Broadcasters HERE’S A cAwm MYSTERY that has happencd at a nulnlxr of colleges, and is likely to happcn at 1110re. ‘The dean, in his home at the edge of thc campus, is tuning in the late-night news. Twisting his dial he suddenly finds avery loud radio stationhe never kncw about, playing Sibelius’s Second Symphony. It’s so loud the dean is sure it’s near by, but he finds nothing about it in his newspaper. Then as themusic ends an immature voice pipes up:“This is the studentbroadcastingstation of -Collcgc, bringing you -. The dean is the man who gets another gray hair whcn anything “serious”happens on the campus. And this is serious. Thc dean knows that to operate a radio station you need a licerlsc from the Fcdcral Communications Commission.”li,o opcrate without a license is a Federal offense. €le knows also that the FCC would hardly give a license in thc standard-wave band to college studcnts. After the campus detectives, with the aidof a portable radio, have located the student broadcasters and brought them next d a y to the dean’s office-well, thcn the fun begins. Becausc now the siudcnts, calmly and confidently, launch into languagc that no dean, i n any of the forty-odd collcges where students arc now broadcasting or preparing to broadcast,h a s quite been ahlc to comprehend. For a college dcan is not likelv to bc an electrical wizard, capable o f keeping up with a freshman. His education and expericnce just didn’t equip him for that. IEc is not likely to understand how thc radiator pipes o f a university can be turned into a transmitting antenna; o r how the collcgc clectric wircs, or the water pipes, or the gas pipes, or the metal frameworks o f buildings, can be used for the same purpose; or how this studcnt invention makes it possible to run a radio station that works like ;I radio station but that, for technical r c a s o ~ ~isn’t s , a radio station in the eyes of the Federal Comnunications Colrllnission-and therefore doesn’t necd a liccnse. ??

In laytnan’s language, the FCC doesn’t apply its regulations to any trans1n;tter that broadcasts a very short distance, bccausc if it did, it would havc to applv them to a number of gadgets in which it is not intercstcd. Wireless phonographs and rell70te-control-tuningdevices arc really miniature translnittcrs that broadcast across the room to your own radio. The distancc t h e gadgets are allowed to radiatc varies with the wavelength, but, i n general, anything that broadcasts fewer than two hundred fcet is safe from Fcderal interfercnce.

Tcvo hundrccl foet is not very Inuch, and that’s where the radiator pipes, and so on, come in. Except for this added bit of ingenuity, the student station is silnply a nor~l~al, though “flea-powercd,” radio station. I t has onc or two “studios”withmicrophones, a control booth or control desk, turn-tablcs for playing recordings, and ;I srnall transmitter of two to ten watts. O n l y Ilarvard uses more powcrthirty watts. But i n most cases the wattage uscd would hardly service one l ~ d d i n g except , for the fact that the basemmt trans~nitter is connccted to the heating pipcs, electric system, metal framework of buildings or any ready-ma& metal nctwork, which thereby becomcs the antcnna of the transrnittcr. Anyonc with a radio within a short distancc of the transmitter or o f the metal network being used as antcnna, can pick up thc station. Thus a large campus can be covcred, e w n though the radiation o f a n y part of the transmitting system liccps well within the lcgal two hundrcd feet. T h e are several variations of the systcrn. Somctinlcs wires through thc campus underground tunnels connect the transmitter scIxlrate1y to the heating pipes or stecl frameworks of each dormitory. Sometimes scvcral dormitoriesare givcn miniatureboostcr transmitters. Each ualupus has its own, slightly different solution. Most college authorities 11arcll!. comprchcnd these mystcrics, but are graduall~~ beginning to realize that the students are right-that tllc radiator-pipe broadcasting station, invented m c l developed ontirely b y unclergracluates, is legal, practical, and an invention holding exciting possibilities. More than a year ago the campus broadcasters fornwd the Intercollegiate Broadcasting System, rcferred to familiarly as the I. B. and pron1ptly held at Brown the first annual convention of tllc 1. B.

s.,

S. The I. B. S . has set up a plan for the exchange of recorded programs among member stations. It has issucd bulletins of technical advice for students in othcr colleges, and has thus inspired young rncn from coast to coast to start crawling through heating tunncls, to climbing on roofs a d going through thc other preli~ninarics going 011 the air. Campus stations are now breaking out like a rash across the m a p of Amcrica. Some of the stations started with permission of college authorities, and somc didn’t. Sorne o f the pioneers tried tu get permission, but found it difficult to get thc authorities to understand what it was all about. Deans were usuall~afraid someonu would get a n electric shock. I n some colleges students just went ahcad, and let the authorities find out about it. It w s easier to get then1 to accept a fait accompli than to understand a diagram. But those days are quickly passing. It may be a wldc before the deans and the presidcnts understand thetechnical side of it, but thc early skepticism is gradually turning to enthusiasm. In several rccent cases thc collegcs havc contributcd substantial sums to the student projects. The stations are student-run, with littlcor 110 faculty supervision.Evenwhcre thc college has givenfinancial help, it usually hasn’t interfered with opcration. So the stations have 11ecome student activities corrcsponding closcly to the college newspapers. The studentsgenerally divide themsclvcs into programming, tcchnical and administrative staffs. I n programming, there is a heavy reliance on recorded music, popular and classical. Broadcast dcscripsuccesstions o f basketball and football and other games are handled fully via special wires. Thcrc are usually debates and campus forums. Another type of program that springs up on most campuses is the broadcasting of a prom or fraternityhouseparty. The musicof the dance is carried for several hours, with much interviewing of the moreglamorous girls through a microphone carried around the dancc floor. The pcriod from 5 to 6 P.M. is generally a swing period. Most students are in their rooms then and not i n the mood for study. “Jivea t Five” is the Wesleyan name for this hour.I Iarvard has a swing period that it calls “Jazz Lab.” Classical music is surprisingly popular. The studcnts have generally rcquestcd more of it, especially f o r the late evening. There is

75

8

Mr. Greenback Goes to Town

lie idlc. Spcak up to whocvcr owns you, and say: “l’here’s a dollar bill in your pocket that’s crying to be used for good! IJse me!” I n somc cases they won’t hcar y o u . But i n others their conscience w i l l hear you. So good luck. You’re passing into a world that needs you b a d l ~and ~ , needs all the good that you can do. I now graduate serial numbers W8734879B to WS73492SGL. . . EZKA: &‘dl, that’s the spirit in which wc left Wlshington, D.C., taking a last farewcll look at our Alma Mater. NOW,I won’t tell you all thc hands and pockets I passed through. . . .

(MLJSIC SNEAK IN)

. . . I was i n a bank for a whilu; then I was in the a soda fountain, a n d then i n the handbag of a

cashier’s drawer of lady who had just lxn~ghta maple lvalnut sundae with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry. I well renlember that handbag. T h e werc man): other bills in with me, and I uras right ncxt to a fifty-dollar bill who had a very superior cspression. IIowevcr, finally I spoke to him . . . (MUSIC IJP BRIEFLY AND OkK) . . . My, it’s closc i n this bag. 50: Vcry stuffy. EZRA: And what a smell! 50: Verv strong perfume. EZRA: I don’t likc this. Where’s this dame taking us, anyway? 50:I believe we’re going into a beauty parlor now. EZRA: A beauty parlor? Wcll, thcrl 1’111 not doing a n y good! I wanna do good! 50: Take it easy. EZRA: W h y sllould I take it casy? Thcrc’s ;I war going on! I want to do m y part! 50: Relax. EZRA: I don’t likc this . . . O u c h ! W h a t w a s that. Something stuck me. 50: She just put us down on a tablc. Prohahly a hairpin poked into SOU.

EZRA: It was llcr lipstick! And now I’ve got goo all over me! 50: You’ll get marked u p plenty before long. EZRA: And I was so c l a n md crisp. 40: You’ll be wiltcd soon cnough. EZRA: Like you, you nlean? 50: My clcar fellow, I a111 a very experienced fifty-dollar bill. I’VC

bought sonle fine jewelry in m y time. I’ve paid for several handsome radios. I bought a washing machinc once. AndI helped make a down payment on a sixteen-cylinder limousine. EZRA: Oh, that’s all prewar stuff. Nobody cares about that now. I don’t want to bc uscd for things like that! 50: You’rc just a young idealist. You’ll gct ovcr it. EZRA: I don’t like your attitude. These aren’t the. palmy days any nmre. This is a crisis! 50: Typical y o u n g idealist. If you’d knocked around as long as I have, you’d realize this lady is probably going to use us both right hcrc in this lxauty parlor. EZRA: What! You shock mc! Shsh. Let’s hear what’s going o n , (ON FILTER) LADY: Now, Fraqois, I want a permanent, and I want a facial too, and a rnanicure of course. FRANCOIS: Ycs, Madame. IADY: And I want evcrything w r y specially good. FRANCOIS: I understmd, Madame. LADY: I think it’s so important nowadays,don’t you? I mean for women to takc careof their appearance, and to look just as Eemininc and gav as possible. FMNCOIS: Very important, Madamc. LADY: I mean particularly now with this dreadful war going on. I think we should be just as alluring and frivolous as possible, just to spite those tcrrible Nazis! FRANCOIS: Verv good idea, Madame. LADY: Wc’rc having a party this evening. We’re having caviar canapes, with Daquiri cocktails. . . . EZRA: Why this is terrible. Lady! Please! . . . LADY: . . . Thcn jcllicd ~nadrilene.Then filct of sole; with sautcrnc. . , , EZRA: . . . C m ’ t you hcar me? . . . LADY: . . . Thcn roast cluck. With pctitapois and ~ n u s l ~ r o o, ~, .~ ~ s . EZKA: . . . Plcasc! Use me. Put me to work for Unclc Sam. LADY: . . . And c l ~ a m p a g ~of~ ecourse. , And then a relish. , , , 50: You young fool, she can’t hearyou. LADY: . . . And to finish it off a baked Alaska, . . . EZRA: She’s got to hear me. Lady, please, it’s important. . . . LADY: . . . m c l of course coffee and portwine and liqueurs. . . ,

EZRA: . . . You gotta listen. Please. Can’t you hear mc?? LADY: . . . I think it’s so important, don’t you? 50: Of course not. Relax. FRANCOIS: Oh yes, Madame. LADY: I mean especially now. Now especially. We must be gay and civilized and do things just so. . . . EZKA: Oh gosh. 1’111 being wasted. 1’111 being wasted. I ’ m a failure! (MUSIC O N EZRA’S CLJRTAIN NO MATTER WHERE LADY I-IAPPENS TO BE) LADY: . . After all, it’s the very civilization we’re fighting for. . . . (MUSIC FADES DOWN FOR NARRATION) EZRA: Wcll, that was the bcginning of the sorrowful pcriod of 111y life. Fraqois used nlc in a gambling den, at a roulette table. T h e gambler uscd me in building up his hoard of alcoholic hevcrages. Wasn’t that terrible? Why, if I’d met Mr. Morgcnthau in those days, I couldn’thave looked h i l n in the face. I didn’tdare look at the image of Gcorge Washington on m y ow11chest. I felt awful. And all thc timc I kept trying to make those peoplc hear me, trying to tell them how ilnportant it was. I rcrncmber onc day, I was taken into an expensivc sport store. I was i n a ~ n a n ’ swallet, and next to me was a twenty-dollar bill. . . .

(MUSIC LIP BRIEFLY. OUT) 20: (sniffing) Say, I like the aroma of this guy’s tobacco, don’t you? EZRA: Not bad. 20: It slzould be good. Six pieces of paper left this wallet to 1 x 1 ~for his last can.

EZRA: I’m just itching to he used for a good cause. I feel 1,111 not kccping faith. Have you been made uscful at all? 20: Oh, now and then. What’s cating you, anyway? I suppose you’re one o f these new bills, just out from Washington. EZRA: YCS, I guess 1’111 still a little green at it. But 1’111 aching to do good. Shsh. Let’s hcar what’s up. (ON FILTER)

MAN: H n m . This is a rather nice sports jacket . . SALESMAN: It looks good on you, sir. Of course, so does this othcr one. MAN: I’d better takc them both. SALESMAN: Yes, sir. That’s . . . seventy-six dollars . . , MAN: I Iow much 111d l ? I

h.111. C;Kl:;ENHACK C0F:S ’ H I TOLVN

83

SALESMAN: Just four hundrcd and twcnty-hvc. MAN: O k a y . Just charge it all and send it over. SALESMAN: Yes, sir. Getting a nice long vacation, sir? MAN: No. Just ;1 couple of months.

(A SECOND’S PAUSE FOR EZRA’S WORDS) EZRA: What?This is awful.

MAN: It’s important these days, to get somc relaxation. Particularly in times likc these. We need it. SALESMAN: Oh ycs, sir. MAN: Now let’s see. The two bathing suits. The four pairs o f white flannels. . . . EZRA: (ON CUE: “flannels”) IIey, Mister, plcasc! Put me to work! Won’t you use me for old LJncle Sam! MAN: . . . Sweater. A dozen o f those socks. Thc polo shirts and the neckties . . . 20: H c won’ t hear you. MAN: . . , That’s about all. Wait a minute, I’d better takc anothcr tcnnis racket and a couple nlorc golf-clubs. EZRA: What can I do? 1’111 desperate. I’II-I-I’III frustrated! SALESMAN: Yes sir, right this way, sir. (MUSICON EZRA’S CURTAIN LINE N O MATTER WHERE FILTERED DIALOGUE IS) (MUSIC DOWN UNDER NARMTION) EZRA: Now I don’t want to give you the iclca everybody was likc that. I just happcncd to spend some of m y early days being totccl around b y people with their minds set on luxuries. But finally thc turningpoint came. I was i n a frayed pocketbook of imitation leather, next to a five-dollar M I . I’d just been handed out as part of a payroll. The young 111an I was with then walked rauidlv down thc street. And next I h a r d . . . (KEY IN DOOR. DOOR OPENING AND CLOSI (ON FILTER) BOY: Darling. GIRL: Johnny , . . Oh, I ’ m always so glad when It’s the same way every day. It always has been, ever smce we were marrled. BOY: There’s nothing I like better than coming home. GIRL: At six o’clock I start watching for you. By half-past-six I’m so excited I ca11’tstand it. And finally, when I hear your key in thc door,

m y heart just jumps. I’m so happy. I

. . . I’ve never

read stories about

pcoplc as happy as wc. Is it really possible? BOY: Not only possihlc, it’s true. Kiss me. EZRA: I like listening to stuff like this. Don’t you? 5: Yeah. The girl sounds good looking, doesn’t she? EZRA: 1’111sure she’s a beauty. And she sounds like a nicc, fine typc of girl, too. 5 : I bet she’s a neat number. EZRA: Shshh. (pause) (whisper) Long clinch, huh? BOY: How’s little Johnny? GIRL: Me’s fine. He’s just had his supper and gonc to bed. BOY: Mow was he today? GIRL: M L ~ Cbetter. ~I His cold’s almost gone. I think in a day or two he’ll be his old self again. BOY: Fine. Look, I got paid today. Ten dollars. GIRL: That’s good. BOY: Here you are. EZRA: (s7zeezizitzg violently; then sotto voce) Sudden exposure always makes me sneeze.

5: Shsh. BOY: Ten bucks. GIRL: 1’111 glad you got it, The landlady said she’d simply havc to have some money tonight.

BOY: All right, we’ll put aside fivc bucks for her. That brings her upto-date. . . . EZKA: I gucss you’ll bc leaving tonight, buddy. 5: Yeah. Well, that’s life. BOY: , , .Gosh, honey,you’re good to stick by me, with mc only earning ten h e k s a week. If you ask me you’re getting an awful deal. GIRL: What arc you talking about? How dare you say that? I think you’re doing a wonderful thing, taking this part-time job, so you can go through all those technical courses, and really bcconle valuable to the war effort. 1 think it’s a marvelousthing, and as long as it’s neccssary I can make out OII ten a week. I know I can. BOY: Just the same,I wish I could buy you son~cthingfancy once i n a while. And little Johnny too. GIRL: Now don’t talk like that. No m e ’ s happicr than I am. And littlejohnny’s all right. We’ll rnanagc. NOWlook. If wc set aside

three-fifty for food for the week, I can make out. I’ve figured it out to the penny. BOY: All right. That leaves one fifty. But don’t we have to buy more of that medicine €or little Johnny? GIRL: Yes, That’s fifty cents. BOY: Okay. That leaves us one dollar. GIRL: Well! Wc can practically splurge. BOY: Gosh, you’re wonderful! No kidding. What will we do with it? GIRL: I don’t know. EZRA: (speaking u p ) 14ow about some war stan1ps? 5: Shsh. EZRA: (sotto) Well isn’t that a good suggestion? 5 : Leave them alone. GIRL: I saw a shirt I’d like to buy you; you nccd a shirt, darling. BOY: No, I don’t want to spend it on that. I don’t need a shirt for a while. EZRA: (up, impatiently) W h y not war stamps? 5: Shsh. BOY: We could get you a hat or something. Or a pair of stockings. That’s what I’d like to get with it. GIRL: No, darling, I don’t want to spend it on that. EZRA: (irnprltisnt) What’s the matter with war stamps???? 5: Shshsh. BOY: I saw some swell building blocks I’d like to get for little Johnny. EZRA: Naww . . . GIRL: I don’t think we should do that. He plays very happily with pans and things around the kitchen. He’s so cute. EZRA: ( p h i n t i v e ) I still don’t see what’s wrong with m y suggcstion. Gosh, maybe they don’t hear me. BOY: We’d better just stick it away i n a safc place. Save it for a rainy day. I Iide it i n the vase u p on the shelf there. EZRA: Aw, mister, please don’t do that. GIRL: Somehow, I’d rather not do that, Johnny. EZRA: (pleased) Gosh, maybe she hcard me. 5: Quiet. GIRL: You know what I was thinking? BOY: What? GIRL: One dollar is just ten percent of your salary. BOY: Yeah?

GIRL: Rel-nelnbcr that campaign we heard about, in which they’re trying to get everybody to lend ten perccnt of their salary t o the government for the war effort? BOY: But gosh . . . they don’t expect peoplc who only earn ten bucks to do that, do they? GIRL: Maybe not. But if we could ~ n a n a g eit, it would be wonderful. just think, cvc could j o i n thc ten pcrccnt club. BOY: But-one buck. That’s an awful lot to us, and . . . what’s one buck to the government? GIRL: If several million give a dollar, it’s ;HI awful lot. Think of all they could do with that! ROY: Yes, but . . . don’t you think we ought to , . , put it away for a11 emergency? GIRL: ’This is an emcrgency, Johnny. You’ve said that yourself. It’s our clncrgency. We’d bc doing it for us. Is there anything that means morc to us than that Johnny shoulcl grow u p i n the kind of world that we lxlieve in? JOHNNY: When you put it that way . , . 1 guess t h e ’ s nothing I’d rathcr do with this dollar.You’re right, honey. EZRA: Whoopec! She heard me!

(MUSIC, JUBILANT, LJNIIER NAKRATION 11’ BECOMES A MARC€I) EZRA: Well, aftcr that things sure started happening for me. I was in the war cf€ort, and was I busy! I can’t tell you all thc times I’VC shuttled back and forth across this country . . . You see, when Johnny bought those w a r stamps, hc handed me back to Unclc Sam to usc. And IJncle Sam gave me to a factory that was Inaking war planes for him. And so the first thing I paid €or was a little piece of metal i n the wing of onc plane. And one clay, over in China, that plane , , . (SUDDEN FULL VOLUME AIRPIANE ROAR) AVIATOR: All right, let ’cnl havc it! . . . (MAC1EINE GUN)

AVIATOR: . , , We got ’ c n . Thcy’rc going down! VOICE: Yeah, but look. We got caught through the left wing. *AVIATOR:We’re all right. She’ll hold.

(SOIJND OUT) EZRA: And she did hold. Cause that was nzy piccc of mctal that got hit. The picce o f metal I paid for i n that fine factory, that was working for IJncle. Wcll, after I’d got that plane on its way to China, the

factory gave me to a workman 011 the payroll, and the workman joined the ten percent club and lent me back to UIICIC SXII, :~nd Uncle sa111gave me to a tank factory that was making him some tanks. And one day, ovcr on thc Russian front . . . (TANK MOTOR. MACHINE GUN FIRE FROM DISTANCE) TANKIST 1: All right. We’ll charge that gun position. Keady. GO! (TANK GETTING UNDERWAY) TANKIST 2: They’re hitting us square. TANKIST 1: Wc’ll make it! Keep going. (TANK IJP, SITIIllENLY OIJT) EZRA: Now one of the places that tank was hit was a part that I’d paid for. But we held together and took that gun position! Meanwhile, hack i n the U.S.A., having hclpcd pay for that tank, I was used on the factory payroll, and the man who got me bought a war bond, and so once morc I was w o r k i ~ gfor the government. Wcll, this tinle, I was used to help buy the motor for a n aircraft rescue ship, and onc day just recently, clown in Australian waters . . . (MOTOR BOAT AT HIGH SPEED BOUNCING 17HRC)UGH WATER) SAILOR 1: Straight ahead! A ~ n a nin the water , . SAILOR 2: I scc h i m . (SPEED UP A MOMENT, TIIEN SLOW DOWN AND STOP) (WATERIMPPING SOUNDS STAY) VOICE: (faintly) kIclp . . . help , , . SAILOR 1: Ilarlg on, sailor. We’ll pull you out. (SOUND OF EFFORT. WATER DRIPPING OFF MAN AS HE IS I IAULED OUT OF WATER) SAILOR 1: That’s it. Take it easy, fellah. VOICE: Had to bale out. All day , , , in the watcr . . , Couldn’t have stayed afloat another minutc. Thanks , , . thanks . . . (WATER OUT) EZRA: Wcll, it was the speed of that motor of mine, in that aircraft rescue ship, that savccl that man. That’s just a sample of the kind o f thing I’ve heen doing. Evcry time I go back to Uncle Sam, I buy somcthing else. On the West Coast I paid for a seven-millionth part of a submarine . , . VOICE 1: A one-dollar savings stamp, plcase. EZRA: I n the Middlc West 1 bought a ten-thousandth part of one torpedo . . ,

VOICE 2: I want to join the tcn perccnt club. EZRA: I n the East I bccamc one six-hundredth of a mac’hincgun . . .

VOICE 3: A war saving stamp-one dollar. EZRA: And down South I launched a hundred-nlilliont~~ of one battleship . . . VOICE 4: i want to join the ten percent club. EZRA: Boy, I’ve been busy. All over the place. Mrs. Rooscvelt has nothing on IIIC at all. . . . Now 1’11 admit that often, as I went f r o m 11ancl to pocket, and from pockct to payroll, and from payroll to tillcr, in stores and factories and banks and znines, often I thought about Johnny, and his wife, and little Johnny, the ones who redly started me on my useful life. The ones \ d m first put me to w o r k for victory. I often wondercd if they’d nlade out okay. It sounded kind of like a tight squeeze to mc, living on ten a week, and once inawhilc I worriecl about thcm. And so I was kind of happy when one day I suddenly found myself in a familiar wallct. That evening I pricked u p my ears, and sure enough I heard familiar voices . .

(MLJSIC UP BRIEFLY WITH ROMANTIC STLJFF, THEN DOWN AND OUT) (ONFILTER) GIRL: Oh darling, I’m so glad when you get home. BOY: Look darling, I got paid again today. EZRA: (sudden big sneeze) Thesesuddenexposures4 can’tget

used to them. GIRL: Fine. We can put aside adollar for stamps, as usual, can’t we? BOY: You bet. Loyal nmnhcrs of the ten pcrcent club. I k r e we arc, one dollar for stamps . . . Say wait a minute. GIRL: What’s the matter? BOY: That bill . . . I recognizc it, I relnembcr that funny streak of lipstick or something, in the corner. EZRA: He recognizes me! BOY: That’s the bill I bought those first savings stamps with, when we joined the ten percent club. GIRL: What a strange thing. BOY: Boy, it sure looks diffcrent. EZRA: Well, you can’t look like a daisy after what I’ve been through. I’ve seen life! BOY: I renwnber it was a new crisp bill, probably just off the presscs.

wc might have stoppcd it from doing that. BOY: I ’ m glad wc didn’t. GIRL: I am too. Look at that bill. It’s ;I grizzled, lx1ttle-scarrccl vetcran in the wars for [Jncle Sam. Soldier, long nay you circulate. EZRA: Ladv, God bless y o u for those worcls. GIRL: God bless you, dollar bill. EZRA: She heard me!

(MUSIC DOWN AS BACKGROIJND‘T’O:) EZRA: She was right about what shc said. I mn a battle-scarred vet-

Onc evening, from the darkness inside a lcathcr wallet, I’ll hear falniliar voices . . . (MUSIC UP BRIEFLY. ROMANTIC OUT)

(ON FILTER) GIRL: Dear . . BOY: Yes . . . GIRL: Don’t you think we ought to raise Johnny’s allowance? Ten dollars a month isn’t quite cnough, at his age. BOY: All right, sure. I’ll see if I have some singles. I’ll givc h i m a little extra when hc comes in. Lct’s see . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . EZRA: (big sneeze) Achoouo. Hello. Remember mc? BOY: That ought to take care of him for a couple of dates. EZRA: Don’t you hcar me? GIRL: That’s grand, dcar. 1’111 glad you agrcc. (sighing happily) O h , it’s good tu sit clown in t1Ic evening. BOY: Sure is. Want part of the paper? GIRL: No darling. I’ll just clo m y knitting. EZRA: I guess you don’trecognize me. O € course I know I look different, all glossy and reborn, and without that lipstick. But it’s the samc me. And not only that, I~ut-Wl~at I really wanted to tell you was . . . BOY: (OVERLAPPING WITH EZRA A WORD O R TWO) Say . . . who is this ncw girl Johnny’s going out with? Where did he find her? GIRL: I think he met hcr at some dance. She scems a nice quiet little thing. I think she’s really all right. BOY: Well-that’s good. EZRA: . . , What I wanted to say was-I l ~ d come t back alone. I’ve brought thirty-three cents with me. And that’s one reason why you can give your boy a little extra allowance now. Bccause every other dollar you put into war bonds has also come back with thirtythree cents. Yes, sir, that’s the way U r d c Sam trcats you. You lcnd hi111 a dollar to defend your frecdom, and hc not only does defend it, but latcr hc gives you back a dollar and thirty-thrcc ccnts. That’s pretty good. Still, I think you deserve it, ’cause you helped out when the going was tough. I’ll al~vapsl x gratcful to you for that. (pained) Don’t you hcar me at all? GIRL: I just thought o f something. BOY: What’s that?

counter of a bank or post office or somc placc, along with other bills, and to hear a voice u p there saying: VOICE: (ON FILTER) I want to buy a bond. EZRA: Gosh that sounds good. Keep a t it, folks. So long.

(MUSIC) (APPLAUSE) ANNOLJNCER: This half-hour program was written especially €or the Minute MCII of the Greater New York W a r Bond Pledge Canlpaign by Erik Barnouw. We wish to extend our thanks to Ezra Stone . . . star of the Aldrich Family program and to Miss -who will soon be seen i n the -picture The supporting players were -, -,

*-

-,

-,

” ”

?

?

?

And the broadcast was macle possible through the courtesy and cooperation of the Columbia Broadcasting System.

9

l t t y Sullivan and Social Security NOTE: “Kitty” passages are excerpts from a tape-recorded interview, three reels in lcngth. Numbers indicatereel in which material is to be found. Asterisks * * * indicate where passages in the original interview must be climinated b y the tape editor.

EMERSON: Hello. This is Fayc Emerson. I want to tell you about someone we’ll call Kitty Sullivan. She works i n the ladies washroom OE an upscale restaurant. She’s the washroom attendant . . . thc matron. She hands people soap . . . a towel . . . maybe some hand lotion. She keeps theplace looking tidy. When she started, she didn’t think she would like the job. But she docs, rather. KITTY (2): I meet nice people. Some of them are not so nice, but then I think, “Well, they’ve got something on their minds, something worries them. And theyjustcan’t hclp it if they're not so

gracious.”. . , But on the whole, thcy’re nice . . . polite. . . . EMERSON: Once upon a timc, Kitty studied law at New York University Law Schoul. Thc ladies who come to Kitty’s restaurant washroom, and perhaps tip her for her services, probably don’t suspect anything like that. Because Kitty is old now . . . in her eighties. She’s living on her social security, carning something cxtra with her work. . . . You see, whcn you’re over seventy-two, you may carn as 1nuc11as you’reable, and still draw regular social securitypaynlcnts.It’s a special incentive given to thc old. And Kitty appreciates that, because shc needs money for a special project of her own, that I’ll tell you about later. This is one of a series of program called C ~ O S S Tstorks O~~S of , people atcertaingreat crossroads in their lives. Thesestories are brought to you by the Social Security Adnlinistration to help show how the law works i n inclividual cases. I know this can be important

to m a n y of you, s o 1,111 pleased to l~avc bccnasked to narrate these storics for you. Now let’s get back to Kittv. Her working life bcgan, bclieve it or not, seventy-four years ago. She relucnlbers it this way: it was just before President Garfield was assassinated . . . 1881. K I T T Y (1): I went to workvery young. Because in thosc daysvou could go to work as young as eight or nine ycars old. Some factories in the States, they took childrcn as young as that . . . I workcd in Stcrn’s as a cash girl. * * * And I got $1.50 a week. And thcn there was a rule that we could get $1.75 after three months and$2.00 after six months. But I was lucky i n this . . . that when the three months were up, they decidcd to give us all $2.00, instead of waiting six months. And then while I was there . . . I was there nearly ten years and I knew the old firm Stcrn Brothers . . . and one ycar I helpcd i n the lunch rooln a while and I got fifty cents cxtra for that, I think it was fifty cents extra a week for that. And thcn one day , , . Mr. Isaac Stern had been on a Europcan trip . . . And whcn he canle back, I went u p to see him one evening. And I said, “Good evening, Mr. Stern, I a m glad to scc you back.” Now I wasn’t diplomatic . , . a bit diplomatic . . . because when hc said, “Why!” * * * I should have said, “Because it’s nice to SCC you.” But I wasn’t a bit diplomatic, I a111 not a diplomat. I said, “Wcll, I would likc to have more wages, more salary.” Imagine that! Aftcr saying I was glad to see him back, instead of saying, “It’s nice to have you back,” or something like that. Well that’s what I did, So then I told him that I had a mother and she had five children. I wasn’t the oldest. My father llacl died about three years before, i n about ’78 I guess, and I was the oldest at home. Three brothcrs had got married, they had . . . Anyway, the rcsult of that interview meant that I got $1.50 more a week. Wasn’t that nice? So I was getting $4.50 instead of $3.00. Wasn’t that nice? That was a nicc incrcase! I never forgot that, how nice Mr. Stcrn was. See, hc thought of the widow with her children and that I was hclping. I-Ie was very lovely. . . . EMERSON: And so Kitty was launchcd on a business career during the Presidency of James Garficld. She worked steadily ycar after year, butmeanwhileshe also studied,taking night courses. About the time President Benjamin I-Iarrison came into office,Kitty got her highschool diploma, through night courses. As Grovcr Clevela~~d

entered the White IIouse for his second term, Kitty was studying shorthand, and the still very new art of typewriting. This won her a job as secretary with a manufacturing firm. Then early in this century, Kitty took college courses at New York University and this led to a scholarship at thc NYU Law School. Kitty entered law school but neverfinished. Other matters claimedhertimeandearnings. Her youngersister, duringthese years, had grown up, married, had a daughter, and dicd. The husbancl had also dicd. Kitty’s young niece was alone i n the world. The year . . . 1911. K I T T Y (2): Of course, the responsibility then fell on mc. **’ So I sent her to private school for her primary, almost all of her primary, and her high school, and her college . . . EMERSON: Raising her niece, and giving hcr the best possiblc education, became Kitty’s great adventurc. Kitty’s work as a secretary . . . nine to five, Monday to Saturday, ycar after year made the advcnture possible. I n 1922 the niecegraduated fro111 highschool. I n 1926, from college. Three years later the girl got married and beforc long had two childrcn. But meanwhile . . . camc the stock market crash. It was hard for the young couple. But harder for Kitty. Her companywent out of business. I n her sixties,Kitty was out of a job. When the Social Security Law was passed in 1935, it meant nothing to her. IIaving no jobs, she wasn’t covcrcd. Then, at last, came new a chance . . . the washroom job. KITTY (2): I got my prcsent job because I praycd for something to do. I am a Catholic, and wc have Ilovenas in our church and I just finishecl a novena. And one morning . . . I generally went to church when I wasn7t working, I mean on weekdays . . . one morning, I was on my way to church, and I thought before I go , . . I was early . . . that I’d stop in the Safeway, which is around the corner, to see if they had a certain kind of soup I wanted, I thought if they don’t havc it, thcn after church I will go to the A&P. * * * And that’s the first time I did that and that was the day after the novena finishecl. It was really most remarkable. It was the perfect answer to prayer, Nobodycan tell me anything different. Because I had neverbeen inspired to stop like that before and while we were there , , , there were two windows, and some pcoplc were on one side and solne on the other. ’* * And the man . . . the safe was in the window . . . he

stcad to keep working, and build up l u x social sccurity account. You see, the benefits you finally get are determined in part b y the p ~ y ments that have been madc to your account. So Kitty kept working year after year. She becalne rcconciled to hcr job. K I T T Y (2):During thcday, I don’t h a w to do therough work. That’s done before I come in . , , that is, the cleaning of thu floor, the mirrors and such. That’s all done bccausc they have to be ready for customcrs ~vhcnI get in. And thcn during the day, I keep the toilet coversnicc and I keeptheplace tidy in casepapersarcthrown around. We have some paper towels, s o n ~ elinentowels, And the customers come in, if they have to come i n to doll up. They come in at intervals, and I just wait for them. I sit down a good deal. I a m u p and down, and I havc different kinds of peoplc to wait 011. Sonle of then1 arcperfectladies . . . perfectladies.They always have thcir own cosmetics . . . always have thcir own cosmctics. They ncvcr havo to ask me if I have powder or rouge, or , . . as one woman asked me the othcr day, if I had Vicks. I thought what on carth is this, have I come to be a drugstore? Vicks * * * So I h a w hand lotion and I have a lot of other things . , . cotton, and Band-aids and various little things like that. * * * The Rand-aidstheyprovide; the cotton and solnc of the things I provide myself. The 11and lotions, I provide. EMERSON: Today Kitty is in her eighties. She has h i l t up her social security, and thc payments shenow clraws are enough to supporthcr. But she still keeps working! . . . Why? . . . I mentioned a while ago that she is financing a pet project, a new adventurc, and this is it: her niece’s two childrcn are almost grown. Kitty 113s bccn helping to put them through collegc! KITTY (2): And now hcr daughter, whom I provided for, is graduating frorn college in JUIK. * * * A d her boy w l 1 0 m I’m providing for, who is already provided for . . . I put the ~noncyaside . . . is in first year college. And he’ll finish college. So that’s three collcge educations, and a home . . . a house, for my niece and hcr family. **’* All that I paid for. But isn’t it nice, it’s awful nice, not to have ~ ~ ~ o n e y , but to feel that you’ve done something useful. EMERSON: Kitty Sullivan, more than fifteen ycars a washroom matron, can feel a wonderful pride in what shc has done. She says that social security took the fear out of old age; and that because o f this, she felt no hesitation about the new advcnture of hcr latcr days. And that explains w h y she feels ;IS she docs about social security.

KITTY(3): And it is bettcr to work steady * * * than to drop out likc some people I understand do and collect uncmploymcnt insurance. It is much bctter to work steadily and get your social security built up, bccause that is for the future. Thc government’s taking care of it, Thcy invest it for you and you don’t miss it, it is taken out each week and you know that it is coming back to you some time and at a timc that is very important in your life. You m a y be vcry young and you think little of it, but don’t let your youth hidc the fact that the ycars aregoing on and that some timc you will nced yoursocial security and it is lovcly to h a w it. It’s wondcrful. It’s a wonderful inccntive, to work . . . to help. You feel that, well, you have that nluch and you can s p c d a little more n~aybc.**’ At least you feel certain of a place to slcep, and son1ctlling to cat. When you get to be sixty-five instead o€ going with wur hat in your hand to some charity organization or to the police station and tell thcln that you llavcn’t any place to stay, whereas you get your check every month and y o u are sure you will be acceptccl somc place. * * ’’ And it nukes us happy and more contented in our work, and if somctilnes something disagreeable happens, we say, “Oh well, that was yesterday, €orget about it. We arc just going o n , I am not going to throw u p this job hecause of some ugly fellow in it . . . and maybc I a111 ugly too. I am just going to d o thc best I can and build up that social security because each day I lose, I lose social security, whereas if I work, I am building up a nice saving for thc ycars whcn I can’t work a n y longcr.” EMERSON: Now here’s a word from Mr. , of thc Social Security Administration. MR. : The case history you’ve heard shows sevcral things I’d like to emphasize. When you approach sixty-five, it’s important to get in touch with your local social security office. Find out what retirement bcnefits y o u will be entitled to. If you arc ablc to work after sixty-five, you m a y i n some cases be able to build u p your account, and increase your later benefits. Social security is saving m a n y pcople anxiety at thc crossroads of their lives. The system is paid for bv tax contributions p i c 1 b y your employer and you. If you have any questions about your rights or obligations under the law, inquirc at your local social security office. If you don’t know where it is, ask at thc post office. Thank you.

(MIJSIC: A PASSAGE OF 30-60 SECONDS, SUI'TARLE FOR RACKGROtJND USE. LXICAL STATION CAN RUN AT FULL VOL,IJME, O R CAN FADE DOWN FOR ADDRESS OF LOCAL SOCIAL SECURITY OFFICE.) EMERSON: This is Faye Elnerson once more, inviting y o u to listcn again to Crossroads . . storics from the files of the Social Sccurity Administration. The progranl was produced for Social Sccuritv by the Center for blass Colnmunication a t Colunlbia University undcr

"

the clirection of Erik Barnouw.

“August 6 . . . The flash of the bomb made permanent shadows, burnedinto wood, etchedintostone. Leaves, flowers, andmen disappeared, but their shadows remained.” A still from Hiroshima-

Nagasaki, August 1945. (Columbia University, courtesy of the author)

10

Columbia and the A-Bomb Film EARLYI N 1968, while I was serving as chairn~anof the film division of the Columbia University School of the Arts, I receivcd i n the m a i l a clipping, dated Jalluary 26 of that year, from the English-languagc Japanesc newspaper Asuhi Evening News. It reportcd that the footage shot in Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945 b y Japanese cameramenhad finally lxcn returned to Japanby the 1J.S. government. The Japawse government was said to be planning a television showing “after certain scenes showing victi~ns~ clisfiguring burnsaredclcted.” The footagc would later be made available on loan to “research institutions,” but: “ I n order to avoid the fill11 being utilized for political purposcs, applications for loan of the film from labor unions and politicalorganizations will bc turncd dow11.” This statement was puzzling to me for several reasons, but ~ n main y reaction was astonislment that such footage existed, since 110 one I talked t o had been aware of its existence. The clipping had bccn sent to me by a friend, Mrs. Lucy Lemann of New York City. I knew her as a frequent benefactor of the annual Robert Flaherty Fill11 Seminars, which at that tilnc were adlninistered from ColLmbia and which I had helped organize. She was also a supporter of the World Law Fund, and at her suggestion I wrote for further infornlation to Professor Yoshikazu Sakalnoto, professor of international politics at the University of Tokyo, an associate of the Fund. His rcply was that the Japanese had negotiated with the U.S. Department of State for rcturn of the film but that the U.S. Dcpartment of Defense was thought to control it. The film sent to Japan was apparently not the original nitrate but a safety-film copy. Somewhat impulsively, I wrote a letter on Columbia stationery as “Chairnlan, Film, Radio, Television” addressed to “The Honorable Clark M. Clifford, Sccrctary of Defense,” with a notation that a copy should go to Secretary of Statc Dean Rusk and to Dr. Grayson Kirk,

As the film took shape we held ~11x111previews, and we lxgan to sensc that our film could serve the purpose that, as producer, I l ~ a d

aimed for: to provide, without argumentation, a vivid understanding of the nature of atomic weaponry. The SECRET classification hac1 of courscirnpcdcdsuchunderstanding. We soon learnedthere would be further impediments. I n January 1970 wc scheduled a largc press preview at theMuseum of Modcrn Art and invited the television networks. None came. But thc UP1 was rcprescntcd, and that cvening its tickcr carried a rcport that treated the showing as a historic event. As a result, each of the networks phoned thc following morning to request preview prints, andsenthelmetedmotorcyclecourierstothecampus for them. Then came long silence. We phoncd to inquire about reactions and learned that ABC and CBS had decided they wcrc not intercstcd. NBC said it might be interested if it could find a “IICWS hook.” Wc dared not speculate on what sort of cvent this might call for. Thcn a strange sequencc of media actions changed the situation. The Sunday newspaper supplcn~entParade, which generally focused on thc crotic adventurcs of the mightv, featured a n item about Ifin)shima-Nagusaki, August 1945, callingit an important fill11 that should he seen l w the people of any nation possessing the bomb. The Yarude item prokptcd The Boston Globe-which carried Purcrde-to phone inquiries to nuclcar scicntists and others, some of whom had been at our prcviews. 011the basis of their comnlents, the Globe yublishcd a lead editorial blasting the networks for ignoring the film. The entcrtainmcnt weekly Vmiety, beguiled bv the Globe’s twitting the networks,carried a promincnt box about it. This in turn lcd National Education Television (NET),representing public television, to begin negotiations. It arranged to telecast the f i l m in earlv August, twenty-five years after thc events of 1945. No sooner had this arrangement becn rnadc than NBC decided it wanted the f i l m for its magazine series First Tuesday. Learning that the film was committed to NET, the NBC spokesman asked, “Couldn’t you buy them out?” We dcclined to try. We began to realize that the nature of atonlic weapons-their implications for virtually all aspects of life on earth, including the question of its survival-was something most people preferred not to confront. Thc reluctance became a constant factor for LIS. Schools, churches, and community groups were asking for the filn~and arranging screenings. But expectcd viewers often found, at the last 1110ment, that other colnnlitments required their attention.

11

The Zig-Zag Career of Radio Luxembourg

Word of “Corporal Tom Jones’s” fame eventually spread to Grccn

Bay, his allegcd ho~netown.As a result, the Associated Prcss received a request from a Grccrl Bay ncwsyaper editor for information about its famous son. The A.P. actually dispatched sonwmc to Luxembourg to interview Jones, but the Corporal’s true identity was kept secret .*y The. programs mentioned so far were part of Radio Luxembourg’s daytinle and cvcning offerings as a n acknowledged American voice, hcard over radio Luxembourg’s rcgular place on the dial, with its full

available power. But the psychological warfare group also used the transmitter for an cntirelydifferentactivity,which occupiccl thc midclle of the night, 2:OO-6:OO A . M . [Jsing lower powcr, 30,000 watts, the station now purported to be an underground Gernlan station opcrating I,chind German lines. It usedadifferent frequency-1 2 12 ki1ocyclcs"ancl callcd itself T k h e Thdve. It went on the air with: "I-Iello, this is Twelve Twelve calling." It was not ovcrtly anti-Nazi but suggcstcd that the Gcrlnan authorities wcrcfalliblc andmakingmistakes. On cvery progralu Twclve Twelve carried detailed, scrupulously accurate reports about the military situation within Germany. Its task, at this stage, was to establish total crcdibility and trust. only a few German voices, of a rcgional quality to suggest a location in thc Rhine valley, were used on Twelve T\yulvc. The idea was to convey the imagc of a compact underground group. Much of its strategyhadbeenplanncd in aclvance. Music was never uscd-only talk. Thc Twclve Twelve team was made to live in isolation, to avoid any hint of interaction with other Radio Luxcmbourg programming. The group was houscd in a fine villa in Luxembourg'sRueBrasscur, cmcc the property of a German coal mine manager. Military police guardcd the premises day and night." That the group's programs were soon winning trust w a s rcflected in the fact thatprisoners,wheninterrogatedaboutthesituation within Germany, began to quote Tbelve Thelve. But the winning of trust was only the first stcp. Thetrust had a purpose: it was a weapon,potcntiallydevastating.During the Moselleassault and brcakthrough b y Allied troops, 'Twelve Twelve suddenly began to create chaos with ranlpmt disinfor~nation. Among other bulletins, it reportcd Allied tanks near Nurcmbcrg and Friedrichshafen, causing panic in thosc cities. This confusion was its ultimate task. Immcdiately afterwards, its job done, Twelve Twelve vanished as abruptly as it had appearcd. It had bcen on the air just 127 nights.") Hans I-Iabe, chicf Luxembourg broadc;lsting strategist during this period, was awarded the Bronze StarwithOak Leaf Cluster, and the Luxembourg Croix de Guerre. Undcr the Allied occupation of Gcrmany he was for a time i n charge of all German newspapers, but sccnls to havc had a falling out with the Occupation and resumed his peripatctic, often flamboyant career. He wrote a number of novels bascd on his war exploits, some of which were translated into

English-including Walk in Darkness, Off Limits, and The Mission. He l1ad brief I-Iollvwood sojourns and wrote an autobiography, All My Sins. His five Aarriages i n five different countries included one to the daughter of thc Iegendarily wealthy Marjorie Merryweather Post, Post Toasties heiress who had married Ambassador Joseph E. Davies. Mabc eventually settled i n Switzcrland. Richard Hanser served a postwar stint as writer of KKO-Pathe on the This i s America series of film shorts, then had a distinguished television career as chief writer for NBC’s Project Twenty documentarics, and coauthor with IIcnry Salomon of the Victory at Sea series. He published books that included Putsch! how liitler nzclde revolution and A Noble Treason: the revolt o f t h e Munich students uguinst Hitler. He was the translator of Wulk in Durkness, one of the novels of his former mcntor Hans Habe. Of all Radio Luxembourg’s activities under thc psychological warfare group, the Twelve Twelve caper was perhaps the most innovative, and an extraordinary success. I remember bcing dazzledby what I heard and read about it.At a time when pcople were just beginning to talk about “black radio,” this was the xnost telling example of what it could do. It also appears to have bcen thc OIK psychological warfare maneuver that influcnccd postwar ycars. There seem by now to have been countless “blackradio’? ventures by many countries i n many places.” About most of these it is almost impossible to gather rclialde details, and a substantial overview of the topic nay never bc possible.But about one such venture we know a great deal, mainly because it-and the military venture it supportcd-endedinfailure and dctailedexposure.This“black radio” venture was a close copy of Twelve Twelve. I an1 referring to Radio Swan, the mysterious station established in connection with thc Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba. The similarities were numerous. The station purportcd to be the activity of a dissident underground group-in this case, at odds with the Castroregime. The station was actually a covcrt U.S. venture-in this case, financed,planncd and controlled by the CIA, though featuring Cuban voices. The military offensive, in this case, was a n invasion to b e launched fromNicaragua, for whichpurposethe CIA had assemblednine ships, thirty-seven planes, tanks, bombs, rockets and all sorts of ammunition, and trained a Cuban assault force at a secret camp in

the mountains of Guatemala.” The CIA was predicting-in intraadministration discussions-that thelanding of this forcewould cause a quarter of the Cuban population to rise in support, and overthrow Castro.” Monthsbeforethe invasion date,themysteriousradiostation invasionpreparations;it began its work. I t nevermentionedthe seemed oblivious to any such activity, Its broadcasts spoke of problems and dissatisfactions within Cuba, blunders of the Castro regime, and cxpcctations of a spontaneous uprising i n the foresceable futurc. The station operated f r o n l barren Swan Island-actually, two tiny of the western tip of Cuba. islands several hundredmilessouth Again, the location made a hermetic isolation possible. The broadcasts gave the impression of a compact group of recent h i g r k s , in touch with fellow dissidents in Cuba. Once more, the first task was to cstablish credibility. Radio Swan did so, over Inany months, by accurate details of life in Cuba. Actually, some of thc progra~mwere prc-recorded in the United States; a CIA plane is said to have colne once a wcek from the United States, with the recordings to be used.'.' Operating with a powcr of 50,000 watts, the station could be heard in parts of the United States. Journalists began to consider it a reliable sourcc of information about events in Cuba, and to quote its bulletins. Again, the trust was a weapon. When the assault from Nicaragua finally began, the station’s task was to foment a n uprising and to sow confusion. It broadcast sabotage instructions. And, with staccato proclamations and jubilant reportage, it broadcast bullctins prcparcd in advance to fit the CIA sccnario of a spontaneous uprising. Similar bulletins were issued in New York in the namc of a Cuban Revolutionary Council-bulletins likewise planted by the CIA, which had formed the so-called Council. The fact that its l~ullctins dovetailed with Radio Swan bulletins seemed to authenticate both. The substance of the bulletins was that the Cuban people were rising in revolt; that Castro’s air force had defected; that defecting pilots had bombed and destroyed their own air bases; that one of the defecting pilots, in a bullet-riddled plane, was heading for Florida; that he had reached Florida; that the Castro regime was in utter panic; and that “freedom” was i l n n l i nent.’j

As wc 11ow know, nonc o f thc events quite followed this scenario. The invasion collapsed quickly. The pcople did not rise. To be surc, a Cuban pilot with a bullet-puncturcd planc did reach Florida; photographs of the planc and 11ullct holes appeared in thc Anmican press and on American television. But this planc, falsely lnarked to appear to be a Castro plane, had flown direct from Nicaragua; its markings and bullet holes werc CIA fabrications, as was the whole episodc. During thc following nlonths thc failure of the invasion was discussed in various forums. A four-man govern~nent committeeof inquiry ascribed the failure to ;I “shortage of arnmunition.” Two of the members of this committee had lxen leaders i n planning the operation; one of them was Allen Dullcs. This committee gave little attention to the non-military aspects of the venture. But the role of Radio Swan was later exhaustively reviewed by invcstigating journalists via interviews with government officials and ex-officials, and with the Cuban cxilcswho had been drawn into various phases of the operation. Sonw commcnt on the RadioSwanactivity s e a m in order herc. I-.Iavingbeen dazzled by the Tbelve Twelve caper of World War 11, what is onc to think of this later venture, so similar i n technique? It should he notcd, of course, that the Unitcd States was i n a cleclarcd war with Germany, not with Cuba. Allen Dullcs, n m t c r planner of t l Bay ~ of Pigs operation, had phrascology to circunlvcnt this probIcm. I n ‘l’lze Craft of Intelligence, written as a sort of justification of his carecr, hc wrote that the United Statcs was not “really” at peacc, since communism had “declared its own war on our system of governnlent and life.” He therefore saw the rules of war as app1icablc.l” This formulation apparently seenwxl convincing to m a n y , and lrlay satisfy some even now. The carrying over of “black radio” into peacetime clearly raises legal, ethical, and moral questions beyond the scope of this discussion. But its usc is often defended as a practical necessity i n a turbulent age-defended in the name of realism. So perhaps, in discussing Radio Swan, we should at least assess it in terms of Realpolitik. At thc hour of crisis Radio Swan, like Twelve Twelve, succeeded in lcss within Cuba than elsecreating widespread confusio~~-”I~ough where. I n the case of the Bay of Pigs venture, the tissue of disinformation succceded nlainly in deccivingAmericanncwspapers and

broadcasting systems, and through them the American people. And the deception rcached further. Tragically, there came a moment when Adlai Stevenson, America’s much-admired spokesman at the United Nations, who had not been taken into confidence about the CIA caper but thought he had correct infornlation, stood before the General Assembly ancl denied any U.S. involvement in the events in Cuba. It was simply, he said, a spontaneous Cuban uprising, As evidence he cited a defecting Castro pilot who had escaped to safety i n Florida in abullet-riddled plane. I n proof, Stevenson heldup a photo for the GeneralAssembly, the televisioncamcras, and all thc world to sec. Within days he learned that his own statements had been false, and that he hac1 been duped by his own government. It was a devastating moment i n Stevenson’s career.I7 It was also devastating for the United States. The credibility of its official utterances had becn thrown into question, at a long-range cost not easy to assess. Clearly trickery in the usc of media is a twoedged weapon-especially in a time that must tcchnically be described as peace. World War 11, hesidcs being a declared war, was a period of extraordinary consensus. Few wars in our history sccm to have becn s o broadly supported. IIitler had helped to make this possible-had helped to make it, for many, a kind of holy war. Perhaps, i n a way, this has proved a trap. We came to take it fully for granted that we represented truth and justice-that we were the ones on the whitc horses-and we carried into later years the feeling we could do 110 wrong ancl that whatever we did, by whatever means, was automatically in the interest of freedom,democracy,andpeace. That was perhaps our most dangerous heritage from World War II.

NOTES I . €3. Paulu, British Broadcasting: radio and television in the United Kingdom (Minncapolis: 1956), p p . 26-3 1, 360-61. 2. Yank, May 11, 1945. Also D. Taylor, i n Columbia [Jnivcrsity Oral History interview (New York: 1956), p. 43. 3. R. Hanser, i n Columbia University O r a l History interview (Nccv York: 1967), pp. 5-6.

12

Historical Survey of Communications Breakthroughs EUPHORIC PREDICTIONS grectcd the advcnt of Morse’s telegraph and the cotnmunication wonders that followed it-telephone, wireless, radio, tclcvision, and others. Each was seen to havc special significance for a denmcratic society: each scul-ned to promise wider disscnlination of infornmtion and idcas. It can be argued that this h a s happencd, as predicted. But other rcsults, i n a contrary direction, were not so readily foreseen. Each ncw Incdium offered new possiibilities for thc centralization of influence and control, and introduced newmonopolypossibilities. This cssay examinesthcconflicting tcnclencies-inherent, to a largc cxtcnt, in the technologics themselves-and m a y help in assessing the impact of new technological breakthroughs. The invention of thc tclcgraph madc it possible for thc first time to link distant arcas by wirc. The telegraph industry was founded b y both large and small entrepreneurs, but thc larger tended to absorb orotherwiseeliminate thc snxdler, Soon after the Civil War the Western Union Telegraph Co. achieved a dominant position-it becant virtually a monopoly. By 1873 its wires reached into thirtyseven states and ninc tcrritories and constituted the only nationwide web. It is difficult to rcconstruct the impact of the Western LJnion 1110nopoly, hut historians of the telcgraph indicated that it yielded extraordinarywcalthandpower. I n 1875, RepresentativcCharles A. Sunmer of California charged that news of suclclen changcs in market priccs was repcatcdly withheld from Sa11Francisco until insiclers had maclc largc profits. Control of the flow of information apprcntl\T provided even more advantages than the profits made from the mcssage busincss, which, InonoDoly-l>riccc17was a bonanza i n itself. Pro-

posds to end the monopoly power by crcating ;1 government telegraph service linking U.S. post offices l ~ yan alternativc web of wires-an idea that took holclin Europe-were reycatedlyintroduced i n Congress in the dccades aftcr the Civil War, but Western Union always mustercd crushing opposition. It worked i n close aliiance with the old Associated Press, which relied on Western Union wires. Newspapers aspiring to effective rlational or international covcrage were totally deperldent on these two monopolistic allics. It is said that newspapers backing postill tclegraph proposals found their rates raised o r service canceled. Publishers, cclitors,ancl reportcrs got accustolnccl to the idea that discussing postal (“socialistic”) telegrap h y was taboo. Westcrn Union had other pcrsuasivc prcssures. Friendly legislators received “franks”-vouchers providing free telcgraph privileges-in apparently unlimited quantities. Alvin Harlow quoted a letter to a New York politician from a Western Union official:

Politicians of both major partics shared i n these bcnefits. I n 1873, Wcstern Union’s president, W i l l i a m Orton, told his board of directors that the company’s operations werc subject to government action at various levels, and that thc franks llad saved revcnue “ m a n y times the money value of the frec service.”’ Thc power cxeroised b y Western Union seems to have been uscd rutl~lesslywhen it camc under thc control of Jay Gould. His hold ovcr railroads, telegraph, newspapers, and politicians aroused exceptional fury, expressed in a song of thc 1880s:

The influcncc of thc comnlunications monopoly over the political situation of the era nay well have becn considerable. The monopoly was evcntually ended by Alexancler Graham Bell’s telephone, which generated its own web of wires. Wcstern Union tried to forestall this competition with patent litigation against the infant Bell company.

When in 1922 AT&l’ pionccred the selling of a i r time in the way newspaper space was sold, the idea was prorninently criticized as an offensive and unseemly intrusion of advertising into the home. A long-rangc political impact was foreseen b y few. Programming of every sort involvcs politicalimplications; it reflects a d i n turn reinforccsprcvailingcultural assumptions. The direct and indirect infl u c w e o f advcrtisers ovcr sponsored programming, a largc subject i n itself, is too complcx for detailed consideration here. But politicians and political scicntists havc gencrally becn most concerncd about the politician’s access to the broadcast media a s ;I means of access to the electorate. American c o ~ ~ ~ m c r cbroadcastcrs ial carly cstablished a close relationship with incurnl,ent Icgislators, not unlike the relationship built around the “franks” o f the Westcrn IJnioll monopoly.Legislators have regularly received frec time to “reporttotheirconstitucnts”-in effect, a boost toward reelection-and this has i n turn given broadcasting cxecutives reach access to lcgislatnrs. This close alliance has rcsemblcd thc Western IJnion-Associated Press alliance of carlicr days. Rut thc free tinlc has applicd only to 11011-campaign periods. During election campaigns, when time-seckcrs are oftun numerous and in nlany casesunlikely to he succcssful, broadcasting time has gcnerally becn availrlblc only on a for-sale h i s . This system h a s prevailed in the IJnited States. But i n most other Wcstern democracies,time for importantcampaigns has been availablefrec, by law, with allocatiom n ~ a c k011 ;I nlathenlatical basis-that is, i n proportion to party enrollment, to representation in :I Icgislaturc, or to votes in a previous clection. hilost European countrics havc outlawed thc sale of tinw €or political messages.

I'URLIC Acc14:ss

o 1i

Erik Barnouw (left) with Satyajit Ray (center) and a reporter at the Washington, D.C., premier of The Chess PZuyers at the JohnF. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. (Author's collecfion)

13

Lives of a Bengal Filmmaker: Satyajit Ray of Calcutta

147

The author’s brother Victor Barnouw. (Author’s collection)

14

GAMES CENSORSHIP in its wide sense-that is, the drawing of lincs that are not to be crossed-can be clisousscd from n ~ a n vperspectives, sincc m a n y kinds of people are involvcd in it or affected by it. I would like briefly to focus on the strangc-someti~llesl~izarre-rclationslli~s that develop between censors a n d thcir victims-or perhaps I should say, between censors and their beneficiaries, since there are diverse views on thc valuc of those interventiu7zs, as they have bcen called. I must confcss that having workcd in radio, then television, in ~ n a n y capxitics at various levels, in fiction and nonfiction, I have felt indignant on n~arlysides of n ~ a n yan altercation. But I remain fxcinated by thc games that are played i n the proccss. Our media take hierarchic forms, and it seems to me that Inuch game-playing goes 0 1 1 between thc levels. Thc games L?TCnot unlike those playcd within family circles. It is hard to imagine familyIifc without taboos and appcals to duty and to a sense of r e s p o ~ ~ s i l ~ i l i t y - t l ~ that ~ ~ ~ ~sceIn es sure to pcrvade discussions here at Ravcnna. So family life pro\ides carly training for rnedia tussles. As futurc censors, we get our first sense of what we can achieve in the way of control, and what good it may do us. As future victim, we gct our first practice in games o f resistance. Thus our title: “Games.” My O W I ~parcnts took seriously their role as parents. Both wcre very articulate. My father,born inHolland, was a highschooltcacller while we livcd therc. IIe was a more versatile scholar than this may suggest. I-Ic had studied thirteen languages including six dead ones, and could discuss at length, and with great ease, the language of the Visigoths and its influence on various rnodcrn languagcs. But he could not possibly bring himself to discuss sex with his chilclren. Our English motGer seems to have worried about this, and tried to persuade him todo so, but he was reluctant, and so, i n fact, was shc. Both, you see, were well brought up, so on this mattcr sclf-censorship

ovcr for commercial distribution byMercuryRecords, and won the support of the Music Operatorsof America, the association of jukebox operators. It was also introduced to a nationwide audience over the ABC network by the noted conductor Paul Mihiteman. “That Ignorant Cowbop” was condcmwcl bv cowboy Gcnc Autry, who siI 1c ’ 1 cowI ~ o y sarc not ignorant, but the Surgeon General gavc it warm support. In some cities local censorship discouraged its distribution. In others, such as Sa11 Francisco, the jukeboxcs worc out rr1any copies of the disk. “That Ignorant Cowboy” traces, step b y step, the evolution of a typical syphilis case. I like to think of our cowboy as a cultural succcssor to Fracastoro’s hapless shcplmd. I Icre IIOW is the cowboy. “ T H A T IGNORANT COWBOY”

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Erik Barnouw and his first wife, Dotty, who “introduced the doggie bag” into the Soviet Union. (Author’s collection)

15 Introducing the Dogge into the Soviet Union

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16 The Kaufman Saga: A Cold War Idyll I N 1071-72 I visited film arcliitn and studios in t\vciit!. countries in preparation for ;i histor\. of the documentary film. M y \vife, llott!., n u i t \\.it11 iiic; togctlicr \,ie\\,ed o \ r r sc\’cii liuiiclrccl filiiis. As \vc appro;iclicd hloscon. I felt ner\rous. Letters 1 had sen t four montlis earlier to its archive. documentary film studio and film makers’ association had ;ill gone unansu.cred. \\%at did this me;in? \\’ould o u r hlosco\\, research plans go do\\m the drain? Then in 13clgradc-last stop Iicforc hlosco\\r--a letter from the I1.S.S.R. a\\.aitcd us. M!. lctters had app;ircntl!- coiivcrgcd a t some point of authorit!. where ii dccisioii coulcl lie mnclc. I w i s g i \ m ;i plionc numlier to call 011 our arrival. ‘I’lic numlicr led iiic t o one 13ella I~:ptciii, a dynamic lad!. and zcalous film dc\.otcc. At llom Kino, the I louse of Film, she csplaincd in rapid Kussian-acccntccl Lnglisli: “This is the 1ieadqu;irters of the Association of F i l i i i Plakcrs. A scrccning rc)oiii is r c s e r i d f o r \ m i each morning. \/I!. task is to get \ m i the films I ~ L \\rant I to see, and arrange alipoiiitmciits. I did not kiion. if y o u kne\v Itussian; I assumed \OLI did not, so I h a \ r arraiigcd for ;I high school English tcaclicr, Son\.a Berkovska!.a, to 11c rclcasecl from Iier teacliing clutics during !.our sta\., to translate for \ m i . ” Astonishingl!~, this routine began the follo\ving morning, \\.it11 films from a \\.isli-list I had sent \\it11 1111’ letters. Tlic list bcgaii v i t h films of \’erto\r (Ilcnis Kaufnian) and his brother hlikliail Kaufman, Vcrto\,’s main ca1iicr;iiiiaii and the central character in thcir most famous filni, ‘I’hcMtiiz i\’ith the i\dc)llie C(imerti-\\hicIi ~ v a savailalilc in the ITnitcd States and n x sho\vn annuall\! a t Coluiiilia IInivcrsit\.. kl:iii\. of their other films had not liccn a\xilaldc, including soiiic cpisoclcs of their Kiizo I’rcndti, ne\vsrccls of 1922-25, and films mntlc In. hlikliail Kaufnian \\ritliout \krto\.. I discussed \\,it11 Rclla special interest in tlic Kaufiiian brothers.

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INDEX

Nagasaki, atomic hoiiibiiig of, 101-8 Nair, Rlir a , 1

Short ‘Ikiil, A (film),60 Sikkini (Ray), 147 silent films, 39, 54 Sintzcnich, Archie, 47 Sintzcnich, Arthur 11. C. “Ilal,” 39-6 1 Sintzcnich, Cedric I I . , 30 Smith, G. A,, 41, 42 “Snitch.” See Sintzcnich, A r t h u r I I C.“I Ial” Socicil Butterfly, A (short feature), 45 social films, 137 Social Security, 93-09, 132 Society of i&tion Picture Crafts1llcl1, 52 Solax studios, 50 Somir Kellu (‘l’he Goldeii 1;ortress) (Ray), 147 song-and-tlancc filnls, 137-38, I t 4 sorcery, 18, 19, 26 s01inc1 film, 137 So\;ict IJnion, 40, 61, 131, 161, 163-69 S p i n , 9, 24, 37 sports, 13 S t ;i nda r d Rate :ind I l a t ;i vol uiii c s (1930s), 125 star system, 61116 st;itc rights. 46 Steichcn, Edward J., 52 Stevenson, Adlai, 117 Stone, I’:zra, 0 2 Storck, I Icnri, 1 Stuart, Rolxrt, 74 stunt films, 137 Siihrrrririiie Eye, T h e (film), 40-47 subtitles, 137 “Sullivan, Kitty,” (13-W Sumncr, Charles A,, 1 1 0 Suiirrst. ( M u r n a u ) , 5 Svilova, F l i x a \ ~ t a 164, , 166

syiichroni/.cd specch, 33, 36 syphilis, 154-58

‘Iuhu (h/lurnau, Flahcrtv), 5 ‘Iigorc, Kal)inclranatli, I t 2 ‘liirget h i n w ‘I’inlc. (Montgonier!), 153 %man, Abcl I Ianszoon, ‘1 Tavlor, Ilavidson, 1 10 ‘Ikeii

Kuiiyu (Three 1 1 ~ 1 ~ 1 g h t ~ ‘ r ~ )

( R a v ) , 147 tclcgrapli, 1 19-20 tclephonc, 120-2 1 , 122 television, 2. 149; Amcrican programming \ \ d h k l e , 130-3 1; ;I tom ic Imn I i ngs hroa d ca st on, 106; censorship of, 152-54; “interactive,” 129; licensing of, 122; optical fibcrs and, 121, 122; p i y ing for programs, 132 ‘lkrror Islund ( f i l i i i ) , 61-62118 “ T h ~ i tIgnorant C O W ~ ~156-58 O~,” ‘I‘hcitlioyle Girl (Griffith), 54, 55-60 ‘I’hc~s,I I. Grant, 74-75 ?’his Is Arricricci film series, 1 I4 'Thorns, Olivc, 50 ‘I’hompson,Virgil, 3 ‘I’huiider o i i Sycuiriore Street (telc\.isioii play), 152-53 m i L , inc.. 65-08 ‘ l ’ i i i i e magazine, 1 54 Tokyo I3roadc;isting System (TBS),

106 ‘Ibpical Film Conilxiiiy, 42 Tormitius, Johanncs, 17-20 ‘liuiii Arriving ut Boirilxiy Stcitiori (film), 136 ‘liimblc, L,arry, 50 ’Trivclli, A. 1’. El., 21 ‘I rue Story Court of Iluriiuri Relut r o l l s , rl~lle, 151-52 r . Irue Story magazine, 15 1

Virgiii Komcince, A (film), 5 0 voting, 126, 127

d e r \\.a t c r c i ii c I n ;I t ()graph y , 30, 45-46. 47 11nion Film Company, 42 unions. 52, 101 IJnitcd Press 1ntcrn;itional (III'I),

i i 11

105 Ilnitcd Society of Cincm;itogr;ipliers, 52 Ilnitcd States, 0 , 12, 33; American a r m y in l~:iiropc,100-10; atomic Imiil,ings of Japan, 101-8; CCIIsorsliip in, 1 5 1-58; child labor 111, 94;Cold LVar and, 167; coiiiiiiunications brcakthroiighs in, 1 19-32; Founding Fathers of, 122, 123; international politics and, 130-31; Oehler in, 34, 35, 37; sale of air time in, 124-27; Iliiclc Sam figure. 70-80, 83, 86, 89, 00, 01; in Miorld \\':ir I, 47-49 (rnivcrsal studios, 44-45 Ilrlxiii, Charles, 41, 42, 40 I Irdu I;ingii;igc, 140 \/an Llongcn, I Ielcn, 3 \ h i l>!.Le. 13arlxira, 104

\ h i (hgli, Vincent, 13 \hrda, Agnes, 1 \/ciriety magazine. 1 0 5 , 107 \'enice Film Festival, 2 \krto\., Ilxiga, 163-64, 166 \/ictory (it Seu film series, 114 vidcophonc, 129 videotape. 127-28 Vigo, Jean. 164, 167

W d l k i n Durkncss (I labe), 1 14 walking narrator, 150 warfare, 7, 9 \V;irncr Communications, 124, 120 L V q Donx /Gist (Griffith), 54, 58 Wells, Carvcth, 60 \J%slcyan Ilniversit!., 73, 74, 75. 76-77 \\'cstcrii I1iiion Telegraph Co., 1 1% 22,122,124 Westinghouse, 124 \Vliite, I'carl, 5 0 \Vhiteman, Paul, 157 M'hitc liose, 'l'he (Griffith), 54, 55,

5s

iviltllife, on film, 30, 43, 44,50, 53 L\/illiamson, john Ernest, 45-46. 49, 50 \\'illimi the Silent, 9. 10, 14. 1 5 LVilson, \Vooclro\v, 45, 49 wireless phonographs, 72 Wor77ui7 God Sent, 'I'lie (Trimblc), 50 \Yoodcn shocs, 0 , 1 1 work, 94, 05-97 C\'orld L,aw Fund, 10 1 \\'orid \ \ h r I, 30, 43, 06, 166 \C'orld \Var 11: Nazi occupLitioii of Nctlierlands, 0, 10, 11, 13; Ratlio I.uscmlmirg, 10%14, 116, 117; IJ.S. war effort on homefront, 84-88

Zuitlcr Zcc, 7 Zukor, Adolf, 59