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ghost and he answers correctly questions about expressions or color of clothes” (Provin- ciale Drentsche En Asser Courant 1865); or a performance advertised as “how can people see their own ghost”, which seems to imply that the illusion device was set-up in such a way that the reflection of a spectator would be projected — this particular performance was advertised as running every hour, for more than six consecutive hours. (Nieuwe Rot- terdamsche Courant: Staats-, Handels-, Nieuws- En Advertentieblad 1865) During the winter season of 1865-1866 Maju returned with his conjuring acts to the London Polytechnic program. (London Evening Standard 1865) Coming back to the

Figure 11 ghost and he answers correctly questions about expressions or color of clothes” (Provin- ciale Drentsche En Asser Courant 1865); or a performance advertised as “how can people see their own ghost”, which seems to imply that the illusion device was set-up in such a way that the reflection of a spectator would be projected — this particular performance was advertised as running every hour, for more than six consecutive hours. (Nieuwe Rot- terdamsche Courant: Staats-, Handels-, Nieuws- En Advertentieblad 1865) During the winter season of 1865-1866 Maju returned with his conjuring acts to the London Polytechnic program. (London Evening Standard 1865) Coming back to the

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The 1913 British version was called Scrooge; it would be known as Old Scrooge when released in the US in 1926. This version starred veteran stage Scrooge Seymour Hicks, who would reprise the role in 1935 in the first feature length adaptation of A Christmas Carol. In this version spaces are collapsed in another way: Scrooge’s workplace and res- idence are treated as the same location. Marley is again a superimposed ghost who en- ters from out of frame to rouse Scrooge as he dozes in an armchair. They then move to a different composition elsewhere in the room (the armchair itself no longer in frame), while Scrooge remains cowering on the floor throughout most of the vision. As in 1903, Marley conducts all of the hauntings himself, acting very much as a lanternist, who ges- tures to produce visions of Scrooge’s youth, superimposed at mid-frame.
The 1913 British version was called Scrooge; it would be known as Old Scrooge when released in the US in 1926. This version starred veteran stage Scrooge Seymour Hicks, who would reprise the role in 1935 in the first feature length adaptation of A Christmas Carol. In this version spaces are collapsed in another way: Scrooge’s workplace and res- idence are treated as the same location. Marley is again a superimposed ghost who en- ters from out of frame to rouse Scrooge as he dozes in an armchair. They then move to a different composition elsewhere in the room (the armchair itself no longer in frame), while Scrooge remains cowering on the floor throughout most of the vision. As in 1903, Marley conducts all of the hauntings himself, acting very much as a lanternist, who ges- tures to produce visions of Scrooge’s youth, superimposed at mid-frame.
The Ghost of Christmas Present triggers a scene transition with his magical torch in A Christmas Carol (1984). © 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment
The Ghost of Christmas Present triggers a scene transition with his magical torch in A Christmas Carol (1984). © 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment
essay is where the Ghost of Christmas Present (also Carrey) gives Scrooge a panoramic view of his contemporary London. After Scrooge grasps the spirit’s robe, a wave of the torch creates a viewing surface on the surface of his bedroom floor. At first it resembles a hole in Scrooge’s floor, looking down at a lower level, but it soon becomes clear that it is still solid; a chair and table stand directly on it, though they too seem affected by its “impression” of movement. We switch to an overhead view where Scrooge dangles over the apparent abyss, treated to a godlike, overheard view of the world around him, as he observes the merriment of the underclass that he scorns. The staging emphasizes Scrooge’s simultaneous motion and stability — he is understandably nervous about the yawning chasm below his feet but is in no actual danger — again, an experience shared by the audience. The authorship and technological mastery that accomplishes this feat of audio-visual magic is linked to the Ghost of Christmas Past, who moves his brilliant torch apparently to steady and control the vision; this version of the ghostly monstra- teur acts very much like a ride conductor. In a concise example of media convergence, this very cinematic sequence at once suggests a (Disney-style) theme park ride and the ultimate home theatre experience; Scrooge’s moral enlightenment, it seems, is to be accomplished by shock-and-awe immersion. This sequence then moves into one that is quieter but equally ghostly in a quite dif- ferent way. We lose sight of Scrooge and the spirit although, so instead of invisibly ob- serving the Cratchits at dinner and later Fred and his friends, they are signified largely by restless, mobile camerawork. Their gaze is signified by model camerawork as it glides, in patterns impossible for a conventional POV character. Occasionally it cuts back to Scrooge back in his bedroom, watching him from a space above, but more often camera’s virtual gaze, that of Scrooge and the viewer are all collapsed into one. The ghostly implications of spectatorship that cinema so often wants to downplay are emphasized instead. Many have remarked upon the digital era’s affinities with the Cinema of Attractions -- what L. Mulvev describes as the return of “the phantom-like qualitv” (2006, 26) of earlv
essay is where the Ghost of Christmas Present (also Carrey) gives Scrooge a panoramic view of his contemporary London. After Scrooge grasps the spirit’s robe, a wave of the torch creates a viewing surface on the surface of his bedroom floor. At first it resembles a hole in Scrooge’s floor, looking down at a lower level, but it soon becomes clear that it is still solid; a chair and table stand directly on it, though they too seem affected by its “impression” of movement. We switch to an overhead view where Scrooge dangles over the apparent abyss, treated to a godlike, overheard view of the world around him, as he observes the merriment of the underclass that he scorns. The staging emphasizes Scrooge’s simultaneous motion and stability — he is understandably nervous about the yawning chasm below his feet but is in no actual danger — again, an experience shared by the audience. The authorship and technological mastery that accomplishes this feat of audio-visual magic is linked to the Ghost of Christmas Past, who moves his brilliant torch apparently to steady and control the vision; this version of the ghostly monstra- teur acts very much like a ride conductor. In a concise example of media convergence, this very cinematic sequence at once suggests a (Disney-style) theme park ride and the ultimate home theatre experience; Scrooge’s moral enlightenment, it seems, is to be accomplished by shock-and-awe immersion. This sequence then moves into one that is quieter but equally ghostly in a quite dif- ferent way. We lose sight of Scrooge and the spirit although, so instead of invisibly ob- serving the Cratchits at dinner and later Fred and his friends, they are signified largely by restless, mobile camerawork. Their gaze is signified by model camerawork as it glides, in patterns impossible for a conventional POV character. Occasionally it cuts back to Scrooge back in his bedroom, watching him from a space above, but more often camera’s virtual gaze, that of Scrooge and the viewer are all collapsed into one. The ghostly implications of spectatorship that cinema so often wants to downplay are emphasized instead. Many have remarked upon the digital era’s affinities with the Cinema of Attractions -- what L. Mulvev describes as the return of “the phantom-like qualitv” (2006, 26) of earlv
shot, as the camera tracks left with tight framing as the unfinished roof is slowly re- vealed, along with a number of discarded objects. Accompanying this languid track- ing shot is the song Ya Habibi Taala by Asmahan, a song of love, absence and ghosts. The song seems appropriate, as the spectral absent presence of the unfinished roof haunts the Aljarfaris; an uncanny or rather unheimlich haunting that permeates the film throughout.
shot, as the camera tracks left with tight framing as the unfinished roof is slowly re- vealed, along with a number of discarded objects. Accompanying this languid track- ing shot is the song Ya Habibi Taala by Asmahan, a song of love, absence and ghosts. The song seems appropriate, as the spectral absent presence of the unfinished roof haunts the Aljarfaris; an uncanny or rather unheimlich haunting that permeates the film throughout.
There is a place beyond the sea,
There is a place beyond the sea,
Pepper’s Ghost at the Royal Polytechnic Institution in London of Levie Kinbergen Maju, toured the fairgrounds across the Netherlands with his pro- gram of mechanical automata, pantomime and Fantasmagorie: his production seems to have focused more on theatrical performances than on amusing experiments that other ghost exhibitors featured in their programs. (Middelburgsche Courant 1831; Leeu- warder Courant 1833) In the following years, Fantasmagories were advertised in diverse fairground programs such as conjuring shows and even acrobatics. (Journal de La Haye 1840; Rotterdamsche Courant 1844). This mixture of amusing physics, conjuring and ghost projections, was in line with what was happening in other countries during that period. (Lachapelle 2015, 18) International performers such as Henri Robin also per- formed in the Netherlands during that period, with his popular scientific and spectacu- lar program of amusing physics. (Vanhoutte and Wynants 20174, 154) However, Robin’s own ghost illusion, which led to a public controversy involving Pepper’s Ghost regard- ing who was the true inventor of the device, was not yet part of the program that he presented in the Netherlands. (Vanhoutte and Wynants 20174, 154; Lachapelle 2015, 31)
Pepper’s Ghost at the Royal Polytechnic Institution in London of Levie Kinbergen Maju, toured the fairgrounds across the Netherlands with his pro- gram of mechanical automata, pantomime and Fantasmagorie: his production seems to have focused more on theatrical performances than on amusing experiments that other ghost exhibitors featured in their programs. (Middelburgsche Courant 1831; Leeu- warder Courant 1833) In the following years, Fantasmagories were advertised in diverse fairground programs such as conjuring shows and even acrobatics. (Journal de La Haye 1840; Rotterdamsche Courant 1844). This mixture of amusing physics, conjuring and ghost projections, was in line with what was happening in other countries during that period. (Lachapelle 2015, 18) International performers such as Henri Robin also per- formed in the Netherlands during that period, with his popular scientific and spectacu- lar program of amusing physics. (Vanhoutte and Wynants 20174, 154) However, Robin’s own ghost illusion, which led to a public controversy involving Pepper’s Ghost regard- ing who was the true inventor of the device, was not yet part of the program that he presented in the Netherlands. (Vanhoutte and Wynants 20174, 154; Lachapelle 2015, 31)
provides is surely meaningful: as these details can only be retrieved through a physical proximity to the photograph (that information must have been written on it, probably in the back), their addition, therefore, aims to prove both Barthes’ possession of the pho- tographic document and, more importantly, its existence. However, the photograph in question is not printed in the book. Alongside its large description, in fact, Barthes de- cides—provocatively yet consciously—to add a photograph of someone else’s mother, i.e. Nadar’s (Image 1). The addition of the photograph of Nadar’s mother is very interesting: on the one hand, it reveals Barthes’s need of somehow filling a psychological and material void by materializing the photograph of a mother; on the other hand, it further complicates the concept of indexicality of photography, the quasi-haptic relationship between the pho- tographed and the photograph, which proves that what is photographed has been there. In Camera Lucida, Barthes’ verbal description of the Winter Garden photograph inter- mingled with Nadar’s photograph not only displays the lack of an indexical referent, but it also shows how such absence has been overcome (or better, aims to be overcome) with the creation of a new referent, Nadar’s mother’s photograph. Because of this pho- tographic substitution and because the mother is younger than the writer, which is what
provides is surely meaningful: as these details can only be retrieved through a physical proximity to the photograph (that information must have been written on it, probably in the back), their addition, therefore, aims to prove both Barthes’ possession of the pho- tographic document and, more importantly, its existence. However, the photograph in question is not printed in the book. Alongside its large description, in fact, Barthes de- cides—provocatively yet consciously—to add a photograph of someone else’s mother, i.e. Nadar’s (Image 1). The addition of the photograph of Nadar’s mother is very interesting: on the one hand, it reveals Barthes’s need of somehow filling a psychological and material void by materializing the photograph of a mother; on the other hand, it further complicates the concept of indexicality of photography, the quasi-haptic relationship between the pho- tographed and the photograph, which proves that what is photographed has been there. In Camera Lucida, Barthes’ verbal description of the Winter Garden photograph inter- mingled with Nadar’s photograph not only displays the lack of an indexical referent, but it also shows how such absence has been overcome (or better, aims to be overcome) with the creation of a new referent, Nadar’s mother’s photograph. Because of this pho- tographic substitution and because the mother is younger than the writer, which is what
disappear when he attempts to capture them” (2013, 173). By following Vera’s descrip- tions of his mother, Austerlitz begins a quest for the photograph that almost follows the patterns of a legendary story, based on obstacles but always accomplished. The protag- onist, in fact, does find the true photograph of his mother, but before his discovery he spots other two images that he misinterprets as his mother’s: a photograph of an actress (his mother’s occupation back then), and footage of a German movie (Image 2) where he traces a woman that he wrongly assumes to be his mother. _— ra | tT ra | ze e . oo | cr rm val ae ee 5 , °F ra |
disappear when he attempts to capture them” (2013, 173). By following Vera’s descrip- tions of his mother, Austerlitz begins a quest for the photograph that almost follows the patterns of a legendary story, based on obstacles but always accomplished. The protag- onist, in fact, does find the true photograph of his mother, but before his discovery he spots other two images that he misinterprets as his mother’s: a photograph of an actress (his mother’s occupation back then), and footage of a German movie (Image 2) where he traces a woman that he wrongly assumes to be his mother. _— ra | tT ra | ze e . oo | cr rm val ae ee 5 , °F ra |
goal. A considerable portion of this book, as for the second part of Barthes’ Camera Lu- cida, is focused on a maternal photograph (its description in Barthes, its recollection in Sebald), and again, it seems as if both texts convey a certain disappointment at the end. How can we explain this choice? Is it because Austerlitz doubts its truthfulness, as the other two photographs were ‘false’ representations? Is it because he does not fully trust his memory? I tend to think that he is discouraged both by the photographic medium, by memory, and, I would add, by the in-between space that the medium (together with its act of viewing) creates, as endorsed by Katherine Fry, who affirms that Austerlitz’s “in- teraction with photography, far from achieving the messianic fusion of past and present [...], produces a heterotopia, a site of incapacitating difference in which Austerlitz ap- proximates himself to the past without being able to make meaning out of what he sees” (2018, 139-140).
goal. A considerable portion of this book, as for the second part of Barthes’ Camera Lu- cida, is focused on a maternal photograph (its description in Barthes, its recollection in Sebald), and again, it seems as if both texts convey a certain disappointment at the end. How can we explain this choice? Is it because Austerlitz doubts its truthfulness, as the other two photographs were ‘false’ representations? Is it because he does not fully trust his memory? I tend to think that he is discouraged both by the photographic medium, by memory, and, I would add, by the in-between space that the medium (together with its act of viewing) creates, as endorsed by Katherine Fry, who affirms that Austerlitz’s “in- teraction with photography, far from achieving the messianic fusion of past and present [...], produces a heterotopia, a site of incapacitating difference in which Austerlitz ap- proximates himself to the past without being able to make meaning out of what he sees” (2018, 139-140).
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