Early Cinema, Modernity and Visual Culture: The Imaginary of the Balkans 9789048543885

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Early Cinema, Modernity and Visual Culture

Eastern European Screen Cultures The series Eastern European Screen Cultures publishes critical studies on the screen cultures that have marked the socialist and post-socialist spaces in Europe. It aims to unveil current phenomena and untold histories from this region to account for their specificity and integrate them into a wider conception of European and world cinema. The series aspires to fill gaps in research, particularly by approaching Eastern European screen cultures in a transnational and comparative framework and exploring previously underrepresented theoretical issues. It considers moving images in all stages and aspects: production, text, exhibition, reception, and education. Eastern European Screen Cultures will also publish translations of important texts that have not been able to travel outside of national and/or regional borders. Editorial Board Greg de Cuir, University of Arts Belgrade Ewa Mazierska, University of Central Lancashire Francesco Pitassio, University of Udine Advisory Board Anikó Imre, University of Southern California Dina Iordanova, University of St. Andrews Pavle Levi, Stanford University Eva Näripea, Estonian Academy of Arts Dominique Nasta, Université Libre de Bruxelles Elzbieta Ostrowska, University of Alberta Katie Trumpener, Yale University

Early Cinema, Modernity and Visual Culture The Imaginary of the Balkans

Ana Grgić

Amsterdam University Press

Cover illustration: Photograph of the Manakia brothers film reel. © Ana Grgić Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden Lay-out: Crius Group, Hulshout isbn 978 94 6372 830 0 e-isbn 978 90 4854 388 5 doi 10.5117/9789463728300 nur 670 © A. Grgić / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2022 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book. Every effort has been made to obtain permission to use all copyrighted illustrations reproduced in this book. Nonetheless, whosoever believes to have rights to this material is advised to contact the publisher.



Table of Contents

Acknowledgements 7 Foreword: Travelling Down /Travelling Through

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Preface: The Balkan Imaginary of Ruins

13

Introduction: Charting the Terrain: Early Cinema in the Balkans

17

1. Visual Culture in the Balkans, Haptic Visuality, and Archival Moving Images My Journey through Savage Europe Hapticality of Archival Moving Images Hapticality of Visual Culture in the Balkans The Byzantine Cultural Legacy The Ottoman Cultural Legacy Architecture, Fresco Painting, Icons, Textiles, and Jewellery ‘Image survivante’ and the Legacy of Balkan Visual Culture The Difference in Perception

35 40 46 49 50 52 55 60 64

2. Historicizing the Balkan Spectator and the Embodied Cinema Experience Anticipating Cinema The Arrival of Cinema: Haptical Encounters with Moving Images The Spaces of Cinema and Coffee Consumption Cinema and ‘Intensive Life’ Cinema in the City Looking Back at Cinema 3. Mapping Constellations: Movement and Cross-cultural Exchange of Images, Practices, and People Journeys from the East: Cross-Cultural Travels of the ShadowPuppet Theatre The Cinematograph at the Theatre Travelling Cinema Exhibitors and Filmmakers The Mysterious Hungarian and the Serbian-Bulgarian Connection The Balkan Cinema Pioneers and the Lost Gaze Cinema and the Global Imaginary

73 78 83 92 98 102 107 117 121 124 127 134 139 144

4. Imagining the Balkans: The Cinematic Gaze from the Outside 153 Exoticism and the Balkans 158 The Orientalist Gaze in the Marubi Studio Photographs 160 ‘Oriental’ Austria: Cinematic Representations of Bosnia and Herzegovina 164 Sensational Killings and Wild Insurgents at the Cinema 170 The Charles Urban Trading Company in the Balkans 176 Imperial Imagination, Archives, and Moving images 179 The Reverberations of Balkan Wars and Siege of Shkodra 186 5. ‘Made in the Balkans’: Mirroring the Self The Desire for ‘Our’ Views High-life and the Pleasure of the Screen Scientific Spectacles Views of Ethnographic and Socio-Political Significance Pictures of Home Constructing the Nation through Cinema Historical Drama from Serbia Historical Epic from Romania

197 201 206 210 213 216 220 223 228

Conclusion: The Future Perfect of Early Balkan Cinema

239

Bibliography 243 Appendix 265 Index 273

Acknowledgements Researching and writing this book has been a long and meandering journey, with paths zigzagging forgotten histories, wavering memories, fragmentary archives, and stories of human passions. During the course of this metaphorical and physical journey through early cinema in the Balkans, I have been fortunate enough to enjoy the company of many scholars, film practitioners, and friends. I am most grateful to the intellectual generosity, guidance, and support of Dina Iordanova, whose pioneering work in Balkan cinema has not only paved the way for academic study in this area, but has also greatly inspired this research. This book is also indebted to the scholarship of Maria Todorova and Laura U. Marks, whose work and ideas have been of great inspiration towards the elaboration and the formulation of conceptual parameters. The book has developed significantly beyond its first version submitted for the completion of doctoral studies at the University of St Andrews. For generously reading and providing feedback during this time, I would like to thank Tom Gunning, Tom Rice, other academics, and my colleagues at the University of St Andrews. My sincere thanks go to all my colleagues and fellow Balkan researchers, in particular, Petar Kardjilov, Marian Ţuţui, the late Alexander Yanakiev, and the late Dejan Kosanović, who have unconditionally shared their work and contributed generous insights at different stages of the researching and writing of this book. I am especially grateful for the continuous support, unwavering friendship, and intellectual examples along the way, of my colleagues Raluca Iacob, Lydia Papadimitriou, Regina Longo, Gergana Doncheva, Stefanie Van de Peer and Amber Shields. My thanks also go to my colleagues at Monash University Malaysia, in particular Emma Baulch and Susan Leong for being there, always with helpful advice. To Yorgos, who has been crucial to the final stages of this book in many ways, thank you. The years of research for this book would not have been possible without the generous help and expert knowledge of the present and former directors, archivists and librarians of several institutions in the Balkans and beyond, where I conducted the majority of primary research. I would like to acknowledge the help of Central State Film Archive – Albania, Bulgarian National Film Archive, Cinémathèque française, Croatian Cinémathèque, Austrian Film Archives, Fondation Jérôme Seydoux-Pathé, Hungarian National Archive and Film Institute, National Film Archive – Romanian Cinémathèque, Slovenian Film Archive, Cinematheque of North Macedonia, Montenegrin

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Cinematheque, National Film Archives of Bosnia and Herzegovina, Slovenian Cinémathèque, and the Yugoslav Cinematheque. Special thanks to fellow colleagues: researchers Dimitris Kerkinos, Nezih Erdogan, and Manolis Arkolakis, and archivists: Nemanja Bečanović, Aleksandar Saša Erdeljanović, Devleta Filipović, Lucija Zore, Mihai Fulger, Antonia Kovacheva, Vesna Maslovarik, Ivan Nedoh, Gabor Pinter, Tatjana Rezec-Stibilj, Igor Stardelov, Eriona Vyshka, Iris Elezi, Thomas Logoreci, and Nikolaus Wostry for helpful conversations, dealing with my requests, and for welcoming me on several occasions. Diverse funding sources have contributed towards archival research and the completion of this project. I am grateful to the support of the University of St Andrews, The Russell Trust, the British Association for Slavonic and Eastern European Studies, and Monash University Malaysia. I would also like to thank the committee who awarded me the British Association of Film and Television Studies Best Doctoral Student Article/Chapter Award in 2017 for a published portion of this research. Part of Chapter 3 has been published in an earlier version as “‘Regions of Unthought’: The Danger and the Freedom of Film Archiving and (Trans) National Film Heritage in the Balkans”, Studies in Eastern European Cinema, 11:2, 2020. Small parts of Chapters 4 and 5 have been published in much earlier versions as “The Archaeology of Memory: Tracing Balkan(ist) Fragments in Albert Kahn’s Albanie”, Kinokultura, Special Issue 16: Albanian Cinema, 2016, and “Re-Discovering Nationalism in the Balkans: The Early Moving Image in Contemporary Memorial Spaces”, Studies in Eastern European Cinema, 7:3, 2016, pp. 240–257. At Amsterdam University Press, I would like to express my gratitude to Maryse Elliott and the editors of Eastern European Screen Cultures, Greg de Cuir, Ewa Mazierska, and Francesco Pitassio, for considering the value of this work and for giving me the opportunity to publish it. I am deeply appreciative of the feedback provided by the anonymous readers on the manuscript. Finally, my deepest thanks and love go to my parents, Lucija and Martin, and my brothers, Vinko and Marko, who have supported my travels and efforts with unquestioning affection. This book is dedicated to the memory of my grandparents: Marija and Ivan, Maja and Luka. The work of memory collapses time. (Walter Benjamin)



Foreword: Travelling Down /Travelling Through Dina Iordanova

There is something – when reading this book – that makes me visualize a photographic darkroom, from the time when pictures were still being developed from a negative. One would submerge photographic paper into trays full of chemical baths, then pull it with pincers, wash, let it dry, and, in the course of all this, see the images gradually emerge, take shape, gaining full contrast and defined contours. The figures in the photo would become distinguishable, the pictures would tell a story, and would become engraved on the mind of the viewer. It would be a riveting process of emergence: where once there had been only white photographic paper, now there was a testimony, a record of occurrence, a document of existence, and a newly shaped epistemological space. In Early Cinema, Modernity and Visual Culture: The Imaginary of the Balkans, Ana Grgić opens up her darkroom to deliver to the world the early moving images that she is working with – of a lost, yet revered past – flickering and faint shadows yet discernible and spellbinding. Tactile. Haptic. She makes faces, facades, and chronicles come to light; she orders, names, and links them. She transforms the void into a story. And yes, it was a void before. Early Balkan cinema simply did not ‘exist’ a few decades ago. The encyclopaedias and guides on early cinema were there, yet there was little in these volumes to suggest the existence of any faint – let alone thriving – film culture across the Balkan lands. All attention was focused on the West, with the occasional mention of what took place in the lands of former Austria–Hungary. The specialized film festivals would play, occasionally, a film from these territories, and such rare occurrences would be considered a colourful breakthrough. Whatever the Balkans had to contribute was away from the eyes and away from the mind. Cinema did not appear to have any discernible presence in this part of the world. Nor to have left any significant utterances. *** In Ana Grgić’s text, the absent films, which have only sporadically been referenced over time, now emerge and transform into fully fledged cinematic

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events – from Grandmother Despina and The Weavers (1907), or The Journey to Sofia (1909), to accomplished albeit nationalist features like The Life and Deeds of the Immortal Leader Karađorđe (1911) and The Independence of Romania (1912) – and become pillars of a new round of witnessing. But there is so much more to uncover beyond the actual films: the context, the specific vernacular modernist film culture, comes to the forefront in this book equally vividly. For the work to be done properly, the precondition is to suspend preconceived notions of borders and insurmountable differences. The stories of itinerant filmmakers and novelty enthusiasts, the details of whose biographies and identities were shrouded in mystery for decades, like the Aromanian brothers Yanaki and Milton Manaki, Hungarian Louis de Beéry, or Romanian Jew Sigmund Weinberg, who traversed the lands of the Ottoman and the Austro–Hungarian empire around the turn of the century, from Vienna to Istanbul, come to life. Painstakingly pieced together, stories emerge that tell of vague testimonies of lost films, of cans full of flammable nitrate material that lie in village cellars for decades, of misspelled names, and riveting identity discoveries. *** At the Early Balkan Cinema Conference in Athens in 2015 – the only event to date to gather representatives of almost all nations in the region – the late Bulgarian film scholar Alexandar Yanakiev spoke of early Balkan cinema as crossword puzzle of blank spots on a map: Back then, most filming was done by people who were moving through territories that did not have today’s demarcation lines. Not driven by identical objectives, their itineraries could seem disparate; their trajectories were not coordinated and would often appear erratic. There may be consistent information of someone’s moves and filming work as far as this took place on the territory of one present-day country, then, on entry into the lands of a different present-day country, there would be an interlude and the protagonist would vanish for a while. Subsequently, new information of further activities picking up would emerge from yet another country, where the itinerant filmmaker would arrive at a later point. And many repetitions of this pattern, back and forth. So, we may know the story of an itinerant filmmaker in Romania, and then of his activities in Istanbul some years later, but nothing of what this person did in-between – Bulgaria, Macedonia, Kosovo, Bosnia, Albania… What had been one large, imperial yet multiculturally convivial periphery back then, is today a chequered region full of many smaller or larger nation states, with different languages and different cultural agendas. What film historians

Foreword: Tr avelling Down / Tr avelling Through

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based in present-day countries had to do, Yanakiev insisted, was to talk to one another and seek to connect the dots and resolve the puzzle, by putting the missing bits in the picture. They needed to somehow reconcile the open spaces of past geographical imaginaries with the present-day realities of often rigid national borders and agendas. Then the whole story would emerge. As Hamid Naficy has shown in his exploration of the early cinema of Iran, the geographies of cinema can vary substantially: the trajectories of Iranian filmmakers did not move on the Berlin–Paris axis but more on the territories of today’s Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Russia. In the case of the Balkans, it is a story that needs to move through the economically uneven peripheries of two denominationally disparate crumbling empires, where the ‘attractions’ and the ‘vernacular modernities’ had a local flavour. Here, vestiges of slavery co-existed with emancipatory movements, Oriental shadow play puppet shows ran alongside popular coffeehouses where cinema made its first forays, and the punctured round roofs of hammams stood next to Orthodox chapels. One could see Catholic women in Tirana hiding their faces behind veils whilst in Istanbul Sultan Abdul Hamid II, a cinephile of sorts, displayed passion for modernist technology. The Balkans were a region of alternative geographies, entangled histories, and, at the end, triumphant nationalisms. Film historians – like Boris Nonevski (1943–2021), Petar Kardjilov, Marian Ţuţui, Canan Balan, to name just a few from among an ever-growing cohort of dedicated international researchers – who ventured into disentangling the disparate and patchy material out of which the field of early Balkan cinema gradually emerged, needed to be stubborn and persevering. Each one of them, and many other researchers, dedicated and inquisitive, did their bit depending on where they were based. Following in these stubborn mavericks’ footsteps, in bringing a coherent and vivid picture to life at the crossroads of Byzantine/Ottoman syncretism and iconography, Ana Grgić’s study takes the reconstruction into a new phase. *** Many condescending remarks have been made about the Balkans over time – a Scottish travel writer claimed that the Balkans ‘make more history than they can consume locally’ (Saki, 1911) and a German political philosopher regarded them as a bad joke (‘if the Balkans had not existed, they would have been invented’, von Keyserling, 1928). Others have spoken of the region as ‘mysterious,’ ‘fascinating,’ or ‘bewildering.’ Traditionally, whoever would engage with the Balkans would either travel down or talk them down. Over time, the attitude became the normative

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framework for telling stories related to the region: To be told, a Balkan story needed the legitimization of the foreigner’s judgemental gaze; the story of Zorba the Greek, wild and exciting, could only be told by Basil, an inhibited Englishman. This narrative construct was deeply internalized in many key Balkan narratives that kept reproducing it. Even Theo Angelopoulos’s Ulysses’ Gaze, a film made as recently as 1995 and deeply rooted in the Balkans, deploys the same structure: even if A., the protagonist, is searching for the lost early images of happy conviviality, and even if his journey through the Balkans is permeated with sadness and pain, he is, once again, coming from the West and travelling down. But this entrenched attitude has its consequences; it leads to an inevitable backlash. For how much longer will it be that only those who travel down – and those who are likely to easily talk down – will be the most vocal ones? How about substituting Pierre Loti for Tanpınar, Saki for Sait Faik, and Rebecca West for Miroslav Krleža and Desanka Maksimović? Or, even better, how about reading them side by side? Is it not time to allow different countries to have as much history as they want or need without feeling they are ‘invented’ and perennially receiving the meddling and condescending commentary of staggering Eurocentrics? A certain rebellious motivation of assertive self-preservation comes to stand against the arrogance of the Western traveller’s gaze. It is a gaze that does not recognize specificities and sensitivities, a gaze devoid of empathy. *** To connect the dots, it takes travelling through – as opposed to the travelling down practiced by the foreign correspondents and travel writers. It takes actually going to these places – a haptic experience of touching the nitrate film and turning yellowish pages of old newspaper that feel like parchments. It takes physically showing up. It takes being present. It takes detective work – efforts to uncover, discover, and piece it all together. Seeing the connections in the disjointed lives of itinerant protagonists. Identifying what is the same and what is different, and talking about it. It takes loving the flickering images recorded by novelty merchants. And this is what Ana Grgić has done committedly for the past decade: She is the present-day itinerant protagonist who criss-crosses the Balkans, then brings it all together and connects the dots in a book that is an atlas of emotion.

Preface: The Balkan Imaginary of Ruins To experience the aura of an object we look at means to invest it with the ability to look at us in return. (Walter Benjamin, On Some Motifs in Baudelaire). And, if the soul is about to know itself, it must gaze into the soul. (Plato, Alcibiades 133B).

Figure 1. The brothers Manakia in To Vlémma tou Odysséa/ Ulysses’ Gaze (1995, dir. Theo Angelopoulos)

A: (voice-over) “Weavers. In Avdella, a Greek village, 1905. The first film made by the brothers Miltos and Yannakis Manakis. The first film ever made in Greece and the Balkans. But is that a fact? Is it the first film? The first gaze?”

Any traveller delving into the history of the Balkan region is soon confronted with an investigation of a past strewn with conflicting narratives, interconnected identities, and displaced images. Traversing the geographical and

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imaginary landscape of the Balkans has been an existential endeavour for me: a journey between memory and history, myth and reality, affect and vision, divisive politics and common contours. In Theo Angelopoulos’s acclaimed film To Vlémma tou Odysséa/Ulysses’ Gaze (1995), the exiled film director A. returns to the region in search of a lost film reel shot by the Balkan cinema pioneers, as the last vestiges of the Cold War world order are crumbling, to eventually end his trip in war-torn Sarajevo. A’s quest ends amidst the ruins of Yugoslav wars, where my own journey begins, to become part of other global stories of emigration and displacement. This work, then, symbolizes my return to the Balkans, both figuratively and physically. The Bulgarian writer Kapka Kassabova warns: ‘To journey to the place of your ancestors, you must be prepared to see what it is easier to deny’ (2020, 1). In the early 1990s, the destruction of former Yugoslavia metaphorically entailed a search for a new or a desired identity and a rewriting and reconstruction of the past. Angelopoulos’s film foregrounds the obsession and the desire to locate the beginning (the arche), an ‘innocence lost’ in the Balkans, through the search for the missing film reel that might provide an answer to the, then, current state of things, while the Manakia brothers,1 as Balkan cinema pioneers par excellence, come to symbolize and represent the loss of the ability to be together. My own research journey took me to film archives, state institutions, and university libraries across the region, where my gaze, that of a researcher and a spectator, was implicated in the reconstruction of a cultural and visual history of the Balkans. In the course of this exploration, I was repeatedly confronted with the same question: who is writing (looking) and who has the obligation to write (look)? I realized that while the hegemonic discourses in the countries of former Yugoslavia and abroad depicted who we should ‘be’ and how we should ‘think,’ I could not help but identify with the sense of loss, non-belonging, and a critical position of otherness. I was forced to look, and then to write about the experience of looking. Often, I felt like Angelopoulos’s protagonist, compelled to search for that missing piece of the picture, hidden within the palimpsests of the discourse that would

1 There are several different spelling variations of the Balkan pioneers’ names in Greek, Romanian, Serbo-Croatian, Macedonian, Turkish, and Albanian languages (Ienache/ Ion/ Ionel/ Ianakis/ Yanaki/ Iovan and Milton/ Miltos/ Miltiade/ Maltu, Manaki/ Manakis/ Manakia), which points to a shared cultural heritage and shifting historical narratives throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. In this study, the Vlach/Aromanian variation, Ienache and Milton Manakia, which appears on the logo for their photographic and cinema studio, is adopted throughout.

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reveal all, and yet which remained elusive, unattainable, and perhaps even undesirable. This is also a story of missing pieces, of beautiful fragments, of severed connections, and of inspiring endeavours. Throughout this journey, I caught myself unaware, complicit with fellow ‘Balkanians’ at various cultural manifestations in the region, as we shared elements of common history, culture, and cuisine, perhaps in an unconscious act of re-commemoration and of regaining our conviviality.



Introduction: Charting the Terrain: Early Cinema in the Balkans The field of vision has always seemed to me comparable to the ground of an archaeological excavation. (Paul Virilio, 1984, 1). […] the outsider’s view is not necessarily inferior to the insider’s, and the insider is not anointed with truth because of existential intimacy with the object of study. What counts […] is the very process of the conscious effort to shed biases and look for ways to express the reality of otherness, even in the face of a paralysing epistemological scepticism. (Maria Todorova, 2009 [1997], ix).

The crisis of memory during the nineteenth century in Europe brought about the construction of museums, commemorations, and other conservational projects, in order to preserve time as a historical object. The arrival of cinema, and, some time earlier, photography, would play a major role in this modernizing and memorial process. Most European nations were undergoing a profound change, the beginnings of a drastic mutation from a traditional, rural society to a more modern, urban and industrial one. Society, and memory, in particular, was being called into question and subjected to scrutiny. A similar profound change has taken place in recent years – our daily lives have never been so invaded by the spectres of the past – thanks to the digital revolution and access to practically anything anywhere in the world. Today, there is an unprecedented over-abundance of material, both text and images, and almost every institution seems to possess its own archives. Contemporary societies once again are experiencing the crisis of memory, due to the nature and ephemerality of the digital and the speed of change. Over the last decades, both media and the academic community, have witnessed heated debates about interrelated issues of archives, preservation, access, and the digital, and the ongoing discussions concerning postcolonial legacies, race discourse, ecology, and identity politics. Film and media scholars are increasingly moving away from film

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history canons, classical Hollywood cinema, and ‘Anglophone cinema,’ and towards world cinemas, major non-Anglophone film industries, but also marginal, peripheral, and minor cinemas, accented and diasporic filmmaking, and shedding light on neglected and forgotten figures and films from the ‘shadow archive,’ in an effort to understand the development of modern visual media as a complex and multifaceted process. This effort has been sustained by the advent and global proliferation of internet and digital technologies over the last two decades, allowing for greater access to archival materials, films, scholarship, and more. Since the fall of the Berlin Wall and the break-up of the communist bloc, the realities of the transitional period and the social, political, and historical contexts in Eastern and Southeast Europe have brought about the readdressing of national identities, on the one side through continuous re-assessments of history, which generate distinct discourses, and on the other through the recalling of memory, which generates nostalgia for the past. This book hopes to contribute to current academic discourse that seeks to address colonial and postcolonial legacies of modernity, European memory-building projects, and racial ideologies, in their aims to understand and extricate contemporary geopolitics, perceptions, and structures of power and value. Moreover, it seeks to engage in dialogue with similar contributions that speak from the position of otherness, marginality, and alterity. To this end, this work provides greater insight into the unknown cinematic past of the Balkans, consisting of forgotten, rarely seen, or little-known archival moving images, materials, and biographies that have survived natural disasters, wars, and undergone changing political systems throughout the turbulent twentieth century. Engaging with the issues of the archive, preservation, and cultural memory, the book examines the specific geopolitical position and the multicultural identity of the Balkan space at the turn of the twentieth century, which influenced the development of early cinema in the region. The intermingling, contamination, and fusion of artistic traditions from East and West resulted in a unique and hybrid form of regional visual culture, and the arrival of cinema signalled a new means of expression and communication.

The Balkan Space of Enquiry The Balkans are geographically and symbolically situated on the crossroads of mainland Europe and the Near East. There is no universal agreement on the exact countries the region encompasses and the variations are many. At times, certain countries belong to this imaginal space and, at other times,

Introduc tion: Charting the Terr ain: Early Cinema in the Balk ans

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Figure 2. Ethnographic Map of the Balkan Peninsula (1918), Jovan Cvijić, William Breisemeister

they are excluded for various reasons (for instance, Romania and Slovenia due to their liminal geographical position, or Greece and Turkey when the term only encompasses the former communist-bloc countries of the region). This uncertainty and ambiguity reinforce the fluidity of the region, and tend also to contribute to negative associations with the term itself. Therefore, the ‘Balkan’ designation is spatially, temporally, historically, and ideologically contingent. Drawing from Dina Iordanova’s work on Balkan cinema (2001, 2006), I consider the Balkans more of a cultural entity than a geographical concept, one defined by Greek and Roman, Byzantine, Ottoman, and Austro–Hungarian historical legacies and by the specific marginal and crossroads positioning of the region. ‘Balkan’ refers to those countries as sharing a number of elements of their history, culture, heritage, and self-conceptualization. For the purpose of this study, this corresponds to the geographical area roughly circumscribed by the borders of present-day Slovenia in the northwest and Turkey in the southeast, in order to account for the influence of the Austro–Hungarian and Ottoman Empires in the region. Therefore, this

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rather inclusive interpretation of the Balkans includes the territories of present-day nations of Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Serbia, Kosovo, Montenegro, North Macedonia, Albania, Bulgaria, Romania, Greece, and Turkey. However, since this work is more concerned with the imaginary construct of the Balkans rather than a precise geographical area, in what follows, I also discuss how this designation developed over time and entered hegemonic and media discourse.

The Invention of the Balkans For many decades, Western observers thought of the Balkans as a space separating ‘civilized Europe’ from the ‘Oriental chaos,’ an uncharted and mystical territory, wrought with a mountainous range and populated with small warring and wretched nations. The historian Misha Glenny argues that, while the language is less romanticized, the discourse that distances and mythologizes the Balkans still persists today (1999, xxi). Around the turn of the twentieth century, the Balkans sit on the margins of Europe (geographically, politically, and conceptually), and at the same time, they are peripheral territories of the Austro–Hungarian and Ottoman Empires, creating a uniquely heterogenous, intercultural, and hybrid space of meaning. Andrew Baruch Wachtel argues how: ‘The Balkan Peninsula developed its diverse civilization over many centuries as geographic factors, combined with the inability of any one civilization to assert complete control over the local populations, encouraged variety’ (2008, 7). This ambivalent and crossroads positioning, and the complex relations between the Balkans and the West, have been addressed by a number of scholars in the fields of cultural and visual history, anthropology, philosophy, postcolonial studies, and film and media studies. Notably, Edward Said’s Orientalism (1978) and Maria Todorova’s Imagining the Balkans (1997) have been very influential on critical approaches and on the development of concepts on issues of ideology, representation, and identity in the region. In her seminal work, Todorova traces ‘the invention of the Balkans’ to travel writing and journalism throughout history and explores its imaginary construction ([1997] 2009). The word ‘Balkan’ comes from the Turkish ‘Bal Kan’ which means mountain or stony place, and it was gradually used to designate the mountainous chain crossing present-day Bulgaria, eventually coming to signify the entire peninsula in the nineteenth century (Todorova 2009, 26–28). Western observers and commentators travelling throughout the region in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries used and spread

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the term, accompanied by descriptions of the region’s perceived decline and lowering of classical ideals under Ottoman rule (Ibid., 22). Yet, it was not until the beginning of twentieth century, and around the time of the Balkan Wars and World War I, that the strong negative connotations and perceptions of the term ‘Balkan’ solidified and the notion of ‘Balkanization’ also emerged (Ibid., 32). While geographically situated on the European continent, the Balkans have been perceived as Europe’s Other, its backyard, in many ways similar to ‘Eastern Europe’ as Larry Wolff has shown: ‘such uncertainty encouraged the construction of Eastern Europe as a paradox of simultaneous inclusion and exclusion, Europe, but not Europe’ (1994, 7). Furthermore, the Balkans functioned as ‘a kind of a mirror’ in which Europe could build a contrasting self-image, one that is ‘advanced’ and ‘civilized,’ while at the same time reflecting ‘what Europeans had been but were no longer allowed to be’ (Jezernik 2007, 14–15). In these travelogues and accounts, the Balkans embodied and combined what Julia Kristeva called ‘the disturbingly strange’ and ‘the otherness of our ourness’ (Ibid.). Todorova writes: ‘Geographically inextricable from Europe, yet culturally constructed as “Other”, the Balkans became, in time, the object of a number of externalized political, ideological and cultural frustrations and have served as a repository of negative characteristics against which a positive and self-congratulatory image of the “European” and “the West” has been constructed’ (1994, 455). The term ‘Balkanization’1 came to be synonymous with the notion of perpetual violence, war, and intolerance, and designated ethnic and political fragmentation attributed to the breakup of the Ottoman Empire. A British diplomat, writing the Balkan survey for the Carnegie Endowment in 1913, noted how: ‘wherever and whenever in the Balkans national feeling becomes conscious, then, to that extent, does civilization begin; and as such consciousness could best come through war, war in the Balkans was 1 Balkanization has come to designate ethnical and political fragmentation of multinational states, and was coined at the end of World War I, but wrongly attributed to the disintegration of the Ottoman Empire. Maria Todorova traces the history of the expression ‘Balkanization,’ and finds it was first used in the New York Times on 20 December 1918 in the article “Rathenau, Head of Great Industry, Predicts the ‘Balkanization of Europe’,” here conveying a future threat or impeding devastation (1997, 33–34). Todorova asserts that ‘Balkanization entered the lexicon of journalists and politicians at the end of World War I when the disintegration of the Habsburg and Romanov Empires into a proliferation of small states reminded them of the secession of the Balkan countries from the Ottoman polity that had begun much earlier’ (Ibid., 34), and the term was revived after World War II during the decolonization process (Ibid., 35).

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the only road to peace’ (1915, 31). Further, the Ottoman legacy as perception, as a process of interaction between the accumulating past and the perceptions of generations of people who are constructing the past, is built in the discourse of Balkan nationalism as one of the most important pillars, and displays remarkable similarity in all Balkan countries (Todorova 2004, 13). Some scholars have argued that what came to designate the process of ‘Balkanization’ in the region – ‘nationalism, plans for the building of post-Ottoman empires and the continuous redrawing of existing political borders in the Balkans’ – was a result of Europeanization and Westernization 2 (Jezernik et al., 2007, 8). At the end of the nineteenth century, the Balkan region was a multicultural milieu, where people of different religions, ethnic origins, and cultures co-existed, and where strong historical legacies of the Eastern Roman (Byzantine) Empire and Ottoman Empire resulted in a multi-layered local civilization. Due to this complexity, the anthropologist Sarah H. Green argues that violence erupts when attempts to use ‘the cookie cutter’ method to sever connections and relationships in the Balkan region are employed, precisely because the gaps function as connective tissue (2005). In the Balkans, the complex and, at times, conflicting identities (religious, ethnic, or linguistic aff iliation), rendered the division of the territory into nation states a diff icult and intricate process. The arbitrary borders foreshadowing and resulting from the two Balkan Wars serve as visible evidence of this method,3 as well as the subsequent population exchanges (such as the Greek and Turkish populations after World War I). Even though the Balkan countries are geographically part of the European continent, they have rarely been invested with the imaginary and perceived values of European-ness in ideological, socio-political, and cultural terms,

2 ‘During the processes of “liberalisation” of “enslaved” people in the nineteenth century, tolerance and peaceful coexistence were the very f irst victims of the imposition of western concepts like liberal democracy, capitalism, the nation-state and the like’. (Jezernik et al., 2007, 7–8). 3 The First Balkan War was fought between the Ottoman Empire and the Balkan Allies (Montenegro, Greece, Serbia, and Bulgaria), and essentially had three underlying causes: the Ottoman Empire’s inability to reform itself, the quarrelling between the Great Powers, and the formation of a confident Balkan League. After seven months of war and the Treaty of London, on 30 May 1913, the Ottoman Empire lost virtually all of its territory in the Balkans. The Second Balkan War, which started two weeks later, was fought by Bulgaria against Montenegro, Greece, Serbia, Romania, and the Ottoman Empire, and ended with Bulgaria losing most of the awarded territories from the First Balkan War.

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both from inside or outside. 4 In her work on Balkan film, culture, and the media, Iordanova notes how the Balkan countries continue to negotiate a ‘return to Europe’ (2001), and over the last two decades, this is evidenced through a series of talks and negotiations for their political and symbolical admission to the European Union5 and the associated process of ‘Europeanization.’ One of the aims of this book is to readdress such long-standing historical and hierarchical power relations, and to examine the extent to which early moving images played a part in the imaginary construction of the Balkans at the turn of the century, which rendered the region not quite ‘European’ in cultural terms. This study takes a critical approach to the ‘invention of the Balkans’ as a place of symbolic darkness, and aims to shed light on the heterogeneity and richness of the region and its fluid and complex form, neither Eastern nor Western but a being in-between, a physical space of cross-hybridization and interculturality, by highlighting the variety of filmmaking activities and interests, and cultural approaches to moving images present in the early period. Since strong negative connotations associated with the term ‘Balkan’ were being solidif ied at the turn of the twentieth century, and the pejorative use of nomenclature such as ‘Balkanization’ emerged during World War I,6 it is crucial to understand in which ways cinema, as the new mass medium and art form, contributed to the formation of such concepts. My book aims to dispel some myths pertaining to the popular image of the region, and to contribute to scholarship that problematizes and challenges such notions (Orientalism, Balkanism) by offering a counter-narrative. 4 The British writer Z. Duckett Ferriman notes in his book Greece and the Greeks: ‘A Greek says he is going to Europe when he is going to France and Italy. He calls Englishmen, Germans, or any other Western people who happen to visit or reside in Greece, Europeans in contradistinction to the Greeks. The occidentals in Greece do likewise. They are Europeans, and by implication, the Greeks are not […] The Greek is racially and geographically European, but he is not a Western. That is what he means by the term, and the signification is accepted by both Greek and foreigner. He is Oriental in a hundred ways, but his Orientalism is not Asiatic. He is the bridge between East and West […].’ (1911, 132) 5 Greece has been a member since 1981, Slovenia joined in 2004, Romania and Bulgaria in 2007, and Croatia in 2013. Albania, Montenegro, North Macedonia, Serbia, and Turkey are still in accession negotiations. 6 When World War I erupted on 28 July 1914, the perception of the Balkans as the European Other threatening the peace, stability, and order of the West was re-affirmed. Gavrilo Princip embodied the Balkan Other, his ‘barbaric’ actions were the cause of the war, drawing the ‘innocent’ European countries to fight: ‘No other murder in history is perceived to have triggered such calamitous events – world war, imperial collapse, socialist revolution’ (Glenny 2012, 303).

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Modernity, Cinema, and the Balkans The turn of the twentieth century, which also coincides with the arrival of moving images and cinema, sees a widespread aspiration towards a ‘European’ modernity across European geographical peripheries. The culture of modernity, and modernization in the name of industrial capitalism, are closely intertwined with the concept of Eurocentrism. In their work on popular culture and media, Ella Shohat and Robert Stam have described Eurocentrism as ‘single paradigmatic perspective in which Europe is seen as the unique source of meaning, as ontological “reality” to the rest of the world’s shadow,’ which needs to be challenged by ‘critical and polycentric multiculturalism’ (1994, 2). In her study on early cinema in Istanbul, Canan Balan warns of reducing ‘a study of a developing country’s early cinema spectatorship to a study of lacks and absences,’ which tends to be ‘a consequence of the prevailing Euro-centric modernity paradigm’ (2010, 28). Eurocentrism is of course ‘a specifically modern phenomenon, the roots of which go back to the Renaissance, a phenomenon that did not flourish until the nineteenth century’ and forms one dimension of the world’s modern capitalist ideology and culture (Amin 1898, vii). Interestingly, Shohat and Stam note that, ‘Eurocentrism, like Renaissance perspectives in painting, envisions the world from a single privileged point’ (1994, 2). Much of the writing on early cinema histories in the Balkans tends to privilege ‘firsts’ and ‘pioneers,’ and notes lacks and absences behind the conditions and delayed development of a national cinema, further contributing to a limited understanding of the region’s complexity during this period. This book will make recourse to interdisciplinary methodologies drawn from cultural and visual histories of the Balkans, film phenomenology, critical theory, and archival theory to offer both an alternative and a multifaceted perspective in tune with ‘polycentric multiculturalism,’ in order to understand the relationship between early cinema and modern visual culture. Anglophone scholarship on early cinema has examined the relationship between cinema and the culture of modernity 7 for several decades, but the majority of enquiries have been limited to European and North American experiences, though there are exceptions. 8 The f ilm historian Miriam 7 Especially significant is the volume edited by Leo Charney and Vanessa Schwartz, Cinema and the Invention of Modern Life (1995), which brings together several texts on this issue. 8 Such as Zhang Zhen’s An Amorous History of the Silver Screen. Shanghai Cinema, 1896–1937, a pioneering enquiry into the production of cinema in Shanghai culture using Miriam Hansen’s concept of ‘vernacular modernism.’ Another precious non-Euro-centric study is Canan Balan’s PhD dissertation “Changing Pleasures of Spectatorship: Early and Silent Cinema in Istanbul”.

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Hansen suggests that ‘modernism encompasses a whole range of cultural and artistic practices that register, respond to, and reflect processes of modernization and the experience of modernity,’ which varies according to social and geopolitical locations (1999, 60). Perhaps, then, cinema and, in particular, the development of early cinema, as both a phenomenon and an integral part of modernity, and a catalyst of Eurocentrism as a central paradigm of culture and ideology in the late nineteenth century, needs to be continuously re-evaluated through a non-Western normative lens, through critical interpretations of non-dominant, minor, and generally more neglected cinema and visual culture histories. Some broad questions guiding this research are: Where and how do the Balkans fit within the discourses on early cinema and the culture of modernity around the globe? What can we learn from early cinema production, exhibition, distribution, and reception modes in the Balkans? How does this inform our broader understanding of early cinema studies and modern visual culture?

Visual Culture, Early Cinema, and Hapticality Cinema, or rather moving images, began well before the f irst public projection of the Cinematograph organized by the Lumière brothers on 28 December 1895, at the Salon Indien du Grand Café in Paris. Alexander Kluge argues that ‘cinema has existed for over ten thousand years in the minds of human beings’ in the form of ‘associative current, daydreams, sensual experiences and streams of consciousness. The technical discovery only made it reproducible’ (1975, 208). Moreover, while ‘the genealogy from photography to cinema is well documented’ (Gray 2010, 3), many other forms of entertainment and storytelling tend to be generally unacknowledged. In a response to David Parkinson’s claim that cinema is ‘the most modern, technologically dependent and Western of all the arts’ (1995), Gray suggests that cinema development should be considered under different terms, due to several factors: ‘the convergence of several long-term processes, such as: the appeal of visual stimulation for humans; an awareness of certain peculiarities of vision; a nineteenth-century interest in technology, machinery, and spectacle; and some financial acumen by specific individuals’ (2010, 2). In More general studies on modernity include: Tejasvwini Niranjana, P. Sudhir, Vivek Dhareshwar, eds. Interrogating Modernity: Culture and Colonialism in India, Calcutta: Seagull Books, 1993, and Sharan A. Minichiello, ed. Japan’s Competing Modernities: Issues in Culture and Democracy 1900–1930, Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1998.

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the Balkans, for instance, the pre-figurations of modern-day cinema can be located in cultural traditions, such as the shadow play theatre popularized during the Ottoman times, and even further back to ancient philosophy, such as the allegory of Plato’s Cave and the knowledge of a true form of reality through the understanding of Forms and Ideas. Cinema has too often been seen as a child of rational optics, ‘faithful to reality through chemical reproduction and mechanical projection,’ one that seemingly shattered ‘the magic of Wayang, the phantasms of Father Kircher and the childishness of Reynaud’ (Morin 1954, 19). Several other Eastern cultural dimensions characterizing cinema tend to be overlooked and overshadowed by a dominant rhetoric in which cinema’s origins are traced back almost exclusively to Western arts and history. Through my work, I will aim to offset, if not shift, the dominant perspective through which early cinema history is observed, by positing the study through Balkan ‘haptical lenses’ and ‘hybrid modernity,’ and tracing the construction of visuality and perception through cultural traditions that pre-date the arrival of cinema. In art, haptical, first referred to by the art historian Alois Riegl, privileges the eye as the organ of touch and includes the senses in our understanding of human perception, while in film phenomenology, notably in the work of Vivian Sobchack and Laura U. Marks, haptical acknowledges that film spectatorship and the very act of viewing cinematic images can be embodied and visceral. In my view, haptical visuality is already present in visual cultures in the Balkans prior to the arrival of cinema, notably in minor and popular arts, such as weaving, tapestry, jewellery manufacture and decorative arts, and religious artistic traditions, such as Byzantine fresco paintings and Ottoman architecture. Therefore, a reading of visual culture in the Balkans alongside examples of textual analysis of early films made by local pioneers, such as the Manakia brothers, from a haptical perspective, allows a more nuanced understanding and richer interpretation of these cinematic images. With the advent of the digital and the looming threat of material disappearance (i.e. the film object), contemporary film and art theories have again turned to and popularized the notion of the haptical, acknowledging the embodied and sensual relationship between the spectator and the cinema experience. Yet, the corporeality and viscerality of early cinema viewing experiences, has been examined by a number of scholars within different national and regional contexts (Hansen-Bratu 1993; Tsivian 1998; Dahlquist, Galili, Olson & Robert 2018, and others). My work builds on these investigations, and provides a reading of initial encounters with cinema in the Balkans, documented in the press of the time, which reveal similar responses to the new visual medium.

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Connecting a Disconnected Space: A Working Methodology The focus on the national tended to be the predominant factor in assessing the development of early cinema throughout the twentieth century. Giorgio Bertellini notes how: ‘Not by chance, the problematics that would intrinsically expose the multiculturalism and multilinguistic fabric of silent cinema – i.e. cross-national commercialisations and “influences” – have for a long time received scant attention’ (2000, 235). According to Jennifer M. Bean, the privileging of the national can be explained due to: (1) economic agendas, i.e. the majority of film archives across the world are state-sponsored, which places the demand on the assessment of cinema ‘under the rubric of nationality and nationhood’; and (2) the position of film and media scholars within academic structures, which demands ‘a scholarly and curricular commitment to nation- or region-specific cultures and traditions’ (2014, 7). The leading Balkan film scholar, Dina Iordanova, argues that work on Balkan cinemas cannot be circumscribed by political borders, but requires adopting a transnational and intercultural framework, and employing a mixture of geographical, historical and political elements that ‘do not coincide with concrete countries and leave the conceptual contours of the region fuzzy and flexible’ (2001, 6). Instead of considering the development of early cinema in the Balkans through a binding framework of national parameters, I envisage in its place the notion of transnational and intercultural film heritage, history, and historiography to allow for comparative reading. The nationally exclusive approach would be limited, because it understands the development of cinema and film style and form bounded by national borders and actors, and does not account for cross-cultural influences, thus limiting the effect of transnational exchanges. Itinerant cinemas and travelling showmen continually crossed borders, and gave rise to an ambulant form of entertainment, often settling in the country they visited to expand cinema activities. Early cinema production, exhibition, and circulation was marked by mutual collaboration, altering national borders and political leanings, resulting in a re-definition of what can be termed a Balkan interculturality on Europe’s outskirts. The characteristic composition of the region requires a more flexible methodology when examining its cinema history, its influences and interpretations. This book’s temporal parameters are loosely defined by the proliferation of modern visual media and the arrival of moving image shows in the region in the 1890s, to the onset of World War I, which marked a significant interruption of cinema activities in the Balkans and Europe. It situates

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itself alongside similar studies of early cinema history in a variety of local, national, and regional contexts (Balan, Gunning, Zhen), and studies of Balkan cinema employing transnational and cross-cultural approaches (Iordanova, Ţuţui). This is due to: 1) the unique multicultural formation of the Balkans and its visual culture; 2) the mobility and exchange of people, materials, and cultural forms within empires; 3) the cosmopolitan character of early cinema and its development; and 4) the complexity of the historical, social, political, and cultural context of the region at the turn of the twentieth century. This framework allows for a more nuanced and layered reading and interpretation of moving images produced in the region.

Journey through the Archives While a large proportion of film materials in Western European and North American archives have been digitalized for easier access, and many scholarly studies have been done on the development of early cinema, the Balkan material is primarily only accessible at the archives. Consequently, a significant part of the research for this book consisted of archival visits in Paris, London, Lyon, and Vienna between 2013 and 2019, while the longest period was spent in the region’s film archives and newspaper libraries, in Serbia, North Macedonia, Albania, Slovenia, Bulgaria, Romania, and Croatia in 2013, and again in 2019 in Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Montenegro, and Albania, allowing me to access a variety of archival materials and conduct interviews with the archivists. Due to temporal and financial constraints, I could not conduct archival research and consult primary sources in Greece and Turkey in situ. I therefore rely heavily on secondary sources in order to provide context and commentary as required, but where possible, I still make recourse to digitalized newspaper sources. During my fieldwork, it became apparent that it is mainly thanks to the efforts of the archivists in the Balkans, who work in especially diff icult conditions (such as a lack of state funding for archival work and heritage projects), that many early films have been preserved, catalogued, and made available for research. In these strenuous circumstances, the film archives in the Balkans need support and attention beyond strictly national frameworks, as precious and unique materials are held in these archival vaults and threatened by the ravages of time. The archival moving images and documents in film archives across the Balkans are in danger of disappearing, both physically and spiritually. Physically, as the material supports on which they are imprinted decay over time and the national film

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archives in the Balkans are often underfunded and struggle to undertake state of the art preservation procedures of their film heritage.9 Spiritually, as often these films are unavailable to audiences, and are screened very rarely as part of specialized programmes at cinematheques, film museums, or archival film festivals, thus resulting in their visibility fading from our collective memory. Meanwhile, large and small pan-European projects to digitize newspapers and journals are being undertaken, which means that an increasing number of early newspapers are becoming available via institutional websites for consultation.10 However, these are still limited and not representative of the total number of early press publications, which hold precious information on cinema activities in the region. The local historians and archivists have relentlessly researched, recorded, and preserved film and its manifestations from the early period, without whose efforts I would not have been able to cover such a large and complex region. Due to the linguistic complexity of the region,11 the great majority of this research seldom travels beyond the national borders, and is practically inaccessible to scholars around the world. More often than not, the films and texts under examination here are unknown in the neighbouring countries, and few local scholars, notably those such as Petar Kardjilov and Marian Ţuţui, have ventured beyond national confines. Due to the disappearance and loss of the majority of films from the early period,12 early cinema scholars often use non-filmic material to reconstruct the development of cinema, and engage in interdisciplinary studies and 9 My meeting in winter 2019 with the director of The National Film Archives of Bosnia and Herzegovina conf irmed as much, the archive is greatly underfunded and f ilm preservation projects are not an option. This is also evident through the recent archival situation in Albania where, due to the state of decay in which f ilm reels were found in the Central State’s Film Archive, an emergency preservation campaign was launched by a group of local filmmakers, archivists, and a concerned international film community, to save its cultural heritage through the founding of the Albanian Cinema Project. For further details refer to the project website: http://www.thealbaniancinemaproject.org/. 10 A very useful resource is the Domitor Journals Project initiated by Michael Cowan and Patrick Ellis, which provides links to digital collections of periodicals relevant to early cinema studies: https://domitor.org/journals/. 11 There are several principal languages spoken in the Balkans and many not mutually comprehensible: Turkish; Greek; Romanian; Bosnian; Croatian; Serbian; Slovenian; Albanian; Bulgarian; and North Macedonian. 12 Film historians estimate that around twenty per cent of early films are preserved, which may be somewhat optimistic. For example, studies have shown that about 70 per cent of US silent film productions are considered lost (Pierce 2013, 1–2). There are no equivalent statistics and studies that confirm numbers for early cinema in the Balkans, but, taking the case of Romania

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intersectionality. This study is principally informed by archival documents and extra-filmic material (photographs, advertisements, local newspapers, and critical descriptions) sourced in the archives across the region and beyond, alongside a number of secondary sources, such as academic studies on national film histories, historical accounts and memoirs, literature, and travel writing. Even though few early films made and shown in the region have survived today,13 the preserved audio-visual and written documents in the region’s archives still allow for a greater insight into the visual and cultural history of the Balkans and its relation to the rest of the world during this transitional historical period. By researching the dynamics of local and foreign film productions, the mobility of filmmakers and film entrepreneurs, exhibition, and circulation of moving images and their cultural reception, my book inevitably raises questions about film preservation and access to archival material in the digital age.

The Field of Vision There are extensive historical studies covering the Balkan Wars and the events surrounding World War I (Glenny 2012) or historical studies of the region within broader world histories (Kaser 2011; Wachtel 2008). In terms of postcolonial theory and cultural history, the work of Edward Said (1978) and Maria Todorova ([1997] 2009) have had a strong impact on critical approaches on the Balkans, with concepts such as such as ‘nesting orientalisms’ (Hayden and Bakić-Hayden 1992, 1995), or ‘self-exoticism’ (Iordanova 2001) and ‘selfbalkanization’ (Longinović 2005) within film studies itself, being developed to address issues of representation and identity in the region. There are publications in local languages, which either focus on early cinema in the countries of former Yugoslavia framed by national parameters (Kosanović 1985, 2000; Slijepčević 1982; Knežević 1992; Volk 1986), focus exclusively on national cinema histories (Dobrinčić 1950; Hoxha 1994, 2002, 2007; Lako 2003; Mëhilli 2011; Kosanović 1980, 2008; Majcen 1995, 1998, 2003; Lovrić 2017; Škrabalo 1998; Petruševa 2003; Rîpeanu 1972, 2004, 2008, 2013; Traven et al. 1992; Kastratović 1999; Milunović 2018; Căliman 2000; Arkolakis 2003, 2009; Soldatos 2002), or provide critical insights into cinema development as an example, and referring to the film catalogue compiled by the Romanian film historian Bujor Rîpeanu, out of 25 fiction films made in Romania until 1918, only one has survived (2004). 13 Notably, some early feature fiction films, Karađorđe (1911) and Independenţa României (1912), and several newsreels, home movies, and ethnographic footage of the Balkans.

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in selected locations or cities (Balan 2010; Erdoğan 2019; Kečkemet 1969; Kosanović 1988, 2005b, 2012; Montina 2019; Bunjac et al. 2013; Čakširan et al. 2018; Godina n.d.; Christofides and Saliba 2012; Besarević 1974; Tomanas 1993). The same applies to studies available in the English language, which tend to focus on national film histories (for example Kosanović 2005a; Ţuţui 2011; Karalis 2012; Nasta 2015). There are also edited collections on early cinema in the Balkans divided by chapters on individual countries (Nonevski 2003), studies focusing on early cinema pioneers the Manakia brothers (Nonevski 1985, 2005; Ţuţui 2004; Stardelov 2003; Jankuloski 2017; Christodoulou 1997), and early cinema pioneers and foreign cinematographers active in the region (Slijepčević 1979; Šimenc et al. 1985; Midžić 1996, 2006; Maslovarik 2013; Kardjilov 2006, 2012, 2020; Erdeljanović 2005, 2006, 2012). The predominance of national cinema histories is a result of many factors: lack of access to archival materials; linguistic and political challenges; financial difficulties; and the tendency of national film institutions to privilege and support the writing of national film histories. The publications with similar conceptual frameworks (transnationalism, mobility, cross-cultural influences) are limited to local contexts (Balan 2012) or focus on activities of selected film pioneers (Kardjilov 2008, 2017, 2020), while those with similar geographical scope have limited focus on the early period (Ţuţui 2008). In short, there are no existing studies on the development of early cinema in the Balkans within the same conceptual and spatiotemporal parameters adopted by this book.

Limitations and Structure Being immersed in the (hi)story of early cinema in the Balkans is also a way of constructing an imaginary of ruins, where the discipline and notion of archaeology seems to fit the undertaking of writing a reflexive cinema history, one that is based on partially preserved film heritage and archival documents. In this way, the positivist and exhaustive notion of the archive is challenged through the acknowledgement of various lacunae, fragments, voids, and loss. This work is determined by certain limitations: it studies a specific space within a circumscribed time period, and is dependent on the current availability of archival materials. Re-discoveries of silent films continuously occur in the most unexpected places, and history evolves, giving birth to new significations and interpretations. Working on such a large and culturally complex region, the danger of glazing over some issues is present, however, the advantage is the ability to construct an overall

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picture of early cinema, and establish connections in an effort to shed bias. My book only begins to scratch the surface of the richness and variety of the cultural history of the region around the turn of the twentieth century and further studies are needed. The mosaic-like character of investigation is dictated by the discourse, contingent on the uniqueness of the Balkan space, the uneven texture of surface and its fluctuation within the time and space continuum. In this respect, Giuliana Bruno’s work on the Italian film pioneer Elvira Notari and her cinema activities (1993), which involves an analysis of a field marked by various lacunae, and offers a reconstruction through a meta-discourse (due to only three films being preserved), has been of constant inspiration. My work does not privilege surviving moving images over archival texts, but allows these to enter into dialogue. If, as Iordanova argues, writing about Balkan cinema is connecting a disconnected space, my methodology is informed in a similar fashion by a conceptual mapping of the geographical and imaginal space that designates the Balkans, to allow the connections between surviving visual and textual artefacts to emerge as sense-forming constellations. Therefore, the book is structured in five mutually complementary chapters, each focusing on a set of issues relevant to the investigation of early cinema, modernity, and cultural history in the Balkans. The first chapter investigates the legacy of visual cultures in the region on the development of perception, and engages with the concept of the haptic to describe the sensual and embodied encounter with archival moving images. I argue that the complexity of the Balkans needs to be observed through a transnational and cross-cultural lens to account for the cultural and historical legacies (Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Ottoman, Austro–Hungarian), which left their indelible mark on the culture of local populations. Furthermore, I show that haptical vision is integral to Balkan visual culture, absorbed and transformed throughout centuries in the form of popular and religious art, and present in architecture, painting, sculpture, metalwork, textiles, and jewellery design. The second chapter focuses on the spaces of early cinema screenings within the broader context of the urban, modern experience and changing night-time practices. Several impressions of viewing moving images are described as embodied and sensual encounters between the spectator and the cinematic body. An encounter with the cinema apparatus, recounted in Balkan Film, evokes the heterogeneous social space of such early cinema shows, and their ephemeral, ambulant character alongside fairground entertainment. Moreover, the Bulgarian writer and intellectual Ivan Andreichin claims that cinema is an art form suited to the modern age, which provides spectators in urban environments with ‘intensive life.’ While, Ivo Andrić’s

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short story reveals how early moving image devices (the Panorama) allowed viewers to journey across spatial realms of imaginary and real worlds. Finally, I explore the coffeehouse as a characteristic site for the experience of urban life specific to the Balkan space, captured in the fleeting images of Josip Halla’s Café Corso. Cinema emerged as a form of night-time practice akin to the long-standing consumption of coffee as a stimulant, modifying the spectator’s experience of time and space. The third chapter examines the trajectories of filmmakers, film entrepreneurs, and moving images in the early period, to underscore how the transnational mobility and intercultural exchange informed and shaped the development of local cinema. Here, the legacy and work of the Manakia brothers and Louis Pitrolf de Beéry can shed some light on the itinerant and shifting narratives of this early period, as well as expose the enthusiasm and the will to document, develop, and imagine the future possibilities of cinema. Their work needs to be viewed beyond the confines of contemporary political borders, not only due to their itinerant trajectories and contribution to several national film histories, but also because of the traces they left across archives in the region. As a result, I argue that the notion of movement is crucial for understanding the complex, intricate, and ever-changing narrative of early cinema in the Balkans. During this time, the Balkan space was marked by the mobility of foreign and local film exhibitors and practitioners and the movement of films through their circulation, distribution, and exhibition across the region, leading to cross-cultural exchange and creation of cross-border networks. The fourth chapter focuses on the role of early moving images, produced by foreign cinematographers and film production companies, in the shaping of the Balkan imaginary. The early moving images shot in the Balkans or made with Balkan themes, contributed to the creation of the Balkanist discourse before the start of World War I, by offering stereotypical views and sensational accounts of Western travellers’ adventures to a semi-oriental land. I analyse a selection of footage, such as Pathé’s reconstructed actualities, the Charles Urban travelogues, and newsreels covering the Balkan Wars, which reveals the Western European gaze as either fascinated or horrified by the Balkan Other. The loosening of the Ottoman stronghold hastened the metaphorical colonization of the territory as well as the emerging interests of the Great Powers. Further, news of uprisings and wars drew foreign correspondents and cameras to the region. The multi-layered and semicolonial Balkan imaginary provided early moving picture makers with a rich repertoire of ‘cinema of attractions’-like images, instants of Orientalism and Otherness to entice the spectators’ imagination and guarantee a full house.

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The fifth chapter examines the work of local cinema practitioners within the global context of filmmaking, the process of modernity, and the desire for self-reflection, as they increasingly became aware of the significance of self-representation as opposed to being represented. Their efforts to document local events and everyday life scenes should be recognized as a desire to immortalize a disappearing image of the region in a period marked by turbulent events. These early views exude affect, connectedness, and hapticality between the viewed object and the viewing subject, the body of the film and the body of the spectator. Here, I also discuss the role of cinema in the nation-building process, through the analysis of two preserved feature fiction films, Karađorđe and Independenţa României, which narrate the modern nation. Symptomatic of the historical, social, and cultural context of the time, these epic f ilms construct a national narrative and recount the progress to independence, and include national symbols such as characteristic elements of folklore and traditional customs. First Romanian views filmed by Paul Menu inspire the local press to write about the documentary and sentimental value of moving images and the importance of capturing local events. My analysis of several texts published in the press of the time, reveals the longing and fascination of local audiences to see familiar views and customs spectacularized through the power of moving images on the silver screen. All translations are my own unless otherwise noted. This book aims to show that the proliferation of moving images in the Balkans, as a unique space of meaning situated on the crossroads of East and West and constructed through cultural, geographical, political, and ideological frameworks, can shed light not only on the development of cinema in the early period, but also have reverberations on how world cinema is conceived and theorized today. It is precisely the peripheral position of the Balkans, that sense of ‘the danger and the freedom of the boundary situation’ (Todorova 2009 [1997], ix–x), which allows living ‘in and beyond the West, knowing the boundaries of its language, and looking southward and eastward as if toward regions of the unthought’ (Spurr 1993, 196).

1.

Visual Culture in the Balkans, Haptic Visuality, and Archival Moving Images Abstract This chapter examines the impact of diverse historical legacies and visual cultures present in the Balkan region on sense perception and the reception of early moving images, through a transnational and crosscultural reading of surviving art forms and practices. Taking inspiration from Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenological epistemology, Vivian Sobchack’s work on embodied spectatorship, and Laura Marks’ theory of haptic visuality, I explore a selection of visual and textual artefacts and archival moving images, which marked my fieldwork journeys in the region, to uncover the embodied experience of vision and haptical encounters between the spectator and the image. Keywords: Sense perception, haptic, Balkan visual culture, archival moving images, phenomenological epistemology, Byzantine art

[S]eeing is irrational, inconsistent and undependable. It is immensely troubled, cousin to blindness and sexuality, and caught up in the threads of the unconscious…Seeing is like hunting and like dreaming, and even like falling in love. It is entangled in the passions ‒ jealousy, violence, displeasure, and in pain. Ultimately, seeing alters the thing that is seen and transforms the seer. Seeing is metamorphosis, not mechanism. (James Elkins, 1996, 11–12).

During my research journey to uncover the history of early cinema in the Balkans, I discovered that archival moving images resemble sensual vaults waiting to release collective memories and embodied imaginary of individuals, of communities, and of nations. Not merely documents or monuments to historical events or past moments, archival moving images are impregnated with collective and individual memories, which, in turn,

Grgić, A., Early Cinema, Modernity and Visual Culture: The Imaginary of the Balkans. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2022 doi 10.5117/9789463728300_ch01

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shape and guide their reception and interpretation in the present time and affect the viewer.1 Henri Bergson argued that memory is embodied in the senses, and that the human brain processes many types of information not translated into thoughts before being experienced and embodied. On a number of occasions, I, the spectator, and I, the researcher, stood in front of the ‘affected’ or ‘affective’ object, drawn closer, in a state of metamorphosis. At these times, the present seemed to assume a form of historical rupture (Walter Benjamin), and, consequently, these moving images (fragments of films, disparate footage) became a key mode for a ‘historical awakening.’ In an effort to capture, to see further or deeper, to imagine, and to have something revealed, at times stubbornly hidden, I understood that the very process of seeing was deeply troubled and caught up in passions, and more akin to aesthesis (Greek ‘sense perception’). In an effort to go beyond image analysis, I sought to find an answer to all the components that comprise the act and field of vision (about the image itself; the relationship between the form and content; the creator of the image; the reception of the image; the historical context; the role of the social, political, and cultural institutions, etc.), but often came short, the gap of historical distance widening further. At this point, the phenomenological epistemology of Maurice Merleau-Ponty, which insists on the primacy of perception, was illuminating. The phenomenology2 of knowledge entails a return to the objects themselves, to a state of mind prior to idealism, intellectualism, and constructivism, to our first naïve contact with the world. For Merleau-Ponty, the body and the world are made of the same ‘flesh’: ‘I am because I have a body. It is from the body that I perceive the world. Without a body, I have no place from which to perceive the world’ (2006 [1964], 108). Vision is corporeal, the body is the source of knowledge of the world, at once seeing and visible, able to touch and to be touched. It is a matter of engaging in a spontaneous encounter with the world (which, in this case, refers to the object of my enquiry, the archival moving images and materials from the Balkans), to inhabit the objects, and to allow them to talk. In this sense: Scientific thinking, a thinking which looks on from above, and thinks of the object-in general, must return to the “there is” which precedes it; to 1 The French film historian Georges Sadoul cautions us that, whilst viewing a film, it is illusory to assume one is in direct contact with the ‘film event’ without any mediation: ‘The film that I see today, that is what I can apprehend without every precaution, the extra-filmic knowledge, is itself a trace, a trace of itself, a document on itself, and the only “event” to which I assist “directly” is my current perception of this old film’ (1972, 18). The original quote is in French. 2 From the Greek expression phainomenon, which derives from the verb phanesthai meaning ‘to show oneself’.

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the site, the soil of the sensible and humanly modified world such as it is in our lives and for our bodies – not that possible body which we may legitimately think of as an information machine but this actual body I call mine, this sentinel standing quietly at the command of my words and my acts (2006 [1964], 9–13).

So, using my ‘actual body’ as a ‘sentinel’ during the course of this investigation into the cinematographic past of the Balkans, I have aimed to return to the site of the sensible, to inhabit and be inhabited by the objects of my study, to touch and to be touched, allowing the objects to talk without preconceived ideas. The small percentage of surviving archival films in the Balkans emerge as archaeological vestiges of what once was, and can be perceived as memories – incomplete, fragmented, and blurry – of the original films. Not only has the ‘film-object’ (or objects, in the case of multiple copies) mutated, it may have decayed and decomposed, its colours may have faded, or it may be missing important visual information. The recently rediscovered feature-length fiction film Karađorđe (1911) is incomplete, the travelogue footage Journey to Sofia (1909) has missing footage and is mostly likely a compilation of several different newsreels, while the definite and authoritative number of films shot by the Manakia brothers is not known. What is more, the ‘film-work’ has mutated itself over the given historical period, its meaning has changed, and its contemporary reception is transformed. Film history is ultimately fluid and relative, and film artefacts (the remnants of cinema) that have reached us here in the present contain patina3 – traces of time and history, shaping their contemporary reception. Film historiography resembles a palimpsest, a Borges-like nightmare of labyrinths that does not yield clear, stable, and fixed truths, but rather leads the researcher hunting down different paths, always in the process of discovery and interpretation. I therefore had to remind myself, firstly, that I was in front of a material object. The graininess and colour decay of archival moving images were a 3 John Ruskin called the visible marks on statues and ancient buildings ‘the golden stain of time,’ while in fine arts and restoration these are defined by a complex and ambiguous term: patina. The Baroque art historian Filippo Baldinucci described patina as a universal obscurity that time makes appear in paintings, sometimes favouring them, and notes that painters also called it ‘skin’ (1681). According to Cesare Brandi, the role of patina reduces the presence of the material in a work of art and leads it back to an intermediary function, stopping it at the threshold of the image, so it will not exceed and overpower to the detriment of the form (2000). Patina or skin ensures a special relationship between the viewer and the object, the contact point between memory and senses stimulation.

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constant reminder that these films were composed of living matter and therefore mortal. For most of its history, cinema was ‘made on film’ – a celluloid strip with specific photochemical properties (nitrate, acetate, polyester), which determines and influences the technical quality, style and form, aesthetics, history, life, and death of the very same moving images. Art restoration theory (see Cesare Brandi) and, somewhat later, film restoration theory (see Paolo Cherchi Usai), have acknowledged that time absorbs and changes the material that constitutes an object, while its surface preserves traces of its living history. Therefore, in the preservation process, the historically mutated object – film – should be preserved, with its decay and colour fading; the marks left on its body by its passing through time. In fine arts such as painting, sculpture, printmaking, architecture, tapestry, and metalwork, the material constitution and qualities of an artwork have held an important role in shaping its interpretation and understanding, yet the material consistency of moving images has often been overlooked by f ilm theory. The materiality of cinematographic images was more prominently brought to attention to a wider public through: 1) archival and film preservation practices that are directly concerned with the ‘cinematic body’; and 2) filmmaking practices of avant-garde and experimental films that engage with the material properties of the medium. Changes in film production, film technology, and filmmaking practices advanced by digital technologies over the last few decades have contributed to the emergence of debates surrounding ‘the death of cinema’ and intensified discussions regarding the materiality of moving images and their eventual and gradual disappearance among film archivists and restorers, and within the academic and cinephile communities. 4 Alongside rediscoveries of early and silent films through restorations, and archival film screenings that have led to major re-assessments of silent cinema history and opened new paths for academic research on the early period, more recent film theories (Vivian Sobchack, Laura U. Marks, Jennifer Barker, Steven Shaviro) have emphasized the importance of phenomenology, film reception, and cultural theory in film analysis and the writing of film history. As Elsaesser and Hagener have argued: ‘For a long time an ocular centric paradigm prevailed film theory that gave precedence to approaches focusing on vision,’ starting with Rudolf Arnheim in 1920s, Béla Balász and 4 The work of film scholar, silent cinema curator, and film restorer, Paolo Cherchi Usai, has focused on the history of cinema revealing the material qualities of nitrate in silent cinema and accentuated the importance of film materiality especially significant for film preservation theory and practice (2000, 2001).

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close-ups, André Bazin’s ontology of the moving image, Eisenstein’s montage theories, and the focus on the act of seeing in dominant theories of the 1960s and 1970s (2010, 108–109). Miriam Hansen explains how, for the German film theorist Siegfried Kracauer, the film addresses its viewer primarily as a corporeal being: ‘the material elements that present themselves in film directly stimulate the material layers of the human being: his nerves, his senses, his entire physiological substance’ (1997, xxi). The role that proximate sensation might play in cinema has allowed for alternate modes of interpretation beyond the domain of the audio-visual; from cutaneous appeals to the skin, to the inherent tactility of vision, or how the direct senses – smell, touch, taste – can be engaged through our mnemonic or phenomenological contact with the image. While the embodied nature of cinema experience was explored in the work of Hugo Münsterberg, Sergei Eisenstein, Siegfried Kracauer, and Jean Epstein in the first decades of the twentieth century, the film scholars Vivian Sobchack and Laura U. Marks have contributed to the re-emergence of and re-conceptualization of film spectatorship as sensuous, mimetic, and embodied.5 Due to the actual physical and material state of early moving images in the Balkans, my theoretical framework and conceptual approach will privilege the material presence of the image and aesthesis6 or sense perception. Their state of preservation is linked to a broader cultural sense of loss and belonging, of history and mythmaking, of construction and destruction of individual and collective identities and memory, which are explored more closely in the other chapters. Essentially, rather than considering the decay or damage to the body of the film as being detrimental to the representational work itself, I suggest that it functions as patina; in other words, it creates new meanings and brings the spectator closer to the images through ‘haptic visuality’ (Marks 2000). The term ‘haptic’ was coined by the art historian Alois Riegl in his study of development in the art, architecture, and industry of antiquity (Late Roman Art Industry, 1901), and subsequently adopted by Laura Marks in her work on intercultural cinema (2000, 2002) to describe a particular way of seeing, which involves the spectator’s body. For Marks, vision itself can be 5 Yuri Tsivian, writing about the cultural reception of early cinema in Russia, explains how our sense of the spectator has never been so sensual and physical, due to the fact that f ilm reception in the early period was shaped by actual environmental pressures of attending a film show, darkness of the auditorium, the attraction of film-going, the noise of the equipment, and so on (1998). 6 Aesthetics derives from the ancient Greek word aesthesis (literally, ‘sense perception’) and involves the senses of taste, touch, hearing, seeing, and smell; aesthetics is essentially ‘born as a discourse of the body’ (Plate 2002, 20).

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tactile, as though one were touching a film with one’s eyes. As she suggests, ‘while optical perception privileges the representational power of the image, haptic perception privileges the material presence of the image. […] haptic visuality involves the body more than is the case with optical visuality’ (2000). Taking inspiration from Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenological philosophy, Vivian Sobchack’s work on embodied spectatorship (1992, 2004), and Laura Marks’ theory of haptic visuality (2000, 2002), I expand this concept and apply it to the study of archival films and early cinema in the Balkan context for two reasons. First, as archival moving images privilege haptic perception due to the historical and affective patina acquired during their latency in the archives; and second, as the development of artistic practices belonging to visual culture and cultural memory in the Balkans share haptic qualities, similar to those described by Riegl, inviting a caressing gaze. In addition to the thinkers above, my approach was influenced by the art historian Cesare Brandi and his work on art restoration theory, the philosopher Henri Bergson on matter and memory, Jean Epstein on visual thought, Paolo Cherchi Usai on film preservation theory, and Yuri Tsivian’s research on the cultural reception of early Russian cinema. Critical analysis of these works has contributed to developing the notion of hapticality of archival moving images. Through an interdisciplinary approach (art history, philosophy, anthropology, phenomenology, archival theory, and cultural studies), this chapter aims to encompass the multifaceted characteristics of vision explored with the help of the aforementioned theories to circumscribe it specifically to archival moving images in the Balkans.

My Journey through Savage Europe7 Why ‘savage’ Europe?’ asked a friend who recently witnessed my departure from Charing Cross for the Near East. ‘Because,’ I replied, ‘the term accurately describes the wild and lawless countries between the Adriatic and Black Seas. (Harry de Windt, 1907, 15).

My research trip started at the Festival Zapaljivog Filma/ Nitrate Film Festival in Belgrade (Figure 3), the only archival film festival of its kind in the region, 7 The subheading is a play on the title of a travelogue Through Savage Europe, published in 1907, by Harry de Windt, special correspondent for The Westminster Gazette, who, accompanied by a ‘canny Scotsman,’ the cine-operator John MacKenzie, from the Urban Bioscope Company, narrates their adventurous journey through the Balkans.

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where some films are screened on nitrate support (which is highly flammable), and so it seemed quite fitting for the start of my journey through cinema’s history around the turn of the century. After interviewing the head archivist of the Jugoslovenska Kinoteka (Yugoslav Cinematheque), Aleksandar Erdeljanović, I learnt that one of the largest collections of the silent period literally ‘went up in flames,’ as the film reels were recycled for plastic raw material. So, through the archives, dusty documents, decaying f ilms, fragile newspapers, and fading memories, I began an intriguing journey navigating between history and myth. This festival brings together archivists and film historians from the region, and showcases films from the silent period produced in the Balkans and from around the world, so I had the opportunity to discuss the challenges faced by the archives and the current state of national film heritage. During this time, I gathered important written material on an early feature fiction film made in the Balkans, Karađorđe or the Life and Deeds of the Immortal Duke Karadjordje (1911, dir. Ilija Stanojević) and had the opportunity to view it on the big screen. The festival also screened newly restored footage from the Đoka Bogdanović collection filmed during the Balkan wars in 1913. Then, following in the footsteps of the film director in Ulysses’ Gaze, my journey took me to Skopje, where the pioneers, the brothers Manakia, left their cinematographic legacy (Figure 4). At the Kinoteka na Makedonija (Cinematheque of North Macedonia), I viewed the whole collection of their films from the first decades of the twentieth century, which constitute important records of local life for the Vlach/Aromanian communities in the Balkans. I also had access to their paper archives in various languages due to changing political authorities: Ottoman Turkish; Greek; Romanian; and Serbo-Croatian, which further reinforced my desire to approach the study of early cinema through a transnational lens. In Tirana, I was welcomed by the head archivist, Eriona Vyshka of the Arkivi Qendror Shteteror i Filmit (Central State’s Film Archive – Albania), who showed me their film collections and storage facilities, and provided access to the earliest surviving footage f ilmed in Albania and written material on its film history, the least known of all cinemas in the Balkans. In addition to viewing the first home movies in Slovenia shot by Karol Grossman in 1905, which preserve the traces of family and social life in his hometown, I discovered two early texts written in 1896 by a doctor and a teacher in local newspapers on the advent of Cinematography, which elucidate the importance and reception of cinema in the region. At the Hrvatska Kinoteka (Croatian Cinémathèque), I was able to see various footage from the coastal towns, Šibenik and Pula (then under the

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Austro–Hungarian Empire), filmed by the Lumière brothers, and locally produced documentaries by the pioneer Josip Karaman, who recorded some important social events in the city of Split. The most interesting discovery was the 1892 article written in the local newspaper in Split pre-dating the Lumière brothers’ invention, describing the functioning of Edison’s Kinetograph and its capability of recording life posthumously8. This discovery places the production of one of the versions of the film well before the construction of Black Maria Studios in 1893 and reassesses previous historical assumptions. Similarly, in Romania, I was able to consult the Romanian–French daily newspaper L’Indépendance Roumaine where the first cinema screenings and local productions were chronicled and described by the journalist Claymoor as part of the High Society column. Here, the staff at the Arhiva Națională de Filme – Cinemateca Romana (National Film Archive – Romanian Cinémathèque) arranged a private screening of early medical films by Doctor Gheorghe Marinescu and other early footage shot by a local cameraman on 35mm, such as Paul Menu’s 10 Mai 1897 (1897, 15m, black-and-white, silent). My interview with the prolific Romanian film archivist and historian, Marian Ţuţui, proved very helpful in gaining further knowledge on the Manakia brothers’ activities in Romania in order to establish important cross-cultural and transnational connections in the early period. The minute and laborious work of the film archivist, Kostadin Kostov, in the form of two volumes kept at the Bulgarska Nacionalna Filmoteka (Bulgarian National Film Archive), provided endless information on cinema screenings and related activities in Sofia and other major cities in Bulgaria from 1896 to 1914. Subsequently, I viewed newly discovered footage of Sofia preserved at the Yugoslav Cinematheque, newsreels from the Balkan wars, and also consulted newspapers in the state and national archives. The contact with the renowned Bulgarian film historian, Petar Kardjilov, was invaluable, as he generously shared his research on cinema activities during the Balkan wars and, in particular, the activity of Charles Rider Noble and John Mackenzie, respectively, an Englishman and a Scotsman active in the region. This knowledge contributed to rendering an overall picture of the activities of foreign correspondents and cineoperators in the Balkans prior to World War I. Meetings with the late Alexander Yanakiev were illuminating on the subject of cultural life and key personalities, such as Ivan Andreichin, working in Sofia and Bulgaria at the turn of the century. 8 For an in-depth discussion and analysis of the published text on Edison’s Kinetograph amd its significance for film history, see Grgić (2020b).

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Furthermore, archival research I conducted at the Institute Lumière in Lyon, France, indicates that in the very beginning of cinema, not only did Lumière brothers’ films travel and were shown across the Balkans, but their cinematographers often filmed views in the cities where they sojourned. These were subsequently sent to Lyon for development and production, which would then be circulated and screened across Europe. In the Jerome Seydoux Pathé Archives in Paris, I discovered that, as early as 1908, Pathé Frères, the French production company, had opened local distribution and production offices in the capital cities of Romania, Bulgaria, Greece, as well as the city of Vienna, meant for distribution throughout the Austro–Hungarian Empire. Furthermore, a handwritten document from the archives at the Cinémathèque française indicates that another French production company, Gaumont, had opened agencies in several Balkan cities already in 1913: including Smyrna (present-day İzmir), Istanbul, Athens, and Bucharest. I started to connect the dots. During my Visiting Fellowship at the Centre for Southeast European Studies in Graz, in October 2014, I had the opportunity to make a trip to the Filmarchiv Austria (Austrian Film Archive) in Vienna pertaining to the cinema activities in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Here, I interviewed the head archivist Nikolaus Wostry about the discovery of the Ignaz Reinthaler collection, which contained several important films for early Serbian cinema history considered lost for decades. I was able to consult the cinema journal Kinematographische Rundschau at the university library, which confirmed some previous findings, but also revealed new information about cinema activity (screenings, permanent cinema theatres, cine-operators) in the Balkans and, more specifically, in Bosnia and Herzegovina after 1908. Thanks to my colleague Gabor Pinter at the Magyar Nemzeti Filmarchívum (Hungarian National Film Archive), I participated in the restoration premiere of the silent feature f ilm A Tolonc / The Undesirable (1914) in Budapest in 2014. The Hungarian film director Kertész Mihály (better known as Michael Curtiz in Hollywood) shot this film in Cluj, Transylvania (part of Austro-Hungarian Empire) prior to World War I, which was produced by the prolific and creative theatre director, writer, and film producer Jenő Janovics. During the course of this research, I began to feel more and more how archival spaces themselves influence the researcher’s perception and the reading of the surviving footage and old newspapers. The viewing of moving images from the early period always entails a haptical encounter between the viewer and the object. Even more, touching and turning the pages of an old newspaper brings our senses into play. To illustrate this point, I will briefly discuss my last archival visit to the Balkans in November and

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December 2019. Returning to Vienna to view early footage of Sarajevo and Bosnia and Herzegovina, I realized how much the contemporary location affected the reception and interpretation of these moving images. The Austrian Film Archive is situated in a long narrow building in Augarten9 (a public garden opened in 1766, which also housed the Emperor’s summer residence), which was formerly used as the royal stables, cook’s quarters, and outhouses during the Habsburg Monarchy. The travelogue images of Sarajevo captured before the Great War and newsreels documenting the aftermath of Franz Ferdinand’s assassination, were my first visual and affective encounter with the city before physically travelling there for the first time. Once in Sarajevo, I visited the Kinoteka Bosne i Hercegovine (The National Film Archives of Bosnia and Herzegovina), where I interviewed the director Devleta Filipović, who shared her thoughts on the challenges and difficulties of film preservation and film archiving for an underfunded institution. My trip then took me to the Sarajevo University Library, where I was able to view physical and digital copies from their collection of old newspapers and journals: Vakat, Hrvatski Dnevnik, Narod, Osvit, and Bosanska Vila (Figures 5 and 6). Currently situated in the old Marshall Tito military barracks of the Yugoslav People’s Army (JNA), the Sarajevo university campus and library moved to these premises during the Yugoslav wars. The state library and archives, previously housed in the townhall, suffered tremendous losses due to the bombing by the Bosnian Serb forces in August 1992. Today, the former military barracks still conserve the effects and devastation of the Sarajevo siege and the Yugoslav wars, with visible shelling damages on the buildings. I inspected the newspapers in a small room on the ground floor of the neoclassical Viennese style building (the construction of the military camp began at the turn of twentieth century during the Austro–Hungarian Empire), lined with shelves and old volumes and newspapers, and a Persian rug in the centre. It was early December and incredibly cold, I kept my coat and scarf on during the entire time, and frequently visited the student cafeteria for coffee sustenance and warmth. In one of the newspapers, a column ‘Sarajevo in all its splendour’ announcing the Emperor’s visit to the city in June 1910 and the instalment of decorative electrical lighting for the occasion, particularly resounded in these winter months. 9 An inscription on the main gate of Augarten park reads: ‘A place of amusement dedicated to all people by their Cherisher.’ The Emperor Joseph II had built and dedicated this large park to the people of Vienna in 1775. The park housed dining rooms, dance halls, billiard rooms, and second oldest porcelain factory in Europe.

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Figure 3. Photograph of the IV Edition Nitrate Film Festival poster© Ana Grgić

Figure 4. The Manakia brothers’ film reel © Ana Grgić

Figure 5. Advert for gramophones ‘Razbibriga’(Pastime) in Narod (3 January 1912), Sarajevo

Figure 6. Advert for coffeehouse and restaurant Excelsior in Vakat (8 April 1914), Sarajevo

Figure 7. Still, Karađorđe (1911, dir. Ilija Stanojević)

Figure 8. Still, Journey to Sofia (1909)

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Hapticality of Archival Moving Images Loving a disappearing image means finding a way to allow the figure to pass while embracing the tracks of its presence, in the physical fragility of the medium. (Laura Marks, 2002, 96).

When dealing with archival moving images as the primary source of investigation, vision and perception can be considered embodied and tactile, engaging our direct senses (smell, touch, taste) through mnemonic or phenomenological contact. There are several layers of hapticality inherent to working with archival moving images, whether in the role of an archivist, a researcher, or a spectator, at different stages of film viewing and film preservation. First, the film archivist or restorer is in touch with the actual ‘skin’ of the film, the celluloid material onto which moving images are imprinted. The archivist/restorer is not only reminded of the materiality of archival moving images in the process of film preservation, but, moreover, has an intimate knowledge of the ‘film’s body.’ During the preservation of a film, the archivist/restorer uses her/his senses to determine the present condition of the film’s body. Upon immediate vision, film inspection involves the use of smell, the odour of the film container, and the film roll help determine the stage of decay. The next step occurs on the editing or viewing table. Even though this is referred to as the visual inspection of the film, in reality, the restorer/archivist threads the reel and by running the tips of their fingers lightly on the edges, engages the sense of touch to determine cuts or grooves. This complicit act of sensuousness of the archivist/film lover goes beyond the film-work itself (reverence for the last film made by Friedrich Murnau, for instance) but is rather vested in the singular film-object: the type of support; the gauge; its elasticity; colour; signs of decay; and every cut of this particular copy. Actual physical contact with the material and tactile proximity to the cinematic medium was very common in early silent cinema, mainly due to the manufacturing and production processes at the time. In her work on the silent cinema film producer and filmmaker Elvira Notari, the film historian Giuliana Bruno noted that the majority of film production companies at the time had a distinct artisanal character: ‘early silent cinema was not a culture industry but a “culture manufacture” (manifattura cinematografica), a handmade and homemade cultural practice’ (1993, 105). Similarly, Zhang Zhen uses the term ‘vernacular modernism’ to designate the popular character of filmmaking in the analysis of early cinema production and

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culture in Shanghai, China (2005, 1–42). Indeed, the manufacture and colouring of silent films involved manipulation of film stock, implying a certain intimacy with the f ilmic body and matter, while researchers have found that it was often women that worked in the assembly rooms of film production houses and hand-tinted films. Decades later, when Lev Manovich would argue that cinema is ‘the art of the index; […] an attempt to make art out of a footprint,’ describing it as a sub-genre of painting at the time of proliferating digital technologies (2002, 295), this label would not seem so farfetched considering the fact that many coloured f ilms in the silent period were hand-painted frame by frame. This intimacy with the materiality of cinema determined the f irst strata of a unique quality – haptic visuality – transferred and inherent to archival moving images today. Second, archival moving images can be found in different states of degradation and loss, occurring either inside the single image frame or within the textual narrative, rendering them haptic. The image quality could be degraded or actual parts of the celluloid strip could be missing, rendering the film incomplete. Wherever visual information of the image is missing, the viewer is required to complete these missing parts mentally to obtain unity of the figurative. Similarly, in some restored films a black intertitle or still photographs may be inserted where shots, scenes, or a sequence is missing, which require the viewer’s active participation to ‘fill in the gaps,’ so to speak. While this may be disconcerting to the viewer, breaking internal rhythm and structure of the film, it acknowledges that the film has a material history. While watching decayed or ruined archival moving images, the viewer is constantly confronted with the material presence of the image which imposes itself upon vision. We tend to identify with the disappearing image, because ‘[h]aptic looking permits identification with loss, in the decay and partialness of the image’ (Marks 2002, 105). In haptic images, the viewer favours the materiality of the image over the fictionalized/representational content of the images. The scratches and black stains can dictate the film’s signification, while acknowledging its temporal and historical distance from the viewer, it is closer in affective terms. The actual physical state of preserved archival moving images from the Balkans involves haptic perception, which privileges the material presence of the image (Figures 7 and 8). Preserving these films is linked directly to a cultural sense of loss and belonging, history and myth making, the construction and destruction of national identities and collective memory. The archival films’ subsequent exhibition (through film screenings at festivals

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or online streaming on video sharing sites) bears upon spectators’ memory experience and embodiment. Third, I argue that haptic images favour fragmentary vision, as opposed to the global perception of the screen image. Let me explain: The act of perception (of a landscape or a face) is an operation of discovery and recognition through a partial and jerky eye movement. Reading of text is a succession of visual bonds from word fragment to fragment, then constituting a whole. Similarly, ‘reading of a still frame on the screen is equally done, of course, through fragments and jerks’ (Morin 1956, 127). Our eye moves over different parts of the image bit by bit, in the aim to discover and complete the globality of the view. Haptic moving images engage the eye more, because the viewer is forced to glide over the image to reconstitute the global vision, sometimes multiple times. Laura Marks describes this action as a g(r)aze over the image (2000, 162). In fact, haptic images resist a complete reading or a recognition of their unity, because the emphasis is on the affective encounter. In art appreciation, Brandi notes how the viewer completes the missing parts of a damaged painting mentally, through imaginative reconstruction (2000). Ultimately, in the act of each film viewing, the spectator is responsible for the global vision of the image and their succession. The French philosopher and film theorist Jean Louis Schefer, argues that the spectator is actually the author of a second montage and a part of the cinema apparatus, since the spectator is the true destination for moving images (1999). The archival moving images demonstrate the heterogeneity of time and history, continuously evolving and expanding to assume new meanings, and offer affective encounters with their material consistence. Cinema, or better, films, are not just windows or doors to another world, fictions we can inhabit for the time of their duration on the screen, they are also material objects that affect the viewer sensually. Haptical vision is an instinctive attitude employed by the archivist, researcher, or spectator during the preservation and interpretation process. The proliferation and exhibition of archival moving images, through screenings at archival film festivals or online streaming on video sharing sites such as the European Film Gateway, allows the contemporary spectator to participate in a haptical encounter with early cinema, and to share, partially, a collective embodied experience.10

10 I have explored the role of the archival film festivals as contemporary sites of memory in Grgić (2013).

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Hapticality of Visual Culture in the Balkans I search the image for a trace of the originary, physical event. The image is connective tissue; it’s that fold in the universal strudel. I want it to reveal to me a continuity I had not foreseen, and in turn reveal that to you. No need to interpret, only to unfold, to increase the surface area of experience. (Laura U. Marks, 2002, xi).

Prior to the arrival of cinema, visual culture in the Balkans infiltrated every sphere of social and private life, from monuments and religious art to carpet weaving and jewellery design. Visible traces in architecture, painting, ceramics, woodwork, metalwork, and textiles found across the region reveal influences from classical Roman and Greek arts, and Byzantine and Ottoman legacies, which fused with pagan and folk cultures to produce rich artistic practices and traditions. Moreover, the linguistic complexity and diversity of the region, could explain, in my opinion, the privileging of transfer and diffusion of certain characteristics and elements within the visual registrar, since visual language tends to be universal, and hence is more easily adopted and diffused throughout the region, from location to location, from country to country, and so on.11 In my view, the characteristic style and form of Byzantine and Ottoman arts privilege haptic perception, and this type of vision is culturally and historically embedded in the artefacts produced in the region. Far from considering visual history as a finite process marked by ruptures, closer analysis of artistic practices and expressions in the Balkans unveils continuities, hybridization of forms, and cross-cultural undercurrents. At the start of twentieth century, Alois Riegl observed that ancient Egyptian and late Roman art produced works consenting haptic perception (1901),12 while, a century later, Laura Marks maintains that haptic art did not disappear entirely, but has continued to be practised through minor cultural traditions, such as textile art and ornament, as well as Islamic painting (2010). In Western 11 In the same fashion, cinema truly functioned as a universal language in the silent period, overcoming linguistic and cultural boundaries. 12 This is a study in applied, minor decorative arts in which Riegl explores the concepts of Kunstwollen and haptic. By shifting his emphasis from the production to the reception of art, the perceptual configuration implied in the representational formula of Kunstwollen (the will to art) became central. Alois Riegl’s terms ‘haptic’ and ‘optic’ are closely related to what Adolf Hildebrand called the ‘near’ and ‘distant’ views (1907). Haptic is analogous to the sense of touch in the way it must synthesize mentally a number of discontinuous sensory inputs. For Riegl, hapticality is a way of seeing that is analogous to tactility (Dalle Vacche 2003, 5).

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art tradition, optical vision has prevailed for many centuries especially since the Renaissance and the perspective, overshadowing haptic vision found in Egyptian, late Roman, and other applied, minor decorative arts. In this section, I discuss examples of architecture, fresco mural paintings, and icons, as well as textiles, weaving, and jewellery found in the Balkans, which I came across on my research journey, and which owe a great deal to Byzantine and Ottoman legacies, yet also retain something specifically Balkan. ‘High’ arts (Byzantine mosaics, icons, fresco painting) intermingled with ‘low’ arts of rural and pagan communities (textile-making, carpet weaving, woodcrafts) to produce unexpected and new art forms, many of which invite a haptic apperception. Such dynamic relationships13 between popular art expressions (folk, peasant, pagan) and institutionalized art forms (such as Orthodox Byzantine art where its doctrine is dictated by the church and/or the ruler), with hybridizations and cross-contaminations, is reflected in Christianity assimilating previous pagan religious beliefs and practices throughout the peninsula, and consequently being transformed.

The Byzantine Cultural Legacy The Balkan Peninsula avows inheritance of cultural heritage from two great world powers: the Byzantium (circa 330, late Antiquity, to 1453, late middle ages) and the Ottoman Empire (1299–1924). The Byzantine Empire was a multinational, multicultural, and multi-ethnic network, which encompassed the Balkans, Turkey, and much of the Middle East and Northern Africa, with Constantinople (present-day Istanbul) as its capital city. The Byzantine style had formed around 500 AD with the expansion of the Byzantine Empire and continued to exert influence over artistic practices in the region well after its decline following the Ottoman conquest of Constantinople in 1453. The three pillars of Byzantine culture were language, family, and religion. Preserved Byzantine art largely consists of mosaic, but also painting in fresco and wood panels, illuminated manuscripts, and there is a significant number of Byzantine architectures, such as the notable Hagia Sophia and many smaller Byzantine churches throughout the Balkans. Byzantine art is predominantly religious, aiming to translate Christian theology into artistic expression. According to the doctrine of images, the Byzantine icons should represent figures as two-dimensional, depicted frontally and 13 In a similar way, cinema was a popular, vernacular art form that not only merged with, but also transformed institutionalized high-brow art forms (such as theatre or opera).

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with no dramatic action. They are magical images of a prototype, and the background is de-emphasized so that the figures are highlighted and the subject is separated from worldliness. Byzantine visual culture evoked a transcendental reality and de-materialized the immediate reality: ‘Byzantine iconography creates a repetitive and fertile plastic world where the mirror is the indivisible quiddity of being, not represented because not representable’ (Mondzain 2005, 155). The abstract quality and the stress on symbolism were crucial in assessing Byzantine art, and the spectator was forced ‘to penetrate below a surface which was sometimes harsh’ (Talbot Rice 1973, 3). Several art historians have noted how while viewing these artworks, ‘full intimacy seems always to escape one; there is always a hope of something more to come; the possibilities are never exhausted’ (Ibid., 6) and that the object seems to multiply and change under your very eyes (Elkins 2002, 44). The art theorist, Marie-José Mondzain, explored the philosophy of images in Byzantine art underpinning our contemporary imaginary, which reveals a rich and subtle system of thought that goes beyond strictly religious concerns: ‘The image and the icon lie at the heart of all considerations of the symbol and the sign, as well as their relation to the problematic of being and appearing, seeing and believing, strength and power’ (2005, xiii). The ‘economy,’ meaning the transfiguration of history underlies and dictates the relation and the intimacy of the image (invisible, mystery) and the icon (visible, enigma) (Ibid., 3). Exerting control over the use and reproduction of the icon – the visual and concrete representation of the Imago – was necessary precisely because it holds such power. The iconoclastic crisis in Byzantium was essentially a political one, a crisis of the symbolic foundation of authority, because the icon was endowed with specific power, an emperor could rule through the icons (Ibid., 6). Saint Nicephorus, a Byzantine writer and ecumenical patriarch of Constantinople, considered that teaching and persuading through icons is superior due to speed and emotional effectiveness, and his writing concerned ‘the nature of all images and the impossibility of thinking and ruling without them’ (Ibid., 8). Therefore, the stakes of the image were not only of concern to Christological orthodoxy, but also had political and philosophical ramifications (Ibid., 6–8). Saint Nicephorus’s thoughts seemed to be echoed by Gilles Deleuze much later, when the French philosopher claimed that ‘the power is the ability to hide things in the image’ (Marks 2010, 4). Eastern philosophies of the image and the icon not only underpin contemporary theories of (moving) images, but can help understand their relationship to power and politics. Religious contemplation of icons and mural frescoes in Byzantine Orthodox art, that is the spectator’s reception and the viewing contexts

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of these images, can be said to persist while viewing films. In cinematic representation, the legacy of Byzantine culture continues, especially in frontal framing of the characters and the duration of the take, inviting the spectator to penetrate beyond the visible in a sort of transcendental relationship with the image. The contemplative gaze and the spirituality inherent to Byzantine tradition, is evident in films of Andrei Tarkovsky, where the spectator is invited to transcend what is visible on the screen. Similarly, the Greek director, Theo Angelopoulos seems to be influenced by the Orthodox tradition of icon painting both in the visual composition (frontal depiction of figures, distance from background) and the duration of the shots (very long takes), inviting a contemplative gaze (Horton 1997, 26–30). Such examples can also be found in contemporary cinema, in several films of the Romanian New Wave, which privilege long contemplative still shots.

The Ottoman Cultural Legacy The Osman or the Ottoman state was formed into an Empire with the conquest of Constantinople, the great capital of Eastern Christendom, by Mehmed II in 1453, and gradually absorbed former Byzantine territories in the Balkans and Anatolia. Due to military successes, it continued to expand over the next two centuries to ultimately cover an area stretching from Central Europe to the Indian Ocean and eventually be proclaimed a world power. It was a multinational, multicultural, and multilingual empire, which flourished economically due to its possession of trade routes between East and West, exerting control over the Mediterranean basin for several centuries. The period under Suleiman the Magnificent (1520–1566), known as the Golden Age, led to the flourishing of culture and artistic practices, as a result of geographic expansion, trade and economic growth of the Ottoman Empire. In the arts, there are not many surviving objects from the early Ottoman period, but the extant buildings show that Byzantine, Mamluk, and Persian traditions were integrated to form a distinctly Ottoman artistic registrar. The Byzantine Orthodox church, Hagia Sophia, which was transformed into a mosque after the conquest, became a great source of inspiration for many Ottoman architects. As the Byzantine theology and art forms absorbed previous popular pagan expressions in the Balkan Peninsula, so did the Ottoman culture adopt, transform, and fuse Byzantine artistic legacies. Some exceptional mosques (Selim Mosque at Edirne) and religious complexes were built by the renown Ottoman architect Sinan (1539–1588)

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during the Golden Age, further disseminating Ottoman culture throughout the empire. Despite local variations, the legacy of the sixteenth-century Ottoman artistic tradition can still be seen in monuments from the Balkans to the Caucasus, from Algeria to Baghdad, and from Crimea to Yemen, which incorporate signature elements such as hemispherical domes, slender pencilshaped minarets, and enclosed courts with domed porticoes. The Ottoman legacy left significant imprints, for instance the ‘v’-shaped stone bridges throughout the Balkans, which connected towns and served as major trade routes between East and West. The symbol of the bridge is often invoked to describe connections and interrelatedness in the Balkan Peninsula, as the region itself is perceived as a bridge between Eastern and Western cultures.14 The uniqueness of Muslim iconoclasm led to abstract tendencies and geometrical patterns, and the development of decorative arts: woodwork; glass; ceramics; metalwork; and textiles. A particular decorative device developed in the Ottoman period was the colour-tile decoration, of which Rüstem Pasha Mosque decorated with İznik tiles is a good example (Figure 9). In Islamic visual arts, representation of living beings is normally prohibited in the prophetic tradition of Islam, in which the word is the medium of divine revelation. Consequently, the centre of Islamic artistic tradition lies in calligraphy 15 (Figure 10). Yet, there are still artworks depicting human beings such as some beautifully illuminated manuscripts. Laura Marks traces an Islamic genealogy of contemporary art through history and shows how the artistic and philosophical tendencies of classical Islamic art and contemporary new media works can inspire feelings of transcendence and immersion (2010). For instance, the geometrical complexity of decorations on a fourteenth-century Islamic dome can open the gates to the infinite, through aesthetics of unfolding and enfolding (Marks, 2010). Miniature paintings used to illustrate the Koran, and the intricate silver, copper, and gold work as well as metallurgy, reveal the complex universe of representation available to Islamic artists. Extremely fine and intricate craft on these artefacts immerses the spectator into its curves, lines and patterns that seem to be an infinite interwoven labyrinth. Small objects such as these can also be manipulated by hands, increasing the contact area of sense experience.

14 The Nobel Prize winning Yugoslav writer Ivo Andrić has written several novels set in Bosnia and Herzegovina in Ottoman times, which have used the bridge as the place of meeting through which one can observe several cultures and traditions. 15 For instance, a very elaborate, beautiful, and characteristic script, used in chancellery, was developed in Ottoman Turkey, known as ‘divani.’

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Figure 9. Iznik Tiles from the Ottoman period. © Ana Grgić

Figure 10. Leaf calligraphy in the Ottoman period. © Ana Grgić

Figure 11. Daut Pasha Hamam interior, Skopje. © Ana Grgić

Figure 12. Daut Pasha Hamam exterior, Skopje. © Ana Grgić

Figure 13. St. Panteleimon exterior © Ana Grgić

Figure 14. St Panteleimon exterior detail © Ana Grgić

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To recapitulate, iconoclasm in Orthodox and Islamic traditions has led to experimentation in form and style, where the interplay of lines, designs, and mosaic-like structure, is able to convey deeper meanings beyond the visible. Similarly, in the majority of abstract art, the boundaries between the foreground and background are fluid and inter-changeable. While beyond the scope of this book, this tendency to abstraction and interpretation of reality for the viewer rather than imitation, with emphasis placed on affect and transmission of the message, is palpable in the work of the Zagreb School of Animation. Decorative, stylized, and abstract forms that have roots in Byzantine (Orthodox) and Ottoman (Islamic) arts, seem to have left traces on the stylistic and technical practice of ‘limited animation,’16 which reduces the details of representation, and in terms of aesthetics, recalls abstract art. Indeed, such a pictorial space tends to become a haptic one: ‘Haptic space, while it may be considered abstract in that the line and form of the image do not set out to depict as much as to decorate, is concrete in that it creates a unified visual field only on a surface’ (Marks 2002, 5).

Architecture, Fresco Painting, Icons, Textiles, and Jewellery History proceeds not through ruptures but through folds: what is known at a given moment is the merest surface of enfolded events. History is so deeply enfolded, so thickly interconnected, that it makes sense to assume historical connections between things than to deny them. (Laura Marks, 2010, 26).

The field of vision in the Balkans reveals historical and cultural connections, whereas surviving artefacts contain deeply enfolded Byzantine and Ottoman cultural legacies. Fine textile weaving in the post-Byzantine age, of which examples can be found in churches and monasteries across the Balkans, holds a great deal of haptic quality, and its techne is a fusion of folk practices (weaving) and Byzantine religious iconology. In terms of hapticality, the duration of seeing and contemplation leads the viewer to breach deeper and penetrate beneath the surface of the visible due to the repetitiveness of symbols and forms. Two characteristic examples of haptic art in the Balkans are: 1) the repetitive plastic world in Orthodox Byzantine

16 The Zagreb animators believed that ‘art should interpret’ not imitate reality, while ‘the most notable of their innovative strategies was the examination of the fluid boundaries between the foreground and the background’ (Bahun 2012, 80).

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iconography; and 2) the patterned structure and arrangement of materials in Byzantine churches and Ottoman constructions. I encountered several such examples of Byzantine and Ottoman influenced architecture throughout my research journey in the Balkans: for example, in North Macedonia, the Daut Pasha Hamam in Skopje, now used as an art museum, dating from the second half of fifteenth century (built under the Ottoman rule), and the Byzantine church of Saint Panteleimon, situated at the Gorno Nerezi village (in the municipality of Karpoš, North Macedonia), dating to the twelfth century. The arrangement of the bricks on the outside wall of the Daut Pasha Hamam is such that it creates a complex system of interrelated patterns, and elsewhere on the inside domes and arches, where the texture between light and shadow, the protruding elements, requires the eye to act as an organ of touch, synthesizing a number of discontinuous views (Figures 11 and 12). Similarly, the pattern-like laying of the bricks in the construction of walls and the spherical domes of the St. Panteleimon church, invites a haptical gaze as described by Alois Riegl in the reception of late Roman and Egyptian art. Standing under the dome, one has the impression of enclosing and opening of the universe, with the lines at the same time receding into distance and coming towards the viewer (Figures 13 and 14). The mural fresco painting present in several Byzantine churches throughout the Balkans, demonstrates the mastery of Balkan artists and exhibits influence of earlier Byzantine art, such as broad strokes and saturated colours, figures are depicted frontally and are usually static. The details on the clothing and the surrounding figurative space is often abstracted through the use of decorative motifs and a repetitive pattern, for instance in the Raising of Lazarus depicted in the St. Panteleimon Church and in the detail of the Archangels Michael and Gabriel. In the Raising of Lazarus, the tomb is decorated with the repetition of circles and reddish scribbles to obtain the feel of marble, while the perspective is not optical, and the view is at once all-encompassing: we see the side and the top/behind of the tomb in the same plane (Figure 15). Similarly, Lazarus’ robe is covered with a repetitive pattern of a dark red, sun-like drawing, this flat non-dimensional surface requires the eye to act as an organ of touch, synthesizing a number of discontinuous views. In the detail of Archangels Michael and Gabriel’s clothing, the effect of finely embroidered material is achieved through the use of bold repetitive lines and intricately abstract designs (Figure 16). Another pertinent example is the icon of Saint Maria with Christ from the Saint Nicholas Church in Saraqinisht, near Gjirokastra, in Albania, painted

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Figure 16. Detail, Archangels Michael and Gabriel. © Ana Grgić

Figure 15. Raising of Lazarus. © Ana Grgić

Figure 18. Repousse cover for the icon of the Virgin Hodeghetria. © Ana Grgić Figure 17. Saint Maria with Christ. © Ana Grgić

Figure 19. Council of Archangels, Bachkovo Monastery. © Ana Grgić

Figure 20. Women’s folk costume from Bitola/ Prilep. © Ana Grgić

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by Onufri Qiprioti in the 16–17th century. Here, the grid-like lines and flower patterns layered in gold, which decorate the background and the outlines of the halos of Saint Maria and the child Christ, provide the same effect of a finely embroidered textile and intricate metalwork design (Figure 17). The complexity of such fine metalwork is also visible in the Repousse cover for the icon of the Virgin Hodeghetria from the town of Nesebar, located on the Black Sea, in Bulgaria, which contains work of several artists throughout the centuries, respectively 13–14th century, 1529, and, finally, the eighteenth century. The intertwined pattern constituting the Virgin’s head cover and cloth (Figure 18), leads the eye into an infinite and complex universe, in which the gaze does not stop but glides over the details, as if feeling the grooves and the space separating the background and the object. When viewing the icon Council of archangels (Figure 19) from the Bachkovo Monastery in southern Bulgaria, which was painted on wood in the midfourteenth century, there is an impression of artistic continuity between painting and textile weaving in the Balkans. A similar colour scheme and patterns can be found, for instance, in the topcoat of a female folk costume from the Bitola/Prilep Plain in North Macedonia, dating to the late nineteenth and early twentieth century (Figure 20), and the handmade carpets in Albania, also dating to the beginning of the twentieth century (Figures 21 and 22). Lastly, the elaborate silver work in the filigree jewellery produced throughout the Balkan region undoubtedly demonstrates the influence and tradition of masterful Byzantine and later Ottoman craftsmanship (similar gold and silver work is also present in India and throughout Southeast Asia) in metal that has been transmitted by jewellers from century to century (Figure 23). The historical inheritance of Byzantine and Ottoman (Islamic) legacies is thus deeply enfolded in these artefacts, while the basic forms are transmitted from generation to generation, mutating in the transformation, but revealing the same essence – that everything in the universe is interconnected. This is an art that ‘approaches the Open, by encouraging endless curiosity, a perceptual and contemplative venture into the infinite’ (Marks 2010, 12). Returning to Riegl’s concept of Kunstwollen (will to art), allows us to understand the continuous development of art across history and cultures in the Balkan context, from the earliest forms of pottery and toolmaking to photography and moving images at the turn of the twentieth century. The very idea of ‘Kunstwollen attributes continuity and autonomy to plastic form in art, espousing the desire of form to grow and travel’ (Ibid., 27). Observing the system and arrangement of patterns and visual representation that surface in artistic practices across the Balkans, allows us to contemplate a continuity and metamorphosis of form across time and space.

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Figure 21. Carpet, National Museum (Tirana, Albania). © Ana Grgić

Figure 22. Carpet, National Museum (Tirana, Albania). © Ana Grgić

Figure 23. Filigree work from the Balkans. © Ana Grgić

Figure 24. Detail, ‘A characteristic room in Shkodra’, 1900, Kel Marubi

Figure 25. Still, Grandmother Despina

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Finally, this dynamic mobility of haptic visuality of Byzantine and Ottoman art can also be observed in early photography, notably in Kel Marubi’s photograph titled ‘A Characteristic Room in Shkodra’ from 1900 (Figure 24). Here, the image is completely flat and two-dimensional, and even the chandelier in the upper right-hand corner, which is out of focus, fuses with the intricate and complex patterns of the wallpaper, the decorative tapestry, the ceramics, the fireplace, and the floor rug. The gaze slides over the surface textures of this image, in a haptical encounter. The texture and the repetition of visual symbols and patterns in this everyday domestic environment, creates an abstract and unified visual field, and an intention to decorate and less so to depict just like Ottoman art, consequently inviting an endless contemplation into the infiniteness of this pictorial space.

‘Image survivante’ and the Legacy of Balkan Visual Culture […] the history of art invented by Aby Warburg combines, in its fundamental concept – Nachleben: “afterlife” or “survival” – precisely the powers to adhere and to haunt that inhere in all images. By contrast with phenomena of “rebirth” and the simple transmission through “influence”…a surviving image is an image that, having lost its original use value and meaning, nonetheless comes back, like a ghost, at a particular historical moment: a moment of “crisis”, a moment when it demonstrates its latency, its tenacity, its vivacity, and its “anthropological adhesion”, so to speak. (Georges Didi-Huberman, 2005, xxii).

According to Aby Warburg, art history is far from being continuous; on the contrary, it is expressed through strata, rediscoveries, re-comings, and survivals. The importance no longer resides in what an image signifies, as in Erwin Panofsky’s Studies in Iconology (1939), whose concepts of iconography and iconology were very influential in the field of art history, but rather the key to interpretation and understanding is revealed by the life and transmission of an image. History of art therefore becomes the history of culture, and a history of the transmission and survival of a particular culture through an ‘anthropology of the images.’ The issue of survival not only relates to the aesthetic or artistic qualities of the image, but it also integrates cultural and social aspects of image production. Indeed, similar to the ancient Greeks, who understood art as a techne, Warburg’s concept sees no separation of form and content. Expanding on Warburg’s work, the art historian Georges Didi-Huberman reflects on the memorial function of images, and, using psychoanalytical

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terms, develops the notion of l’image survivante, arguing that the ‘Strange’ and ‘Pathetic’ qualities of images allows them to survive and become traces of another culture (2002). The image provokes psychological, social, and sensorial feelings – for Aby Warburg the efficacy of the image ensures that the body becomes implicated emphatically, and therefore the power of its transmission, Nachleben, is dependent on incorporation. The impact images have on the viewers can be understood through Sigmund Freud’s notion of the Unheimlich (‘the uncanny’): they evoke enchantment and a passionate outburst due to their strangeness and the pathetic quality of their form (Didi-Huberman 2002). During my archival research, I came across some early footage that embodies the image survivante qualities inherent to visual culture and heritage in the Balkan context: Grandmother Despina (1907) and The Weavers (1907) by the film pioneers brothers Manakia, and a scene from the travelogue style film Journey to Sofia (1909) by an unknown filmmaker. Widely considered their f irst f ilm, Grandmother Despina shows the Manakia brothers’ hundred-year-old grandmother spinning wool, while smiling faintly towards the camera/the filmmaker/the spectator (Figure 25). At the time of its making, around 1907, this particular image of a hundred-, if not a thousand-year-old craft of spinning wool and weaving, returns at ‘a moment of crisis,’ to demonstrate ‘its anthropological adhesion,’ in front of a rapidly changing world and the very scientific device with which these fleeting images are being captured. The Manakia brothers chose to remember and represent their grandmother weaving wool, and not, for instance, the transformation of the cities, the arrival of the tram or train, electrical lights, and so on. Their preserved films have been acknowledged for ethnographic and documentary value, because they embody the traditional customs and folklore of Aromanian/Vlach communities in the Balkans. The historical and cultural crisis at this point in European and Balkan history, is the rapid transformation of the peasant society into a middle-class city dweller and the arrival of modernity, which threatens generational and traditional memory. Not coincidentally this rupture is also accompanied by the invention of cinema, which is able to record everyday life, and reproduce it at a whim. It seemed that contemplation of everyday life was being reproduced by contemplation at the cinema. Both films, Grandmother Despina and The Weavers, attest to the continuity of the art of weaving and textile making. The inheritance of style and form from the Byzantine and Ottoman cultural legacies, discussed earlier, is discernible in these early moving images taken by local filmmakers in the Balkans. The brothers Manakia themselves saw a connection and a

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continuity to the already-existing artistic traditions in the Balkans in their photographic and filmmaking practice. This is evoked by Milton Manakia, who argues that ‘a good photograph’ depends on the artist’s knowledge of the ‘divine and aesthetic’: Photography is in essence an art form. We are artists/technicians of a sort, comparable to the painters of the past. They were not the only ones who could give beauty to what they painted; we do the same thing with our photographs. A good photograph depends on the play of light […] And this is something only an artist can do, someone who knows what is attractive, divine and aesthetic. (quoted in Christodoulou 1997, 179).

Discussing the work of the Manakia brothers, Karalis observes the continuity between photographs and ‘cinematic representations’ in the region, and artistic practices based on the tradition of Byzantine religious iconography (2012, 6). However, Karalis’s claim that the visual language of the perspective was absent from cultural optics in Greece and Eastern Europe (2012, 6) seems limited. This view sees the development of art and culture in the Balkans as exclusively defined by the Byzantine pictorial tradition, not accounting for cross-cultural exchanges and influences, or the unique positioning of the Balkan region, on the crossroads of East and West. Returning to Grandmother Despina, the turning of the film reel of the Manakia brothers’ camera is mirrored in the turning wheel of the wool spinning machine manned by the grandmother. In a testimony given by Milton Manakia, the intentions behind the ethnographic study of the Aromanian/ Vlach community emerge: ‘In the circle of my family, besides grandmother Despina and the other housewives, I filmed first with Camera 300, the making of the carpets and quilts. I started in a logical way: from shearing sheep, washing, spinning, dying and weaving wool […]’ (Ţuţui 2004, 68). It would seem that the cultural memory of the Balkans is transmitted in these very first moving images for posterity, something apparently of the highest importance for the Manakia brothers, who chose to film women spinning wool and weaving (Figure 26). The viewer is confronted with two instances of hapticality inherent to the moving images; on the first level, that of the patina, as these images preserve the scratches and wounds of history in their skin (film reel); and on the second level, that of the film’s content, the use of touch in the act of spinning wool. We feel the texture of the wool through our eyes, as the wool string passes through the hands of grandmother Despina.

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My visit to the Lumière Institute in Lyon (France), where one of the first Cinématographe Lumière is on exhibition alongside the chronology of its invention, confirmed that the inventors had fashioned the movement of the movie camera upon the mechanics of the sewing machine. Louis Lumière decided to incorporate the principle of intermittent movement using a device similar to that found in sewing machines at the time, which was rejected by Edison in his research on the Kinetograph. The motion of looping and going around in a circle, the spinning of the reel, recall the physical movements of traditional and mechanical sewing. The circular motion of the film reel and the cinema apparatus, and the mirrored movement within the frames of early moving images made in the Balkans, return to underscore, in a symbolic fashion, the eternal return of history. Certainly, it is difficult to claim that the Manakia brothers consciously intended to represent the movement of the film reel, which is echoed in the spinning of the wool, but they were certainly drawn to the appeal of movement that such images would evoke. The scene from Journey to Sofia (1909) shows gypsy knife grinders in the periphery of the city. A man is seen pouring water on the wheel and sharpening the knife with the help of another man and some children who are turning the wheel in one continuous and constant motion (Figure 27). There are two shots of the view, a frontal and a side view, which clearly shows the action of knife grinding. In strong contrast to the views of the city, the royal palace and the city dwellers’ promenade in the park, these images seem to haunt modernity and emerge from latency with their full anthropological vivacity, yet leave more questions than answers. Similarly to Grandmother Despina and The Weavers, there is a will to preserve the disappearance of a certain type of culture or tradition, but here the view constitutes a longer travelogue type film, like postcards of city views, which, taken together, deny the singularity of this particular scene. While the origins of the Journey to Sofia, its filmmaker and production company are still not known, the nitrate reel with this footage was preserved and found at the Yugoslav Cinematheque, then subsequently transferred to a digital file. As Marks suggests: ‘Rather than making the object fully available to view, haptic cinema puts the object into question, calling on the viewer to engage in its imaginative construction. Haptic images pull the viewer close, too close to see properly […]’ (2002, 16). The survival of these moving images, and their haptic nature (fragmentation, visibility of their materiality, decay) brings us to question the way we conceive archival films, film preservation, and cinema heritage.

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Figure 26. Still, The Weavers Figure 27. Still, Journey to Sofia

Figure 28. Hand-drawing. © Ana Grgić

Figure 29. Hand-drawing. © Ana Grgić

Figure 30. Hand-drawing. © Ana Grgić

Figure 31. Hand-drawing. © Ana Grgić

The Difference in Perception Looking is much too complex to be reduced to a formula that has a looking subject and a seen object. If I observe attentively enough, I find that my observations are tangled with the object, that the object is part of the world and therefore part of me, that looking is something I do but also something that happens to me. (James Elkins, 2002, 41).

I argued that the style and form of Byzantine art, similar to Islamic (and Ottoman) art as theorized by Laura Marks, involves haptic perception, and

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that the imprint of these two cultural legacies is visible in the expressions and forms of both ‘high’ and ‘low’ arts in the Balkan Peninsula. Laura Marks argues how ‘being enfolded is often a strategy for survival’ and that a reliable storage medium for histories ‘for which the present is not ready – is the “shadow archive”, where histories slip into latency’ (2010, 27). In other words, Byzantine and Islamic (Ottoman) art legacies are deeply enfolded in the artistic practices and tradition of folk costumes, weaving, woodwork, metalwork, and jewellery design in the Balkans. In addition, here I propose that the particular way of seeing and perceiving artworks, inherited from Byzantine art (and practising spirituality for believers) is buried deep and implicitly enfolded in the reception of (archival) moving images. The Eastern Roman or Byzantine Empire’s legacy, and its perceived Otherness and non-Europeanness in dominant histories, has rendered its effect and influence on European artistic values as undesirable, especially since the age of Enlightenment. In a way, I propose to allow the cultural legacy of Byzantium, which lays in the ‘shadow archive,’ to emerge again within a particular way of seeing, and being in the world, announced with the arrival of moving images and cinema. To illustrate the influence of education and instruction in creating dominant models of seeing and the ‘correct’ representation of objects in art, let us observe two drawings of a car: an illustration of a typical drawing of a child who has received formal art history and drawing education at school (Figure 28); and an illustration of a typical drawing by a child who has no education or training in the ‘correct’ representation of objects (Figure 29). The child in the drawing on the right represents the world and the object in the world as a lived experience, knowing that the car has another side, but which we may not see from our point of view. It would be enough to shift our perspective a little to be able to see it. The art historian Cesare Brandi maintains that we, as viewers, complete the missing parts in a picture mentally, if, for instance, an arm is missing on a sculpture or a piece of a mosaic (2000). Thus, seeing is about being in the world. In Byzantine art, the object depicted in the painting or icon is represented from all its geometrical sides, which describes the experience of being in the world. Being in the world in the phenomenological sense, that is, we know the world through our body, which, in turn, uses the senses to orient itself (Merleau-Ponty). Moreover, the view provided is that of a multiple perspective and viewpoint upon a given object. However, since the Renaissance and the discovery of the mathematical perspective, the primacy of optical vision has imposed itself upon the Western world for almost five centuries. This is a world, calculated and seen, as if through a looking window. Here,

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the subject imposes itself upon the world, and the human being dictates the order of things. Technological developments, however, in particular photography followed by cinema, questioned the role of previous art forms, which seem to have been liberated from the obsession of realism and the rigid perspective. Byzantine art has much in common with modern and abstract art, for instance Expressionism, Fauvism, or Cubism: the saturated colours that express a state of mind rather than what is only perceived by the human eye, or the ability to see multiple sides of an object or person, thus giving the illusion of movement within the pictorial space. For Bazin, Western painting (and art) was finally freed from the ‘resemblance complex’ when ‘photography freed the plastic arts from their obsession with likeness’ (1967, 9–16) as, until then, artists combined two tendencies: aesthetic and psychological. In Byzantine art and later Balkan visual (spiritual) art, this duality, or rather obsession with the duplication of the world outside, never presented itself, as the icon was a synthesis of an idea, a symbol, and never sought to reproduce human likeness, in a ‘realistic’ or ‘natural’ manner. Consequently, due to its abstract tendencies, Byzantine art is much more modern in a way, inasmuch as it is the expression of affectivity and reflexivity that matter. Should we continue to consider cinema as a mainly optic art, in which the primacy of human vision dominates the universe? In a similar fashion to Shohat and Stam’s view, which asserts how Eurocentric discourse envisions the world from a single, privileged point? Siegfried Kracauer had already evoked the egalitarian and anti-anthropomorphic character of cinema, where the human becomes yet another molecule in the universe: The film’s materialist capability not only undercuts the sovereign subject of bourgeois ideology but with it a larger anthropocentric world-view that presumes to impose meaning and control upon a world that increasingly defies traditional distinctions between the human and the non-human, the living and the mechanical, the unique (integrated, inner-directed), individual and the mass subject, civilization and barbarism. (Miriam Hansen on Kracauer’s thesis on cinema, 1997, xvii).

In a similar vein, Jean Epstein, talks of cinema as a liquefied universe in which everything is in motion and trembling with life. Unlike photography, cinema is capable of providing multiple perspectives on a single object or subject (thanks to montage), but, unlike the icon or the painting, the multiple perspectives are not visible within the same frame (in space), but rather in and through time, by way of a succession of frames. Hence, cinema

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offers a polycentric perspective, hybridity and multiplicity, displacing the primacy of the human in the world and shattering the Renaissance single, privileged viewpoint. The other crucial difference is the relationship between the artefact/ artwork and the viewer/creator. Moreover, the point of view in Byzantine art is located within the pictorial space, through a practice called ‘inverse perspective,’ which reverses the viewer’s gaze so that the image and its components appear to gaze at the viewer (Florensky 2002, 201–272). To illustrate how an understanding of the relationship between the represented world or the seen object and the position of the perceiving subject changes in the two cases, we must observe the car drawings again.17 The drawing executed by a child ‘educated’ in fine arts and the Renaissance perspective, has a vanishing point that recedes into the distance, away from the spectator (Figure 30). This is Alberti’s ‘window looking out to the world.’ The gaze is analytical and distanced from the world represented, indeed like a window looking out and upon its object. The drawing done by a child ‘uneducated’ in fine arts, i.e. using her/his intuition to sketch the car, is the starting and ending point for the perspective (Figure 31). Here, the spectator is within the world being depicted, in a sort of haptical space, where she/he can almost touch the car and uses the senses while viewing the object. In the cinema theatre, the projector beam is behind the spectators, while the largeness of the screen gives an impression of being in the ‘screen world.’ That is, the two bodies, that of the spectator and the film, mingle and complete each other. Above all, it is introspective, just like Byzantine art, focused on contemplation and transcendence of the visible/material world, where the subject enters the haptic space of representation. Here, the boundaries between the pro-scenic, the background and the foreground, are no longer discernible. The spectator looks inside, and feels before thinking: the object seems to stare back. Such unexpected encounters produced by cinematographic representations in which the viewer is involved physically and where previous ‘education’ shatters complacency of the objectified world are elegantly worded by Jean Epstein in a text describing an encounter with a mirror-laid staircase in a hotel in Catania, Sicily: These spectating mirrors forced me to see myself with their indifference, their truth. I seemed to be in a huge retina lacking a conscience, with no 17 Here, I would like to express my gratitude to the filmmaker Aleksandar Zikov from North Macedonia, for offering his insights on the Byzantine perspective and art education, during our discussions at the Divan Film Festival in Romania in 2014.

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moral sense, and seven stories high. I saw myself stripped of my sustaining illusions, surprised, laid bare, uprooted unfeelingly and presented truthfully, exactly for what I was. I would have run a long way to escape this spiralling movement in which I seemed thrust down toward a terrifying centre of myself. Such a lesson in egotism in reverse is pitiless. An education, an entire course of instruction, a religion had patiently consoled me to be as I was. Everything had to be begun anew. Even more than this kind of play with tilted mirrors, cinema produces similarly unexpected encounters with oneself (Keller and Paul 2012, 291–292).

If the specificity of film is rooted emphatically in its photographically based ability to ‘record and reveal physical reality,’ which Kracauer refers to as ‘material reality,’ ‘the visible world,’ ‘nature,’ ‘life,’ ‘camera-reality’ (1997[1960], 28), then this same ability destroys habitual fictions of selfidentity and familiarity, offering a novel perspective. Moreover, as mentioned earlier, Kracauer also saw a reversal of the hegemonic order of things in the world with the arrival of cinema, because of its power to undermine anthropocentric perception. In a similar vein, Ivan Andreichin (whose contributions are discussed in more detail in the next chapter), unknown and forgotten Bulgarian intellectual, who wrote on cinema as early as 1909, evokes the powerful effect of cinema on the individual and society, philosophy and art. Like many others, his work lies in the shadow archive waiting to be unravelled and brought to light. He writes that these fantastic spectacles, inebriate in such a manner the soul, they empower it and make it creep into the realm of dreams, so that even the most impossible thing begins to seem totally realistic. In this respect, the cinematograph will make huge transformations in thought and in life. It is almost a negation of the existing concepts, conventions and traditional order. Think about it: the last seats are now prestigious, and not the first ones; and if we only part from here […] let everyone’s imagination foster their own image about the future. (Andreichin 1910, translated by Tasia Tassova)

The words ‘inebriation’ and ‘empowerment’ used to describe the cinemaviewing experience echo the later writings of Jean Epstein, and specifically his book Alcool et cinema, in which he describes how cinema produced similar effects in the human mind and body to those when drinking alcohol (see an excerpt in Keller and Paul 2012, 395–400). These early theorists of cinema, Andreichin, Kracauer, and Epstein, concur that the reception of

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moving images is augmented due to all of the sensory organs being involved, they understand it as an embodied experience, a haptical encounter. Moreover, in the above passage, Andreichin proposes an insightful remark about cinema as a new visual medium that contributes to ‘the negation of existing concepts,’ leading to ‘transformations in thought and life.’ For him, the revolutionary effect of cinema is its ability to transform the established order of things through the power of the image while being encrusted in reality. And this begins with the reversal of the hierarchical order of seating in cinema theatres.

Works cited Andreichin, Ivan St. A Book on Theatre: Historical, Theoretical, and Critical Notes. Sof ia: Ivan G. Ignatov, 1910. Excerpt entitled “Cinema” translated from the Bulgarian language by Tasia Tassova (private commission by author Ana Grgić). Bahun, Sanja. “Croatian Animation, Then and Now: Creating Sparks or Just a Little Bit of Smoke?” In: In Contrast: Croatian Film Today edited by Aida Vidan and Gordana P. Crnković, 76–88. New York/Oxford: Berghahn Books. Baldinucci, Filippo. Vocabolario Toscano dell’Arte del Disegno. Florence: Per Santi Franchu al Segni della Passione, 1681. Bazin, André. What is Cinema? Edited and translated by Hugh Gray. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, [1958–1962] 1967. Bergson, Henri. Matière et mémoire. Essai sur la relation du corps à l’esprit. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, [1939] 2010. Brandi, Cesare. Teoria del restauro. Torino: Giulio Einaudi Editore, 2000. Bruno, Giuliana. Streetwalking on a Ruined Map: City Films of Elvira Notari. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993. Cherchi Usai, Paolo. Silent Cinema. An Introduction. London: British Film Institute, 2000. Cherchi Usai, Paolo. The Death of Cinema: History, Cultural Memory, and the Digital Dark Age. London: British Film Institute, 2001. Dalle Vacche, Angela. The Visual Turn: Classical Film Theory and Art History. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2003. De Windt, Harry. Through Savage Europe. London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1907. Didi-Huberman, Georges. Image Survivante. Histoire de l’Art et Temps des Fantômes selon Aby Warburg. Paris: Editions de Minuit, 2002. Didi-Huberman, Georges. Confronting Images: Questioning the Ends of a Certain History of Art. Translated by John Goodman. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2005.

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Elkins, James. “The Object Stares Back: On the Nature of Seeing.” In: Religion, Art and Visual Culture edited by S. Brent Plate, 40–45. New York: Palgrave, 2002. Elsaesser, Thomas and Hagener, Malte. Film Theory: An Introduction Through the Senses. London: Routledge, 2009. Florensky, Pavel. Beyond Vision, Essays on the Perception of Art. comp. and ed. Nicoletta Misler, translated by Wendy Salmond. London: Reaktion, 2002. Grgić, Ana. “Archival Film Festivals as Sites of Memory.” In: Film Festival Yearbook 5: Archival Film Festivals edited by Alex Marlow-Mann, 55–66. St Andrews: St Andrews Film Studies, 2013. Hansen, Bratu Miriam, “Introduction” to Theory of Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality by Siegfried Kracauer. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997. Hildebrand, Adolf. The Problem of the Form in Painting and Sculpture. New York & London: G.E. Stechert & Co, 1907. Horton, Andrew. The Films of Theo Angelopoulos: A Cinema of Contemplation. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997. Karalis, Vrasidas. A History of Greek Cinema. London: Continuum, 2012. Keller, Sarah and Paul, Jason N., (eds.) Jean Epstein: Critical Essays and New Translations. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2012. Kracauer, Siegfried. Theory of Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality. Introduction by Miriam Bratu Hansen. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997 [1960]. Manovich Lev, “Old Media as New Media: Cinema.” In: The New Media Book edited by Dan Harries. London: British Film Institute, 2002. Marks U., Laura. The Skin of the Film: Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment, and the Senses. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2000. Marks U., Laura. Touch: Sensuous Theory and Multisensory Media. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota, 2002. Marks U., Laura. Enfoldment and Infinity: An Islamic Genealogy of New Media Art. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2010. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. L’œil et l’esprit. Paris: Gallimard, 2006 [1964]. Mondzain, Marie-José. Image, Icon, Economy, The Byzantine Origins of Contemporary Imaginary. Translated by Rico Franses. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2005. Morin, Edgar. Le Cinéma ou L’Homme Imaginaire. Paris: Les Editions de Minuit, 1956. Panofsky, Erwin. Studies in Iconology: Humanistic Themes in the Art of the Renaissance. New York: Oxford University Press, 1939. Plate, S. Brent (ed.) Religion, Art, and Visual Culture: A Cross-cultural Reader. New York: Palgrave, 2002. Riegl, Alois. Late Roman Art Industry. Translated by Rolf Winkes. Rome: Giorgio Bretschneider Editore, 1985[1901]. Ruskin John. The Seven Lamps of Architecture (1880), Seventh edition in small print. London: George Allen, Sunnyside, Orpington & Charing Cross Road, 1897.

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Sadoul, Georges. Histoire du Cinéma Mondial. Paris: Flammarion, 1972. Schefer, Jean Louis. Images Mobiles. Récits, Visages, Flacons. Paris: P.O.L, 1999. Shohat, Ella and Stam, Robert. Unthinking Eurocentrism: Multiculturalism and the Media. New York: Routledge, 1994. Sobchack, Vivian. The Address of the Eye: Phenomenology and Film Experience. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992. Sobchack, Vivian. Carnal Thoughts: Embodiment and Moving Image Culture, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2004. Talbot Rice, David. Byzantine Art and Its Influences. London: Varorium, 1973. Tsivian, Yuri. Early Cinema in Russia and its Cultural Reception. Chicago, IL: University Of Chicago Press, 1998. Ţuţui, Marian. Manakia Bros or the Moving Balkans. Bucharest: Romanian Film Archive, 2004. Zhen, Zhang. An Amorous History of the Silver Screen: Shanghai Cinema, 1896–1937. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago, 2005.

2.

Historicizing the Balkan Spectator and the Embodied Cinema Experience Abstract The second chapter focuses on the spaces of early cinema shows within the broader context of the urban, modern experience and shifting night-time practices in the Balkan region. Through a comparative reading of early press materials, selected writings of authors and intellectuals, and cultural history in the Balkans, I explore the ‘vernacular modernity’ and intensification of life in urban environments at the turn of the twentieth century. The coffeehouse transpires as a characteristic site for the experience of modernity and public life across the Balkans, while the consumption of coffee as a stimulant, which modifies the experience of time and space, emerges as a cultural and social practice akin to the act and effects of cinema viewing. Keywords: modernity, cultural history, coffeehouses, social practices, urban life, cinema-going

Walking down Stadiou Street in the last few days, pedestrians must have noticed the big inscription ‘Cinématophotographe Edison’, illuminated by four Edison electric lamps. Those curious enough to enter the venue, would find themselves in the midst of a magical parade of living images, of slices of life in front of them, and experience amazement and fascination. (Ω, Asty, 7 December 1896).

Across the Balkans, in cities such as Belgrade, Bucharest, or Sofia, the turn of the century gave rise to the boulevard, the communal park, and a variety of leisurely and entertainment activities. Modernity and its zeitgeist were increasingly present through a number of factors: the paving of the streets; introduction of electrical lighting; erection of new buildings; investment in public transport and railway systems; as well as the organization of

Grgić, A., Early Cinema, Modernity and Visual Culture: The Imaginary of the Balkans. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2022 doi 10.5117/9789463728300_ch02

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public and social life through the opening of coffeehouses and restaurants, theatrical and music performances, and several sports, music, and cultural associations. A new urban class started to emerge, which enjoyed the experience of modernity collectively 1 and constituted some of the early cinema audiences in the region. Tsivian found that, in the Russian context, cinema was a space where different social groups could provisionally coexist (1998, 31). While there is little empirical evidence on the identities and social class of early cinema audiences in the Balkans, the announcements in the local press, brief descriptions of film shows,2 and other literary texts indicate these were quite heterogenous: comprising urban dwellers, families, school children and teachers, intellectuals and literary personas, members of the royal family, and military personnel. The region was marked by several historical legacies, resulting in a diverse social make-up of the cities, towns, and even villages, and inter-mixed religious, ethnic, and linguistic spaces. Whilst the presence of the Ottoman Empire had a longer-lasting historical legacy in the Balkan Peninsula from the fifteenth century, the more recent presence of the Austro–Hungarian Empire, which had also ruled over a vast and diverse territory, left its indelible mark. This is evident in the trajectories of travelling cinema exhibitors, and from the locations of early cinema distribution centres (Trieste, Budapest, Vienna, Istanbul, and İzmir). Due to the diversity of cultural, linguistic, and religious character, both empires gave birth to cosmopolitan and multicultural cities, notably those such as Thessaloniki and Sarajevo. Moreover, many other towns in the Balkans could be considered cosmopolitan, due to the internal mobility within the Austro–Hungarian and Ottoman Empires, with merchants, soldiers, and tradesmen travelling to different parts of the territory in order to live, work, and hopefully prosper there. In addition, many Balkan intellectuals studied in Paris, Vienna, Budapest, or Istanbul in the nineteenth century, and had established cultural ties with these centres. Even though cinema was an ‘imported’ popular form of entertainment and new visual medium from Western Europe, its reception by local spectators cannot be posited in simple binary opposites between modernity and traditionalism, but rather in terms of flow, cross-cultural influences, and 1 In the Parisian context, Vanessa Schwartz argues how modernity signalled the introduction of a collective experience: ‘The spectacular and sensational urban life promoted on the boulevards and in the mass press offered the means through which a new collectivity was constituted – one that was distinctly urban and quintessentially “modern”’ (1998, 6). 2 In order to legitimize cinema, since it was a novelty, the press duly reported when the members of the royal family or a notable personality attended screenings, especially highlighting their positive reactions to the new scientific wonder.

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cross-hybridization. Advertisements for cinema shows in the local press at the time seem to indicate moving images were experienced and enjoyed by people from different social and age groups. This is evident, f irstly, from the ticket prices, which appear in the early cinema advertisements: a regular ticket, and a reduced ticket entry for children, and very often, also officers and soldiers. In the very early period, in many instances, teachers were encouraged to visit cinema shows with school children, most often after the first day of screening, and with disclosure of the film content and encouraging words for cinema’s educational value. For instance, locals had to queue to go to the Nartenov Bioskop in 1906 in Belgrade, and while the audiences consisted of young people, school children, merchants, and workers (Slijepčević 1982, 82). This travelling cinema gave shows twice a day, accompanied by a piano, and was frequented by respectable personalities of Belgrade, ministers, and diplomatic members, as duly reported by the press in the hope of attracting even more audiences (Ibid., 26). While there were film screenings for the general public, the exhibitors also targeted specific groups, organizing screenings exclusively for men, and for women, families, and children. Special screening times were reserved for Muslim women at the Apollo cinema in Sarajevo in 1918, and screenings were held in a separate area of the garden at the open-air cinema Royal Biograph in the coffeehouse Mostar in 1913 (Ibid., 284–295). This coffeehouse was a well-frequented social space and often featured Gypsy singing and performances (Ibid., 285). Similarly, on 22 July 1913, the local press in Shkodra announced that exclusive and ‘appropriate screenings’ were organized for women and young girls in French, every Thursday and Saturday, at the Grand Kino Skioptiko Electrical Theatre (Hoxha 1994, 13). What cinema did, as part of a larger framework of modernity, was to contribute not only to enlarging the field and scope of vision and perception, but also to invoke anxieties and apprehensions about state of politics in the world, the dangers of science, morality, and education.3 The film scholar Hrvoje Turković argues how cinema was not only a symbol of the historical process of modernization in the Croatian context, but how it became integral to it (2012, 160–161). Christofides and Saliba note how cinema participated in the process of the modernization and urbanization of Athens, while bringing 3 Some articles in the local press of the time discuss the issues of morality, and caution against the effect of cinema on children and women. However, the majority of the texts I came across champion the role of cinema in science and encourage its use of educational purposes. For instance, in Zagreb, organized school visits to the cinema accompanied by teachers were encouraged and endorsed by the educational committee in 1897 (Majcen 1997b, 95).

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to forefront audiences’ fantasies and fears about the realities of urban life (2012, 99–113). This is interesting because it points to a shared cultural reception of cinema in the region. For instance, the announcement following the initial cinema screenings in Zagreb invites the local audiences to come and see the cinematograph – the ‘modern monster’ (Škrabalo 1998, 24). It echoes the symbolic place of the cinematograph in the spectator’s imagination at the time, alongside the fantastical and the horrific, such as earlier travelling curiosity (and freak) shows in the coastal city of Split, which were advertised as ‘World Wonder. Marine Monster’ (Narod, 8 December 1893) (Figure 32). These signal cultural and societal anxieties and interests at the time, and highlight the ‘monstrous’ side of scientific progress, evoking the ambivalent feelings of fascination and fear, attraction and repulsion, which would usher in the new era and consequently lead to the horrors of World War I. Many European countries, such as Austria, Germany, or the Czech Republic, had a strong tradition of travelling showmen, therefore, it was natural for them to adopt the cinematograph as part of their exhibition (Loiperdinger 2008). Initial cinema exhibitions were itinerant, ambulant forms of entertainment because of the mobility of the projection equipment, and followed in the tradition of other forms of travelling entertainment that preceded cinematographic projection: the diorama; the panorama; the magic lantern; and the shadow-puppet theatre. Due to this mobility and malleability, cinema shows were held at different architectural sites with different cultural and social meanings: theatres; hotels; halls; coffeehouses; taverns; inns; restaurants; circus tents; or makeshift wooden structures. Tsivian argues how early cinema architecture was crucial to shaping the manner in which viewers perceived the films (1998). Moreover, several early cinema scholars note that initial shows were demonstrations of the capabilities of the apparatus itself (Doane 2002, 24), because the ‘audiences went to exhibitions to see machines demonstrated rather than to view films’ (Gunning 1986, 66). Based on my research of surviving and accessible archival documents and periodical press, as well as secondary historical sources, before the building of permanent cinema theatres, the majority of early cinema shows in the Balkans were organized in coffeehouses, restaurants, and hotels. These, in turn, affected their reception – which was shaped by the film as much as by the social and cultural atmosphere – contributing to forms of embodied and sensuous spectatorship. Moreover, the spaces where initial cinema shows were organized, operated as cinema theatres only ephemerally and temporarily, and after the departure of travelling cinemas, resumed their original symbolical and social function within the community.

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Among all the cultural and social spaces in the Balkans, the coffeehouse is a particularly significant space to highlight, due to: 1) its long-standing role in cultural and social life of Balkan communities; 2) acting as a site of civic and political contestation throughout history; and 3) because it was often used for hosting early cinema exhibitions. To this end, a fragment of an early film, which has been preserved at the Croatian Cinémathèque, Josip Halla’s Kavana Corso/Café Corso from 1915, is a singular historical document of a popular coffeehouse in Zagreb, allowing a glimpse into the cultural, social, and intellectual life of the city at the time. The history of coffee consumption will be broached to understand how this drink was used to experience a certain effect and how it contributed to the evolving night-time leisurely activities. I consider the act of coffee drinking as an important social activity and ritual alongside the consumption of cinema in the early period. The coffeehouse became a receptive and effective space for welcoming moving image shows and introducing the new medium, cinema, as a major tool of social change. Looking back, it seems natural to introduce a new scientific invention and art form in the space of the coffeehouse, where dialogue, debate, and discussion are a daily matter, and the coffee/cinema consumer is invited to participate in a new form of modern, collective social experience. The two acts of consumption, the novel one of moving images and the traditional one of coffee, are thus not only social and collective activities, but they provoke unique sensory and bodily reactions. Through the cinema screen, these heterotopias4 connected spectators in the Balkans to other spaces, and allowed them to join the global network of viewing, sharing, and appropriation of spaces and events elsewhere. Spectators in the Balkans could participate, albeit simultaneously with other spectators across the world, in the experience of modernity elsewhere: entering the temporary cinema theatre allowed simultaneous (virtual) cohabitation and transportation to another space. Cinema seemed to promise a future full of possibilities. The illusion offered by the new invention 4 These sites can be considered ‘heterotopias’ (Foucault 1984) to different degrees, but they are also heterogenous social spaces connected to public life: restaurants; coffeehouses; hotels; cultural associations; or literary circles. Foucault defines heterotopias as counter-sites, in which real sites are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted, and even though they exist outside all places, their location can be indicated in reality (1984, 3–4). They are heterotopias inasmuch as: 1) this space constitutes a temporal space, a slice of time, outside the everyday flow of time; 2) it has a specific function (that of representing, contesting and mediating multiple spaces), in relation to all the space which remained outside; and 3) it was isolated and penetrable at the same time.

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alongside other modern mass media, echoes a passage from the novel The Bridge on the Drina by the prolific Yugoslav Nobel prize-winning author, Ivo Andrić.5 Writing with scepticism about the perceived progress and changing socio-political circumstances brought by the Austro–Hungarian rule and the modern era in a small Bosnian town, he described how, by reading the pamphlets and articles, the locals ‘were able to look beyond their immediate small-town present to have an exciting illusion of breadth and strength,’ yet their everyday habits remained the same, such as ‘the ancient ritual of sitting idly over coffee, tobacco and brandy.’ This view resonates with the notion of uneven or hybrid modernity, which postcolonial criticism has engaged with to counter the prevailing Eurocentric modernity paradigm, but also reinforces the perceived contradictions of East vs. West imaginaries. This chapter expands on the embodied modes of early cinema reception, and engages with a selection of archival moving images and texts from the early period to understand cinema’s integral role within the wider process of modernity and its relation to the experience of urban life in the Balkans, one that increasingly intensifies the spatiotemporal experience and heightens the senses. I discuss Ivan Andreichin’s reflections on cinema and cinema-going, which he describes as ‘intensive life,’ to understand the cultural reception and the role of cinema in the experience of modern life. The early travelogue-style film Journey to Sofia, testifies to the process of urbanization, modernization, and the transformation of urban spaces in Balkan cities at the turn of the century, construction of parks, squares, and boulevards with coffeehouses and restaurants, and documents the rise of leisurely and entertainment activities. I also examine an article from an early film journal, entitled Balkan Film, and a semi-autobiographical short story on Panorama shows in Sarajevo written by Ivo Andrić, to understand cultural receptions of modern visual media.

Anticipating Cinema Across the globe, the local press was witness to audience reactions and marvel at the sight of ‘living pictures,’ while the new scientific invention proved 5 Ivo Andrić (1892–1975) was an internationally acclaimed Yugoslav novelist and short story writer whose majority of stories were set in Bosnia under the Ottoman Empire. His works draw on the history, folklore, and culture of his native Bosnia and deal with its past, the crossroads of Eastern and Western cultures. His well-known novels/chronicles include The Bridge on the Drina, The Bosnian Chronicle, and The Woman from Sarajevo.

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to be a commercial success for its organizers. Spectators were fascinated by the modern invention of cinema, its ability to reproduce movement and its conquering of spaces of elsewhere, while the cinematic gaze was drawn to the movement of people and things in the city. Mirroring and refracting each other, these two spaces were in continuous transformation at the turn of the century. Living in the city also constituted inhabiting the spaces of cinema and cohabiting with moving images. To this end, the location of moving image shows within the urban landscape was significant. The Panorama, the Bioscope, the Kinetograph, and the Cinematograph, as novelties and attractions, were exhibited in the commercial, busy, and central part of the city. Vanessa Schwartz examines the ‘spectacularization of city life’ through an analysis of modern and popular cultural forms in fin-de-siècle Paris: ‘Through both words and images, city life became a spectacular realist narrative, and visualizing the city became synonymous with knowing it’ (1998, 2)’ For writers and journalists who wrote about cinema shows, these experiences were integral to the experience of urban and modern life itself. The juxtaposition of various city views from around the world resulted in the formation of ‘imaginary urban landscapes,’ which also informed the ‘audience’s perception of its own urban space’ (Christofides and Saliba 2012, 101). Recounting his own impressions from childhood, Ivo Andrić offers an intimate portrait of the interplay between ‘moving’ images, the city, and imagination, in a short story entitled Panorama.6 Alongside other forms of popular entertainment that proliferated during the nineteenth century, the Panorama was very attractive for Balkan audiences, as evidenced from the press at the time. Panorama were photographs taken on glass, larger than diapositives, illuminated from behind, so that the spectators would watch these from the front through a magnifying glass, which was mounted in the whole of a wall or a circus tent. The term panorama comes from the Greek word meaning ‘all seeing,’ and it was originally coined in 1792 in a notice in the London Times, which announced the new spectacle as: ‘a 360-degree painting taken from an elevated vantage point and allowing a visual survey that extended from the fore – or middleground to the distant horizon’ (Miller 1996, 34). As a precursor to cinema, the Panorama could represent spatial realms of imaginary and real worlds, immersing the spectators into larger-than-life views of cities and landscapes. The Panorama and its variants proliferated as a means to extend geographical and physical vision: ‘The panoramic enjoyed a metaphoric reach 6 The short story ‘Panorama’ is part of the volume Children’s Stories in his collected works published in Belgrade in 1967.

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that satisfied the nineteenth-century craving for visual – and by extension physical and political – control over a rapidly expanding world’ (Ibid.). In the Balkans, visits by travelling panoramas and similar apparatuses were recorded in the nineteenth and at the beginning of twentieth century as being extremely popular, so much so that in Belgrade, Split, Zadar, and Sarajevo, they were semi-permanently installed in the main squares or specially equipped halls. For instance, the very popular Journey Around the World panorama, which was showing at the Troccoli7 coffeehouse in Split, in 1881, had an electric rotational device that projected alternating images with titles every half hour and spectators could see views from the Russo–Japanese war, China, and Siberia (Kečkemet 1969, 13). In Serbia, panoramas, world panoramas, Kaiserpanoramas, and Fotoplastikons were advertised in the local press until the beginning of World War I, some were permanently installed and some travelled with circuses or other artistic groups (Slijepčević 1982, 11). Panoramas started working in Sarajevo at the end of 1899, and their appearance, mechanism, and features were described in the newspaper Bosnische Post,8 which would continue advertising the panorama in the following years (Ibid., 277). This panorama was installed in the old city centre on the riverbank at Apell Quay (now Obala Kulina Bana). In February 1910, a panorama was installed at 5 Rudolf Street (named in honour of the emperor Franz Josef’s son and, since 1919, called Strossmayer Street), which was considered as the city’s urban heart. The public in Sarajevo had the opportunity to view diapositives, panoramas, and moving images at the same time as other European spectators, and judging from the various permanent and travelling cinemas in the city throughout the first decade, such exhibitions were quite popular. The short story by Andrić recounts a child’s experience of viewing panoramic images in a nostalgic manner. It starts with the arrival of a permanent 7 The owner of the coffeehouse, Troccoli, was an Italian, Luigi Troccoli, who had moved to Split in order to sell oranges and lemons, but consequently bought the Caffe dei Signori in 1860 on the city’s central square (Borčić 2013, 39). Centrally located, this coffeehouse played an important cultural and social role at the turn of the century, well frequented by noblemen, officers, visitors from the city surroundings, and foreign tourists (Ibid., 39–40). 8 Bosnische Post was a German-language newspaper published in Sarajevo during the Austro-Hungarian administration of Bosnia and Herzegovina. It was founded in 1884 by Dr Julius Makanec, the police and municipal doctor of Sarajevo. Under the Austro–Hungarian administration, the number of periodicals and newspapers increased (reaching 93 in total during the 40 years of rule and printed in several languages), due to the educational opportunities and immigration of many educated, middle-class people. Censorship was present since establishment of a preventive censor in October 1881. Bosnische Post was almost constantly in circulation throughout the period.

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panorama to Sarajevo. Installed in a central street of the city, it becomes part of the protagonist’s daily routine and a necessity. The protagonist becomes enamoured with the views: ‘Panorama became for me a sort of a necessary drug,’ and tries to procure the necessary money to relive the experience as many times as possible, because once seated on the red stool: ‘a real big, illuminated life began…and everything that my life meant until that moment sank into non-existence. […] My field of view and my whole conscience were filled with cities which glided in front of me, in which I would lose myself.’ Lost in the cities depicted on the screen, the protagonist is escorted to the exit by the owner when his time was over. Then, awoken and confused, he is confronted with the known and miserable: ‘I sank into the real streets of my city as into a bad dream,’ not recognizing shapes or colours. The panorama, cinema, and other semi-permanent forms of early popular entertainment played upon the power of illusion, immersion, and heightened realism of the views. From Sarajevo, the boy could travel to faraway places such as Rio de Janeiro, Ceylon, or Paris for an hour each Sunday. Seated at the panorama, the spaces around the world were brought to spectators through a sensually accurate depiction of the perceived reality. The appeal of journeying around the world through (moving) images was an extension to literature, opening up new possibilities in the realm of the imaginary. The threshold of imagination and the embodied experience that such views provoke, emerges in a passage describing the author’s observation of panoramic views from Rio de Janeiro: ‘The Rio de Janeiro park, fantastic flora, wide avenues, evenly lit, people walking, in the forefront, a man and a woman and their daughter who is chasing a wooden wheel […].’ This image is then replaced by views of the city centre and crowds of people, captured in the hustle and bustle of the everyday. Such suspended moments and fleeting reality are registered, while still giving an illusion and impression of movement and urban life. While never explicitly relaying the experience inside the Panorama as part of the intensity of modernity, Andrić recounts the encounter as embodied, sensual, and spectacular, after which, real life outside this space appeared as grey, monotonous, and miserable. The space of the World Panorama described in the short story exists as a heterotopia, one that the boy may penetrate for a limited amount of time and upon paying an entry, and which allows cohabitation of multiple incompatible spaces, but more importantly contests and inverts the real space of his city. The child’s experience of viewing panoramic images underscores how early ‘moving’ image devices, such as the Panorama, immersed the spectators into the realms of imaginary worlds and spectacular views of city life.

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Figure 32. Advert for the ‘World Wonder. Marine Monster’, Narod, 8 December 1893

Figure 33. Advert for ‘Living photographs – Edison’s Ideal’, Slovenski Narod, 16 November 1896

Figure 34. Advert for ‘Edison’s Ideal’in Obzor, 7 October 1896

Figure 35. Advert in the Balgarski Targovski Vestnik, 21 March 1897

Figure 36. ‘Cinematophotographe in Athens’, Asty, 7 December 1896

Figure 37. ‘Grand Kino-skioptiko-Theater Eletrikut’ advert in Besa Shqiptare, 17 December 1913

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The Arrival of Cinema: Haptical Encounters with Moving Images Similarly, the exhibition contexts of early cinema provided spectators with unique sensory experiences: moving image perception was ‘a bodily experience.’ Eileen Bower suggests that the historical spectator was sensitive to the medium, and aware of the details surrounding film projection. Environmental conditions and atmospheric elements, such as theatre architecture, the projection speed and the condition of the film print, the noise of the crowd, the presence of live music accompaniment, and the exhibitor’s commentary, etc., all affected early film perception and contributed to modes of embodied spectatorship. Yuri Tsivian argues how: ‘Early patrons were fascinated not by films alone but rather by films and the environment, which, taken together, contributed to the as yet undifferentiated, overall impression of cinema’ (1998, 17). Nowadays, precisely for these reasons, during archival film festivals and in reference to early cinema projections, film archivists and historians talk of a ‘film exhibition’ or a ‘film show’ as opposed to a film screening, which places an importance on the performative and live aspect. Most of the enquiries into early cinema and its reception in the Balkans have focused on cinema’s ability to represent a faithful reproduction of reality, and its documentary value, placing it alongside modern visual media, such as photography and other scientific inventions relating to our field of vision: the x-ray; the microscope; and the telescope. However, accounts of early impressions of moving images, published in the local press at the time, reveal forms of embodied spectatorship and highlight the haptical nature of initial encounters with cinema. This was also an ‘affective’ and sensual encounter. Details on the arrival of cinema in the Balkans and a selection of early accounts from the Balkans, discussed here, underscore both universal and specific characteristics of early modes of spectatorship and cinema reception in the region. This reading aims to situate the local reception of cinema within a wider international framework and academic scholarship, by allowing the particularities of embodied perception and spectators’ impressions to expose the social, historical, and cultural context of the region, as well as show similarities with other instances of cinema reception across the globe. Moving images shows arrived quickly to the Balkans. Only a few weeks later, after the Lumière brothers’ representative, Eugene Dupont, organized the first Cinematograph screening in the Austro–Hungarian capital, Vienna on 27 March 1896 (Fritz 1981, 11–12), the local newspaper in Maribor (a town close to the Austrian-Slovenian border), Marburger Zeitung, published a text entitled ‘A new manner of theatre performance in Paris’ (16 April 1896).

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Here, the journalist describes how ‘within a small space and short time, a completely new type of pictures, taken from everyday life, unravel in front of spectators eyes’ (Traven et al. 1992, 19). On the territory of present-day Slovenia, then part of the Austro–Hungarian Empire, initial cinema shows took place in the beer hall Götz in Maribor, from 24 October to 1 November 1896 (Kosanović 2008, 9; Knežević 1992), yet another well-frequented and popular night-time location. It was organized by a travelling exhibitor, the Dutchman Charles Crassé,9 who later travelled to Celje to screen films in the salon of the hotel Kod belog vola in early November, and then onto Ljubljana, where he held a screening in the restaurant of the hotel Pri Maliču (in German known as Stadt Wien) from 16 to 22 November (Laibacher Zeitung, 12 November 1896; Kosanović 2008, 9; Knežević 1992). The hotel Pri Maliču was located on a busy central street, close to the Tivoli Park, and later housed a permanent cinema called Kino Ideal from 1909 until 1943 (Traven et al. 1992, 20). Two days prior to the screening, the newspaper Slovenski Narod announced a ‘screening of living photographs in life size, Edison’s ideal, shown from the kinetograph’ (Ibid.) (Figure 33). In the German-language newspaper Laibacher Zeitung on 12 November 1896, a lengthier text, of which I reproduce a paragraph below, announced the arrival of cinema: […] Cinematograph, which will, from Monday 16 until Sunday 22 this month in the salon of hotel Stadt Wien, give performances, perfected the principle upon which the Kinetoscope was based […] so that instead of dwarf-like moving figures, we can now see street scenes and events with hundreds of people in life size. They don’t look like silhouettes on a flat surface at all, but completely plastic;10 images of landscapes and architecture depict the perspective like in the best panoramic pictures. But, how entirely different they are! Everything that lives and moves in nature, traffic on the roads and squares etc., we see all of this in front of us, within arm’s reach, incredibly natural. This has not been staged in advance, these are not scenes that depend on the imprint, but rather it is 9 Charles Crassé (1852–unknown), born in Amsterdam, came from a family of travelling entertainers and organized several film screenings across the Balkans. He had lived in Graz, Austria, for a long time and purchased the cinematographic device in 1896. (Kosanović 2000, 119) He organized film projections in the cities of Maribor, Celje, and Ljubljana in 1896, Zagreb and Ptuj in 1896 and 1897, until May 1897 when he sold the cinema equipment (Kosanović 2000, 119). 10 Note: plastic refers to arts that reproduce visually perceived reality with varying degrees of sensual accuracy.

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raw reality which in each phase of movement is filmed on photographic plates and reproduced as it is […]

This passage underscores the novelty and difference of moving images to the previous visual media. Yet, it also highlights the embodied experience of early film reception: the ability of cinema to shift from two-dimensional representation allowing spectators to immerse themselves into the raw reality, ‘within arm’s reach,’ because now they are projected on a big screen. The writer convincingly describes a haptical encounter with moving images: the images look ‘completely plastic’ and are life size, which adds to the heightening of human perception of being in the world, through sensual accuracy of the captured views and the size of the projection. Travelling cinemas would visit Rijeka, a commercial and industrial port city and a strategic point of the Austro–Hungarian Empire, throughout 1896 and 1897 and later with ever more frequency. Smaller ones hired locations such as coffeehouses, while bigger ones had their own tents or sometimes hired the city’s theatre, Teatro Fenice (Kosanović 2005b, 108). Moving images entered night-time leisure spaces of the city and constituted one of the most attractive forms of entertainment at the time, judging by the frequency of screenings and the number of travelling cinemas. Rijeka was, of course, strategically placed, and for many travelling cinematographers from Italy and Austro–Hungary, the first point of entry towards other parts of the Balkans. The initial cinema shows in Zagreb, the capital city of the Kingdom of Croatia–Slavonia, under Austro–Hungarian rule, drew a lot of attention, not only from the public, but also the higher strata of society. Baron Bechtolsheim, who assisted in the screenings on 9 October 1896, conveyed positive impressions, which were duly published in the newspaper Obzor on 10 October 1896 (Majcen 1997b, 95). These shows were announced as ‘Edison’s Ideal’ and ‘Cinematograph’ in local newspapers11 (Figure 34). These advertisements are revealing of cultural concerns and interests of the time: 1) there is an emphasis on the realist dimension of cinema and its mimetic capabilities (use of descriptive words such as ‘living photographs’); and 2) Edison’s name is used to attract audiences, even though the films screened at this occasion were actually those of the Lumière brothers. While this is quite typical of early cinema adverts at the time, another newspaper Narodne Novine, dedicates a lengthier column titled

11 The announcement appeared in the Croatian-language newspaper Obzor and the Germanlanguage newspaper Agramer Zeitung on 7 October 1896.

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‘Cinematograph in Zagreb’ to this particular occasion, 12 in which the writer provides detailed descriptions of the films and impressions alongside explanations of the mechanism of the projection and human perception.13 Here, I discuss the writer’s descriptions and impressions of the last film on the programme, a view of Sudanese men bathing, which corresponds to a Lumière brothers film, entitled Baignade de nègres (1896). The writer highlights how the viewer has an impression of actually seeing wet and bronzed bodies in real life, due to the particular effectiveness of this scene: that is, the blackness of the skin contrasted with the translucency of the water. While the writer certainly reproduces exoticized interpretations, the detailed impressions also reinforce the embodied experience of early cinema spectatorship. In other words, this is an instance in which the viewer has a haptical encounter with the cinematographic image. The most ‘affective’ image, which the writer translates as real, is the haptical image: the water glistening on the men’s bronzed bodies. Here, the affect and fascination that such details elude and trigger can also be explained by the ‘illusory power and exoticism’ of early moving images (Gunning 1986, 64). Only a few months later, another travelling cinema visited Zagreb, showing ‘Living photographs,’ this time in the hall of the popular restaurant Reisinger from 28 December 1896 until 5 January 1897 (Obzor, 30 December 1896). A short paragraph described the content of the film programme and noted how ‘yesterday’s screenings’ were well attended by respectable figures of the city, who were all satisfied with the views. In the capital city of the Kingdom of Serbia, Belgrade, the Lumière cinematograph was shown to the public on 25 May 1896 (Julian calendar)/ 6 June 1896 (Gregorian calendar)14 at the coffeehouse Zlatni Krst on Terazije, the city’s central boulevard and a very popular and well-frequented social

12 Aside from the above-mentioned press, the German-language newspaper Agramer Zeitung, also published an article on the Kinematograph on 9 October 1896, the day after the f irst screening, and announced the screenings would last another eight days. 13 The writer provides a definition of ‘Edison’s invention, the Cinematograph,’ as follows: ‘That is living photographs, in other words, the movement of people, objects and views photographically captured with great speed, and shown under that same speed to the viewers on a screen. In this way, photography shows us, not still people or objects, but real life’ (Narodne Novine, 9 October 1896). 14 The date 26 May 1896 is used in the press, as the Julian calendar was in use in Serbia until 1919. To obtain the exact date on the Gregorian calendar (a reform by Pope Gregory XIII that was gradually adopted by the Western world from 1582) in the nineteenth century, it is necessary to add twelve days. For further reading on the adoption of the Gregorian calendar by country, see http://dpgi.unina.it/giudice/calendar/Adoption.html.

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space.15 For this occasion, the local newspaper Mali Žurnal announced the cinematograph as a ‘wonder of science’ (Kosanović 1985, 36). Zlatni Krst was an important cultural venue, since it also hosted painting exhibitions. At the end of the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth century, the boulevard Terazije was the centre of social, literary, and cultural life in Belgrade, housing popular hotels, cafés, and shops. The hotel Kasina, built around 1860, regularly showed performances from the National Serbian Theatre until 1920. Since becoming the capital of the Serbian Kingdom in the nineteenth century, the city continued to grow both in size and in breadth, and undergo rapid urbanization, through investment in and improvement of public services: the main commercial streets were paved, electrical lighting was installed, and the first public transport system by the end of the century (Roter Blagojević and Radivojević 2007, 107–142). Belgrade started to resemble modern European cities. The city’s population of around 70,000 in 1900 had grown to 100,000 by the start of World War I. The city’s tram network became electric in 1905 and seven years later, the city had eight lines with 24 trams, transporting that same year 7.5 million commuters. Public spaces were adorned with notable buildings, new two- to three-storey residential and commercial buildings (for insurance companies and banks) were constructed on main streets, such as hotel Moskva in 1906–1907, in Viennese Secession style, or the houses of merchant Stamenković and Bishop Krasojević in 1907. At the end of the nineteenth century, Belgrade had 317 restaurants and taverns, 1989 workshops, and 217 shops (Stamenković 1967, 135–136). According to Slijepčević, almost all cultural and political life and forms of entertainment at the time would take place in hotel salons, taverns, and coffeehouses (1982, 81). The tavern Kolarac, which would later be turned into a large cinema theatre, hosted a variety of political gatherings, cultural associations, balls, concerts, travelling theatres, operettas, and lectures (Ibid.). Due to a lack of spaces of separate cultural and political associations in Belgrade, the arrival of cinema and 15 The screenings were organized by the representatives André Carré (photographer), Jules Girin (mechanic), and A. Velhore (salesman) from Lyon (Slijepčević 1982, 15; Kosanović 1985, 36–39; and Knežević 1992, 37). ‘Due to great public demand’ the organizers increased the shows and prolonged their stay to 25 days, so that other visitors who were in Belgrade for the occasion of the Montenegrin king Nikola’s visit, would have the opportunity to see the films (Slijepčević 1982, 16; Knežević 1992, 38–40). André Carré (1869–1939) was a merchant from Lyon, who travelled to Serbia, Croatia, and Romania on several occasions as the Lumière brothers’ representative in 1896 and 1897, showing moving pictures on the Cinematograph. He filmed first views of events and important sights of Belgrade in 1897, which were screened at the time, but have not been preserved. Kosanović maintains that Carré stopped being involved in cinema activities after 1897, but continued to work as a merchant and later as a silk producer (2000, 106).

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first permanent cinema theatres would take place in such heterotopias, counter-sites like coffeehouses, with multiple meanings and significations juxtaposed in alternation. In the Kingdom of Romania, in the capital city Bucharest, initial cinema screenings took place in the salon of the French-language newspaper L’Indépendance Roumaine on 27 May 1896. The event was inaugurated with an exclamation ‘Enfin il est arrive’ (Finally, it has arrived) (Căliman 2000, 14–15; Sava 1999, 27; and Rîpeanu 1972, 143) and likely organized by André Carré as the Lumière brothers representative, but this has not been confirmed (Rîpeanu 1972, 143–149; Knežević 1992, 39). The arrival of the Cinematograph in Bucharest and its success were covered by a passionate and enthusiastic chronicler, Claymoor, of the ‘Carnet du High-Life’ in L’Indépendance Roumaine. The salon of L’Indépendance Roumaine was situated in Calea Victoriei, one of the oldest and longest boulevards paved in 1875 (thus christened in 1878 in honour of victories recently won by Romanian armies fighting to preserve the country’s independence from the Ottoman Empire). Several important buildings, palaces, museum, and churches were found on the avenue, for instance, the Casa Capșa, one of the oldest hotels in Bucharest, is still situated here, and its café on the ground floor was an unofficial home to many Romanian writers and intellectuals in the 1920s. Following the initial cinema shows, Claymoor wrote enthusiastically: Last night the cinematographic machine was set in the great salon of our newspaper, where projections would be held day and night […]. We saw views outside a church on a Sunday. A crowd of believers descends the steps of the temple […] From there, the mysterious character who operated this magic lantern, as mysterious as him, guided us to Moulin Rouge during a night-time party […] Everything unravels with such a veracity and with such speed that one thinks this is indeed reality’ (Ţuţui 2011, 6).

The cinematograph was so popular in Bucharest that projections were prolonged until September that year and tickets made cheaper (Ibid., 7), providing ample time for the local audiences to view the films. On the present-day territory of Bulgaria, the earliest record of cinema screenings appears in the newspaper Zakonnost in Ruse16 on 27 February 1897 (Julian calendar), announcing that ‘Ten days ago a cinematograph came to 16 Ruse was one of the key cultural and economic centres of the country, since becoming part of modern Bulgaria on 20 February 1878. It was a cosmopolitan city with a multi-ethnic population, and the first printing office in Bulgaria was founded here in 1864.

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town, a device that depicts on a screen the so-called living pictures’ (Kardjilov 2008, 43). This screening was organized by a Slovak, Juraj Kuzmić, who had arrived there from Bucharest, most likely crossing the frozen Danube River. He showed views of Tsar Nicolai’s visit to Paris, Parisian markets, and other scenes: ‘all very vivid, and natural, creating a complete illusion’ (Ţuţui 2011, 20). In Sofia (today the capital of Bulgaria), a city with a population of 68,000 inhabitants in 1900, the local newspaper announced initial cinema shows as ‘sensational news’ (Balgarski Targovski Vestnik, 21 March 1897) (Figure 35), and a few days later: ‘New! Cinematograph! A 19th-century wonder!’ emphasizing that Austrian and German emperors drew special pleasures from watching such shows. These screenings took place at the Pilsener tavern on the Knyaz Aleksandar Dondukov boulevard with ‘a large and interesting film programme.’ This boulevard was an important central street in Sofia at the time, with a lively market and many shops; the first tram line was constructed here in 1901. In other parts of the Balkans, the cinematograph stirred sensation and drew audiences to the performances, as a new scientific marvel and a medium able to immerse the spectator into a heightened reality. In Athens (Greece), initial screenings took place on 29 November 1896, the same year as the first modern Olympic Games, and were advertised as ‘Cinematophotograph Edison’; yet, historians ascertained the ten reels shown were those of Lumière brothers (Karalis 2012, 1; Arkolakis 2003, 3). The population of Athens had doubled in 1895, yet the city was still in a process of modernization and development when cinema arrived in 1896, while the audience imagined a life in the metropolis (Christofides and Saliba 2012, 99–105). In the summer of 1900, cinema shows were also held at coffeehouses in Syntagma Square (Soldatos 2002, 10–11). After the initial cinema shows, the following, particularly evocative account was published in the newspaper Asty (Figure 36): […] Carriages are travelling, horses are running, the sea is quietly moving, the wind is blowing, clothes are waving, trains are departing, Ms Loie Fuller is shaking and twisting like a colourful snake her paradoxical, unique and famous clothes, so that one thinks that they have before them living human beings, faces enlivened by blood, bodies pulsating with muscles. The illusion of life, in all its endless manifestations, parades in front of us. When it becomes possible to have a series of Greek images, of Athenian scenes and landscapes, the cinematofotograph will then excel, becoming an even more enjoyable spectacle. However, even as it stands, it presents one of the most astonishing inventions of science, one of the

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most fascinating discoveries; it is worth being watched by everybody and, certainly, they will all watch it and immerse themselves in its consummate phantasmagorias (Asty, 7 December 1896, translated by Yorgos Mosko).

The unknown writer, signed as Ω (Greek letter Omega), emphasizes the movement of life on the screen, being particularly struck by the dance and the realism with which the cinematograph reproduces life, like in many similar early accounts of moving images: ‘one thinks that they have before them living human beings (Asty, 7 December 1896).’ More importantly, Ω reveals the immersive and magnetic draw of such spectacles; that is, haptic and sensual qualities of the medium are transmitted through literary-style descriptions: ‘faces enlivened by blood, bodies pulsating with muscles’ and spectators will ‘immerse themselves in its consummate phantasmagorias. (Asty, 7 December 1896)’ The vocabulary used by Ω evokes engagement of the senses, and places the spectator’s body on the same plane with the body of the film in an interconnected encounter. The author also sees the future potential of cinema, and seems to foresee its future as one of the most important mass mediums of the twentieth century (see Appendix for the full text). In Thessaloniki (present-day Greece), a cosmopolitan city in the Ottoman Empire, the initial cinema shows took place at the coffee and beer house Turkey in early July 1897 (Tomanas 1993, 8–9; Soldatos 2002, 10–11). Here, like elsewhere, following the screening, the anonymous journalist is astounded by the spectacle of moving images, and relates the experience as a singular encounter. The impressions, published in the Journal de Salonique17 on 5 July 1897, also transpire the feeling of tempo and movement of modern life, as represented by the city of Paris: The cinematograph debuted yesterday at the hall of the coffee-beer house ‘I Tourkia’. The strange photographs, animated by this original invention, were unfolding before an amazed audience, who didn’t miss a moment of this attractive spectacle. A few fleeting views of Parisian landscapes left us with our mouths open. One feels as if the heart of the great capital is beating through the moving images, through which you can encounter Paris 17 Journal de Salonique was a bi-weekly French-language newspaper published in Thessaloniki from 1895–1910, by the family Lévy, (a Jewish family of printers and journalists), and it addressed itself to the large Jewish community of the city. It was part of the cultural and intellectual tendency of Jewish communities across the Ottoman Empire toward modernization and Westernization (Guillon 2005, 2–3).

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better than in any detailed description. The entire city of Thessaloniki is rushing to these highly interesting evening screenings. It is, beyond any doubt, the most entertaining invention of our century. We hope that our fellow citizens wish to make its acquaintance, too (Journal de Salonique, 5 July 1897, in Tomanas 1983, 8–9, translated by Yorgos Mosko).

In the capital city of the Ottoman Empire, Istanbul, the initial film shows took place in Salle Sponeck, a renowned beer hall in Pera, a cosmopolitan district on the European side of Bosporus. This district housed Muslim, Jewish, Armenian, and Greek families, which coexisted with European businessmen and, before arrival of cinema, the entertainment here was already cosmopolitan in nature (Balan 2008, 172–184). The moving image shows organized by Sigmund Weinberg at the Tepebaşı Theater in Istanbul in early April 1897 were advertised under the title ‘Edison Cinematograph’ (Balan 2010, 150), even though the earlier press and public film screenings organized by Henri Delavalle, in December 1896, mentioned the Cinematograph (Ibid.). Allegedly, sometime earlier, in May 1896, a Lumière operator, Louis Janin, brought the Cinematograph to Constantinople but was unable to persuade the authorities to grant him the permission to project films (Abel 2005, 935). Not unlike the other Balkan cities, the f ilm historian Nezih Erdoğan explains how until 1908 popular venues for moving image shows in Istanbul were coffeehouses, circuses, schools, hotels, gardens and so on (702, 2019). In the Austro–Hungarian occupied Vilayet of Bosnia and Herzegovina,18 initial cinema screenings were organized by Angelo Curiel, a travelling cinema owner from Trieste, and his collaborator Max Karreiter from 27 July to 8 August 1897 (Knežević 1992, 65–72; Kosanović 2005a, 7–8). They were held in the permanent Circus Building in Sarajevo, which was a wooden structure situated on the Circus square, and hosted a number of travelling entertainment shows and panoramas before the arrival of cinema. Announced in the local press Sarajevski List and Bosnische Post as an exhibition of ‘Edison’s cinematograph,’ the dozen films on the programme were, in fact, those of Lumière brothers.19 18 After the Treaty of Berlin in 1878, Bosnia and Herzegovina was still formally under the Ottoman Empire until full annexation by Austro–Hungary in 1908. 19 The film historian Dejan Kosanović identified seven Lumière titles among the films shown in Sarajevo using information in the press: Partie d’écarte; Scènes d’enfants; Enfants penchant des crevettes or Enfants au bord de la mer; Lutteurs javanais Arrivée d’un train en gare; or Arrivée d’un train a la Ciotat; and Arroseur et arrosé (1985, 224–225).

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In other parts of the Balkans, namely, the present-day territories of Albania and North Macedonia (at the time peripheral regions of the Ottoman Empire), and Montenegro, there is little information on the arrival of cinema and initial cinema screenings, and further research of preserved local newspapers from the time may yield more results. Nonetheless, I still provide the available details here to paint a picture of the situation. On the territory of present-day North Macedonia, a cinema screening was allegedly organized by an unidentified married couple from Italy in a hotel in Bitola around 1897.20 Likewise, there is little information about the arrival of cinema on the territory of present-day Albania (Figure 37). Film shows were allegedly organized in a cultural club in the city of Shkodra in 1908 by a local, and in 1912 by a representative of an Austrian company (Lako n.d.; Hoxha 2002, 66), while in the town of Korça, screenings were held in a coffeehouse in 1911 (Hoxha 2009). The initial cinema screenings in Cetinje, the capital of the Principality of Montenegro, took place in the summer of 1902 and were organized by Somogyi’s Urania travelling cinema theatre (Kosanović 2000, 212 and 1985, 274–275; Milunović 2018, 43–44). In the absence of archival material, according to the memoirs of Milutin Plamenac, living pictures were shown in a small room to a limited number of privileged spectators in Cetinje sometime around 1903 (Slijepčević 1982, 253). In many instances across the Balkans, the encounters with moving images were described as novel and spectacular, but also allowed the viewers to engage in acts of embodied spectatorship, through the illusory power and draw of the images and the capability of the cinematographic device. In the act of viewing, the two bodies, of the film and of the spectator, are bound together, like in Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy, where everything is interconnected, creating meaning.

The Spaces of Cinema and Coffee Consumption The coffeehouse is a unique sensation, in between erotic emotion, daily snobbism, intellectual curiosity and spiritual search. (Tin Ujević, 2017)

The coffeehouses in the Balkans were very much theatres of public life, where the cultural, social, and political soul of a city was constructed, debated, and 20 This is according to the oral testimony of Lazo Sačev, which was recorded by the historian Miloš Hr. Konstantinov, an event of which there are no known existing documents (Petruševa 2003, 246; Cinematheque of North Macedonia website).

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imagined. Perhaps similar to the escapism of cinema-viewing, the patrons of coffeehouses dreamed of a better world. Here, far from royal palaces and state institutions, political and artistic dissent and opposition could be voiced. The importance of these informal spaces is reflected in literature from the region. The idealistic teacher in the Slovenian writer’s Ivan Cankar novel, Martin Kačur: The Biography of an Idealist (1907), frequents local taverns in the Slovenian hinterland, where he is posted, to ignite the villagers’ political conscience and discuss socially progressive ideas. Similarly, in Ivo Andrić’s novels and chronicles of towns across Bosnia and Herzegovina, the local Muslim and Christian communities gather in coffeehouses to discuss politics and social changes. In the Ottoman Empire, coffeehouses became the types of social spaces where public opinion was mobilized and political action was taken (Kafadar 2014, 264), and in these places of dissent and rebellion, many clients also gathered to read the news (Balan 2010, 56). Moreover, ‘Turkish coffee’ was politicized from the earliest time in Istanbul, with political meanings attached to the drink and the places where it was consumed (Çaksu 2018, 125). Hence, not only political consciousness, but also the proliferation of modern mass media is intertwined with the space of the coffeehouse. This is reflected in the surviving footage of Kavana Corso/Café Corso, shot by Josip Halla21 in 1915. This 34-metre, black-and-white documentary footage provides an image of a typical Viennese style coffeehouse situated in the urban centre. The coffeehouse Corso in Zagreb was a renowned meeting place for painters, bohemians, intellectuals, and writers, and, well after World War II, it also regularly hosted a circle of film enthusiasts and critics in the 1960s (see Nenadić and Turković 2006, 11). In Café Corso, the camera moves from the interior of the café towards the street outside where a large group of bystanders, mostly young men and boys, inquisitively look through the glass. A slow panoramic shot reveals a view of the interior: the middle-classes, some seated reading a newspaper, and an orchestra playing, while the waiters scurry through the crowds carrying drinks and offering newspapers. This is followed by another panoramic shot from above, taken from the gallery, showing the higher strata of society: military officers of the Austro–Hungarian Monarchy and a lady wearing a large decorative hat with feathers. The f inal shot is a view through the café’s windows, towards the main commercial street, Ilica, where a well-known photographic studio, Atelier Mosinger, is visible. With a population of around 80,000, 21 Josip Halla was an important figure in early cinema, particularly for Croatian film history. His contribution is discussed in more detail in Chapter 3.

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Zagreb was considered a large city at the time, and its centre had plenty of popular coffeehouses (there were 25 coffeehouses in Zagreb in 1900). The selection of views seems to underscore the complicity between photography and cinema, and inadvertently pays homage to the photographer Rudolf Mosinger22 (whose photographic atelier is visible in the film), responsible for inaugurating initial cinema screenings and bringing cinema to Zagreb (Majcen 1997b, 95). The proximity of café Corso and Mosinger photographic studio is significant, both constituting spaces of visual and sensual pleasure and signs of modernity. The sociologist Ray Oldenburg underlined the historical importance of social spaces, their social value and the role these ‘third places’ played in history, providing several examples: the American tavern during the American Revolution; the French café in the French revolution; the London coffeehouse during the Enlightenment; and the agora in Greek democracy (1989). For a citizen’s healthy existence beyond the work and home sphere, a society needs inclusively sociable places, ‘third places,’ such as coffeehouses, which provide pleasures of good company and lively conversation, and as such are at the heart of the community (Oldenburg 1989). In the Balkans, the coffeehouse ritual preceded, and was established, as an integral part of a citizen’s social life, long before the arrival of cinema and continues to this day. The long tradition of coffeehouses and the act of coffee drinking, which could be described as an existential and reflective activity, were inherited from early Ottoman times.23 Kafadar notes that the origins and early proliferation of dedicated social institutions for the coffee-consuming public, ‘can be located between Cairo and Istanbul from the early mid-sixteenth century, and their unfolding story thereafter, as one of the most significant sites where new modes of sociability and engagement with public culture were shaped, can be traced as a global phenomenon’ (2014, 244). In early modern Istanbul, the emergence and spread of coffeehouses developed among various dynamics and processes, such as: new levels and forms of urbanization that accompanied the rise of a bourgeoisie; new spheres of work and leisure; and the increasing use of night-time for socializing, as 22 As the owners of the ‘first Croatian photo-artistic organization,’ Rudolf Mosinger and Lavoslav Breyer, rented the space of the Hrvatski Sokol building (today the Academy of Dramatic Arts) for the duration of eleven days, where Samuel Hoffman showed films advertised as ‘Cinematograph Edison’s Ideal,’ using the Foesterling System to the local public from 8 October 1896 (Midžić 2017; Škrabalo 1998, 20–23; Kosanović 1985, 125). 23 Kafadar notes that: ‘By the end of the sixteenth century, there were hundreds of coffeehouses in Istanbul and many more hundreds spread across the empire’ (2014, 251).

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well as new forms of entertainment (Ibid.). Initially, coffeehouses were ‘exclusivist bastions of homosociality for men in the Ottoman world, and possibly also in Europe in the early modern era,’ later becoming venues in which families, women and children appeared, when these spaces were transformed and used for entertainment and performance (Ibid., 261). In the nineteenth century, the Ottoman capital witnessed an emergence and proliferation of public spaces such as coffeehouses, bath houses, and seyir yerleri (meaning for ‘public display’), places which offered ‘visual pleasure to its inhabitants’ (Balan 2010, 52). These public arenas of socialization were primarily there for those ‘wishing “to see” and “to be seen”’ (Ibid., 35). Here, the Turkish word for pleasure – keyif became invaluable for the depiction of Istanbul way of life (Ibid., 52). While writing in an Orientalist fashion, Demetris Coufopoulos effectively evokes the contemplative process of such enjoyment in a guide to Constantinople: Keyeff is somewhat akin to the dolce far niente (‘sweet idleness’) of the Italian. This “enjoyment” is attainable by repairing to some picturesque spot, and sitting for hours in listless, thoughtless, vacant contemplation, over the soothing coffee and cigarette. […] All his [Turk’s] appreciation of the terpsichorean art is confined to viewing from his cushioned divan, through the fragrant medium of coffee and cigarettes (1899, 23).

While certainly imbuing the act of coffee drinking and going to coffeehouses with an Orientalist hue, this passage reveals the characteristics of pleasure derived from these activities, inasmuch as they are sensual (there is a sense of space enveloped in fragrances and smells), and involve viewing and contemplation (from a seated position, and in this case, of a dance performance). In the Ottoman Empire, coffeehouses were places of entertainment long before the arrival of cinema, hosting meddahs (public storytellers) and Karagöz, shadow-puppet theatre shows (Balan 2010, 57). Beyond its regular function, coffeehouses were usually associated with cultural and social life of the urban civilian population such as entertainment, and literary and musical exchange (Çaksu 2018, 128). Similarly in Greece, the ‘café-aman,’24 where several singers improvised lyrics in the form of dialogue and featured brief comical performances, appeared in outdoor coffeehouses 24 According to Soldatos, the café-aman was a popular, folk coffeehouse, where two or three singers, sang improvized lyrics, amanedes, in the form of dialogue which was free in rhythm and melody; the exclamation ‘aman’ was repeated to allow the singers time to improvise new lyrics (2002, 8–10).

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as a supplement to general programmes (Soldatos 2002, 8–10). Judging from available print media, throughout the Balkan region, taverns, restaurants, and coffeehouses regularly offered various types of entertainment, such as concerts, vaudeville performances, dances, and panorama shows prior to the arrival of moving images. Furthermore, aside from the social role of the coffeehouse as a meeting space, the coffee itself had an important biological and social function. Already among its earliest known users, the Sufis in Yemen, coffee was used to ‘stretch or manipulate the biological and social clock’ (Kafadar 2014, 246). Throughout the Ottoman Empire, coffee was regularly used as part of mystical rituals in tekkes (dervish convents), because it helped dervishes stay awake at night during the prayers, rituals, and meditation (Çaksu 2018, 126). Moreover, coffee-ground readings, a fortune-telling activity, practiced mostly by women across the Balkans, (which still continues today with the consumption of ‘Turkish coffee’), is part of the domestic environment. Therefore, coffee as a drink encapsulated both mystical dimensions and sense-enhancing qualities. Ultimately, this combination of coffee consumption and cinema viewing was a means to alter the sense of time (slowing down or speeding up the biological and social clock), and to allow for temporal and spatial dislocation (via moving images to other spaces). The rapid urbanization in the nineteenth and twentieth century, defined by the speed of travel, the arrival of electricity, the telephone, the train, the tram, and the car, alongside a shift from artisan manufacture to industrial production of goods, brought about a new way of reflecting upon everyday life. In addition, cinema, instantaneous photography, and new scientific inventions changed the way people perceived and experienced time and space. Within this context, coffee functioned as a stimulant, redefining the experience of temporality very much like the other factors defining the experience of modern life. The coffee drinker’s senses were sharpened, heightened, and amplified due to the effect of the caffeine on the body and the brain. Similarly, the act of perception itself, involves a string of chemical reactions in the brain.25 Like coffee, moving images (and cinema) achieve similar mental effects: 1) capable of prolonging and extending time; 2) augmenting the sense experience due to the darkness of the cinema theatre; and 3) providing visual (and sensual) pleasure. 25 A photon of visual light causes a molecule in the back of our eyes to rotate around a single chemical bond. This rotation is the start of a series of chemical reactions that ultimately send an electric signal to the brain.

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Furthermore, I suggest that the Balkan coffee consumer is an alternative to the figure of the flâneur, in as much as, stemming from Eastern philosophy and religion, this activity focuses on reflection, slowness,26 and contemplation, rather than physical movement in search of visual and sensual pleasure. Here, the observer is stationery, and even more suited to the contemplation of moving images on the screen, so that the coffeehouses became ideal spaces for cinema viewing. Drawing on Charles Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal (Flowers of Evil), which pays tribute to the city of Paris as a symbol of modernity, Walter Benjamin defines the figure of the flâneur27 as an emblematic archetype of the urban, modern experience (1999, 2006). For Benjamin, the flâneur was a sign of the alienation of the city and of capitalism, and the start of mass consumption (1999, 2006). Benjamin’s readings are influential in the interpretations of nineteenth-century urban experiences and the effect of the modern city on the human psyche,28 while the term is also used to describe the postmodern spectatorial gaze, a sort of urban spectatorship. Giuliana Bruno notes: ‘The wandering urban spectator, historically eclipsed by the life of the big modern city, is transformed, reinvented and re-inscribed in the figure of the film spectator’ (1993, 49). Since cinema was an integral part of the modern experience and mass culture, the activity of cinema-going could be considered an extension to that of the observer-flâneur. In the Balkans, this same figure could be described as a contemplator. I have argued that the coffeehouse stands as a characteristic site for cultural, social and political affirmation, contestation, and experience of urban life specific to the Balkan space. Moreover, as evidenced from the adverts and accounts in the local press of the time, the coffeehouse served as a space for repeated encounters with the moving images and spaces of elsewhere. The history of coffee consumption as a stimulant and part of a night-time practice, emerges as akin to the consumption of moving images. The prolonged contemplation and leisurely conversation over coffee, itself a 26 Coffee is also a symbol of identity. This dimension of slowness has also been perceived as Oriental and negative. Since preparation of ‘Turkish coffee’ takes time, when instant coffee (Nescafé) was introduced to Greece in the middle of twentieth century it was seen ‘as a sign of modernity and the Western world,’ far from the Eastern way of life, and the move toward a European identity (Çaksu 2018, 136). 27 The word flâneur was initially a literary type of the nineteenth century (coming from the term flânerie denoting strolling and idling), which carried a set of rich associations: the man of leisure; the idler; the urban explorer; the connoisseur of the street. 28 ‘One of the pleasures of modern life […] was the collective participation in a culture in which representations proliferated to such an extent that they became interchangeable with reality’ (Schwartz 1998, 10).

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substance that heightens the senses, seem ideally suited to the consumption of cinematic views. The observer/viewer is stationery, contemplating the spectacle of daily life from the comfort of the divan or the chair, now replaced by moving images on the screen.

Cinema and ‘Intensive Life’ Seated, you are able to visit unknown places, to see races, animals, plants, monuments… of which you have just heard. This is able to move you out of the condition of a man who loves peace and settled-ness, and to create out of you a dreamy drifter who longs stepping onto the unexplored land […] This can bring about both happiness and unhappiness, but in either of the cases this is intensive life. (Ivan Stojanov Andreichin, 1909).

Cinema was an integral part of the technological, historical, cultural, and social process known as modernization that penetrated, was translated, and transformed in the Balkan context. As early as 1909, the Bulgarian writer, poet, translator, and literary critic, Ivan Stojanov Andreichin (1872–1934) describes the cinematic experience as ‘intensive life’ in an essay on cinema. For Andreichin, the viewer’s senses were heightened during a cinema projection, and this novel sensation belonged to the experience of modernity. The first version of this text appeared in the newspaper Slobodno Slovo, on 25 February 1909 (Nr. 430) in the Feuilleton section (pp. 2–3), where Andreichin regularly contributed critical writing and reviews on theatre performances. This essay was later included and re-printed in A Book on Theatre. Historical, Theoretical and Critical Notes (publisher: Ivan G. Ignatov, Sofia) in 1910. At the time of its publication, there was a particular cinematic synergy in Sofia (Bulgaria): the opening of a permanent cinema theatre; the presence of Bulgarian views in foreign film catalogues; and the filming of earliest views of the city. This was also the time of the proclamation of the Kingdom of Bulgaria, and the start of geopolitical tensions in the region.29 This singular reflection on cinema as a modern visual medium and a new form of communication, by an intellectual from the Balkans, is closely analysed and discussed in what follows. 29 Prince Ferdinand’s proclamation was an act of defiance against Turkey, and an infraction of the Treaty of Berlin (1878), which led to a period of acute tension between Bulgaria and Turkey, marked by considerable military preparation and to a complicated negotiation. Finally, Turkey signed a convention in Istanbul on 9 April 1909 recognizing Bulgaria’s independence.

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As evidenced from his text, Andreichin had eclectic interests and was a prolific writer, publishing poems, short stories, reviews, and essays for several newspapers and magazines. He was appointed a professor of French and Bulgarian literature in Sofia from 1898 to 1927 and spent a few months in France every year, where he attended literary lectures and liaised with symbolist and modernist French poets and writers. Andreichin published a literary journal on Bulgarian symbolism30 and modernism called For the New Road (1907–1910), which served as a platform for modern literature. Historians consider him ‘the f irst theorist of Bulgarian modernism,’31 because his ‘Literary manifesto,’ which appeared in the first issue of the journal, developed a vision of romanticism and naturalism. At the time of the manifesto’s publication in 1907, Andreichin was actually considered ‘a revival futurist’ because his views would form a future tradition, while his desire to absorb outside values into literature was revivalist in nature (a good example of an image ahead of its time). Comparing cinema to other inventions, Andreichin envisions both an important and an unpredictable future for the new medium, comparing it to electricity and photography, whose applications could not be predicted nor suspected, but which play an important role in a number of fields at the time of writing. Cinema is a new form of art that provides unique entertainment for the masses and, most importantly, it is highly popular: ‘Now everywhere, in all big and small cities of the west, this invention became a must for the entertainment and for the indulgence in a particular kind of an artistic delight. Special theatres were built for it. And they muster multitudes of spectators. (Andreichin 1910, see Appendix for the full text)’ Andreichin also refers to a permanent cinema theatre, which is built in Sofia in 1908, the Moderen Teater (literally meaning the modern theatre), and encourages the locals to visit this ‘temple of cinema’: Our capital, if not creating its own culture, at least copies, imitates, and assimilates the foreign one. […] recently, a very nice temple has been built and dedicated exclusively to her, for now. Don’t you know the Modern Theatre on Maria Luisa Street? If you have not been inside, you have 30 Symbolism turned into one of the most signif icant movements in Bulgaria, under the influence of French and Russian symbolist movement, in a similar endeavour to overcome reality and in a quest for beauty and harmony. The poet Pencho Slaveykov set the beginnings of modern literature rebuilding upon the traditional linguistic and imagery heritage, and along with Petko Todorov, Krastyo Krastev, and Peyo Yavorov, a symbolist poet, established the modernist circle Misal (Thought). 31 For further details see: http://www.duma.bg/node/27512.

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probably heard and seen it from the outside. And I say to you: go visit it. It will give you pleasure and enjoyment. (Andreichin 1910, translated by Tasia Tassova)

For Andreichin, cinema constitutes a fundamental modern experience, inasmuch as moving images allow the viewers to travel to other spaces and acquire knowledge of the world beyond the viewer’s immediate spatiotemporal location: Seated, you are able to visit unknown places, to see races, animals, plants, monuments […] of which you have just heard. This is able to move you out of the condition of a man who loves peace and settled-ness, and to create out of you a dreamy drifter who longs stepping onto the unexplored land […] This can bring about both happiness and unhappiness, but in either of the cases this is intensive life. (Andreichin 1910, translated by Tasia Tassova)

At time when travel was arduous and difficult for most, cinema provided a means to travel around the globe, a sort of tourist gaze, in which the unknown and the faraway could become close and palpable. Andreichin describes the cinema experience as ‘intensive life,’ which reinforces the notion of the viewer’s senses being augmented during a film screening, which belongs to the broader experience of modernity (intensification of everyday reality in urban environments through the speed of change and technological advancement). Here, the process of modernity experienced as acceleration and assault (of time), was managed by cinema’s ability to offer fragments of spatial and visual configurations, which could cohabit with the individual’s reality. Further in the text, while critical of simplistic narratives of fiction films, Andreichin emphasizes the realism inherent to cinema as a modern visual medium: ‘cinema is rooted in reality no matter how fantastical or fictional the subject represented on screen. (Andreichin, 1910)’ He foreshadows the future development of narrative expression and representation in cinema, perhaps both in Bulgaria and the rest of the world. Andreichin attributes certain characteristics to cinema, such as the audience encounters with ‘fantastic’ and ‘scientific spectacles,’ which ‘inebriate in such a manner the soul, they empower it and make it creep into the realm of dreams, so that even the most impossible thing begins to seem totally realistic. (Andreichin, 1910)’ Here, there is a dual function of cinema, on the one hand, cinema like photography is the art of the imprint (mimesis), and on the other, cinema

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creates fictional worlds, that spectators can inhabit for the duration of the film screening. As a person of theatre and literature, Andreichin’s enthusiasm for cinema and ‘its spectacles’ was somewhat unusual, because at the time cinema was still widely seen as a popular and low-brow form of entertainment, certainly not as highly regarded as theatre. He notes: ‘My thought is on spectacles, which the cinema creates and which are theatrical spectacles without a speech. This is a pantomime, but expanded, refined and enriched. Today, the main character of the cinematographic theatre is romance, sentimentality and imaginativeness. (Andreichin 1910)’ Cinema is therefore not inferior to theatre and its performances, but an art alongside it, and in constant development of its own language. Perhaps the most insightful are his considerations of cinema’s contribution to other arts. Andreichin considers the contribution of cinema to theatre in the creation of a ‘perfect illusion of the mise-en-scène’ in theatrical performances and enhancement of the ‘psychology of the scene.’ Many critics saw cinema as detrimental to theatre, whilst here, Andreichin considers the effect one art form has on another, acknowledging cross-influences and hybridization of style, form, and practice. In the conclusion of the text, Andreichin reflects on the future of cinema and its evolution: What would it be, if the spectacles, with which it provides us today, became animate and gifted of speech through the phonograph, for instance? And if brought to utter perfection, will it not become an art – strange, complex and synthetic – capable of uniting all visible forms, ideas, rhythmic movements? To fuse painting, speech, melody; line, word, the note […] And thus to present to us the thought with its material form and its movement; the ostensible form with the idea, of which it is often a sign; the feeling with the idea, which accompanies it, and the gesture caused by it […] In one word, the whole life with all of its forms in which it becomes apparent […] And this would mean a complete identification with the performing arts. (Andreichin 1910, translated by Tasia Tassova)

Andreichin’s intuition in this paragraph foreshadows the celebrated and well-known manifesto Naissance d’un sixième art published in 1911 by the Italian film theoretician Riccioto Canudo, in which the author sees cinema as the synthesis of visual arts, music, and poetry: ‘the sixth art imposes itself on the unquiet and scrutinizing spirit. It will be a superb conciliation of the Rhythms of Space (the Plastic Arts) and Rhythms of Time (music and poetry)’

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(1980 [1911]). For Andreichin, cinema still needs to achieve perfection, since it lacks sound and voice. However, he foresees this development and evolution in the near future, which would make cinema a ‘strange, complex and synthetic’ art due to its ability to fuse and reunite all the other arts (painting, speech, melody, note). Once it reached this stage, cinema would be able to reproduce reality, seamlessly, and perfectly: ‘the whole life with all of its forms in which it becomes apparent. (Andreichin 1910)’ This echoes the phenomenological philosophy of Merleau-Ponty, which centres precisely on the appearance of phenomena in the world, as a crucial epistemology of knowledge. Furthermore, Andreichin argues that cinema can present to the spectators ‘thought with its material form and its movement; the ostensible form with the idea, of which it is often a sign; the feeling with the idea, which accompanies it, and the gesture caused by it. (Andreichin 1910)’ In other words, cinema can capture the universe in its becoming, which Jean Epstein would later call ‘visual thought.’32

Cinema in the City Andreichin’s reflections on the new visual medium were published within a broader cultural and social fervour taking place in Sofia during those years, which attracted a number of foreign correspondents and film production companies to the site. A singular documentary footage filmed in Sofia during the first decade of the twentieth century has at least partially survived, and allows a glimpse into the urban and social reality of this Balkan city undergoing progressive modernization and urbanization, while still conserving traces of traditional characteristics and social customs and practices. This footage also immortalizes a kind of ‘hybrid modernity,’ which could best describe the specific type of modernity in the Balkans at the turn of the twentieth century, due to the variety of cultures, ethnicities, and religions present in the region. Prior to analysing the footage, I briefly provide information on the cultural context, and details on filming activities that took place in Sofia at the time. Only a week after Prince Ferdinand proclaimed the Independence of Bulgaria at Tarnovo, on 5 October 1908, a newsreel commemorating these events was advertised in the Parisian Ciné-journal. The Société Générale des 32 The essential and unique element of cinema is its capability to re-present visual thought (pure thought that is pre-linguistic, oneiric, and irrational), and capture the universe in its movement and mobility. In Epstein’s writings, cinema seems to possess universe’s matter while the matter of the universe becomes cinema’s matter; a concept later echoed in the film philosophy of the French theorist Gilles Deleuze, where image is already given as matter.

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Cinématographes Éclipse listed two actuality films with Bulgarian subjects in the 13 October 1908 edition of Ciné-journal: Tirnovo (Capitale de la Bulgarie)/ Tarnovo (Capital of Bulgaria) (65m, circa five minutes) and L’Armée Bulgare/ Bulgarian Army (190m, circa ten minutes). After a tour across the country to celebrate the proclamation of independence, Prince Ferdinand returned to Sofia – this event was filmed, as the entry in the Pathé Frères catalogue33 testifies, under the title Entrée à Sofia du Prince Ferdinand Tsar de Bulgarie le 12 Octobre/The Arrival of Prince Ferdinand, the Tsar of Bulgaria, to Sofia on 12 October (Kardjilov 2016). Between October and November 1908, three films with Bulgarian subjects were advertised, including the Scènes et Types Bulgares/Bulgarian Scenes and Types, which was listed in the Ciné-journal issue on 27 October 1908. A year later, in August and September of 1909, there are announcements of two documentaries concerning Bulgaria: Ecole des cadets de Bulgarie and Voyage à Sofia (plein air), produced by Compagnie des Cinématographes Théophile Pathé.34 Another French film production company, Société Iris, advertised two newsreels with Bulgarian subjects in the Ciné-journal on 25 June 1910, following the occasion of King Ferdinand’s visit to Paris (Kardjilov 2016). Drawing on the information from several local newspapers, Sofia News (25 June 1909), Evening News (28 June 1909), and Bulgarian Trade Gazette (7 July 1909), the footage of The festivities on May 2 at the Military School or Exercises and the Awards Ceremony at the Military School accompanied by views of the city surroundings, were screened at the Apollo Theatre from 25 June 1909 onwards (Kardjilov 2016). This interest of cinema in Bulgarian views was spurred by the political and cultural events in the country, and the hypothesis is that French film production companies had either sent a cinematographer to film these, or, alternatively, had bought locally filmed views in order to document these events, which were both ‘exclusive’ and popular among audiences at the time. Discovered in the Yugoslav Cinematheque in Belgrade, Journey to Sofia is the earliest preserved travelogue-style film of Sofia, showing the city square and streets, the communal park and its surroundings. The film has intertitles, which describe different scenes, starting with the title ‘Journey to Sofia,’ the logo depicting an eagle, the name of the production company, 33 Bousquet, Henri. Catalogue Pathé des années 1896 à 1914. Vol. ІI (1907–1909).1993, p.131. These volumes contain around 1270 film titles of the Pathé film production. 34 The Compagnie des Cinématographes Théophile Pathé, with headquarters at 99 rue de Richelieu, Paris, advertised two f ilms as part of their catalogue: Voyage à Sophia (plein air) (112m) and l’Ecole des Cadets de Bulgarie (121m) in the Ciné-journal issues on 4–10 October 1909 (in this issue on page 5, the f ilm L’Ecole des Cadets de Bulgarie is featured as a must have), 11–18 October 1909, 19–24 October 1909, and 24–31 October 1909.

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Pathé Film, and a catalogue number: 259_A (Figure 38). Due to the presence of the English-language intertitles on the positive copy preserved at the Yugoslav Cinematheque, the film seems to be destined for the international market and it is very likely shot by a foreign cinematographer commissioned by a film production company from abroad. The film represents a sort of journey through the city in a picturesque manner, and evokes the very notion of journeying through the movement of the camera in various locations around the city and through picturing the movement of the crowd. Like many archival moving images, the preserved footage is partial, and when it was discovered, it was only identifiable thanks to the intertitles and the presence of the Pathé film logo. According to Kardjilov, who has conducted extensive research on the subject, both L’Ecole des Cadets de Bulgarie and Voyage à Sophia (plein air) are produced by Ignat Gaydushek, a Hungarian engineer living in Sofia, but most likely filmed by a foreign cinematographer on 2 May 1909 for the occasion of the St Boris-Mikhail patronal feast celebrated by the Bulgarian Orthodox Church (2015). It is likely, though not certain, that the preserved footage Journey to Sofia is a subsequently produced English version copy of the Voyage à Sophia (plein air). When I viewed a copy of the film at the Bulgarian National Film Archive, among other materials filmed in Bulgaria prior to the Great War, I was struck by the hapticality of the images. The nitrate film reel had produced a ‘flowering’ effect, erasing and obscuring parts of the image, and, conversely, giving way to a haptical visuality, where the primacy of the material and its chemical substance had taken control of the image. These moving images resembled sensual vaults waiting to release embodied memories of a city, a community, and, ultimately, the Balkan space at the turn of the century. Turning to the content of the preserved footage, it includes the following views of the city and its surroundings (intertitles were helpful here): the Royal Palace; the promenade (Figure 39); the National Theatre and gardens; the city market and the main street; the outskirts; and a gypsy knife-grinder working. These carefully chosen locations offer picturesque views of the city and its inhabitants. Since the footage is likely shot during the 2 May festivities, the cinematographer seems to have selected views of the crowds to evoke the celebratory spirit of the day. The first images show the Royal Palace in Sofia inaugurated in December 1882 (today the National Art Gallery situated on the Battenberg square), with crowds and a tram passing by (Figure 40). The tram network35 was inaugurated in Sofia 35 The Sof ia Municipality had contracted the French company Marseille and the Belgian company Electric Trams SA, to supply the city with electricity and tram lines in 1898.

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in 1901, covering 23 kilometres of tracks. In 1908, with the increase of the city population and, consequently, the number of commuters, new trams were supplied.36 These fleeting images attest to the modernization of the city, by capturing the emerging urban class, and the city’s main means of public transport: the electric tram. The promenade and the park of Sofia are immortalized through four locations. The first view is a long shot of the promenade itself, featuring a wide path with the military, gentry, and children strolling up and down (Figure 41); the second is taken across and around the small lake; the third is a mid-long shot of children surrounding an ice-cream cart (Figure 42); while the fourth is inside the park, depicting a restaurant and a café full of clients, perhaps drinking coffee or having lunch on the terrace surrounded by trees. These are taken in several locations in the oldest park in Sofia, Borisova Gradina (Boris’ Park), around the alleys and the lily lake. As mentioned earlier, the early twentieth century saw the emergence of a variety of leisure activities enjoyed by urban city-dwellers, such as promenades in the city park. Following this, the brief view of ‘the theatre and gardens of the casino,’ evokes the feeling of an increasingly urbanized city, through images of the crowds (Figure 43). The entire frame is full of people and children, the hustle and bustle, some looking directly at the camera and waving. The building visible in the background is actually the façade of the Ivan Vazov National Theatre designed in neoclassical style and opened in 1907. Views taken at the market and the main street in Sof ia show a very colourful crowd and a busy bazaar: shoe shiners; a boy selling sausages; different market stalls; horses passing; peasants selling vegetables and other handmade products; and a mixture of urban city-dwellers and perhaps inhabitants from the surrounding villages dressed in traditional clothes. The Banya Bashi Mosque is visible in the background, and a photograph from 191037 reveals the liveliness and popularity of the city market in the first decade of the century (Figures 44 and 45). The remaining three minutes of the footage show the neighbourhoods and outskirts of Sofia: a series of small village houses with surrounding land; shepherds and their sheep; pigs feeding; peasants carrying on with their daily tasks; carts being drawn by oxen; and women drawing water at the communal fountain. In contrast to previous scenes of the city, these 36 For more information, photographs and the f irst tram network map, see http://www. sofiatraffic.bg/en/transport/istoriia-na-gradskiia-transport/51/history-of-sofia-trams. 37 See the old photographs of the market on the blog “Stara Sof ia”: http://stara-sof ia.com/ pazar.html.

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Figure 38. Still, Title, Journey to Sofia

Figure 39. Still, Journey to Sofia

Figure 40. The Royal Palace, Journey to Sofia

Figure 41. The promenade in the park, Journey to Sofia

Figure 42. Leisure activities in the park, Journey to Sofia

Figure 43. The National Theatre, Journey to Sofia

Figure 44. Central market with the mosque in the background, Journey to Sofia

Figure 45. The main street, Journey to Sofia

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views seem to highlight the difference between the urban and rural community, and the modern and traditional society, especially through the use of striking images such as the electric tram versus the oxen driven cart, or the European attire of the urban classes versus the traditional peasant-style clothes. In short, Journey to Sofia, consciously or unconsciously, documents the contrasts and contradictions of a rapidly changing modern society and a rural peasant society. Here, the crossroads positioning of the Balkans as a bridge between cultures and civilizations really resonates.

Looking Back at Cinema Aside from impressions of moving images analysed throughout this chapter, which allow us a glimpse into the cultural reception of cinema in the Balkans at the time and to understand the activity itself as an embodied perceptive encounter, the leisure activity of cinemagoing as part of the social sphere will be examined here. The act of ‘cinemagoing’ was the primary focus and sense-producing factor in the reception of moving images in the early period: ‘The film was to be received in a fragmentary fashion and in doses determined by the recipient’ (Tsivian 1998, 39). Film projections would often run continuously and spectators could enter and exit at any point. The practice of early cinema reception was based on urban nomadism and transitory pleasures, and the subject became a fragmented body in space (Bruno 1993, 56). The combination of embodied perception experienced by spectators in early cinema and the perceptual shocks (Tom Gunning) through distraction offered by the films, contributed to an increased sense of the materiality and hapticality of cinema. These modes of cinemagoing could be seen as part of those existential activities that contributed to the film’s sense-making and signification. More importantly, cinemagoing had an aura of improvization, adventure, and abrupt departure from routine, which can be elucidated from the anecdotal account published in the feuilleton section of the journal Balkan Film (Issue 1, 1921, Zagreb) (Figure 46). The unnamed author describes the experience of cinemagoing in a fairground of Budapest, in a text entitled ‘Edison’s Bioscope: An Adventure from 1896’ (Figure 47). Balkan Film38 was a specialized film journal, founded in 1921 in Zagreb (present-day Croatia) and published each Saturday, for a total of 27 issues. 38 According to Vjekoslav Majcen, whose research is based on available archival records and the preserved issues of the journal itself, it was the most popular cinema journal, distributed in cinemas, with a record of 50,000 editions (1998, 43). The publisher of the journal was the company

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The chief editor was Stjepan Heimbach. Each issue consisted of the editorial and several other sections, articles on the current state of local film industries, the feuilleton, news on Balkan cinema, and weekly film screenings. Interestingly, the title of the journal itself, Balkan Film, suggests that its founders, Helios Film (a film company from Zagreb), were aware that the notion of a shared cultural territory existed at the time, and that it made sense to write and think about the concept of ‘Balkan film’ and the state of cinema in the Balkans. Moreover, there was also a specialized film journal published in Budapest, in German, for the Balkan film market as early as 1913, titled Kinemawelt, Balkan Ausgabe des Mozi-Világ: Vertritt de Interessen aller Kinobesitzer von Croatien, Slavonien, Bosnien, Serbien, Bulgarien, Rumanien. Etc, which translates as ‘Balkan Edition of Cinema-World: Representing the interests of all cinema owners from Croatia, Slavonia, Bosnia, Serbia, Bulgaria, Romania’ (Figure 48). While beyond the scope of this study, further research into the content of these journals would surely reveal some interesting findings. Here, however, I focus on a text recounting the experience of attending a Bioscope show for the first time, in order to depict the attraction and curiosity felt by early audiences towards the new medium, as well as its social role at the time. Through the narration of the writer’s impression of the spatial configuration and the atmosphere of this particular space, several characteristics of similar encounters with cinema begin to emerge. Recounted in an anecdotal manner, the event takes place at the millennium exhibition in Budapest ‘full of ancient and modern attractions’ where, attracted by the size of the tent and a glossy sign, the group of friends stop to scrutinize ‘modern serious science.’ Since it was written post-facto (more than two decades after the imagined event), the author emphasizes the ‘primitive’ character of early cinema performances and audience’s reserved reactions. Nonetheless, several notions emerge from the text that allow us to gain insight into reception of moving images and the socio-historical and cultural context at the time: fascination with the Western invention and scientific progress; the presence of show and fairgrounds and new forms of entertainment as consumption (attraction and performance); expansion of transportation systems and increased travel (movement of people and objects across the globe); concern with history and memory (cinema can preserve events); realism and rediscovery of reality; diffidence of the new Helios Film (1918–1929) created by Alfred and Leo Muller, industrialists from Zagreb, who had also been involved in cinema for a long period, and were owners of two cinema theatres: Balkan (on the grounds of the Ćirilometodsko Kino) and Helios built in 1916 (Ibid.).

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social space (interaction of different classes, darkness, fear of crime) and reservations regarding new technology and its imperfections. The narration begins with the description of the experience. Once seated in the first row, inside the tent, the presenter introduces the new invention and the show begins. The uneasiness that sitting in complete darkness might provoke is underscored through the suspicious attitude of the group and particularly by mentioning how ‘the careful Berliner’ warns his wife and daughters to hold onto their belongings and close their purses. The darkness becomes an object of reception (Tsivian 1998), palpable in the narration of the encounter. When the projector starts to turn and spin, ‘strumming like a hundred whirligigs,’ it eventually reveals some movement on the white sheet. While the films are playing ‘the commentator’ announces titles in German and the spectators express their acquiescence or dislike. Cinema becomes a distinct voice or rather another noise producing medium (in addition to the sound of electrical lighting, trains, trams, and cars) adding to the ‘cacophonous chorus of modernity’ (Ibid., 119). During the show, the pictures are unclear and flickering. Even the group in the front row are unable to clearly see figures moving, while a group of young men standing in the back are pushing each other to see the screen. Then, an accident occurs and the projection stops, and while the projectionist and the owner of the Bioscope are arguing, the audience are left to sit in the dark. The emphasis is still on the apparatus and the technology itself rather than the films, the journalist focuses on the machine’s possibility to capture movement of life and re-present it on the screen. This short text underscores further how cinema was experienced as a performance, the spectators went to the ‘cinematograph’ in 1900s and not the ‘film’ as Tsivian has shown (Ibid., 126). The writer finishes the story with a comical scene: after pushing and shoving with other spectators in the attempt to exit the tent with all of their belongings, when they finally reach the outside, they find out that they accidentally swapped hats in the dark. The cinema-space becomes a new social space, where different types of people cohabit and share an urban, modern experience: the middle-class friends from Zagreb looking for amusement in Budapest, the family from Berlin (mother, father, and daughters), and the rowdy young men in the back. The spaces of cinema consumption were heterogeneous due to the mobility and itinerant character of early cinema, which allowed shows to take place in coffeehouses, restaurants, hotels, theatres, fairgrounds, and improvised outdoor settings. The remembrance of this first encounter with moving images in the Edison-Bioscope account, in which the author evokes the heterogeneous

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Figure 46. Front page, Balkan Film, Issue 1, 1921

Figure 47. ‘Edison Bioscope’, Feuilleton, Balkan Film, Issue 1, 1921

Figure 48. Kinemawelt, Balkan Ausgabe des Mozi-Villag, 1913, Budapest

Figure 49. Advert for the Thaumatograph, Hrvatski Dnevnik, 6 August 1910

Figure 50. Advert for Circus Picardi, Hrvatski Dnevnik, 6 August 1910

Figure 51. Advert for E. Thaler’s Grand Circus, Hrvatski Dnevnik, 6 August 1910

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social space of early cinema, as well the ambulant character of cinema and its place alongside other forms of fairground entertainment, demonstrates the intermediality, mobility, and cross-cultural exchange of early cinema. In the Balkans, cinema shows were held next to vaudeville acts, dance performances, music and cabaret, and competed with other attractions such as music and theatre, circus performances, mimes, or psychic séances. To illustrate, observing the three adverts published in Hrvatski Dnevnik on 6 August 1910, in Sarajevo, we can note that the locals had a diverse variety of leisure activities and night-time entertainment that summer: the daily performances of the Thaumatograph (showing a 1000 live pictures in colour accompanied by music) in the Circus square (Figure 49); the Circus Picardi installed in its own gigantic tent housing 2000 seats (Figure 50); and E. Thaler’s Grand Circus featuring women wrestling at a late performance (Figure 51). Ultimately, the mobility of early cinema and the multicultural character of the Balkan region allowed for this interstitial space to emerge as a kind of heterotopia, a site of cross-cultural exchange and movement of images, people, and ideas, which I explore further in the next chapter.

Works cited Abel, Richard, ed. Encyclopaedia of Early Cinema. Abingdon: Routledge, 2005. Andreichin, Ivan St. A Book on Theatre: Historical, Theoretical and Critical Notes. Sof ia: Ivan G. Ignatov, 1910. Excerpt entitled “Cinema” translated from the Bulgarian language by Tasia Tassova (private commission by author Ana Grgić). Andrić, Ivo. The Bridge on the Drina. Trans. Lovett F. Edwards. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1977. Trans. of Na Drini ćuprija. Belgrade: Prosveta, 1945. Arkolakis, Manolis. “Greek Film Industry (1896–1939): Economic Structure and Representation.” Presented at: International Symposium, European Economic and Business Development: National Historical Perspectives and European Osmosis, 19th–20th Centuries, organized by Historical Archives of National Bank of Greece and Hellenic Open University, Athens, 27–28 November 2003, 1–16. Balan, Canan. “Transience, Absurdity, Dreams and Other Illusions: Turkish Shadow Play,” Early Popular Visual Culture, 6:2, 2008, 171–185. Balan, Canan. “Changing Pleasures of Spectatorship: Early and Silent Cinema in Istanbul.” PhD diss., University of St Andrews, 2010. Benjamin, Walter. The Arcades Project. Cambridge, MA and London, Belknap Harvard, 1999. Borčić, Goran. History Written in Light: Split from Prisca to Adriana. Split: Muzej Grada Splita, 2013.

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Bousquet, Henri. Catalogue Pathé des années 1896 à 1914. Vol. ІI (1907–1909), Paris: Bousquet Éditeur, 1993. Bruno, Giuliana. Streetwalking on a Ruined Map: City films of Elvira Notari. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993. Çaksu, Ali. “Turkish Coffee as a Political Drink from the Early Modern Period to Today.” In: From Kebab to Ćevapčići: Foodways in (Post-)Ottoman Europe, edited by Blaszczyk Arkadiusz and Rohdewald Stefan, 124–43. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2018. Căliman, Călin. Istoria Filmului Românesc (1897–2000)/ History of Romanian Film (1897–2000). Bucharest: Editura Fundaţiei Culturale Române, 2000. Canudo, Riccioto. Naissance d’un sixième art, Les Entretiens idéalistes (25 October 1911), reprinted as “L’esthétique du septième art.” In: L’Usine aux images edited by Riccioto Canudo. Paris: Etienne Chiron, 1926. Translated from French by Ben Gibson, Don Ranvaud, Sergio Sokota, and Deborah Young. Framework 13 (1980): 13–26. Christofides, Yiannis and Saliba, Melissanthi. “Open-air Cinema in Athens: The Rise of the City and Urban Identities.” In: Greek Cinema. Texts, Histories, Identities edited by Lydia Papadimitriou and Yiannis Tzioumakis. Bristol: Intellect, 2012, 97–114. Coufopoulos, Demetrius. A Guide to Constantinople. London: Adam and Charles Black, 1899. Doane, Mary Ann. The Emergence of Cinematic Time. Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press, 2002. Erdoğan, Nezih. “Early cinema-going and the emergence of film culture: The first Pathé Cinema Theatre opens in Istanbul (1908),” Participations 16, 1 (2019): 698-717. Foucault, Michel. “Of Other Spaces: Utopias and Heterotopias. Lecture of March 1967.” Translated by Jay Miskowiec “Des Espaces Autres,” Architecture / Mouvement/ Continuité, October (1984): 1–9. Fritz, Walter. Kino in Österreich 1896–1930. Vienna: Der Stummfilm, 1981. Guillon, Hélène. “Le Journal de Salonique (1895–1910), un journal de langue et de culture françaises dans une communauté juive orientale.” Hypothèses 8: 1, 2005, 169–177. Gunning, Tom. “The Cinema of Attraction: Early Film, Its Spectators and the Avant-Garde.” Wide Angle 8 (1986): 63–70. Hoxha, Abbas. Arti i Shtatë në Shqipëri vëll.I. 1900–1944/ Seventh Art in Albania Vol. 1. 1900–1944. Tirana: Albinform, 1994. Hoxha, Abbas. 100 vjet kinema në trevat Shqiptare/100 Years of Cinema in Albanian Dwellings. English translation by Luljeta Budo. Tirana: Marin Barleti, 2002. Hoxha, Abaz. “A Chronography of Albanian Cinema.” Available at: http://arbenia. forumotion.com/t271-a-chronography-of-albanian-cinema, 2009. Accessed 30 April 2021.

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Kafadar, Cemal. “How Dark is the History of the Night, How Black is the Story of Coffee, How Bitter is the Tale of Love: The Changing Measure of Leisure and Pleasure in Early Modern Istanbul.” In: Medieval and Early Modern Performance in the Eastern Mediterranean edited by Arzu Ozrurkmen and Evelyn Birge Vitz, 243–269. Turnout: Brepols, 2014. Karalis, Vrasidas. A History of Greek Cinema. London: Continuum, 2012. Kardjilov, Petar. “Destination Bucharest: About the Itinerant Cinemas Travelling throughout Romania and Bulgaria during 1897–1906.” In: Cinefile. Studii Cercetări de Istoria Fimului/ Studies and Research on the History of Cinema edited by Marian Ţuţui, Dana Duma, and Decebal Mitulescu, 43–77. Bucharest: Cinemateca Română/Editura Vergiliu, 2008. Kardjilov, Petar. “Mixing the Languages: A Path to Knowledge. The French Magazine “Cine-Journal” (1908–1912) – a reliable source of professional information about the cinematographic activity in Bulgaria”. Arts in Modern Times: Mixing the Languages, Art Readings 2015, Sofia: Institute of Art Studies of Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, 2016, 331–343. Kečkemet, Duško. Počeci kinematografije i filma u Dalmaciji / Beginnings of Cinema and Film in Dalmatia. Split: Izdanje Muzeja Grada Splita, 1969. Knežević, Srđan. “Filmske predstave putujućih prikazivača kao početni oblik kinematografskih delatnosti na teritoriji Jugoslavije.” PhD diss., Fakultet dramskih umetnosti Beograd, 1992. Kosanović, Dejan. Počeci Kinematografije na Tlu Jugoslavije 1896–1918/ Beginnings of Cinema on Yugoslav Territory 1896–1918. Belgrade: Institut za Film Univerzitet Umetnosti, 1985. Kosanović, Dejan. Leksikon Pionira Filma i Filmskih Stvaralaca na Tlu Jugoslovenskih Zemalja 1896–1945/ Lexicon of Film Pioneers and Filmmakers on Yugoslav Territories 1896–1945. Belgrade: Institut za Film/Jugoslovenska Kinoteka/Feniks Film, 2000. Kosanović, Dejan. History of Cinema in Bosnia and Herzegovina 1897–1945. Belgrade: Naučna KMD/Feniks Film, 2005a. Kosanović, Dejan. “Film kao povijesni izvor za proučavanje riječke industrijske baštine.” Hrvatski Filmski Ljetopis 44, 2005b, 107–110. Kosanović, Dejan. Kratak Pregled Istorije Filma u Sloveniji (Prvi deo 1896–1945)/ Short Overview of Film History in Slovenia (First Part 1896–1945). Belgrade: Jugoslovenska Kinoteka, 2008. Lako, Natasha. “The Game of Albanian Film Image 1895–1945. Available at: https:// epa.oszk.hu/00300/00375/00001/lako_albanian.htm. Accessed 30 April 2021. First written for the symposium “The Development And the Interlacing between the Balkan National Cinematographies in the Period 1895–1945”. Published version in Macedonian language: “Igrata na albanskata f ilmska slika (1895–1945).”

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In: Razvojot i proniknuvanjeto na balkanskite natsionalni kinematografii vo periodot od 1895 do 1945 godina/The Development and the Permeating of the Balkan National Cinematographies in the period from 1895 to 1945 edited by Boris Nonevski, 192–223. Skopje: Kinoteka na Makedonija, 2003. Loiperdinger, Martin, ed. Travelling Cinema in Europe. Frankfurt am Main: Stroemfeld Verlag, 2008. Majcen, Vjekoslav. “Kad je Vjenceslav Novak išao u kino.” Hrvatski Filmski Ljetopis 10 (1997b): 95–100. Majcen, Vjekoslav. Hrvatski Filmski Tisak do 1945. godine/Croatian Film Press until 1945. Zagreb: Hrvatski Državni Arhiv/Hrvatska Kinoteka, 1998. Midžić, Enes. “Novi prilozi o prvim f ilmskim projekcijama u dvorani Kola uz njihovu 121. godišnjicu ili ‘Hrvatska šutnja’ i Hrvatsko proljeće u određivanju ‘nulte’ godine živućih fotografija ”, Hrvatski filmski ljetopis, 92, 2017, 31–80. Miller, Angela L. “The Panorama, the Cinema and the Emergence of the Spectacular.” Wide Angle 18:2 (1996): 34–69. Milunović, Luka I. Crnogorski kinematografi 1908–1914/ Montenegrin Cinema 1908–1941. Podgorica: Crnogorska Kinoteka, 2018. Nenadić, Diana and Turković, Hrvoje. “Potrošene teme? Kako možeš potrošiti život?! (Biofilmski razgovor s Petrom Kreljom),” Hrvatski Filmski Ljetopis (2006) 48, 3–47. Oldenburg, Ray. The Great Good Place: Cafés, Coffee Shops, Community Centers, Beauty Parlors, General Stores, Bars, Hangouts, and How They Get You Through the Day. New York: Paragon House, 1989. Petruševa, Ilindenka. “Filmot na Domašna Počva: Kinematografskite Dejnosti vo Makedonija od 1897 do 1945 godina.” In: Razvojot i proniknuvanjeto na balkanskite natsionalni kinematografii vo periodot od 1895 do 1945 godina/The Development and the Permeating of the Balkan National Cinematographies in the period from 1895 to 1945 edited by Boris Nonevski, 245–262. Skopje: Kinoteka na Makedonija, 2003. Rîpeanu, Bujor T. “Les premiers pas du cinéma en Roumanie. Une perspective révisée.” Revue Roumaine D’Histoire de l’Art: Série Théâtre, Musique, Cinéma, Tome IX: 2 (1972):143–149. Sava, Valerian. Istoria Critică A Filmului Românesc Contemporan: Obsendantul Deceniu/ Critical History of Contemporary Romanian Film: The Obscene Decade. Bucharest: Editura Meridiane, 1999. Schwartz, Vanessa R. Spectacular Realities: Mass Culture in Fin-de-Siècle Paris. Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 1998. Slijepčević, Bosa. Kinematografija u Srbiji, Crnoj Gori, Bosni i Hercegovini 1896–1918/ Cinema in Serbia, Montenegro and Bosnia and Herzegovina 1896–1918. Belgrade: Univerzitet Umetnosti & Institut za Film, 1982. Soldatos, Yannis. Istoria tou ellinikou kinimatografou. 1900–1967/ History of Greek Cinema: 1900–1967. Athens: Aigokeros, 2002.

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Stamenković, Jelica (ed.), Beograd u XIX veku/Belgrade in the 19th Century. Belgrade: Muzej grada Beograda 1967. Škrabalo, Ivo. 101 godina filma u Hrvatskoj 1896–1997/101 Years of Cinema in Croatia 1896–1997. Zagreb: Nakladni Zavod Globus, 1998. Tomanas, Kostas. Kinimatografoi tis palias Thessalonikis. 1895–1944/ Cinemas of Old Thessaloniki: 1895–1944. Thessaloniki: Nisides, 1993. Traven, Janko, Nedič, Lilijana and Šimenc, Stanko. Pregled razvoja kinematografije pri Slovencih (do 1918)/ Survey of Cinema Development in Slovenia (until 1918). Ljubljana: Slovenski Gledališki in Filmski Muzej, 1992. Tsivian, Yuri. Early Cinema in Russia and its Cultural Reception. Chicago, IL: University Of Chicago Press, 1998. Turković, Hrvoje. “Film kao znak i sudionik modernizacije.” In: Kolesnik, Ljiljana and Prelog, Petar (eds), Moderna umjetnost u Hrvatskoj 1896–1975/Modern Art in Croatia 1896–1975, 158–185. Zagreb: Institut za povijest umjetnosti. Ţuţui, Marian. O Scurta Istorie a Filmului Romanesc/ A Short History of Romanian Cinema. Bucharest: Noi Media Print, 2011. Ω. “Cinema in Athens,” Asty, 7 December 1896. Translated from the Greek language by Yorgos Mosko (private commission by author Ana Grgić).

3.

Mapping Constellations: Movement and Cross-cultural Exchange of Images, Practices, and People Abstract The third chapter examines the trajectories of selected early film pioneers and travelling cinemas, revealing how the transnational mobility and intercultural exch ange informed and shaped the development of local cinemas, and highlighting the importance of movement to understand the complex and fluctuating narrative of early cinema in the Balkans. Mobility of foreign and local film exhibitors and practitioners and the movement of films via their circulation, distribution, and exhibition, led to cultural exchanges and cross-border networks in the Balkan space. The legacy and work of figures, such as the Manakia brothers and Louis de Beéry, not only shed light on the shifting political borders in this period, but also reveal the desire to document, expand, and imagine the possibilities of the new visual medium. Keywords: early f ilm pioneers, transnational, mobility, the Manaki brothers, travelling cinemas

The indeterminacy of the subject’s identity in the Balkans, a product of centuries of the West perceiving the Balkans as a hybrid, transitory zone, as well as the material domination of the region by Western and Eastern empires, is expressed in the novel through the metaphor of the bridge. The narrator wishes to escape this ambiguity but cannot. […] For to repetitively assert one’s identity in the face of indeterminacy caused by the outsider’s gaze is futile: subjectivity ultimately rests with the gaze, not its object. […] the bridge/narrator continues to tell and retell the story. (Marina Antić, 2003, 16).

Grgić, A., Early Cinema, Modernity and Visual Culture: The Imaginary of the Balkans. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2022 doi 10.5117/9789463728300_ch03

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Cultural historians (Todorova, Jezernik, Glenny) have explored the reasons for the static, frozen image of the Balkans laden with negative connotations (backwards, savage), which has persisted in Western imagination, perhaps as a latent photograph or a haunting spectre, in psychoanalytical terms, Europe’s alter ego (Žižek). If we were to imagine this static image of the Balkans as a photograph, an immobility, and an abduction,1 and, on the opposite end, consider cinema and the associated notions of movement as a way to counter such fixed ideas (of a culture, of people, of a region), we can start to reimagine the cultural history of the Balkans in moving images. In a still image, there is no clear direction of movement, while a succession of still frames inadvertently creates a narrative; in other words, there is a natural tendency to lead towards a symbolic journey in cinema. As Laura Marks explains, the specific characteristics of cinema and the movement inherent to cinematographic technology (the forward movement of the film reel, and the illusion of movement during projection) are associated with the movement of the narrative (2002, 136). This chapter focuses on the notion of movement, as inherently important in the creation of a complex, intricate, and ever-changing narrative of early cinema in the Balkans. Aside from the movement of films, through their circulation, distribution, and exhibition across the region, it is important to highlight the movement of people involved in early cinema activities, cultural practices, and the films themselves, in order to understand the extent of cultural exchanges, cross-contaminations and influences, and creation of networks much earlier than the establishment of national film industries and institutions. I consider the narrative of early cinema history in the Balkans as an open-ended process, and, like a vast archive, it is a space that is neither finite, nor exhaustive, but rather one that offers a multitude of readings and interpretations. This is evident especially at those times when film archivists and historians remain astounded with discoveries of early films long considered lost (such as the case of the Serbian fiction film found after 70 years of absence, discussed in Chapter 5). During this period, travel was arduous and difficult due to several factors: the geographical character of the Balkan Peninsula and its mountainous 1 Roland Barthes suggested how a photographic image embalms a moment of time, an image of life halted that will become an image of life after death, under the notion punctum (2000). For Christian Metz, photography is linked with death, due to social practices, for being a mirror ‘in which, we witness, at every age, our own ageing’ and because it ‘is an instantaneous abduction of the object out of the world into another world’ (1985, 126–127). Paraphrasing Barthes, Raymond Bellour describes the difference between cinema and the photograph: ‘On one side, there is movement, the present, presence; on the other, immobility, the past, a certain absence. On one side, the consent of illusion; on the other, a quest for hallucination’ (1984, 119).

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chain; the under-developed railways and roads resulting in the lack of direct connections between main cities and provinces, which can be seen as the Empire’s way of exerting control over the region.2 The circulation of cinema also depended on political relations between the Empires and the various nations, and, in most cases, the travelling cinema exhibitors were required to obtain permission from the authorities to screen the films. For instance, with the onset of the annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina by the Austro–Hungarian Empire, imports from the Dual Monarchy, including film rental, were boycotted in Montenegro in early December 1909, and cinema operators such as Ljubomir Tamindžić, who was unable to obtain new films for his cinema theatre in Cetinje, started to tour around other towns and villages screening older films in his possession (Milunović 2018, 47–60). Therefore, such constraints born out of geopolitical tensions, forced local entrepreneurs to invent alternative methods of distribution and exhibition, and, at times, had a positive impact, inasmuch as cinema shows travelled to more remote spaces and places. While the majority of Western European countries underwent the industrial revolution in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, at the turn of the twentieth century, the Balkan Peninsula was still predominantly a peasant society with small merchants, business owners, and manufacturers. The unwillingness of the Empires to invest in the Balkan territories resulted in disconnected cities and towns, with few railway lines and paved roads. From 1883 onwards, the famous Orient Express rail line connected Western Europe and Asia Minor, but the train was very slow while crossing part of the Balkan Peninsula. Western travellers reported, at the end of the nineteenth century, that the 135km journey between the cities of Sarajevo and Mostar would take around three days due to the condition of the roads (Jezernik 2004, 32). Still, major Balkan cities were becoming increasingly urbanized, main streets fitted with electrical lighting, and electric trams were introduced in Belgrade in 1894, Timișoara in 1899, Sofia and Ljubljana in 1901, Athens in 1908, Zagreb in 1910, and Istanbul in 1912. In the tradition of other ambulant forms of entertainment, such as the shadow-play theatre, itinerant cinemas and travelling showmen frequently crossed borders, sometimes settling in the region, city, or locality, leading to cross-cultural exchange. This was the case with the Romanian-born 2 At the time, there were no direct rail links between Zagreb and the capital of the Austro– Hungarian Empire, Vienna. For instance, Stjepan Radić, a student and advocator of the Croatian National Movement, who travelled throughout the country on a train in 1895, considered that ‘railways were central to the Hungarian policy of keeping Croatia in an imperialist strait-jacket while sabotaging Austrian commercial interests’ (Glenny 2012, 260).

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Sigmund Weinberg who settled in Istanbul, the German-Hungarian Josef Hepp in Greece, or the Pole Stanisław Noworyta in Croatia. Available archival sources reveal that early filmmakers and producers were not lonely figures, but worked alongside each other and developed cinema activities in their hometowns, or travelled to other destinations in the region and beyond in search of adventure. Local industrialists, small-business owners, merchants, restaurateurs, photographers, and tradesmen invested in cinema activities, by either directly purchasing cinema equipment and filming local events, and/or opening permanent cinema theatres in their cities. Cinema production and circulation in the early period was marked not only by mutual collaboration and knowledge exchange, but also by the shifting of national borders and the wavering political leanings, which impacted on the movement or a lack thereof, as well as the success or failure of cinematographic activities. This chapter provides a representative view of early cinema figures in the Balkan region, who adopted the new medium, either abandoning their previous business activities completely to dedicate their time and forces to this new art form, or combined cinema activities alongside their other enterprises (hospitality, photography, literature, theatre, academia). Although I analyse the activities of several itinerant exhibitors and film entrepreneurs in the early period, which exemplify instances of mobility and exchange through their trajectories across the region, I focus more closely on two cases whose important legacies have marked the various (trans)national film histories in the Balkan region. Louis Pitrolf de Beéry was born in the small village of Gyula (present-day Hungary) in the Austro–Hungarian Empire, and from the Habsburg capital Vienna, he travelled to Bosnia and Herzegovina, Croatia, Serbia, and Bulgaria as a representative and cine-operator of Pathé Frères. On the opposite end, and working under very different conditions, Ienache and Milton Manakia, born in the small village of Avdella (present-day Greece) in the Ottoman Empire, opened a photographic studio in Ioannina and then moved their activities to Bitola (Monastir), and since acquiring the Bioscope cine-camera, immortalized some of the most important events during the turbulent period leading up to World War I. While one may have represented one of the most powerful and prolific film producers in the world until the outbreak of the war, the other two are considered Balkan cinema pioneers by several film historians, and the importance of their legacy rests undisputed. De Beéry had remained anonymous throughout most of film history, due to scarce archival records, but also a different transliteration of his name. Only recently, film historians in Serbia and Bulgaria have elucidated many of his cinema activities

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and highlighted the importance of his contribution to the development of national cinemas. The brothers Manakia, on the other hand, or rather their personal histories and their work (much of which survives) have given birth to several myths and their ethno-national belonging was contested in several Balkan countries.3 Ienache had moved to Thessaloniki, Greece in 1935 while Milton remained in Bitola until his death in 1963; in this way, the brothers found themselves on opposite sides of the Iron Curtain, so to speak. Ienache passed away forgotten in Greece, while Milton had been attributed recognition and praise by the Yugoslav authorities as a cinema pioneer. Recent research conducted by scholars and archivists in Romania and North Macedonia has recognized the work of both brothers and their contribution to Balkan cinema heritage. 4

Journeys from the East: Cross-Cultural Travels of the ShadowPuppet Theatre Prior to the arrival of cinema and the pioneering figures involved in its establishment and success, there was a strong tradition of travelling exhibitors and showmen in central and Western Europe, touring and visiting different areas of the Balkan Peninsula with panoramas, dioramas, and other optical devices. Historians have found that the cities of Vienna and Trieste, both in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, were important centres for the proliferation of moving images throughout the Balkan region, as the travelling cinema exhibitors normally departed from these two cities to other locations in present-day territories of Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Serbia (Kosanović 2008, 8). However, on the other end, popular forms of entertainment had travelled from the East, and through the vast Ottoman Empire to the Balkans. Travelling forms of popular and folk entertainment were part of historical cultural traditions in the region well before touring musical, dance, and theatre troupes in the nineteenth century. The place and the development of early cinema in the region needs to be considered alongside a variety of traditional practices and storytelling techniques, and here I focus on the shadow-puppet theatre as a particularly 3 For a detailed discussion on this issue, see Ţuţui 2008. 4 Recently, the work of archivists and historians have contributed to furthering the knowledge on the brothers Manakia and their activities. Notably, the research conducted by the Romanian film historian Marian Ţuţui (2005, 2008), the Macedonian film archivists Igor Stardelov (2003), and Boris Nonevski (2005). For their photographic work see Robert Jankuloski (2017).

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significant vernacular art form from the East, which was programmed alongside cinema shows and even influenced the style and themes of some early films made in the Balkans. The shadow-puppet theatre or shadow play originates in cultural and theatrical practices in the Far East, in the region between India and Indonesia (where the traditional shadow-puppet play is called wayang kulit), and which had travelled through China and Iran to the Ottoman Empire, where it is first mentioned in the sixteenth century. In the Ottoman Empire, Karagöz (meaning black eyes) shadow-puppet theatre was a popular travelling entertainment, touring from place to place. During the reign of Sultan Abdul-Aziz (1861–1876), this travelling shadow play became extremely popular, but the authorities censored some elements due to the freedom of expression and acute satire (Lešić 1973, 33). The Turkish form of Karagöz had around a hundred characters, but the main protagonists were the long-time friends Karagöz and Hacivat. Karagöz had many dualities, which represented a stereotypical layman of the time: he was a man of the people who spoke freely; he was stupid and witty; naïve and cunning; and wanted nothing more than to have his daily meal and tease Hacivat (Ibid., 34). Hacivat talks with literary allusions, uses archaic expression and Persian language (which points to the cultural inheritance of present-day Iran), he likes to be wise, demonstrates his education, and, at the same time, he is pedantic, stern, prone to corruption, and opportunism (Ibid.). These plays did not have any strict rules, and were often abstract, while the dialogues were improvised by the actor/performer, who would use digressions, witty remarks, and imagination to keep the audience interested (Ibid., 34–35). The puppet theatre came to Greece during King Otto’s rule (1832 to 1862), and was not particularly popular among the audiences (Soldatos 2002, 8–10). The shadow-puppet theatre was adopted and translated to the Greek context, and called Karagiozis. The Greek version of this shadow theatre was based on the Turkish one, while the roots of its protagonist Karagiozis were based on local and folk idioms (Ibid.). Karagiozis shadow theatre became widely accepted for its entertainment value, despite intellectual limitations (Ibid.). Much like Karagiozis, which is characterized by exacerbated satire, both in the Turkish and Greek versions, various kinds of musical and satirical theatrical plays appeared in the late nineteenth century, whose themes reflected the political developments in the country. At the start of the twentieth century, when Greece was recovering from bankruptcy and the defeat at the Greco–Turkish war of 1897, Karagiozis adopted a heroic profile borrowing themes from the 1821 revolution, when Greeks sought independence from the Ottoman Empire (Ibid.). Karagiozis continued to be

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popular in the first half of the twentieth century.5 At the outdoor cinema theatre Deksameni in Athens, American films were screened alongside Karagiozis performances in the summer of 1909 (Pateras 2006, 65). These were announced in the local newspaper Athinai next to other film shows and theatre performances, as ‘Hilarious Karagiozis and American cinema with wonderful films’ (Figure 52). Outdoor spaces across Athens, which had served as venues for the Karagiozis shadow theatre, puppet theatre, and theatrical plays, were eventually transformed into open-air cinemas (Christofides and Saliba 2012, 104). Furthermore, Soldatos argues that the first Greek films, made by a popular comedian and showman Spyros Dimitrakopoulos, known as Spyridion, had been directly influenced and modelled on the themes, events, and characters from Karagiozis shadow-puppet theatre (2002, 14–16). Karagöz had most likely travelled to Bosnia and Herzegovina in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, initially translated integrally, and, over time, changing significantly and adopting the narrative and the characters to suit the local context and mentality of the people (Lešić 1973, 33). Here, the shadow-puppet theatre called Karađoz had acquired the essence of the ‘Bosnian spirit’ and centred on five grotesque protagonists who were involved in a variety of possible and impossible situations (Ibid., 35). Karađoz was a hedonistic, self-serving individual, bald and with a hump-back and crooked legs, while his antagonist and friend, Hadži-Hajvat, was a cunning schemer, with whom he was constantly in conflict, as they tried to outsmart each other (Ibid., 36). Other characters were, Bekri-Mustafa, a drunk, great lover, and scoundrel, then Mehmed effendi Fenjerli, as the moral police who, like Diogenes, carried a lantern to shed light on their wrongdoings, and, finally, Bonsekadli Moša, a rich man, naïve and harmless, prone to the intrigues and mischief (Ibid.). The shadow-puppet theatre was still practised in the region until the 1930s, when sound cinema and new sensations drove out one of its last performers, Hasib Ramić, owner of a Karađoz theatre in Sarajevo (Ibid., 37). The Karađoz theatre was performed alongside magic shows, and circus acts, fire eaters, and whirling dervishes, as evidenced from a poster advertising the play by the Bosnian magician Hasib bin Mehmed. The Karagöz performances were a popular, vernacular form of entertainment, which contained elements of satire and poked fun at authorities, 5 To this end, an article written for the 50th anniversary of cinema’s arrival to Greece, intimates at the popularity of the Karagiozis theatre within cultural life of the city: ‘One fateful day, though, in 1897, when in a dark “spectacle venue” in Kolokotroni Square, where today we find the “Kentrikon” theatre, the first cinema opened, it was then that Karagiozis’ throne started to shake […]’ (Edo Athinai, Issue 35, 24 May 1947). This excerpt is reproduced in Pateras (2006, 24).

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both involving and provoking audiences during the shows. They had a carnivalesque aspect, due to grotesque characters and the tongue-in-cheek dialogues, ultimately constituting a form of catharsis for the spectators. Cinema continued this tradition, first through its positioning alongside vaudeville performances, circus acts, and other travelling curiosities at the time, and secondly because early cinema invited the participation of the spectator, as Tom Gunning has argued in his theory of ‘cinema of attractions,’ which was one of its defining characteristics (1990). Early cinema screenings solicited the spectators attention through displays of spectacle and breaking of the fourth wall, similar to the shadow-puppet theatre performances that regularly engaged the audiences in the spectacle, through the improvisation and departure from the enclosed fictional world. While beyond the scope of this study, the presence of the shadow-puppet theatre in the region, as an important storytelling practice, foreshadows the arrival of cinema projections, which would slowly replace these performances and capture the spectators imagination through the mechanical reproduction of fantastic spectacles. Both would provide the locals with entertainment and catharsis, by appealing to comical and spectacular situations and events.

The Cinematograph at the Theatre Aside from showing alongside popular and traditional shadow-puppet theatre performances, cinema was incorporated into an already established and diffused cultural practice in the region, the theatre. The fact that the new visual medium had quickly acquired a prominent and meaningful place in the social life of the city, is evidenced from the Cinematograph figuring as the catalyst and subject of a play’s storyline. The adaptation, localization, and translation of the German three-act comedy, Hans Huckebein or the Cinematograph, to the Croatian and Slovenian stage in 1898, demonstrates, on the one hand, the popularity and the familiarity of the new visual medium, and, on the other hand, the intermediality and the crosscultural characteristics of early cinema in the region. The play’s reworking and malleability to the local context is revealing of social structures, and transports common reactions of audiences – wonder, amazement, fear, or scrutiny – to the new medium on stage. The play Hans Huckebein or the Cinematograph adopts the cinematograph as its subject matter, using the specific characteristics of cinema to drive the plot forward and create several comical and romantic situations. The play was performed in Vienna in 1897, and drew inspiration from early

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cinema shows and their popularity earlier that year in Berlin, in order to create intrigue and attract the public (Majcen 1997a, 75–76). Even though the play had over 50 performances in Vienna and Prague in 1898, it did not receive critical acclaim (Ibid., 79). The inclusion of the new medium into a theatrical narrative by the German playwrights Oskar Blumenthal (1852–1917) and Gustav Kadelburg (1851–1925) can be read as early attempts at movement and mobility between the different media, and such works demonstrate early cinema’s intermediality and hybridity. The Croatian National Theatre gave a performance of the play in Zagreb, adapted to a local setting and with the notable change of protagonist’s name from the German, Hans Huckebein, to the Croatian, Martin Smola (Majcen 1997a, 75). This localized three act comedy now titled Kinematograf ili Martin Smola, was translated from German to Croatian by the actor Adam Mandrović (Majcen 1997a, 76). Held during the last days of the carnival, it helped prolong the farcical and burlesque atmosphere in the city, as noted by the local newspaper Obzor on 19 February 1898 (Ibid., 76). Commenting on the play, the local press reported: ‘The work has been completely transferred to the universe of Zagreb, and due to the fact that cinematographic séances were given in the hall Kola over the last years, the subject of the farce will be very close and easy to understand for our audiences’ (Obzor 19 February 1898). The play’s narrative hinges on the concealment and the discovery of the protagonist’s love affair during a business trip on the Adriatic coast, where the Cinematograph acts as the informer (Ibid.). Martin’s romantic rendezvous with a young, beautiful woman, is revealed on his return to Zagreb, during a visit to the cinema with his wife and his mother-in-law, showing the film testifying to Martin’s indiscretion. In a comical undertone, upon viewing the film, his wife notes how all husbands are unfaithful yet only: ‘my husband lets his adventures be filmed […] then turns them public by showing them to the audience as living pictures on the Cinematograph in the hall Kola for 20 dinars’ (Ibid.). Only at the end of the play do the audiences discover that this is part of an elaborate blackmailing scheme by a film producer, who hires the young woman to lure naïve husbands, while he films their indiscretions, in order to later sell the evidence to the cheating spouse. Hans Huckebein/Kinematograf ili Martin Smola was part of the Croatian National Theatre season in Zagreb until 8 December 1902, with a total of nine performances directed by Arnošt Grund (Ibid.). Afterwards, the play toured in Split during the 1898/1899 theatre season, and in Ljubljana in October of 1898 at the Deželno gledališče (Provincial Theatre), after being translated into Slovenian by the playwright Oton Župančić and again, later, in Osijek in 1915 and Varaždin in 1919, each time dramatized and

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adapted for the local public (Ibid.). Alongside daily screenings of the Lumiere Cinematograph from 5 October 1898 at the glass salon of hotel Kazina in Ljubljana, the performance of the Slovenian adaptation of the play, titled Martin Smola ali kinematograf, was first announced in the local newspaper Slovenski Narod on 6 October 1898, and again on the following day, highlighting the fact that the play had already been performed in Vienna, Prague, and Zagreb with great success (Slovenski Narod, 7 October 1898). In terms of reception in Zagreb, the press focuses on the entertainment appeal of the play rather than its literary value, describing it as an irresistible comedy and farce, ‘which will leave you laughing and laughing’ (Ibid., 79 and Obzor, 19 February 1898). The adaptation of a purely cinematic trick into a successful theatre play demonstrates the attractiveness of the new medium for local audiences, who could ‘get the joke’ behind the illusion and spectacle. Analysing the 1898 adaptation of the original play into Croatian, Majcen discovered three different generations were represented through the main characters, which were revealing of social structures of the time (1997a, 77). The main character, Martin, is a modern entrepreneur, his wife and mother-in-law are nobility and rich landowners, while their cousin Marta is an educated young woman whose views reflect those of the intellectual elites, while also representing emancipated women of the time. As will be discussed in the following pages, it is the urban entrepreneurs and merchants that invest in the new medium, holding cinema shows and travelling around the region. The transposition of cinema into a theatrical play underscores several contemporary concerns and reflections on the emergence of this new visual medium, which is not yet fully embraced by nineteenth-century audiences. Marta’s character praises the cinematograph as a scientif ic invention that introduces something novel and unknown. Marija only accepts it half-heartedly because it fits in with her worldview of idylls and landscape scenes, while Martin’s father-in-law deems f ilms as vulgar, immoral, and f iery, which he then desires to see precisely due to their immorality (Ibid., 79). In the play, the comical situations arise from the clash of generations and their different viewpoints on life, vested under the comedy of inf idelity. To conclude, this farcical comedy seems to reveal four differing yet interrelated stances towards the new medium within an increasingly urban culture and hybridized modernity in the Balkans: the need for f ilm censorship; the voyeuristic nature of cinema; the documentary and scientific value of the new medium; and, finally, its role in cultural life as a popular and mass medium accessible to all.

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Travelling Cinema Exhibitors and Filmmakers Several figures active in the Balkans have captured the imagination of film historians locally and abroad: some were involved in war correspondence during the Balkan Wars, such as the British cameraman Charles Rider Noble for the Charles Urban Trading Company, or the Russian cine-operator Samson Černov, who shot newsreels and reportages at the Serbian front for Đoka Bogdanović and later worked for Gaumont at the Bulgarian–Turkish front. Others travelled extensively across the region capturing actualities,6 like the Lumière brothers’ cine-operator Alexandre Promio from France, or ethnographic films, such as Albert Kahn’s photographers and cinematographers on commission for his vast Archives de la Planète. Foreign film production companies, such as Pathé Frères and Gaumont, had concessions in the major cities for the distribution and exhibition of their films, while others, such as the French Eclipse and Italian Ambrosio, regularly filmed and/or acquired travelogue-type footage and newsreels from various parts of the Balkans to be featured on their repertoire. The Czech brothers Karel and Aleksandar Lifka, born in present-day Romania, started their itinerant cinema activities in the Austro–Hungarian Empire around 1901, and opened the Elektro Bioskop Lifka in Trieste in 1902. They later travelled around several towns in the Balkans showing films: Ljubljana; Gorica; Pula; Rovinj and other towns in Dalmatia; then Mostar; Sarajevo; Zagreb; Novi Sad; Subotica; Belgrade; and several towns in Hungary and Romania. In 1904, the Lifka brothers split up the business, dividing the territory where each would conduct cinematographic activities: Karel covered Austria, Slovenia, Croatia, and Dalmatia, while Aleksandar worked across the lands of Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and Vojvodina (Kosanović 1985: 48; Idem 2000: 127–128). Aleksandar finally settled in the city of Subotica, Vojvodina, in 1911, which is why the film historian Dejan Kosanović considers him as one of Yugoslav film pioneers due to his prolific filmic output (1985, 214), while Karel remained in Salzburg and Vienna (Ibid., 48). Likewise, the German Franz Josef Oeser was another important personality active in the Balkan region. He was owner of a travelling cinematograph, 6 Actuality is a common synonym used for actualités, a word of French origin that is used to describe all types of early non-fiction pictures, such as travelogues, industrial films, scientific films, sports films, etc., and it implies a temporal reference, an early form of news event films and newsreels on topical events (Abel 2005, 6). Another important sense to the term, its sensationalist aspect to attract audiences, came from the Pathé-Frères 1904 catalogue: ‘By this we mean scenes of general and international interest, which are so important that they will be able to thrill the masses’ (Ibid.).

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visiting several cities from 1898 with Edison’s Theatre, which was later known as the Oeser Cinematograph. He screened films in Ljubljana, Celje, Zagreb, Varaždin, Rijeka, Osijek, Sarajevo, Zemun, Belgrade, Sremska Mitrovica, and many other towns across the Austro–Hungarian Empire and Romania (Knežević 1992, 67). He also shot several local films: Neue Sarajevoer Aufnahmen/ New Views of Sarajevo (1898); Zagrebačke prizore/ Views of Zagreb; and Novi Zagrebački prizori/ New Views of Zagreb (1899). Neue Sarajevoer Aufnahmen/ New Views of Sarajevo were showing at Oeser’s travelling Edison Theatre from 19 to 22 October 1898, in Sarajevo, and are reportedly the oldest known films on the territory of Bosnia and Herzegovina, but unfortunately the footage has not survived (Kosanović 2005a, 20). While in Zagreb in 1899, with his travelling Edison Theatre, Oeser published an advert for the screening of Novi Zagrebački prizori/ New Views of Zagreb taking place in the courtyard of Grand Hotel in the local newspaper Obzor on 21 January, highlighting this was the last programme (Kosanović 1985, 149). Unfortunately, these views have not been preserved. The comfort and technical qualities of film projections with his travelling cinematograph was emphasized in the press at the time. In 1905, he opened one of the first permanent cinemas in Vienna, followed by other cities, and became the owner of a cinema network, which his family later inherited. The Croatian Josip Halla (1879–1960), also known as Josif or Josef Hala in the press, initially studied photography in Zurich and first started working on film with Oskar Messter, widely known as the ‘Father of the German Film Industry’ and manufacturer of the cinematic apparatus, in Berlin (Kosanović 2000, 87; Idem 1985, 160). His name appears in 1902, as the owner of the itinerant cinema Hrvatska Nova Urania seeking permission to show the Cinematograph and images via the Skioptikon, a type of a magic lantern (Dobrinčić 1950, 3–5; Kosanović 1985, 160; Midžić 1996, 98). Upon his return to Croatia in 1909, Halla worked as a travelling cinema exhibitor in several cities, and, in 1911, he made his first films: Plitvička jezera/The Plitvice National Park and Sinjska Alka, which Kosanović argues could have been part of initiatives destined to promote Croatia as a tourist destination (1985, 161). The natural locations of the Adriatic coast were becoming increasingly attractive to Austrian tourists and were being developed as tourist locations, hence a number of promotional films of islands, the coast, and the cities were made in that period by foreign companies: Gaumont; Bavaria Film; Pathé; Eclipse; Ambrosio; Welt Film; and so on.7 When the First Balkan 7 For a detailed list of films and companies, refer to “Filmovi snimljeni na teritoriji Hrvatske do 1918. godine”, Filmska Kultura nr. 123, Zagreb, 1980.

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War broke out in autumn of 1912, he travelled to the Montenegrin front, as a war correspondent for the French film production company Éclair. Here, he filmed the battles at Shkodra and Tarabosh, which were used in the newsreels Opsada Skadra/Siege of Shkodra (1912) and Zauzeće Taraboša/ Taking of Tarabosh (1912) (Kosanović 1985, 161; Idem 2000, 87), and Battles of the Montenegrin Army at Shkodra (Slijepčević 1982, 269). After 1917, he continued to work as a filmmaker and cinematographer for both Croatian and Yugoslavian film production companies. Another important figure in the early period is the Hungarian FerdinandNándor Somogyi, owner of an itinerant cinema and filmmaker. He had organized film projections for a scientific society, Urania, from Budapest, in the cities of Subotica, Novi Sad, and Vršac in Vojvodina in 1900 (Kosanović 2000, 212). Afterwards, he moved to Zagreb and worked with Izidor Kršnjavi for the touring Umjetničko znanstveno kazalište Uranija (The Artistic and Scientific Society Urania). Later, in 1901, Somogyi started to work independently as the owner of a travelling cinema, which he called Urania, screening films on locations across the Adriatic coast. Somogyi worked with another film pioneer, Stanislaw Noworyta, shooting local views. The initial cinema screenings in Cetinje (the capital of the Principality of Montenegro) in the summer of 1902, were organized by Somogyi’s Urania, who had also shot the first known film of the country during their stay, In den Schwarzen Bergen, aum Furstenhoffe von Montenegro/In the Black Hills, on the Court of the Montenegrin Prince, screened in Vienna on 1 November 1902 (Kosanović 2000, 212; Idem, 274–275; Milunović 2018, 43–44). In the early period, the cinema apparatus also had an educational and pedagogical purpose, especially in areas with low levels of literacy. The founder of one such touring educational society, Izidor Kršnjavi (1845–1927) was a professor at the Faculty of Philosophy in Zagreb and an active figure in political and artistic circles. The Urania, which was based on similar associations and initiatives operating in Austria–Hungary, organized scientific lectures illustrated with film projections and diapositives in many cities across the region, notably Zagreb, Sisak, Vinkovci, Rijeka, Novi Sad, and others (Škrabalo 1998, 30–31; Kosanović 2000, 120–121). Urania was founded as a society for the popularization of arts and sciences. Kršnjavi’s multimedia lectures were held in smaller towns and rural areas for peasants with a smaller device and pictures were chosen for entertainment and education (Jurilj). While these were not regular, lectures were organized often, due to the success of the educational manner of presenting films alongside lectures, which drew interest among the audiences (Jurilj). According to Kršnjavi’s own admission, the activities of Urania had to be interrupted

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for a long time due to the high costs of electrical lighting in Zagreb and lack of their own projection space (Škrabalo 1998, 31). Nonetheless, this undertaking marked an important step towards education and pedagogy through film and visual media. Perhaps one of the most adventurous figures, which has marked the history of local cinema, was Stanislaw Noworyta, of Polish descent (1880–1963). Born in the city of Lviv, part of Austria–Hungary (present-day Ukraine), Noworyta trained as a photographer, and at a very young age, departed for adventures around the world. He worked in Tunisia, in 1901, with the cinematographer Delacroix, and later in Africa for a year, returning to the Balkans to work with Ferdinand-Nándor Somogyi and Urania travelling cinema theatre in 1902. In 1904, he travelled to Marseille and purchased a movie camera, and started to work as a cine-reporter for Gaumont (Paris) and Raleigh and Roberts (London), filming in China and Indochina (Midžić 1996, 77). After his sojourn in Hanoi, where he contracted malaria, he returned to Poland in 1905, and, finally, to the Balkans in 1906 (Ibid.). After his travels to Brazil, he settled in Italy for a decade, in Bordighieri, where he is a director of a cinema theatre and submits a patent for sound film and a machine for faster copying, but the company that was engaged to produce it, fails before World War I (Ibid.). According to Majcen, besides being interested in exotic elements, natural beauty, and the war circumstances surrounding the Boxer Rebellion and imperial politics in China, Noworyta had a keen eye for ethnographic elements, as illustrated in his detailed descriptions of filming in Ceylon (1995/1996, 122). Noworyta would later work for the Jugoslavija film production company in 1922, making documentary films, and at the Škola Narodnog Zdravlja (School of National Health) as a trick cinema photographer. Later, he devised the sound using his 1908 gramophone system for one of the first sound films made in Croatia, Durmitor (1930). Sometimes, film history is full of intrigue, like stories in detective or spy films, reserved to capture the imagination of the spectator. In the Balkans, historians have come across one such case, perhaps of an adventurer or even a criminal, the figure of Tvrdko Drandarov, alias Konstantin Drndarski. He was a travelling cinema exhibitor for a brief period, who allegedly obtained cinema equipment from Johann Fischer in Vienna, in September 1897 in Ruse,8 Bulgaria. Later accused of having obtained this equipment illegally, he 8 Ruse is the fifth largest city in north-eastern Bulgaria, situated on the right bank of the Danube and geographically closer to Bucharest than Sofia. It is one of the most important river ports in the country, which served for international trade. The first known cinema screenings on the territory of Bulgaria took place in Ruse in 1897. In the nineteenth century, the city was

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was pursued by the Bulgarian and Austro–Hungarian authorities (where he was a citizen) throughout 1899 and 1900. Petar Kardjilov clarifies the details behind this mysterious criminal act: Johan Fischer, an orchestra conductor, registered at the local hotel in Ruse was showing the Cinematograph in late August 1897, when he was forced to return to Vienna at short notice and left his equipment with a local under the name Tvrdko Drandarov, who lent him money (2017, 156). When Fischer returned to Ruse a month later, he found that Drandarov had disappeared with the Cinematograph, Edison’s phonograph, and musical instruments to the value of 4000 golden lev (Kardjilov 2017, 156). Two years later, in 1899, Drandarov was reportedly showing films in the small town of Bijeljina and other parts of eastern Bosnia (Kosanović 2005a, 8). A letter from the Bulgarian Ministry of Justice, preserved in the archives of the Kingdom of Serbia, states that Tvrdko Drandarov, alias Dudarski Lala, is accused of unlawfully seizing a Cinematograph and a Phonograph with equipment, of total value of 4000 lev and that he should be delivered to Bulgarian authorities (Knežević 1992, 127). Pursued by Bulgarian authorities, he is finally located in neighbouring Serbia, in the city of Niš, and consequently extradited to Zemun, present-day Bosnia and Herzegovina, then a town in Austria–Hungary (Kardjilov 2017, 156; Knežević 1992, 132–133, 251–252). Until then, Drndarski had exploited the cinematograph equipment and had been showing films from 1897 to 1900 throughout Serbia, Vojvodina, Croatia, and Bosnia and Herzegovina, which led film historians to label him as ‘the first Serbian owner of a cinematograph’ (Knežević 1992, 127–135; Kosanović 2000, 58–59). Drndarski declared to have sold the equipment to Stojan Nanić, a travelling entertainer, for 750 dinars in November 1900 (Knežević 1992, 133; Kardjilov 2017, 157). Interestingly, Stojan Nanić, previously an illusionist, now turns into a travelling film showman, and goes on to give shows with the cinematograph in Serbia and Bulgaria, later identified as a Lumière brothers make (Kardjilov 2017, 157). The local press in Plovdiv and Sofia announced several screenings of the Cinematograph from March to May 1901, and highlighted how this is ‘a show of quite an interesting performance, with a cinematograph arriving from Paris, which works with no hitches’ (Ibid.). After 20 May, Stojan Nanić left Bulgaria, where he also made an impression on audiences by playing some tunes using Edison’s phonograph, and returned to Kragujevac in Serbia (Knežević 1992, 181; Kardjilov 2017, 158). This curious case of cross-border crime and international intrigue resulted in several

cosmopolitan with a multi-ethnic population, composed of Bulgarians, Turks, and Jews (according to the first census conducted in 1883).

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instances where many audiences had, for the first time, an opportunity to see moving images and hear recordings on the phonograph. From 14 until 29 April 1907, a series of film screenings in Cetinje (Montenegro) were organized by a cinema owner, Miloš Gavrić, a Serb from the town of Mačva, at the Zetski Dom (Zeta House), who had obtained permission from the authorities to screen films (Milunović 2018, 44–45). The advert, which appeared in the local newspaper Glas Crnogorca (XXXVI, n.18), announces a ‘Bioskop’ show, of a two-hour film programme of actualities and news of 1500 metres starting at half past eight in the evening. Returning to the mobility of early cinema and film exhibitors, it is interesting to note that the Prince Nikola of Montenegro, members of the royal family and entourage assisted in a cinematograph screening on board of the ship Smyrna, on the way to Istanbul upon the invitation of the Montenegrin delegation by the Sultan Abdul Hamid in 1899 (Milunović 2018, 42–43). The royal family had not only been immortalized on film9 at the wedding ceremony of Prince Nikola’s daughter with the heir to the Italian throne in Rome, Italy, by the representatives of the Lumière brothers, but they had seen the moving pictures much earlier than the general public. While there are few sources about cinema screenings in Albanian cities, such as Shkodra, Korça, and Tirana, at the time, under the Ottoman Empire, there is a record that one of the travelling cinemas and exhibitors who traversed these parts was a representative of an Austrian company, Josef Stauber. There is a year-long contract, from 1 September 1912, which allows Stauber to organize film screenings in the house of Kolë Idromeno, a local photographer, painter, and architect, who was a notable and respected cultural personality in the city of Shkodra (Hoxha 1994, 10). Allegedly, Idromeno had already organized screenings of diapositives and films at the cultural club Gjuha Shqipe (Albanian language) in 1908 (Lako and Hoxha 2002, 66). Historians believe that cinema shows were also organized by Idromeno at his house in 1911, but were not advertised publicly in the local newspapers, since he did not obtain the permission from authorities (Hoxha 2007, 63–64 and 1994, 10–13). Verbal testimonies and memoirs also mention that Idromeno travelled with his nephew, projecting films on the Dalmatian coast in the summer of 1914 (Hoxha 1994, 10). The German-Hungarian Josef Hepp (1887–1968), who moved to Greece in 1910, after working in Hungary and France for Pathé, was instrumental for early cinema activities in Greece. He was invited to Greece by King George 9 The film, entitled Matrimonio dei principi di Napoli a Roma, was shot by Henry Le Lieure and shown in January and early February 1897 in Rome (Milunović 2018, 41).

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Figure 52. Karagiozis and American movies, Athinai, 2 September 1909

Figure 53. Pathé Week, Pathé Frères, Main Representative for Bulgaria, Louis Pitrolf de Beéry

Figure 54. The Manakia brothers Photographic Studio

Figure 55. The Manakia brothers’ film canister © Ana Grgić

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and was conferred the title of ‘Royal photographer and cinematographer’ (Karalis 2012, 4). He was tasked with modifying the projector at the cinema Panellinion, where he continued to work as a projectionist (Soldatos 2002, 13–14). During the Balkan Wars, Hepp worked for Athens Films, owned by Konstantinos Lagouros and Yorgos Malandrinos, and shot footage of the Asia Minor campaign, which was used in the following newsreels: The Wounded of the Balkan Wars, Maneuvers of the Greek Navy and Maneuvers of the Greek Infantry (these titles have not been verified) and H.M.’s the King return from the Balkan Wars (Soldatos 2002, 13–14). In 1911, Hepp shot a short family film of the royal family From The Life of the Little Princes, depicting the King George’s children and grand-children (Karalis 2012, 4; Soldatos 2002, 13–14). The above is not a complete but a representative picture of several early cinema figures in the Balkan region, who had adopted the new medium from the start, either abandoning their previous business activities and completely dedicating their time and resources to this new art, or combining it alongside other cultural and business activities.

The Mysterious Hungarian and the Serbian-Bulgarian Connection Prior to the outbreak of World War I, Louis Pitrolf de Beéry was active throughout the Balkan region in various cinematographic activities, as evidenced by traces left behind in the archives of the region (Yugoslav Cinematheque in Belgrade, State Archive of Bosnia and Herzegovina in Sarajevo, Bulgarian National Film Archive in Sofia, and Austrian State Archive in Vienna). For most of the twentieth century, the local film historians who had come across the name of Louis de Beéry in newspaper accounts and archival documents could not find trace of his activities in France,10 perhaps due to an erroneous transcription of his name, but it was clear that he had worked for the French film production company Pathé. The film historian Bosa Slijepčević, while working on early cinema in Bosnia and Herzegovina, came across two archival documents at the State Archive of Bosnia and Herzegovina, which help elucidate the beginnings of de Beéry’s cinema activities in the Balkan region and partly identify this mysterious 10 Dejan Kosanović writes on the process of identification of de Beéry and considers that he was most likely working under contract for Pathé, since his research of official Pathé cine-operators did not yield any results (1985, 76–78).

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figure (1979, 119; 1982, 295–296). The first document is a letter dated 19 January 1909 and addressed to the Austrian Minister of Finance and Austrian authorities,11 in which de Beéry applies for a passport and permission to film in Bosnia and Herzegovina (Slijepčević 1982, 296). A few days later, on 21 January 1909, he was granted permission from the Austrian Monarchy with a recommendation that he should be lent any assistance necessary while conducting his activities (Ibid.). The second is the business card, which clearly shows his name and identifies his profession: ‘cine-operator for Pathé Frères’ (see Slijepčević 1982, for a reproduction of the business card). More recent archival research revealed that de Beéry’s real name was, in fact, Lajos Zoltan Arpad Pitrolf, and that he was of Hungarian origin, born in Gyula (present-day Hungary, in the Békés County, located on the border with Romania) in the Austro–Hungarian Empire, on 13 October 1879 (Erdeljanović 2005–2006). I can only speculate that de Beéry had chosen to transliterate his name into French, or rather a French sounding name, for two reasons: (1) effect; and (2) perhaps to invest it with a kind of authority associated with French connections to cinema (as his primary business activity). What is crucial to underline is that de Beéry’s contribution to local cinema activities in at least two Balkan countries was crucial for the development of national cinemas and left a lasting legacy for local, national, and regional film heritage. While there is no available information on his exact cinema activities and filming in Bosnia and Herzegovina, beyond having been granted the permission from Austrian authorities in Vienna, several documentaries shown in Dalmatia,12 Bosnia, and Serbia from July 1909 could be attributed to de Beéry (Kosanović 2000, 52; Slijepčević 1982, 296; Kečkemet 1969, 130). Slijepčević, for instance, mentions several titles: a coloured film from the 1912 Pathé catalogue, entitled Eastern Europe. In Bosnia (Sarajevo); three films entitled Sarajevo, Mostar, and Beograd, shown as part of a travelling cinema repertoire in Sarajevo, on 7 May 1910, as a special attraction (Bosnische Post); and a film Bosna screened at the Grand Bioskop in hotel Pariz in Belgrade in March of 1911, advertised in no less than three local newspapers: Pravda, Mali žurnal, and Stampa (1982, 296). Later, Kosanović, speculates on the same films, and attributes another title, found in the BFI catalogue, as possibly being filmed by de Beéry: The Visit of Franz Josef to Sarajevo, which could correspond to films advertised under slightly different titles, 11 After the Treaty of Berlin in 1878, Bosnia and Herzegovina was still formally under the Ottoman Empire until full annexation by Austria–Hungary in 1908. 12 The film Bosnom i Herzegovinom was shown in Zadar on 24 July 1909, and a film entitled Sarajevo in Split on 16 March 1910 (Kečkemet 1969, 130).

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Putovanje Nj. V. Cara Franje Josipa I u Bosnu and Carev boravak u Sarajevu, shown respectively in June 1910 in Split and Sarajevo (1985, 234). In Bulgaria, a film entitled Bosnia and Herzegovina was shown in the Modern Theatre on 16 June 1909 and the newsreel report The Visit of the Austrian Emperor Franz Joseph in Sarajevo (Bosnia) on 30 May 1910, while Eastern Europe – Bosnia and Sarajevo – Views in June 1911, most likely corresponding to L’Europe Orientale – en Bosnie in the Pathé catalogue (Kardjilov 2017, 584). The Grand Bioskop cinema in Hotel Pariz, situated in a central street in Belgrade, was owned by none other than Svetozar Botorić, one of four main film producers active in the Serbian capital prior to the onset of World War I. Botorić was a key founder of the ‘Association for the production of Serbian national films’, and the main Pathé Frères representative for Serbia and Bulgaria from 1911, which gave him exclusive rights to show Pathé films and sell projection equipment for cinema theatres (Erdeljanović 2012; Slijepčević 1982, 94). Newspaper advertisements and accounts confirm that de Beéry shot several documentaries and newsreels in Belgrade starting from summer 1911 onwards, not only for Botorić, but also for the brothers Savić, until trace of de Beéry’s activities in Serbia disappears (Slijepčević 1982; Kosanović 1985; Erdeljanović 2005–2006). Botorić had been collaborating with Pathé Frères since 1909, renting films for his cinema theatre from their affiliate in Budapest (Erdeljanović 2005–2006, 2012), and had probably been in contact with de Beéry at some point. De Beéry sojourned in Vienna in 1910 and visited Zagreb the same year, arriving in Belgrade in mid-1911. Here, as a representative of Pathé, he entered into an agreement with Svetozar Botorić and the Royal Serbian National Theatre to shoot several theatrical pieces based on events from national history and life in the village (Erdeljanović 2005–2006, 2012). In sum, de Beéry ended up working on and shooting the first feature-length fiction films with the principal actors from the Royal Serbian National Theatre, and under direction of Čiča Ilija Stanojević: Karađorđe (1911) and Ulrih Celjski i Vladislav Hunjadi (1911) in June and in July of 1911. Karađorđe premiered at Botorić’s cinema in the Hotel Pariz on 23 October 1911, and it is not only considered the first Serbian fiction film, but also the first Balkan fiction film by some film historians (Erdeljanović 2012). However, Ulrih Celjski i Vladislav Hunjadi concerns an important episode from Hungarian medieval history, which is significant considering the Hungarian connection and involvement of cinematographer de Beéry.13 The film recounts a story of prowess and deceit, in which Vladislav Hunjadi’s 13 Little is known of de Beéry’s biography. He was one of five children, of Hungarian nationality, a bachelor, and a Catholic. His late father, Lajos Pitrolf Jászberényi, was a mechanic, and had

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men fooled and killed his rival for the Hungarian throne, Ulrih Celjski, at the Belgrade fortress in 1456. Aside from shooting a dozen short newsreels for Botorić during his stay in Belgrade, de Beéry also filmed the Gypsy Wedding (1911), later distributed in the Pathé catalogue under the title of En Serbie: Un marriage chez les Tziganes /In Serbia: A Gypsy Wedding. While it was unusual that this film appeared in the Bulletin Hebdomadaire Pathé more than a year after its completion, perhaps the film’s subject matter appealed to French and European audiences, securing subsequent screenings (Kosanović 1985, 79). The Belgrade newspaper Jutro (30 October 1911) highlights how Gypsy Wedding contains authentic čergaški14 (‘nomadic’) life of Serbian Gypsies, including a wedding and fight (!), and that Pathé intends to distribute several copies of a coloured version of the film. For the film shoot, the Roma settlement was moved to Ada Ciganlija, while the Bibija celebrations, including drinking, eating, and fighting were improvised for the camera (Kosanović 1985, 78). Reportedly, de Beéry sometimes hid behind the bushes to capture non-staged events (Ibid.). All of the films shot by de Beéry were sent to Paris for development, and while there was mention in the Serbian press that Karađorđe was to be bought and distributed by Pathé, there is no evidence this ever took place, and the film was considered lost until its rediscovery in 2003. It is clear that historical dramas from Hungarian and Serbian national histories did not appeal to French audiences, but rather the attraction rested in the exotic elements of gypsy life. De Beéry also shot several short newsreels and reported during the Balkan Wars (such as The Solemn Entry of the Serbian King Peter to Skopje on 20 October 1912, and The Funeral of Three Serbian Heroes Fallen in the War with the Bulgarians on 24 July 1913), and was mentioned in the Budapest Film Review at the start of 1913 as having suffered injuries while filming at the front together with another cine-reporter, by the name of Laventure.15 After his cinema activities in Belgrade and the chronicling of the Balkan wars, trace of de Beéry is lost in Serbia. participated in the Hungarian National revolution of 1848–1849 (Erdeljanović 2005–2006; Kardjilov 2017, 586). 14 Čergar designates a Gypsy, a Roma person that lives under the čerga (a type of a tent), but also figuratively, it refers to someone who moves from place to place, a vagrant, a wanderer, a bohemian. There is also the adjective ‘čergaški’ and the noun ‘čergaštvo’ designating wandering, freedom, etc. Etymology of the term sourced here: https://pescanik.net/cerga/. 15 The brief excerpt entitled Shooting cameramen in war highlights how it is difficult and very dangerous for cinematographers to approach the Turkish front. De Beéry is mentioned as being hit by a rifle bullet during filming, for which he was in bed with severe wounds for weeks, and that he recently recovered and is now filming again. Another cinematographer called Laventure is also mentioned: he was arrested by Bulgarians and set free upon the intervention of the French

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However, the prolific de Beéry reappears in the capital city of Bulgaria, Sofia, in early October 1913, where he continued to be involved in cinema activities under the Pathé Frères name. This advert announces de Beéry as chief representative of Pathé Frères for Bulgaria, ‘the world’s largest cinema and film house with a multi-million capital, where the art of films has reached full perfection,’ providing the address for the newly opened branch situated in St Nikola Street no. 26, in Sofia (Figure 53). Recently, the important research conducted by film historian Petar Kardjilov, establishes the significance of de Beéry’s role in the development of local cinema production and his contribution towards the making of the first fiction Bulgarian films, and setting the framework for cinema exhibition and distribution activities (2017). Kardjilov underlines how, within a short period, this outstanding professional managed to change celluloid life not only in Sofia but also across the country. Modernizing the motion picture – the results of these filmmaking activities are most evident from the annual financial statements of his clients. It provokes the interest of the press in Pathé’s f ilm production, transforms the way, the method, and the philosophy of cinema advertisement in Bulgaria (2017, 586).

In Bulgaria, de Beéry edited and published a specialized film magazine in the Bulgarian language, the Pate Sedmica (Pathé Week) journal, which illustrated and promoted Pathé Frères films for rent and sale (Kardjilov 2017). He also set the pace for film advertising in newspapers, and almost all of the cinema theatres in the provinces rented films from the Pathé branch in Sofia (Kardjilov 2019). Kardjilov also links the intent and production conditions behind the plans to adapt Ivan Vasov’s 1894 novel Pod Igoto/ Under the Yoke into a fiction film, to the initiative of Pathé Frères, or rather de Beéry as chief representative in Bulgaria, and the Serbian film producer Svetozar Botorić, who had been the Pathé representative for Serbia and Bulgaria since 1911 (2017, 587–588). This interpretation is not unlikely, since both Botorić and de Beéry had already collaborated in Belgrade on the first fiction films in Serbia, and had an interest in national-revolutionary and historical-patriotic themes. In fact, as noted above, over the course of the nineteenth century, through cultural works and during the Balkan Wars through arms, the Balkan countries had sought to distance themselves from the perceived occupier, the Ottoman Empire, and establish a distinct ambassador. Finally, his footage of the war was returned severely cut/mutilated. I am thankful to Gábor Pintér for his translation and summary of the text from Hungarian to English.

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national identity through historical epics, brave fighters and connections dating to the medieval past. Unfortunately, Under the Yoke was never made but the production of the first fiction film, Bulgaran e gallant/ Bulgarian is a Gentleman started that summer in 1914.

The Balkan Cinema Pioneers and the Lost Gaze Unlike the forgotten but prolific and enterprising figure of de Beéry, the established and more widely acknowledged pioneers of Balkan cinema, the Manakia brothers, were also subject of Theo Angelopoulos’ acclaimed film To Vlemma tou Odyssea/Ulysses’ Gaze (1995), in which a film director travels across the Balkans to find their lost film reels. The Vlach/Aromanian brothers, Ienache and Milton Manakia were active for several decades in the areas of photography and cinema, both shooting and producing films (1906/1907–1939) and owning a cinema theatre in Bitola (1921–1939), present-day North Macedonia. They truly are embodiments of the Balkan multi-ethnic and multicultural identity, and the importance of their ethnographic impulse in recording local life in the Balkans cannot be underestimated. The Manakia brothers were born in a small village called Avdella in the Pindus Mountains (present-day Greece, part of Vilayet of Monastir during the Ottoman Empire), and then moved to Bitola (Monastir) in 1905. Milton remained in Bitola until his death in 1963, at that time part of former Yugoslavia, while Ienache moved to Greece in 1935 to live in Thessaloniki where he was a teacher in a Romanian school, until he passed away in 1954. The film historian Marian Ţuţui remarks how: The Manakia brothers should be considered as Europeans avant lettre or at least personalities of the Balkan culture as they had been Turkish subjects at first and left important witness also for the history and culture of Turkey, Macedonia, Bulgaria, Serbia, Romania, as well as for the Jews and Gypsies (2005, 85).

Indeed, their notoriousness as Ţuţui further speculates (Ibid.), would certainly have been greater, and their film and photography contribution to Balkan culture would have yielded more fruitful results if instead most of the efforts of local film historians and researchers had focused on not establishing their ethno-national belonging. Kosanović also regrets that their work had not been studied more in depth as well as the lost opportunities by Yugoslav scholars while Milton was still alive (1985). The Manakia

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brothers shot a wide variety of film materials, of local, ethnic, and national importance to several countries in the Balkans, such as the executions and reprisals on the local population after the failure of the Ilinden uprisings, the visit of the Sultan to the Macedonian provinces via train, the proclamation of the Young Turk Revolution, the Vlach/Aromanian habits and traditions in the Pindus mountains, the visit of the Serbian King Aleksandar Karađorđević, and the visit of the Romanian delegation to Macedonia. The subjects of their photographs included several important historical figures such as: Resneli Niyazi Bey; Ismail Enver Pasha (leader of the 1908 Young Turk Revolution); Sultan Mehmet Reshad; the Romanian King Carol I; Damyan Yovanov Gruev aka Dame Gruev (leader of the Macedonian uprising and founding member of IMRO); and Tsole Stoychev (leader of the rebels). Their films witnessed the Proclamation of Freedom in Bitola and celebrations, the Young Turk revolution, the visit of the Ottoman Sultan Mehmet Reshad to Thessaloniki, the visit of the Romanian delegation to Turkish Macedonia in 1911, the visits of the sovereigns of Greece (visit of the King of Greece and Pavlos, heir to the throne) and Serbia (the visit of Aleksandar Karađorđević in 1912), and the Turkish reprisals in Bitola between 1906–1911. Their commercial activity began in 1898, when Ienache opened a photographic studio in Ioannina (the region of Epirus, present-day Greece), where he also worked as a teacher (Ţuţui 2005, 4). The photographic legacy of the Manakia brothers consists of 18, 513 negatives (7115 on glass plates), 10, 952 original photographs and written documents kept in archiving boxes at the Macedonian National Archives in Bitola, as well as in private collections in Greece, Bulgaria, Serbia, Romania and Turkey (Jankuloski 2017, 37-38). When they moved to Bitola, they established a Studio for Photography and Art, which had an emblem both in Romanian and Turkish languages (Figure 54). For almost five decades, Milton was considered as the sole instigator behind their entire cinematographic opus, while Ienache passed away forgotten in Greece. Acknowledged as a cinema pioneer, Milton received recognition from the Yugoslav Cinematheque in 1963 and a documentary Camera 300 (1958, 15min, screened at the Pula Film Festival, national festival for Yugoslav film) by Branko Ranitović, was dedicated to his life and work. Recently, the work of archivists and historians have contributed to furthering the knowledge on their work (Nonevski 1986, 2003, 2005; Stardelov 2003; Ţuţui 2005, 2008), acknowledging the brothers were of Aromanian/Vlach origin, and that they were both involved in shooting films. The original Bioscope movie camera is preserved today at the Cinematheque of North Macedonia, but the circumstances around its purchase and the exact period are still being debated. According to all sources, Ienache had purchased the camera

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made by Charles Urban & Co, most likely during his trip to Western Europe, and most likely in Paris or London, but the year on which the production of the first film hinges, is still under question: 1905, 1906, or 1907 (Nonevski 1986; Kosanović 1985, 260–273; Ţuţui 2008, 111–126). The Manakia brothers participated at the 1906 International Exhibition in Bucharest where they were awarded two gold medals and one silver medal for their photographic skills (Ţuţui 2005, 5). The 1906 exhibition, which lasted nearly six months, was inaugurated by the Romanian King Carol I, and attended by diplomats present in Bucharest, and had pavilions representing foreign companies and nations (Ţuţui 2004, 48–49). There was a specially dedicated pavilion on cinema and on Macedonia, coordinated by the Romanian consulate in Bitola, while around 5000 Romanians from abroad attended the event (Ibid., 50). After witnessing the Bioscope exhibition by Petre Ganciu, the brothers Manakia were astounded by the new technology and decided to obtain a movie camera, on their return to Bitola, Ienache departed for a trip through Western Europe (Paris, Vienna, and London), where he most likely purchased a Bioscope camera (Ibid., 54, 64–65). According to the preserved postcards, Ienache was in Paris in 1906, where it is believed he purchased the movie camera. Therefore, it is unlikely that the first film of the weaving women dates to 1905 (as previously indicated by Milton in an interview) but it would appear that these views were filmed most likely in the summer of 1907 (see Kosanović 2000, 135; Ţuţui 2008, 114). The surviving films (circa 2500 metres of negatives and prints) of the brothers Manakia are preserved at the Cinematheque of North Macedonia in Skopje (Figure 55), some copies can be found in Bucharest at the Romanian National Film Archive and at the Yugoslav Cinematheque in Belgrade. In the cataloguing and identification process, the film archivist Igor Stardelov identified 42 films made by the Manakia brothers (2003, 202). Milton sold around 1500 metres of film in 1955 to the Macedonian State Archive for a million dinars, which he had previously copied at the Yugoslav Cinematheque in 1951. The Regional Historical Archive in Bitola acquired the photographic materials and the family documents. The first restoration was done during 1995 and 1996, when the Cinematheque of North Macedonia undertook analogue preservation of the Manakia brothers’ films by duplicating the images onto safety film, acetate support, at the Hungarian Film Lab in Budapest. In 2012, the Cinematheque of North Macedonia undertook a digital restoration project for the entire collection. The films were digitized from the 35mm original negatives, and then digitally restored at the Hungarian Film Lab. Cinematheque of North Macedonia produced a DVD with the restored films and extras, containing a booklet on the Manakia brothers, which was

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distributed to participants of the FIAF 2014 Congress, held in Skopje. In the booklet, the Cinematheque of North Macedonia has indicated that in their official view the first films were shot in 1905, considering Milton Manakia’s oral testimony rather than the material evidence indicating Ienache had undertaken the journey in 1906. The inclusion of an interview with Milton Manakia for Radio Skopje on 5 December 1963 confirms this version, as Milton states Ienache visited Paris in 1905 and had to travel to London at this occasion to buy the camera 300, which he then smuggled into North Macedonian territory not declaring it to Turkish authorities. The first views shot by the Manakia brothers are of their 107-year-old grandmother Despina and a group of women weaving wool, The Weavers and Grandmother Despina (1907), which I discussed in Chapter 1. While some of the Manakia brothers f ilms immortalize the Sultan’s voyage through the Ottoman Empire, processions, and manifestations, a large number testifies to their will to document the traditional and disappearing customs of the diverse communities in the Balkans. Ţuţui, who has conducted extensive research on their photographic and cinematographic work, argues how the brothers Manakia f ilms are among the f irst ethnographic f ilms in the world (2004, 68). Amongst the most important f ilms, there are the outdoor school, Vlach folk dance, Vlach nomads, a village wedding, St George’s Day, Epiphany celebration in Veria, Sunday fair in Bitola, the laundresses, and the marketplace in Bitola. According to Ţuţui, the artistic career of the Manakia brothers coincides with the period of reforms in the Ottoman Empire, from which the Vlach/ Aromanian minority could benef it in terms of collective rights (Ibid., 66). Within the Ottoman Empire, Vlach/Aromanians did not have to choose a nationality, religion, or language, and constituted one of the many ethnic communities living in the area. The footage was filmed in several localities of the Ottoman Empire: Avdella, Grevena, Veria, and Thessaloniki (nowadays in Greece), and Bitola and Resen (present-day North Macedonia). The last days of the Ottoman Empire were captured by the gaze of their camera, and within the larger scheme of the unfolding of the events, the traditional way of life of the Vlach/Aromanian community was recorded by the brothers Manakia, perhaps realizing it would soon disappear within the turmoil of war. Between 1908 and 1909, the brothers Manakia filmed several manifestations for the occasion of the Young Turks Revolution and for the occasion of Hurriyat celebrations (Liberty) in Bitola. This footage of historical importance shows the crowd holding placards and flags, columns of demonstrators, civilians and military on the streets of Bitola, adorned buildings and the

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dance assembly of ‘Pelisterski junak’ (cultural association). The Young Turk period represented a turning point in Turkish political life, in which the shift from imperial subject to citizen was taking place. The Ottoman society was becoming more differentiated, and in this ‘democratization’ process, the Porte was being replaced by political pluralism. While, on the one hand, the Ottomans began to identify with Western norms, on the other, anti-Western resistance and agendas for national economy emerged. The Proclamation of Freedom in 1908 was inaugurated under the banner of the principles of the French revolution ‘liberty, equality and fraternity.’ These changes in all spheres of political, social, civic, and economic structure and life of the Ottoman Empire were determinative in setting the groundwork for a Republican society (Margulies, 18), and led to the slow dissolution of the Ottoman Empire and its internationalism. The last Ottoman sultan (1908–1918), Mehmed Reshad V undertook a journey through the Empire in 1911 and visited those places where the revolution started and was successful with local populations. The brothers Manakia had permission to film the Sultan’s entire visit in Thessaloniki and throughout Macedonia. Two surviving films document the journey, entitled Sultan Mehmed Reshad Visiting Bitola (1911, 431.3m) and Turkish Sultan Mehmed Reshad V Visiting Thessalonica (1911, 281.5m). The Sultan’s arrival by ship from Istanbul on 28 May, the harbour, the ship and boats arriving, as well as the quay and the streets where the imperial cortege and brass band are captured on film. The Sultan and his entourage travelled by train from Thessaloniki via Skopje. The train line connecting Thessaloniki and Bitola via Veroia, Edessa, Amyntaio, and Florina, crossing the distance of 219km, was inaugurated in 1894 by the Société du Chemin de Fer ottoman Salonique-Monastir. In the second film, the brothers Manakia captured footage from the moving train, passing the railway stations of Surovicevo (Amyntaio) and Florina (Lerin), and finally the arrival at the train station of Bitola, and the main street filled with people, a parade, and a brass band, and a hotel where the sultan spent the night. This is one of the last visual documents, in which the notion of Ottoman Empire still exists, and which witnesses the last journey of the Sultan to the Balkan territories of the empire. The First Balkan War, fought between the Ottoman Empire and the Balkan league nations, would begin a year later, and shatter future hopes of peaceful coexistence of communities of different languages, ethnicities, and religious conviction under a large multinational state. The majority of the brothers Manakia films were never screened for the general public, but there is evidence that some edited films were shown for scientific purposes at the Romanian Academy, of which six reels are

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conserved at the Romanian National Film Archive, under the title Scenes from the Life of Aromanians in the Pindus (see Ţuţui 2004, 69–70). The only edited film from the Cinematheque of North Macedonia collection is The Funeral of Metropolitan Emilianos of Grevena (1911), which contains Greek intertitles and still photographs, and was most likely commissioned, and therefore edited, after shooting by the Manakia brothers in order to sell the film. Other documentaries such as, Opening of the City Café in Bitola (1912) and the City Wedding show images of Western-style urban life, the latest fashions, and motorized transport. It is important to underline that the cinematographic legacy of the Manakia brothers, which were at different times throughout history claimed to be Yugoslav, Macedonian, Greek, Albanian, Turkish, and Romanian national identity, is truly marked by the multi-ethnic and multinational reality of the Balkan Peninsula during the first two decades of twentieth century and beyond. Thus, their work is of crucial importance to several nations, and further cross-cultural collaborations between academics to work on identifying the collections at the Bitola State Archive would surely shed more light on their activities. A transnational understanding of their films and their production contributes to a more enriching and complete view of the Balkan cultural history.

Cinema and the Global Imaginary Aside from the physical movement of travelling cinema exhibitors and early cinema pioneers within and beyond the region during the early period, a brief passage from an account published after the initial moving image shows, highlights the cosmopolitan and hybrid character of early cinema. Moreover, it shows that the Balkans participated in the global imaginary and movement of images. The short essay, titled ‘Žive fotografije’ (Living photographs) was written by a mathematics and physics professor from Slovenia, Simon Šubic, and published in the journal Dom in Svet (‘Home and World’) on 1 January 1898. Šubic regularly published scientific articles in German and Slovenian languages for several journals (Letopis Slovenske Matice, Zora, Kres, Ljubljanski zvon, Dom in Svet) on modern topics such as astronomy, space travel, electricity, X-rays, and time (Traven 1992, 36). Šubic was enthusiastic about technological developments, while also interested in social and human problems; for instance, he wrote on the cosmos of the human spirit in Ljubljanski zvon in 1893 (Šimenc 1985, 10). It seems natural, then, that Šubic would also write about modern visual media,

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namely photography and cinema, for the journal Dom in Svet, whose chief editor, Dr Frančišek Lampe was also a photo amateur (Ibid.). His article ‘Living Photographs’ provides a brief history of moving image development and its scientific principles, starting with the Stroboscope, the Zootrope, and serial photography (Jansen, Anschutz, Marey, Muybridge), Edison’s inventions, and coming to the Lumière brothers’ Cinematograph. While this is a fairly standard description of moving images and their prehistory, a brief but insightful passage reveals Šubic’s enthusiasm for cinema to participate in the creation of the global imaginary. In his opinion, cinema is capable of capturing the diversity of life as it unravels around the world, which echoes the multicultural and transnational character of early films: The cinematograph has moved to the market in Alexandria. Wide streets with tasteful buildings are opened before your eyes, streets full of unloaded colourful bargains. Donkeys, camels and horses straddle between the dense teeming crowds mixed with diverse faces of peoples of the world. There, the Englishman bargains with the Arab, the Indian with the Frenchman, the Albanian with the Asian, and the black man with the gold-curls European. There the Englishman is changing Russian money, here the Islamist is buying an old Austrian Krone with the image of Maria Theresa, and over there the Chinese is asking for an ancient Venetian gold coin with St. Mark. And everywhere around lively crowds rub and offer their hands in service, but they also stretch to give gifts, and the change to the lazy beggar. Who would now continue collecting data on life, traffic and intercourse in Paris, London, New-York, and Calcutta, as cinema shows all as it happens truly in reality! (Dom in Svet, 1 January 1898).

This view of the market in Alexandria (Egypt) is imaginatively described as a melting pot of different cultures, religions, nationalities, and people. Šubic is excited about the all-encompassing character of cinema, its ability to penetrate any corner of the world, record its ‘reality,’ and re-present it on the screen. The blending of cultures, religions, and traditions in the passage seems to echo the author’s understanding of the cosmopolitan and multicultural dimension of early cinema and its contribution to the global imaginary. The passage also reveals that educated spectators in the Balkans were interested in cinema’s potential for scientific purposes, such as anthropological and ethnographic studies. Finally, it underscores how the locals were able to participate in the experience of modernity alongside other spectators around the globe. While not certain, the described scene of the market in Alexandria is likely a view from the Lumière brothers catalogue. With the aim of ‘placing

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the world within one’s reach,’ the Lumière brothers sent their representatives around the world to show the new invention. The trained projectionists and cinematographers, as the Lumière machine was capable of recording and projecting, also filmed views of cities and countries where they sojourned. These early views were actualities, providing audiences with the excitement of news and topical subjects and the possibility to travel around the world in pictures. Alexandre Promio,16 a Lumière brothers representative, shot a film titled Place des Consuls, à Alexandrie on 10 March 1897 on his arrival to the city (Allan 2008, 159), which is likely one of the films that the Slovenian professor had the opportunity to see in Ljubljana. Promio was on a world tour, from 1896 to 1903, travelling and filming in locations across Switzerland, Spain, United Kingdom, the US, Italy, Algeria, Egypt, Turkey, Palestine, Belgium, Russia, France, and Austria–Hungary. His voyage was described as an ‘imperial conquest’ in the press of the time, with journalists writing how, ‘the entire world’ (‘le monde entier’) might soon be ‘the conquest of the Cinématographe Lumière’ (‘la conquête du Cinématographe Lumière’)’ (Ibid., 160). While travelling in the Balkan region, Promio filmed the views of the Austro–Hungarian navy on the Adriatic coast, in Šibenik and Pula (presentday Croatia) on 28 and 29 April 1898 (Midžić 2006a, 59–60). The newspapers reported eleven films on this occasion,17 but only seven were shown on 7 May 1898 at the Exposition jubilaire de Vienne,18 organized by the Urania Committee, a theatre for scientific knowledge (Seguin 1999, 154–155). The films have been preserved and are included in the Société Lumiere catalogue (no. 836 to no. 842) with descriptive titles: anchoring of the ship, the sailors’ salutation, the vessels roll at sea, launching a torpedo, docking, and so on. The views of the manoeuvres of the Austrian navy were meant to celebrate and honour the Emperor, and assert Austria–Hungary as a powerful military 16 Alexandre Promio was an optician’s assistant in Lyon, France, where he first witnessed a Cinematograph exhibition during the congress of Société Photographiques de France from 10 to 12 June 1895. After responding to the advert for cine-operators in February 1896, he started employment with the Société Lumiere. He would later work for the Compagnie Théophile Pathé from 1907 to 1910, undertaking several journeys to the Balkans and the African continent, filming views in Turkey, Algeria and Malta. 17 The newspaper Le Progres (Lyon, 18 April 1896) wrote that the Urania committee commissioned several nautical views from the Lumière brothers, to be filmed on the Austrian littoral, under the direction of a retired captain M. Rottauscher (Seguin 1999, 154). 18 The exhibition, taking place in Vienna, for which the views of the navy were commissioned, was organized in honour of 50 years of the Emperor Franz Joseph’s rule. For this occasion, a special pavilion was constructed, while the park and interior spaces decorated, and a ceremonial programme organized.

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force. Pula’s large natural harbour served as Austria’s main naval base and a major shipbuilding centre. In 1813, the city of Pula and the region of Istria were restored to the Austrian Empire, and, under the compromise of 1867, Pula remained part of Austria–Hungary. During this period, Pula grew to be an increasingly modern and industrialized city. In 1856, immigration of workers and the military had started, and in 1900, the population reached 36,200. Every third citizen was part of the Austro–Hungarian military, hence, the city’s population, already a mix of Italians and Croatians, was composed of empire’s citizens from all corners of the Empire (Austria, Hungary, Germany, Czechoslovakia, Poland, and so on). To counter the Italian influence in Dalmatia and the ‘Austrian’ coast, the Imperial Navy started a process of de-Italianization of its personnel, which resulted in a great number of Austrian officers and sailors on the Adriatic coast from the mid-nineteenth century (Lovrić 2017, 142). Here, two parallel social milieus developed: military personnel and technical experts who travelled here from all parts of the Empire; and locals who offered various services with the desire to become increasingly independent. The decision to make the port of Pula its military and navy base was political, in order to impose the Empire’s stronghold on the Adriatic Sea. The city in fact had a cosmopolitan population: a strong working class that was oriented towards social political ideas, and the officers sympathetic to the Monarch, all living side by side with Italian and Croatian national aspirations in the region. Observing the preserved footage, military choreography and unity of movement transpires in the performance of the sailors as they climb the ship’s masts or compete in a regatta.19 Today, despite their documentary value, such views raise questions about issues of ideology and representation. While it took an entire century for the exact filming locations to be identified (earliest surviving footage of the ports of Pula and Šibenik in present-day Croatia), these images constitute part of the imperial and colonial imaginary and the celebration of the Austro–Hungarian Monarchy, which asserts the hierarchical power relationship between hegemonic and non-hegemonic nations, cultures, and communities. In this chapter, I attempted to dispel a certain static, fixed image of the Balkans (of ethnic and national intolerance), and to re-imagine a Balkan cultural history in moving images through mapping of the movement and cross-cultural mobility of cultural practices and storytelling media, as well as travelling cinema exhibitors and early film pioneers active in the region. 19 Refer to the frames of the views captured by Alexandre Promio on 28 and 29 April 1898. Available at: https://catalogue-lumiere.com/salut-dans-les-vergues/; last accessed 20 August 2021.

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Film history should be seen as an open-ended and continuous investigative process, not defined by political, linguistic, or religious borders, but rather highlighting cross-cultural mobility and hybridization in this early period, due to the unique cultural, social, and political context of the Balkan region at the turn of the twentieth century. Rather than focusing on the parameters of present-day nations, the early cinema history in the Balkans here is envisaged through a transnational and intercultural perspective, which allows the plurality of voices and micro histories to emerge. It is precisely the peripheral position of the Balkan region and its archives that allows living in and beyond the West. Moreover, this crossroads positioning allows the regional or transnational film history to transcend the borders of dominant discourses, and acknowledges the existence of the multiplicity of (hi)stories during these tumultuous years leading up to World War I, which often remain excluded from film histories of major European nations. The legacy and work of the Manakia brothers, Louis Pitrolf de Beéry, and other film pioneers, can shed light on itinerant and shifting narratives of the early period, as well as testify to the enthusiasm and the desire to document, develop, and imagine the future possibilities of cinema. Their cinema activities belong to the framework of ‘the multiculturalism and multilinguistic fabric of silent cinema – i.e. cross-national commercialisations and influences’ (Bertellini 2000, 235), and contribute to the conceptualization of an eventual transnational cinema history. It is in these ‘regions of unthought,’ that we must follow the traces left by (hi)stories of itinerant cinema travellers and regional cultural practices.

Works cited Allan, Michael. “Deserted Histories: The Lumière Brothers, the Pyramids and Early Film Form,” Early Popular Visual Culture 6:2, 2008: 159–170. Antić, Marina. “Living in the Shadow of the Bridge: Ivo Andrić’s The Bridge on the Drina and Western Imaginings of Bosnia,” spacesofidentity.net, 3: 3, August 2003. Barthes, Roland. Camera Lucida. Reflections on Photography. London: Vintage Books, [1980] 2000. Bellour, Raymond. “The Pensive Spectator.” In: The Cinematic edited by David Campany, 119–123. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, [1984] 2007. Bertellini, Giorgio. 2000. “Introduction: Early Italian Cinema.” In: “Early Italian Cinema” Special Issue, Film History 12 (3): 235–239. Christofides, Yiannis and Saliba, Melissanthi. “Open-air Cinema in Athens: The Rise of the City and Urban Identities.” In: Greek Cinema. Texts, Histories, Identities

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edited by Lydia Papadimitriou and Yiannis Tzioumakis, 97–114. Bristol: Intellect, 2012. Dobrinčić, Vjeko. “Nekoliko podataka o počecima kinematografije kod nas.” Filmska Revija 3–5 (1950): 133–143. Erdeljanović, Aleksandar Saša. 2005–2006. “Producent Svetozar Botorić i njegovi filmovi. Jedno otkriće koje je promenilo naša znanja o srpskoj filmskoj prošlosti.” Novi Filmograf ( jesen 2005–zima 2006) broj 1. Erdeljanović, Aleksandar Saša. 2006. “Producent Svetozar Botorić i njegovi filmovi. Drugi Deo.” Novi Filmograf (leto–jesen) broj 2. Erdeljanović, Aleksandar Saša. 2012. “Producent Svetozar Botorić i njegovi filmovi.” Novi Filmograf. Available at: http://www.novifilmograf.com/producent-svetozarbotoric-i-njegovi-filmovi/. Accessed on 15 June 2019. Glenny, Misha. The Balkans 1804–2012: Nationalism, War and the Great Powers. Toronto: House of Anansi Press, 2012. Hoxha, Abbas. Arti i Shtatë në Shqipëri vëll.I. 1900–1944/ Seventh Art in Albania Vol. 1. 1900–1944. Tirana: Albinform, 1994. Hoxha, Abbas. 100 vjet kinema në trevat Shqiptare/100 Years of Cinema in Albanian Dwellings. English translation by Luljeta Budo. Tirana: Marin Barleti, 2002. Hoxha, Abbas. Historia e kinemasë në Shqipëri. 1897–2007/ History of Cinema in Albania: 1897–2007. Tirana: Ilar, 2007. Jezernik, Božidar. Wild Europe: The Balkans in the Gaze of Western Travellers. London: Saqi, 2004. Karalis, Vrasidas. A History of Greek Cinema. London: Continuum, 2012. Kardjilov, Petar. “Close Encounters of the Third Kind: the Activities of Serbian Owners of Mobile Cinematographs and Film Producers in Bulgaria during the Period of Early Cinema,” Anthology of Essays by Faculty of Dramatic Arts Belgrade, Journal of the Institute of Theatre, Film, Radio and Television 32, 2017, 155–167. Interview with Petar Kardjilov, 10 July 2019, e-mail correspondence. Jankuloski, Robert. Manaki: A Story in Pictures. Skopje: Macedonian Centre for Photography, 2017. Kečkemet, Duško. Počeci kinematografije i filma u Dalmaciji/ Beginnings of Cinema and Film in Dalmatia. Split: Izdanje Muzeja Grada Splita, 1969. Knežević, Srđan. “Filmske predstave putujućih prikazivača kao početni oblik kinematografskih delatnosti na teritoriji Jugoslavije.” PhD diss., Fakultet dramskih umetnosti Beograd, 1992. Kosanović, Dejan. Počeci Kinematografije na Tlu Jugoslavije 1896–1918 /Beginnings of Cinema. Beograd: Institut za Film Univerzitet Umetnosti, 1985. Kosanović, Dejan. Leksikon Pionira Filma i Filmskih Stvaralaca na Tlu Jugoslovenskih Zemalja 1896–1945/ Lexicon of Film Pioneers and Filmmakers on Yugoslav

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Territories 1896–1945. Belgrade: Institut za Film/Jugoslovenska Kinoteka/Feniks Film, 2000. Kosanović, Dejan. History of Cinema in Bosnia and Herzegovina 1897–1945. Beograd: Naučna KMD/Feniks Film, 2005a. Kosanović, Dejan. Kratak Pregled Istorije Filma u Sloveniji (Prvi deo 1896–1945) /A Short Overview of Film History in Slovenia (First Part 1896–1945). Belgrade: Jugoslovenska Kinoteka, 2008. Lako, Natasha. “The Game of Albanian Film Image 1895–1945. Available at: https:// epa.oszk.hu/00300/00375/00001/lako_albanian.htm. Accessed 30 April 2021. First written for the symposium “The Development And the Interlacing between the Balkan National Cinematographies in the Period 1895–1945”. Published version in Macedonian language: “Igrata na albanskata filmska slika (1895–1945).” In: Razvojot i proniknuvanjeto na balkanskite natsionalni kinematografii vo periodot od 1895 do 1945 godina/The Development and the Permeating of the Balkan National Cinematographies in the period from 1895 to 1945 edited by Boris Nonevski), 192–223. Skopje: Kinoteka na Makedonija, 2003. Lešić, Josip. Pozorišni život Sarajeva. 1878–1918/ Theatre Life in Sarajevo: 1878–1918. Sarajevo: Svjetlost, 1973. Lovrić, Marko. “Mit Gott für Kaiser und Reich. Austrijski utjecaji na razvoj hrvatske kinematografije i filmske kulture do 1918. Godine.” Godisnjak Njemacke Zajednice/ DG Jahrbuch, Vol. 24, Osijek: 2017, 139–150. Majcen, Vjekoslav. “Etnološki filmovi Milovana Galvazzija i Hrvatski etnološki film u prvoj polovini 20. stoljeća.” Stud. Ethnol. Croat., Vol. 7/8, 121–134, Zagreb, 1995/1996. Majcen, Vjekoslav. “Kinematograf na hrvatskoj pozornici.” Hrvatski Filmski Ljetopis 9 (1997a): 75–80. Midžić, Enes. “Profesija snimatelj (Povijest snimatelja u Hrvatskoj).” Hrvatski filmski Ljetopis 7 (1996): 93–102. Midžić, Enes. “Alexandre Promio, snimatelj Društva Lumiere, u Hrvatskoj 1898.” Hrvatski Filmski Ljetopis 47 (2006a): 55–65. Marks U., Laura. Touch: Sensuous Theory and Multisensory Media. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota, 2002. Metz, Christian. “Photography and the Fetish.” In: The Cinematic edited by David Campany, 124–133. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2007 [1985]. Milunović, Luka I. Crnogorski kinematografi 1908–1914/ Montenegrin Cinemas 1908–1941. Podgorica: Crnogorska Kinoteka, 2018. Pateras, Charilaos. Kinimatografoi tis Athinas. 1896–2006/ Cinemas in Athens: 1896–2006. Athens: Sylloges, 2006. Seguin, Jean-Claude. Alexandre Promio ou les énigmes de la lumière. Paris: Éditions L’Harmattan, 1999.

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Slijepčević, Bosa. 1979. “Pitrolf de Beéry. Pionir f ilma u Bosni i Srbiji.” Filmska kultura (Zagreb), No 119. Slijepčević, Bosa. Kinematografija u Srbiji, Crnoj Gori, Bosni i Hercegovini 1896–1918/ Cinema in Serbia, Montenegro and Bosnia and Herzegovina 1896–1918. Belgrade: Univerzitet Umetnosti & Institut za Film, 1982. Soldatos, Yannis. Istoria tou ellinikou kinimatografou. 1900–1967/ History of Greek Cinema: 1900–1967. Athens: Aigokeros, 2002. Ţuţui, Marian. 2005. Manakia Brothers or the Moving Balkans. Bucharest: Romanian Film Archive. Ţuţui, Marian. Orient Express: Filmul Românesc şi Filmul Balcanic/ Orient Express: Romanian Film and Balkan Film. Bucharest: Noi Media Print, 2008.

4. Imagining the Balkans: The Cinematic Gaze from the Outside Abstract The fourth chapter investigates the role of early moving images filmed by foreign cinematographers and production companies alongside a discussion of geopolitics in the shaping of the ‘Balkan imaginary’ before the onset of the Great War. An analysis of selected footage filmed in the Balkan region or with Balkan themes reveals how the new visual medium contributed to the creation of the Balkanist discourse by capturing and mediating semi-orientalist views of people, customs, and landscapes and sensational accounts of the Western traveller’s adventures. The multicultural/confessional/ethnic context of the region furnished the movie cameras with a varied repertoire of ‘cinema of attractions’-like images, while the nineteenth-century sensibilities of Western viewers were drawn to semi-oriental and exotic imaginaries. Keywords: Balkanism, semi-orientalism, cinematic gaze, photography, newsreels, reconstructed actualities

Those Balkan peoples […] unfortunately make more history than they can consume locally. – Hector Hugh Munro aka Saki.1 (Vickers 1997, 77). 1 Saki was a British writer and journalist who worked as the Balkan region correspondent for The Morning Post between 1902 and 1908. His historical study The Rise of the Russian Empire was published in 1900, and he also wrote several short stories set in the Balkan Peninsula (such as The Purple of the Balkan Kings in 1902). This phrase has been used and recycled in many writings on Southeast Europe; however, the original phrase, which is slightly different, is spoken by the fictional politician Arlington Stringham in his short story The Jesting of Arlington Stringham (1911). Original quote is: ‘the people of Crete unfortunately make more history than they can consume locally.’ The reason I am quoting the phrase, which has undergone the mutation and changed, is to underline how the mythicized aspect and the West’s imagination of the Balkans transforms and persists throughout history, and is also repeated further perpetuating a negative and stereotyped image of the Balkans.

Grgić, A., Early Cinema, Modernity and Visual Culture: The Imaginary of the Balkans. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2022 doi 10.5117/9789463728300_ch04

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To those who have not visited them, the Balkans are a shadow-land of mystery; to those who know them, they become even more mysterious…Intrigue, plotting, mystery, high courage, and daring deeds – the things that are the soul of true romance are to-day the soul of the Balkans. (Arthur D. Howden-Smith, 1908, 1–3, 24).

The Balkanist discourse has been intertwined with the notions of war, violence, barbarism, and symbolic darkness for more than a century. While studies of early travel writing and commentaries by Western travellers in the region reveal the civilized ‘European’ gaze as either fascinated or horrified by the Balkan ‘Other,’ less attention has been given to early moving images captured by foreign film productions and travelling cine-reporters. Actualities and newsreels dominated the first decade of cinema history, and moving images of war, violence, and battles elsewhere drew audiences to moving image shows, not only because of their interest in contemporary events around the world now visible via the new and dynamic visual medium, but also due to draw of the spectacle. The ‘Balkans’ is as much about invention and imagination as it is a geographical, political, historical, cultural, and social construct, often perceived as the Other, Oriental European, and even Exotic through the lens of the normative Western gaze. The Count Hermann Keyserling claimed that: ‘If the Balkans hadn’t existed, they would have been invented’ in his work Europe (1928), which advocated for pan-Europeanism; and the unity of European nations contrasted to the rest of non-European humanity.2 From the beginning, foreign f ilm production companies captured moving images in the Balkans with a variety of motivations and concerns (ethnographic/anthropological, touristic, postcard views/travelogues, war and propaganda, informational newsreels) and sent these back home and out to the world, projecting and constructing a certain image of the region. As Shohat and Stam have argued, the arrival of cinema coincided with the rise of nationalism in the twentieth century, as well as ‘the giddy heights of the imperialist project’ (1994, 100). The most prolific cinema producing countries of the time, France, United Kingdom, the US, and Germany, were also the leading imperialist countries, and the conquest of geographical space to empire, resulted in the expansion of landscapes and locations available to be occupied by imperial cinema (Ibid., 101). The notions of colonialism and 2 This kind of ‘superiority of the races discourse’ is not unique to Keyserling’s work, but was inherited from European Enlightenment where science contributed to racial discrimination. Some of nineteenth-century European endeavours consisted of scientific and classification systems, whereby populations across the planet were mapped.

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orientalism are deeply intertwined with the age of empires and imperial imagination, to which the new visual medium, cinema, played a contributing role. Even though the Balkan region had a semi-colonial status, the Balkan cultural and social space was available ‘to empire’, through films of the leading imperial nations in the world, which dominated the local screens, and by furnishing the space of the visual realm through local views captured by foreign cinematographers, exhibited and distributed elsewhere. Through an analysis of selected visual material filmed in the region, I examine how the Balkans were imagined through the representational lens of the camera at the beginning of the twentieth century. If the strong negative connotations that lie behind the ‘Balkans’ were being constructed at the turn of twentieth century to contribute to the increasingly pejorative use of nomenclature, such as ‘Balkanization’, during and after the Great War, I explore how these photographs and moving images contributed to the formation of such concepts and the visual imaginary of the Balkans. The multi-layered and complex Balkan imaginary provided early moving picture makers with a rich repertoire of attractive images, which would draw spectators to cinema theatres with claims of authenticity, realism, and sensationalism. The lure of the exotic difference and the perceived orientalism of the region, is visible as early as the French photographer Paul Nadar’s experimentations with the cinema apparatus, notably the short films of the famous Rappo sisters in France dressed in typical ‘Slavic’ folk costumes and performing a Slav dance.3 Other scholarly enquiries have already revealed how the Serpentine dance and other types of exotic dancing were extremely popular in the early period, which echo Tom Gunning’s concept of ‘cinema of attractions,’ and reinforce early cinema’s intrinsic preoccupation of capturing not only movement, but also images of Exoticism. 4 3 The film title Slav Dance, and the clothing worn by the Rappo sisters, resembles any traditional folk clothing in the Balkans, rendering it at once anonymous and characteristic of a constructed perceived identity of ‘the Balkan Slav’ costume. The Rappo sisters were very popular in Paris and throughout France, often exhibiting different dance routines, which suggests that the public was attracted by the Exoticism of such costumes and imagined identities. I had the occasion to see a fifteen-minute assemblage of Paul Nadar’s short films made between 1896 and 1898, at the 2014 Pordenone Cinema Muto film festival, which included street scenes, dancing and Nadar practising fencing moves. Nadar had patented his own motion picture system without sprockets, and the preserved images are of excellent quality. Among these f ilm fragments, Serpentine and Butterfly dances, was Les Soeurs Rappo Slav Dance performance. 4 Early films of serpentine dances appealed to audiences for several factors; the movement created by the dress and the dancer, the attractive colours (many of the films were hand-coloured), but also due to the specific characteristics of the dance itself, which recalled something exotic, Eastern, and erotic.

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The countries in the Balkans were rarely designated as having a colonial status, despite the fact that much of the peninsula was under the control of two imperial powers, the Austro–Hungarian Monarchy and the Ottoman Empire. Instead, the Balkans acquired a semi or a quasi-colonial status, and were excluded from discussions on post-colonialism and orientalism, both through Western and self-perception (Todorova 2009 [1997], 16–17). Therefore, unlike Orientalism, ‘Balkanism’ evolved independently due to the absence of a colonial legacy and the geopolitical configuration of the Balkans viewed distinct from the Middle East (Todorova 1994, 455). Nonetheless, the representations of the Balkans are historically constructed in travelogues and accounts through the ‘objective’ lens of European Enlightenment, which use similar imagery to describe both Eastern Europe and Asian lands (Bakić-Hayden 1995, 921). The ‘Balkan images of the oriental “other”, the Ottoman Turk’ were a result from the ‘imposed presence’ of colonial and imperialist administrators and travellers in the region (Ibid., 921–922). Therefore, neither Easterners nor Westerners, ‘no longer Orientals nor yet Europeans,’ as one travelogue described the people and the region in the 1920s, the Balkans came to be perceived as the ‘backyard of Europe,’ its alter ego – a primitive and irrational version of the self, but never quite Exotic enough as the Far East or the Indies (Todorova 1994, 476, 482). The first moving images shot in the Balkans or about the Balkans contributed to the creation of Balkanist discourses well before the beginning of World War I, by offering views of Western travellers’ adventures of a perceived backwards, barbarian, and semi-exoticized land. However, also insiders have played a part in the construction of Balkanism. Balkan intellectuals and writers also contributed to the formation of the Balkanist discourse through self-designation; the negative self-perception was not simply formed by an outside view and ‘Balkan people have not been the passive recipients of label and libel’ (Todorova 2009, 39). In nineteenth-century literature, the transformation of a largely peasant, feudal, and agricultural society into a capitalist, bureaucratic (Western-type) society, and the image of a primitive peasant who transforms into a corrupt politician copying Western values without embracing them, is a typical trope of non-Europeanness among the Balkan educated elites.5 In terms of cinematic representations, Iordanova argues 5 These concerns are explored for instance in the 1907 novel Martin Kačur: The Biography of an Idealist written by Ivan Cankar (1876–1918), a well-known Slovenian writer, poet, playwright, and political activist of the period. The novel recounts the story of an idealistic schoolteacher who moves from one Slovenian provincial town to another, trying to enlighten his fellow countrymen

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that the ‘“orientalization” of the Balkans cannot be declared a purely Western project,’ because Balkan intellectuals, writers, and f ilmmakers contribute towards the construction of ‘the Balkans as compliant to Western stereotypes’ by way of a preferred mode of self-representation: ‘self-exoticism’ (2001, 56). Similarly, Tomas Longinović uses the concept of ‘self-balkanization’ (2005) to describe such representations, which designates an internalization and performance of the external look of foreigners. While this is not evident in the preserved early moving images produced by local f ilmmakers, I found that traces of self-exoticization or self-balkanization can be found in the photographs and postcards destined for the foreign markets. In this chapter, I first analyse the work of the Marubi photography studio in Shkodra (a city on the Western-most outskirts of the Ottoman Empire at the time), founded by an Italian exile, Pietro Marubbi. Then, I focus on the cinematic representations of Bosnia and Herzegovina, and specifically the development of cinema activities in the city of Sarajevo as a cosmopolitan space, during the Austro–Hungarian rule. The notions of the Western European traveller in the Balkans, deriving from literature and popular writing of the nineteenth century, seems to be transferred to the early travelogue films, alongside certain semi-Orientalist characteristics inherited from the visual arts, which were often adopted and used as an aesthetic model in the depiction of Balkan people, scenes, and landscapes. This is followed by a discussion of Albert Kahn’s ethnographic footage from Shkodra and Durrës, during the last days of the Ottoman Empire’s stronghold of the Albanian territories, which reflect the idea of the Volksmuseum and imperial-age colonizations of the world through a scientific Western gaze. Then, I discuss lost film materials that contribute to the construction of the Balkanist imaginary: namely, the Pathé Frères’ ‘false newsreels’ Killing of the Serbian Royal Family and Massacre in Macedonia (1903), and the Charles Urban’s travelogue films Across the Balkans (1906). Here, I argue that the Balkan imaginary provided early moving picture makers with a rich repertoire of ‘cinema of attractions’-like images, which drew spectators to the dark movie theatres, with claims of authenticity, realism, and sensationalism. Finally, I discuss cinema’s role in mediating images of the Balkan Wars, and I engage with selected surviving footage, focusing on the recently restored Pathé newsreel Siege of Shkodra. The international and local demand for views of the Balkan Wars, paradoxically contributed to an increase in local film and countrywomen, but instead only receives scorn from the traditional, conservative, and petty-minded locals.

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productions, with several local film pioneers participating in the global imaginary of moving images of war.

Exoticism and the Balkans The historical imaginary of the Balkans from the seventeenth century to the present day has been constructed through written discourse, travelogues, diplomatic accounts, journalistic writing, academic texts, and literary works (Todorova 2009 [1997]). While Todorova maintains that, in Western European perception, the Balkans are denied the Exotic element (something that is inherent in discourses on Asia), I found that certain moving images shot by foreign film productions in the region, play with the notion of Exoticism and the spectator’s expectations and fantasies, constructing an image of a semi-colonized, primitive, and mysterious land. Such a gaze not only appeals to the spectatorial imagination of the early twentieth century, but it also draws audiences to the cinemas, guaranteeing the element of attraction and monetary gain. For the majority of film companies and producers, cinematic views in the early period had an instant use value, and few filmmakers and film producers had considerations of long-term preservation or future financial gain.6 While Orientalism does not fully account for the development of the Balkanist discourse, the concept of Exoticism is useful in understanding the content of moving images at the beginning of twentieth century. According to Forsdick, exoticism can be described as ‘an imagined quality or essence of difference (mystery, savagery, eroticism, cruelty) ascribed by one culture to another radically different (and often threatening) culture that falls outside its customary domestic frame of reference’ (2003, 47–48). While Orientalism is essentially mono-directional and colonial in nature, exoticism is less geographically determined, and much more ‘multidirectional and polyvalent’ (Santaolalla 2000, 10–11). Considering these definitions, the Balkans can be said to embody this cultural ‘essence of difference’ in Western eyes, in terms of its perceived qualities of mystery, savagery, eroticism, and cruelty, which emerge in hegemonic discourses about the region, especially at times of conflict and war. Furthermore, the 6 Some pioneers used cinema to conserve views of everyday life for posterity, and built archives and repositories for collecting these, for instance in the case of Albert Kahn, or the brothers Manakia. It is therefore important to distinguish between the different intentions of early image makers and their destined market and intended use.

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notion of exoticism can be a useful tool in ‘understanding intercultural contact and the mutual implications of the interaction of cultures’ (Forsdick 2003, 52) in my considerations of the Balkan space and the development of cinema in the region, which I consider as ‘a process of translation of elsewhere’ (Ibid.). The ‘Balkan problem’ has been ascribed to the savage and cruel character of the peoples fuelled by inherent ethnic and ancient hatreds and tainted by the oriental influence of the ‘eastern and uncivilized’ Ottoman Empire, an argument often used to explain the Balkan Wars (1912–1913) and the subsequent conflicts in the region (the Yugoslav wars in the 1990s). Furthermore, the notion of exoticism can be intimately linked with the ‘cinema of attractions’ in the early period, and the viewing and social contexts of early cinema, i.e. film shows toured with circuses, fairs, and other popular forms of entertainment around the region. As postcolonial scholars have argued: ‘During the nineteenth century, […] the exotic, the foreign, increasingly gained, throughout the empire, the connotations of a stimulating or exciting difference, something with which the domestic could be spiced’ (Ashcroft et al. 1998, 94–95). Cinematic views, therefore, quickly took ownership of the exotic subject, offering audiences in urban centres, the possibility of adventure and travel to foreign lands through the imaginary repertoire of picturesque images. This, in turn, created the ‘essence of difference,’ the representations of us and them, which cinema sought to capitalize on, offering exciting opportunities of difference, attraction, and singularity within the context of modernity, rapid urbanization, and expanding communication technologies. The Balkan region found itself at the crossroads of cinema’s movements and developments from the West and the East. These types of moving images also exhibited imperial displays of power and the plenitude of the empire. Jean-Marc Moura offers a scaled definition of exoticism, ranging from exotic fantasy, propagated by stereotypes and clichés, to the writing of alterity, engagement with and perpetuation of otherness (1992, 16–25). The image of the Orient as an exotic idyll was solidified in the course of the eighteenth century, due to the exotic needs of European royal courts and the emerging bourgeoisie7 (Kaser 2011, 360–361). An overwhelming number of photographs seen in the context of colonialist histories produced ‘a dynamic rhetoric of racial and ethnographic difference 7 Works such as Goethe’s West-East Divan (1814–1819), Baron Montesquieu’s Persian Letters (1721), and Mozart’s three-act opera The Abduction from the Seraglio (1782) are some among the many exoticized pictures and writings produced in this period.

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between white Europeans and Americans and non-European “races” and “places”,’ while the photographers ‘as agents of colonial culture, most often envisioned their subjects as objects of both racial inferiority and fascination’ (Hight & Sampson 2004, 1). Aside from the reports and accounts of writers, diplomats, and philanthropists, which were also accompanied by photographs, several French, British, and American photographers extensively travelled across the Balkan region taking photographs of local people and views, which were later marketed and distributed as ‘typical’ subjects and scenes.

The Orientalist Gaze in the Marubi Studio Photographs The photographic work of the Marubi Studio in Shkodra, present-day Albania, contributes to the imaginary construct of the Balkans at the turn of the twentieth century. Their photographs, which were commercialized and sold abroad as postcards or printed in the press, anticipate the imaginary of future moving images that would be shot by foreign cinematographers in the Balkans. The Italian Pietro Marubbi (1834?–1903), escaped his native country due to political activities and, after a short passage through Corfu and Vlora in search for political asylum in the Ottoman Empire, he settled in Shkodra in 1856. Known as Pjetër Marubi in Albanian language, he was an architect, painter, and sculptor, with a keen interest in photography, who opened the first photographic studio in the city of Shkodra. Marubi engaged two Albanian assistants, the brothers Mati and Kel Kodheli, who would continue this photographic tradition across three generations until 1970 when the studio, Dritëshkronja (‘writing in light’), finally closed down. Shkodra was situated on the edge of the Ottoman Empire, and figured as a space that divided and connected the empire to the rest of Europe. Shkodra was a multicultural city on the crossroads of East and West, and situated on the Adriatic sea, it was accessible to foreign travellers. As Zef Paci explains: ‘It was a place where one could sense the new inclinations at a time when the eastern (oriental) influence was fading away and the birth of the new western tendencies could also be witnessed (2012, 127).’ Photography arrived on the territory of Albania, part of the Ottoman vilayets, in the 1850s, under the reign of Sultan Abdul Aziz (Chauvin and Ruby 2011, 17). Aside from the influence and legacy of Ottoman culture, the city had several foreign consulates, a small Catholic community, a Jesuit College, a Franciscan College, and a tradition of epic songs and legends from Albanian history (Paci 2012, 123–124).

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Today, the Marubi collection8 is part of the National Museum of Photography, which is open to visitors in one of the city’s central streets (Figure 57). The photographs of the Marubi dynasty constitute an important opus, which spans several decades and constitutes a visual document of local communities and important events in Shkodra. Among the first photographs of Pietro Marubi, were those of the popular uprising leader Hamza Kazazi from 1858, the members of the Albanian League of Prizren (1878–1881), or those of the insurgents from Hoti (Marubi 2006, 9–10). Many of the photographs are carefully posed studio-based portraits, but there are also snapshots of the surrounding landscape, the bridges built under the Ottoman Empire, mosques and churches, and views of different local communities, including the rebel gangs of Northern Albania (Mirdita), or merchants, artisans, and small manufacturers at work in their shops or the bazar. Such Marubi photographs can be situated in the tradition of the Victorian picturesque and Orientalism also found in commercial photography in Istanbul. Observing the subjects and scenes, the Marubi studio production aims to conform to the taste of the time, exporting the visual imaginary of the Balkans in an Orientalist vein. Particularly evocative are the studio portraits of men wearing traditional Albanian folk costumes, and women dressed in the style of different Albanian Orthodox, Catholic, and Muslim religious and ethnic belonging, which attest to the multicultural character of Shkodra and the Albanian territory under the Ottoman Empire at the time. The richness, variety, and detailed patterns of their clothing evoke fascination and curiosity in the viewers, confirming the Western desire for exotic and Orientalized characteristics and elements. Other photographs exploit the image of the bandit and the rebellious fighter, as elements of the Balkan barbaric and primitive character. The wilderness and danger of the region, in particular, Albania and geographical Macedonia, was initially constructed in travelogues, short stories and fiction writing in the nineteenth century, where the image of romantic and savage insurgents and rebel groups was formed. Reproduced again by the press at the start of the twentieth century, in the stories of Macedonian insurgents against the Ottoman Empire, the killing of the Serbian royal family and the rebellious highlander communities in Northern Albania, the local events fed the desire for exciting views of otherness. The Marubi studio photographs played with these notions, offering portraits of Albanian figures 8 The archive donated by Gege Marubi in 1970 to the Albanian state, consisted of nearly 500,000 negatives, 246 letters and telegrams, and around 200 cameras and different kinds of photographic materials.

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Figure 56. Two mountain people and a Catholic woman from Shkodra, c.1900 – 1919, Kel Marubi

in evocative costumes adorned by guns, pistols, and knives against these idyllic wallpaper backgrounds (such as the photograph of Cin N. Deda and his wife in Albanian costumes from Montenegro, 1897–1903). A particular photograph taken by Pietro’s successor, Kel Marubi, in my view, embodies the notion of the crossroads positioning of the Balkans, while revealing the historical legacies of multiple empires and a multi-layered picture of the local population. This is a studio photograph depicting three women around a Singer sewing machine, seemingly absorbed in the work, and not looking towards the camera (Figure 56). The veiled woman, standing on the right is wearing a traditional costume of Catholic communities in Shkodra. The clothing itself exhibits a fusion of the traditional Islamic dress for women, the fine embroidery of the coat typical of ceremonial folk costumes in the region, and the head covering reminiscent of Catholic nuns.

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The other two women are highlanders, wearing folk costumes of the northern Albanian tribes residing in the mountainous area, which are identifiable in presence and design of the apron and the short vest. Similar to the Orientalist inspired photographs depicting typical subjects at work, this image plays with similar subject matter, that is sewing work, pertaining traditionally to the female gender. Being carefully posed, the photograph also embodies the Victorian picturesque and the focus on intricate details, recalling French and British Orientalist paintings and photographs from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In Orientalist philosophy, Western societies created images of the East in opposition to themselves (Said 1978), which translated as images of exotic and picturesque Oriental idyll, where subjects were involved in sensual and idle activities in settings, such as the harem. Yet, in this photograph, the element of sensuality and idleness is absent, rendering it rather like a curiosity scene, in which the traditional meets the modern, and the East fuses with the West in a form of cross-hybridization. The people in the city of Shkodra have already started adopting Western technology, such as photography since the 1850s, and the inclusion of the sewing machine, perhaps represents a step further towards Europeanization and modernization. The characteristics signifying modernity on the one hand, and traditional societies on the other, appear at once both strikingly oppositional and complementary (in terms of the fusion of forms and practices) in the viewers eyes. The papier peint background depicting a forest flattens the view, and renders the scene artificial and posed. It is unlikely this portrait was commissioned by the family, but rather appears like an imaginative and artistic mise-en-scène of the photographer, Kel Marubi, in the desire to render the unusual, the curious and perhaps to project a near future through the inclusion of the Singer sewing machine. The sewing machine was a symbol of modernity alongside photography, the railway, and the telephone, and a product of the industrial revolution, representing liberation from arduous hand sewing.9 Whilst the photograph is dated circa 1900 to 1919, it is most likely taken after 1907, when Singer introduced the treadle-operated sewing machine. The choice to depict these three women around a mass marketed and industrialized product, rather than showing more traditional weaving and sewing methods in the region, as for instance, the Manakia brothers represented in their film The Weavers, is deliberate. 9 The Singer sewing machine was the f irst complex standardized technology to be mass marketed, its first large factory for mass production was built in 1863 in New Jersey, and by 1876 it had sold over 2 million machines.

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Finally, the contemporary spectator is confronted with an extreme hapticality of this still image. The intricacies and details of the women’s clothing, lead the eye to feel the textured material with which they were sewn. The painted background, also contributes to the flatness and abstraction of the image, in which the eye grazes across the depicted scene, recalling the visuality of Byzantine icons and frescoes – which, carefully posed, consist of saints and human subjects against a flat repetitive background. The photograph exhibits a fusion of East and West, and a sort of ambiguity, which continues to be subjectified and narrated through the iconography, despite the subject’s wish to reassert their own identity in view of the outsider’s gaze. This unique photograph neither essentializes the East, portraying the exact amount of sensuality and exoticism as similar contemporary photographs or earlier paintings, nor does it explicitly surrender to modernization and urban culture of the West. Rather it is an odd view, which entices the viewer to reflect upon the visible, and, in this sense, it is very much post-modern, not denying its artificiality or construction, but rather playing with the fusion of Orientalist and modern elements within the local context.

‘Oriental’ Austria: Cinematic Representations of Bosnia and Herzegovina The Austrian-ruled territories of Bosnia and Herzegovina, attracted the gaze of foreign film cameras at the time of the Annexation crisis in 1908 and during the events leading up to World War I (Kosanović 1985, 231). Essentially, the annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina to the Habsburg Monarchy opened new spaces and locations for imperial colonization via the moving images. Foreign film production companies travelled to the territory or, in some cases, recycled old footage, to fill the screens with the landscapes, locations, and people of the newly acquired land, previously part of the Ottoman Empire, and therefore considered of Eastern character. Such films fuelled exotic fantasies of Western European audiences, because they propagated stereotypes and clichés, and continued to perpetuate an image of Bosnia and Herzegovina as an Orientalized land. All across the Austro–Hungarian Empire, the cities that were already inhabited by quite multi-ethnic and multi-confessional local populations, were increasingly becoming home to military personnel and officials from all corners. The capital, Sarajevo, was a cosmopolitan and ethnically, culturally, and religiously diverse city at the end of the nineteenth century, when the provinces were administered by Austria–Hungary since 1878, and only

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nominally under the control of the Ottoman sultan, until full annexation in 1908. When the occupation started in 1878, the urban and social composition of Sarajevo was already intermixed, which was a result of self-initiated and organic organization of urban spaces (Moreau 2011, 586). Despite the diversity of local communities, the majority of footage highlights and romanticizes the Orientalized character of the people and the territory. According to available statistics and the census, in 1895, Sarajevo was composed of ethnically diverse neighbourhoods, which divided the inhabitants according to their confession rather than ethnicity or nationality: 18,000 Muslims; 6000 Orthodox; 10,500 Catholics; 4000 Jewish’ and 400 others (Ibid.). One of the important characteristics of the cultural and night-life in the city, was the heterogeneity of the audiences, as recorded by the journal Bosanska Vila in 1904: ‘The public in Sarajevo is mixed and colourful, what some members of that public may like, the others won’t enjoy, and whenever one group is delighted, the other group remains cold’ (31 October 1904, n. 19 and n. 20). Judging from the variety of press at the time, the city had a lively cultural scene, from announcement of theatrical performances, plays, music concerts, variété, operettas, and a variety of parties and balls organized by diverse cultural organizations, and of course, travelling cinemas, panoramas, and circuses. Around twenty travelling cinema theatres are known to have sojourned across the territory of Bosnia and Herzegovina in the early period, but there were certainly more shows since there were few newspapers published in other towns (Kosanović 1985, 225; Slijepčević 1982, 278–279). Already in 1910, there were three permanent cinema theatres in Sarajevo, now a city with a population of 51,875: Edison, Thaumatograph and Goller’s Royal Biograph, and in 1915 another three: Apollo, Corso, and Imperial, while most other cities in Bosnia and Herzegovina had at least one (Slijepčević 1982, 288). Interestingly, among the first owners of cinema theatres were two women: 1) Maria Goller, owner and director of the Goller Royal Biograph, which was installed on the Circus Square from September 1910 until November 1912 (Figure 58), when it burnt down; and 2) Paulina Valić, owner of the newly built Apollo cinema, which had opened in September 1912 and functioned until 1917. Before going into cinema business, Paulina Valić had run a restaurant and hotel, and took over the Apollo cinema theatre from her brother, Albert Metz, engineer and developer (Ibid., 284). This was a Viennese-Secessionstyle building with central heating, and the cinema hall had 600 seats, while the projector booth had ventilators, in which two projectors of make Power Camera Graf n. 6 were installed (Ibid.). It was also the newest and the most modern cinema theatre in Sarajevo, which continued to function throughout the twentieth century under the name Partisan. Yet, while two

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women were involved in cinema activities in this early period, according to local scholars, actual cinema shows were rarely frequented by local women due to religious practices and conservative stances towards foreign forms of entertainment, and audiences predominantly consisted of the Austro–Hungarian army, families of officials and diplomats, young people, and children (Ibid., 293–294). Unfortunately, there is no available data that can definitively confirm this finding. The foreign films that were screened in Sarajevo and across Bosnia came predominantly from two distribution centres, Vienna and Budapest. The films varied in content and provenance: French; Italian; Danish; American; German; British; Russian; and Austrian; while the newsreels were initially produced by Pathé, Gaumont, Éclair, and from 1911–1912, Austrian and German newsreels were predominant: Österreichische Filmwoche (Austrian Film Weekly); Österreichische Kriegswoche (Austrian War Journal); Deutsche Kriegswoche (German War Journal); and Messterwoche (Ibid., 289). The films distributed had German-language intertitles and were not translated. The audiences in Sarajevo had seen the reportages of the Balkan Wars, and political questions were always on the foreground of events. The separate religious communities, Orthodox, Muslim, and Catholic, also represented the division of political groups, and each published at least one newspaper, alongside the socialists (not represented in the Council) and the state press in German and Serbo-Croatian languages. Annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina by the Austro-Hungarian Empire reignited the public interest at home and spurred several foreign filmmakers to venture to the territory and start filming. During the Annexation crisis in 1908, a series of newsreels and travelogue with Bosnian themes became popular and foreign film production companies re-used and represented old footage, such as the Charles Urban Trading Company film series “Across the Balkans,” which contained a film entitled Herzegovina, Bosnia and Dalmatia (Kosanović 1985, 233; Idem, 22–23). The Kinematograph and Lantern Weekly published in London on 15 October 1908, describes the views as follows: ‘Another subject, Herzegovina, Bosnia and Dalmatia, takes us through the territory annexed on October 7th by Austria, and in many interesting railways and panoramas and in street and bazaar scenes, the habits and the customs of the people are illustrated in the views of typical characters.’ While the film in question has not survived, the Charles Urban catalogue contains description of the sequences. Aside from the views of Sarajevo and its bazaar, which is described as ‘An interesting Eastern picture of a market which has no equal outside Constantinople,’ the other views are filmed around Mostar, its bridge, street scenes ‘exceedingly Turkish in

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character,’ there are several views of typical characters: ‘a veiled Turkish lady on horseback’; ‘The “hooded” women of Mostar,’ who display no visible features and are unique to the city; and ‘A typical Turk of inscrutable countenance.’ The Charles Urban Company crew who went on this long trip consisted of the Scottish cinematographer John Mackenzie and the English journalist Harry de Windt, who were in search of exotic subjects and had little knowledge of the history and local traditions and customs of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Naturally, Ottoman–Turkish subjects and views were more familiar to British and European audiences, and so it is natural the sequence names were attributed Turkish appellations. Another important event, the visit of the Austro–Hungarian emperor Franz Joseph I to the capital city of Bosnia and Herzegovina held in May and June 1910, attracted the gaze of foreign film cameras. The emperor was accompanied on this voyage by cinematographers working for the Pathé Journal, and according to records in the press, several films were filmed and shown at this occasion: Emperor’s Visit to Sarajevo, Emperor Francis Joseph in Sarajevo (and Emperor Francis Joseph in Bosnia); and Arrival of Francis Joseph to Sarajevo (Kosanović 2005a, 23–24). Some of these films were screened in Sarajevo and Split in June 1910 (Bosnische Post, 7 June 1910, and Il Dalmata, 15 June 1910). Throughout 1909 to 1911, views of Sarajevo and other parts of Bosnia and Herzegovina were shown in Austria, Croatia, Serbia, and cities in Bosnia and Herzegovina (Kosanović 2005a, 24), which clearly indicates that the annexation of the country had attracted a number of cinematographers. In 1912, the French film production Eclipse, made a 134-metre film titled In Austrian Regions of the Balkans: Bosnia, consisting of a panorama of the city of Sarajevo, the sultan’s palace, views of the city centre and the market, Jajce, the waterfalls of river Pliva and ‘Bosnian types’, which Kosanović argues is the same film advertised later in the Charles Urban catalogue under the title Travelling Through Bosnia (Jajce, Sarajevo)10 (Ibid., 25). The Pathé Frères company feature a film title En Bosnie: Sarajevo (90 metres), in their bulletin for distributors and exhibitors in 1914, which includes a helpful description of the geographical location of the city and the local population: ‘Four fifths of the population are Turks. Despite the lack of education of the people, an important gift for art and poetry can be noticed. Physical exercise, music and dance are highly appreciated in Bosnia. Peasants have kept lots of ancient superstitions. They have great confidence in amulets’ (Ibid.). This film was shown in Germany in 1911, appearing in the Bulletin Hebdomadaire Pathé in 1911 and 1914, under the title Das Orientalische Europa in Bosnien: Sarajevo 10 The British Film Institute conserves several sequences (around 115m negative) of this footage.

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and could be partially attributed to Louis Pitrolf de Beéry (Ibid., 25, 77). Both Eclipse and Pathé films tend to exoticize the locals and the surroundings, and even advertise the Bosnian people as ‘types.’ Furthermore, it is evident that neither the Pathé company, nor the filmmakers were interested in representing the reality on the ground, since only a third of the total population of Bosnia and Herzegovina were Muslim and the majority local Slavs, according to the 1910 census. These films not only contributed to the exotic fantasies of average European audiences, propagated by stereotypes and clichés such as highlighting of local superstitions and beliefs considered primitive or backwards, but because they continued to perpetuate an image of Bosnia and Herzegovina as an Orientalized land, which needed to be liberated from the Ottoman Empire and its legacy. In my correspondence with Nikolaus Wostry, from the Austrian Film Archive, I discovered they held several films about Sarajevo and Bosnia and Herzegovina: Éclair newsreel on the events of the assassination of Franz Ferdinand (151 metres, first-generation nitrate print), a tinted and toned travelogue film Serajevo of two different lengths (123 metres, and 41 metres, both first generation-nitrate print), a film of the Emperor’s visit Kaiser Franz Josef in Sarajevo, die Reise durch Bosnien und die Herzegowina from 1910 (85 metres, no hint of the production company, probably Éclair), History of the War: The Birthplace of the Great War Sarajevo, a Pathé war propaganda film from 1917 (149 metres), and Sarajevo. Die Rückkehr der österreichischen Garnison vom Manöver / The Return of an Austrian Military Unit from Manoeuvres to Sarajevo, a short part of an Éclair Revue shot around 1913/14 (c. 35 metres). During my visit to the archive, I had the opportunity to view the following footage: Sarajevo. Die Hauptstadt Von Bosnien (1915, from the Eye Film Museum,11 123 metres) (Figure 68), the Éclair Revue of the assassination, the film Kaiser Franz Josef in Sarajevo from 1910, and Sarajevo. Die Rückkehr der österreichischen Garnison vom Manöver / The Return of an Austrian Military Unit from Manoeuvres to Sarajevo from around 1913–1914 (Messter Film Woche, Sacha Film, and Éclair Revue appear on various intertitles). The Éclair Revue focuses on the aftermath of the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria and his wife Sophie, showing the Emperor Franz Joseph I and his entourage in front of the townhall in Sarajevo, followed by views of soldiers marching, and the city streets after the anti-Serb riots (resulting in the pillaging of Serbian shops and institutions), and then the film follows the journey of the deceased via Trieste, then onto a train to Graz and, finally, to the castle. 11 The film is available on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A_MuU8Lq8cM.

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Figure 57. The Marubi Museum, Shkodra. © Ana Grgić

Figure 58. Advert for the ‘Goller Royal Biograph’, Hrvatski Dnevnik, 25 November 1911

Figure 59. Still, Turkish Bazaar, Sarajevo. Die Hauptstadt Von Bosnien

Figure 60. Still, Turkish Bazaar, Sarajevo. Die Hauptstadt Von Bosnien

Figure 61. Still, Haptical images, Sarajevo. Die Hauptstadt Von Bosnien

Figure 62. Still, City Hall, Sarajevo. Die Hauptstadt Von Bosnien

Figure 63. Le Journal Illustré, 3 November 1912

Figure 64. Still, Siege of Shkodra

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Here, I would like to briefly focus on the surviving footage of the film titled Sarajevo. Die Hauptstadt Von Bosnien from 1915, which shows extensive slow moving panoramic views of the ‘Turkish Bazaar’, that is Baščaršija (Figure 59 and 60), and the historical and cultural centre of the city, and shorter scenes dedicated to street views above the old bazaar, and views of peasants and mules, but also a panorama of the river, bridges, and the City Hall (Figure 62), followed by a march of Austro–Hungarian soldiers on the Apell Quay. The cinematic gaze rests on the artisans, sellers, peasants, and women dressed in traditional clothing, readily found on the city streets and markets, which reconfirms the exotic and orientalist image of the country. A small segment of the footage, however, embodies haptical qualities and refuses simple interpretations, as the nitrate has produced a flowering, liquid effect on the image (Figure 61), creating a new artefact and a patina, that, on the one hand, increases the historical distance, while, on the other, pulls the viewer closer, in an affective encounter.

Sensational Killings and Wild Insurgents at the Cinema In the prelude to war, several foreign film productions companies travelled to the Balkan Peninsula in search of novel and exciting views, which they would seek to commercialize once back home. The aim was to fill the silver screen with spectacular and never before seen moving images that, based on the perceived and imagined reality of the Balkans, could provoke spectators’ imagination and curiosity in the urban centres of Western Europe. Even though the films in question have not survived, detailed information on the films’ subject matter and content can be found in the production company catalogues and the newspaper publications advertising the film screenings. The popularity of illustrated press in fin-de-siècle Paris, for instance, is examined by Vanessa Schwartz, who underlines how ‘the mass press used sensationalism to frame and re-present the everyday as spectacle,’ while ‘the newspaper served as a printed digest of the flàneur’s roving eye’ (1998, 202). Aside from illustrated press, fake newsreels, or the so-called reconstructed actualities,12 first produced by Georges Méliès, and later by other film production companies, with Pathé being one of the most active in the field, also served to present news as spectacle. Travelogue type films of unknown countries and people were highly popular at the time, and thrived on the popularity of prior pictorial and 12 Joseph Leclerc calls these types of films “actualités postiches” (1970, 20–21), literally meaning fake or artificial actualities.

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literary traditions in Western Europe. Curiosity and travel through the mysterious Balkan lands formed part of adventurer’s early travel writings and accounts (see Goldsworthy, Jezernik, and Todorova) in the discovery of the Other, the savage, the primitive, the disturbingly strange. Discussing foreign cinematic representations of the region, Iordanova argues how: ‘The framework in which the Balkans are represented and conceptualized is most commonly one of accounts presented by European travellers who visit, pass through, explore, or undergo controversial experiences, and who then report on these from the safety and comfort of home’ (2001, 57). The image of a white male adventurer fits in with the Charles Urban Trading Company slogan, used in newspaper advertisements and featured on their catalogue cover: ‘We put the world before you by means of the Bioscope and the Urban Films.’ The previously mentioned Charles Urban travelogue film series ‘Across the Balkans’ (1906) confirms and perpetuates this image of early twentieth-century European travellers throughout the region. Furthermore, war correspondence and reporting itself became an object of spectacle and sensation in Western press of the time. An issue of the French illustrated weekly Le Journal Illustré, which I came across in a flea market in Bordeaux, France, highlights the draw and the attraction of Western European foreign cine-reporters travelling to the region during the Balkan Wars (Figure 63). Accounts in local and foreign newspapers at the time duly reported on cinema activities of reporters and correspondents during the wars, such as the article ‘Shooting Cameramen in War’ (published in the Hungarian newspaper Budapest Film Review in 1913), writing on the activities of de Beéry and Laventure on the Turkish front. Such images and commentaries preceded and accompanied footage and newsreels of the war, battles and skirmishes produced by foreign film companies, Pathé, Gaumont, Éclair, Ambrosio, and Messter, which were the most active in sending their cinema crews to the front. Aside from newspaper accounts of atrocities committed in the Balkan Peninsula prior to the Balkan Wars, audiences could see a combination of real, staged, and reconstructed photographs and drawings of such events through the perspective of Western eyes. Not only did these images contribute to the construction of Balkans as primitive and savage, they paved the way and prepared Western spectatorial imagination for future images of the Balkan Wars. Cinema added to the existing travelogue accounts and writings of predominantly white (and bourgeois) male adventurers, who vividly described the people and scenery they encountered throughout their journey. Often not speaking the local language, they based their impressions on a combination of Victorian nineteenth-century sensibility and taste

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for the picturesque and the Enlightenment ideals of science, progress, and civilization. News from around the world had entertainment value for urban spectators, due to early cinema’s penchant for visual spectacle (resonating with the concept of ‘cinema of attractions’). The spectators experienced sensual shocks or stimulus from the visual representations of sensationalist or gory accounts depicting assassinations, wars, and battles across the world. The Balkan Wars were the first wars conducted on European soil that unravelled during the advent of cinema’s birth, proliferation, and domination as a major visual mass medium, and therefore garnered special interest from film production companies at the time. The first sensationalist moving images with Balkan themes were actually ‘reconstructed actualities’ produced by Pathé Frères in 1903: Assasinat de la famille royale de Serbie/ Assassination of the King and Queen of Servia and Atrocités Turques/Massacre in Macedonia. Alongside press reports on the region, these films contribute to the imaginary construction of the Balkans and Balkanist discourse in relaying sensationalist accounts of the assassination of the Serbian King Aleksandar Obrenović in 1903 and the insurgent movements in Macedonia against the Ottoman Empire. In the aim to convince spectators they were watching authentic footage and to attract more audiences, these films were advertised as newsreels and actualities in the press at the time, even though they were shot with actors on a set in the Parisian studios far from the actual events. The news of the assassination of the Serbian King Aleksandar Obrenović and his wife were met with negative reactions and condemned across the world, since the press reported on and exaggerated the gruesome details of the killing. Pathé Frères quickly seized the moment, and made a film on this theme. Assassinat de la famille royale de Serbie/Assassination of the King and Queen of Servia (1903, French and UK distribution titles) was directed by Lucien Nonguet, one of the first filmmakers to work for Pathé Frères alongside Ferdinand Zecca until 1920. The film was shot in the Pathé Frères studios in Vincennes, and its chief decorators were Gaston Dumesnil, Vasseur, and Albert Colas. The chief decorator, Gaston Dumesnil, wrote about the making of the film and its première in the AFITEC Bulletin: Also, in 1903, I made another actuality in collaboration with Colas, Vasseur, The Assassination of King Alexander of Serbia and Queen Draga in Belgrade. An amusing detail about this film: the newspapers recounted in the first news announcements, that the injured king and queen had been thrown out of the window of the first floor of their palace and finished off on the ground by the conspirators. The film told this version of the story

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and was quickly sent to the cinema theatres as an actuality and screened. But, two days later, the newspapers rectified the news item, saying that the two sovereigns were killed in their room at the foot of their bed.13

The rapidity with which Pathé reproduced and re-enacted sensationalist news items such as this assassination of the Serbian Royals, is indeed surprising, while the fact that the initial screening of the reconstructed actuality provoked an amendment and further clarifications in the press of the actual turn of events is quite telling. The film was advertised as an actuality, and functioned as a reconstructed visual document of the event according to a commentary in the press. The film was initially advertised in L’Industriel Forain on 20 June 1903, and screened in several locations, at the Cinematografo Parigino in Trieste from 25 June until 3 August 1903, the American Biograph Exposition in Limoges from 3 until 10 July 1903, and the Royal Cinématographe in Rouen from 3 until 11 October 1903. After seeing the film, a journalist from the Gazette des Limoges (3 July 1903) wrote: ‘Breaking news, the assassination of King and Queen of Serbia is a reproduction of an intense truth; one is overwhelmed by the thrill of horror and terror at the sight of quivering bodies of the king and queen being precipitated out the window and landing at the feet of over-excited soldiers.’14 This journalist highlights the visual shock of such images, i.e. the spectators are ‘overwhelmed’ by the cruelty of the unfolding events, and the draw of witnessing the assassination of the Serbian Royals as a combination of excitement and terror. More importantly, the claim to ‘a reproduction of an intense truth’ underscores that these types of reconstructed actualities were meant to have a sensual and visceral effect on the audiences, so they feel as if witnessing the scene in reality. Due to the thematic, the film proved to be very popular with audiences and screened in cities of Europe, such as Paris and Vienna, and across several cities in the Balkans, Ljubljana, Rijeka, Skopje, and others (Kosanović 1985, 68). The film’s narrative, however, amends the actual events, perhaps partly to justify the assassination due to political reasons (France traditionally supported the Karađorđević dynasty claim to the Serbian throne), and depicts Aleksandar Obrenović firing the first shot at one of the officers, which then leads to their revenge and murder (Ibid., 67). Since the film has 13 Original quote in French is available on the Jerome Seydoux Pathé Archives website: http:// filmographie.fondation-jeromeseydoux-pathe.com/5480-assassinat-de-la-famille-royale-deserbie; last accessed 21 August 2021. 14 Original quote in French is available on the Jerome Seydoux Pathé Archives website, http:// filmographie.fondation-jeromeseydoux-pathe.com/5480-assassinat-de-la-famille-royale-deserbie; last accessed 21 August 2021.

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not been preserved, the storyline can be reconstructed with the help of the advertisement for its screening in Rijeka (Novi List, 6 and 7 November 1903), which describes that after being shot, the king and queen were thrown out of the window by the conspirators. The Balkans drew British and international interests with the rise of rebellions against the Ottoman Empire, and, in particular, the romanticized stories and myths of Macedonian insurgents and revolutionary leaders during the Ilinden Uprisings in the summer of 1903. Atrocités Turques/ Turkish Atrocities and Massacres de Macedoine/Massacre in Macedonia (1903), was produced by Pathé Frères and shot in the Vincennes studio, as a reconstructed actuality of real events that took place in the aftermath of the Ilinden Uprisings. According to Georges Sadoul, the film was shot by Lucien Nonguet, just like the above-mentioned assassination of the Serbian Royal family (Kosanović 1985, 249), but this has not been confirmed. The scenes were performed by actors, while a photograph published in the Pathé Frères Company catalogue gives an impression that the event was convincingly reconstructed. The Cinematheque of North Macedonia considers this to be the oldest known film with the country as a theme, showing in the United Kingdom under the title Turkish brutalities.15 The film was advertised in L’Industriel Forain on 26 September 1903, under the title Attentat à la dynamite sur un train en Macédoine/ Dynamite attack on a train in Macedonia and also figured in the September–October 1903 supplement.16 It was screened at the Grand Cinématographe Américain in Rouen from 29 September until 3 October 1904, and the Elettro-Bioscopio in Trieste, from 11 February until 11 March 1906, accompanied by details: ‘The bloody events in Macedonia – a) the insurgents in ambush – b) the leader of a gang in Turkish captivity – c) the dynamite attack against a convoy of the Orient-Express train.’17 The Macedonian Atrocities was included in the Charles Urban Trading Company catalogue, and frequently announced in the British press. These views were also shown in Lifka’s travelling cinema theatre Edison Ideal Elektro-Bioskop in 1904, in Ljubljana and in Belgrade, while the local press reported on the film content: insurgents in hiding; the 15 Information published on the Cinematheque of North Macedonia website: http://www.maccinema.com/Chronology.aspx?p=6; last accessed 21 August 2021; and in “Hronologija 1895–1995”, Kinopis 13.7 (1995):34–237. 16 Information taken from the Jerome Seydoux Pathé Archives website: http://filmographie. fondation-jeromeseydoux-pathe.com/5512-atrocites-turques; last accessed 21 August 2021. 17 Original quote in French is available on the Jerome Seydoux Pathé Archives website: http://filmographie.fondation-jeromeseydoux-pathe.com/5512-atrocites-turques; last accessed 21 August 2021.

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insurgent leader in Turkish hands; and the attack on the eastern express train with a dynamite (Kosanović 1985, 249). The gruesome news of Turkish reprisals following the Ilinden uprisings in Macedonia, with details such as torture, rape, and killing of locals, were reported widely, especially by the French and British press. The press was filled with news of Turkish crimes, while special reporters were sent to the territory of present-day North Macedonia, to penetrate further into insurgent areas. Among the flurry of photographs and illustrations of troops, rebels, sacked villages, refugees, and corpses that circulated in the press, certainly the most shocking photograph to circulate around the world aimed to very graphically represent ‘Turkish atrocities in Macedonia,’ and depicted three Turkish soldiers posing behind insurgents’ chopped-off heads. The journal La Vie illustrée (Illustrated Life), following the events in the Balkans, offers front page images of Turkish atrocities in Macedonia.18 The decapitated heads with blood flowing, as pictured in the poster, underscore the imaginary of Turkish barbarity and cruelty, while playing on spectator’s desire for the thrill of horror. The ‘bloody’ character of such events is reflected in the dark red background, rendering the image especially effective. The view of Turkish soldiers posing behind decapitated heads turned out to be staged in a photographic studio in Manastir (present-day Bitola, North Macedonia), after circulating in major illustrated journals and newspapers in Britain, The Tatler and The Sphere, and in the Balkans, in the Bulgarian monthly magazine, Svetlina (Kardjilov 2020, 60–61). The Ottoman embassies in London and Paris denounced the authenticity of the ‘atrocity picture’ to no avail (Kardjilov 2020, 61). These images would serve to legitimize the cause – the involvement of the Great Powers in the region’s geopolitics, as well as form a perception of the Ottoman (and Muslim) barbaric, primitive, non-European character in the mind of the public, further justifying the end and collapse of Ottoman presence (and Turkey in Europe). Similar wartime images perpetuating an inherent savage and cruel character of the people in the Balkans would re-surface again with a strong propensity during the Yugoslav wars in the 1990s, and would haunt local and international media screens for more than a decade. Early footage shot in the region and faux-documentaries such as Massacre in Macedonia were made to melodramatize the events taking place in the Balkans, in order to both shock and attract audiences around the world. 18 See the digital reproduction of the La VIE ILLUSTRÉE – Numéro 228, 27 Février 1903, on the website of the Swiss Photo Bibliothek collections: https://photobibliothek.ch/seite003c1.html; last accessed 21 August 2021.

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The Charles Urban Trading Company in the Balkans Another genre, not uncommon at the time, was films marketed as adventurous encounters on the battleground, but which were actually staged or reconstructed at real locations enlisting the help of guerrilla fighters. The British cameraman, Charles Rider Noble, travelled to the Bulgarian/ Macedonian border in 1903, where he spent several weeks preparing and filming the aftermath of the Ilinden uprisings against the Ottoman Empire (Bottomore 2012, 286). These particular views, With the Insurgent Bands of Macedonia, were featured in the Charles Urban Trading Company film catalogue, and had a gala premiere at the Alhambra variety theatre in London in January 1904 (Ibid.). Charles Rider Noble began his career in the theatre as a polyvalent figure, and started working in cinema in 1900 for Sir Walter Gibbons as a cine-operator during the Anglo–Boer War in South Africa. Later, Noble was appointed the court projectionist and personal cinematographer of the Sultan Mulai Abd al-Aziz IV (1878–1943), who had a burning passion for cinema and spent two years in Morocco, where he shot The Uprising in Morocco (Kardjilov 2020). Noble granted the distribution rights of the Moroccan film series to the Warwick Trading Company, managed by Charles Urban at the time, which is when the two men were presumably acquainted (Ibid.). Charles Urban (1867–1942) was a producer, distributor, merchant of cinema equipment and films, cinematographer, and editor, who moved from the US to Britain and became one of the key film pioneers prior to World War I. He patented the Urban Bioscope, a film camera and a projector, as well as introduced a film colour process, Kinemacolor, in 1906. Urban established his own company, the Charles Urban Trading Company in London in February 1903. In his memoirs, he describes the role of cinema at the start of the twentieth century: By leading the way in photographing such historical events as Queen Wilhelmina’s coronation, the Boer War, the Russo-Japanese War, Queen Victoria’s funeral and King Edward VII’s coronation, all of spectacular interest, did much to popularize the cinematography and start it on its journey of ever increasing favour, until now (1942) it ranks as the fourth largest industry of the world, being preceded only by agriculture, railways and the steel industry. This is some accomplishment to be attained in the short period of forty-five years and I feel proud to have been one of its pioneers and veterans (McKernan 1999, 70).

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Judging from these reflections, Charles Urban considered cinema as a key medium capable of conserving living history, not as a simple observer, but rather as a protagonist in the social and cultural life of European society at the time. Furthermore, he underlines the role cinema played in recording historical events as a new visual mass medium. Perhaps exaggerating the rank and size of cinema industry in the world in the first half of the twentieth century, nonetheless Urban recognizes the power and the draw of the medium. Noble was sent to the Balkan region to film the Ilinden uprisings for the Charles Urban Trading Company, and shot several films in the territories of present-day south-western Bulgaria and south-eastern North Macedonia between autumn of 1903 and winter 1904 (Kardjilov 2020). Urban described Noble’s mission in the Balkans in a lengthy article published in The Music Hall: ‘Another operator has gone to Bulgaria, to illustrate the sufferings of the oppressed Bulgarians. The Turkish soldiers peremptorily refused to let him cross the frontier, and threatened, moreover, to destroy his apparatus. Nothing daunted, he took to horse, managed to evade the patrols, and successfully crossed the frontier, though at risk of being shot. His pictures will most likely be seen in the West-End music halls next week’ (Ibid., 166–168). While the films shot by Noble in the Balkans were not preserved, the titles and detailed information on the films are found in the catalogues of the Charles Urban Trading Company and the daily press of the time: Illustrated Daily News; Music Hall; Whitehall Review; Black and White; Truth; Vanity Fair; The Standard; Daily Chronicle; The Pelican; and others (Maslovarik 2013, 10). With these films, Noble would join the symbolic image of the Western European adventurer who bravely set out to explore unknown and foreign lands, in order to report on customs and traditions of the people they encountered. Kardjilov’s research reveals that the Charles Urban ‘Macedonian f ilm series’ were not only unique, but also proved to be very successful with audiences, and received great attention from the press. The seventeen films shot by Noble were presented in The Era with detailed descriptions, under the headline ‘With an Insurgent Band in Macedonia,’ while the Daily News remarked how ‘[a]s a picture of guerrilla warfare the series is altogether unique’ (Kardjilov 2020, 179). The preserved Bioscope Films, Urban Films, The Charles Urban Trading Co. Ltd. Catalogue from February 1905 includes several film titles of the series ‘Bulgaria and Macedonia’ with short descriptions of the content, a few photographs, and the photographer’s credit. The views were accompanied by the following text: ‘These pictures were secured at great expense and risk, and are the only Animated Pictures of Macedonian and Bulgarian Scenes in existence.’

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On the one hand, this ensures the exclusivity of such views; on the other, it highlights the adventurous nature of such undertaking. Judging from the titles in the catalogue, Urban was catering to the taste of Western European audiences, and Noble managed to capture local scenes that he deemed picturesque and attractive: such as the wedding and traditional dances (1361 – Bulgarian Wedding Dance, 50 feet, 1363 – Bulgarian Village Dance, 60 feet, and 1232 – The National Dance of Macedonia and Bulgaria, 50 feet); local women (1364 – Types of Bulgarian Peasant Beauties, 50 feet); and Turkish men smoking pipes (1360 – Turks smoking Hubble Bubble Pipes, 50 feet). Among views of refugees, the Bulgarian infantry, and key military figures, there are titles indicating that the cinematographer actually penetrated the battlefield and filmed the insurgents fighting with the Turkish army. Another film allegedly depicts the ritual and initiation of a new member into an insurgent band. Reception of Urban’s films from the Balkans in the British press demonstrates how impressive and sensationalist these scenes were for the spectators at the time. A journalist from The Era reported: ‘it is impossible not to sympathize with the efforts of the insurgents bands who have taken up arms to throw the yoke of the Turkish tyranny: and Mr. Rider Noble is seen in the centre of one of these guerrilla gatherings. He kisses the flag, and at the ceremony of the initiation into the “brotherhood” which follows, the leaders of insurgents kiss him […]’ (Bioscope Films, Urban Films, The Charles Urban Trading Co. Ltd. Catalogue, February 1905, in Maslovarik 2013, 11) The fact that the spectators were convinced of seeing ‘real’ images and everyday scenes of the Macedonian insurgents without Noble’s intervention or direction, invested these images with truthfulness and veritable depiction of the scene. The spectators were immersed in the reality of adventure, unruliness, and freedom-fighting, which evoked exhilarating emotions and empathy for the insurgents. In the 1909 catalogue, these films were edited integrally under the title Macedonia and the Insurgents, which indicates that Charles Urban himself created the editing order, since this was done years after filming these views (Maslovarik 2013, 11). This time, the description reinforces how the cine-operator, Noble, was welcomed by the Macedonian insurgents: ‘Thrilling pictures of insurgent bands who took up arms to throw off a yoke of Turkish tyranny. To secure those unique views, our operator was initiated into the guerrilla “brotherhood”, and living as the insurgents lived, taking his share of the “hot corners”, carrying his life in his hands, he used his time to excellent advantage, and gained his purpose’ (Ibid.). The catalogue assures that these are indeed ‘genuine pictures.’ These claims invest Noble’s personality with the spirit of adventure and courage, because he infiltrated

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the insurgent bands and was able to participate in their everyday life, live their experience, and, consequently, capture their reality more authentically on camera. However, the five insurgent films did not show real battles or genuine skirmishes, because Noble could not have filmed the uprisings due to difficulties in accessing this territory during the fighting, and because he had arrived in the region after the uprisings had already been suppressed (Kardjilov 2020, 335–343). While Bottomore considers these particular films ‘arranged actualities’ (2012, 287), Kardjilov argues they are a hybrid of newsreel and historical re-enactment (2020, 365). Unlike ‘reconstructed actualities,’ according to Bottomore, ‘arranged actualities’ enlist the help of real-life protagonists and involve setting up and re-enactment of everyday scenes and gestures (2012, 287). Kardjilov (2020) shows that the reception of the Urban films from the Balkans varied from place to place. While the British press evoked and exaggerated the dangerous, atrocious, or tragic aspects of the films and did not fail to invest the insurgent leaders with an almost ‘star persona’ status, the screenings in Sofia and across Bulgaria were presented in a much more matter-of-fact manner. For instance, the newspaper Plovdiv announced screenings in June 1904, with descriptions of Noble’s mission: ‘he had his filming device when he was with the cheti, therefore, we will be able to see scenes from the life of insurgents […]’ (Ibid., 316). Moreover, in the Bulgarian press, Charles Rider Noble was often described as ‘a devoted champion of the Macedonian cause and a true friend of the Bulgarian people’ (Ibid.). This allows us to infer how such figures and their presence in the region, as a symbol for the Great Powers, could be manipulated by the local press and used to legitimize political causes (consider the example of the British writer Edith Durham championing the Albanian independence).

Imperial Imagination, Archives, and Moving images The amassing of artefacts, whether for a scientific or cultural purpose, through colonialist exploits of imperialist powers led to the building of museums and institution of archives. European history in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries is marked by a cultural movement and the quest to mummify time as a historical object, first with photography and then via cinema. The Balkans were not exempt from such exploits and scientific missions, and a singular film, preserved at the Archives de la planète in Paris, founded by the French-Jewish banker and philanthropist Albert Kahn, attests to this cultural movement.

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Modernity brought about the disappearance of tradition and the replacing of natural memory with the institution of history, consequently reflecting a fear of forgetting roots and identity, which can only be countered by the drive to conserve everything, to archive. As a unique personality of the time, Kahn concerned about the disappearance of and homogenization of certain modes of life, financed a number of photographic and cinematographic campaigns in over sixty countries across the world between 1909 and 1932.19 Among the vast archival collection at the Albert Kahn Museum,20 a short segment of documentary footage titled Scènes de rue/Streets Scenes filmed in the Balkan region has survived, constituting a small fragment in relation to the rest of unedited non-fiction films. According to Paula Amad, Kahn’s project attempted to ‘refamiliarize the camera to the quotidian by incessantly and excessively observing, recording, and storing daily life as the self-conscious history of the present’ (2010, 16–17). Similar archival projects transpired in early photographers and cinematographers aspirations to capture the ‘ordinary’ and the ‘everyday’ in the Balkans at the turn of the century, such as the Manakia brothers’ views of Aromanian/Vlach customs and people, whose way of life was on the verge of disappearing with the slow decay of the Ottoman Empire. Kahn’s expeditions were informed by the scientif ic parameters of a discipline called ‘human geography’ (concerned with human activity in relation to geography), advocated by Jean Brunhes, the Scientific Director of the archives.21 The photographers were instructed to capture the typical and the representative of local cultures on their journeys, in order to preserve these traditional customs for posterity, which were disappearing in the wake of modernity. Consequently, the resulting documentary footage retains an ethnographic and anthropological spirit, inasmuch as the moving 19 ‘The stereoscopic photography, the projections, and most of all the cinematograph, this is what I would like to make work on a grand scale, to fix once for all aspects, practises and modes of human activity whose fatal disappearance is only a question of time.’ The original quote in French can be found on the Albert Kahn Museum website: http://albert-kahn.hauts-de-seine. net/archives-de-la-planete/presentation/presentation-detaillee/; last accessed 21 August 2021. 20 The collection at the Albert Kahn Museum in Paris, France, contains more than 72,000 autochrome photographs, 4,000 stereographic images, and 183,000 metres of unedited blackand-white film, all neatly catalogued in drawers and on shelves with hand-written labels. 21 According to Brunhes, human geography refers to: ‘The ensemble of all these facts in which human activity has a part forms a truly special group of surface phenomena – a complex group of facts infinitely variable and varied, always contained within the limits of physical geography, but having always the easily discernible characteristic of being related more or less directly to man. To the study of this specific group of geographical phenomena we give the name human geography’ (1920, 4).

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images record the pure flow of life as it unravels in front of the camera.22 In addition, the photographers also shot a number of colour photographs on their journeys, which, due to the processing method, resulted in carefully orchestrated poses and scenes in motionless style of tableaux vivants. The autochrome photographs are an early colour photography system on glass plates, which required a long exposure time. While the photographers had some liberty in regard to the subjects, surprisingly, many of the Balkan autochromes, still contribute to the imaginary of the Orientalist type (as a prolongation of the Victorian picturesque). This is due, partly, to the long pose needed to fix the autochrome photographs, which meant that the mise-en-scène is carefully orchestrated, as well as to the nineteenth-century visual sensibility and technical training of the French photographers. Records at the Albert Kahn Museum indicate that Jean Brunhes and the photographer Auguste Leon undertook a journey in the Balkans in October 1912, and again from April to October 1913. Detailed annotations on the conserved autochrome plates indicate the dates and the locations of still photographs taken on this trip: Bosnia and Herzegovina in October 1912 (around 300 photographs), North Macedonia in May 1913, Serbia in April 1913, Kosovo in May 1913, Turkey in June 1913, and Albania, Montenegro, and Greece in October 1913. The two film segments, catalogued as Scènes de rue/Street Scenes, are 1min24 and 4min47 in length. The angle and point of view fit within Brunhes’s conceptualization of human geography and its similarity to early cinema actualities, which served as methodology for these unedited, static, street-level shots. During my fieldwork in November 2012, the archivists at the Museum were not able to confirm the exact locations but indicated the footage was shot on present-day territory of Albania in 1912. According to the dates on preserved autochrome photographs, Brunhes and Leon were in Albania in October 1913,23 and it seems logical that the footage was also shot during this occasion; however this has not been confirmed, and the film could have been shot during any of the above journeys to the 22 Amad argues that the uniqueness of Kahn’s archive is the intersection of two figures, Henri Bergson, a philosopher of time, and Jean Brunhes, a geographer of space, and disciplines, which exemplify the indivisibility of the spatial-temporal continuum and film’s paradoxical nature (2010). Bergson’s work on immediate experience and intuition of reality was very influential in the first half of twentieth century, and cinema’s capability to record the unravelling of the present and flow of life, echoed this philosophy. Moreover, Bergson was Albert Kahn’s friend and regularly attended scientific meetings at the Archives. 23 Thirty-seven photographs in Durrës on 16 October 1913, four photographs in Kodjazi, and four photographs in Reth on 17 October 1913, 31 photographs in Tirana on 18 October 1913, and sixteen photographs in Shkodra on 21 October 1913.

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Balkan region. Another cinematographer, Stéphane Passet, travelled to Turkey in 1912 and to Greece in 1913. Two preserved films indicate that he was in Thessaloniki in 1913: an edited film of views from the refugee camps and the Mont Athos Monastery (7min45); and an unedited film containing rushes of the refugee camps (12min20). Since Kahn was very well informed on world news and latest events, it is possible, though unlikely, that he sent Passet to the north-western peripheries of the Ottoman Empire to shoot the Street Scenes. Unfortunately, the exact dating of the footage remains undetermined; however, close examination of the streets, architecture, and the people sheds light on the locations. When I examined several postcards and photographs from the period, I was able to confirm that the views were likely filmed in the cities of Durrës and Shkodra (which was already noted by some Albanian historians). A number of other elements also indicate that some views were filmed in these locations: the hill visible in the background; the stone-paved central street; the bazaar and the merchants; and the architecture of the buildings and houses. The footage contains a number of different figures: merchants and tradesmen dressed in Ottoman style clothes (some wearing tight lightcoloured trousers, called the tirq); peasants passing by with donkeys; men and women dressed in urban European-style clothing; soldiers and officers (perhaps Montenegrin and Serb military during the siege of Shkodra); veiled women; men wearing a fez; a group of women wearing local folk costumes; and curious children. Furthermore, the angle and point of view is similar to early cinema actualities, constituting an objective and invisible-camera gaze onto the scene. The footage consists of three uncut long takes, one from a higher vantage point, like a balcony, looking down onto the street (Figure 65), while for the other two views, the camera is placed at street-level, around human eye height (Figures 66 and 67). In the first view, the inhabitants are not aware of the camera filming, and therefore seem to conduct their daily business and activities unobstructed, while in the other two takes, the children, the soldiers, and the merchants stand on the side looking towards the camera, returning the spectatorial gaze. While the aim of Brunhes and Kahn’s project was to simply record life as it unravels in front of the camera, at least one instance suggests that the camera operator and his assistant invited the subjects to be filmed, and, therefore, I conclude that parts of the footage were staged. When comparing the f ilm footage to the autochrome photographs taken in Albania, there are stark differences in the aesthetic and pictorial approaches. The autochrome photographs require a long pose, therefore

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the photographers likely arranged the figures within the frame to create a pleasing visual composition. The selection of several photographs from the Albert Kahn collection depict views of two children (a gypsy and an Albanian Muslim as noted on the glass plate) in front of a stone house (Figure 69), and views of merchants and city streets (Figure 68). The merchants are portrayed in front of their shops in the main street bazaar, and posed to cater to the Western imagination of the Orient. Cultural historians studying commercially marketed Victorian-era photographs of Ottoman men and women found that such views had a picturesque aesthetic, and often reproduced images of manual labourers, artisans, and merchants ‘considered “typical” of their respective cultures in physical appearance or occupation’ and were ‘readily visible on the city’s streets,’ which made them ideal subjects for foreign photographers (Erdogdu 2004, 107– 109). Since Kahn and Brunhes instructed the photographers to capture the ‘typical’ and ‘representative’ subjects of local culture, in order to preserve traditional customs for posterity, in the course of selecting a representative type that would embody the location and its culture, they also created an Orientalist type. The diversity of the local communities in the Balkans at this time would have attracted Kahn’s photographers and Brunhes, who perhaps considered these as being on the path to extinction, so it is likely that what was most unusual for the Western eyes was captured in the views. In comparison to the attractive, picturesque, and colourful autochrome photographs, the film footage resembles ‘the ugly duckling’ of the collection, but perhaps reveals a more ‘truthful’ and intimate image of local cultures, and the socio-historical context. Several historians (Wachtel, Bakić-Hayden, Kaser) found a multicultural conviviality in the Ottoman Empire, because it did not seek a uniformity of religious, ethnic, linguistic and cultural beliefs, and traditions in the Balkan region. The empire was organized around the millet system, which contributed to the maintenance of ethnic, religious, and linguistic particularities in local communities and diversity. As a result, the majority of Balkan cities and towns in the nineteenth century were colourful, complex, and multi-ethnic. The Kahn footage immortalizes the last traces of the crumbling Ottoman stronghold, and portrays the multicultural local population, result of historical legacies of several empires rule in the territory. These views are indeed unique, since many of the early recordings, newsreels, and actualités from the period focus on the events of the Balkan Wars and depict armed battles, military, refugees, and political visits, rather than the everyday life in the region. For this reason, the footage is of great ethnographical and anthropological value, as a witness to the

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rapid transformations of twentieth-century societies, which threatened the disappearance of cultures, traditions, and customs. The first take shows a central market street and typical architecture (Figure 65), which could be found in many Balkan towns at the start of the twentieth century, under the Ottoman Empire. Since the camera is pointing downwards, hardly any background is visible, which would otherwise help with the identification. Comparing the still frame to postcards from the time (Figure 70), it is most likely filmed in a central street in the city of Durrës. The city of Durrës has ancient origins, and its strategic location on the Adriatic coast made it a significant part of the Roman and Byzantine Empire. The beginning of the Via Ignatia, which crossed the Balkan Peninsula and led to Constantinople in the East, started in the city. The city has a large port and nowadays enjoys a leading economic position in contemporary Albania. In the second view (Figure 66) of the central street paved with cobblestones, the three women dressed in folk costumes including head coverings, point to the location of Shkodra, since the clothing resembles typical Catholic costumes from the city. Ceremonial clothes had ornamentation with crochet or lace work, various braids and ribbons, and numerous strings of metal plates, which functioned as decorative necklaces (Gjergji 2004, 150–155). Several portraits and photographs of local women taken by the Marubi studio photographers also confirm these costumes belong to Catholic Albanian communities. Shkodra was on a principal trade route of the Ottoman Empire, situated on its north-western periphery and close to neighbouring Montenegro and Serbia, which is why it played an important role during the Balkan Wars, and explains the presence of Montenegrin and Serb soldiers in the view (Figure 67). Due to their strategic position between the rest of Europe and the Ottoman Empire, Durrës and Shkodra had a vivacious and mixed local population, and attracted entrepreneurs and adventurers from all corners of the empire and beyond. Kahn’s Street Scenes attest to the diversity of these coastal cities and document their symbolical crossroads positioning as cultural, political, and social spaces marked by the movements of international trade, business exchange, and people. Yet, the footage exemplifies two instances of ambiguity that refuse to be read: the historical/archival ambiguity surrounding the original footage (inherent and intrinsic to Albert Kahn’s archives and the fact the footage is a fragment of the collection) and the combined fragmentation, complexity, hybridity, and fluidity of the Balkans around the time of the Balkan Wars. While these views reveal the everyday reality of these peripheral but strategic spaces of the vast Ottoman Empire in the Balkans, other moving images filmed in the region would increasingly focus

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Figure 65. Still, Scènes de rue

Figure 66. Still, Scènes de rue

Figure 67. Still, Scènes de rue

Figure 68. ‘Devant une boutique de cuivres – 18 Octobre 1913, Durrës, Albanie’, Fernand Cuville

Figure 69. ‘Une petite Tsigane et un petit Albanais musulman – 16 octobre 1913, Durrës, Albanie’, Auguste Leon

Figure 70. Postcard of ‘Durazzo. Rue Principale’

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on wartime events, devastation, and the collapse of social systems. These same territories would soon become the major bone of contention between national aspirations, redrawing of borders, and the sites of battles between the decaying Ottoman Empire and the new, emerging Balkan nations.

The Reverberations of Balkan Wars and Siege of Shkodra News of the first Balkan war attracted numerous foreign correspondents and film production companies to the region. The First Balkan War broke out in October 1912 lasting until May 1913, and involved the Balkan League, Serbia, Greece, Montenegro, and Bulgaria against the Ottoman Empire. The most prolific film companies at the time, Pathé, Gaumont, Éclair, Ambrosio, and Messter sent their cinematographers and reporters to capture sensational footage, wherever possible of the fighting and battles at the front. Essentially, the Balkan Wars furnished a unique opportunity for the cinematic gaze to capture wartime imagery on European soil and not in a faraway land across the world. Cinematographers filmed as the war unfolded on various fronts: at the Montenegrin-Albanian front; the Serbian, the Bulgarian, and the Greek fronts, where the Balkan nations armies clashed with the Ottomans and increasingly among themselves. Local film producers and cinema owners quickly understood that views and reportages from the Balkan wars were extremely popular with local audiences, and in addition to obtaining and regularly showing newsreels from the already active film producing companies, some commissioned cinematographers to travel to the front and film the events as they unravelled. A key point of contention and battleground was the city of Shkodra, the furthest outpost of the Ottoman Empire, and geographically closest to and bordering the Kingdom of Montenegro, whose ultimatum to the Ottomans practically initiated the First Balkan War. Many foreign correspondents travelled to Montenegro at this time to follow the unravelling of events, and from here to the city of Shkodra and surroundings, which were more easily accessible via the Adriatic coast, Dubrovnik, and Kotor, and other parts of Montenegro. Several films were shot in this area, including one of the first titled Firing of the First Cannon on Dečić in the Balkan Wars by an unidentified cine-operator from Italy (Kosanović 1985, 286 and Kastratović 1999, 16). Italian film companies, namely, Savoia Film and Comerio, filmed here and circulated the newsreel footage under the titles Latest Events in the Balkans and Siege of Shkodra (Kosanović 1985, 287). Two Pathé films on the subject are conserved at the Yugoslav Cinematheque, The Latest Film Report

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from the Balkan Battleground – Montenegro and About Shkodra, which may have constituted parts of Pathé newsreels War in the Balkans, screened in 1912 and 1913 across the region and abroad (Ibid., 93, 286). The two surviving films contain the following scenes Under Tarabosh, The Battle at Tuzi and The Fall of Shkodra, which were also shown and distributed separately (Kastratović 1999, 17). Gaumont also sent cinematographers to the front, as can be evidenced by a surviving fragment conserved of the reinforcements placed on the mountains in Montenegro (Kosanović 1985, 287). During my fieldwork, in December 2019, at the Montenegrin Cinematheque, I had the opportunity to view some of the surviving footage shot by Italian film companies (conserved at the Cineteca di Bologna): the Cines Paesi Balcani in fermento: Il Montenegro/The Balkan Countries in Turmoil: Montenegro (1912); and the Luca Comerio & Co Dalla Villa Reale di Rjeka/ From the Royal City of Rijeka Crnojevića (1912). The Balkan Countries in Turmoil: Montenegro is a tinted film, which features panoramic views of the capital city at the time, Cetinje and its surroundings, the city streets showing the locals, the Royal Theatre, the Palace of the Ministry and other key buildings, views of the King Nikola riding a white horse, and the tomb of Danilo. These are followed by images that recall the events of the war: the Albanian insurgents; the seized Turkish cannons; the Montenegrin military camp; and the enemy scouting positions in the bordering mountains. Since the f ilm is coloured, an overwhelming blue of the sky and picturesque panoramic views of the landscape and mountains seem to be in stark contrast and far from the grim realities of war and fighting. A slow, lingering panning shot revealing the Albanian insurgents, some seated and others standing, allows the spectators to dwell on their faces, gestures, and clothing, and perhaps be drawn in by the unusual attire. This is followed by an intertitle that promises to show the heads of Albanian insurgents, which reveals a group of men posing for the camera, smoking or touching their jaw, face, or putting their hands on the belts, recalling the imaginary repertoire of the Wild West, westerns, and cowboys. At this time, the majority of Albanians fought on the Ottoman side in the First Balkan War, but, for instance, the Catholic communities from northern Albania, Kastrati, Hoti, and Gruda joined the Kingdom of Montenegro. The Serbian forces operated against a major part of Ottoman Western army, which were located in the areas of Novi Pazar, Kosovo and northern and eastern Macedonia. After the Great Powers applied pressure on them, the Serbian troops started to withdraw from northern Albania and the Sanjak (area on the border shared between Montenegro and Serbia) although leaving behind their heavy artillery to help the Montenegrin army in the

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continuing siege of Shkodra. The Montenegrin forces held the city under siege for six months from 28 October 1912 until 23 April 1913, when the Ottoman garrison in Shkodra was forced to surrender due to starvation. Even though Albania proclaimed its independence from the Ottoman Empire on 28 November 1912, the Ottoman army remained in the territory fighting the Montenegrins. In accordance with the London Conference of Ambassadors, the Kingdom of Montenegro was finally compelled to evacuate Shkodra in May 1913, and the withdrawal of the Montenegrin army was observed by British and Italian gunboats. Surviving footage of the siege of Shkodra shows the aftermath and effect of the war on the city. Reddition de Scutari/ Siege of Shkodra (1913) was recently restored through a joint initiative between the Montenegrin Cinematheque and Central State’s Film Archive (Albania). This Pathé newsreel documents the entry of the Montenegrins into Shkodra, most likely on 23 April 1913 or around this time, when the garrison surrendered due to starvation. The restoration of this footage was undertaken at the Hungarian Film Lab in 2017, using the inter-positive copy conserved at the Montenegrin Cinematheque (donated by the National Museum in Cetinje). The restored film was screened as part of a longer 50-minute film programme Views of the Ottoman Empire curated by Elif Rongen-Kaynakçi (EYE Film Institute) at Kinema Millennium in Tirana, Albania on 17 October 2018, accompanied by a music score composed and performed by Adorel Haxhiaj. The digital restoration of this Pathé footage reveals small details in the landscape, the surroundings, the clothing, and the objects captured by the camera with great clarity. The intertitles in French introduce, explain, and summarize the visual material present in the film. In line with similar war correspondence and sensationalist reporting, the film’s introductory intertitle explains how: ‘the views were shot by our special reporter on the battlefield, who put his own life in danger.’ Later in the film, the cine-reporter is asking directions from two Montenegrin soldiers, noted by intertitles merely ‘a few metres from the front lines’ (Figure 64). The view shows a white, European middle-aged man, smoking a pipe and smiling at the camera and his interlocutors, while discussing positions on a map. The impression is that of a war being like an adventure, and further affirming the picture of a Western European traveller venturing into dangerous and unknown Balkan territory (indicated by the scene with the map). Yet, no actual battles are captured in the film, but rather the signs and consequences left by the war on the city and the people. Siege of Shkodra unfolds with several panoramic views over the city surrounded by the imposing Tarabosh mountain, revealing the main city street almost

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deserted, then a mosque and a Catholic church, to cut to the soldiers’ positions on the surrounding mountains, protected by barbed wire and trenches. This is followed by munitions, weapons, and cannons abandoned by the retreating Ottoman army, and the loading of the boats, among them a small ship called Neptune, packed with Montenegrin soldiers departing for the front. There are also scenes of the Montenegrin army on the front lines on the Tarabosh mountain, preparing and loading cannons, or cocking and holding the guns, obviously posing for the camera. The intertitles describe the succession of views: General Ljubičić; the Albanian highlanders fighting on the Montenegrin side; an old commander ‘who had already fought the Turks in 1876’; and general Vukotić. The film also captures the entry of Prince Mirko and the troops in Shkodra accompanied by a military band. On the other side, the scenes reveal the shelling and devastation as a result of the ‘horror of the six-month long siege’: bombed and ruined houses; starving children; the exodus of refugees and desperate survivors now being distributed food supplies. The final images contrast the victors on the one side, pictured on top of the mountain, and the losers on the other, images of rotting corpses in the sun. The presence of the French film company Pathé and its cine-reporters in Montenegro is not coincidental. Pathé Frères organized several screenings in Cetinje at the end of 1912 in Zetski Dom (Zeta House) with proceedings and benefits for the Red Cross (Milunović 2018, 105). The first screening, held on 16 December 1912, had a full house and showed Views of the Balkan War and Napoleon’s March on Russia, while the local press encouraged audiences to attend for entertainment and for humanitarian purposes (Ibid.). The Montenegrin King awarded the director of the Pathé Frères company, Cornelius Hintner, with the Third Degree of the Order for filming footage of the Montenegrin battlefield and for organizing film screening for humanitarian purposes (Ibid., 106). This collaboration was further strengthened as Pathé Frères became the official cinematographers and film distributors for the Montenegrin court. This explains the presence of the French film company Pathé and their cine-operator during the siege of Shkodra, which had exclusive rights and permission to film members of the royal court, King Nikola and Prince Mirko, and other important figures of the Montenegrin army. The above-mentioned film, Siege of Shkodra was shot from the Montenegrin perspective and side in the Balkan war. The Montenegrin King and the Royal Court were accused of using film for war propaganda purposes, and, more precisely, to show how the Montenegrins were skilful at warfare. The Montenegrin royals had ties with several European royal courts through marriage, and were acquainted with the

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cinematograph very early during the filming of the Grand Duchess Jelena’s marriage to the Victor Emmanuel III, King of Italy in Rome in 1896. The Countess De Fontenay reported in the Chicago Tribune how King Nikola summoned Italian and French cine-operators to Montenegro and re-enacted army manoeuvres far from the battlefield for their film cameras (Ibid., 111). Court archives prove that another film on this theme, Impressioni dal Montenegro sul valoroso esercito durante la Guerra Balcanica/ Views from Montenegro of their Valorous Army during the Balkan War produced by Luca Comerio from Milan, was ordered for the Montenegrin court in July 1913, and most likely screened for the royal members between 22 and 29 July 1913 (Ibid.). The Comerio cinematographers had already filmed in Montenegro in 1912, as evidenced by the preserved film Dalla Villa Reale di Rjeka/ From the Royal City of Rijeka Crnojevića. Among views of the procession of the royal court and the army, this footage shows Princess Ksenija and Prince Danilo testing a new automobile, destined to transport the wounded from the Balkan Wars. Princess Ksenija was the Dame of the Red Cross, and allegedly the first woman in the Balkans to drive a car, as well as being her father’s right hand and political advisor, she never married and remained dedicated to the Montenegrin cause, even in exile (Radinović 2018). Since the sources are scarce, there is little information on newsreels and actualities of the Balkan Wars being screened in Shkodra itself. However, judging from one advert, which appeared in the local newspaper Besa Shqiptare on 17 December 1913, in both Albanian and German languages, at the time when the city was administered by the Great Powers, there were screenings of some war footage. A newsreel titled Kaempfe um Alessio/The War for Lezha was highlighted in bold and large type font, and announced as part of the screening programme at the Grand Kino Skioptiko Electrical Theatre, the cinema theatre installed in Kolë Idromeno’s house, with a short description of ‘a wonderfully beautiful war film’ (Figure 36). While the film production of this newsreel is unknown, it is likely shot by a Pathé cine-operator, since the company was filming the unfolding of the events in this particular area since 1912. Moreover, the city of Lezha was defended against the Serbian (and Montenegrin) occupying forces, and therefore, this film would have served to not only boost the morale of the local population, but more importantly to reinforce patriotic and national feelings for an independent Albania. Two local film pioneers had also travelled to Montenegro to capture footage of the Balkan Wars, Josip Karaman, cinema owner from Split on his own account, and Josip Halla from Zagreb engaged as war correspondent for the Éclair film company. Halla shot Opsada Skadra/Siege of Shkodra (1912)

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and Zauzeće Taraboša/Taking of Tarabosh (1912) at the Montenegrin-Albanian front, which was used in the Éclair documentary newsreel Fighting of the Montenegrin army near Shkodra (Kosanović 1985, 287, Kastratović 1999, 17). Aside from his earlier travels to film the proclamation of Kingdom of Montenegro in August 1910, Karaman had again reportedly travelled here to film the events of the First Balkan War. When the newsreels of the Balkan Wars and the Montenegrin King Nikola I were screened in Karaman’s cinema in Split, the audiences had strong reactions since Montenegro was considered an enemy of Austria-Hungary (Škrabalo 1980, 26). During this time, newsreels and actualities gained prominence across Dalmatia, and spectators no longer flocked to the cinemas to watch feature fiction films, but war news (Kečkemet 1969, 42). Such films attracted the local public who followed the victories of the ‘Slavs’ in the Balkan Wars with particular interest: Bulgarian Army on the Turkish Border; and a series of newsreels titled Balkan Wars (1913) containing real war scenes such as The Mobilisation in Greece, The Battle at Tuzi, The Entry of King Peter in Skopje and The Bloody Battle at Bregalnica (Ibid.). The horrors of the battle had turned into screen spectacles, and the most dangerous raw scenes from the front, attracted and guaranteed a full house in local cinema theatres. Similarly, newsreels and actualities were popular with Greek audiences (especially footage of armed conflicts, such as the Russo–Japanese war and the Boer wars in South Africa), and were becoming increasingly popular over the years, which led the government to start considering cinema as a powerful and worthwhile means of propaganda (Arkolakis 2009, 166). Many photographers in Greece turned cinematographers during the Balkan Wars, to satisfy the large demand of moving images from the battlefield (Ibid., 174). For instance, cinemas in Chania on the island of Crete were showing newsreels of the Balkan Wars in 1913, while the first cinema theatre owner in the city, Charalambos Spandagos, had a camera that he used to capture the ceremony of Crete’s reunification24 with Greece in December 1913 (Ibid., 175). In Serbia, the number of foreign f ilmmakers rapidly increased with the onset of the Balkan Wars and World War I, while, before 1908, it was mainly the owners of itinerant cinemas who captured views of Serbian cities and locations (Kosanović 1985, 74). Cine-reporters arrived in Serbia from France, Germany, Italy, Russia, and United Kingdom at the onset of the First Balkan War, while the first war footage was screened in Belgrade as early 24 Crete was part of the Ottoman Empire for almost three centuries until 1898, when it became an autonomous state under Ottoman rule, and was then unified with Greece in 1913, following the conclusion of the Balkan Wars.

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as November 1912 (Slijepčević 1982, 121). Pathé, Gaumont, Éclair, and other film companies war chronicles were regularly screened under evocative titles: War in the Balkans (Newest Footage from the Battlefield); Tragedy in the Balkans; The Fall of the Ottoman Empire; and so on (Ibid., 120–126). The local film producers and cinematographers also started filming views from the battlefield and events of the Balkan Wars from the Serbian side. The brothers Đoka, Krsta, and Dragutin Cvetković were restaurateurs, who opened a permanent cinema inside their inn Kolarac in 1910, and also commissioned views of the entry of the victorious Serbian army in Belgrade on 11 August 1913,25 and war scenes from the Serbian–Bulgarian front (Kosanović 2000, 43; Kosanović 1985, 94–95). Even though the scenes of the Serbian–Bulgarian fighting were advertised as ‘Serbian views’ and ‘personally filmed’ in the local press, these are likely produced by Gaumont, since the local press reported how the films were first shown in Europe and USA before reaching Serbia (Kosanović 1985, 95). Another cinema theatre owner and producer from Belgrade, Đoka Bogdanović, hired two camera operators from the Pathé affiliate in Vienna, in order to film re-enacted scenes of Serbian victories during the First Balkan War. Bogdanović had asked authorities for the permission to film the views with the help of the Serbian army ‘in order to recuperate what was missed, and to ensure that in the future no other important moments which should be captured on camera are missed’ (Ibid., 97). When the Second Balkan War broke out in June 1913, Bogdanović and his crew filmed actual combat operations during the month of July in Kriva Palanka, rather than reconstructed actualities (Ibid., 98). Bogdanović hired two cine-operators for this occasion, one who was likely the Russian cine-operator Samson Černov26 (Ibid., 31). The footage included views of the battle scenes, the work of various military services, devastated villages, war victims, prisoners of war, and soldiers in their everyday life, and

25 The f ilm is titled Svečani doček srpske pobedonosne vojske sa srpsko-bugarskog bojišta/ The Arrival of the Victorious Serbian Army from the Serb–Bulgarian Battlefield (1913), and most likely filmed by Slavko Jovanović (Kosanović 2000, 43). Jovanović (1887–1962) was a Serbian cine-operator who started working as a projectionist at the cinema theatres Takovo and Pariz in 1910 in Belgrade. He filmed several film reportages including Dolazak prvih srpskih ranjenika u Beograd/ The Arrival of First Serbian Wounded Soldiers in Belgrade, Dolazak prvih turskih zarobljenika u Beograd/ The Arrival of First Turkish War Prisoners in Belgrade, Sahrana majora Jovanovića/ The Funeral of Major Jovanović (1912), Povratak srpskih pobednika/ The Return of Serbian victors and Otkrivanje spomenika Karađorđu na Kalemegdanu/ The Opening of Karađorđe’s monument on Kalemegdan (1913). 26 Samson Černov also worked for Gaumont and filmed on the Bulgarian–Turkish front, and continued to work as a photo-journalist for the French journal L’Illustration during World War I.

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since Bogdanović kept detailed records, around 50 different film views27 were captured (Kosanović 1985, 98–99). The newsreels compiled by Bogdanović were shown under the title The First Serbian Program and contained seven views, in the cinema Kasina in October 1913 (Kosanović 2000, 31; Idem 1985, 100). The newspaper Politika dedicated a lengthy column to this event, highlighting how: ‘These views constitute precious memory for every Serb. Our descendants will be able to witness, from living pictures, how the Serbian people fought enthusiastically to free Serbia […]’ (Kosanović 1985, 100). In times of war, cinema had quickly acquired a propagandistic role, and was the most effective medium for wide exposure of political agendas and the best way to garner support from both the local population and international players. Further, I would argue that the events of the Balkan Wars, and the great appeal of newsreels among audiences in the Balkans, contributed to furthering the institutionalization and affirmation of cinema activities, and, more importantly, led to a number of local film pioneers to invest in film equipment and effectively start producing their own films. This chapter attempted to show the role of early cinema in the shaping of, what would become a hegemonic discourse in international media, the mediatized and perceived image of the Balkans. Cinema drew from the imaginary registrar formed by literature and popular writing of the nineteenth century, and re-mediated these impressions and representations of the Balkans and its communities via moving images. The image of the Western European traveller’s adventure tales in mysterious and unexplored lands, constructed in fiction writing and accounts in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, was re-affirmed through the gaze of foreign cameras that ventured into the Balkans to return with semi-Oriental and semiexoticized images and impressions. As seen in the example of the Marubi Studio, the new visual media, photography and cinema, continued in the Orientalist tradition of visual arts, employing Western European sensibility for the picturesque, the exotic, and the realist (popular, peasant, rural, folk). In the fierce competition during the first decades, film companies thrived to produce and create more ‘sensationalist’, more ‘realistic,’ and more ‘authentic’ images in order to sell and distribute their films widely. In this sense, encounters with certain moving images of the Balkans could be described 27 Most of the footage was considered lost, until 1982, when a student of the Faculty of Dramatic Arts from Belgrade, re-discovered thousands of metres of archival footage that the Bogdanović family had conserved, and which was acquired by the Yugoslav Cinematheque in 1984, and recently restored, making the films available via a digital copy on DVD and some on the European Film Gateway platform.

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as visceral and haptical, in a sense that the spectators would experience a sensual shock and have a physical response caused by spectacular, thrilling, and visually charged depictions on the screen. Like in other locations around the world, the foreign cinematic gaze assumed the role of imperial domination and political power in the Balkans; not through direct administration in some cases, but rather via moving images and the modern spectator’s imagination. In the vein of Charles Urban’s motto, ‘We put the world before your eyes,’ early moving images brought a certain vision of what constituted the world to primarily Western European audiences, while these formed a mental picture of previously unknown places and spaces. Furthermore, early moving images with Balkan themes contributed to the creation of Balkanist discourses before the outbreak of World War I. This was especially evident in the subject matter of Charles Urban films from Macedonia and Bulgaria in 1903 and 1904, and their consequent marketing and reception in the British press of the time, but also through the reconstructed actualities of Pathé Frères. Other sensationalist accounts and life-risking reportages from the battlefields and war fronts would become increasingly popular during the Balkan Wars and World War I. The Pathé newsreel Siege of Shkodra, which documents the aftermath of the city’s surrender to the Montenegrin army, including images of corpses, ruined houses, starving children, and elements associated with war and devastation, paved the way for similar future imagery. The practice of recycling and re-using earlier views, to be screened as topical actualities when the Balkans made the news again, was also employed. While this chapter explored the notions of imperial imagination and Orientalism, Exoticism, and Balkanism, which played a role in the reception of early moving images from the Balkans, the next chapter will focus on self-representation through an analysis of selected preserved films, work of early cinema pioneers and local cinema activities.

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Bakić-Hayden, Milica. “Nesting Orientalisms: The Case of Former Yugoslavia.” Slavic Review 54:4 (1995): 917–931. Bottomore, Stephen. “From Theatre Manager to Globetrotting Cameraman: The Strange Career of Charles Rider Noble (1854–1914)”. Film History 24 (2012): 281–301. Brunhes, Jean. Human Geography: An Attempt at a Positive Classification, Principles and Examples. Chicago, IL/New York: Rand McNally & Company, 1920. Erdogdu, Ayshe. “Picturing Alterity: Representational Strategies in Victorian Type Photographs of Ottoman Men.” In: Colonialist Photography: Imag(in)ing Race and Place edited by Eleanor M. Hight and Gary D. Sampson, 107–125. New York: Routledge, 2004 [2002]. Forsdick, Charles. “Revisiting Exoticism: From Colonialism to Postcolonialism.” In: Francophone Postcolonial Studies: A Critical Introduction, edited by Charles Forsdick and David Murphy, 46–55. London: Arnold Publishers, 2003. Gjergji, Andromaqi. Albanian Costumes through the Centuries. Translated by Richard Taylor. Tirana: Mësonjëtorja, 2004. Howden-Smith, Arthur D. Fighting the Turks in the Balkans: An American’s Adventure with the Macedonian Revolutionaries. New York and London: G.P. Putnam’s, 1908. Iordanova, Dina. Cinema of Flames: Balkan Film, Culture and the Media. London: BFI Publishing, 2001. Kardjilov, Petar. The Cinematographic Activities of Charles Rider Noble and John MacKenzie in the Balkans (Volume One). Translated from Bulgarian by Ivelina Petrova). Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2020. Kaser, Karl. The Balkans and the Near East: Introduction to a Shared History. Vienna: Lit Verlag, 2011. Kastratović, Gojko P. Crnogorska kinematografija i filmovi o Crnoj Gori/ Montenegrin Cinema and Films about Montenegro. Podgorica: Društvo za očuvanje baštine, 1999. Kečkemet, Duško. Počeci kinematografije i filma u Dalmaciji / The Beginnings of Cinema and Film in Dalmatia. Split: Izdanje Muzeja Grada Splita, 1969. Kosanović, Dejan. Počeci Kinematografije na Tlu Jugoslavije 1896–1918/ Beginnings of Cinema on Yugoslav Territory 1896–1918. Belgrade: Institut za Film Univerzitet Umetnosti, 1985. Kosanović, Dejan. Leksikon Pionira Filma i Filmskih Stvaralaca na Tlu Jugoslovenskih Zemalja 1896–1945/ Lexicon of Film Pioneers and Filmmakers on Yugoslav Territories 1896–1945. Belgrade: Institut za Film/Jugoslovenska Kinoteka/Feniks Film, 2000. Kosanović, Dejan. History of Cinema in Bosnia and Herzegovina 1897–1945. Beograd: Naučna KMD/Feniks Film, 2005a. Leclerc, Joseph. Le cinéma. Témoin de son temps. Paris: Debresse, 1970.

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Longinović, Tomislav. “Playing the Western Eye: Balkan Masculinity and PostYugoslav War cinema.” In: Eastern European Cinema edited by Anikó Imre, 35–47. Routledge: New York, 2005. Marubi (Photographic album). Curated by Semiha Osmani. Edited by Alfred Çapaliku. The Ministry of Tourism, Culture, Youth and Sport. Tirana: Pegi, 2006. Maslovarik, Vesna. “Charles Urban and His Importance for the Macedonian Cinematography.” Sent to the author via email, 19 June 2013. McKernan, Luke, ed. Yank in Britain: The Lost Memoirs of Charles Urban, Film Pioneer. Hastings, East Sussex: The Projection Box, 1999. Milunović, Luka I. Crnogorski kinematografi 1908–1914/ Montenegrin Cinemas 1908–1941. Podgorica: Crnogorska Kinoteka, 2018. Moreau, Miza. “The Evolution of an Urban Form: Six Centuries of an Ethnically Diverse Sarajevo.” In: The Ethnically Diverse City edited by Frank Eckardt and John Eade, 579–600. Berlin: Berliner Wissenschafts-Verlag, 2011. Moura, Jean-Marc. Lire l’exoticisme. Paris: Dunod, 1992. Paci, Zef, Fotografia si ritual. Marubi/ Photography and Ritual: Marubi. Tirana: Princi, 2012. Said, Edward. Orientalism. New York: Pantheon Books, 1978. Santaollala, Isabel. “‘New’ Exoticisms: Changing Patterns in the Construction of Otherness,” Postmodern Studies 29, Brill Rodopi, 2000. Schwartz, Vanessa R. Spectacular Realities: Mass Culture in Fin-de-Siècle Paris. Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 1998. Shohat, Ella and Stam, Robert. Unthinking Eurocentrism: Multiculturalism and the Media. New York: Routledge, 1994. Slijepčević, Bosa. Kinematografija u Srbiji, Crnoj Gori, Bosni i Hercegovini 1896–1918/ Cinema in Serbia, Montenegro and Bosnia and Herzegovina 1896–1918. Belgrade: Univerzitet Umetnosti & Institut za Film, 1982. Škrabalo, Ivo. 101 godina filma u Hrvatskoj 1896–1997/ 101 Years of Film in Croatia 1896–1997. Zagreb: Nakladni Zavod Globus, 1998. Todorova, Maria. “The Balkans: From Discovery to Invention.” Slavic Review 53: 2 (1994): 453–482. Todorova, Maria. Imagining the Balkans. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009 [1997]. Vickers, Miranda. The Albanians: A Modern History. London: I.B. Tauris, 1997.

5.

‘Made in the Balkans’: Mirroring the Self Abstract The fifth chapter examines the work of local cinema practitioners within the global context of filmmaking, the processes of modernity, and the desire for self-representation. It analyses a variety of preserved archival moving images: actualities, amateur films, documentaries and early fiction films, to highlight the diversity of films and filmmakers’ sensibilities in the Balkan region. The efforts to document local events and everyday scenes also emerge as a desire to capture a disappearing image of the communities and life in a period marked by turbulent events. Finally, I discuss the role of cinema in the nation-building process, which is symptomatic of the historical, social, and cultural context of the time, through a close analysis of two feature fiction films. Keywords: Balkan film pioneers, self-representation, documentary footage, early fiction films, nationalism

Every human generation has its own illusions with regard to civilization; some believe they are taking part in its upsurge, others that they are witnesses of its extinction. In fact, it always both flames and smoulders and is extinguished, according to the place and the angle of view. (The Bridge on the Drina, Ivo Andrić, 1977). Yesterday evening, in the grand salon of Indépendance Roumaine, the cinematograph gave an extraordinary representation which attracted all the top levels of Bucharest society. […] The races at Baneasa which followed, were the golden highlight of the evening. The two views unravelled, in the midst of applauses, cries and bravos from all sides. The ladies recognized themselves with cries of astonishment, and the gentlemen, upon seeing themselves, addressed each other with all sorts of joyful epithets. These two views were applauded loudly, and had to be shown again. […] (Claymoor, L’Indépendance Roumaine, 13 (25) June 1897).

Grgić, A., Early Cinema, Modernity and Visual Culture: The Imaginary of the Balkans. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2022 doi 10.5117/9789463728300_ch05

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Soon after the arrival of moving images to the Balkan region, local enthusiasts, entrepreneurs, and adventurers embraced the new visual medium, and invested in cinematographic equipment for projection and recording of familiar views and events of social, cultural, and historical significance with the aim of participating in the global imaginary of moving images. The reactions in the press of the time express the desire of local audiences to see moving images of themselves on the screen, perhaps because ‘a banal, everyday image imposed its fascination’ upon people (Morin 1956, 22). The need to make their own films was less likely due to economic reasons, but primarily because of the desire to experiment with the new visual medium, and document and conserve ‘living views’ of familiar and valued subjects and scenes. Some of these moving images would be conserved for posterity and constitute precious archival footage of the public life in the region prior to World War I, such as: Karol Grossman’s home movies of the market and streets in Ljutomer (contemporary Slovenia); Josip Karaman’s newsreels of religious processions and important events in the city of Split (contemporary Croatia); or Ernest Bošnjak’s films of the ceremony, market, and streets in Sombor (contemporary Serbia) among others. Despite many positive converging factors, which will be discussed in this chapter – the enthusiasm of local film pioneers, the opening of permanent cinema theatres, and initiatives for the establishment of film production companies, film associations, and even film studios – the start of a viable and sustained film industry would not crystallize until the interwar period. Cinema activities across the region, like other economic and social activities, were affected by the Balkan Wars in 1912 and 1913, and then greatly curtailed with the onset of the Great War in the summer of 1914. However, these enthusiastic and modest beginnings of local cinema pioneers would lay the groundwork for the development of future cinema activities and national film industries, and, perhaps more importantly, contribute to the education and film literacy of the next generation of filmmakers. Most of the enquiries into the development of early cinema in the Balkans tend to focus lacks and absences, and consider the select few cinema pioneers as alone figures or visionaries ahead of their time. However, observing the convergence of several factors in the region, and influences from previous visual arts, performance, and storytelling practices, as discussed in previous chapters, it becomes clear that cinema is a continuation and a fusion of previous cultural traditions rather than a clear cut (modern and Western) rupture with the past. Many of the early cinema figures were already involved in successful business activities (restauration and hotels), or were photographers, engineers, scientists, and merchants, while the writers

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and actors were mainly drawn from the stage. In several instances across the Balkans, the owners of first permanent cinema theatres also became the first film producers and filmmakers in locations where they worked and lived. There is no evidence indicating a lack of foreign films, or that the distribution networks in Vienna, Budapest, and Trieste (where the majority of big film companies had affiliates at the time) were severed. Rather, based on my archival research in France at the Pathé Seydoux Archives and the preserved catalogues, the Pathé Frères headquarters for Austria–Hungary were located in Vienna covering the Austrian territory, while the affiliate office in Budapest covered Hungary and the Balkans. The Pathé company also had an important affiliate in Bucharest, judging from the financial information of distributed films (November 1913), and the imposing building where the office was situated in Calea Victoriei no. 14 (Figure 71). Moreover, Pathé Frères agencies were present in ‘European’ Turkey, ‘Asian’ Turkey, Greece, and Egypt, in the cities of Constantinople, Smyrna, Athens, and others, while Gaumont had representatives and agencies in Athens, through Comptoir Cine-Location and S. Leonce (Annuaire Charles Mendel, 1912). Hence, even though still largely unexplored, this evidence points to the popularity of moving images and their value and role in Balkan social life, and the thriving exhibition and distribution networks in the region and beyond. Writing about the context in Croatia, Gilić noted several reasons for the delayed development of local and national film production and the lack of desire to see local films: economic (an undeveloped business sector); social (predominantly rural communities); and political and linguistic factors (city dwellers spoke either Italian or German depending on the geographic location, and felt a strong connection to the political and cultural centres beyond the Croatian linguistic, cultural or political territory) (2010, 21). Similarly, Arkolakis describes how in Greece, entrepreneurs considered investing in local film productions risky, and preferred other commercial activities, which meant that initial cinema pioneers or businessmen who invested in cinema were Greeks from abroad (2003, 6). Nonetheless, the desire to see views of local cities, events, and people was expressed time and time again across the Balkans, echoing Lumiere brothers’ endeavour, that, unlike Edison who filmed music-hall scenes or boxing matches, understood that ‘the initial curiosity was addressed to the reflection of reality’ (Morin 1956, 22), and that ‘above all, people would marvel to again see things which do not amaze them’ (Ibid.) in the everyday. In response to this anthropological need, several film pioneers recorded documentary footage of important social events and screened them, but also attempted to produce fiction

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films with local themes, and in some cases, created production companies and associations. Ernest Bošnjak in Vojvodina (present-day northern Serbia) attempted twice to obtain permission and land for the founding of a film studio in Sombor. In Bucharest, Leon Popescu was an active film producer and funded several film projects with his company, Filmul de arta Leon M. Popescu. In Pula, Rudolf Marinković, shot several films of the city and public events, and according to sources in the local press, he had a production company Adria Film (Kosanović 1988, 83–84). In Zagreb, a distribution company aiming to supply films in the region was founded in 1907, under the name ‘Urania, Furtinger and co, first Croatian and largest company for rental of films in Croatia, Slavonia, Dalmatia, Bosnia, Herzegovina and other Balkan countries’ (Škrabalo 1984, 29). In Athens, the comedian Spyros Dimitrakopoulos founded Athini Film in 1910, and made several short-length fiction films with the help of Italian director Filippo Martelli and German-Jewish cinematographer Erich Buchbach (Arkolakis 2003, 5). A Greek from Smyrna (present-day İzmir) in the Ottoman Empire, Costas Bachatoris, a café owner and founder of a film studio for the production of newsreels, invested a large sum of money to open a film production company in Athens, and produced the first Greek fiction feature film Golfo in 1914 (Ibid., 6). In Belgrade, Đoka Bogdanović, cinema owner and film producer submitted a request to create a ‘[f]actory for producing cinematographic films’ in 1913. Similarly, Svetozar Botorić restaurateur and merchant, opened a permanent cinema in the salon of his hotel, Kinematografsko pozorište u hotelu Pariz (Cinematographic theatre in hotel Paris), and was representative for Pathé Frères in Serbia and Bulgaria from 1911 (Kosanović 2000, 35). He is considered one of the first Serbian film producers, having funded a number of film projects and newsreels between 1911 and 1913. While many of the early non-fiction and fiction films have not survived, the small percentage I analyse here provides a picture of the interest of early moving image makers and the scope of early films: as a form of art; entertainment; document; and scientific instrument. Leon Popescu, Ernest Bošnjak, Josip Karaman, Antun Valić, Karol Grossman, Đoka Bogdanović, Svetozar Botorić, and many others contributed to the development of early cinema in the Balkan region, and established networks beyond their immediate surroundings. The work of early cinema pioneers was transnational and intercultural, reaching audiences beyond local cinema screens, and overlapped with other visual media and disciplines, like photography, theatre, politics, and science. These early films and filmmaking activities must be considered beyond the confines of contemporary national borders

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in the region, since their traces can be found in several archives across the region and beyond. Furthermore, the initial desire of local audiences to see films with local, national, and regional subjects and views of familiar landscapes, cities, and social practices, eventually led to film pioneers and cinema theatre owners to invest in and undertake production of fiction feature films with national themes and subjects. For this reason, I also examine the role of cinema and moving images in the process of nation-building in the Balkans through several case studies and a closer look at two preserved fiction films: the Serbian historical epic Karađorđe (1911) and the Romanian historical epic Independenţa României/The Independence War (1912). As discussed earlier, the arrival and proliferation of moving images across the globe coincided with colonialism, imperialism and nationalism. Like in other parts of the world, cinema was employed for nation-building purposes and contributed to the formation of national narratives, as the countries in the Balkans sought to assert their autonomy and independence within the context of the dissolution of multinational, multi-confessional, and multicultural empires, political turmoil and a series of armed conflicts. Centuries earlier, the Byzantine rulers remarked that: ‘Who holds the image, retains the power.’ Early cinema audiences and practitioners in the Balkans saw the adaptability and versatility of the cinematographic device, which could be employed for different purposes, to entertain, to educate, to preserve, and, for a variety of means, for political, social, and cultural ends in a rapidly changing world.

The Desire for ‘Our’ Views Several itinerant film exhibitors sojourning for shorter or longer periods of time in various locations across the Balkans, also filmed views of local events, cities, and people, subsequently screening these in their travelling cinemas. These are among the first instances when the need, the desire, and the fascination of local audiences to see views of the everyday, of the banal, of life which is familiar, was translated to cinematic images. Early film theoreticians have described how the capturing and reproduction of reality via cinema, acquired a quality called photogénie, a quality not found in life but only within the cinematic image. Epstein defined as photogenic ‘any aspect of things, beings, or souls, whose moral character is enhanced by filmic reproduction’ (quoted in Keller et al. 2012, 293), specifying later that ‘only mobile aspects of the world, of things and souls, may see their

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moral value increased by filmic reproduction’ (Ibid., 294). Morin would affirm how the cinematograph was an absurd device, because ‘it served to project images, only for the pleasure of seeing images’ (1956, 19). As early records show, the local public across the Balkans, also had the pleasure of seeing images of everyday scenes and life which were familiar and that accrued this photogenic quality once presented on the silver screen. When the German Jochann Bläser, an entertainer and owner of a travelling cinema (advertised as Cinematografo, Cinematografo Edison, Edisonov kinematograf or Bioskop) visited Rijeka in 1899, he filmed the Corso in Rijeka (featured on the film programme in La Bilancia, 1 April 1899; Kosanović 2005b, 108). While in Ljubljana, he shot views of the city sights, and his Panorama of Ljubljana was included on the film programme between 7 and 14 May 1899. He toured widely showing films across northern Italy and the Austro–Hungarian Empire (Kosanović 2000, 30), while adverts in the local press demonstrate he was very active on the relation between Trieste, Rijeka, and Ljubljana between 1897 and 1899. Bläser had obtained the permission from the authorities to organize film shows on the Austrian littoral, granted in December 1897 in Trieste and renewable yearly (Kosanović 1988, 23). Some years later, while sojourning in the coastal town Pula in 1903, Bläser shot several views of the Uljanik shipyard and of sailors having fun on a ship deck (Ibid., 75–77; Godina). While these films have not been preserved, judging from the titles, the views depicted central and attractive locations, where the social life of these cities would unravel. Similarly, in Belgrade, the Lumière brothers representative Andre Carré, shot views of the city in February 1897 and screened these until 20 March (Kosanović 2000, 106). Once again, the titles help identify the film content: the promenade around Kalemegdan park and fortress, the tram stop on Terazije street, workers exiting the cigarette factory, the return of the Serbian King Aleksandar Obrenović from Sofia, and, finally, the departure of the King from the Court to the Orthodox Cathedral (Ibid.). Carré certainly took inspiration from the earlier Lumiere brothers views of other European cities, and decided to shoot views of Belgrade in a similar fashion and with a desire to show the movement of crowds in the urban spaces. Since the royal family was a popular topic with local audiences, Carré would have ensured return on the filming costs through ticket admissions on this occasion. Yet, a much more ambitious attempt and desire to film local views was expressed in Mali Žurnal on 25 September 1911, a newspaper owned by the brothers Savić, also owners of the cinema theatre Moderni Bioskop. Aside from the discussion about the development of cinema and different film genres, recognizing cinema as an art, and even the technical and financial side of

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film production, the article expressed the intentions of Moderni Bioskop and the brothers Savić (Ibid., 151–152): We regularly received films from foreign companies. Naturally these themes are foreign for us […] this cannot satisfy our needs. For this reason, we need to create films from our own lives […] In this way, we will also show our society around the world, manifest our artistry, taste and cultural sensibility. The material will be drawn from history and contemporary life, of moral and educational significance, and thanks to this, the audience will find something more in these films, aside from interesting views, even warmer feelings because this will be part of our reality and daily life. (in Ibid., 152)

Soon afterwards, the brothers Savić announced a call to Serbian writers and journalists for film scripts, and for actors and actresses to join the Cinematographic Theatre of Modern Bioskop (Ibid., 152–154). This ambitious attempt crystallized quite quickly, and the brothers Savić produced their first fiction film Jadna Majka/Poor Mother in 1912, which was announced as a drama from Serbian life and screened in local cinemas (see Ibid., 156–157). There were other similar undertakings in the north of Serbia (then part of Austria-Hungary), where Ernest Bošnjak/Ernő Bosnyák (1876–1963) was one of the first people to establish a permanent cinema in Sombor, Vojvodina (Kosanović 2012, 19). He trained as a printer in Vienna, where he bought a Gaumont cinema projector in 1906, and upon return to Sombor, he organized film projections at the City Theatre from January 1907 (Ibid.). As a keen film enthusiast, he went into business with the owner of the Electric Company, Karol Cviršić/Karoly Zwirschitz (1883–1959), and together they built a permanent movie theatre called Bioskop Arena made in wood, in the centre of the marketplace in Sombor (Ibid., 20). The movie theatre was affordable, and could accommodate 450 people, offering a varied film programme (it changed every two days) accompanied by an electric piano (Ibid.). While this initiative did not last long, Bošnjak’s enthusiasm for film persisted. In 1909, he purchased a German-made film camera, an Ethel, along with equipment to develop and copy films (Ibid., 27). Bošnjak shot his first short fiction film U carstvu Terpsihore/In the Kingdom of Terpsichore, based on the myth of one of the nine Muses in Greek mythology and goddess of dance and chorus, which featured 40 young women dancing in the park of Sombor. The length of the film was 120m (around 6–7min in duration), and while the film is not preserved, his notebook describes the scenes and shots that help form a picture of the content: sleeping statues in the park; dancers and

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the embodiment of love; Daphne waking up; and interpretations of dances from various periods (Ibid.). However, the newsreel footage of an event that took place in Sombor in 1912, which Bošnjak had filmed, has partially survived (84 m) at the Yugoslav Cinematheque. The Otkrivanje spomenika Ferencu Rakociju u Somboru/ Unveiling of the Monument to Ferenc Rákóczi in Sombor1 consists of the following views: ceremony and defile of locals dressed in folk costumes; students and members of noted organizations; a panoramic view of the square; and the statue revealed through a vertical pan (Ibid.). Bošnjak was clearly attuned to capturing important events in the city. His ambitions were even bigger though, as he asked permission to create a film studio in Sombor in 1913. He was refused by the city authorities, while the Senate of nearby Novi Sad, accepted the suggestion in 1914, which ultimately did not succeed due to the onset of World War I2 (Ibid., 28). In Sarajevo, the son of Paulina Valić, owner of cinema Apollo, Antun, went to Vienna to learn how to operate a cinematograph and completed training as a cine-operator in 1912 (Kosanović 2000, 227). Upon his return to Sarajevo, he worked as the director of cinema Apollo from September 1912 onwards, where he organized film shows with music accompaniment (Montina 2019, 15), and Imperial, which opened a year later on 5 October 1913. The building and opening of the Apollo cinema drew great interest from the local press,3 and the local newspaper Sarajevski List dedicated several articles to its architecture, the interior design, the system for fire prevention, and the film programme (Besarević 1974, 223–224). Imperial was also a modern cinema theatre, centrally located and housed inside the new building of the Croatian cultural society Napredak 4 (Montina 2019, 15). Antun Valić 1 Ferenc Rákóczi (1676–1735) was a Hungarian nobleman, as well as the Prince of Transylvania, who led the Hungarian uprising against the Habsburgs in 1703–1711. 2 After World War I, Bošnjak founded Boer Film in 1923, and produced several films with the Hungarian director Bela Fabian. Aside from cinema activities, Bošnjak was the owner of several printing businesses from 1908 until World War II, and editor of several newspapers, including Sport es mozi (Sport and film) between 1929–1930, where he published film reviews (Kosanović 2000, 34). 3 The building was designed by the architect Huber, and constructed by Albert Metz, in the centre of the city, facing the government building, and with a façade in the Vienna Secession style, so that: ‘it would catch the attention of every passer-by from a distance’ (Sarajevski List, 3 September 1912 and Besarović 1974, 223). The cinema theatre was very comfortable with 600 seats, and made to suit the artistic taste of the Sarajevo public (Sarajevski List, 3 September 1912 and Besarović 1974, 223). 4 Since its construction in September 1913, the Napredak building was situated in a central street of Sarajevo, while the Croatian cultural society aimed to be at the centre of social and cultural life of the city, and opening a cinema theatre in the latest fashion was complementary to their existing activities.

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shot several short films for cinema Imperial: Svečano otvaranje Napretkovog doma u Sarajevu/ The Ceremonial Opening of Napredak in Sarajevo (1913), and Ustoličenje Reis-Ul-Uleme/The Enthronement of Resi-Ul-Ulema, and Socijalistička proslava 1. maja u Sarajevu/ The 1 May Socialist Celebration in Sarajevo (1914). He also filmed the visit of the Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand to Sarajevo before his assassination on 28 June 1914, as well as the demonstrations and the pillage of Serbian shops and businesses following the killing (Ibid. and Kosanović 2000, 227). This footage, which he sold to Éclair, was featured in several newsreels and films on the theme of the Sarajevo assassination (Kosanović 2000, 227). After World War I, Valić moved to Zagreb and worked as a cine-operator and cinema technician (Montina 2019, 15 and Kosanović 2000, 228). Permanent cinema theatres, owned by private entrepreneurs or cultural associations, would finance a number of newsreels and reports on local events of social, cultural, and political significance. In Bulgaria, two cinema theatres in Sofia, Moderen Teatar and Apollo, commissioned views of national importance, in order to show these to the local public. From 25 June until 2 December 1910, the newsreels editions Moderen Vestnik (Modern News) illustrating events from around the world, were shown at the Moderen Teatar on a weekly basis. The local press contains information on several views likely shot by local cinema owners: The Celebrations on 2 May in the Military School with the Drills and Awards (1910); Proclamation of the Kingdom in Tarnovo and Official Entering of the King in the Capital (1908); and the Welcoming the King in Sofia (1908), which have not been preserved (Kardjilov 2007, 28–50). On 17 November 1910, the announcement for Izletat na aviatora Maslenikov v Sofia/Aviator Maslenikov’s Trip to Sofia,5 which appeared in the local newspaper Dnevnik, mentioned the film was produced by Moderen Teatar. The following year, another Moderen Teatar production was announced on 11 January 1911 in Dnevnik, a newsreel of a significant local yearly event Vodosvet na Bogojavlenie v Sofia/ The Epiphany Ceremony in Sofia.6 In another newspaper Večerna Pošta, a new reportage by Moderen Teatar was announced on 13 June 1911, Otkrivane na velikoto narodno sabranie vav Veliko Tarnovo na 9 juni 1911 godina/ The Opening of the Grand National Assembly in Veliko Tarnovo on 9 June 1911, and again on 5 Boris Maslennikov was a Russian aircraft engineer, who was invited to Bulgaria to show his airplane. Following the demonstration flight, which took place over the hippodrome in Sofia, with the aid of Vasil Zlatarov, the Bulgarian government decided to acquire his planes for the Air Force. 6 This celebration occurs every year on 6 January, thus keeping an old tradition celebrating the Christian Orthodox feast of Epiphany (baptism of Jesus by John the Baptist).

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18 October 1911 for the Otkrivane na narodno sabranie v Sofia na 15 oktombri 1911 godina/ The Opening of the National Assembly in Sofia on 15 October 1911. Likewise in Zagreb, local views were demanded by the audiences and proved to be extremely popular for the organizers. Društvo Ćirilo-Metodskih Zidara (Association of the Cyril and Method Masons)7 founded an open-air cinema in a small building with a garden in Masaryko Street, and which worked in the summer months (Škrabalo 1984, 23; Dobrinčić 1950, 134). Association of the Cyril and Method Masons decided to open a cinema here to complement the income for their cultural and political activities, and newsreels and reconstructions of actual events around the world were popular at the time since the local newspapers had little visual material (Škrabalo 1984, 23). In May 1912, the Association funded and produced views of Zagreb, which were screened in their cinema, according to Nedjeljne Novosti on 25 May 1912 (Ibid.; Kosanović 1985, 155). The lengthy and imposing announcement (Figure 74) draws attention to first cinematographic views of Zagreb, which were over 300 metres long (around fifteen minutes), and included view of hustle and bustle on Jelačić square, the cathedral, a panorama of Strossmayer’s promenade, the funicular, the theatre, the Croatian Sokol society, the chamber of commerce, Ilica Street, the statue of Kačić, Franjo Josip square, the romanticism of Maksimir park, and others. However, these were not the first views of Zagreb that the local public had the occasion to see.8 In the advert, the highlighted scene of Zrinjevac and a typical afternoon promenade of the city gentry, demonstrates that the filmmakers privileged movement and attractions in the city, where life unfolded as a spectacle. Moreover, the announcement emphasizes that ‘Svatko može sam sebe viditi!’ (Everyone can see themselves!), which reveals the appeal of self-representation at this time.

High-life and the Pleasure of the Screen Only a year after the cinematograph shows at the salon of the headquarters of L’Indépendance Roumaine9 daily newspaper, the desire to immortalize 7 In fact, this association was founded in 1904, to help the work of Družbe Sv. Ćirila i Metoda za Istru, founded in 1893, which gathered money to open Croatian schools in Istria, in order to counter Italianization and counter the influence of the Italian Lega Nazionale. 8 The owner of the travelling cinema Franz Josef Oeser had sojourned in the city in January 1899, where he screened Novi Zagrebački prizori /New Views of Zagreb as part of the film programme until 22 January (Obzor 21 January 1899 and Kosanović 1985, 149). 9 L’Indépendance Roumaine was a French language newspaper founded in Bucharest on 31 July 1879, when the Ottoman Empire accepted Romanian Independence. The journal was

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Figure 71. The Pathé Frères offices in Budapest and Bucharest

Figure 72. Advert for Josip Karaman’s business activities, Sloboda, 7 January 1910

Figure 73. ‘Carnet du High-Life’, L’Indépendance Roumaine, 8 June 1897

Figure 74. Advert for views of Zagreb, Nedjeljne Novosti, 25 May 1912

Figure 75. Still, Proclamation of Montenegro for the Kingdom (1910)

Figure 76. Still, Proclamation of Montenegro for the Kingdom (1910)

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Romanian scenes is expressed via Claymoor’s grandiloquent statement: ‘We will Romanize the cinematograph’ (L’Indépendance Roumaine, 8 June 1897) (Figure 73). While expressing enthusiasm for the new visual medium, Claymoor explains the difficulties of filming locally until this moment: the high cost of cinema equipment and the absence of qualified cinematographers in Bucharest. However, a young photographer Paul Menu 10 (1876–1973) is finally found and commissioned to film the procession of King Carol I and the military parade on 10 May, and the races and hippodrome of Băneasa on 11 May (L’Indépendance Roumaine, 8 (20) June 1897). Throughout June 1897, under the pseudonym Claymoor, the journalist and writer Mihail Văcărescu, reported extensively on the reception of Romanian newsreels in the ‘High Life’ column of L’Indépendance Roumaine. The enthusiasm of the newspaper’s editorial team for Menu’s early cinema activities is evident. In one of the articles, Claymoor reports that the negatives were developed by the Lumière company, since there was no laboratory in Bucharest at the time, and that the upon seeing the ‘interesting views’ they asked for these to be included in their own film catalogue (Ibid.). Of course, the newspaper consented in the aim that Romanian themes and subjects be known around the world and ‘above all, give the idea abroad, of our beautiful army’ (Ibid.). The positive copies arrived in Bucharest on 7 June 1897, and the films were screened the following day on Sunday 8 June 1897 (Rîpeanu 1972, 145). The Sunday film programme included the films of the parade, the King and the Queen and other views from the Lumière catalogue, while the film programme advertised for the following Wednesday was announced as a ‘high-life evening’ and included all of the Romanian views. Menu shot several more newsreels, in total seventeen films,11 between 10 May 1897 and 20 June 1897 (Rîpeanu 2013, 339 and Ţuţui 2011, 12). In the funded by the Romanian government and its editor in chief was Emile Galli. The style and content of the newspaper resembled French press at the time, covering literary and artistic subjects as well as defending Romanian economic interests. The newspaper was also available and distributed in two Parisian locations for the Romanian émigrés. 10 Paul Menu, son of a French optician who emigrated to Romania, was also an optician and a photographer, who lived in Romania until his return to France in 1947 (Rîpeanu 2013, 339; Ţuţui 2011, 12). He was re-discovered as the pioneer of the first Romanian views, following television interviews by film historians in the 1960s (Rîpeanu 2013, 339). 11 Rîpeanu compiled the titles and shooting locations of Menu’s newsreels: Bastimentele flotilei pe Dunare (Galati 20 June 1897); Bufetul de la Sosea (Bucharest May 1897); Canatrul la Hipodromul Baneasa (Bucharest 11 May 1897); Exercitiile Marinarilor Flotilei de pe Dunare (Galati 20 June 1897); Inundatile de la Galati I–IV (Galati 20 June 1897); La Sosea (Bucharest May 1897); Targul Mosilor (Bucharest May 1897); Terasa Cafenelei Capsa (Bucharest May 1897); Tribunele la Cursele de la Baneasa (Bucharest 11 May 1897); 10 Mai 1897 Defilarea (Bucharest); 10 Mai 1897. M.S.

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Lumière catalogue, the newsreel titled Le Roi et La Reine de Roumanie et leur escorte/ The Romanian King and Queen and Their Escorts is still preserved. Only a short fragment of the military and royal parade has survived (15m) and the copy is conserved at the Romanian National Film Archive, which I had the opportunity to view on my visit to Bucharest. Aside from Claymoor’s writing, an article on the front page of L’Indépendance Roumaine published on Wednesday 11 June 1897, was dedicated to the Cinematograph, next to the echoes from abroad and telegraph announcements. The journalist writing under the pseudonym Diogene highlighted how the local public wanted to see local views on the silver screen. The views of the Royal parade and the races at Baneasa were duly announced in several issues of the newspaper, indicating they were very popular and garnered a lot of public interest. Diogene provides reflections on the Cinematograph, inspired by the viewing of Romanian scenes: A toy, a simple magic lantern, which would perhaps change, in the future, the historian’s point of view […] The Cinematograph will reveal everything, and through it, the sincerity of our life will be transmitted over decades, well beyond ourselves. It is a distraction for us; for the future generations it will be an incomparable document, which will shed tears of joy, waking a whole world of ideas. I dreamt of all of this while contemplating the marvellous projections that we owe to the photographic talents of Mr. Paul Menu. (L’Indépendance Roumaine, 11 June 1897)

The archival quality of cinema, as a document of past events for future generations, and the importance of its historical role is evoked in Diogene’s writing. Furthermore, he vocalizes the need for self-representation, which reinforces the ‘extraordinary’ effect of seeing oneself on the screen, immortalized forever. After describing the views of the parade and the movements of King Carol I, the author contemplates future cinematic experiences, which his contemporary audience would never be able to experience: Later, when all these brilliant cavaliers of today will become grandfathers, when their beards will be white, with which emotion cinematographer’s characters will see themselves, as they were once in the blossom of their years. Strange sensation which we do not know! This reel of gelatine will Regele Calare Ocupand Locul pe Bulevard Pentru a Prezida Defilarea (Mihai Viteazul statue in Piata Universitatii, Bucharest); 10 Mai 1897 M.S. Regina in Trasura si M.S. Regele Calare Revenind; and La Palat Escortati de Statul Major Regal si de Atasatii Militari Straini (in Calea Victoriei).

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have to take its place in public libraries, museums and state archives, next to other documents, commentaries without shields of forgotten eras. (L’Indépendance Roumaine, 11 June 1897)

With the arrival of the new technology, capable of recording events and the unfolding of reality, the local organizers of film shows, understood the value of the new visual medium. Claymoor’s grand prophetic claim ‘We will Romanize the cinematograph’ fits within the spirit of the time, when Romania was seeking national unity, and trying to create a distinct Romanian culture and art.

Scientific Spectacles The cinematic apparatus was not only destined for entertainment and pleasure in the early period, and surviving footage demonstrates the potential of cinema for scientific purposes, such as the Romanian Gheorghe Marinescu’s films for the study of the human body and disease. His applied use of films for scientific study resonates with the work of the travelling scientific-artistic association Urania of the Croatian professor Izidor Kršnjavi, who used moving images in his multimedia lectures to illustrate notions of cosmography, the animal kingdom, and health to both urban and rural communities. A neurologist and professor, Gheorghe Marinescu (1863–1938), shot several films between July 1898 and 1901 at the Pantelimon Hospital clinic in Bucharest in order to study walking disabilities. Marinescu was awarded a grant to study neurology under Jean-Martin Charcot, a French neurologist and professor of anatomical pathology at the Salpêtrière hospital in Paris, and upon his return home he founded the Romanian School of Neurology at the University of Bucharest. Seeing in cinema a device capable of capturing motion with a high degree of accuracy, Marinescu purchased a camera from Paul Menu (Ţuţui 2011, 12). The film was shot by Constantin M. Popescu, and the reels were sent for development at the Lumière factory in Lyon. The original footage on 35mm nitrate reels is currently conserved at the Romanian National Film Archive in Bucharest, which I had the opportunity to view during my archival trip in the Balkans via a safety copy. There are five films (total of 535 metres) each dedicated to a specific neurological disease, with descriptive titles: Tulburarile mersului in hemiplegia organica/ The Walking Troubles of Organic Hemiplegy (1898); Un caz de hemiplegie isterica vindecat prin hipnoza/ A Case of Hysteric Hemiplegy Healed Through Hypnosis

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(1899); Tulburarile in paraplegiile organice/The Walking Troubles of Organic Paraplegies (1899); Tulburarile mersului in ataxia locometrica progresiva/ The Walking Troubles of Progressive Locomotion Ataxy (1900); and Paralizia pseudhipertrofica sau mosclerozica din cadrul miopatiilor / Illnesses of the Muscles (1901).12 The professor published his results along with consecutive frames from the film, in the French medical journal La Semaine Médicale under the title ‘Les troubles de la marche dans l’hémiplégie organique, étudiés à l’aide du cinématographe’ (Paris, 5 July, 1899, 225–228) – in which he highlighted the function and aid of cinema in the study of disease affecting human locomotion (Rîpeanu 2008, 18). His main theoretical ideas on the application of cinema for biological science and art appeared in the French journal Revue générale des sciences pures et appliquées in 1900 (Ibid., 20; Căliman 2000, 19), paving the way for the applied use of cinema. Marinescu used the new cinematic device to capture human movement, and looked at individual film frames to study these irregular movements caused by neurological disturbances in detail.13 His drawings were later applied in other scientific works.14 Like Eadweard Muybridge15 and the French Jules Marey,16 who had previously used serial photography to study animal locomotion, Marinescu saw the potential of cinema for his scientific experiments. In these recordings, the photograms themselves become dissections of the continuity of movement, immobile fragments of reality. As Doane noted: ‘The emergence of mechanical reproduction is accompanied by modernity’s increasing understanding of temporality as assault, acceleration, speed,’ – a modernity in which time became a ‘troublesome 12 There is a brief documentary in Romanian on the work of Gheorghe Marinescu produced by the British Pathé in 1967 available on You Tube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8XGizxVg-p4; last accessed 21 August 2021. 13 The practical application of cinematography, i.e. the resulting sketches drawn from the filmic frames, can be viewed in the excerpts of Marinescu’s films available in digital format via YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=13I8lp7dwhg; last accessed 21 August 2021. 14 The physician Alexandru Bolintineanu was able to defend his PhD thesis on cox tuberculosis, based on Marinescu’s study of walking difficulties in the recorded films on 25 October 1899 (Ţuţui 2011, 14). 15 In the US, the work of Eadward Muybridge on human and animal movement was praised; in 1881 he published the serial photographs of Leland Stanford’s horse and his major achievement were the 781 plates called Animal Locomotion published in 1887 (Abel 2005, 825). 16 The French physiologist Etienne-Jules Marey, began to perfect several devices which anticipated the moving picture camera: the photographic gun (an example can be found in the Institut Lumière in Lyon) and chronophotography. At the Station physiologique in Paris, together with Georges Demeny as collaborator, the series of images captured on this device, ‘contributed to advances in physiology of movement and in understanding of dynamic phenomena’ (Abel 2005, 820).

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and anxiety-producing entity,’ and which can only be regulated by cinema (2002, 33–34). Against the assault of temporality, the scientific world could control time with the cinematograph, accelerating or slowing down, to a complete still frame – a dead frame, if necessary, to conduct the analysis. In this process, the movement in time is archived on celluloid film, and available for recurrent viewings via moving image projection for lectures or studies. Similar experiments followed throughout the world. For instance, the fusion of the movie camera with the microscope resulted in a series of films titled The Unseen World, commissioned by Charles Urban and made by the British science educator F. Martin Duncan in 1903 (Abel 2005, 821). X-rays also captured public imagination at the turn of the century, even though their value was more symbolic rather than useful for practical application such as diagnosis and research. Initially, the Cinématographe Lumière was seen as a mere form of entertainment and ‘aroused suspicion among the scientific community,’ which slowed down the emergence of scientific cinematography (Ibid., 820). Yet, there were a number of application of cinema for scientific purposes in the very early period. The celebrated French surgeon, Eugène-Louis Doyen 17 (1859–1916) used cinema to film surgical operations for scientific and pedagogical purposes, which were subsequently screened at international medical congresses from 1898 until 1906 (Baptista 2005, 44). There were several other applied used of cinema for medical studies, in particular in neurology in France and Italy.18 According Ţuţui, Gheorghe Marinescu was the first to make a scientific film in the world (2011, 12). Two decades later, in a letter dated 29 July 1924, the French 17 Doyen and his assistants used the films for critical self-analysis of their surgical skills: ‘When I watched one of my surgeries on screen for the first time I realized to what extent I was unaware of myself […] I’ve corrected, I’ve perfected, and I’ve simplified what needed to be; in such a way that the cinematograph helped me to perfect my surgical technique considerably’ (Baptista 2005, 44). Among his controversial work which was later emulated by others (for instance Ernst von Bergmann, Medlinskij and professors Auguste Broca and Jean-Loius Faure) the famous Separation des soeurs xyphopages Doodica and Radica/ Separation of the Siamese Twins Doodica and Radica created a scandal in 1902 (Abel 2005, 821). While all of these films were intended for teaching, some circulated outside medical conferences and schools of medicine: ‘Driven by insatiable curiosity, many uninitiated audiences saw these brutal images in commercial venues’ (Ibid.). 18 Albert Londe and Dr Paul Richer used cinema for the study of neurology at the Salpêtrière hospital in Paris (Abel 2005, 821). A Belgian neurologist, Arthur van Gehuchten recorded sequences, which studied the consequences of spinal cord traumas and myopathies in 1900, and were used to illustrate his posthumous book Les Maladies nerveuses (Abel 2005, 821). In Italy, several cinematographic studies on the neuro-motor system of dogs were produced by Osvaldo Polimanti between 1905 and 1908, at the University of Perugia, and a typical case of hysteria was staged by Camillo Negro in Turin in 1908 (Ibid.).

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film pioneer Auguste Lumière congratulated Marinescu on the original scientific use of cinematography and regretted that few scientists applied cinema for research (Ţuţui 2011, 12–14).

Views of Ethnographic and Socio-Political Significance A decade later after the initial film shows given by itinerant cinemas, the colourful public life in Split was immortalized by local enthusiast and film pioneer Josip Karaman (1864–1921). Karaman was a versatile businessman and a person of culture, who owned a music instrument and stationery shop in the old city centre (Figure 72). He was also a keen photographer and a representative for The Grand Phono-Biograf. After organizing cinema screenings with Antonio Volić from Pula in 1906, Karaman purchased a film projector,19 and engaged a cine-operator, Viktor Wolf, opening the first permanent cinema theatre in Split under the name ‘Grand Elektro Bioskop,’ later known as Kino Karaman (Škrabalo 1998, 37). Aside from the changing repertoire of foreign films, he sometimes showed his own diapositives (colour photographs on glass plates). On 25 January 1910, he photographed an unusually strong storm in the port of Split, processed the diapositives and showed them alongside the film programme the very next day. The views captured the imagination of the audiences and were quite popular due to depiction of movement, according to the local press Sloboda on 26 and 28 January 1910. At the same time, a desire for self-representation was voiced: ‘Could a cinematograph be obtained to film events and views in Split and Dalmatia?’ (Sloboda 28 January 1910) Karaman avoided showing Italian films with nationally-oriented themes, and frequently received complaints from the clerical circles for infecting the youth with immoral films, while at times the local censorship simply closed his cinema (Škrabalo 1998, 37). At this time, cinema activities in the city of Split and Dalmatia acquired a political character. At the end of the nineteenth century, Split was a small multi-ethnic and multicultural city with a population of 16,000, where Croats, Serbs, Bosnians, Italians, French, Hungarians, and Austrians lived and worked side by side. The city economy mainly consisted of artisanal shops and small manufacturers, the industry was not developed and production was limited to urban needs. 19 The original Pathé projector used in his cinema theatre in 1907, operated by hand and with a projection speed of around 16 frames per second, is today conserved in the City Museum of Split.

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Soon after the publication of the public’s desire for local views, Karaman purchased a cinematograph and started to make films. Perhaps, he was already eager to experiment with the new visual device. Karaman produced the following newsreels: Svečanosti proglašenja Crne Gore kraljevinom/ The Proclamation of the Kingdom of Montenegro; Sokolski Slet u Splitu/The Sokol Practices in Split; Izlet splitskih daka u Sinj i na Gubavicu, Procesija sv. Duje/Procession of Saint Dujam or Duje, Sajam svetog Duje / The Fair of Saint Dujam; Sprovod splitskog načelnika Vicka Michaljevića/The Funeral of the Mayor Vicko Michaljević; and Svesokolski slet u Zagrebu/ The Sokol Practices in Zagreb, of which only four have partially survived (Kosanović 1985, 158). However, earlier research conducted by Kečkemet, the curator of the City Museum of Split, confirmed three partially preserved films, the celebration for the patron of the city Procession of Saint Dujam or Duje (40m, 7 May 1911), The Sokol Practices in Split (43m, 21 August 1911), and The Funeral of the Mayor Vicko Michaljević (46m, 28 June 1911). The films were sent to Budapest for processing (Kečkemet 1969, 132 and Kosanović 1985, 158), and then screened at Kino Karaman, to a local public eagerly waiting to see themselves and their city on the screen. According to Majcen, these short films have ethnographic value, since they are today, the only surviving film materials, which testify to the traditional costumes and customs in Split and its surroundings of the time20 (1995/1996, 123). Listed in the Croatian Cinémathèque catalogue, is one more film, Splitska Luka/Port of Split from 1911 (only 5m of surviving footage)21. Karaman travelled to Montenegro in August 1910 to film the proclamation of the Kingdom, subsequently screening this newsreel in his cinema along with The Sokol Practices in Split on 7, 8, and 9 September (Kečkemet 1969, 132; Škrabalo 1984, 26). The local newspaper Naše jedinstvo22 confirms that Karaman filmed the events in Montenegro: ‘Cinematograph. Karaman filmed the grand celebrations in Cetinje with the Cinematograph, which will be shown in Split on 7, 8 and 9 September. The views from the Sokol practices will also be finished any day now, and the cinematographic office 20 For instance, Kečkemet notes how the particular white hooded tunic worn by the members of confraternities in Split seen in the footage disappeared after World War I (1969, 143). 21 The Josip Karaman collection films are available in a digital format on the Hrvatski Državni Arhiv YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SLhSkJSsSyo&ab_channel=Hrvat skiDr%C5%BEavniArhiv; last accessed 21 August 2021. 22 Naše jedinstvo was a Croatian-language newspaper published in Split three times a week from 1894 until 1918. It reported on local and international political events and cultural happenings and had small literary supplements. They were the organ of the Croatian National Party, and anti-Italian.

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in Budapest is developing these.’ Kečkemet notes that the newsreel of the ceremony of the Montenegrin proclamation has not survived (1969, 143), while Kosanović, maintains that this footage, which was long considered to be shot by unknown Italian filmmakers, was preserved at the Yugoslav Cinematheque (1985, 158). Recent scholarship also argues this film was not preserved (Milunović 2018, 77); however, a newsreel titled Proglašenje Crne Gore za kraljevinu/ Proclamation of Montenegro for the Kingdom (1910) is available online via the European Film Gateway (Figure 76). The footage begins with the intertitle featuring the Balkan Film logo (Figure 75), which belongs to the specialized film journal with the same name, published by Helios Film (1918–1929) and owned by the Muller brothers. Since Helios Film was established after World War I, it is unlikely the views were commissioned by the company, but the footage was most likely acquired from another local cinematographer. There is a possibility then that this positive copy, conserved at the Yugoslav Cinematheque, is Karaman’s film of the ceremony and proclamation. According to recent research, footage containing views of the Montenegrin King Nikola was discovered in a cinema theatre in Zagreb in 1918 by the cine-operator Slavko Maćufat (Milunović 2018, 78), but little else is known. Further research is necessary to establish the provenance of the Balkan Film production reel. Further, the partially preserved The Sokol Practices in Split consists of two sequences depicting the procession of the participants, but since the actual views of the practices are missing, it is likely the original newsreel was longer (Kečkemet 1969, 133–134). The journalist of the local newspaper Sloboda writing one day after the Sokol manifestation, on 22 August 1910, mentioned that Karaman hired a Mr Halla to shoot the practices with the Cinematograph. The Mr. Halla, referred to in the article, must be the Croatian film pioneer from Zagreb Josip Halla, who had been working as a cine-operator and travelling cinema exhibitor since 1909. The views shot by Karaman and Halla included: views in front of the city hall; the procession along the coast; the group and individual Sokol practices and gymnastics with bars, beams, and the pommel horse. According to the journalist, there were many photographers at the scene, helping to immortalize this event forever (Sloboda, 22 August 1010). The gymnasts from the Croatian Sokol society and the Serbian counterpart Dušan Silni (Dušan the Great) were present at the celebration. ‘Sokolski Slet’ was part of political manifestations of South Slavs within the Austro–Hungarian Empire, which represented the South Slavic national sentiments to free themselves from the monarchy and unite under a single nation. During the 1860s the Yugoslav national idea appeared in Dalmatia, where Croats and Serbs from urban areas united to

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form the Nationalist Party in order to counter the Italianizing Autonomists and fight against Austrian centralization (Lampe 1996, 68). Most of Dalmatia apart from the independent city-state of Dubrovnik,23 had been under Venetian rule for several centuries prior to the Napoleonic conquests and the creation of French Illyrian provinces between 1806 and 1813, followed by the Habsburg rule. Karaman certainly filmed the Sokol practices, aware of the political and social significance at the time, and was most likely himself sympathetic to the cause.

Pictures of Home Karol Grossmann (1864–1929) was a lawyer and an eminent personality in the cultural and political sphere, from Slovenia, and considered a pioneer of ‘amateur films’ or ‘home movies’ in the region. He also devoted a lot of his time to colour and black-and-white photography, and over 600 of his photographs are currently conserved at the Slovenian Film Archives. The three preserved films were shot on the German Ernemman-KINO 17.5mm movie camera, which he purchased in Dresden, Germany. In the very early period, it was only a few upper-class and bourgeois families that could afford a movie camera for private use, to document family events and celebrations. All three original negatives are now housed at the Slovenian Film Archives, while in 1968, the content was transferred to a non-flammable 16mm film in order to preserve and screen the films.24 Karol Grossmann was active both politically and socially, organizing and participating in society meetings in Ljutomer. He had also written several poems, theatre comedies and dramas throughout his life. Around 1914–1915, at the start of World War I, Fritz Lang (then an artillery NCO with the Landwehr-Feldkanonendivision Nr. 13), stayed with the Grossman family in Ljutomer according to the memoirs of Grossmann’s daughter Božena. A photograph of Fritz Lang himself, while working on a stone sculpture in Ljutomer, was sent to the Grossmann family as a souvenir, and signed: ‘Zur Erinnerung! Fritz Lang 16.2.1916 Köflach (In Memory! Fritz Lang 16.2.1916 Köflach)’ (Šimenc 1985, 30). This early friendship and perhaps cinematic connection between the two men seems 23 The Republic of Dubrovnik, which managed to escape imperial domination prior to 1800s, was an important trade centre and principal point of entry for Mediterranean trade with the Ottoman Empire, literally at the crossroads of East and West. 24 Film formats such as 17.5mm, which have fallen in disuse, require a digital scan, digital restoration (clean up, colour correction, stabilization of the image) and a production of a digital file in order to be preserved.

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propitious, before Lang would embark on his film career and achieve world fame. Grossman abandoned filming in 1906, and would later continue to practice photography and be involved in amateur radio (Kosanović 2000, 83). Most amateur or home movies were not meant for public distribution or exhibition, but were enjoyed within the private sphere. The Grossman films were shown in his family circle and possibly also at society meetings which he organized. Ernemman-KINO had a dual function for filming and projection, making it accessible and practical for home use.25 While the 17.5mm gauge is classified under the amateur film domain, it is not easy to draw a line, as the f ilms were shot in the very early period on flammable material, and record the everyday life in Ljutomer. According to Richard Abel: ‘Before about 1910, it can be misleading to separate professional and amateur film apparatuses and/or activity’ (2005, 25). Even the ‘Cinématographe Lumière began life in its inventors’ eyes as a lightweight multi-purpose domestic moving picture machine’ (Ibid.), and later developed into a multi-million-dollar mass entertainment industry. The two spheres, commercial (public) and amateur (private), could only be separated with the introduction of cinematographic devices especially designed for home use.26 Thus, some of Grossman’s films could be classed as travelogues or actualities, and if they were shown at society meetings, these could be said to belong to the educational, ethnographic and social sphere. Grossman’s impulse to purchase a movie camera and record everyday events around his town and make movies of the family’s leisure activities, reflects the need for self-representation, versus simply being represented by a foreign gaze. Odhod od maše v Ljutomeru / Dismissal from Mass in Ljutomer (1905) shows a view of a street illuminated by the morning light, and locals returning home from the church in their Sunday-best clothes (Figure 77). Grossman placed the camera on an elevated space, perhaps a first-floor window or a balcony, in order to observe the entire scene and movement of the people while using the buildings to frame the composition and place the church at the centre. There 25 The Ernemman-KINO for the 17.5mm format was made by the Dresden photographic company, owned by Heinrich Ernemman A.G. and founded in 1889. They manufactured photo cameras, film projectors and cameras in standard formats until 1926, when they joined with Zeiss-Ikon A.G. The 17.5mm format was basically a 35mm film strip split in half, with perforations in the middle between the film frames. Since the perforation was in the middle of the film strip, the image content was more easily damaged and scratched with ordinary use after consecutive screenings. 26 ‘An amateur home market was distinguished from professional users dependent on the public sale and distribution of their work’ around 1912, when Edison introduced the Edison Home Kinetoscope using 22mm f ilm, and Pathé-Frères started marketing the Pathé Kok projector Home Cinematograph on 28mm film (Abel 2005, 26).

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is a similarity to the views of Lumière brothers’ films such as those of workers exiting the factory, due to the movement of people toward the spectator. The other film, Sejem v Ljutomeru/ The Ljutomer Fair (1905), depicts the hustle and bustle of the market day in the main square in Ljutomer (Figure 78). The film is composed of several views from three camera positions: a long shot showing the totality of the square, the second is tighter focusing on the centre, while the third view brings the spectators close to the market stands (Figure 79). Na domačem vrtu/ In the family garden (1906) provides a glimpse of intimate everyday life, caught in the act and the unravelling of reality in front of the camera which is not hidden (Figures 80, 81, and 82). The point of view is at height of a child, filmed in the garden of the Loan Bank in Ljutomer, where the Grossman family lived between 1901 and 1910 before buying their own house (Šimenc 1985, 113). There are two views: the first is of the daughters Draga and Božena standing by the crib of their baby brother Vladimir (Figure 80), while the second shows the girls running from the gazebo to and from the camera (82), followed by a view of his wife Matilda with their son Vladimir in her arms, who joins the daughters and walks towards and back from the camera (Figure 81). The presence of Grossman behind the camera is palpable, and the family is aware of the cinematic gaze. Perhaps Grossman is giving them directions, encouraging them to move toward the camera and then walk back. This can be considered one of the first home movies in the Balkans, and recalls the Lumière brothers’ intimate family portrait in Le Repas de bébé / Baby’s Dinner (1895). The sentimental and idyllic view on the family garden and the familiar scene, echoes the iconography and the setting of Impressionist art, such as the 1902 painting by Vlaho Bukovac,27 Umjetnikova kći u vrtu / The Artist’s Daughter in the Garden, painted in the atelier of his family home in Cavtat on the Adriatic coast. The sensibility towards the impression of movement and light in Bukovac’s painting seems to reverberate in the familial scene captured by Grossman, inasmuch as both have visually pictured the expression of fatherly love. Grossman’s wife and two daughters playing in the family garden, points to the emergence of leisure time and frivolous activities, while their clothes place them among the educated and Westernized bourgeoisie at the turn of the century. 27 Vlaho Bukovac, who trained in Paris, would become a key artist in Zagreb from 1893 until 1897, organizing art exhibitions and cultural events. He organized the Hrvatski Salon (Croatian Salon) exhibition in 1896 at the Art Pavilion in Zagreb, which marked a new trend in Croatian art, denoting a movement from academic art with its classical mythology themes and stylized landscapes to a more native cultural identity in art.

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Figure 77. Still, Dismissal from Mass in Ljutomer (1905)

Figure 78. Still, The Ljutomer Fair (1905)

Figure 79. Still, The Ljutomer Fair (1905)

Figure 80. Still, In the Family Garden (1906)

Figure 81. Still, In the Family Garden (1906)

Figure 82. Still, In the Family Garden (1906)

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For Grossman, filmmaking remained a short-lived leisure activity and he never sought further professionalization in the film domain. ‘Historically, amateur film’s trajectory transformed from an economic to a social category: from a participation in entrepreneurial myths to a popularization of professional equipment as consumer items and, finally, to a professionalization of leisure time’ (Zimmerman 1995, xii). Grossman’s home movies, were self-financed and meant for a small circle of friends and family. For this reason, these f ilms constitute part of the counter-archive, containing an innocent gaze and sentimental subject matter, which increases the contemporary spectator’s affective encounter with the moving images. Grossmann’s, however, today form part of Slovenian national heritage, and their original use-value and meaning has mutated, because they represent the earliest known moving images filmed in Slovenia by a local. While these affective moving images conserve the individual and private memories of the Grossman family, it is through their documentary and historical importance today, that they have entered the domain of collective and public memory.

Constructing the Nation through Cinema The arrival of cinema coincided with the rise of nationalism in the twentieth century: ‘National self-consciousness, seen as a condition for nationhood […] became broadly linked to cinematic fictions’ (Shohat and Stam 1994, 101). Prior to cinema, the novel and the newspaper, ‘print capitalism’ fostered imagined national communities (Anderson [1983] 2006). Now, it was moving images of ‘us’ and ‘them,’ which confirmed or challenged local and national identities, and contributed to the creation of imagined communities. Aside from actualities and newsreels, several single and multi-reel fiction films were made in the silent period in the Balkans, but only very few prior to the beginning of World War I were produced, and among which even fewer have partially survived. The earliest surviving feature-length fiction films from Romania and Serbia, reinforce the rising of national consciousness and identity through epic narrations of past events and notably the liberation from the Ottoman Empire’s dominion during the period of national awakening in the nineteenth century. There is some information on the content and style of early fiction films made by local producers and filmmakers, often in collaboration with foreign cinematographers or directors. In Greece, these are comical films made by the popular stage comedian Spyros Dimitrakopoulos known as Spyridion: Spyridion, Quo Vadis (Greece, 1911, dir. Spyros Dimitrakopoulos, prod. Athini

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Films); Spyridion, Baby (Greece, 1912, dir. Spyros Dimitrakopoulos, prod. Athini Films); and Spyridion, Chameleon (Greece, 1912, dir. Spyros Dimitrakopoulos, prod. Athini Films); and the folk-costume rural drama, the ‘fustanella’ genre, Golfo (Greece, 1914, dir. Costas Bachatoris and Filippo Martelli). In Romania, the early productions span several genres, sentimental dramas Amor fatal/ Fatal Love (Romania, 1911, dir. Grigore Brezeanu) and Amorurile unei prințese/ The Loves of a Princess (Romania, 1913, dir. Mărioara Voiculescu),28 and adventure films such as Detectivul/ Detective (Romania, 1913, dir. Constantin Radovici and Mărioara Voiculescu). In the city of Cluj in Transylvania, the prolific Hungarian actor, director and writer, Jenő Janovics, produced the first feature fiction film, a Hungarian drama Sárga csikó/ The Yellow Colt (1913) with the help of Pathé Frères’ director Robert Montgobert and film crew.29 In Serbia, several dramas were made, such as the historical drama Ulrih Celjski i Vladislav Hunjadi (Serbia, 1911, dir. Ilija Stanojević, prod. Svetozar Botorić) and the contemporary, realist-style drama Jadna Majka/Poor Mother (Serbia, 1912, prod. Savić Film i Kompanija). In Bulgaria, the first known fiction film was a comedy adventure genre Bulgarian is Gallant/ Bulgarian is a Gentleman which has not survived (Bulgaria, 1914, dir. Vasil Gendov). Here, I discuss the arrival of cinema and its consequent nation-building project, by focusing on two partially preserved fiction feature films: the Serbian historical epic Karađorđe (1911) and the Romanian historical epic Independența României (1912). In terms of aesthetics and film production values, these films resemble the film d’art style to some extent, and use literary works and well-known stage actors from national theatres. Both films echo eighteenth-century literary tradition of Romanticism, constructing national myths and narratives. Among major cultural movements of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Impressionism, Symbolism, and Modernism), Romanticism underscores and influences the revolutionary spirit of independence and liberation, the formation of national consciousness, and the revival of epics, folk elements, and heroes. The stylistic and 28 Mărioara Voiculescu (1885–1976) was a well-known stage actress and the first Romanian woman director. Due to the loss of film materials, there is little research or knowledge about her role and contribution to the development of early cinema in Romania. However, in the period between 1912 and 1913, she seems to have authored/co-authored eight screenplays (Mitarca 2015, 526), and directed/co-directed (with another well-known actor, Constantin Radovici) six fiction films of various genres (sentimental drama, adventure, historical film) all produced by Leon Popescu (see Rîpeanu 2013, 604; Istoria Filmului Romanesc, 2014). 29 Jenő Janovics made around 60 films between 1913 and 1920 (out of which only four have been integrally preserved), and opened the first film studio in Cluj/Koloszvar in Transylvania (contemporary Romania) collaborating with the Budapest based Projectograf company and film professionals (Zakariás 2014, 79–99).

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thematic concerns of the Romantic movement in art and literature seem to be continued in cinematographic representations of the early period. The stories focus on the battles with the Ottoman army in the nineteenth century and are symptomatic of political and social context in the Balkans at the beginning of the century, the rise of nationalism and disillusionment with the empires. Modernity in the Balkan region was often synonymous with an increased gravitation towards Western Europe and the refusal of its Eastern legacy. These films are nation-building, in as much they celebrate Romanian-ness and Serbia-ness through a depiction of folklore, typical landscapes and traditional customs, but also because they provide national heroes and glorify their military leaders and armies, reinforcing a continuity of national narrative, nation-building agendas, and ideals of historical progress towards achieving independence. This trend for nation-building and celebratory films was dispersing across Europe and beyond and it is not unique to the Balkan region. Ian Christie notes how early audiences already had the opportunity to identify national ceremonies, and how ‘the years surrounding the outbreak of World War I saw an unprecedented number of assertively national films,’ such as Sixty Years a Queen (Britain, 1913), Richard Wagner (Germany, 1913), and The Tercentenary of the Romanov Dynasty’s Accession (Russia, 1912) (2013, 20). Adaptations of literary and epic works were very popular across Europe, while the film d’art style featuring decorated sets and costumes, and often highly trained stage actors, resulted in the merging of high (theatre) and popular (cinema) art, which suited the taste of the time. There are similarities between Karađorđe and Independenţa României and the film d’art30 style, such as the use of trained and well-known stage actors, historically accurate sets and costumes, and a nation-building narrative. In order to heighten the drama and increase the realism, both films rely on battle reconstructions, filmed on location, and employ hundreds of extras, while Independenţa României employs effective editing techniques to increase the dramatic action. Moreover, the production of these films is duly followed and reported 30 In 1908, the French Film d’Art company was founded with the aim of bringing French culture to the screen, by capitalizing on the cultural prestige and literary heritage of the nation. Its famous film, L’assassinat du Duc de Guise/ The Assassination of the Duc de Guise (1908), was filmed in front of painted sets with historically accurate props and used stage actors. The film d’art favoured historical subjects and used editing techniques to increase dramatic action, and ‘its aim was to ennoble cinema through an association with literature and theatre, often through adaptations of historical drama’ (Abel 205, 337). Throughout Europe, other f ilm companies followed in this vein, Nordisk in Denmark and Film d’Arte in Italy, while in the USA, Vitagraph and Biograph started to produce ‘quality films’ in reputable theatres.

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by the local press, which ensures a sensational turn-out at the cinema, and builds early audience’s expectations in terms of the films delivering a visual spectacle due to high production costs. The production and reception contexts of Karađorđe and Independenţa României will be analysed based on available archival material and secondary sources. These films were significant for local film historians, who have written on the film’s style and narrative, however, focusing exclusively on national contexts, situating these within early cinema productions in Europe. Yet, these films can also be considered transnational films or co-productions for several reasons, they involve or depend on film professionals from other parts of Europe, and their producers had ambitions to distribute the film beyond national boundaries in order to reach a wider international audience.

Historical Drama from Serbia In Belgrade, the local public had the opportunity to see historical dramas and biopics, many of which were produced by the French Film d’Art company, including La Mort du duc de Guise/ The Assassination of the Duc de Guise (1908, dir. Charles le Bargy and André Calmettes), Résurrection /Resurrection (1910, dir. Henri Desfontaines and André Calmettes), and La Dame aux camélias/ The Lady with the Camellias (1912, dir. André Calmettes and Henri Pouctal). The most popular films among local audiences were historical films, followed by films based on famous literary novels, and then newsreels and comedies (Slijepčević 1982, 83). Since multi-reel fiction films were well-frequented, it seemed natural that the local film production would also turn to theatrical subjects and historical epics to attract more audiences. The producer Svetozar Botorić, who founded the ‘Association for shooting Serbian films,’ was the Pathé Frères representative for Serbia and Bulgaria from 1911, which gave him exclusive rights to show Pathé films and sell projection equipment to cinema theatres (Erdeljanović 2012, Slijepčević 1982, 94). While popular all across the territory of Serbia, the largest number of Pathé films were shown at Botorić’s own cinema theatre (Slijepčević 1982, 94). Therefore, Botorić and the cultural circles of Belgrade were well acquainted with the aesthetics and stories of films produced by the Pathé affiliates Film d’Art and SCAGL. According to memoirs, Botorić met with Ilija Stanojević (1859–1930), a well-known theatre actor, writer, and director, proposing they unite forces to make Serbian films, since Pathé had sent an excellent cine-operator to Belgrade (Kosanović 1985, 78). The cinematographer in question was Louis Pitrolf de Beéry (discussed in detail in Chapter 3). Their

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first joint project was Ciganska Svadba/Gypsy Wedding (1911), filmed on the occasion of the Bibija holiday celebrations on the river island, located on the river Sava, which runs through the centre of Belgrade. This film was shown at cinema Pariz in December 1911 (Pravda, 9 December 1911), and sold to Pathé Frères according to the local press (Jutro, 30 October 1911) and archival evidence (Kosanović 1985, 79). The film Život i dela besmrtnog vožda Karadjordja/The Life and Deeds of the Immortal Vožd Karađorđe (1911) narrates episodes from the life of a famous historical figure, the Serbian leader Karađorđe Petrović (1762–1817) and celebrates Serbian uprisings waged against the Ottoman Empire in the nineteenth century. Considered as the ‘Father of Serbia’ and praised as a national hero, the symbol of Karađorđe was revived around this time. The screenplay was co-written by the director Čiča Ilija Stanojević and Ćira Manok Savković, and based on the dramatized work of Miloš Cvetić,31 the epic poem ‘Početak bune na dahije’ (The Beginning of the Revolt against the Dahijas) by Filip Višnjić, and biographical and historical information (Kosanović 1985; Radović 2019, 292). The negatives were sent to the Pathé Film laboratories in Paris for development. While the original length of the film was 1800m (around 90 minutes in duration), the surviving footage, circa 800 metres without intertitles, was rediscovered in the Austrian Film Archive in 2003.32 The surviving copy was duplicated and scanned at the laboratory in Rome, and new copy was produced with the addition of intertitles created by the head archivist Erdeljanović and his team based on biographical information and the dramatic work. The original film most likely had no intertitles, which means that the screenings may have also been accompanied by commentary besides the music. The filming of Karađorđe took place in the summer of 1911 in Belgrade and its surroundings, on the riverbanks of the rivers Sava and the Danube and the Banjica field, where the battle of Mišara was re-enacted with the help of the Serbian army (Kosanović 1985, 80). The press duly reported following 31 Miloš Cvetić (1845–1905) was a theatre actor, director, and writer, and one of the most influential figures of Serbian theatre in the nineteenth century; he authored several national historical dramas (Kosanović 1985, 79). 32 The rediscovery of Karađorđe in the Austrian Film Archives in Vienna by Aleksandar Erdeljanović, the head archivist of the Yugoslav Cinematheque, was influential in the shaping and reinforcing of Serbian national identity in post-Yugoslav times and creating a national narrative. The film was restored and had an official premiere screening in Belgrade on 14 February 2004, marking 200 years of the First Serbian Uprising and the creation of the modern Serbian state. See Grgić (2016) for further discussions of the contemporary reception and re-use of this film in the post-Yugoslav and wider Balkan context.

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the conclusion of the film shoot: ‘The famous company Pathé Frères from Paris finished cinematographic shooting of Karađorđe’s entire life, including the battle of Mišara that was filmed yesterday in Banjica. The film is 1800m long, and it cost 20,000 to produce’ (Dnevni List, 15 [28] August 1911). Bearing in mind that the film production costs were high for that time and those circumstances, Karađorđe could be considered an epic blockbuster. According to newspaper sources, just the filming of the battle and war scenes cost 12,000 (Kosanović 1985, 80). Only a short segment of the bloody battle has survived, notably the charging of the Turkish cavalry, the view of Karađorđe, and other Serbian leaders who led the uprising, the counterattack of the Serbian troops (Figures 83 and 84), and the defeat of the Turks and the death of the captain Kulin. Based on the preserved footage, it is difficult to ascertain to which extent the editing, cinematography, and mise-en-scène worked together to construct the action and dramatic rhythm and flow of the sequence. The majority of the other scenes are shot frontally in interior settings, and, generally, the framing in the film varies from full figure to mid-long shots. In terms of the narrative, the plot focuses on the famous episodes from Karađorđe’s life, and the film constructs an idealized image of this historical figure, that of a great patriot, courageous fighter and leader, and a national hero. This is especially underscored through the mise-en-scène of the Turkish landlord’s prophetic dream in which angels appear next to the image of infant Karađorđe (Figure 85) to announce his leading role for the future of the Serbian nation, or idyllic village scenes with Karađorđe as a young boy play fighting with friends and shooting a ‘vicious Turk.’ The Ottoman rulers are often portrayed as savage (they pillage villages and steal babies) or cowardly, and even superstitious in a scene where they consult reflections in a dish filled with water (Figure 86). Despite these ideologically charged representations, there are also views of representative national and cultural elements, such as folk costumes, especially vivid with the characters in the fountain scene (Figure 87), or musical instruments, for example the gusle: a single-string instrument that usually accompanies musical folklore and epic poetry in the region. Here, according to the legendary accounts, the young Karađorđe and his friends are depicted listening to the epic poems about the battle of Kosovo and the death of the Ottoman Sultan Murat. The use of famous stage actors, the performances, and the recourse to accurate and historical use of décor, costumes, and props in the interior scenes, recall the well-known French Film D’Art production The Assassination of the Duc de Guise. The film ends with a succession of short views in which the principal actors in formal dress bow and look towards the camera acknowledging the spectators (Figure 88), just

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Figure 83. Still, Karađorđe

Figure 84. Still, Karađorđe

Figure 85. Still, Karađorđe

Figure 86. Still, Karađorđe

Figure 87. Still, Karađorđe

Figure 88. Still, Karađorđe

Figure 89. Still, Karađorđe

Figure 90. Still, Karađorđe

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like in a theatrical performance, and in a characteristic manner similar to cinema of attractions. Finally, in terms of the mise-en-scène, the patterns of tapestries, rugs, and divans, alongside the intricate details of the costumes visible in the interior scenes (Figure 89), echo the Byzantine and Ottoman visual heritage, and continue to privilege haptic vision. The film premiere took place on 23 October 1911 (old Julian calendar) at the producer’s cinema in Belgrade, following a private screening for journalists and the press on 10 October 1911 (old Julian calendar). Karađorđe was screened for four days and advertised as a ‘historical drama’ in the local press. The tickets cost 1 dinar for a first-class seat and half a dinar for a second. The newspaper Večernje Novosti praised the film: ‘Karađorđe at the cinema: the film was returned from Paris yesterday […] The pictures are very nicely arranged, clear and with no flickering, and its content will provoke a real sensation where it shows’ (11 November 1911). Based on archival research of local historians, the screening was widely advertised in Večernje Novosti, Politika, Samouprava, and Štampa (Slijepčević 1982, 143–144 and Kosanović 1985, 80–81). Notwithstanding the historical and epic characteristics of the film and the national sentiments of the time, the film was in deficit and some of the actors were not paid. This incited one journalist to comment that ‘It wouldn’t be a bad thing if those in power would show interest in this thing and support it, so that we could watch our live history’ (Večernje Novosti, 11 November 1911). According to the same newspaper, the Serbian Royal Court bought a copy of the film, which legitimized its national value and significance. According to the film historian Stevan Jovičić, ‘for its mode of shooting, including mass-crowd scenes, and exceptional length (for the time) the film represents a significant achievement (and not only) for Serbian cinematography’ (Radović 2019, 292). The film toured around, and was shown in Niš, Smederevo, Valjevo, and other cities in Serbia throughout 1912, in Skopje in 1915, in Sarajevo in 1919, and again in Belgrade in 1925 (Slijepčević 1982, 144). The last screening was reported in 1928 in the US held for a group of Yugoslav immigrants. Even though the director Stanojević travelled to Paris in order to sell Botorić’s films, and reportedly sold Karađorđe to Pathé Frères (Jutro, 30 October/12 November 1911), the title does not figure in any of the Pathé catalogues. Several decades later, this was rectified when Stanojević declared in an interview for Nedeljne Novosti (21 December 1969) that he only sold Gypsy Wedding on this occasion. According to some unverified accounts, a copy of the film was in private ownership until 1947 or 1948 when, afraid of the new (communist) government, the owner threw the film into the Danube River. The re-discovery of Karađorđe was a result of two networking events: an encounter in a Budapest tavern in 2003 between the head archivist of the

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Yugoslav Cinematheque, Erdeljanović, and the Austrian Film Archive director Nikolaus Wostry, and a subsequent meeting at Il Cinema Ritrovato in Bologna (Erdeljanović 2013). Erdeljanović had identified the film based on Wostry’s descriptions. Finally, after being considered lost for decades, Erdeljanović discovered the 800m of the original film Karađorđe in the Ignaz Reinthaler collection held at the Austrian Film Archive. During this occasion, fifteen documentaries from the Svetozar Botorić production were also found and one reel of the film Ulrih Celjski i Vladislav Hunjadi. During my archival trips in the Balkans and Austria in 2013 and 2014, I had the opportunity to interview both Erdeljanović and Wostry about the re-discovery and Ignaz Reinthaler’s collection. Among the 350 film titles (features, shorts, newsreels), there was a significant collection of Serbian f ilms, including two features and sixteen documentaries produced by Svetozar Botorić between 1911 and 1913. The reels were quite well-preserved, and the nitrate films were stored in their original transportation boxes, marked by the Austro-Hungarian double-headed eagle stem. Hence, it is possible to reconstruct the trajectory of the film Karađorđe, considered of significant value today to Serbian film heritage. The film would have made the journey from Belgrade to Osijek, where it was most likely screened at Reinthaler’s cinema theatre, and then from his widow’s private collection to The Austrian Film Archive, where it was re-discovered 70 years later. This journey underlines the importance of the transnational approach to studying early cinema histories and trajectories, where the survival of the artefact depends on and is marked by multiple histories and people. Moreover, the surviving nitrate reel has acquired the golden stain of time ‒ patina, and exhibits several signs of the film’s spatial and temporal journey until its recent rediscovery. Some frames are overcome by the visible signs of decay, increasing the haptical visuality of these archival moving images (Figure 90). While obscuring the visibility of fictional representation, these bring to the forefront of perception, the materiality of film’s physical consistence. To this end, it should be noted that the gelatine used to bind the emulsion to the film (in cellulose nitrate) is truly composed of living matter, a natural polymer using animal bones and hides, therefore inevitably undergoing the process of growth, decay and death.

Historical Epic from Romania Until 1910–1911, there were few Romanian film productions, and the majority of films shown in local cinema were foreign in the first decade, like in the

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rest of the Balkans. As mentioned earlier, both Pathé and Gaumont has subsidiaries in Bucharest in 1910. The situation quickly changed, as the young Grigore Brezeanu would make several films in 1911 and 1912, including the successful first feature fiction film with the help of producer Leon Popescu, Independenţa României/The Independence War, based on the 1877 independence war fought against the Ottoman Empire. The propensity of Romanian filmmakers to make films with historical themes would continue, as Nasta notes the Romanian cultural realm tends to reinterpret major historical events (2013, 5). The following decades saw an increase in the number of film production companies with great ambitions and unfortunately a short-lived existence, Romania Film, Filmul National Roman, Filmul de Arta Leon Popescu, Lumina, Carmen-Sylva, Moment Film/Clipa Film, and others (Ţuţui 2011, 21–22). Leon Popescu was a theatre owner and manager with connections in the financial world, and continued to develop cinema activities with his company over the next years (Nasta 2013, 8). Unfortunately, according to Rîpeanu, Popescu’s films, which were mainly genre, did not meet Pathé’s Film d’Art standard (2004, 24–25), nor did they have real commercial success or international appeal, and therefore failed to constitute a solid national film production (Nasta 2013, 8). The city of Cluj, part of Hungary at the time, had a prolific wartime studio, where between 1914 and 1916, sixty-two films were made (Ibid., 9). In 1916, the first national studio with French help was founded, Serviciul Foto Cinematografic al Armatei Romane (‘The Photo Cinematographic Department of the Armed Forces’), dedicated to the production of propaganda, newsreels and documentaries (Ţuţui 2011, 22). Here, I analyse the production and reception of The Independence War in the early period to provide information on the Franco–Romanian connection and the historical, social and political sentiments in Romania prior to World War I. Examining the production and exhibition contexts of the film, significant cultural and cinematic connections between France and Romania start to emerge. The director Brezeanu travelled to Paris and successfully sold and marketed copies of film as evidenced in the press of the time. The Independence War was given a French transliteration to increase the appeal for French audiences at the time, also known as ‘Romanian–Russo–Turkish War.’ Romanians established cinema connections with European countries in the early twentieth century for distribution purposes, and to benefit from French, German, and Italian productions rates (Nasta 2013, 7). The modernization of Romania was influenced by French culture from the beginning of nineteenth century, and the two countries had privileged political and cultural relations, mainly due to the work of the French historian Henri Michelet, who supported Romanian national

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unity and the Latin roots of Romanian language and people (Ţuţui 2011, 7–8). This is especially pertinent, since the initial cinema screenings were hosted at the headquarters of a French-language newspaper in Bucharest, a city known as ‘Le Petit Paris’ (Jackel 2000, 409–424). The Independence War was directed by Grigore Brezeanu and Aristide Demetriade, and co-produced by Leon Popescu’s production company Filmul de Arta Leon Popescu (Sava 1999, 33–35). The ‘historical war scene revivals’ were skilfully filmed by the French cinematographer Franck Daniau, alternating ‘between visual and verbal (intertitles with excerpts from odes and poems)’ and celebrations of Romanian representative assets (Nasta 2013, 8). The film production had assistance from the National Theatre acting troupe, and the Romanian army (credited in opening titles of the film). Around 80,000 extras were made available by the Minister of War, among which real veterans of the 1877 Romanian Independence War (Ţuţui 2011, 18). The cast included celebrated figures from the National Theatre: the co-director Aristide Demetriade (Prince Charles I); Constantin Nottara (Osman Pasha); Ion Niculescu (prime minister Mihail Kogălniceanu); Constanţa Demetriade (Princess Elisabeth); Aristizza Romanescu (a Red Cross nurse); Elvire Popescu; and several others33 (Nasta 2013, 8; Ţuţui 2011, 18; Rîpeanu 2004, 22). According to Ţuţui, the greatest achievement of the film is using 80,000 extras, acknowledged as a super-production by the French press, and compared to films by the famous Italian director Giovanni Pastrone (2011, 18–19). The original length of the film was 2000–2500 metres (around two hours), and it was a blockbuster production at the time, costing between 200,000 and 400,000 Romanian lei (Rîpeanu 2004, 23). The making of the film was a patriotic act, marking the 35th anniversary of the 1877 independence war. The Russo–Turkish War, which took place between 1877 and 1878, was a conflict between the Ottoman Empire and the Eastern Orthodox coalition, in which several Balkan countries were involved due to their emerging sense of nationalism in the nineteenth century. Eventually, Russia entered into a settlement under the Treaty of San Stefano on 3 March with the Ottoman Empire, through which the independence and autonomy of several Balkan countries was recognized internationally.34 During the first two decades of the twentieth century, following centuries of Ottoman, Greek, and Russian 33 For the full cast and crew, see Rîpeanu 2004, 22–23. 34 Serbia began its road to autonomy in 1804 which was granted in 1830, followed by state independence in 1878. Romania was united in 1859 and received international recognition and independence in 1877. Bulgaria was granted autonomy in 1878, and declared independence in 1908. The Principality of Montenegro was proclaimed a Kingdom in 1910.

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Figure 91. Still, The Independence War

Figure 92. Still, The Independence War

Figure 93. Still, The Independence War

Figure 94. Still, The Independence War

Figure 95. Ciné-journal, 14 September 1912

Figure 96. Ciné-Journal, 21 September 1912

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rule, Romania had a ‘problematic socio-political situation as a monarchy led by the Hohenzollern dynasty’ with predominant Byzantine heritage (Nasta 2013, 7). Romanian independence was a popular and important topic among cultural circles at this time, and marked the desire for Romanian society to reinforce a national consciousness.35 Another film on the same theme, Razboiul 1877–1878, Romano–Turc/Romanian–Turkish War 1877 – 1878 which has not survived, was produced by the Gaumont company based in Bucharest, directed by R. Zaharovici and shot by Constantin Ivanovici in 1911 (Rîpeanu 2004, 21). This was a historical drama on the Turkish–Romanian war, and the main roles were interpreted by the actors from the Jewish Theatre (Ibid.). The film was never finished, and only a fragment (c. 500–600 metres) was made for a preview, but the screening was banned and the footage was confiscated by the police (Ibid.). The Independence War is a visually dynamic film, especially notable are the reconstructed scenes of battles, military manoeuvres, cavalry marches, the advances and retreats of the troops, and so on. While the film starts with a picture of idyll and peacetime, in a typical Romanian village with the locals dancing the hora (traditional folk dance), the plot quickly moves to the cabinet scene and the declaration of independence and war against the Ottoman Empire. This event sets the beginning and the focus of the film, the reconstruction of the battles during the Romanian–Russian–Turkish 1877 war, which ends with the defeat and departure of Osman Pasha and his troops from Romania. The film effectively combines fictional scenes, reconstructed battle scenes based on historical accounts, and documentary footage for the final scene, which shows the actual procession and celebration of Romanian Independence. With the help of the army, and a horde of extras, the directors were able to shoot impressive action scenes and wellchoreographed movement of soldiers, cavalry, cannon fire, and smoke within individual frames, which recall the famous war scenes involving leagues of extras from the American epic D.W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation (1915). Yet, perhaps the most striking are the dynamic visual compositions created by the combination of mise-en-scène and cinematography (Figure 91). The placement of the camera in regard to the movement and choreography of the extras on locations, such as mountain or hillsides, creates effective and aesthetically pleasing diagonal compositions (Figures 91 and 92). There are also flat, two-dimensional compositions of figures within the landscape, 35 In Transylvania, the anti-Austro-Hungarian sentiment of Romanians was strong, as the region fell under the Austrian Empire in 1718, and was given to Hungary in 1778. Transylvania eventually united with Romania in 1918.

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which seem to employ the visual style of Byzantine art and its tendency to abstraction, repetition of patterns and representation of a synthesis of an idea, rather than rely on realistic, naturalistic depiction (Figures 93 and 94). In other instances, the placement of the camera at a low angle, captures the texture and materiality of the foreground, and consequently invites haptical vision, privileging the senses (Figure 94). The Independence War was distributed and shown in Romania, Austria– Hungary (Transylvania and Banat), France, Germany, Russia, Italy, and probably Great Britain (Rîpeanu 2004, 23; Ţuţui 2011, 18). In terms of local reception, the film was received with great enthusiasm across the country. A special screening was organized for the Royal Court at the Peleș Castle in the Carpathian mountains on 2 August 1912, while the public premiere took place in Bucharest on 1 September 1912 (Rîpeanu 2004, 22). For instance, the local newspaper in Lugoj, reported after the screening of the film: ‘Our audience […] got to see the greatest Romanian actors, who played great roles of the 1877 war […]. We should be thankful that it was made, and that we can enjoy the genuine Romanian art being represented by the Cinematograph’ (Revarsat de zori, 1913 qtd in Cernat 1982, 30). The Independence War was also widely advertised in the French press. For instance, the Ciné-journal published several full-page advertisements about the f ilm (Figure 95), titled Guerre Russo–Roumaine–Turque 1877–1878. L’Indépendance de la Roumanie, noting that two versions (longer of 1870 metres and shorter of 1100 metres) were available for sale or rent from Leon Popescu (Ciné-journal, 14 September 1912). In the same issue, Gaumont was advertising a travelogue film, titled La Roumanie Pittoresque, panorama, which complements the renewed interest in Romanian views. Furthermore, a long article and a full-page portrait photograph were dedicated to ‘Gregorio Brezeano,’ ‘the leader of cinema in Romania’ (Figure 96): Young, ardent and audacious, patriot as one can be, Mr Brezeanu conceived a great project to give his country an original cinematographic literature, if we can be allowed to associate our art to literature. His work is conceived on Romania’s very history and his compatriots helped him achieve it. The whole world knows his first success. It’s the great film on the Russian–Romanian war, a lovely homage to a free Romania and to the national belief for his homeland […] Mr. Brezeanu – to whom the King of Romania gave the award of Bene Merenti – plans to create again cinematographic works capable of confirming the artistic value of his country. The cinema world is proud of him and he has won all the sympathies of those who search for “men of the avant-garde” (Ciné-journal, 21 September 1912).

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Together with Dimitrade, Brezeanu had previously directed a successful sentimental drama Amor Fatal/ Fatal Love in 1911, probably with the help of cinematographer Victor de Bon (Ţuţui 2011, 16), and another, Înşir-te mărgărite/Spin a Yarn (1911), with a few scenes intended for the intermissions of the theatrical play with the eponymous name, a fairy-tale adaptation by Victor Eftimiu (Ţuţui 2011, 16; Rîpeanu 2004, 21). This early intermedia and hybrid experiment was well received according to evidence in the press. The dramaturg Mihail Sorbul writing in the local newspaper Adevarul, described it as: ‘the compromise between an art which meritoriously got this title and the beginnings of an art’ (Ţuţui 2011, 16–18). Brezeanu was also the Bucharest-based representative for the British Radium Screens for Romania, Serbia and Bulgaria (Ciné-journal, 14, 21, and 28 September 1912, 5 October 1912). Clearly, his visit to Paris in September resulted in the expansion of his business activities within the cinema industry. A decade later, a lengthy article for Cinemagazine reported about the history of cinema activities in Romania, not failing to mention the success of The Independence War and noting how the audience ‘externalized their patriotic manifestations’ during the film screening (Cinemagazine, 12 January 1923, no. 2). According to the journalist, Adrian Schwarz, the negative film copy, kept in Leon Popescu’s laboratory, was destroyed in a fire in 1915, however, later an intermediate was printed from a positive screening copy, saving the film from oblivion (Cinemagazine, 12 January 1923, no. 2). Interestingly, another long article in the same journal Cinemagazine, was published two years later, in 1925, on cinema activities and films in Romania, noting The Independence War was the first big production of the time. Today, a copy of the film is conserved at the Romanian National Film Archive and constitutes the earliest surviving fiction film made in Romania. The preserved film is approximately 80 minutes long, corresponding to the longer version, which was available for rent and sale in the French journal advertisement. This silent film resurfaced into the public arena with the making of Restul e tăcere/The Rest is Silence (2007, dir. Nae Caranfil), which used historical research and the story of the making of The Independence War as backdrop to recount Romania’s first steps toward creating a national film industry.36 In summary, this chapter examined how following initial moving image shows in the Balkans, showing views of European and world landscapes, cities and subjects, the local audiences expressed a desire to see themselves on the screen, demanding views of their cities, important figures, and events. In Bucharest, Paul Menu filmed first local views in 1897, showing the procession 36 For a detailed discussion and analysis of The Rest is Silence, see Nasta 2013, 133–138.

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of King Carol I, celebrations, and horse races, which were subsequently shown to the public and received a lot of publicity from the press and attention by journalists and critics. Even though the majority of early films made in the Balkans have not been preserved, and those that have survived consist of fragments or partial length, their contemporary viewing and interpretation offers a picture of the cultural, social, and political life in the region and allows a better understanding of individual and collective histories, interests, and passions. The films of Karaman and Grossman have ethnographic value, since they constitute the only surviving footage of traditions and customs in their respective locations and surroundings of the time. Marinescu’s surviving films applied to scientific study point to the polyvalent character of cinema in the early period. Early cinema audiences and practitioners in the Balkans saw the adaptability and versatility of the cinematographic device, which could be employed for different purposes, to entertain, to educate, and to study, and for a variety of means, to political, social, and cultural ends, to document events, to preserve family memories for the future. Such early images also constitute a counter-archive, produced by the local filmmakers or film amateurs, in the desire to document their way of life. Further, the analysis of two preserved fiction films from the Balkans prior to World War I, both historical dramas and epics, Karađorđe and Independenţa României, sought to untangle the issues of ideology, nationalism and reconstruction of past historical events. In terms of aesthetics and film production, these films resemble the film d’art style, using literary works and stage actors from national theatres. As multiple-reel films with high production value and the use of armies of extras, both were expensive to produce at the time, making them ‘contemporary blockbusters’. Both films reconstructed episodes from uprisings and battles waged against the Ottoman Empire in the nineteenth century and celebrated independence, which is symptomatic of political and social context in the Balkans before World War I. Modernity in the Balkans seemed to be synonymous with increased gravitation towards Western Europe and refusal of its Eastern legacy and heritage. Furthermore, both films are nation-building due to: 1) celebration of typical Romanian and Serbian national identities through the depiction of folklore and traditional customs; and 2) construction of national heroes and military f igures, thus reinforcing a continuity of national narrative and the road to independence. I also argued these films have certain aspects of transnational productions for several reasons: they involved or depended on film professionals from other parts of Europe, and had ambitions to distribute and exhibit the films abroad reaching a wider international audience.

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Works cited Abel, Richard, ed. Encyclopaedia of Early Cinema. Abingdon: Routledge, 2005. Andrić, Ivo. The Bridge on the Drina. Trans. Lovett F. Edwards. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1977. Trans. of Na Drini ćuprija. Belgrade: Prosveta, 1945. Arkolakis, Manolis. “Greek Film Industry (1896–1939): Economic Structure and Representation.” Presented at: International Symposium, European Economic and Business Development: National Historical Perspectives and European Osmosis, 19th–20th Centuries, organized by Historical Archives of National Bank of Greece and Hellenic Open University, Athens, 27–28 November 2003, 1–16. Baptista, Tiago. “Il faut voir le maître: A Recent Restoration of Surgical Films by E.-L. Doyen (1859–1916).” Journal of Film Preservation 70 (2005): 42–50. Besarević, Risto. Iz kulturnog života Sarajeva pod austrougarskom upravom/ Cultural Life of Sarajevo under Austro-Hungarian Rule. Sarajevo: Veselin Masleša, 1974. Căliman, Călin. Istoria Filmului Românesc (1897–2000)/ History of Romanian Cinema (1897–2000). Bucharest: Editura Fundaţiei Culturale Române, 2000. Cernat, Manuela. A Concise History of the Romanian Film. Bucharest: Editura Stiintifica si Enciclopedica, 1982. Cherchi Usai, Paolo. The Death of Cinema: History, Cultural Memory, and the Digital Dark Age. London: British Film Institute, 2001. Christie, Ian. “Where is National Cinema Today (and Do We Still Need It)?” Film History 25: 1-2 (2013): 19–30. Doane, Mary Ann. The Emergence of Cinematic Time. Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press, 2002. Erdeljanović, Aleksandar Saša. 2012. “Producent Svetozar Botorić i njegovi filmovi.” Novi Filmograf. Available at: http://www.novifilmograf.com/producent-svetozarbotoric-i-njegovi-filmovi/. Accessed on 15 June 2019. Personal interview with Aleksandar Saša Erdeljanović, June 2013. Gilić, Nikica. Uvod u povijest hrvatskog igranog filma/ Introduction to the History of Croatian Fiction Film. Zagreb: Leykam International, 2010. Godina, Luka. “Filmska povijest Pule.” Newsletter Kino Valli. Available at: http://www. kinovalli.net/images/stogodinakinematografije.pdf. Accessed 30 April 2021. Grgić, Ana, “Re-Discovering Nationalism in the Balkans: The Early Moving Image in Contemporary Memorial Spaces,” Studies in Eastern European Cinema, 7:3, 2016, 240–257. Jackel, Anne. “France and Romanian Cinema 1896–1999.” French Cultural Studies, 11 (2000), 409–424. Kardjilov, Petar. “Year One for Bulgarian Cinema?” Kino i Vreme/Cinema and Time 2:29 (2007): 28–50.

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Kečkemet, Duško. Počeci kinematografije i filma u Dalmaciji / Beginnings of Cinema and Film in Dalmatia. Split: Izdanje Muzeja Grada Splita, 1969. Keller, Sarah and Paul, Jason N., eds. Jean Epstein: Critical Essays and New Translations. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2012. Kosanović, Dejan. Počeci Kinematografije na Tlu Jugoslavije 1896–1918/ Beginnings of Cinema on Yugoslav Territory 1896–1918. Belgrade: Institut za Film Univerzitet Umetnosti, 1985. Kosanović, Dejan. Kinematografske Delatnosti u Puli 1896–1918/ Cinema Activities in Pula 1896–1918. Belgrade: Institut za Film and Pula: Festival Jugoslavenskog Igranog Filma, 1988. Kosanović, Dejan. Leksikon Pionira Filma i Filmskih Stvaralaca na Tlu Jugoslovenskih Zemalja 1896–1945/ Lexicon of Film Pioneers and Filmmakers on Yugoslav Territories 1896–1945. Belgrade: Institut za Film/Jugoslovenska Kinoteka/Feniks Film, 2000. Kosanović, Dejan. “Film kao povijesni izvor za proučavanje riječke industrijske bastine,” Hrvatski Filmski Ljetopis 44, 2005b, 107–110. Kosanović, Dejan. Kratak Pregled Istorije Filma u Vojvodini. Prvi Deo 1896–1941/ A Short Overvire of Film History in Vojvodina. First Part 1896–1941. Belgrade: Jugoslavenska Kinoteka and Subotica: Otvoreni Univerzitet, 2012. Lampe, John. R. Yugoslavia as History: Twice There was a Country. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Majcen, Vjekoslav. “Etnološki filmovi Milovana Galvazzija i Hrvatski etnološki film u prvoj polovini 20. stoljeća.” Stud. Ethnol. Croat., Vol. 7/8, 121–134, Zagreb, 1995/1996. Milunović, Luka I. Crnogorski kinematografi 1908–1914/ Montenegrin Cinemas 1908–1941. Podgorica: Crnogorska Kinoteka, 2018. Mitarca, Monica, “Romania.” In: Women Screenwriters: An International Guide edited by Jill Nelmes and Jule Selbo, 526–532. Palgrave MacMillan, 2015. Montina, Severin. Bilo jednom u Sarajevskim kinima/ Once Upon a Time in Sarajevo’s Cinemas. Sarajevo: autor, 2019. Morin, Edgar. Le Cinéma ou L’Homme Imaginaire. Paris: Les Editions de Minuit, 1956. Nasta, Dominique. Contemporary Romanian Cinema: The History of an Unexpected Miracle. New York and Chichester, West Sussex: Columbia University Press, Wallflower, 2013. Radović, Mina. “The Cinema in Serbia 1896–1941,” Studies in Eastern European Cinema, 10:3 (2019), 288–300. Rîpeanu, Bujor T. “Les premiers pas du cinéma en Roumanie. Une perspective révisée.” Revue Roumaine D’Histoire de l’Art: Série Théâtre, Musique, Cinéma, Tome IX: 2 (1972):143–149.

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Rîpeanu, Bujor T. Filmat in Romania. Repertoriul filmelor de fictiune 1911–2004, cinema si televiziune, Volumul I: 1911–1969/ Filming in Romania: The Fiction Film Collection 1911–2004, Cinema and Television, Volume 1: 1911–1969. Bucharest: Editura Fundatiei Pro, 2004. Rîpeanu, Bujor T. Filmat in Romania. Filmul Documentar 1897–1948/ Filming in Romania: Documentary Film 1897–1948. Bucharest: Editura Meronia, 2008. Rîpeanu, Bujor T. Cinematografişti 2345/Cinematographers 2345. Bucharest: Editura Meronia, 2013. Sava, Valerian. Istoria Critică A Filmului Românesc Contemporan: Obsendantul Deceniu/ Critical History of Contemporary Romanian Film: The Obscene Decade. Bucharest: Editura Meridiane, 1999. Shohat, Ella and Stam, Robert. Unthinking Eurocentrism: Multiculturalism and the Media. New York: Routledge, 1994. Šimenc, Stanko, Furlan, Silvan, Mikuž, Jure and Nedić, Lilijana. Karol Grossmann. Ljubljana: Slovenski gledališki in filmski muzej, 1985. Slijepčević, Bosa. Kinematografija u Srbiji, Crnoj Gori, Bosni i Hercegovini 1896–1918/ Cinema in Serbia, Montenegro and Bosnia and Herzegovina 1896–1918. Belgrade: Univerzitet Umetnosti & Institut za Film, 1982. Škrabalo, Ivo. Između publike i države. Povijest hrvatske kinematografije 1896–1980/ Between the Public and the State: The History of Croatian Cinema 1896–1980. Zagreb: Znanje, 1984. Škrabalo, Ivo. 101 godina filma u Hrvatskoj 1896–1997/ 101 Years of Film in Croatia 1896–1997. Zagreb: Nakladni Zavod Globus, 1998. Ţuţui, Marian. O Scurta Istorie a Filmului Romanesc/ A Short History of Romanian Cinema. Bucharest: Noi Media Print, 2011. Zakariás, Erzsébet, Janovics, creatorul Hollywood-ului transilvan / Janovics, az erdélyi Hollywood megteremtője / Janovics, the creator of the Transylvanian Hollywood. Bucharest: Tracus Arte, 2014.



Conclusion: The Future Perfect of Early Balkan Cinema

Is cinema ‘the most modern, technologically dependent and Western of all the arts?’ (Parkinson 1995). The book began by problematizing this misconception on the genealogy and history of cinema, and provided an alternative reading of cinema’s development within a broader context of cultural history, visual arts, and historical legacies in the Balkans. I examined how the geopolitical position of the region, its unique crossroads positioning between East and West, as well as its multicultural, multi-confessional, and multi-ethnic identity at the turn of the twentieth century, influenced and shaped the development of early cinema. Engaging with the questions of archives, preservation, and cultural memory, I analysed a variety of surviving archival moving images and documents, early press and secondary sources to paint the complexity of the picture. This study aimed to go beyond considering the process of modernity and, consequently, cinema history as a narrative of lacks and absences, but rather as a story of survivals and persistence of artefacts, materials, people, and their aspirations. The intermingling, cross-hybridization, and fusion of artistic traditions from the East and the West, resulted in a unique regional visual culture at the end of the nineteenth century, enriched by the arrival of the cinematograph and moving images. Throughout history, the Balkans have occupied a peripheral position within world cinema historiographies; yet, as new perspectives presented in the book show, early cinema history needs to be re-evaluated and re-read in light of recent discoveries in most unexpected interstitial places and spaces. By building on phenomenological theory and visual culture in the Balkans, and combining theoretical and empirical evidence, this monograph establishes a strong theoretical and historical basis that can inform further research on early cinema history, film reception studies, and embodied vision. Furthermore, my analysis of early cinema development in the region through a transnational and cross-cultural lens, adds to the existing scholarship in Balkan area studies by expanding on the re-imagining of the term

Grgić, A., Early Cinema, Modernity and Visual Culture: The Imaginary of the Balkans. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2022 doi 10.5117/9789463728300_conc

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‘Balkan.’ The book does so, first, by focusing on the transnational itineraries and cross-cultural collaborations of early moving image-makers, and second, by placing an emphasis on archival materials of self-representation rather than of self-exoticism. I focused on relationships and common denominators, rather than fractures or areas of separation, considering that the fabric of early (silent) cinema is ‘multicultural and multilinguistic’ (Bertellini), ‘transnational and global’ (Gunning), ‘embodied’ (Sobchack) and ‘haptic’ (Marks). My metaphorical and physical journey through the history of early cinema in the Balkans, and film archives and libraries across the region and beyond, revealed an abundance of captivating material, crucial for the understanding of cultural history and the socio-political context of the time. While aiming to provide a comprehensive and inclusive overview of cinema development in the Balkans, given the amount of material and the size and linguistic complexity of the region, this study is demarcated by a selection of artefacts and moving images. I traced connections between these apparently divergent materials – initial impressions of viewing moving images and the cinema as a new medium to the films themselves – in an effort to weave these together into a sense-forming discourse. What emerges is the image of a multicultural, multilingual, and multi-ethnic constellation of the region, and a cosmopolitan sensibility, prior to uniformization and nationalization according to ethno-national belonging and identity. For the purpose of this study, I chose to concentrate on a limited number of case studies, rather than investigate the totality of films produced in each country, or provide minute details of the socio-political context in each location. Therefore, this book serves as basis for future research, and certainly more work in this area needs to be undertaken.1 Narrating from the position of alterity and periphery, this study attempted to reposition itself at the centre of cultural, political, historical, and social events at the turn of twentieth century. The (hi)story of early cinema in the Balkans is narrated from a space of in-betweenness, from the crossroads of cultures, civilizations, nations, empires, and discourses. I began this journey like Angelopoulos’ protagonist in Ulysses Gaze, searching for missing footage, fragments of cinematic art, which could serve as evidence of an undiscovered image of the Balkans. I have re-discovered several artefacts 1 For instance, a comparative study of foreign f ilm companies and their activities in the Balkans, such as Pathé and Gaumont which have left traces of their franchises in Vienna, Belgrade, Bucharest, Sofia, and Istanbul, would contribute to greater knowledge of their operations and ambitions in the development of early cinema.

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and examples testifying to the cosmopolitan and multicultural make-up of the region, such as the films of the Manakia brothers, the work of de Beéry, or the writing of Simon Šubic, among others. While travelling and conducting research across the Balkans, I was struck by the similarities I encountered time and time again. The activity of coffee drinking accompanied by the philosophizing of the everyday, the remnants of past civilizations that left imprints in local art, folklore, food, and culture, the shared mistrust in politics and governing bodies, the gravitation towards Western Europe, and the pride in local heritage. In my investigation, I searched the images for the traces of the originary, physical events: the historical, social, and cultural context of the Balkans at the time of their creation. In turn, preserved archival moving images I encountered on this journey, revealed that the image was and continues to truly be connective tissue in the Balkans, linking people of diverse cultures, languages, and religions. These pages are only the beginning of the unfolding of the region’s rich cinema history in order to increase and not limit, in Laura Marks’ words, ‘the surface area of experience.’

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Schwartz, Vanessa R. Spectacular Realities: Mass Culture in Fin-de-Siècle Paris. Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 1998. Seguin, Jean-Claude. Alexandre Promio ou les énigmes de la lumière. Paris: Éditions L’Harmattan, 1999. Selimović, Meša. Derviš i Smrt. Sarajevo: Svjetlost, 1968. Shohat, Ella and Stam, Robert. Unthinking Eurocentrism: Multiculturalism and the Media. New York: Routledge, 1994. Simmel, Georg. “The Metropolis and Mental Life”. Adapted by D. Weinstein from Kurt Wolff (Trans.) The Sociology of Georg Simmel, 409–424. New York: Free Press, 1950. Sindbaek, Tea and Hartmuth, Maximilian, eds. Images of Imperial Legacy: Modern Discourses on the Social and Cultural Impact of Ottoman and Habsburg Rule in Southeast Europe. Berlin: Lit Verlag, 2011. Slayer, Derek. The Coasts of Bohemia: A Czech History. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998. Slijepčević, Bosa. 1979. “Pitrolf de Beéry – pionir filma u Bosni i Srbiji.” Filmska kultura (Zagreb), No 119. Slijepčević, Bosa. Kinematografija u Srbiji, Crnoj Gori, Bosni i Hercegovini 1896–1918/ Cinema in Serbia, Montenegro and Bosnia and Herzegovina 1896–1918. Belgrade: Univerzitet Umetnosti & Institut za Film, 1982. Smither, Roger and Surowiec, Catherine A., eds. This Film is Dangerous: A Celebration of Nitrate Film. Bruxelles: FIAF, 2002. Sobchack, Vivian. The Address of the Eye: Phenomenology and Film Experience. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992. Sobchack, Vivian. Carnal Thoughts: Embodiment and Moving Image Culture, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2004. Soldatos, Yannis. Istoria tou ellinikou kinimatografou: 1900–1967/ History of Greek Cinema: 1900–1967. Athens: Aigokeros, 2002. Sparks, Mary. The Development of Austro–Hungarian Sarajevo, 1878–1918: An Urban History. London/New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2014. Spurr, David. The Rhetoric of Empire: Colonial Discourse in Journalism, Travel Writing and Imperial Administration. Durham, NC, and London: Duke University Press, 1993. Stamenković, Jelica (ed.), Beograd u XIX veku/ Belgrade in the 19th Century. Belgrade: Muzej grada Beograda 1967. Stardelov, Igor. Manaki. Skopje: Kinoteka na Makedonija, 2003. Stoil, Micheal Jon. Balkan Cinema: Evolution after the Revolution. Michigan: UMI Research Press, 1982. Šimenc, Stanko, Furlan, Silvan, Mikuž, Jure and Nedić, Lilijana. Karol Grossmann. Ljubljana: Slovenski gledališki in filmski muzej, 1985.

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Škrabalo, Ivo. Između publike i države: povijest hrvatske kinematografije 1896–1980/ Between the Public and the State: The History of Croatian Cinema 1896–1980. Zagreb: Znanje, 1984. Škrabalo, Ivo. 101 godina filma u Hrvatskoj 1896–1997/ 101 Years of Film in Croatia 1896–1997. Zagreb: Nakladni Zavod Globus, 1998. Talbot Rice, David. Byzantine Art and Its Influences. London: Varorium, 1973. Todorova, Maria. “The Balkans: From Discovery to Invention.” Slavic Review 53: 2 (1994): 453–482. Todorova, Maria. Imagining the Balkans (Updated Edition). Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009[1997]. Todorova, Maria, ed. 2004. Balkan Identities: Nation and Memory. London: Hurst & Company. Todorova, Maria and Gille, Zsuzsa, eds. Post-Communist Nostalgia. New York: Berghahn Books, 2010. Tomanas, Kostas. 1993. Kinimatografoi tis palias Thessalonikis: 1895–1944/ Cinemas in Old Thessaloniki: 1895–1944. Thessaloniki: Nisides. Tosi, Virgilio. Cinema before Cinema: The Origins of Scientific Cinematography. Translated by Sergio Angelini. London: British Universities Film Council, 2005. Traven, Janko, Nedič, Lilijana and Šimenc, Stanko. Pregled razvoja kinematografije pri Slovencih (do 1918) / Survey of Cinema Development in Slovenia (until 1918). Ljubljana: Slovenski Gledališki in Filmski Muzej, 1992. Tsivian, Yuri. Early Cinema in Russia and its Cultural Reception. Chicago, IL: University Of Chicago Press, 1998. Turković, Hrvoje. “Film kao znak i sudionik modernizacije.” In Kolesnik, Ljiljana and Prelog, Petar (eds), Moderna umjetnost u Hrvatskoj 1896–1975, Zagreb: Institut za povijest umjetnosti, 2012, 158–185. Ţuţui, Marian. Manakia Bros or the Moving Balkans. Bucharest: Romanian Film Archive, 2005. Ţuţui, Marian. Orient Express: Filmul Românesc şi Filmul Balcanic/ Orient Express: Romanian Film and Balkan Film. Bucharest: Noi Media Print, 2008. Ţuţui, Marian. O Scurta Istorie a Filmului Romanesc/ A Short History of Romanian Cinema. Bucharest: Noi Media Print, 2011. Vickers, Miranda. The Albanians: A Modern History. London: I.B. Tauris, 1997. Volk, Petar. Istorija Jugoslovenskog filma/ History of Yugoslav Film. Belgrade: Institut za film, 1986. Volk, Petar. Dvadeseti vek srpskog filma/ Twentieth Century of Serbian Film. Belgrade: Institut za film and Jugoslovenska kinoteka, 2001. Wachtel, Andrew Baruch. The Balkans in World History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008.

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Winnifrith, Tom, ed. Perspectives on Albania, London: MacMillan, 1992. Wishnitzer, Avner. Reading Clocks, Alla Turca: Time and Society in the Late Ottoman Empire. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2015. Wolff, Larry. Inventing Eastern Europe: The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1994. Yourcenar, Marguerite. That Mighty Sculptor, Time. New York: Farrar, Straus & Cudahy, 1992. Zakariás, Erzsébet, Janovics, creatorul Hollywood-ului transilvan / Janovics, az erdélyi Hollywood megteremtője / Janovics, the creator of the Transylvanian Hollywood. Bucharest: Tracus Arte, 2014. Zhen, Zhang. An Amorous History of the Silver Screen: Shanghai Cinema, 1896–1937. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago, 2005. Zimmermann, Patricia Rodden. Reel Families: A Short History of Amateur Film. Bloomington and Indianapolis, IN: Indiana University Press, 1995. Žižek, Slavoj. 1997. “Multiculturalism, Or, the Cultural Logic of Multinational Capitalism.” New Left Review 225: 28–51. Žižek, Slavoj. “You May!” London Review of Books 21:6, 18 March 1999. On-line. Available: http://www.egs.edu/faculty/slavoj-zizek/articles/you-may/. Ω. “Cinema in Athens”, Asty, 7 December 1896. Translated from the Greek language by Yorgos Mosko (private commission by author Ana Grgić).

Archival Sources Archives and Libraries Arhiv Republike Slovenije – Slovenski Filmski Arhiv / Slovenian Film Archives (Ljubljana) ‒ http://www.arhiv.gov.si/ Arhiva Nationala de Filme – Cinemateca Romana / National Film Archive – Romanian Cinematheque (Bucharest) – http://www.anf-cinemateca.ro/ Arkivi Qendror Shteteror i Filmit (AQSHF) / Central State’s Film Archive (Tirana) – http://www.aqshf.gov.al/ Austrian National Library (Vienna) – http://www.onb.ac.at/ Biblioteca Academiei Române / The Romanian Academy Library (Bucharest) – http://www.bar.acad.ro/ Biblioteca Națională a României / National Library of Romania (Bucharest) – http:// www.bibnat.ro/ Biblioteka Kombëtare e Shqipërisë / National Library of Albania (Tirana) – https:// www.bksh.al/ British Film Institute (London) – http://www.bfi.org.uk/

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261

British Newspaper Archive – British Library (London) – http://www.bl.uk/ Bulgarska Nacionalna Filmoteka /Bulgarian National Film Archive (Sofia) – http:// bnf.bg Cinémathèque française (Paris) – http://www.cinematheque.fr/ Crnogorska kinoteka/ The Montenegrin Cinematheque – https://kinoteka.me/ Filmarchiv Austria / Austrian Film Archive (Vienna) – http://filmarchiv.at/ Fondation Jérôme Seydoux-Pathé (Paris) – http://www.fondation-jeromeseydouxpathe.com/ Hrvatska Kinoteka / Croatian Cinémathèque – Hrvatski Državni Arhiv (Zagreb) – http://zagreb.arhiv.hr/hr/hda/fs-ovi/kinoteka.htm Institut Lumière (Lyon) – http://www.institut-lumiere.org/ Jugoslovenska Kinoteka /Yugoslav Cinematheque (Belgrade) – http://www.kinoteka. org.rs/ Kinoteka Bosne i Hercegovine / The National Film Archives of Bosnia and Herzegovina – https://www.kinotekabih.ba/ Kinoteka na Makedonija / Cinematheque of North Macedonia (Skopje) – http:// www.maccinema.com/ Magyar Nemzeti Filmarchívum / Hungarian National Digital Archive and Film Institute (Budapest) – https://filmarchiv.hu/hu Nac ion a l n a i u n i ver z it e t s k a bibl iot ek a / Nat ion a l a nd Un i ver sity Library of Bosnia and Herzegovina – https://www.cenl.org/library/ nacionalna-i-univerzitetska-biblioteka/ Narodna biblioteka Srbije / National Library of Serbia (Belgrade) – http://vbshome. vbs.rs/sr/o_cobissu/libraries_HP.asp Narodna in univerzitetna knjižnica / National and University Library (Ljubljana) – http://www.nuk.uni-lj.si/ Nacionalna i sveučilišna knjižnica u Zagrebu / National and University Library (Zagreb) – http://www.nsk.hr/en/ Slovenian Cinémathèque / Slovenska Kinoteka (Ljubljana) – http://www.kinoteka. si/default.aspx Sveučilišna knjižnica u Splitu / Split University Library (Split) – http://www.svkst. unist.hr/english.html SS. Cyril and Methodius National Library (Sof ia) – http://www.nationallibrary. bg/ Tainiothiki tis Ellados / Greek Film Archive (Athens) – http://www.tainiothiki.gr/en/

Newspapers, journals and trade press Agramer Zeitung, Zagreb, 1848–1912. German. Balkan Film, Zagreb, 1921. Croatian.

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Balgarski Targovski Vestnik (Bulgarian Trade Gazette), Sofia. Bulgarian/German. Bosnische Post, Sarajevo, Bosnian. Ciné-Journal, Paris, 1908–1912. French. Cinémagazine, Paris, 1921–1935. French. Cinémonde Il Dalmata, Zadar, 1866–1916. Italian. Dom in Svet, Ljubljana, 1888–1943. Slovenian. Fremden Blatt Hrvatski Dnevnik, Sarajevo, Croatian. L’Indépendance Roumaine, Bucarest, 1879–1927. French. L’Industriel Forain Jedinstvo, Split, 1894–1905. Croatian. Laibacher Zeitung, Ljubljana, 1778–1918. German. Le Journal Illustré Kinematographische Rundschau Mali Žurnal, Belgrade, Marburger Zeitung, Maribor, German. Narod, Sarajevo, Serbian. Narod, Split, 1884–1894. Croatian/Italian. Narodni List, Zagreb. Narodne Novine, Zagreb, 1861– Nedjeljne Novosti, Zagreb, Croatian. Obzor, Zagreb, 1886–1905. Croatian. Pozor, Zagreb, 1881–1885. Croatian. Sarajevski List, Sarajevo, Bosnian. Slobodno Slovo, Sofia, Bulgarian. Slovenski Narod, Ljubljana, Slovenian. Soča, Gorica, Slovenian. To Asty, Athens, Greek. Vakat, Bosnian. Sarajevo. Zakonnost, Russe, Bulgarian.

Interviews Aleksandar Saša Erdeljanović, head of film archive, Jugoslovenska Kinoteka Devleta Filipović, director, Kinoteka Bosne i Hercegovine Petar Kardjilov, film historian, Academy of Bulgarian Arts and Sciences Antonia Kovacheva, director, Bulgarska Nacionalna Filmoteka Nebojša Jovanović, Crnogorska kinoteka Regina Longo, film restorer and archivist, The Albanian Cinema Project

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Vesna Maslovarik, senior researcher, Kinoteka na Makedonija Ivan Nedoh, director, Slovenska Kinoteka Gabor Pinter, film restorer, Magyar Nemzeti Filmarchívum Daniel Rafaelić, ex-archivist, Hrvatska Kinoteka Tatjana Rezec-Stibilj, head of film archive, Slovenski Filmski Arhiv Igor Stardelov, head of film archive, Kinoteka na Makedonija Marian Ţuţui, ex-archivist, Arhiva Nationala de Filme – Cinemateca Romana Eriona Vyshka, head of film archive, Arkivi Qendror Shteteror i Filmit Nikolaus Wostry, head of film archive, Filmarchiv Austria Lucija Zore, film researcher, Hrvatska Kinoteka

Appendix A BOOK ON THEATRE HISTORICAL, THEORETICAL AND CRITICAL NOTES Author: Ivan St. Andreichin Publisher: Ivan G. Ignatov, Sofia, 1910 Excerpt translated from Bulgarian language: Tasia Tassova (private commission by author Ana Grgić). CINEMA The French treat freely foreign words. They would not care how other peoples, to whom they pertain, pronounce them, for they would articulate them in the way they really feel like. In that, they are guided by melody, by sonority, by harmony. Nobody else compares to them in this respect. The French spirit is a spirit of logic, of melody and of complete harmony. The French does not like saying ‘tramway’, as the English is used to uttering, – he1 says ‘tram’; ‘automobile’ is way too long for him, and he prefers ‘auto’ or ‘car’. For the very same reason he does not say ‘cinematograph,’2 – this sounds long and coarse compared to ‘cinema,’ and this is how he expresses himself. Cinema – here we have a word with a big future, i.e. not the word, but that apparatus which carries the name. In the beginning since its invention, it instigated only curiosity. No one had yet thought about the role which the device would play into the future, and which has not yet fully taken shape, although its image begins to vaguely emerge. The same way no one could think of the wide spread of electricity, as we observe it today in our daily life, and of those miracles achieved through it each day. An untold number of those miracles are reserved for the near and distant future. No one could 1 In Bulgarian, the masculine form is used as generic for many nouns, and has different gender connotations implying political correctness as it is in contemporary English. 2 ‘Cinematograph’ is a masculine word ending in a consonant, while ‘cinema’ is feminine, as different personal pronouns may refer to the very same object within the text.

Grgić, A., Early Cinema, Modernity and Visual Culture: The Imaginary of the Balkans. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2022 doi 10.5117/9789463728300_app

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predict all of the applications throughout the life span of the photographic apparatus. They [the people] marvelled at its invention and infinitely rejoiced as it enabled keeping a long-lasting memory of dear persons and objects. Nonetheless, its role in the arts, sciences, in justice […] and who knows in what else, was not even suspected. So it was with the cinema. Of course, it was nothing else but a revival of the camara oscura! And the photographic apparatus, too, which is also borne out of her [the camara oscura], and both of them – the camera and the apparatus – are its parents [of the cinema]. And the future stores a pedigree for that prominent family, which appears to be pretty prolific. In the beginning we were going to watch the cinematograph just out of curiosity. Now everywhere, in all big and small cities of the west, this invention became a must for the entertainment and for the indulgence in a particular kind of artistic delight. Special theatres were built for it. And they muster multitudes of spectators. Our capital, if not creating its own culture, at least copies, imitates, and assimilates the foreign one. It is neither trivial nor is it useless ‒ to the contrary. The same happened with the cinema. At first, it became a necessary protagonist of each variety show; afterwards, humble shacks were built for her [the cinema] where she was married to the photographer; out of some variety shows, she even threw away all the actors and replaced them with herself. And recently, a very nice temple has been built and dedicated exclusively to her, for now. Don’t you know the Modern Theatre on Maria Luisa Street? If you had not been there, you probably would have heard of it and seen it from the outside. And I say to you: go visit it. It will give you pleasure and enjoyment. How many times have I rested myself there in pleasant sensations from the spectacles it gives me? I am resting but my mind is constantly working. I wonder what the role of the cinematograph nowadays is and what role it will play in the future. First of all, I am pretty sure that it will be adopted in all areas penetrated by photography. For this no evidence is needed and doubts are inadmissible. For what is actually the cinematograph? It is animated photography. Photography, which is not an expression of a single movement, frozen and petrified, but of a whole series of actions captured consecutively, as life creates them, and for this they are an expression of life. To what perfection this expression will reach into the future, we cannot know clearly and definitely enough; we can only anticipate and speculate given that which has been achieved so far.

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Cinema approximates dramatics. If such a comparison seems like a sacrilege to some, let them calm down. It may be considered, as in all fields of human labour, the machine wins over and makes manpower and his hands redundant; and so will it be here – in the struggle of the cinematograph against the live theatre. Thence, since the cinematograph is a machine and the theatre ‒ human labour, the former will replace the latter. Such is the trend of economic development. However, I do not like talking much about the future, because even the most plausible reasoning about it still remains a speculation and the most positive science becomes a religion. Religion is hope and consolation, reconciliation and love. These are props for the weak, and I do not want to be considered as one of them. We have strong evidence against such a future of cinematography. What was photography able to do against art? It did not substitute it. Indeed, in many areas it did expel it and is doing its job. In the field of printing techniques, for example. Today’s means of illustration are exclusively based on photography and are mechanical. In this respect, astounding results have been achieved. But the old engraving is not yet surpassed by anything else. Publishers rarely present it to the audience because it is expensive like any manual work, still, it is in the basis of artistic illustration. Moreover, human art plays a pivotal role in etching, artistic lithography, radierung, and even in heliographic engraving. Notwithstanding all of this, the machine takes over more and more. Despite the fact that you are fully convinced that the mechanics will be the winning one here again, let us put it aside for the moment: it belongs to the future and we are dealing with the present. Before cinema would replace theatre – if possible – she [the cinema] will become his assistant [to the theatre] as it is achieved in the west. Psychology of scenery requires this, and the endeavours of Loïe Fuller and Mariano Fortuny have proved it. And now the European theatres provide a perfect illusion of the mise-en-scène, in which a merry or a sad spectacle can be performed. This is due to the services of the cinematograph. But that’s not what I would like to speak about. My thought is on spectacles, which the cinema creates and which are theatre spectacles without a speech. This is a pantomime, but expanded, refined and enriched. Today, the main character of the cinematographic theatre is romance, sentimentality and imaginativeness. In all stages of life the virtue and the rightness triumph always. Generosity, compassion, courage, sacrifice, love … are always winners and never remain without a reward. And all of the vices in the face of the seven deadly sins are punished and satirized.

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This moralizing role of the voiceless cinematographic spectacles show the younger period of this new art. That’s why so many simple-soul individuals like it. They (the cinematographic spectacles) do not portrait life as it is in its essence, but depict it the way we want for it to look like. This approximates and levels down the role of cinema to the naïve, sentimental, romantic and sensational literature. But we also know another role that paints human life with all of its misery, injustice and intolerable hypocrisy. And no doubt, the cinematograph will set off for the same journey. Then, we will not meet this fire of contentment and gratitude in the eyes of gullible viewers, but will contemplate the anxiety and fear of the monstrous improvidence between words and deeds, between schooling and life, between morality and reality. But until then…let us go and relax at the Modern theatre. The most richly endowed and complex soul hides in its intimate corners youth naïveté and, therefore, it obligatory gets pleasure from the romantic and sentimental spectacles. Besides these, however, there are purely fantastic ones. They inebriate in such a manner the soul, they empower it and make it creep into the realm of dreams, so that even the most impossible thing begins to seem totally realistic. In this respect, the cinematograph will make huge transformations in thought and in life. It is almost a negation of the existing concepts, conventions and traditional order. Think about it: the last seats are now prestigious, and not the first ones; and if we only part from here… let everyone’s imagination foster their own image about the future. Also, there are scientific spectacles. Seated, you are able to visit unknown places, to see races, animals, plants, monuments … of which you have just heard. This is able to move you out of the condition of a man who loves peace and settled-ness, and to create out of you a dreamy drifter who longs stepping onto the unexplored land … This can bring about both happiness and unhappiness, but in either one of the cases, this is intensive life. Yet again, I cannot refrain myself from the thought of the future of cinema. What would it be, if the spectacles with which it provides us today, became animate and gifted of speech through the phonograph, for instance? And if brought to utter perfection, will it not become an art – strange, complex, and synthetic – capable of uniting all visible forms, ideas, rhythmic movements? To fuse painting, speech, melody; line, word, the note … And thus to present to us the thought with its material form and its movement; the ostensible form with the idea, of which it is often a sign; the feeling with the idea, which accompanies it, and the gesture caused by it … In one word, the whole life with all of its forms in which it becomes apparent… And this would mean a complete identification with the performing arts.

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In this case, a special kind of dramatic literature to be performed in the cinematographic theatres will be established: the same way plays for mimic performances are written – for example, “Dead Man” by Camille Lemoine. But you would think I have again trespassed the realm of the future, although about it I do not wish to talk. I only crave to rave and dream and when visiting the Modern theatre to be served by the sympathetic cinema… Oh no, don’t be fooled: that has already taken place. When I was writing the lines above, I did not even suspect it would happen so soon. And it happened not only immediately, but also took a bolder shape than the one I hoped for. There are now several theatres in the west, in which special artists play only for the cinematograph; entire literary works, entire operas are being reproduced for the cinema; legends, tales, short stories, historical events… become alive before our eyes on the projection screen, while the cinematographic theatre in Paris – Film d’art – prepares its pictures featuring famous artists – Mounet-Sully, Barte Lambert, Alexander – specially written plays for cinema by Lemmert, by Lavdan … Remember “The Kiss of Judas” or “The murder of the Marquis de Guise” or “The Return of Odyssey”. Oh, yes – the cinema is writing its history and is preparing its evolution!

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Ω. “Cinematophotographe in Athens”, Asty, 7 December 1896. Translated from the Greek language by Yorgos Mosko (private commission by author Ana Grgić). Cinematophotographe in Athens Walking down Stadiou Street in the last few days, pedestrians must have noticed the big inscription ‘Cinématophotographe Edison,’ illuminated by four Edison electric lamps. Those curious enough to enter the venue, would find themselves in the midst of a magical parade of living images, of slices of life in front of them, and experience amazement and fascination. The readers of Asty are already aware of what is the cinematophotographe. Three years ago, Edison’s marvellous discovery, the kinetoscope, inside which one sees movement, surprized the scientific world. The precision of the device, the astonishing impression of life vividly conveyed by the movements and the display of the most miniscule and imperceptible details, is truly surprising. The only thing that did not create a perfect impression was the size of the images, which were minuscule and harmed the impression of reality, which is what one would expect. For this reason, a year ago, Auguste and Louis Lumière, the scientists known around the world for their photographic discoveries, invented a modified kinetoscope. This modification simply consists of projecting images via transparent slides onto a white surface, where the images are magnified at will and appear clearer, brighter and life-like. Therefore, this new instrument by Lumière is able to project living pictures successfully and was named by its inventors the ‘Cinematophotographe.’ A similar device, based precisely on these principles, was also ordered for Athens, and Stadiou Street, where the crowds have been gathering over the last few days. *** Like the kinetoscope, the cinematophotographe functions on the principles of rapid succession of images before one’s eyes, which creates the impression of movement. As is known, Edison’s starting point was the following principle: If through the rapid photographic device I capture a series of still photographs, illuminated appropriately, and then I re-present these successively in front of an audience at the same exact speed with which I recorded

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them, wouldn’t they perceive an illusion of movement? The American scientist applied this reasoning ingeniously, as it is well-known, with the aid of photography and electricity. In order to produce photographs from the kinetoscope or the cinematophotographe, it suffices to get the rapidphotographic device Mariac, which captures from twenty to a thousand photographs per second. He then places this device in front of a view he would like to capture and operates it at a certain speed, in order to capture as many movements of this object as desired. These photographs, after being printed on celluloid film, which means they unfolded clearly in front of the lens, like in the kinetoscope – in front of the projecting device – as in the cinematophotographe, with exactly the same speed with which they were captured. Then, in front of the audience, who is not aware of the unfolding of photographs due to the speed, is presented an image with all the details of the movements, forms, gestures and grimaces. *** The device exhibited on Stadiou Street, which already functions flawlessly, is one of the most successful of this kind. The ten scenes which are showing, depict a variety of Japanese dances, arrivals of trains, Parisian landscapes with passing carriages, savages swimming, horse riding lessons, cavalry parades, serpentine dances of Loie Fuller, etc. etc. are highly successful. Carriages are travelling, horses are running, the sea is calmly moving, the wind is blowing, dresses are waving, trains are arriving and departing, Loie Fuller is shaking and twisting like a colourful snake her paradoxical, unique and renowned clothes, so that one thinks that they have before them living human beings, faces enlivened by blood, bodies pulsating with energy. The illusion of life, in all its endless manifestations, parades in front of our eyes. When it becomes possible to have a series of Greek images, of Athenian scenes and landscapes, the cinematophotographe will then be magnificent, becoming an even more pleasurable spectacle. Even as it is, though, it represents one of the most astonishing scientific developments, one of the most captivating discoveries; it is worth being watched by everybody and, certainly, they will all watch it and immerse themselves in its consummate phantasmagorias. Ω. Asty, 7/12/1896



Index

About Shkodra 187 Across the Balkans 157, 166, 171 Adria Film 200 Aesthesis 36, 39 Albania 20, 28, 41, 56, 58, 92, 132, 160–161, 181–182, 184, 187–190 Albert Kahn Museum, the 179–184 Ambrosio 127–128, 171, 186 Amor fatal/Fatal Love 221, 234 Amorurile Unei Prințese/The Loves of a Princess 221 Andreichin, Ivan Stojanov 32, 42, 68–69, 78, 98–102, 111 Andrić, Ivo 32, 78–81, 93, 197 Angelopoulos, Theo 14, 52, 139, 240 Archival theory 24, 40 Archives de la Planète 127, 179-180 Arkivi Qendror Shtetëror i Filmit (Central State Film Archive–Albania) 41, 188 Assasinat de la famille royale de Serbie/Assassination of the King and Queen of Servia 172 Athini Films 221 Atrocités Turques/Massacre in Macedonia 172 Austrian State Archive 134 Austro-Hungarian Empire, the 42–44, 74, 84–85, 119–121, 127–128, 135, 164, 166, 202, 215 Bachatoris, Costas 200, 221 Balkan Wars, the 21–22, 30, 33, 41–42, 127, 134, 137–138, 157, 159, 166, 171–172, 183–184, 186, 190–194, 198 Balkans, the 18–23, 27–28, 40–45, 49–60, 92–97, 108–110, 119–120, 139–144, 153–157, 158–160, 176–179, 239–241 Balkanization 21–23, 155 self-balkanization 30, 157 Balkanism 23, 153, 156, 194 Balkanist 33, 153, 154, 156–158, 172, 194 Battles of the Montenegrin Army at Shkodra 129 Bavaria Film 128 Bechtolsheim, Baron 85 Benjamin, Walter 13, 36, 97 Beograd (film) 135 Bergson, Henri 36, 40 Bläser, Jochann 202 Bogdanović, Đoka 41, 127, 192–193, 200 Bosna (film) 135 Bosnia and Herzegovina 20, 28, 43, 44, 91, 93, 119–123, 128, 131, 134–135, 157, 164–168, 181 Bosnia and Herzegovina (film) 136 Bošnjak, Ernest 198, 200, 203, 204 Botorić, Svetozar 136–138, 200, 221, 223, 227–228 Brezeanu, Grigore 221, 229–230, 233–234 Brunhes, Jean 180–183 Bulgaran e gallant/Bulgarian is a Gentleman 139

Bulgaria 20, 28, 42–43, 58, 88–89, 98, 100, 102–104, 108, 120, 130–131, 136, 139–140, 177-179, 186, 194, 200, 205, 221–234 Bulgarian Army on the Turkish Border 191 Bulgarian National Film Archive 42, 104, 134 Byzantine Empire, the 22, 50, 65, 184 Byzantine icons 50, 164 Carré, André 88, 202 Černov, Samson 127, 192 Charles Urban Trading Company 127, 166, 171, 174, 176–179 Ciganska Svadba/Gypsy Wedding 224 Cinema of attractions 33, 124, 153, 155, 157, 159, 172, 227 Cinematheque of Bosnia and Herzegovina 29 City Wedding 144 Claymoor 197, 208–210, 42, 88 Coffeehouse 75–77, 92–97 Comerio 186, 187, 190 Corso in Rijeka 202 Crassé, Charles 84 Croatia 20, 28, 85, 107–108, 120–121, 127–128, 130–131, 146–147, 167, 198–200 Cultural history 30, 32, 73, 118, 144, 147, 239, 240 Cultural memory 18, 40, 62, 239 Curiel, Angelo 91 Cvetković brothers, the 192 Dalla Villa Reale di Rjeka/ From the Royal City of Rijeka Crnojevića 187, 190 Daniau, Franck 230 De Beéry, Louis Pitrolf 10, 33, 117, 120, 134–139, 148, 168, 171, 223, 241 De Windt, Harry 167 Delavalle, Henri 91 Demetriade, Aristide 230 Detectivul/Detective 221 Drandarov, Tvrdko/Drndarski, Konstantin/ Lala, Dudarski 130–131 Dupont, Eugene 83 Durmitor 130 Early cinema 24–28, 29-31, 46–48, 74–78, 83–85, 107–111, 127–134, 181–182, 198–201, 239–240 Eastern Europe. In Bosnia (Sarajevo) 135 Éclair 129, 166, 168, 171, 186, 190–192, 205 Eclipse 103, 127–128, 167–168 Ecole des cadets de Bulgarie 103, 104 Edison, Thomas 42, 63, 84–85, 89–91, 107, 109, 128, 131, 145, 165, 174, 199, 202, 270 Elektro Bioskop Lifka 127 En Bosnie: Sarajevo 167

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En Serbie: Un marriage chez les Tziganes /In Serbia: A Gypsy Wedding 137 Entrée à Sofia du Prince Ferdinand Tsar de Bulgarie le 12 Octobre/The Arrival of Prince Ferdinand, the Tsar of Bulgaria, to Sofia on 12 October 103 Eurocentrism 24, 25 Exoticism 86, 155, 158–159, 164, 194 Festival Zapaljivog Filma/Nitrate Film Festival 40 Fighting of the Montenegrin Army Near Shkodra 191 Film heritage 27-29, 31, 41, 61, 63, 121, 135, 220, 228, 235, 241 Film preservation 17-18, 29-30, 41, 38–40, 44, 46, 48, 63, 141, 158 Filmul de Arta Leon Popescu 229, 230 Firing of the First Cannon on Dečić in the Balkan Wars 186 From the Life of the Little Princes 134 Gaumont 43, 127–128, 130, 166, 171, 186–187, 192, 199, 203, 229, 232–233 Gavrić, Miloš 132 Gaydushek, Ignat 104 Gendov, Vasil 221 Golfo 200, 221 Goller, Maria 165 Grandmother Despina 61–63, 142 Greece 19, 20, 28, 43, 62, 89–90, 95, 120–122, 132, 139–140, 142, 181–182, 186, 191, 199, 220, 221 Grossman, Karol 200, 218–22o H.M.’s the King Return from the Balkan Wars 134 Halla, Josip 33, 77, 93, 128–129, 190, 215 Haptic 32, 35, 39–40, 47–49, 50,55, 60, 67, 90, 227, 240 Haptical 26, 35, 43, 48, 56, 60, 63–69, 83–86, 104, 170, 194, 228, 233 Hapticality 25, 34, 40, 46, 49, 55, 62, 104, 107, 164 Helios Film 108, 215 Hepp, Josef 120, 132, 134 Herzegovina, Bosnia, and Dalmatia 166 Heterotopias 77, 88 History of the War: the Birthplace of the Great War Sarajevo 168 Hrvatska kinoteka (Croatian Film Archive) 41, 77, 214 Hybrid modernity 26, 78, 102 Idromeno, Kolë 132, 190 Ilinden Uprisings 140, 174–177 Impressioni dal Montenegro sul valoroso esercito durante la Guerra Balcanica/ Views from Montenegro of their valorous army during the Balkan War 190

In Austrian Regions of the Balkans: Bosnia/ Travelling Through Bosnia 167 In den Schwarzen Bergen, aum Furstenhoffe von Montenegro/In the Black Hills, on the Court of the Montenegrin Prince 129 Independenţa României/ The Independence War 201, 229 Înşir-te mărgărite/Spin a Yarn 234 Interculturality 23, 27 Intersectionality 30 Ivanovici, Constantin 232 Izlet splitskih daka u Sinj i na Gubavicu, Procesija sv. Duje/Procession of Saint Dujam or Duje 214 Izletat na aviatora Maslenikov v Sofia/Aviator Maslenikov’s Trip to Sofia 205 Jadna Majka/Poor Mother 203, 221 Janin, Louis 91 Janovics, Jenő 43, 221 Jugoslavija (film company) 130 Kahn, Albert 127, 157, 179–184 Kaiser Franz Josef in Sarajevo, die Reise durch Bosnien und die Herzegowina 168 Karagöz/Karagiozis/Karađoz 95, 122–124 Karaman, Josip 42, 190–191, 198, 200, 213–216, 235 Kavana Corso/Café Corso 77, 93 Kinetograph, the 42, 63, 79, 84 Kinetoscope, the 84 Kinoteka na Makedonija (Cinematheque of North Macedonia) 41, 140–142, 144, 174 Kosovo 20, 181, 187, 225 Kršnjavi, Izidor 129, 210 Kunstwollen 58 Kuzmić, Juraj 89 L’Armée Bulgare/Bulgarian Army 103 L’Ecole des Cadets de Bulgarie 104 L’Europe Orientale–en Bosnie 136 L’image survivante 61 La Roumanie Pittoresque, panorama 233 Latest events in the Balkans 186 Le Roi et La Reine de Roumanie et leur escorte/ The Romanian King and Queen and their escorts 209 Leon, Auguste 181 Lifka brothers, the 127, 174 Lumière brothers, the 25, 42–43, 63, 83, 85–86, 88–91, 126–127, 131–132, 145–146, 199, 202, 208–210, 212–213, 217–218 Mackenzie, John 42, 167 Magyar Nemzeti Filmarchívum (Hungarian National Film Archive) 43 Manakia brothers, the 14, 26, 31, 33, 37, 41–42, 61–63, 117, 120–121, 139–144, 148, 163, 180, 241 Maneuvers of the Greek Infantry 134

275

Index

Maneuvers of the Greek Navy 134 Marinković, Rudolf 200 Marinescu, Gheorghe 42, 210–213, 235 Martelli, Filippo 2oo–221 Marubi Studio, the 60, 157, 160–163, 184, 193 Menu, Paul 34, 42, 208–210, 234 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 35, 36, 40, 65, 92, 102 Messter 128, 168, 171, 186 Modernity 18, 24–26, 32, 34, 61, 63, 73–75, 77–78, 81, 94, 97–98, 100, 102, 109, 126, 145, 159, 163, 180, 197, 211–222, 235, 239 Montenegrin Cinematheque, the 187–188 Montenegro 20, 28, 92, 119, 129, 132, 162, 181, 184, 186–191, 214 Mosinger, Rudolf 93, 94 Mostar (film) 135 Multiculturalism, multicultural 22, 24, 27–28, 74, 111, 139, 145, 148, 160–161, 183, 201, 213, 240–241 Na domačem vrtu/In the family garden 218 Nanić, Stojan 131 Nationalism 22, 154, 197, 201, 220–222, 230, 235 National Museum of Photography (Albania) 161 Neue Sarajevoer Aufnahmen/New Views of Sarajevo 128 Nonguet, Lucien 172, 174 North Macedonia 20, 28, 41, 56, 58, 92, 121, 139–142, 144, 174–175, 177, 181 Novi Zagrebački prizori/New Views of Zagreb 128 Noworyta, Stanisław 120, 129–130 Odhod od maše v Ljutomeru/Dismissal from Mass in Ljutomer 217 Oeser, Franz Josef 127–128 Otkrivane na narodno sabranie v Sofia na 15 oktombri 1911 godina/The Opening of the National Assembly in Sofia on 15 October 1911 206 Otkrivane na velikoto narodno sabranie vav Veliko Tarnovo na 9 juni 1911 godina/The Opening of the Grand National Assembly in Veliko Tarnovo on 9 June 1911 205 Otkrivanje spomenika Ferencu Rakociju u Somboru/ Unveiling of the Monument to Ferenc Rákóczi in Sombor 204 Opening of the City Café in Bitola 144 Opsada Skadra/Siege of Shkodra 129, 190 Orientalism 20, 23, 33, 153, 155, 156, 158, 161, 194 nesting orientalism 30 Ottoman Empire, the 19–22, 50, 52, 74, 88–93, 95–96, 120–122, 132, 138–139, 142–143, 156–161, 164, 168, 172, 174, 176, 180–186, 188, 200, 220, 224, 229–232, 235

Paesi Balcani in fermento: Il Montenegro/The Balkan countries in turmoil: Montenegro Panorama 187 Panorama of Ljubljana 202 Paralizia pseudhipertrofica sau mosclerozica din cadrul miopatiilor/Illnesses of the muscles 211 Passet, Stéphane 182 Pathé 33, 43, 61, 103, 104, 120, 127–128, 132, 134–138, 157, 166–168, 170–174, 186–188, 189, 190, 192, 194, 199–221, 223–227, 229 Patina 37, 39, 40, 62, 170, 228 Phenomenology 24, 26, 36, 38, 40 Plitvička jezera/The Plitvice National Park 128 Popescu, Constantin M. 210 Popescu, Leon 200, 229–230, 233–234 Post-colonialism 156 Proclamation of the Kingdom in Tarnovo and Official Entering of the King in the capital 205 Proglašenje Crne Gore za kraljevinu /Proclamation of Montenegro for the Kingdom 214, 215 Promio, Alexandre 127, 146 Qiprioti, Onufri 58 Radovici, Constantin 221, Razboiul 1877-1878, Romano-Turc/RomanianTurkish War 1877–1878 232 Reinthaler, Ignaz 43, 228 Restul e tăcere/The Rest is Silence 234 Rider Noble, Charles 42, 127, 176, 178, 179 Riegl, Alois 26, 39, 40, 49, 56, 58 Roman Empire, the 19, 22, 32 Romania 19, 20, 28, 42, 43, 88, 108, 121, 127–128, 135, 139–140, 210, 220–221, 228–229, 232–234 Romanian National Film Archive 141, 144, 209–210, 234 Sajam svetog Duje/The Fair of Saint Dujam 214 Sarajevo (film) 135, 168, 170 Sarajevo. Die Hauptstadt Von Bosnien 168, 170 Sarajevo. Die Rückkehr der österreichischen Garnison vom Manöver/The Return of an Austrian Military Unit from Manoeuvres to Sarajevo 168 Sárga csikó/The Yellow Colt 221 Savić brothers, the 136, 202–203, 221 Savoia Film 186 Scenes de rue/Streets Scenes 180 Scènes et Types Bulgares/Bulgarian Scenes and Types 103 Scenes from the life of Aromanians in the Pindus 144 Sejem v Ljutomeru/The Ljutomer Fair 218 Self-exoticism 30, 157, 240

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Serbia 20, 28, 80, 86, 108, 120–121, 131, 135–138, 140, 167, 172–173, 181, 184, 186–187, 191–193, 198, 200, 203, 220–224, 227, 234 Shadow puppet theatre 76, 95, 121–124 Siege of Shkodra 129, 157, 182, 186, 188–189, 194 Sinjska Alka 128 Slovenia 19, 20, 28, 41, 84, 121, 127, 144, 198, 216, 220 Slovenski filmski arhiv pri Arhivu Republike Slovenije (Slovenian Film Archives) 216 Socijalistička proslava 1. maja u Sarajevu/The 1 May socialist celebration in Sarajevo 205 Société Iris 103 Sokolski Slet u Splitu/The Sokol Practices in Split 214 Somogyi, Ferdinand-Nandor 92, 129, 130 Southeast Europe 18 Spandagos, Charalambos 191 Sprovod splitskog načelnika Vicka Michaljevića/ The funeral of the mayor Vicko Michaljević 214 Stanojević, Ilija 41, 136, 221, 223–224, 227 State Archive of Bosnia and Herzegovina 134 Stauber, Josef 132 Splitska Luka/Port of Split 214 Spyridion/Spyros Dimitrakopoulos 123, 220–221 Spyridion, Baby 221 Spyridion, Chameleon 221 Spyridion, Quo Vadis 220 Šubic, Simon 241, 144–145 Sultan Mehmed Reshad Visiting Bitola 143 Svečano otvaranje Napretkovog doma u Sarajevu/The ceremonial opening of Napredak in Sarajevo 205 Svečanosti proglašenja Crne Gore kraljevinom/ The Proclamation of the Kingdom of Montenegro 214 Svesokolski slet u Zagrebu/The Sokol Practices in Zagreb 214 Tamindžić, Ljubomir 119 The Battle at Tuzi 187, 191 The Bloody Battle at Bregalnica 191 The Fall of Shkodra 187 The fall of the Ottoman Empire 192 The festivities on May 2 at the Military School or Exercises and the Awards Ceremony at the Military School 103 The First Serbian Program 193 The Funeral of Metropolitan Emilianos of Grevena 144 The Funeral of Three Serbian Heroes Fallen in the War with the Bulgarians 137 The Latest Film Report from the Balkan Battleground–Montenegro 186 The Mobilisation in Greece 191 The Solemn Entry of the Serbian King Peter to Skopje 137

The Unseen World 212 The Visit of Franz Josef to Sarajevo/The visit of the Austrian Emperor Franz Joseph in Sarajevo (Bosnia) 135 The War for Lezha/Kaempfe um Alessio 190 The Weavers 61, 63, 142, 163 The Wounded of the Balkan Wars 134 Tirnovo (Capitale de la Bulgarie)/Tarnovo (Capital of Bulgaria) 103 Tragedy in the Balkans 192 Transnationalism, transnational 27–28, 31–33, 41–42, 144–145, 148, 200, 223, 235, 239–240 Tulburarile in paraplegiile organice/The walking troubles of organic paraplegies 211 Tulburarile mersului in ataxia locometrica progresiva/ The walking troubles of progressive locomotion ataxy 211 Tulburarile mersului in hemiplegia organica/The walking troubles of organic hemiplegy 210 Turkey 19, 20, 28, 50, 90, 139–140, 146, 175, 181–182, 199 Turkish Sultan Mehmed Reshad V visiting Thessalonica 143 U carstvu Terpsihore/In the Kingdom of Terpsichore 203 Ulrih Celjski i Vladislav Hunjadi 136, 221, 228 Un caz de hemiplegie isterica vindecat prin hipnoza/A case of hysteric hemiplegy healed through hypnosis 210 Under Tarabosh, The Battle at Tuzi 187 Urania (society) 129, 146, 210 Urania (travelling cinema) 92, 130, 200 Urban, Charles 33, 127, 141, 157, 166–167, 171, 174, 176–179, 194, 212 Ustoličenje Reis-Ul-Uleme/The enthronement of Resi-Ul-Ulema 205 Valić, Antun 200, 204–205 Valić, Paulina 165, 204 Volić, Antonio 213 Vernacular modernism 46 Views of the Balkan War 189 Views of the Ottoman Empire 188 Visual culture 18, 24–26, 28, 32, 35, 40, 49, 51, 60–61, 239 Vodosvet na Bogojavlenie v Sofia/The Epiphany Ceremony in Sofia 205 Voiculescu, Mărioara 221 Voyage à Sofia (plein air)/Journey to Sofia 103 War in the Balkans 187, 192 War in the Balkans (Newest footage from the Battlefield) 192 Warburg, Aby 60, 61 Weinberg, Sigmund 91, 120 Welcoming the King in Sofia 205

Index

Welt Film 128 With the Insurgent Bands of Macedonia/ Macedonia and the Insurgents 176 World War I 21–23, 27, 30, 33, 42–43, 76, 80, 87, 93, 120, 130, 134, 136, 148, 156, 164, 176, 191, 194, 198, 204–205, 215–216, 220, 222, 229, 235 Yugoslav Cinematheque, the 18, 41, 42, 63, 103–104, 134, 140–141, 186, 204, 215, 228, Yugoslavia 14, 30, 129, 139

277 Zagrebački prizori/Views of Zagreb 128 Zaharovici, R. 232 Zauzeće Taraboša/Taking of Tarabosh 129, 191 Život i dela besmrtnog vožda Karadjordja/ The Life and Deeds of the Immortal Vožd Karađorđe 10, 34, 37, 41, 136–137, 201, 221–222, 223–228, 235