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Maltin: In 1923,

Georges Méliès,
cinema's first magician,

inventor of the first-ever
special effects,

destroyed all his work
in a fit of desperation.

The original negatives

of the 520 films he directed
between 1896 and 1913

went up in flames.

Were the dreams,
the enchanting visions,

the masterpieces
really lost forever?

Maybe not.

100 years later,

Méliès, the magician,
is to perform

a final magic trick

and will reappear
eternally youthful.

But this is another
one of your tricks,

isn't it, Monsieur Méliès?

Maltin: Nothing predestined
Georges Méliès

to become a master of fantasy
and illusion.

Born in Paris in 1861,

he was the youngest
of three sons

of the wealthy
Jean-Louis-Stanislas Méliès,

a luxury shoemaker.

He enjoyed
a privileged childhood

and received a good education

but dreamed
of studying fine arts.

His father refused.

Georges had to join
the family business.

At his father's factory,

he was mainly in charge
of machine maintenance,

which meant he acquired
excellent mechanical skills.

In 1885, upon his return
from military service,

he married Eugénie Génin,

the daughter
of another shoe salesman.

There's no escaping
your destiny.

Maltin: Méliès quickly mastered
the art of illusion

and started performing on stage.

He gave shows
in Parisian salon,

at the Cabinet Fantastique,
at the Grévin Museum,

and at the Theater of Magic
in the Galerie Vivienne.

In 1888, when his father retired

and left the business
to his sons,

Georges used his share
of the inheritance

to buy the famous
Robert-Houdin Theatre in Paris,

a shrine to modern magic
on the grand boulevards.

Maltin: Méliès began
by renovating the theater.

The place was well known
but had fallen on hard times

since the death
of Robert Houdin in 1871.

Méliès invented amazing
illusions for his new shows

and quickly gained a reputation.

The more new stage shows
he created,

the greater his popularity.

Méliès was soon a figurehead
of his profession.

At the end of the 19th century,
Paris was sparkling.

New attractions flourished
all along the grand boulevards.

At the Grévin Museum,

right next
to the Robert-Houdin Theatre,

Emile Reynaud presented
his Pantomimes Lumineuses,

a precursor of animated films.

It was also on the boulevards
that Thomas Edison's Kinetoscope

was first presented in Paris --

a peculiar apparatus
allowing individual viewing

of short scenes
recorded on film.

Among the spectators

was the photographer
Antoine Lumière,

who was amazed by what he saw.

He subsequently gave
his two sons, Auguste and Louis,

the assignment of building
an apparatus

that would allow the projection
of animated photographs.

Maltin:
It was on December 28, 1895,

and Georges Méliès' destiny
had changed forever.

Having built his own camera,

he began shooting
his first film,

a card party,

reprising a theme previously
used by the Lumière brothers.

Seated on the left
is Lucien Reulos,

who was his associate
for one year,

the only associate
he ever had.

Together, they registered
Méliès' trademark,

the Star Film's star,
and invented the Kinetograph,

a projection machine
that was difficult to sell

and quickly forgotten.

However, their film catalog
rapidly expanded

with new titles presented
every night

at the Robert-Houdin Theatre
beginning in April 1896.

Although his first films were
similar to the Lumières' work,

Méliès soon turned to more
original subjects

inspired by performers who had
made his theater's reputation,

such as the famous act
of the vanishing lady.

On-stage,
disappearance required

special accessories
to hide the moment

when the base
of the chair tilted.

This allowed the young woman
to disappear through a trap door

hidden under a newspaper.

On film, Méliès could use
a far simpler trick.

The idea came to him
completely by chance.

Maltin: The first cinema
special effect was born.

Méliès would use it
and abuse it for years to come.

The Lumière brothers
invented the Cinématographe,

Méliès created
the cinematic spectacle.

Louis Lumière himself said so.

"In Georges' hands,

the camera didn't attempt
to record reality

but presented a world

where fantasy
and magic reigned supreme."

Maltin: In 1898, France faced

a serious political
and social crisis.

The Dreyfus affair
divided public opinion.

Unfairly convicted
of spying for Germany,

Captain Dreyfus,
of Jewish descent,

had been rotting in prison
for four years.

Eventually, the real culprit
was acquitted.

To defend Dreyfus was equal
to attacking the army,

the pride of the nation.

Newsreels did not yet exist.

In his studio,

Méliès re-created
the main events of the affair,

which would continue to unfold
for another eight years.

He himself took the role of
Labori, Dreyfus' attorney,

thus publicly exhibiting
whose side he was on.

10 years earlier, when he had
been contemplating a career

as an illustrator,
he'd already, in his drawings,

fought General Boulanger's
threats

against the recent
fragile French democracy.

With "The Dreyfus Affair,"
the first-ever political film,

Méliès revealed
new possibilities

for the brand-new
cinema industry.

The Star Film company
had now taken on all genres --

advertisements,
dramas, comedies,

even historical reenactments.

But the verdict of audiences
was clear.

They preferred extravaganzas --
trick films

filled with lavish
and ingenious visual effects.

In a word...

Maltin: In 1902, Méliès
presented his masterpiece,

"A Trip to the Moon" --
a truly spectacular film --

in 30 scenes, which required
3 months' work.

This was unprecedented.

Maltin: The success
of "A Trip to the Moon"

was bound to attract
competitors...

especially Charles Pathé,

who immediately made
his own version of it.

Often copied but never equaled,
Méliès' films combined magic

and cinema in an extremely
clever combination

of theatrical machinery, optical
and pyrotechnical effects,

cross-fades
and superimpositions.

All of this
was gleefully devised

by Méliès to render
the imaginary

and the impossible
clearly visible on film.

For several years,
Star Film was successful

and renowned worldwide.

Everyone wanted
more Méliès films.

At the time, elaborate, new
special-effects scenes

would emerge from the Montreuil
studio every month,

new fairy tales and fanciful
journeys ever more spectacular.

Running at full capacity,
the studio became cramped.

So Méliès built a second studio
in 1907 on his vast property,

liening against
his father's old house.

From then on, he was able to
shoot two films at the same time

in an attempt
to meet the demands

of an ever-changing market.

Maltin: In February 1909,

the Film Publishers Congress
met in Paris

with Georges Méliès as chairman.

He was surrounded by
Leon Gaumont, Georges Eastman,

Charles Pathé, and all the major
international producers

ready to dictate
the new rules of the game

because cinema had become
an industry,

a serious business.

In big cities,
more and more theaters

were being built solely
dedicated to showing film.

These permanent structures
generated an entirely different

economic model
for film distribution.

Prints were no longer
sold on fairgrounds

to traveling exhibitors
as before,

but rented out in order
to renew programs

more quickly
and increase revenue.

This change required
an organization,

an investment that Méliès
could not provide.

He had never set up a company

and had always financed
everything himself.

But his one-time fortune
was now only a distant memory.

Moreover, the new system forced
him to produce more product,

just as special effects
and fairy tales

were going out of fashion.

He delegated the direction
of some films to his assistant,

Manuel, but the results
were unsatisfactory.

Maltin: From then on, the Pathé
empire dominated world cinema.

Charles Pathé is seen here
with Ferdinand Zecca,

the company's staff director,

who stole ideas from Méliès
for years.

Paradoxically, in 1911,

even though Méliès hadn't
shot anything for a whole year,

his long-standing rival offered
to finance

some new Star Films --

one last chance, which may have
been a pact with the devil.

Unfortunately, the last
six films were all failures.

In 1913, Méliès was ruined,

and the Star Film Studios
closed down.

He still had to earn a living,
so during the war,

the Montreuil studio
was turned into a theater.

The whole family
was put to work.

Méliès naturally reserving
for himself the tasks

of directing and stage design.

Meanwhile, in Paris,
the Robert-Houdin Theatre

was serving as a cinema,

where soldiers on leave
could discover Chaplin,

the new king
of the big screen.

Cinema had entered a new era.

In January 1922,

Méliès was evicted from
the Robert-Houdin Theatre,

which was to be
demolished to allow

for the expansion
of the Haussmann Boulevard.

The following year,
he was forced to sell

his Montreuil property
to pay his debts.

Méliès later said,
"I didn't have anywhere to keep

the hundreds of film negatives.

In a moment of anger
and exasperation,

I ordered for them
to be destroyed

without realizing that I was
doing something as imprudent

as it was irreversible."

Maltin: A few years later,

Georges Méliès could be found
running a toy stand

at the Montparnasse train
station with Jehanne d'Alcy.

She was a former star
of the Robert-Houdin Theatre,

where thanks to her
tiny size and agility,

she had performed wonders
in disappearing act.

She had been the star
of Méliès first films,

the first movie vamp,
and also his mistress.

She was now his second wife.

Maltin: Méliès worked 7 days
a week, 15 hours a day.

In his rare moments
of free time,

he made drawings
of some of the great scenes

from his past masterpieces.

Even if they could no longer
be shown on screen,

he never forgot them.

Gradually, a new generation
of cinephiles began to visit him

and were deeply moved
by his fate.

In December of 1929,

Jean Mauclaire,
manager of Studio 28,

organized a gala in his honor
at the Salle Pleyel.

For this tribute,

they could find
just eight random films,

often incomplete,
deformed, or scratched.

It must have been heartbreaking
for the man

who had invested everything in
the fabulous beauty of images.

In 1932, Méliès was taken in
at the Château d'Orly,

the film industry's
retirement home,

where he would finally
be able to relax

with Jehanne d'Alcy
and Madeleine,

the granddaughter he had been
looking after since 1930.

He received numerous visits
from young film enthusiasts

who would later create
the Cinémathèque Francaise,

as well as old friends,
movie people.

They discussed a comeback...

...but in the end,
his final screen appearance

was in a simple
cigarette advertisement.

One last film, one last trick...

...and Méliès died

on a gloomy day
of January 1938.

His studio in ruins was left
to the weeds and street children

and would eventually
be destroyed in 1945.

Only when it came time
for tributes

did the true quest
for the lost works

and invisible films of the
magician from Montreuil begin.

In 1948, the French Cinematheque
and its director,

Henri Langlois, presented
the first exhibition

entirely dedicated to him.

Maltin: In 1961, at the time
of Méliès' centenary,

about 60 of his films
had been found.

The search continued.

Thanks to discoveries
in basements and attics,

old released prints

were regularly located
around the world.

By the early 2000s,

around 200 of the 520 films
he shot

had been located
and were visible again.

But most of the prints
were mediocre or damaged,

very often incomplete.

This was also a race
against time

because old prints were made on
chemically unstable film stock,

which inevitably decomposes.

The film becomes sticky,
images disappear,

and the film roll
ends up as dust.

While every new discovery
added a piece to the puzzle,

some could turn out
to be of particular importance.

In 2016, while trying to fill

in the missing parts
of "The Wandering Jew,"

the Parisian preservationists
at the company Lobster Films

learned that it had survived
in the USA

at the Library of Congress.

In a spectacular turn of events,

what had survived was not
a simple release print,

but the original camera negative
with exceptional image quality.

As part of the preservation
process,

the best source is always
the original camera negative.

Now, this is the real film
that was in the camera

on the set
capturing those images.

It is incredibly sharp.

It has all the detail.

Maltin:
By comparing the negative

with the print found in France,

it could easily be determined
that it was the same movie,

even with the obvious
difference in quality.

But in comparing the two,

another slight
difference appeared.

A little shift
in the camera angle,

giving a strange effect
of parallax and depth.

-Wow!
-Wow!

Could Méliès have been
the first filmmaker

to shoot a film in 3D
as early as 1903?

Who knows?

There were more surprises
in store.

Upon investigation,
instead of just one,

there were 80 original negatives
sitting on the shelves

at the Library of Congress.

How is this possible

since Méliès had burned them
all in his garden?

This was a mystery
that simply had to be solved.

The investigation would yield
one surprise after another,

eventually leading
to a large rescue operation

to restore a previously unknown
part of Georges Méliès' work.

To understand
how those events unraveled,

let us rewind a little.

In August 1902,

Méliès finished the production
of "A Trip to the Moon,"

on which he had spent
10,000 francs,

a huge amount of money
at that time.

He naturally hoped
to recoup his investment

by selling prints
of the film around the world.

But in the United States,

some prints were not purchased
to be screened at all.

Dishonest buyers sent them
to laboratories to be copied.

This meant there were
countless counterfeits

of inferior quality
flooding the market.

Here was the first act of piracy
in the history of cinema.

Despite the fact that Méliès

had embedded the Star Film
logo in the picture,

this proved to be no problem
for pirates

who simply scratched it off
before the print's recopy.

In the early days of cinema
before World War I,

the French were
incredibly competitive

with American film producers.

So a lot of the film being seen
in the United States

was from France.

The American film industry

was a pretty ruthless
business.

There was a lot of competition,
there was a lot of producers

who were pretty unscrupulous
about the way

they went about making their
films or even acquiring films.

There was no such thing

as copyright-protected
motion pictures

until around 1911.

So kind of anything went.

Maltin: To counter
the fraudulent competition,

Méliès decided to open
a branch of Star Film

in the United States

and entrusted his brother Gaston
with the task.

Nine years his senior,

Gaston had been in charge
of the family's shoe business,

but it had closed in 1896
due to mismanagement.

He therefore had time
on his hands

and was ready for adventure.

In March 1903,
Gaston arrived in New York

and moved into premises
at 204 East 38th Street.

Three months later,
the American branch was opened

and ready to sell the Parisian
productions of Star Films

and protect them
from counterfeiters.

As customs fees
for importing films from France

were high,

Gaston was also responsible
for printing copies

of Georges' films
directly on site.

But in order for them
to maintain top quality,

he needed a second
original negative.

For this, in Paris,
Georges created a curious device

allowing him to obtain

two identical negatives
simultaneously

when shooting a film.

Identical or nearly identical.

The lenses of both cameras
were a few centimeters apart,

which explains the slight
difference in angle

in the two prints.

Two continents,
two negatives, two Méliès.

Here is the key to that mystery.

Maltin: For a short while
at the American branch,

business thrived.

Georges,
who had financed everything,

received a return on his
investment in less than a year.

As for Gaston, he earns an
important share of the profits.

But the American market
was not France,

and the tide
had started to turn.

Haberkamp: Gaston Méliès thought
that by joining in

on Edison's patents companies
that he would be licensed

and it would enable him
to distribute

Georges' films coming in
from Paris and being imported.

Unfortunately,
Edison realized

that those films were
very popular and profitable.

And so he basically said
to Gaston, "I'm sorry.

You can make your own films,

but you can't distribute
these films

because they violate
U.S. patent."

It meant that
Georges Méliès' negatives

were no longer of value

because he couldn't
do anything with them.

So suddenly these
really wonderful films

were basically old news
and basically considered scrap.

Maltin: Since he could no longer
distribute Georges' films,

Gaston started to produce
his own in the U.S.

and proceeded to set up

the G. Méliès
Manufacturing Company.

Georges, Gaston.

One G. Méliès
replaced another,

but the style
was quite different.

Gaston's films included
Westerns, dramas, comedies --

in a word, modern stories.

Gaston could see that magic and
trick films were finished.

While Georges was happy
to receive royalties

from Gaston's films,
he didn't appreciate them.

He especially didn't like that
his American production company

carried his name
and worried that mixing genres

would tarnish
his own reputation.

This confusion probably
fooled many people.

30 years later, Orson Welles,
a great admirer of Méliès,

would pay a small tribute
to him.

I'm going away
tomorrow night...

indefinitely.

I hope you have ever
so nice a time, George.

I don't expect to have...

unfortunately, the Méliès
film poster he chose

was for a film made by Gaston.

In January 1911,
Gaston left for California,

which was fast becoming
the Eldorado of cinema.

But gradually, his actors
and technicians left him

to go to work for other,
more established

and prestigious companies.

Business was bad.

So Gaston left the United States
for a 10-month trip

to the Far East.

Before his departure,
he made sure to sell

50% of the G. Méliès company

to the Vitagraph company
in Brooklyn,

which continued
to distribute his films.

Meanwhile, as Georges' negatives
no longer interested anyone

and were very costly to store,
Gaston gave them to a friend

who would keep them
in his basement.

His travels led him to Tahiti,
New Zealand,

Australia, Singapore, Cambodia
and finally to Japan.

Gaston shot about 60 films there
that were not at all successful.

1913, the Méliès brothers
had cranked their last camera.

They were now
in complete disagreement

and would never see
each other again.

The curtain closed
on the American negatives

of Georges and Gaston.

Soon the war would wipe out
French youth

and with them the memory
of the Méliès name.

Yet the odyssey of the
American negatives of Star Film

had only just begun.

In the 1930s, Méliès was
once again celebrated

at his Orly retirement home.

Louis Lumière
finally presented him

with the Legion of Honor.

Compliments flowed.

People suggested
he present his films

to bring in some money
as he was now penniless,

but they were no longer
in his possession

since he had
destroyed them all.

Then Méliès remembered
the American negatives,

but how could
he get hold of them?

Gaston had died in 1915,

and the New York branch
was long closed.

Méliès was not
the only person

looking for his films.

In the United States,

Jean Le Roy,
another film pioneer,

was trying to build a collection
dedicated to early cinema.

Jean Le Roy,
what a strange character.

He contacted Méliès
and told him

an incredible story.

"A few years ago," he wrote,

"I had the Star Film
negatives in my basement."

He was the friend to whom
Gaston had entrusted

the precious treasure
back in 1911.

Unfortunately, he no longer
had those negatives.

In 1921, Gaston's son Paul

had taken them back
and sold them all.

Méliès was flabbergasted.

To him, one thing was certain.

He was the sole owner
of his movies.

This was nothing
short of robbery.

He wanted this
to become public knowledge,

so he requested that Le Roy
publish ads in the press

to prevent any exploitation
of his films.

The mysterious buyer
was finally revealed

and wasn't a thief at all,
but Leon Schlesinger.

Yes, indeed, Méliès' negatives
were in the hands

of the future producer
of Bugs Bunny.

He had 150 negatives
legally purchased

and also had a contract
to prove it.

Unfortunately,
Schlesinger had failed

to put these antiquities
back into circulation.

With the advent of talkies,
he had moved on to other things.

At that time, he was, in fact,

trying to sell them
to Paramount.

Schlesinger nevertheless agreed
to make a deal with Méliès,

whom he admired, offering him
a share of the profits

and the possibility
of making copies for himself.

Unfortunately, in the end,

the advertisements about
the film theft years ago

were harmful to all sides.

The sale did not go through and
that's where things were left.

Méliès never got
his films back

but had the satisfaction
of knowing that,

tired of resisting,

Schlesinger had deposited them
with a museum.

He later wrote, "A happy
coincidence, much overdue,

meant that the extraordinary
productions of Georges Méliès

would not be lost forever."

The Academy of Motion
Picture Arts and Sciences

finally inherited
the negatives in 1950

after the death of
the Looney Tunes producer.

But at that time,
there were only 53 cans left,

containing 80 films.

If we were to receive 53 cans

of original Méliès'
negatives today,

it would be a miracle.

But at the time, in the 1950s,

I don't know whether or not
it was known

what this was,
the importance of these films.

Maltin: At the time, the academy
didn't house its own archive.

Some films were saved in 1958,

but the machines then available
were not designed

for fragile, shrunken,
old prints,

and the originals
that were in good condition

often ended up in pieces.

The others continued
to decompose.

20 years later
at the initiative

of film archivist
David Shepard,

who wished to show the films,

the negatives were transferred
to the Library of Congress,

which undertook
a new restoration campaign.

But most still didn't fit
correctly in the machines.

With every attempt
to make a copy,

the negative
was further damaged.

There were also unidentified
and abandoned films.

Clearly, a new rescue operation
was essential.

For that to happen,

after a century
on American soil,

the precious
35-millimeter negatives

were returned to France.

It's really great that,
in this particular case,

we've had the academy
and the Library of Congress,

the CNC, and Lobster films,
you know, to come together

and to have these films end up
being restored

in a way that we can
celebrate them once again

and basically share them
with the world.

It's really fantastic.

This is the last opportunity
to properly preserve

these films
for future generations,

because these films
may not survive

in 5, 10 years from now.

Maltin: The first step
of the restoration

is to make the films
more flexible

or to unstick the frames when
they have started to decompose.

This requires a specific
chemical treatment,

which is banned
in the United States

for environmental reasons.

Next, the films
are digitized frame by frame,

using a high-quality scanner
which reveals their raw beauty.

Numerous defects, the rips and
ravages of time still remain.

Some are really terrible.

That's when talented
preservationists step in

and use image-editing programs

that didn't exist
until recent times.

The project
is only just beginning

and will take many years
to complete,

but it is the end
of a long journey

these miraculous negatives
have taken.

It is also the promise
of a new beginning

of making these treasured
images available for eternity.

For film lovers, it is nothing
short of a triumph.

Film history teaches us
where we've gone before

and where we can go
even further with our dreams

because it's
the dream machine, right?