INTRODUCTION
The art of magic shadows, which just before the dawn of the twentieth century evolved into the modern motion picture, was born three centuries ago, at Rome. There Athanasius Kircher, a German priest, first showed his invention, the magic lantern, to friends, and enemies, at the Collegio Romano, where he was a professor of mathematics.
The world premiere of the first real “magic shadow” performance passed without public notice. In those days there were no press agents or publicists. There were no newspapers. The people did not care what the nobles and scholars were doing in their idle moments; the intellectuals paid little attention to the people.
History has not recorded the day and month in which Kircher presented his projector, the fundamental instrument of all screen shows, then and now. The occasion can be set only approximately—some time in the year 1644 or 1645. The hour of the performance presumably was in the evening, for the light and shadow pictures had to be shown in darkness, just as today films must be exhibited in darkened theatres.
We may be sure that the score or more of invited guests—Romans and distinguished foreigners—eagerly accepted an opportunity to see what Kircher was up to. Rome had been buzzing with rumors. The energetic little Jesuit priest who earned for himself the title, “Doctor of a Hundred Arts,” had even been suspected of necromancy and working in league with the devil. After the showing of the magic lantern and its projected pictures some were certain that he practiced the “black arts.”
The audience for the first screen performance was as distinguished as any that has since graced a Hollywood production. Other professors of the Roman College were there to note for themselves on which one of his “hundred arts” Kircher had been busy. These men were among the most learned in Europe and had made the Jesuit University, established in 1582, already an influence in all circles of thought. A selected group of students, young Romans of noble birth, surely were also invited. Until the hour of the demonstration, these stood outside in the large Piazza di Collegio Romano before the main entrance. Three centuries later, from June, 1944 to late 1945, American Army MPs raced through this same Piazza on jeeps and motorcycles to their headquarters in Rome, just across the square from the entrance to the Collegio Romano.
Just at the appointed hour for Kircher’s show, a few distinguished monsignori, in flowing purple were driven to the entrance in their carriages with mounted escort. Perhaps, too, a hush went through the small group, assembled in an upper hall, when a Prince of the Church, such as Cardinal Barberini who had summoned Kircher to Rome a decade before, came to see for himself. After all the monsignori and other visitors had been greeted with ceremony and salutation in keeping with their rank, the candles and lamps were extinguished; Kircher slipped behind a curtain or partition where his projector was concealed and the first light and shadow screen show was on.
For a moment Kircher’s audience could see nothing. Then slowly their eyes became accustomed to the darkness and a faint light appeared on a white surface set up in front of the few rows of seats. As the flames in Kircher’s lantern began to burn more brightly and he adjusted the crude projection system, the picture of his first glass slide was thrown upon the screen.
The young men with keen eyesight were the first to note that the light and shadow on the screen, like some ghostly figment, began to take form into a recognizable picture. Then the older ecclesiastics saw or thought they saw. The incredulous murmured prayerful ejaculations. The wonder increased as successive pictures were projected. Kircher was enough of a showman to use pictures which would entertain and amaze. He included animal drawings, artistic designs and, to taunt those who thought he was dabbling in necromancy, pictures of the devil. Prudence was not one of his “hundred arts.”