Joan of Arc
Jeanne d’Arc, 1900, 10m19s
Star Film Catalogue Nos. 264-275
At the age of thirteen, while tending sheep, Joan of Arc is visited by Saints Catherine and Margaret, and then by Saint Michael, who orders her to free France from the English yoke and to lead the Dauphin to the French throne. She returns home in a trance-like state, but won’t cross the threshold. Her uncle tries to persuade her to stay in her native village, but she refuses and runs off. She reaches the fortified city of Vaucouleurs, and persuades the guard to admit her. She finds the garrison commander, Robert de Baudricourt, enjoying a wild party with his friends. Joan tries to convince him of her plan, and though he initially rubbishes the idea (and has to be restrained from throwing her out), but Joan persuades him to give her his sword and entrust his army to her. Orléans is freed from the English oppressor, and Joan leads a huge army through the town. On 17 July 1429, in the cathedral of Rheims, King Charles VII is blessed by Archbishop Regnault. Joan and her army try to break in to the castle of Compiègne. After a pitched battle, Joan is captured by the English. Her followers try to scale the castle, but to no avail. Joan awakes in a cell, where she has another visitation from Saint Michael, this time flanked by Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine. The jailer orders her to accompany him. On 15 March 1431, Joan is put on trial, with the indictment read by Bishop Pierre Cauchon. He orders her to sign a retraction of her claim to have heard voices. She refuses and throws the quill on the floor. In the market square at Rouen, a pyre is constructed, with a sign reading ‘Relapsed Heretic’. Flanked by Cauchon and his allies, Joan is tied to the post and burned. A soldier adds fuel to the fire, and falls to the ground, overwhelmed both by the smoke and by the magnitude of what he has contributed to. But Joan has ascended to heaven.
Despite being made as early as 1900, Georges Méliès’ Joan of Arc was in fact the second adaptation of the legend: Georges Hatot’s The Execution of Joan of Arc (Execution de Jeanne d’Arc) was made in 1897. However, with its ten-minute running time and eleven separate scenes, Méliès’ film was undoubtedly the first to attempt an overview of the entire saga, from the teenage Joan hearing voices to her military triumphs, capture and execution. In fact, when compared with the earlier multi-sequence The Dreyfus Affair (L’Affaire Dreyfus, 1899) and Cinderella (Cendrillon, 1899), the narrative of Joan of Arc is noticeably more coherent, with just one digression to a scene not featuring Joan (the blessing of Charles VII).
The title role was played by one Mademoiselle Calvière, with Méliès regular Jeanne d’Alcy as her mother, and Méliès himself in multiple roles. As with Méliès’ other longer-form films, there are a reasonable number of extras, though the primary justification for an otherwise interminable march-past through Orléans seems to be so that Méliès can convince us that he really had a cast of thousands at his disposal. In actual fact, his performers would exit the shot at the right of the screen, and would quickly dash behind the backdrop to reappear again on the left.
Other effects are more sophisticated, and are dotted throughout the film. The appearances of the various angels in the opening scene were achieved by a combination of dissolve and superimposition - not that much earlier, he’d have been forced to use a much cruder jump-cut. Saint Michael is sporting an animated halo, presumably a mechanical effect being cranked by an invisible underling. Later, Joan’s army lays siege to the castle of Compiègne (clearly visible as a painted backdrop, since it wobbles when a ladder is placed against it) before being captured and burned at the stake, an effect achieved by releasing lots of smoke and stencil-tinting the print so that it looks as though it’s glowing with unbearable heat. Finally, a gloriously kitschy conclusion in Heaven echoes the similar apotheosis that concluded Cinderella (1899).
But Joan of Arc also proved that Méliès was becoming increasingly sophisticated as a metteur en scène. In terms of film grammar, he’s still conceiving his film as a series of lengthy tableaux shot from a fixed camera position and mostly separated by dissolves, but the blocking and compositions make effective use of the frame (particularly in the festivities in Robert de Baudricourt’s castle, the siege of Compiègne and Joan’s trial and execution), and once the march through Orléans and the blessing of Charles VII have finished, the film moves at one hell of a lick. Presumably Méliès could rely on his audience’s familiarity with the story to get away with not providing too much background information, but even without prior knowledge it’s much clearer what’s going on here than was the case with the Dreyfus films. Other directors, notably Carl Theodor Dreyer (The Passion of Joan of Arc, 1928), Robert Bresson (The Trial of Joan of Arc, 1962) and Jacques Rivette (Jeanne la Pucelle, 1993), would probe far more deeply into the legend, but Méliès’ film deserves credit for being the first serious effort, and one that ranges rather wider than its director’s reputation as a trick-film specialist might suggest.
The print on Flicker Alley’s DVD starts off in dreadful condition, with the whole of the first scene marred by severe damage. However, things quickly improve, and much of the rest of the film looks ravishing, augmented by the stencil colours. This is the first of a handful of Méliès titles to feature a soundtrack narration, delivered in heavily accented French by Lobster Films’ Serge Bromberg. The decision to record it in English triggered knee-jerk complaints from purists, though in actual fact this is Méliès’ original text, written in English to make his films more accessible to the international marketplace. (His films on the Dreyfus Affair would certainly have benefited from something similar). The narration is accompanied by an electronic score from Brian Benison, which makes frequent use of a martial mode as Joan’s military victories pile up.
Links
- Internet Movie Database entry.
- Jshaide’s review (Rotten Tomatoes forum) - part one/part two
- Wikipedia on the real Joan of Arc.
Posted on 13th June 2008
Under: Mechanical Props, Historical Re-enactments, Superimposition, 1900, Dreams | 1 Comment »
A man lays out seven chairs in a row and counts and recounts them to make sure. He sits down in the one on the far right, and splits in two, his double moving to the seat next to him. This process is repeated until there are seven men, identical except for their differing musical instruments, occupying all the chairs. They chat amongst each other until the man in the middle stands up to conduct. The six instrumentalists perform, then sit back and relax. The conductor stands up again and indicates that they should come closer. They do so, blending into each other until only the conductor is left. He makes the chairs disappear and reappear en bloc, then individually. As he is bowing to the audience, a gigantic fan rises behind him, startling him when he turns round. He sits on the only remaining chair and sinks through the floor of the stage. He then reappears on the other side of the fan, jumping over it before disappearing in a puff of smoke. The fan descends to reveal him behind it. He bows to the audience.
Méliès was no stranger to playing the lead in his films, but it’s worth noting that in this and The Four Troublesome Heads, he’s performing without any elaborate costume or make-up, as though he wanted to be as recognisable as possible. Given that the early screenings would presumably have been held in his own theatre with the man himself in attendance, this would have added an extra dimension to the fakery. It’s the work of a showman with plenty to show off, though the film’s second half sadly lacks the fireworks of the first - the multiple-Méliès orchestra is such a tour de force that the solo business with the fan can’t help but seem a bit anti-climactic.
An explorer, clad in pith helmet, wanders into an Egyptian tomb and is struck by a sarcophagus displayed in the centre. After examining it from either side, he opens it, revealing it to be empty. He climbs in… (print ends here)
It’s a particular shame that so little of this film survives, because what’s presented on Flicker Alley’s DVD is generally in very acceptable condition, barring a couple of out-of-focus frames near the start. There are speckles of damage throughout, but the level of detail is impressively high, almost right up to the very end of the surviving fragment. Neal Kurz’s piano accompaniment is a Chopinesque waltz that comes to a conclusion as the explorer steps into the tomb - wisely, it refrains from building any kind of anticipation, given the inevitable letdown at the end.
In the kitchen, a cook attempts to seduce a maid, making her drop a plate. It shatters on the ground, causing both to jump and remonstrate with each other. The cook hears someone approaching and hides in a cupboard. The horrified manager enters and sends the maid off with a flea in her ear before sitting down to contemplate the shards. The cook peeks out of the cupboard, and the manager spots him. He runs over to the cupboard and slams the door, severing the cook’s head at the neck. In a panic, the manager picks up the head and puts it on a nearby table, where it comes back to life. Alarmed, the manager grabs a saucepan and hits it. It disappears and reappears on the other side of the kitchen. The manager picks it up and tosses it back in the cupboard, closing the door behind it. The now intact cook emerges from the cupboard, and knocks the manager’s head off before tossing his limp body around. He then exits via the door.
The English title is a simplification of the original French, as the term ‘gâte-sauce’ literally means “sauce spoiler”, a term that originally literally referred to a bad cook, but was then turned into a slang term meaning “kitchen help”. In other words, the “cook” in this film was probably a barely qualified underling, hence his clear preferment of the charms of the maid over anything else in the kitchen - and the rage of his boss when he hears his precious plates getting smashed as a by-product. 
Tom Whisky performs a lively dance. Exhausted, he pulls up a chair and sits on it, only to find a woman appearing underneath him. He leaps up, grabs another chair, and the same thing happens - and then again with a third. The three women get up, and Tom pushes them together until they turn into a single, much larger woman. Alarmed, he pushes down on her head, shrinking her to a small child. This fails to meet with his satisfaction, so he pulls her up to the large woman again, and splits her into the original trio. He pulls out the chairs for them and lets them sit down… (print ends here)
What’s also striking about the film is the way the many jump-cuts have been carefully planned so that they integrate seamlessly with Tom Whisky’s whirling dance routine, which was clearly much less wild and random than it appears at first glance. Even though it’s obvious how they were created (to a large extent, this film harks back to Méliès’ earliest jump-cut experiments of 1896), the rapidity of his movements is clearly intended to distract the viewer’s eye from the trickery being performed elsewhere. It’s an age-old trick that an experienced stage magician like Méliès would have mastered long before he came anywhere near a camera.
In the kitchen, Cinderella pleads with her sisters to let her go to the ball with them, but she is rebuffed. She sits in a chair and weeps. The cauldron turns into her fairy godmother, who asks her to open a rat-trap. Cinderella does so, and a rat emerges. The fairy godmother touches it with her wand, and it’s transformed first into a giant-sized rat, and then into a human footman. Two more rats emerge, and are given similar treatment. The fairy godmother asks Cinderella to place a large pumpkin on the table, which is transformed into a carriage. Cinderella’s rags are transformed into a gorgeous dress, and the footmen help her into the carriage prior to mounting it themselves. As they leave, the fairy godmother indicates the clock, prior to sinking through the floor. At the ball, a dance is in progress when Cinderella enters, kissing the King’s hand and captivating the Prince, who gladly dances with her. Suddenly, Old Father Time leaps into the centre of the dance floor to remind Cinderella of the time. But it is too late: she changes back into her original rags. Her sisters laugh at her, and she runs away in shame. The Prince picks up one of her slippers and runs after her, but to no avail. The dance recommences. Cinderella enters her bedroom, sits at her table and sobs unconsolably. Her freestanding clock sidles up to her and Father Time re-emerges, complete with four female assistants. Father Time himself turns into a woman, and the quintet rock from side to side, each holding a clock face showing midnight. They are then transformed into large ornate clocks that jump up and down as though taunting Cinderella. They turn back into the five women, who form themselves into a group and turn into a much larger clock face, with Father Time in the middle. It vanishes, and Cinderella’s sisters appear. They order her to answer the door. The Prince enters, holding the abandoned slipper. He tries it on each of the sisters’ feet, but it doesn’t fit. He goes over to Cinderella, ignoring their taunting, and slips it onto her foot - it’s a perfect fit. The fairy godmother appears and transforms her rags back into her earlier finery. The Prince takes her hand and leads her out. Cinderella’s sisters protest, but can do nothing. A crowd gathers to watch a marching band heralding the approach of Cinderella and the Prince - she is now wearing a wedding dress. A long retinue follows them into the church. A group of boys and girls is prevented from entering, but stays outside to dance in formation with the help of a violinist. A ballerina performs an elaborate pirouette. The Prince, Cinderella and their followers strike a pose. 
However, it should be noted that many of these are combined into one shot (for instance, 1 to 4 inclusive), so the final film isn’t quite as narratively advanced as the list implies. That said, it was still amazingly sophisticated for 1899, especially in its scene transitions. Three of them - between 4/5, 6/7 and 11/12 - are linked by dissolves, achieved by closing the lens aperture, rewinding the film, and opening the aperture again, and it is generally believed that these are the first dissolves in film history. The final transition, which is apparently given its own entry as ‘The Transformation’, is more visually elaborate, as the background and side flats are removed to let the dancers blend seamlessly into a tableau involving the Prince, Cinderella and her retinue, but much more redolent of a stage production. (Although this is believed to be the first film adaptation of the Cinderella story, it had long been a popular stage favourite).
There is then a very abrupt cut to the scene (tableaux 9-11) of the Prince and the slipper which, like the scene at the ball, is staged entirely straight. This is, as it turns out, the film’s final scene that has a primarily narrative purpose, as the rest of the film is given over to the most elaborate dance routine of all. After a lengthy procession into the church (tableaux 12-16), eight dancers are left outside, and begin to perform with the aid of a violinist (tableau 17). A ballerina enters and dominates the action (tableau 18) - and finally (tableaux 19-20) the backdrop is lifted, revealing Cinderella, the Prince and the members of their cortège in formation, blending seamlessly with the dancers in the foreground. The film has now definitively shifted from theatre to ballet - the final tableau being an authentic apotheosis, representing the Triumph of Cinderella, framed as though she was a successor to Marianne, France’s national emblem. (Although Sergei Prokofiev’s ballet wouldn’t be written for another four decades, there had already been several balletic adaptations of Perrault’s story dating back to the early 19th century, plus of course Rossini’s 1817 opera La Cenerentola).
12 August 1899. The court martial of Alfred Dreyfus at the Lycée in Rennes. The sergeant of the court strides up and makes an announcement. Colonel Jouast and the other judges arrive and take their seats, along with Maître Labori, Commandier Cordier and Adjutant Coupois. Dreyfus is then brought in, and Jouaust questions him. General Mercier, the first witness, enters, salutes the judges, and mimes that he’d like a seat. One is brought, and a debate ensues, which becomes heated to the point when Mercier leaps up and begins gesticulating. When he sits down, Dreyfus rises and makes a protest.
In terms of staging, this makes use of the same backdrop as that featured in Méliès’ previous film, 
Rennes, August 1899. Various journalists take their seats in the courtroom at the second court-martial of Arthur Dreyfus. Though the atmosphere is cordial at first, Arthur Meyer of the ‘Gaulois’ starts an argument with Madame Séverine of the ‘Fonde’. She leaps to her feet, and so do most of the other journalists, triggering a pitched battle with many laying about them with their sticks. Many participants flee when the gendarmes get involved, and the remaining reporters are subsequently expelled.
However, their altercation quickly spills over into all-out group violence, whose most immediately noteworthy point is that its visual treatment lacks Méliès’ usual careful staging that arranges the actors in clearly-defined planes. Here, it looks like a straightforward fight, and when it’s broken up, the various characters walk (or are bundled) towards and past the camera instead of exiting to the left or right. The result is much more three-dimensional and less “theatrical” than Méliès’ other films - of all the films in the Dreyfus cycle, this is the one that most closely resembles genuine actuality footage, the size of the cast and the amount of foreground action making it much less obvious that the backdrop is still a painted flat.
Rennes, 14 August 1899. Maître Labori (Alfred Dreyfus’s lawyer), Colonel Picquart (the man who unmasked the real forger), M. Gast (Mayor of Rennes) and an unidentified woman are walking near a bridge. They stop for a chat, and the woman leaves. A man creeps up behind them, behaving suspiciously, but although the trio notice him, they don’t think anything of it. They turn to walk across the bridge, whereupon the man draws a gun and shoots Labori twice in the back. He runs off, pursued by Labori’s companions. Labori lies on the ground in agony, trying and failing to attract the attention of two passers-by - but a third comes to his assistance, and calls for help.
In terms of mise en scène, the film’s action is played out against a backdrop of the bridge at Rennes, with another painted flat to the left creating a side alley for the would-be assassin to escape down. As in 
In the military prison at Rennes, Alfred Dreyfus is seated at a table poring over books. A guard enters and salutes him, indicating that there are people outside. Dreyfus asks him to show them in. His lawyers Edgar Demange and Fernand Labori enter and are greeted by Dreyfus prior to the three of them taking seats around the table. Dreyfus points out something in the book he was reading earlier, which leads to an animated conversation. He has just got up to show them another document when the guard re-enters to say that he has another visitor. It is his wife Lucie, and her friend Madame Havet. Clearly overwhelmed with emotion, the reunited couple embrace, prior to Dreyfus sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. 
So far so touching, but it went on to say: “Mme. Dreyfus issued from the prison in a state of collapse. She found her husband much aged, with beard and hair whitened, and body shrunk and stooped. She said Dreyfus knew nothing of the events of the past two years.” Presumably, French newspaper accounts proceeded on near-identical lines, because it seems clear that Méliès is trying to convey this impression in the final seconds of the film, when Dreyfus retreats into a world of his own and Lucie can offer no more than a comforting caress.