Then it came again when you saw an accelerated motion picture which showed a plant growing from seed to blossom within a few minutes. And still again you felt it when in some slow-motion picture you saw a horse floating through the air. But time went on and the frequent repetition of these effects made their appeal less poignant.
In each case the thing that stirred you was due to a novelty of mechanics, a trick of cinematography. But you can get that emotion without waiting for a new mechanical invention. It may come also from the pictorial composition, from some peculiar patternings of things, whether fixed or moving, within the picture itself. A striking illustration of this may be found in the German photoplay, "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari," which has been described in the preceding chapter. It contains at least two scenes in which extremely simple arrangements kindle strange flares of emotion. One of these moments comes in the scene which is represented by the "still" shown opposite page 179. Here we see Cesare, the hynotized sleep-walker, slinking along an alley of weird lights and shadows. We know from earlier scenes that he is bent on committing some new crime. His face is ghastly and his lanky frame is tightly clothed in black. He emerges into a bright glare and stretches forth his arm in an unhuman gesture, as though he were going to glide serpent-wise up the very side of the wall. This movement makes a strange pattern and sends through us a flash of—shall we call it a sweet shudder or a horrible delight?—something poignant and unforgettable.
A similar experience of emotion comes to us a few
