by Peter Watson
It was Wilbur who wrote to the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C., on 30 May 1899 to ask for advice on books to read about flying, describing himself as ‘an enthusiast but not a crank.’51 Born in 1867, thus just thirty-two at the time, Wilbur was four years older than Orville. Though they were always a true brother-brother team, Wilbur usually took the lead, especially in the early years. The sons of a United Brethren minister (and later a bishop) in Dayton, Ohio, the Wright brothers were brought up to be resourceful, pertinacious, and methodical. Both had good brains and a mechanical aptitude. They had been printers and bicycle manufacturers and repairers. It was the bicycle business that gave them a living and provided modest funds for their aviation; they were never financed by anyone.52 Their interest in flying was kindled in the 1890s, but it appears that it was not until Otto Lilienthal, the great German pioneer of gliding, was killed in 1896 that they actually did anything about their new passion. (Lilienthal’s last words were, ‘Sacrifices must be made.’)53
The Wrights received a reply from the Smithsonian rather sooner than they would now, just three days after Wilbur had written to them: records show that the reading list was despatched on 2 June 1899. The brothers set about studying the problem of flight in their usual methodical way. They immediately grasped that it wasn’t enough to read books and watch birds – they had to get up into the air themselves. Therefore they started their practical researches by building a glider. It was ready by September 1900, and they took it to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, the nearest place to their home that had constant and satisfactory winds. In all, they built three gliders between 1900 and 1902, a sound commercial move that enabled them to perfect wing shape and to develop the rear rudder, another of their contributions to aeronautical technology.54 In fact, they made such good progress that by the beginning of 1903 they thought they were ready to try powered flight. As a source of power, there was only one option: the internal combustion engine. This had been invented in the late 1880s, yet by 1903 the brothers could find no engine light enough to fit onto an aircraft. They had no choice but to design their own. On 23 September 1903, they set off for Kitty Hawk with their new aircraft in crates. Because of unanticipated delays – broken propeller shafts and repeated weather problems (rain, storms, biting winds) – they were not ready to fly until 11 December. But then the wind wasn’t right until the fourteenth. A coin was tossed to see who was to make the first flight, and Wilbur won. On this first occasion, the Flyer climbed too steeply, stalled, and crashed into the sand. On the seventeenth, after Orville’s triumph, the landings were much gentler, enabling three more flights to be made that day.55 It was a truly historic moment, and given the flying revolution that we now take so much for granted, one might have expected the Wrights’ triumph to be front-page news. Far from it. There had been so many crackpot schemes that newspapers and the public were thoroughly sceptical about flying machines. In 1904, even though the Wrights made 105 flights, they spent only forty-five minutes in the air and made only two five-minute flights. The U.S. government turned down three offers of an aircraft from the Wrights without making any effort to verify the brothers’ claims. In 1906 no airplanes were constructed, and neither Wilbur nor Orville left the ground even once. In 1907 they tried to sell their invention in Britain, France, and Germany. All attempts failed. It was not until 1908 that the U.S. War Department at last accepted a bid from the Wrights; in the same year, a contract was signed for the formation of a French company.56 It had taken four and a half years to sell this revolutionary concept.
The principles of flight could have been discovered in Europe. But the Wright brothers were raised in that practical culture described by Richard Hofstadter, which played a part in their success. In a similar vein a group of painters later called the Ashcan school, on account of their down-to-earth subject matter, shared a similar pragmatic and reportorial approach to their art. Whereas the cubists, Fauves, and abstractionists concerned themselves with theories of beauty or the fundamentals of reality and matter, the Ashcan school painted the new landscape around them in vivid detail, accurately portraying what was often an ugly world. Their vision (they didn’t really share a style) was laid out at a groundbreaking exhibition at the Macbeth Gallery in New York.57
The leader of the Ashcan school was Robert Henri (1865–1929), descended from French Huguenots who had escaped to Holland during the Catholic massacres of the late sixteenth century.58 Worldly, a little wild, Henri, who visited Paris in 1888, became a natural magnet for other artists in Philadelphia, many of whom worked for the local press: John Sloan, William Glackens, George Luks.59 Hard-drinking, poker playing, they had the newspaperman’s eye for detail and a sympathy – sometimes a sentimentality – for the underdog. They met so often they called themselves Henri’s Stock Company.60 Henri later moved to the New York School of Art, where he taught George Bellows, Stuart Davis, Edward Hopper, Rockwell Kent, Man Ray, and Leon Trotsky. His influence was huge, and his approach embodied the view that the American people should ‘learn the means of expressing themselves in their own time and in their own land.’61
The most typical Ashcan school art was produced by John Sloan (1871–1951), George Luks (1867–1933), and George Bellows (1882–1925). An illustrator for the Masses, a left-wing periodical of social commentary that included John Reed among its contributors, Sloan sought what he called ‘bits of joy’ in New York life, colour plucked from the grim days of the working class: a few moments of rest on a ferry, a girl stretching at the window of a tenement, another woman smelling the washing on the line – all the myriad ways that ordinary people seek to blunt, or even warm, the sharp, cold life at the bottom of the pile.62
George Luks and George Bellows, an anarchist, were harsher, less sentimental.63 Luks painted New York crowds, the teeming congestion in its streets and neighbourhoods. Both he and Bellows frequently represented the boxing and wrestling matches that were such a feature of working-class life and so typical of the raw, naked struggle among the immigrant communities. Here was life on the edge in every way. Although prize fighting was illegal in New York in the 1900s, it nonetheless continued. Bellows’s painting Both Members of This Club, originally entitled A Nigger and a White Man, reflected the concern that many had at the time about the rise of the blacks within sports: ‘If the Negro could beat the white, what did that say about the Master Race?’64 Bellows, probably the most talented painter of the school, also followed the building of Penn Station, the construction of which, by McKim, Mead and White, meant boring a tunnel halfway under Manhattan and the demolition of four entire city blocks between Thirty-first and Thirty-third Streets. For years there was a huge crater in the centre of New York, occupied by steam shovels and other industrial appliances, flames and smoke and hundreds of workmen. Bellows transformed these grimy details into things of beauty.65
The achievement of the Ashcan School was to pinpoint and report the raw side of New York immigrant life. Although at times these artists fixed on fleeting beauty with a generally uncritical eye, their main aim was to show people at the bottom of the heap, not so much suffering, but making the most of what they had. Henri also taught a number of painters who would, in time, become leading American abstractionists.66
At the end of 1903, in the same week that the Wright brothers made their first flight, and just two blocks from the Flatiron Building, the first celluloid print of The Great Train Robbery was readied in the offices of Edison Kinetograph, on Twenty-third Street. Thomas Edison was one of a handful of people in the United States, France, Germany, and Britain who had developed silent movies in the mid-1890s.
Between then and 1903 there had been hundreds of staged fictional films, though none had been as long as The Great Train Robbery, which lasted for all of six minutes. There had been chase movies before, too, many produced in Britain right at the end of the nineteenth century. But they used one camera to tell a simple story simply. The Great Train Robbery, directed and edited by Edwin Porter, was much more sophisticated and am
bitious than anything that had gone before. The main reason for this was the way Porter told the story. Since its inception in France in 1895, when the Lumière brothers had given the first public demonstration of moving pictures, film had explored many different locations, to set itself apart from theatre. Cameras had been mounted on trains, outside the windows of ordinary homes, looking in, even underwater. But in The Great Train Robbery, in itself an ordinary robbery followed by a chase, Porter in fact told two stories, which he intercut. That’s what made it so special. The telegraph operator is attacked and tied up, the robbery takes place, and the bandits escape. At intervals, however, the operator is shown struggling free and summoning law enforcement. Later in the film the two narratives come together as the posse chase after the bandits.67 We take such ‘parallel editing’ – intercutting between related narratives – for granted now. At the time, however, people were fascinated as to whether film could throw light on the stream of consciousness, Bergson’s notions of time, or Husserl’s phenomenology. More practical souls were exercised because parallel editing added immeasurably to the psychological tension in the film, and it couldn’t be done in the theatre.68 In late 1903 the film played in every cinema in New York, all ten of them. It was also responsible for Adolph Zukor and Marcus Loew leaving their fur business and buying small theatres exclusively dedicated to showing movies. Because they generally charged a nickel for entry, they became known as ‘nickelodeons.’ Both William Fox and Sam Warner were fascinated enough by Porter’s Robbery to buy their own movie theatres, though before long they each moved into production, creating the studios that bore their names.69
Porter’s success was built on by another man who instinctively grasped that the inrimate nature of film, as compared with the theatre, would change the relationship between audience and actor. It was this insight that gave rise to the idea of the movie star. David Wark (D. W.) Griffith was a lean man with grey eyes and a hooked nose. He appeared taller than he was on account of the high-laced hook shoes he wore, which had loops above their heels for pulling them on – his trouser bottoms invariably rode up on the loops. His collar was too big, his string tie too loose, and he liked to wear a large hat when large hats were no longer the fashion. He looked a mess, but according to many, he ‘was touched by genius.’ He was the son of a Confederate Kentucky colonel, ‘Roaring Jake’ Griffith, the only man in the army who, so it was said, could shout to a soldier five miles away.70 Griffith had begun life as an actor but transferred to movies by selling story synopses (these were silent movies, so no scripts were necessary). When he was thirty-two he joined an early film outfit, the Biograph Company in Manhattan, and had been there about a year when Mary Pickford walked in. Born in Toronto in 1893, she was sixteen. Originally christened Gladys Smith, she was a precocious if delicate child. After her father was killed in a paddle-steamer accident, her mother, in reduced circumstances, had been forced to let the master bedroom of their home to a theatrical couple; the husband was a stage manager at a local theatre. This turned into Gladys’s opportunity, for he persuaded Charlotte Smith to let her two daughters appear as extras. Gladys soon found she had talent and liked the life. By the time she was seven, she had moved to New York where, at $15 a week, the pay was better. She was now the major breadwinner of the family.71
In an age when the movies were as young as she, theatre life in New York was much more widespread. In 1901–2, for example, there were no fewer than 314 plays running on or off Broadway, and it was not hard for someone with Gladys’s talent to find work. By the time she was twelve, her earnings were $40 a week. When she was fourteen she went on tour with a comedy, The Warrens of Virginia, and while she was in Chicago she saw her first film. She immediately grasped the possibilities of the new medium, and using her recently created and less harsh stage name Mary Pickford, she applied to several studios. Her first efforts failed, but her mother pushed her into applying for work at the Biograph. At first Griffith thought Mary Pickford was ‘too little and too fat’ for the movies. But he was impressed by her looks and her curls and asked her out for dinner; she refused.72 It was only when he asked her to walk across the studio and chat with actors she hadn’t met that he decided she might have screen appeal. In those days, movies were short and inexpensive to make. There was no such thing as a makeup assistant, and actors wore their own clothes (though by 1909 there had been some experimentation with lighting techniques). A director might make two or three pictures a week, usually on location in New York. In 1909, for example, Griffith made 142 pictures.73
After an initial reluctance, Griffith gave Pickford the lead in The Violin-Maker of Cremona in 1909.74 A buzz went round the studio, and when it was first screened in the Biograph projection room, the entire studio turned up to watch. Pickford went on to play the lead in twenty-six more films before the year was out.
But Mary Pickford’s name was not yet known. Her first review in the New York Dramatic Mirror of 21 August 1909 read, ‘This delicious little comedy introduced again an ingenue whose work in Biograph pictures is attracting attention.’ Mary Pickford was not named because all the actors in Griffith’s movies were, to begin with, anonymous. But Griffith was aware, as this review suggests, that Pickford was attracting a following, and he raised her wages quietly from $40 to $100 a week, an unheard-of figure for a repertory actor at that time.75 She was still only sixteen.
Three of the great innovations in filmmaking occurred in Griffith’s studio. The first change came in the way movies were staged. Griffith began to direct actors to come on camera, not from right or left as they did in the theatre, but from behind the camera and exit toward it. They could therefore be seen in long range, medium range, and even close-up in the same shot. The close-up was vital in shifting the emphasis in movies to the looks of the actor as much as his or her talent. The second revolution occurred when Griffith hired another director. This allowed him to break out of two-day films and plan bigger projects, telling more complex stories. The third revolution built on the first and was arguably the most important.76 Florence Lawrence, who was marketed as the ‘Biograph Girl’ before Mary, left for another company. Her contract with the new studio contained an unprecedented clause: anonymity was out; instead she would be billed under her own name, as the ‘star’ of her pictures. Details about this innovation quickly leaked all over the fledgling movie industry, with the result that it was not Lawrence who took the best advantage of the change she had wrought. Griffith was forced to accept a similar contract with Mary Pickford, and as 1909 gave way to 1910, she prepared to become the world’s first movie star.77
A vast country, teeming with immigrants who did not share a common heritage, America was a natural home for the airplane and the mass-market movie, every bit as much as the skyscraper. The Ashcan school recorded the poverty that most immigrants endured when they arrived in the country, but it also epitomised the optimism with which most of the emigrés regarded their new home. The huge oceans on either side of the Americas helped guarantee that the United States was isolated from many of the irrational and hateful dogmas and idealisms of Europe which these immigrants were escaping. Instead of the grand, all-embracing ideas of Freud, Hofmannsthal, or Brentano, the mystical notions of Kandinsky, or the vague theories of Bergson, Americans preferred more practical, more limited ideas that worked, relishing the difference and isolation from Europe. That pragmatic isolation would never go away entirely. It was, in some ways, America’s most precious asset.
* The elevator also played its part. This was first used commercially in 1889 in the Demarest Building in New York, fitted by Otis Brothers & Co., using the principle of a drum driven by an electric motor through a ‘worm gear reduction.’ The earliest elevators were limited to a height of about 150 feet, ten storeys or so, because more rope could not be wound upon the drum.
6
E = mc2, ⊃ / ≡ / v + C7H38O43
Pragmatism was an American philosophy, but it was grounded in empiricism, a much older notion, spawned in Euro
pe. Although figures such as Nietzsche, Bergson, and Husserl became famous in the early years of the century, with their wide-ranging monistic and dogmatic theories of explanation (as William James would have put it), there were many scientists who simply ignored what they had to say and went their own way. It is a mark of the division of thought throughout the century that even as philosophers tried to adapt to science, science ploughed on, hardly looking over its shoulder, scarcely bothered by what the philosophers had to offer, indifferent alike to criticism and praise. Nowhere was this more apparent than in the last half of the first decade, when the difficult groundwork was completed in several hard sciences. (‘Hard’ here has two senses: first, intellectually difficult; second, concerning hard matters, the material basis of phenomena.) In stark contrast to Nietzsche and the like, these men concentrated their experimentation, and resulting theories, on very restricted aspects of the observable universe. That did not prevent their results having a much wider relevance, once they were accepted, which they soon were.
The best example of this more restricted approach took place in Manchester, England, on the evening of 7 March 1911. We know about the event thanks to James Chadwick, who was a student then but later became a famous physicist. A meeting was held at the Manchester Literary and Philosophical Society, where the audience was made up mainly of municipal worthies – intelligent people but scarcely specialists. These evenings usually consisted of two or three talks on diverse subjects, and that of 7 March was no exception. A local fruit importer spoke first, giving an account of how he had been surprised to discover a rare snake mixed in with a load of Jamaican bananas. The next talk was delivered by Ernest Rutherford, professor of physics at Manchester University, who introduced those present to what is certainly one of the most influential ideas of the entire century – the basic structure of the atom. How many of the group understood Rutherford is hard to say. He told his audience that the atom was made up of ‘a central electrical charge concentrated at a point and surrounded by a uniform spherical distribution of opposite electricity equal in amount.’ It sounds dry, but to Rutherford’s colleagues and students present, it was the most exciting news they had ever heard. James Chadwick later said that he remembered the meeting all his life. It was, he wrote, ‘a most shattering performance to us, young boys that we were…. We realised that this was obviously the truth, this was it.1