ASTONISHING FIND: 3D Movies from the American Civil War!

AMAZING DISCOVERY: Actual motion pictures made during the American Civil War! 

Yes. . . here they are, in all their quaking glory: real movies from 1860, fully 28 years before the so-called "first motion picture",  Roundhay Garden. While Roundhay (filmed in 1888) lasts barely a second, these Civil War movies go on forever! They simply never STOP!

(Roundhay Garden, 1888, which lasts barely a second).

As if this weren't incredible enough, these remarkable historical 
artifacts are filmed in 3D!

Burn the textbooks!

Discard all known film studies!

Fie on Edison, what did HE know!

To fully understand the phenomenon of 3D Movies from the American Civil War, we must take a look at film technology. When still images are rapidly displayed in sequence, the illusion of motion is created. So it was with Roundhay Garden (5 frames). But just LOOK at these amazing Civil War images! An astounding illusion of motion is created using, in most cases, only two or three frames. And it never stops! The movement just continues. This would have driven Edison crazy! 

As is the case with all serious creative endeavours, these superb historic dramas prove the maxim "less is more".  With a mere jerk, twitch, and spasm, this remarkable gentleman transports us to another time, another place. And look closely at the details, the furniture, the clothing, as it wobbles and lurches and twists, to fully appreciate the eerie 3D effect! 

As with all major historical discoveries, disagreements and controversies have arisen, particularly about the state of mind and health of these subjects. Eager to push their own petty agendas, some historians have suggested that they may have had untreated neurological disorders.  Seismologists have a very different interpretation of the same data, as do entomologists who have suggested the possibility of a parasitic invasion. 

Few give credence to the cynical claim that these movies are dismissable because they (in the words of one ignorant critic) "have no plot". But what they admittedly lack in story line, they more than make up for in sheer mesmerizing sameness. Only the subtle shifting from one frame to the next creates that uncanny sense of motion: the vertiginous feeling that the floor under your feet is being violently shaken.

Along with thoughtful historical interpretation has come the usual  lunacy from extremists. Suggestions that this fine lady is sitting on a Hula Chair is not only disrespectful but impossible (unless she is, as one disreputable quasi-historian has hinted, a time traveller). The suggestion that she is astride one of those Victorian  medical vibrators is equally ridiculous, though it would explain why her suitor can't keep his eyes off her.

Film historians are beginning to discuss possible titles for these newly-discovered Civil War epics. A working title for this particular motion picture is, "The Man Holds Up His Hat".

"The Men Lean On The Clock."

"Shake, Rattle n' Roll."

"I Lost My Boots in San Francisco."

"Can't Stop Fiddling with This Pencil".

"I AM Sitting on a Hula Chair".

"Don't Go to My Barber, He Can't Trim a Beard"

"Yep - I Told You It Would Happen".

Blogger's explanation. OK, I hate explaining myself, but a friend of mine asked why he was seeing only flickering old photos and not movies. Well, technically he IS seeing movies, but they're only two or three frames long. These were taken for stereoscopes - your old Granny might have had one. This was a viewer with double-image cards that, when viewed as one image, "sort of" looked like 3D. The effect is kind of like those gifs from ten or fifteen years ago that everyone raved about. The effect is an optical illusion from having two slightly different perspectives shuffled back and forth. So I would assume the photographer snapped two photos from slightly different angles. This is why some of them have alarming changes in body posture, heads bobbing up and down, people disappearing and reappearing, etc. BUT, technically speaking, these ARE movies! I will post a link below written by a historian, claiming the same thing. So I'm not quite as ditzy as I seem. 

motion-pictures-from-the-civil-war

David Hasselhoff - Hooked on a Feeling

I got thinking about the Golden Age of YouTube, and how fun things were then, when bizarre old videos popped up out of nowhere. I have fifty-odd assembled in a playlist:

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLv59M8aSlCSbliH1XhGnK_S3bAhBN6KQM

These include such standards as Gay Boyfriend, the Diet Coke and Mentos rocket, putting a cell phone in the microwave, Jan Terri, Mr. Trololo, John Daker, and (of course) the Double Rainbow guy (who actually got a playlist of his own).

YouTube has changed, and not for the better. It has gotten very slick, and very crowded. It's full of noise, noise, noise, noise. Everyone is hustling and trying to make a living and begging us to subscribe, like, thumbs-up, click, click, click. There is still nice stuff in there, but you really have to comb. My own stuff gets hardly any views at all, no matter how many hours I put into them, but appalling half-minute wobbly out-of-focus pieces of junk get hundreds of thousands.

Not that I care! But it would be nice to think someone, some day, might want to look at them.

It was nice and reassuring to be able to find most of the ones I remembered, though there are a few stragglers. I remember a band consisting of three incredibly old women, a singer, a pianist and someone on a drum kit. Their music was astounding, Lawrence Welk played on the wrong speed, and the audience was even more surprising in that it looked as if most of them were dead. If this video is still up there, I can't find it because I don't have the right search terms. It may have been a cable access program, which many of these are (including the Junior Christian Science Bible Lesson videos, which are beyond my powers to describe). I don't know if I included the Screaming Preacher or not. Maybe he should have his own playlist. Maybe his own planet.

I think I'm going out of my head

Ah yes, Georges Melies. I keep encountering him, this odd little Frenchie/genius. The other night (I still have a hangover from it), Turner Classics had a special on him. Sixteen short films. Sixteen. Ay-ay-ay. These are hallucinatory otherworlds, the strangest things I've ever seen.

He started in France, a hotbed of early film, around 1896, when the medium was so new it was mostly seen as a form of amusement, a toy. No one saw the potential in it. An accomplished magician and visual artist extraordinaire, Melies began to film some of his more potent stunts. Audiences loved it: and to this day, more than 110 years later, they still ask themselves, "How did he do that?"

This weird and funny business with the heads, technically remarkable for its day, was made (incredibly) in 1898, back when a sneeze or an unromantic kiss was considered filmworthy. The unbelievable split-exposure film in his one-man band was later ripped off by no less a personage than Buster Keaton, who was credited with inventing it. Much, much later, Oscar Levant tried the same thing in An American in Paris. Ho, hum.

The Melies experience last night wasn't entirely pleasant. Those early, quick, magical stunts were fun, though filmed in a static manner, with one camera in long shot pointing at a stage. (Please forgive the horrible cropping and truncated music in this clip: it wasn't me.) This seemed to indicate that Melies' imagination sometimes ran ahead of his skills as a cinematographer/director, so that he never attained the revered status of a Fritz Lang or a Murnau.

As his films evolved, florid sets made of cardboard and papier-mache seethed and quivered visibly in the background. Leaping devils (a Melies favorite) appeared and disappeared, and lovely maidens in white gauze tiptoed in and out (or flew through the air in a way which seems to explain the inspired lunacy of Monty Python's Terry Gilliam. I don't know how much Melies Gilliam watched, but maybe he was infected with the same moonstruck folly.)

Or folie. These little weirdies had little or no discernable plot, to the point that a man with a French accent thicker than mayonnaise had to narrate the incomprehensible action. While we listened to his bizarre Clousea-esque pronunciation, with the em-PHA-sis on the wrong syl-LA-ble, we (or I) became more and more disoriented. Things were blowing up. People were winking out, or jumping out of things. Man went to the moon in a giant bullet, landing in the eye of a nasty-looking guy with white icing all over his face.

I didn't last the full sixteen films, but kept fast-forwarding my PVR recording, skipping over some florid hand-colored things in which the color wavered and strobed like some sort of acid-inspired hallucination.

Obviously, this fellow colored outside the lines of reality.

I don't know a lot about Melies, and right now I'm too exhausted to find out. Robert Osborne, who must be very ill because he is 50 pounds lighter and could barely speak, told us something I had already read somewhere.

Most of Melies' 500-or-so films were destroyed, and for a very practical reason. His studio went bankrupt in 1913 (for Melies had lost his audience, too baffled to sit through all that escalating strangeness), and his movies were stashed away, only to be confiscated by the French government when World War I broke out.

His films were made of celluloid (or -lose, can't remember which), a substance that had real value to the army: they were melted down to make boot heels for the soldiers. So all those men, dying in the trenches and singing "inky binky polly voo" (just kidding - that was the Americans) were literally walking all over him.

A sad and ignominious end for a unique and very strange artist, who seemed to want to do Spielberg-esque effects with cardboard and smoke bombs. But these two little gems are enjoyable and, in true Melies style, a little bit creepy.

And no, I don't know how he did that.

L´homme orchestre George Melies