The Shape of Spectatorship: Art, Science, and Early Cinema in Germany

Probably no contemporary invention has generated quite as much discussion in the daily press and in daily conversation as the cinema. Everywhere new theaters shoot up overnight like mushrooms. Our cities at night can no longer be imagined without the beaming portals of the movie houses. But it’s not just the simple folk pushing themselves through these “narrow gates of grace.” The educated class, as well as science and the schools, the state, the city, and rural communities have all grasped the cultural significance of cinema and have taken a step closer to the establishment and utilization of their own film theaters. Who would look upon this burning question with indifference?

Whatever cinema is, it has always been many things to many people. Even in 1912, it was clear to a reformer such as Adolf Sellmann that a variety of interest groups and interested parties, from scientists to educators to town councils, were using motion picture technology. Each group recognized cinema’s “cultural significance” and power or acknowledged its inevitability, but not every group agreed on how motion pictures should be used, either in the public sphere or, especially, within the boundaries of the group or discipline. Everybody had their reasons for using motion pictures, and those reasons often diverged. This book attempts to understand how various disciplines or communities used motion pictures. What did cinema mean to these groups? What were the criteria for the acceptance of motion pictures as a tool within a given discipline? What problems presented themselves such that motion pictures were considered a solution? This book explores these questions to discover the criteria for the legitimacy of a new media technology within the disciplines of science (specifically, human motion studies, physics, and biology), medicine, education, and aesthetics in Germany before World War I.

These disciplines correspond roughly to the familiar historical trajectory of early cinema, from its roots in scientific research to its early bids for acceptance as an art form. Taken together, they also represent the heterogeneity of early cinema, not only in terms of the many types of films available during this period but also with respect to the varied venues, audiences, and uses of the medium. Additionally, they typify relatively well-defined communities with strong, native traditions, where, outside of the entertainment industry, the liveliest discussion of motion pictures took place during cinema’s early period. This listing obviously leaves out the entertainment industry, but questions of appropriation and legitimacy are less interesting in this area (at least to me), where the criterion for acceptance of film within that industry was clear, even tautological, in that the medium only had to prove its commercial viability and little else. So with its focus on the way groups used film for purposes other than entertainment, this study is aligned primarily with recent work in nontheatrical uses of film.²

However, even within the framework of “useful cinema” and the good work that has been done to define that area of film history, questions of appropriation and legitimacy are not often explicitly asked. While we know much about the use of motion pictures in the classroom in the 1920s, for example, we still know comparatively little about the state of pedagogical theory and practice at that time and why some groups within the discipline saw motion pictures as a partial solution to a variety of problems, and why others did not. We know little of their disciplinary agenda. Perhaps inevitably, we approach these questions as film historians, not as historians of education. Yet to understand fully any given appropriation, we must fully understand the agenda that shapes it. There is an intimate and complex relationship between any technology and the agenda that makes use of it. The technology is not merely applied to a problem; the problem presents itself in part because of the technology. What any scientist investigates, for example, is partly due to what the available technology makes available for investigation. Historians of science are very good at demonstrating the dialectical relationship between tools, theories, and representations, which shows us that we cannot take “use” for granted; the criteria for use of any given tool within a given discipline are not obvious. As different groups used media technologies for their different purposes, the nature of those appropriations changed, and in a significant way, so did the medium. “What cinema is” for one group was not necessarily the same as for another. Indeed, the nature of the appropriation often depended on what the agents thought film was. So there was more to “use” than simply taking a camera, recording an event, and projecting it; the representational problems faced by any given discipline shaped its appropriation of (media) technology. Understanding those representational problems demands an intimate knowledge of the historical contexts and camps of that discipline.

So this project is not just about the encounter between other disciplines and film but the encounter between other disciplines and film studies. Specifically, each chapter stages a meeting between methods or approaches common to film studies and those of the history of science, the philosophy of medicine, the history of education, or the history of aesthetics. What does the result of such an assignation look like? What can we take away from such an encounter? Or, to put it another way, what can we reasonably expect from interdisciplinary research? Max Weber has his hand up: “With every piece of work that strays into neighboring territory … we must resign ourselves to the realization that the best we can hope for is to provide the expert with useful questions of the sort that he may not easily discover for himself from his own vantage point inside his discipline.”³ “Useful questions,” however, are rarely presented as such; they are instead approaches or agendas that seem foreign at first, yet bear on our own. To formulate them as questions, we need to know the discipline well enough to recognize the pattern common to the approaches. So interdisciplinary research should be more than cherry-picking a few juicy quotations from an exciting discovery in another field; it must entail some significant level of immersion. What useful questions does the history of science, for example, provide film and media studies, and vice versa? As hinted above, one broad question could be: What is the relationship between technology and a disciplinary agenda? This ambitious question might be answered only after an accumulation of case studies, but it is useful for film and media studies, because it leads us to speculate about the tangible relationship between a representational technology and a community’s conception of the object of study. Another question might be something like: What is the relationship between a technology and other elements of the experimental system? This question forces us away from our habitual focus on film and toward an understanding of film and media technologies as part of a larger experimental arrangement or as part of a technological group along the lines of what Germans call a Medienverbund, or “media ensemble.”⁴ With the help of the history of science, we can see film in these contexts as an important but nevertheless interdependent part of an experimental system or a larger institutional project.⁵ Each disciplinary encounter in the following chapters results, I hope, in a different set of similarly useful questions.

What can film historians bring to the table? We can bring different kinds of answers. Our training in close analysis heightens our sensitivity to formal relationships that rely on analogies and homologies as well as causal or empirical connections. This would be useful, because the acceptance or legitimacy of any given technology for a discipline hinges not simply on the tool’s function for a particular task but also on how that technology fits into a larger disciplinary system. A wrench is useful because it fits the bolt; certain parts of the bolt and wrench have similar shapes. In fact, the formal features of each determine their use, or vice versa; there is no reason to use the wrench on the bolt, except for this formal relationship. Likewise, film as a tool must have fit the object, task, and system of which it was a part. This fit was variable, because any given technology as complex as motion pictures is not a single thing but multiply adaptable to various agendas, so the relationship between them might be successful or not. The relationship was shaped discursively, too: the convergence between a technology and a discipline depended on the successful appropriation of the technology but also on the successful preparation of the discipline or agenda for that technology. If wrench and bolt are designed together from the start, the mutual shaping of film and discipline happened over time and was just as discursive as practical. That is, as mentioned earlier, the fit between a research task and film often depends on what the agents think film is, as well as the analogical relationship between a technology and a system (such as how the film frame isolates an object in a way similar to how experiments attempt to isolate objects and variables). Film and media studies is especially good at teasing out film-theoretical assumptions and finding formal connections. So a useful question could be: To what extent can the formal features of a technology and its representational products explain the relationship between that technology and the research agenda? This is a useful question for historians of science, because the significance of formal features of their objects of study rarely takes precedence.

More than a book about Germany, science, aesthetics, or even cinema, then, this is a book about historiography. How should we approach the relationship between a (media) technology and the group or discipline that uses it? This book insists that the formal features of the technology matter. It argues that the disciplinary legitimacy of a technology or the successful appropriation of a technology by an expert group depends on a correspondence between the logic of the discipline and the formal features of the technology. In this case, filmic form refers to two manifestations of the image: the projected image and the frames on the celluloid filmstrip. The logic of the discipline refers to its problem-solving protocols, its investigatory methods, and its ideological (in terms of its discipline) assumptions. Medical logic, for example, refers to a method of arriving at a diagnosis, etiology, prognosis, and treatment of a disease. It is a way of thinking that provides for a (more or less) consistent and balanced understanding of what is peculiar to the individual case and what is generalizable from it. As we shall see in chapter 2, this logic relied on series of cases for training and context. We will also see that the ambidexterity of film, its ability to be useful in both its still and moving forms, corresponded in unique ways to this medical logic and observational practice. The goal of that chapter, then, is in part to sketch the correlation between a “medical way of thinking,” as philosopher of science Ludwik Fleck put it, and the specific formal features of film.⁶ Likewise, in some scientific disciplines, the ability of film to frame and isolate the object under study and film’s temporal malleability (its ability to expand or compress time) were analogous to features of scientific experiments, such as the ability to isolate variables and extend observational duration. In others, film’s temporal discontinuity, indicated by the gap between film frames, matched theoretical ideals about the physical world. For education and aesthetics, the logic of the discipline was less about solving problems than about describing goals or mental operations to attain those goals. In education, the consonance between the detail and duration of the moving image and the richness of the natural world created a homology between the (perceived) realism of the image and the goal of visual instruction, which was to teach students to recognize objects and generalize from them. Aesthetics describes the terms of artistic production and, especially pertinent to this project, the conditions of aesthetic experience; it describes the set of presumed cognitive and emotional operations that accompany aesthetic experience, along with their ideological significance. With regard to film, then, the formal features of the object and the accompanying experience were compared with the prevailing understanding of aesthetic experience. In this case, the pace of the moving image worked against ideals of free will and agency embedded in common conceptions of the aesthetic experience, while the ability of the moving image to encourage emotional projection corresponded to different theories of aesthetic experience popular at the time.

Frame, gap, detail, duration, and pace: each discipline or group, then, saw something useful (or counterproductive, as the case may be) about filmic form but emphasized different features for different goals. In the early period, as motion picture technology emerged as a real possibility for various applications, individual researchers, teachers, reformers, or cultural pundits took it upon themselves to justify motion pictures as a tool or good object to their colleagues. They endeavored to demonstrate that motion pictures could indeed conform to the logic and practices of the discipline. This is why the early period of film’s cultural dissemination is so productive for this kind of project: the reasons for appropriation—what the champions thought film was—are often clearly stated, before the use of motion pictures becomes naturalized and obvious, requiring no justification at all (which is the case today when scientists, for example, use moving images as a matter of course without discussion). This is also why this project is less concerned about individual films than the contours of the discussion about the use of film in general; close analysis of filmic style can tell us very little about the justifications mounted for film or the correlation between disciplinary logic, practice, and film form. Such rationalizations can tell us much, however, about the state of the discipline at the time. Whether the use of film addressed common representational problems within a discipline (as in the case of cell biology at the turn of the century) or the discipline faced larger philosophical problems that film seemed to exemplify (as in the case of fin de siècle aesthetics), the engagement with motion pictures tells us quite a lot about the priorities and changes that faced any given discipline. Again, this is especially the case during film’s early period, when groups latched onto this new technology because of a pressing need or because of its prevalence. In other words, the timing of these appropriations is not coincidental: each group needed motion pictures in some way—even as a scapegoat, which was often the case. Within any given discipline, these maneuvers were far from unanimously approved; dissent was more common in the cultural than scientific spheres, but the debates sharpen our understanding of what was at stake for each group.

What was at stake exactly? As a primarily visual technology, motion pictures presented an aid or a challenge to expert modes of viewing, which were the most common manifestation of disciplinary logic and practice. Around what practices, ideals, and “ways of thinking” do disciplines coalesce? There are many answers, ranging from laboratory procedures to nationalist rhetoric. But a very common way to train new members of a discipline is to teach them what to look for and how to look for it. Ludwik Fleck insisted that “one has first to learn to look in order to be able to see that which forms the basis of the given discipline,” but I would further insist that “learning to look” is what often forms the basis of a discipline.⁷ Whether it is medical observation or aesthetic contemplation, disciplines have ways of looking that are assumed; if you have to ask what it is or how to do it, you obviously are not part of that group. It is a badge of honor or a barrier to entry. Scientific and medical disciplines, for example, invested much time and energy into training recruits to their modes of viewing, to what Fleck called “the directed readiness to certain perceptions.”⁸ British surgeon Sir James Paget emphasized in 1887 that “becoming scientific in our profession [requires] the training of the mind in the power and habit of accurately observing facts…. The main thing for progress and for self-improvement is accurate observation.”⁹ Likewise, Swiss pedagogue Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi organized his entire, influential educational program around close examination; he believed that direct perception of the world was “the foundation of all knowledge.”¹⁰ And perhaps it goes without saying that aesthetic experience, as expounded by German philosophers since Immanuel Kant, relied heavily on a mode of viewing that was leisurely, probing, and attentive—in a word, contemplative. Above all, these disciplinary modes of looking are more than individual, as Fleck notes: “We look with our own eyes, but we see with the eyes of the collective body, we see the forms whose sense and range of permissible transpositions is created by the collective body.”¹¹ So expert modes of vision and disciplines orbit each other closely and inextricably, held together by ideological bonds.

This is not to say there is only one mode of viewing for each discipline. Indeed, there are two obvious examples of different modes of expert viewing that obtain regardless of discipline: the holistic, all-at-once, instant appraisal; and the roaming, penetrating, leisurely, detail-oriented contemplation of the object. These two modes can be found in a range of disciplines from scientific observation to medical observation to aesthetics. In art history, for example, Robert Vischer distinguished between Sehen and Schauen, two modes of viewing artworks, which can be translated as “seeing” (by which he meant the synthetic, intuitive, instant appraisal) and “scanning” (by which he meant analytic, detail-oriented contemplation). These correspond roughly to our “glance” and “gaze,” as long as they are not confused with their current alignment in media studies with distraction and contemplation.¹² For Vischer and experts across disciplines, glance and gaze were complementary modes of viewing, both requiring expertise. In medicine, physicians in turn-of-the-century Germany who were troubled by the increasingly scientific approach to healing—represented in their minds by the analytic, focused gaze—advocated a more holistic view that took in the entire patient at glance rather than a penetrating gaze that examined only the localized disease in detail.¹³ Even if in this case these modes of viewing were taken up as flags symbolizing different professional stances, in practice medical training encompassed both modes. An expert both synthesizes and analyzes.

In fact, as Michel Foucault has noted about medical observation, these modes of expert viewing were more than merely visual—they were also a set of logical operations.¹⁴ Specifically, I find that expert viewing is largely a process of correlation. What happens during expert observation? The expert sees the parts and the whole and finds patterns between them and correlates those patterns to expert knowledge of the disciplinary context. Scientific observation, for example, connotes an analytic gaze, but the most important aspect of scientific observation is the context the scientist brings to it; the researcher assimilates observed data into an existing framework of knowledge. What the scientific observer already knows frames what he or she observes, and he or she incorporates or juxtaposes new data with old and thereby generates new insights. Observation therefore implies the production of knowledge through correlative insight. This is true even with art, in which the lynchpin of post-Kantian conceptions of aesthetic experience is the “free play of associations.” As the expert gazes upon the artwork, the parts work together in pleasing ways to prompt in the viewer a correlation of textual and contextual patterns. As these associations come together, interlock, separate, and recombine with others, the viewer supposedly experiences a pleasant, even moving state of being between artwork, world, and his or her own subjectivity—all of which has been known as aesthetic experience, which depends fundamentally on a particular kind of viewing that is leisurely, active, attentive, and correlative.

Especially with regard to aesthetic contemplation, expert viewing was not only a disciplinary practice or a logical operation, it was also an exhortation. That is, expert viewing involved a measure of training and hence status, so it also often implied a way of looking at the world or an ideological stance. Immanuel Kant’s and Friedrich Schiller’s philosophies, for example, gave aesthetic experience a prominent ethical and moral position, in that it was both a mode of engaging with art and a way of bridging an impasse between competing forms of knowledge (Kant) or between conflicting human impulses (Schiller). Schiller’s system, especially, suggested that aesthetic experience could lead the way to a better social organization, if only we applied this mode of engaging with art to our way of engaging with the world. Arthur Schopenhauer was even more insistent: aesthetic experience, for him, was one of the few ways by which we could escape the dreary consequences of our everyday impulses, and therefore in his system it became the fundamental model for interacting with the world in general. In the twentieth century, the discussion about the relative merits of contemplation and distraction was, as we know, highly politically charged precisely because of their implications for how one should conduct oneself; recall, for example, Georg Lukács’s dismissal of the contemplative life as unconscionable in the face of changes that called for political action and initiative. Even scientific observation became a global ideal as “objectivity” came to mean more than refraining from theoretical speculation. I am not suggesting that these systems work or that they are universal. I am arguing that the operations and stances required by these expert modes of viewing also functioned widely as rhetorical instruments, as presumptions about how one should engage with the world.

For example, when teachers needed to justify the educational use of motion pictures, they aligned its formal features to already established conceptions of expert viewing and visual instruction; in Germany, these conceptions were encapsulated by the term Anschauungsunterricht, which translates roughly as “visual means of instruction.” Their justifications were persuasive to the extent that certain features of film could match or accommodate the methods of this means of instruction. When cultural pundits argued against the idea that film could be art, their arguments were less often about its mechanical reproduction of nature and more about the relationship between the projected moving image and the possibility of aesthetic contemplation. In each case, the question was, can film be used in a manner familiar to our way of viewing and our way of viewing the world? Motion pictures also famously offered a view different from what individual viewers or disciplines were accustomed to. My argument about the correspondence between film and disciplinary logic accommodates this difference as well, because historically the tug-of-war between the familiar and the novel stretched across the literature in a given field; advocates of film technology came to it because it was new and different, yet understood it in terms of what had already come before. Indeed, any given experimental system or discipline moves forward in the same way: methods, technologies, and inscriptions generate new insights that are folded into the existing system, which is thereby subtly changed. In other words, the patterns of justification and dissemination of this new media technology, like that of knowledge itself, were incremental and correlative.

This implies that expert vision is not the only criterion by which disciplines judged motion picture technology. A survey of the literature in each of these fields reveals that the advantages of film for their projects were often expressed in two ways: in terms of inscription (what the camera can record) and reception (how the image can be viewed). Chapter 1, unlike the rest of the chapters, will focus on inscription. It will examine how researchers adapted motion pictures as an inscription technology to their objects of study, their theories, and their disciplinary needs. The following chapters will explore how experts adapted motion pictures to their different modes of viewing: medical observation, visual methods of instruction, and aesthetic contemplation.

Needless to say, expert viewing requires training that derives from and reinforces a community. Whether that community is a scientific discipline or an educated class of citizens or both, training to partake of the privileges of that group often came in the form of visual training as well as education in the relevant literature or canon. Sometimes that training was explicit, as in Anschauungsunterricht, which was specifically designed to teach children how to observe; this was not considered disciplinary training so much as one criterion for good citizenship and cultivation. Sometimes it was implicit, as in aesthetic contemplation (although the German tradition of Bildbetrachtung, or “image viewing,” explicitly instilled principles of looking, art appreciation, and aesthetic contemplation). In any case, experts and their apprentices came together to form a community (disciplinary, class based, national) through shared values and practices, especially practices of viewing. These bonds were shaped not only by the training and values themselves but also by comparison with their opposite: the untrained, “valueless” spectator. Indeed, the values of a group were often not explicitly stated except through reference to what was unacceptable. At stake was the proper method of processing visual information to achieve the desired end, yet the idea of proper viewing was articulated equally often, if not more often, via denunciations of improper viewing. The most obvious example, described in chapter 2, would be the medical experts’ description of film audiences as passive, agog, and addicted, whereas their own practices of film viewing emphasized activity, detachment, and control. Yet the latter model was rarely explicitly stated. Instead, we must surmise that “proper” viewing model from descriptions of their practice as well as their explicit denunciations of “improper” viewing.

It is hardly surprising that a community of privileged white men in imperial Germany would condescend to audiences of a perceived lower-class amusement such as the movies. Yet perhaps we miss something if we leave it at that. Our understanding of the discursive construction of film spectatorship too often ignores the obvious duality of these constructions. If “proper” modes of viewing relied on “improper” modes as a useful foil, then the opposite is also true: our understanding of spectatorship is incomplete without an understanding of expert observation. Observation and spectatorship depended on each other (perhaps still) in a figure/ground relationship wherein the dominance of any given term was often difficult to determine. Spectatorship and observation functioned as each other’s “negative space,” the outline of one shaping the other by default. This book contends that the “shape of spectatorship” can be truly determined only by simultaneously examining the “shape of observation.” Observation and spectatorship function akin to stillness and movement or analysis and synthesis: they are oscillating, dynamic dichotomies that are not opposites so much as necessary halves of a hermeneutic process. In this case the hermeneutic is one of self-identity; as experts worked to define their position with regard to disciplinary viewing, “spectatorship” was something of a by-product of the work process. More precisely, the work of (explicitly or implicitly) defining spectatorship or observation resulted in a coproduction of the opposite term in a strikingly consistent logic of the supplement. So yes, we know how privileged white men characterized spectators, and we have known that since audiences were aligned with crowds in discussions of early theater.¹⁵ But if we want to know why any given characterization of spectators took its particular form, then we should be aware of the modes of viewing preferred by the experts writing the description.

If theories of film spectatorship in the 1970s and 1980s were preoccupied with the ideological dominance of Hollywood, then the historiographic innovations of film studies during the 1980s and 1990s demonstrated that the Hollywood model was, of course, not always dominant in production and reception; the paradigm of early cinema was not simply Hollywood in nuce but a positive model in its own right: these viewers saw film differently, and early film production and exhibition was heterogeneous. This heterogeneity also implied multiple types of textual address and hence multiple kinds of spectator in terms of gender, race, ethnicity, and class. So if the transitional era codified and standardized filmic address, then it also in a way standardized the spectator; the individual spectator of 1970s film theory was, then, an abstraction generated by filmmaking practice of the Hollywood era, just as the spectator of 1990s film history is a product of textual analysis of early film, or the latest theory of film spectatorship might be a derivation from journalistic accounts of audience experience or of the theorist’s own experience. Theories of film spectatorship derive from either filmic textual address or written textual address, and these derivations are separate from historical, empirical viewers and audiences. While contemporary written discussions of viewers and audiences may seem closer to the historical viewer, the written account also produces an abstract notion of spectatorship. My point is that we must take into account the role and interest of the expert in the abstraction. We need to recognize our own expertise and role in producing spectators, but we also need to acknowledge the disciplinary context of historical experts as they wrote about observation and spectatorship. If histories of early film helped to establish the multiplicity of film spectatorship through the categories of gender, race, ethnicity, and class, I would like to add one more category, expert/lay, which seems a powerful determinate of the character of written discussions of audiences and of disciplinary modes of viewing. Expert/lay appears closely aligned with high/low class differences, but I would argue that it is more specific, because educational or disciplinary training provides a traceable, historiographically clear path to the fount of class-based distinctions.

Yet as Walter Benjamin argued, the line between expert observer and lay spectator was often fuzzy, especially as film viewers adopted “an attitude of expert appraisal.”¹⁶ Benjamin described a mode of reception in which the reactions of the individual were simultaneously amplified and regulated by the reactions of the mass, thereby giving the spectator the pleasure of viewing but also the detachment of the expert. Similarly, chapter 2 describes an expert mode of reception that was also simultaneously distanced from and thrilled by the moving image. Hence the dichotomy between expert and lay is heuristic; most often it was very fluid in practice, but the descriptions of spectatorship often functioned to chart a perceived difference that was helpful for self-identity or class identity. The significance of such descriptions has implications for the “modernity thesis” debate, which pivots on the validity of generalizing Benjamin’s claim—that our “mode of perception” changes over historical periods¹⁷—to questions of film history and style. That is, can we claim that any film style of a particular era expressed the “mode of perception” of the time?¹⁸ This debate has often been preoccupied with details of film style during the early period, or with periodization, or with the question of whether cognitive structures really change, but too often the debate has overlooked the obvious: experts of the time described the cinematic experience as precisely an expression of the state of urban life and as a reflection of the modern mode of perception. Writing about film was a primary means by which modern problems (of representation, observation, education, aesthetic standards) were articulated. In other words, Benjamin’s claim did not come out of a blue sky: writers in the 1910s and 1920s described film in exactly these terms, so trying to explain those historical descriptions by constructing a homology between filmic style and modern urban experience—without overgeneralizing to include all films at all times during this period—is not only valid, but logical.

So descriptions of the cinematic experience in Germany before World War I often functioned as a means to articulate modern problems of representation, observation, education, or aesthetic standards. To describe the experience of attending a film screening was to work through questions associated with modern urban upheaval and transformation.¹⁹ It was so in many places during the early period, when cinema was not really “cinema” but a heterogeneous mix of screen practices and ideals—one of many “cultural series,” in André Gaudreault’s term.²⁰ In Germany, however, the lines between expert and lay were perhaps more starkly drawn (hence more visible) than elsewhere. At the same time, the deeply ambivalent character of discourse during this time of transition, as Germany struggled to balance rapid modernization with traditional values, makes it an especially interesting case study for the mutual construction of expert observation and lay spectatorship. Historians of Wilhelmine Germany have long recognized the dichotomous yet strikingly fluid relationship between left and right political positions, progressive and reactionary attitudes toward the role of the state, male and female roles in public service, or middle- and working-class positions on the social hierarchy.²¹ The same ambivalence is evident in the reactions to new media forms such as motion pictures, which makes it an intriguing and challenging case from which we can perhaps infer broader principles about the mechanism of cultural legitimacy.²² Of course, arguments for and against the use of motion pictures in Germany at this time are similar, perhaps identical, to arguments for and against in other countries. Yet every agent marshals evidence and rhetorical weight from his or her native tradition in support of his or her argument; the Germans were no different. So this book straddles the line between a specialist study on early cinema or German culture and a broader investigation of the nature of expert appropriations of new technologies. The mixture of these two goals differentiates it sufficiently, I hope, from other works on the discourse on early cinema in Germany or elsewhere.

This project therefore takes up the dual challenge of describing how experts cleared a cultural space for motion picture technology while explaining why that work (rhetorical or practical) took the form it did. Both questions require not just primary research into specific appropriations but an understanding of the disciplinary expectations and needs faced by the experts. So each chapter will explore the history of that discipline (such as biology) by also using the method of a corresponding discipline (such as the history of science). Each chapter, then, is intended to be a hybrid between the methods of film studies and those of another discipline. Explaining why the work of appropriation took the form that it did also requires an understanding of the historical and cultural context of the experts, in this case imperial Germany. So each chapter also attempts to provide a social context, but because arguments for and against carried the weight of past traditions and values, a detailed philosophical context is sometimes required as well. For example, to understand fully the visceral reaction to film’s perceived accelerated pace, we will need to examine that reaction’s relationship to Schiller’s temporal understanding of aesthetic experience, which was accepted by experts and the middle class implicitly. Over time, philosophical ideas sometimes spread and harden into ideological dogma.

I should emphasize that this project focuses on the question of cultural legitimacy or the acceptance of a new media technology by a given discipline at a historical moment. It therefore concentrates on the correspondence between film form and discipline, rather than the impact of form on that discipline. Each chapter charts the relationship between the material or form of cinema (which may include the celluloid image, the projected image, the apparatus, or the venue) and the logic of a discipline by demonstrating how experts conformed that material to their disciplinary agenda. Charting this relationship synchronically is, I believe, preliminary to surveying the diachronic impact of film on any given discipline’s understanding of its object of study. That is, any determination of the influence of moving images on a discipline’s agenda or conception of its object would require, in my opinion, an examination of the changes in the discipline over time. An accumulation of case studies on a particular topic in which motion pictures were vital would be necessary to determine the change in research questions and the extent to which moving images shaped those questions. The conclusion hints at what such a diachronic or longitudinal study might look like, but the chapters ahead focus instead on the criteria for acceptance (or refusal) of film within each expert group, rather than on any transformation in that group’s thinking as a result of using film. I believe we need first to clarify the pertinent elements of film form and disciplinary logic and their potential points of contact before we can argue for the impact of film form on that logic, if any.

Chapter 1 examines the use of chronophotography and motion picture technology for scientific research in the fields of human motion studies, physics, and biology. After a survey of early scientific filmmaking, the chapter leverages Henri Bergson’s critique of modern science’s “cinematographical thinking” to underscore the philosophical affinity between film and scientific method. Given that “science” is just as varied as “film,” however, the chapter finds that different disciplines used motion picture technology for different reasons and in ways that emphasized film’s different formal features. In these case studies, the filmic material consisted of the chronophotographic image, the projected image, and the technological apparatus, all of which were adjusted to conform to various elements and processes of scientific inquiry. Accordingly, the chapter examines how film became evidence in relation to the discipline’s object of study, its theories, and its representational options. This chapter does not focus on observation but emphasizes experiment instead.

Chapter 2 continues this investigation of film for research purposes but extends the argument to the field of medicine. The chapter provides an overview of early medical filmmaking that emphasizes not the different uses by different specialties but instead the common functions governing the use of film technology, such as the use of film to explore, document, or educate. Any given film functioned multiply, depending on who was using it for what purpose at the time; this rubric allows us to glimpse research films in tandem with their other uses. The chapter then explores the relationship between the formal features of film technology and expert medical observation. The use of motion pictures as both still and moving images—the way researchers described their viewing of and extraction of data from these images—subtly expressed the researchers’ mode of observation. In this case, the chapter explores the similarity between a “medical way of thinking”—its disciplinary logic—and how investigators took advantage of the unique features of film technology, especially the celluloid image and the projected image. It also underlines the ideological investment in that mode of viewing, which was a sign of training and disciplinary allegiance. That investment explains diagnoses of film spectators that accompanied the general medicalization of society during the Wilhelmine period. That physicians dismissed movies in their mass cultural incarnation but lauded their use in the laboratory is best explained through the dual, mutually dependent character of observation and spectatorship.

Chapter 2 functions as a pivot between the specialized, rarified use of motion pictures in the laboratory (which was more common than we might think) and the emergence of film in the public sphere. If physicians diagnosed the cultural ills of a nation, reformers of all sorts took to the streets to carry out the treatment. Chapter 3 surveys the film reform movement of the early period and its relationship to larger reform movements, especially those that emphasized a renewal of cultural priorities through education. In this case, then, the filmic material was the cinema venue itself as reformers and educators attempted to mold exhibitor and spectator habits to certain educational standards or aspirations. The art education movement was especially pertinent for efforts to “ennoble” cinema and its audiences through an aesthetic education. The history of German pedagogy, moreover, reveals a deep investment increasing over the nineteenth century in a mode of visual instruction known as Anschauungsunterricht, which spread quickly across Europe and the United States, where it was known in English as “the object lesson.” Film reformers such as Hermann Lemke worked hard to fashion film screenings for educational use that would conform to this method of visual instruction and observational training. Reformers such as Hermann Häfker, on the other hand, created film presentations that attempted to conform to models of aesthetic contemplation, which were not incompatible with these educational and ideological goals.

Häfker’s efforts to create a film screening that would make any middle-class aesthete proud speak to the perceived importance of aesthetic values for unifying German culture and ameliorating its social ills. Chapter 4 argues that the explosion of writings about cinema around 1912, which Anton Kaes called the Kino-Debatte, was not only about the danger cinema presented to literary values and territory, as has long been argued, but also about the relationship between the cinematic experience and aesthetic reception in general. How could film be considered an aesthetic object? What aspects of film viewing fit or not with established conceptions of aesthetic contemplation? It is something of a critical commonplace that the advent of mass reception, of which the filmic experience was emblematic, prompted a change in the standards of “traditional aesthetics.” This chapter examines the validity of that claim by demonstrating what was precisely at stake in aesthetic contemplation as it was usually understood, and what exactly about the cinematic experience presented a challenge. So this chapter divides the ideological components of aesthetic contemplation into four main areas—issues of agency, identity, time, and space—to show where the objections to and applause for film borrowed from “traditional aesthetics” and where they diverged. Furthermore, the chapter shows that professional aesthetics of the day—as encapsulated in discussions of Einfühlung, or emotional projection during the aesthetic experience—was wrestling with some of the same issues that challenged traditional aesthetics, such as emotional projection, synesthesia, and movement, even while descriptions of the cinematic experience also touched upon these issues. The Kino-Debatte, then, anticipated the theoretical proclamations of the 1920s and 1930s that declared contemplation inadequate for modern living. Chapter 4 explicates the precise nature of the change in preference from contemplation to distraction and suggests that the Kino-Debatte was an important turning point for this transition. Chapter 4 therefore focuses on how film’s projected image could be discursively managed to fit (or not) into the logic of aesthetic contemplation. Finally, the conclusion emphasizes the importance of disciplinary context and expert/lay distinctions for histories of nontheatrical film and suggests a historiographic approach that highlights how experts “handled” motion picture images, technologies, and audiences—and the impressions those efforts left on their own institutions and on the history of cinema.

Each chapter functions more or less on its own, but together I hope they will add to the conversation about nontheatrical film, spectatorship, and interdisciplinary work in film and media studies. Indeed, each chapter demonstrates that the appropriation of motion pictures was a series of constant adjustments between writing and reading, or between inscription and reception. Looking at film in this way, we can begin to explore how cinema fit into a cultural space, the work that went into making it fit, and what that work tells us about the people and institutions who did the work. In other words, how experts managed to call film their own while using it to manage the scientific and social problems they faced is the subject of this book.