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102 THE HOUSE THAT SHADOWS BUILT
for a few weeks more. Those few weeks nearly ruined them, for attendance dwindled progressively.
Then, passing a little storehouse in Pittsburgh, Adolph Zukor saw a lurid poster advertising The Great Train Robbery. By way of keeping his eye on a rival, he paid his nickel, entered with the crowd. And for the second time in his life he found himself thrilled by a moving picture.
He was seeing, as a matter of fact, the contemporary climax of the art. A modern director, witnessing The Great Train Robbery in the National Board of Censorship’s exhibit of antique films, laughs at its awkward technique. But it has merits which stand up still; and it compared to its predecessors as a well-rounded short story to a newspaper sketch. For one thing, it was the longest film ever produced in America. When Edwin S. Porter, its creator, announced his intention of making a picture which would run for a whole twelve minutes, the business called him insane. A few years later they said the same thing, and for a similar reason, of Adolph Zukor. . . .
Porter packed his twelve minutes with action. The Great Train Robbery told the story without the aid of captions; nor would captions have added anything. You see the bandits riding on their raid; you see the station agent working in his office. The bandits raid the agent, flash on his telegraph key the signal which halts the train at the siding. They hold up the train crew, blow