One of my favourite films is the 1972 movie Sleuth, starring Laurence Olivier as a middle-aged, and very successful, writer of mystery novels and Michael Caine as a much younger, upwardly-mobile hairdresser. It begins with Caine arriving at Olivier’s country mansion, after receiving an invitation to visit, and within 10 minutes we find out why, when Olivier casually says “I understand you want to marry my wife. Forgive me raising the matter, but as Marguerite is away for a few days I thought this might be an appropriate moment for you and me to have a little chat.”
What follows is two hours of cat-and-mouse games, with the two actors taking turns playing the cat and the mouse as they cross, double-cross, and triple-cross each other. The film is based on Anthony Shaffer’s award-winning stage play, and does not try to “open out” the proceedings; the action takes place almost completely inside Olivier’s mansion, the exterior of which was filmed at Athelhampton Hall in Dorset and the interior of which was created on a soundstage.
The principal setting is a vast main room that is filled with items reflecting Olivier’s character’s fascination with games and puzzles. Chief among these are a number of automata (plural; the singular is automaton); that is, moving mechanical devices that use clockwork or some other means in order to move in a lifelike fashion. In the film, a ballerina dances on a pedestal; a bear pours something from a bottle into a glass and then raises its arm to “drink” it; a trapeze artist swings between two parallel bars; a woman sits at a desk and “writes” on a sheet of paper; etc.
Automata have been around, in various forms and in different cultures, for well over 2,000 years. Leonardo da Vinci is credited with designing and/or building two complex ones between 1495 and 1515, but the “golden age” of automata was probably the 18th century, when increasingly large and complex examples of the form were painstakingly created by engineers and artists, and highly coveted by the aristocratic and wealthy. In addition to being works of art, their precise and detailed simulation of human or animal movement must have been a wonder to behold; little short of magic, in fact, in an age before computers or electricity.
I chanced upon a hitherto unknown (to me, at least) automaton the other day: the Silver Swan, now at the Bowes Museum in Barnard Castle, County Durham, England. The life-size swan, made entirely of silver, sits in a “stream” made of glass rods; when the clockwork mechanism is wound up, music begins to play and the glass rods turn, giving the illusion of rippling water.
Articulated silver fish with ruby eyes “swim” in the water, which is surrounded by leaves of silver. The swan stretches and arches its neck, turning its head from side to side to preen its feathers. It then notices the fish in the stream and, bending its neck, appears to pick one up in its beak, where the fish struggles for a few seconds before the swan swallows it, then settles back to stillness.
The entire performance lasts just 37 seconds, but it is 37 seconds of exquisite perfection, made even more astounding by the fact that the Silver Swan was created exactly 250 years ago, in 1773, by John Joseph Merlin and James Cox. Among those who have been enchanted by it over the decades is Mark Twain, who wrote that the swan “had a living grace about his movement and a living intelligence in his eyes.”
Why am I writing about the Silver Swan? Because it is a quiet marvel of beauty and grace, in world that often seems to be sorely lacking in those two commodities. It was designed and created to give joy, simply because its makers had the knowledge, means, and opportunity to do so. Watching it is to get a glimpse of wonder — magic, even — and a reminder of what sublime heights we as a species can reach, if we only try.
editorial@accjournal.ca
Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter
