Movie Makers (Jan-Dec 1938)

173 A NATION'S LOBBY TF* V ' v^B Wa WILLIAM M. NELSON ASHINGTON. D. C. has been called a great many things in the course of its existence as the capital of the United States. It doesn't really matter what you call it, for it is not difficult within the city to find abundant evidence to support whatever adjective you choose to apply. Right now, for the purposes at hand, I am going to say that it is the most transient city in the United States. Washington resembles nothing so much as a hotel lobby. For, while there are a great number of people always on hand, almost no one thinks of himself as a permanent resident. "Natives" of the city (i.e., those who were born there and have spent the better part of their lives within its boundaries) are about as rare as W. P. A. workers who vote a straight Republican ticket. Almost everybody's stay is dependent upon something. It may be the party in power, or getting in the lowest bid on the government door knob contract, but there is always a factor to limit or extend one's residence. This uncertainty of its population is not the only peculiarity of the capital. Because its only major industry — politics — knows no depressions, the city is a prosperous one and has grown to be one of the most beautiful in America. The grandeur of its buildings, the dignity of its broad avenues and the lavish magnificence of its museums and galleries are infallible bait for tourists and a joy to the Chamber of Commerce. It is not surprising, therefore, that, in Washington, somebody is always pointing a camera at something. The resident, uncertain of geographical changes, wants to have a visual memento that he can take along with him when he is removed from the seat of government, or which will gladden his heart of a long summer evening when he finds himself stationed in Pago Pago. And the tourist, the casual visitor to Washington, wants a film record of his trip — something to show the folks back home. Washington is best suited to a movie camera. For motion — change, transition, impermanency — is the essence of the city. Pretty pictures are taken with still cameras, but only the continuous movie can capture its activity. If, however, your picture taking ambitions extend no further than the Capitol, Washington Monument and a cherry blossom or two, made from the conventional angles, let it be said right here that you cannot expect to make a very interesting film. For a movie of one building after another, duplicating shots which have for years glorified the nation's rotogravure supplements, will prove to be just about as exciting as a Senate filibuster. Let it not be understood here that I, with an unpardonable lack of civic pride, am attempting to present, in an unfavorable light, the architectural beauties of the city that harbors me. The only point I am trying to make is that here, in one of the most photographed cities in the world, it is still possible to make a film that is, to use an overworked adjective, different. And the movie maker who plans a trip to Washington will do well to explore this possibility. For example, a few uncommon shots of things and places not generally associated with Washington will enliven the film. You can get one of these at the railroad station. The average tourist, getting off the train, gets out of the station as fast as he can, in order to "see the city." Yet the Passenger Concourse, encountered just as you come through the gate from the train, is the largest room in the world, and statisticians (who love to play with improbable situations) have calculated that, on its floor, an army of fifty thousand men might stand with ease. It is lighted by a skylight, and on a moderately bright day you may be able to stop down to //8 for a picture of the depth of the long (750 feet) room. Another little filmed part of Washington is the waterfront. A picturesque portion of this is to be found in the southwest district, at the foot of Ninth, Tenth and 11th Streets, off Water Street. Here, on Washington Channel, which is a part of the Potomac River, are picturesque little wharves which have changed little since Virginian cannon from across the river boomed the defiance of the Confederate States. Here, at dusk, one can see small fishing boats returning to anchor with a day's catch, an occasional mast light swinging as they tie up. Facing the river are balconies of a few fashionable restaurants. One can film colored urchins singing and tap dancing below them and scrambling for the pennies thrown by the guests above. Here is the old, Southern, quiet, slow moving, non political Washington, and it is well worth a few feet of film. For atmosphere pictures [Continued on page 192] Charles Phelps Cushing: Washington — the transient center of North America