Operating a projection machine, when finally I became a full-fledged operator, seemed very wonderful to me for a long time but I slowly came to the realization that a future in the channel in which I was working held comparatively little promise for me.
The ultimate aim of the average operator's ambition in those days was to hold the important position as theatre manager, but a manager's salary of $25 a week did not appear to be very attractive to me.
While operating the projector I had plenty of time for contemplation of the future. The "coop," or operating booth was exceedingly small and confining. The heat of the rheostat and arc, and the noise of the projector eventually "got on my nerves," and to keep my mind occupied, I began counting the nail heads visible in the booth, instead of watching Maurice Costello emote on the screen. Even eight hours of emotion lost its interest to an operator particularly when he was projecting in a house in which the manager insisted on keeping the door of the projection room shut, thereby closing him from the eyes of the fair sex who always appeared to be admiring the mysterious operator during the time that the house was crowded to standing room.
Burnt Fingers
At a time when the monotony was becoming unbearable I was experiencing considerable trouble with connections burning off at the arc during the progress of the show. This resulted in my burning my fingers very often while putting on a new lug on a very hot arc lamp, all of which did not relieve my irritation in the least. So I decided to look for someone downtown that might manufacture a lug of quality.
A brother operator informed me of a place on Twelfth street, near Fourth avenue, run by a peculiar sort of man who acted rather unusually, as geniuses always do, but made the best lugs in the country. I did not lose much time getting to the establishment of the queer man.
Eberhard Schneider
A sign ever the door gave me the information that Eberhard Schneider made film machinery, did lens grinding, manufactured cameras, projectors, perforators and printers, etc. The store was located a few steps below the sidewalk. As I opened the door, the tinkling of a bell overhead announced my entry into the shop and I was soon greeted by Mr. Schneider with a smile of welcome.
With its profusion of instruments and mechanism, the store, to me, carried the atmosphere of a museum. The severity of the mechanical apparatus was relieved by the appearance of a young girl who was coloring slides near the window.
A peculiar instrument was mounted on a tripod nearby, and when the transaction of obtaining lugs for my projection arc was completed shortly, I had Mr. Schneider explain the peculiar instrument to me.
A Moving Picture Camera
"That," said Mr. Schneider, "is a moving picture camera." It was an aluminum box, 36 inches high. The objective was a projection lens. The camera was designed with a Geneva movement for propelling the film, having inside magazines mounted one over the other. The tripod was attached solidly to the camera. When desiring to panoram, the cameraman moved a lever which turned the camera to right or left. The panoramic action was actuated by the camera crank when shooting. If one wanted to "pan" rapidly, he simply cranked faster. My next trip to the store was for the purpose of obtaining condensers. The aluminum box was gone. Occupying its place was a Schneider camera using a slip-pin movement. The slip-pin movement consisted of two pins which folded down as the movement went up to engage in the perforations. As the movement reached its limit, the two little pins engaged in the perforations and pulled the film down. Reverse cranking was impossible. For focusing, a little tube was mounted along the side of the lens. The operator looked down in the tube, focusing on the surface of the film, instead of from the back of the film or ground glass as we do today.
As I absorbed the atmosphere of the Schneider shop, I gradually resolved to become a cinematographer. I made known my aspirations to him. For a long time he turned a deaf ear to my entreaties but I finally convinced him.
"Nothing Per"
I began as an apprentice at nothing a week- no, salary at all. Financially, there was a great deal of difference between that and the $15 per week that I had been drawing as a first class operator. But my enthusiasm and eagerness to learn my new calling, more than made up for the lack of remuneration, no matter how severely I may have felt it. Every nook and corner of the Schneider plant held some new interest for me and I was not satisfied until I had learned the why and wherefore of every piece of mechanism that the shop held. My job was my pastime. I lay awake at nights thinking of what I wanted to find out on the morrow. I could not get to work early enough and quitting time rolled around all too soon. The many interests in the place did not give me the chance to watch the clock, as I had so miserably done while I was in the projection "coop." The hours flew instead of dragged.
I did not seem to be able to learn enough to satisfy my curiosity. I reveled in the involved and technical explanations which Mr. Schneider gave me of his various devices. At first, perhaps, some of his explanations "went over my head" but it was not long until I had digested the trade expressions and was entirely at ease when Mr. Schneider turned loose his perplexing vocabulary on me.
Concerning Humor
Just as some of Mr. Schneider's technical expressions "went over my head," his deep-rooted and quiet sense of humor did likewise. It was not until I had been working for him for some time that I began to appreciate that sense of humor- a sense of humor which might be well called a serious sense of humor. And I rather suspect that his humor was working full blast when he assigned me my first job as "cameraman."
"Victor," he said (as I recall it now, there must have been a twinkle in his eye), "one of the first things, that a cameraman should learn is how to paint. He must be a good painter before he can be a good cameraman."
Getting the Fire Escape Painted
Whereupon he informed me that he was going to allow me to use his favorite green paint to paint the fire escape which stretched from the roof to the ground of the three story house in which his shop was located. So I daubed and smeared for four long weeks, wondering all the time how this was going to help me to manipulate lenses, or to learn the secrets of the camera, never daring, however, to question his wisdom in giving me the task to which I had been assigned.
Dark Room
I was finally allowed to enter the sanctity of the dark room. It was located in the cellar, so you see I began at the top of the building and worked to the bottom, instead of beginning at the bottom and working up. The film was developed on a 200-foot drum in a half-moon tray holding a few gallons of developer. The drum was turned by hand, a good method for developing muscles for a championship fight. The negative was carried until the image showed clearly on the back of the film. To inspect the density of the negative, the drum was stopped, leaving one-quarter of the negative in the developer while the sides and the upper part of the drum were high and dry.
No Dust-Proof Rooms
After development, the drum was lifted into the hypo tray. The film was dried on a big drum which was not revolved as is done in the great laboratories of today. Nor was the drying drum located in a dust-proof room. A little more or less dust on the film while drying did not matter. Rack flashes and developing fluctuations were unnoticed.
From the dark room I went to the perforating machine. The perforator was a slow, two-punch machine which took an eternity to punch a single roll. Here my patience was tried to the utmost. One day the punches on the die broke so that instead of perforating a clean-cut hole, a jagged opening was made with the result that I had to strip the ragged ends off each of the perforations along a couple hundred feet of film. But I liked my job in spite of it all.
The printing machine was of the step printer type. Two hundred feet could be printed in about a half hour, and for printing quality it could nor be equalled. Developing of negative film, and making a print was charged at the rate of, including the positive stock, 12 cents a foot.
Among the Chemicals
Finally I was introduced to the mysteries of the chemical room. This room was the pride of the establishment. It was filled with hundreds of bottles lined on shelves against the walls. Bottles of chemicals were placed so that the smallest were at one end of the shelf and graduated until the largest bottles were reached at the opposite end of the shelf. Never was there a bottle a fraction of an inch out of line. The labels were all turned uniformly outward. If I went into the chemical room and failed to replace a bottle in its exact mathematical position, Mr. Schneider was sure to detect my blunder, even if the bottle were out of line only the breadth of a hair it seemed, and I was sure to be reprimanded for my carelessness.
Tinting and toning was done on pin racks holding 104 feet of film which were immersed in small trays. The toning and tinting process greatly appealed to me. I always admired Mr. Schneider's method of siphoning the aniline dyes from the five gallon demijohns in which they were kept. His method was to insert a rubber-tube, something more than a foot long; into the demijohn and then to suck on the tube until the dye began to flow. He would direct the stream of dye into the tray and when enough had flowed out, he would pinch the tube, thereby arresting the flow of dye.
One day when I had the duty assigned to me to tint some positive, I had the misfortune to try to siphon some aniline red which was needed for the process. But immediately after I had put my mouth to the tube I found that the method of siphoning was not as simple as I had imagined. Instead of "letting go" just at the time the aniline began to flow out of the tube I allowed myself to drink a pint or so of the red and when I finally regained presence of mind to withdraw the tube from my mouth, what I hadn't drunk spilled on the floor or ran down the corners of my mouth or spilled over my clothes. For a week later I appeared as it I had murdered half the population of New York City, while the red splotches on the floor would not yield to my most ardent efforts to eradicate them. I scrubbed and I scoured but to no avail, while all the time I was being reprimanded by Mr. Schneider for my carelessness. In fact, I thought the time had come when I was to part my ways with the Schneider establishment. Incidentally, I was recently informed that when the Schneider building was sold some time ago, the purchaser inquired whether anybody had been murdered on the spot where I dropped the aniline red.
Victor Milner, "Fade Out and Slowly Fade In," American Cinematographer, October, 1923, pages 12, 16, 17.
© 1998, David Pierce, on editing and revisions (if any)
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