I want you to close your eyes for a second. We're
going to step out of a time machine. Always a
dangerous request. Right. But trust me on this
one. The year is 1912. The location is Berlin.
But I want you to forget. The, you know, those
gray, grim, jerky newsreels you usually see from
this era? Oh yeah, those make it look so sterile.
Exactly. This is a city that is absolutely vibrating.
The cafes are loud, the electric trams are screeching,
and there is this feeling, this buzz, that the
world is just tilting on its axis. It was a very
charged time. Very. And you step off the street
into this darkened room. It smells like stale
tobacco and ozone, a projector whirs to life
much louder than you'd expect, and a beam of
flickering light cuts through the smoke. You
aren't just watching a movie. You are watching
the birth of an entire industry. It's a great
image to start with, because we tend to look
back at cinema history as this, well, this smooth,
inevitable progression. First the camera, then
the silent movie, then sound. But the early teens
in Germany. That was the Wild West. Or maybe
more accurately, a gold rush. It was chaotic,
it was experimental, and incredibly competitive.
And we aren't trying to map the whole gold rush
today. That's just way too broad. We are grabbing
our pickaxes and zooming in on one specific prospector.
Today, we're doing a deep dive into a company
called IcoFilm. IcoFilm. Now, I know what you're
thinking out there. ICO isn't exactly Disney
or Paramount. Far from it. But that is exactly
why we picked this stack of sources for today's
deep dive. Sometimes looking at the giants doesn't
tell you the real story. No, it really doesn't.
It's the mid -sized players, the ones that scrambled
and fought and eventually disappeared, that show
you how the machine actually worked. Eikofilm
really is the perfect case study for that. If
you follow their timeline, which we're going
to do, you see the rapid construction of the
German cinema infrastructure. You see the strange,
paradoxical economic benefits of World War I.
Which is fascinating. It really is. And you see
the absolutely ruthless nature of the early film
business. It's a story about how isolationism
can accidentally build an empire. So just to
give you an overview of what we're working with,
we've got a really interesting stack of historical
records here. We've got everything from the company's
founding documents to architectural notes on
their studios and this amazing detailed list
of their film releases between 1914 and 1922.
And that filmography is essentially a mood ring
for the German people during the most turbulent
decade of the 20th century. A mood ring. I love
that. Yeah, you can literally see the national
psyche crack. and reforming just by reading the
movie titles. Okay, before we get to the movies
though, we have to build the stage. The story
starts in 1912 with a producer named Franz Vogel.
Vogel is an interesting character. He establishes
IKO film right as the demand for feature -length
content is just exploding. It doesn't waste any
time. The records describe IKO as swiftly becoming
one of Germany's quote, more important companies.
That word swiftly really jumps out at me. It
implies there was a massive vacuum just waiting
to be filled. They didn't struggle in a garage
for a decade. They launched and hit the ground
running. Well, the market was hungry. But to
feed that market, you needed physical space.
And this is where the logistics of 1912 gets
super interesting. IKO didn't start with their
own massive back lot. Initially, they were just
renting space at the Rex Film Studios in Berlin.
Which feels like a classic startup move. You
lease the co -working space until you can afford
to build the headquarters. Precisely. But Vogel
had ambitions. He didn't want to be a tenant
forever. So they eventually moved to construct
their own facility in the suburb of Merienfeld.
They built the Merienfeld Studios. No, I want
to spend a minute on this because the description
of the studio is wild compared to what we have
today. The source calls it a glass house studio.
The glass house. It's such an evocative term.
It really is. Because when I hear the word studio
today, I think of a sound stage. A big concrete
windowless bunker with massive air conditioning
units and millions of dollars of LED lighting
rigs. But a glass house studio, that's basically
a greenhouse, isn't it? Effectively, yes. Literally
a greenhouse. You have to remember the technological
bottleneck of the time. Film stock in 1912. mostly
orthochromatic stock, was incredibly slow. I
mean, it needed a lot of light. A massive amount
of light just to register an image. And electric
lights, were they just too weak back then? They
were expensive, they were hot, and the light
was incredibly harsh. You had carbon arc lamps,
but they sputtered and hissed and threw off awful
fumes. The only light source powerful enough
and cheap enough to light a wide shot was the
sun. So you just build your factory out of glass.
Exactly. Walls of glass, roof of glass. You were
basically trapping daylight. Which sounds beautiful
visually, like this crystal cathedral of light.
But I'm imagining the physical reality of working
inside a giant glass box in July in Berlin. Oh,
it must have been a total nightmare. Think about
the actors. They're in heavy period costumes,
wool suits, layers of petticoats. Oh, wow. And
they're wearing thick grease paint makeup because
that early film stock washed out their facial
features. And now they're standing in a sealed
greenhouse in the middle of summer. The makeup
must have just been melting off their faces.
Constantly. Puddles of it. And it wasn't just
the heat that was a problem. It was the consistency
of the light. The sun, as we know, moves. Right.
You start filming a scene at 10 in the morning,
the shadows are on the left. By lunch, the shadows
are directly overhead. By three, they're on the
right. If you're a director trying to cut a scene
together later, that's a continuity disaster.
So how on earth did they manage that? You can't
just tell the sun to stop moving. No, but you
can diffuse it. These glass houses were actually
engineering marvels in their own way. They had
these highly complex systems of muslin shades
and diffusers hooked up to pulley systems. Like
giant lines. Exactly. Crews would spend the whole
day scrambling around adjusting these massive
sheets of fabric to soften the light or block
direct beams, just trying to keep the look somewhat
consistent from shot to shot. That really emphasizes
that this was an industrial process. The source
specifically notes that this glass house was
part of Germany's growing film infrastructure,
and that word infrastructure feels really heavy.
They weren't just artists running around with
hand -cranked cameras. They were pouring concrete
and setting steel frames. That's the key takeaway
here. Eiko wasn't just making movies. They were
building the physical capacity for an industry.
They were taking a novelty craft and turning
it into a factory system. And as it turns out,
they finished building that factory just in time
for the world to completely fall apart. Right.
1914. The First World War begins. And this is
where the story pivots from architecture into
economics. And it connects to the bigger geopolitical
picture in a way people often forget. Yeah. Usually
when we think of war in the arts, we think of
destruction. Yeah. Museums bombed, theaters closed
down. Right. Funding being diverted to weapons
and rations. And while there was certainly immense
tragedy for a company like IKO, the war actually
provided a massive, albeit cynical, advantage.
The notes mention a very specific market condition.
Foreign imports were largely excluded from the
German market during the war. Think about the
massive implications of that. Before 1914 cinema
was a heavily globalized trade. If you walked
into a theater in Berlin in 1913, you were just
as likely to see a French comedy from Pathé or
a massive Italian historical epic as your domestic
German film. And suddenly the borders just snap
shut. The global supply chain is severed. It's
protectionism enforced by bayonet. No more French
films, no more British films, eventually no American
films. So if you are a German cinema owner and
you have thousands of seats to fill every single
night, where do you get your product? You have
to buy local. You literally have no other choice.
Exactly. So IKO is sitting there in their brand
new glass house in Marienfeld and suddenly they're
operating in a walled garden. They have a captive
audience of millions who cannot buy the competitor's
product. It's a massive irony. The war, which
is tearing Europe apart, is acting as a greenhouse,
pardon upon, for this specific domestic industry.
It's a dark irony, but a very consistent one
in economic history. Isolationism forces domestic
production to scale up incredibly fast. Germany
had to make its own entertainment because it
couldn't import it. This period from roughly
1914 to 1918 is really what created the bedrock
foundation for the massive German film industry
of the 1920s. That's fascinating. We always talk
about masterpieces like Metropolis and Nosferatu
later on, but those films don't happen without
companies like IKO filling the void and building
the technical skills and the audience habits
during the war years. So they have the studio,
they have the market dominance. The obvious question
is what were they actually making inside that
glass house? This is where we get to play cultural
psychology. Let's look at the selected filmography
we have here from 1914 to 1922. It's fascinating
because, like you said earlier, you can almost
see them reacting to the newspaper headlines
in real time. Let's start right at the beginning
of the conflict. 1914. The war begins in August.
Patriotism is at an absolute fever pitch. Everyone
thinks the truth will be marching home victorious
by Christmas. And what does Ico release? A film
titled Bismarck. Bismarck, as in Otto von Bismarck,
the Iron Chancellor, the guy who literally unified
Germany a few decades prior. The ultimate unquestionable
symbol of German strength, unity, and military
prowess. Well, it's not subtle. That's like an
American studio releasing a movie called George
Washington right after Pearl Harbor. It's a total
blockbuster move. It's perfect timing. They're
capitalizing directly on that initial wave of
nationalistic fervor. It's a very smart commercial
play, but it also shows how quickly the film
industry aligned itself with the state's narrative.
The message is basically, here is where we came
from, and here is why we are strong. But then,
look at this shift in the timeline. We fast forward
to 1916 and 1917. The home by Christmas Dream
is completely dead. The reality is brutal trench
warfare, naval blockades, and severe hunger on
the home front. The initial excitement is long
gone. And what is ICO releasing now? we have
a title here his coquettish wife from 1916 and
the unmarried woman in 1917 these sound like
i mean they sound like rom -coms or at least
domestic farces they almost certainly were His
coquettish wife, that sounds like a very light,
very frothy bedroom comedy. And in the exact
same year, 1917, they dropped The Adventures
of Captain Hanson. Which heavily implies high
adventure, maybe some swashbuckling, exotic locations,
bit of danger. So we've gone from Bismarck heavy,
serious, patriotic history to flirting wives
and seafaring adventure stories. That feels like
a massive pivot for a studio. But does it really?
Think about the audience sitting in the dark.
By 1917, the German public is exhausted. They're
grieving lost sons and brothers. They're literally
starving due to the blockades. Do they want to
go to the cinema to see more war? Do they want
to see serious political dramas about duty? Definitely
not. They want out. Exactly. They want a window
to a completely different world. They want to
sit back and laugh at a husband getting tricked
by his wife. They want to see Captain Hanson
sailing the high seas far, far away from the
mud of the Western Front. It's pure, uncut escapism.
Escapism manufactured in a glass box. It really
highlights that IKO was a generalist studio.
They weren't trying to be an elevated art house.
They were a business, first and foremost. They
looked at the public mood and said, OK, you want
distractions. We will... print distractions.
Which is a completely valid service during a
severe crisis. Then we move into 1918 and 1919.
The war ends in November 1918. The German Empire
essentially collapses. The Kaiser abdicates.
It is absolute terrifying chaos on the streets
of Berlin. And in 1918, Eiko releases a film
called The Bracelet. And in 1919, a movie just
titled Love. Love? Simple. Elemental. And The
Girl and the Men, also in 1919. It really feels
like the scope of the storytelling is shrinking
rapidly. We aren't doing national heroes anymore.
We aren't even doing high seas adventure. We
are just looking at regular people. The scale
becomes deeply intimate. I think that reflects
a society that is trying to figure out how to
rebuild itself from the absolute ground up. The
grand political narratives completely failed
them. They led to utter ruin. So art retreats
to the personal level. Questions like, how do
men and women relate now? What does love even
look like in a ruined city? These titles, The
Bracelet, The Girl, and The Men, they sound like
melodramas or tight chamber pieces. They are
processing immense trauma on a micro -human level.
Then we hit the post -war boom, 1920 to 1922.
Inflation is starting to tick up. Politics are
getting weird and radicalized. And Ico gives
us Wibble the Tailor in 1920. Now, I actually
looked this one up. Schneider Wibble is a pretty
famous German play, isn't it? It is. It's a very
classic regional folk comedy. The basic story
is about a tailor who gets in trouble with the
law, but he manages to swap places with his apprentice
to avoid going to prison. So it's a story about
outsmarting authority. Bingo. Think about that
specific theme in the context of 1920 Germany.
The old authority figures, the military generals,
the aristocracy, the Kaiser had just led the
entire country off a cliff. there was a deep,
very cynical distrust of authority across the
board. So a comedy where a little guy, a simple
tailor, makes a fool of the police in the courts,
that would have played incredibly well to a bitter
audience. It's comfort food, sure, but with a
real rebellious anti -establishment edge. Exactly.
And then they follow that up with Sons of the
Night in 1921. which sounds much darker. Maybe
dipping a toe into that gritty crime thriller
genre that became so massive in the Weimar era
later on. And finally we have The Inheritance
in 1922. The Inheritance. That is just a painfully
fitting title for their last listed film considering
what happens to the company next. It really is.
Because by 1922 the independent high -flying
run of ICO film hits a solid brick wall. We mentioned
earlier that the film business is ruthless. Eiko
had a really good run. Ten years, surviving a
world war, building a massive studio from scratch.
But in 1922, they basically get eaten. Acquired
is the polite corporate term. The entire company
and the Marienfeld studios were taken over by
Terrafilm. And Terrafilm wasn't just another
scrappy startup. They were becoming a legitimate
giant. Right. The 1920s saw a massive wave of
consolidation in the industry. It wasn't enough
to just be a successful standalone studio anymore.
You had to be a conglomerate. Smaller studios
were getting bought up left and right to form
these huge vertical monopolies. IKO Despite its
success, or honestly perhaps because of its success,
became a very tasty asset for a much bigger fish.
But here is the plot twist in the business history
that I absolutely love. The source clearly says
that even after TerraFilm bought them Lock, Stock
and Barrel, the name IKO didn't disappear. Yeah,
it didn't. But crucially, it didn't stay with
TerraFilm either. Right. The notes specify that
the name IKO was used by productions released
by a rival company, National Film, until much
later in the decade. This is such a fascinating,
almost modern detail of corporate history. Think
about what actually happened in that boardroom.
Terra buys the physical assets. They want the
glass house, the cameras, the lighting rigs,
maybe the actor contracts. They want the physical
means of production. But they didn't care about
the actual sticker on the door. Apparently not.
They had their own brand. But National Film,
their rival, saw real value in the brand itself.
The name ICO meant something to the ticket -buying
audience. It meant, hey, that's the company that
gave us Wibble the Tailor. It signified a certain
level of quality or at least reliable entertainment.
So national films somehow... negotiates or ends
up with the rights to the name and they just
keep slapping it on their own movies. It's almost
like a zombie brand. Yes. The body is totally
gone, the original founding team, the studio
ownership, the building, all gone, but the name
just keeps walking around on movie posters. It
feels very 21st century, doesn't it? We see this
all the time today. We're a beloved electronics
company goes bust. But ten years later, you can
still buy cheap TVs with their logo on it at
the supermarket because some holding company
bought the IP. It shows that by the 1920s, film
wasn't just considered an art form. It was a
highly sophisticated consumer goods industry.
They understood that the brand was a commodity,
completely separate from the factory that actually
made the product. It really drives home the idea
that these weren't just bohemian artists in berets
making art for art's sake. These were hardcore
industrialists trading assets. The studio building
is one asset and the intellectual property of
the name is another. Absolutely. It shows a level
of commercial maturity and ruthlessness that
we don't always credit to that early silent era.
So let's just step back for a second and look
at the whole arc we've covered here. We start
in 1912 with Frantz Vollwer renting a room. Betting
everything he has on a brand new medium. Right.
They build this fragile glass palace in Marienfeld,
battling the sun and the melting grease paint.
Betting heavily on physical infrastructure. Then
the war hits. It cuts them off from the rest
of the world. And instead of collapsing under
the weight of it, they thrive because they own
the local captive market. The accidental empire
built entirely on isolation. And they churn out
a filmography that perfectly tracks the emotional
rollercoaster of an entire nation. From the fierce
pride of Bismarck, to the desperate escapism
of Kukedish wife, to the deep cynicism of Wibble
the tailor. A full decade of cultural therapy
basically printed on celluloid. And finally,
they are carved up and sold off for parts in
1922 with their physical studio going to one
giant and their good name going to another. It's
a complete perfect life cycle of a business.
You know, when you look at the bibliography for
this deep dive, we see some really heavy hitters
in cinema history. Books like The Ufa Story by
Klaus Kreimeier and A Second Life, German cinema's
first decades. In the grand sweeping scope of
those massive books, ICO is probably just mentioned
on a few pages, right? Oh, absolutely. In the
broad history books, ICO is what Wikipedia would
call a stub. It's a footnote compared to the
absolute behemoths like UFA that came along later
and dominated the globe. But I really think dismissing
them as just a footnote is a massive mistake.
Why is that? Why should you, the listener, care
about the stub? Because the massive German film
industry that shocked the world in the mid 20s,
the industry that gave us German expressionism,
the industry that revolutionized camera movement
and shadow work that directly influenced Hollywood
film noir that didn't just appear by magic. It
wasn't a sudden lightning strike. No, not at
all. It was built directly on the infrastructure
that companies like Ico created through trial
and error. Ico built the glass houses. Ico trained
the lighting crew to deal with the sun. Ico cultivated
the audience habit of going to the movies every
week during the war. They were the literal building
blocks. You simply can't have the beautiful skyscraper
without the concrete foundation, even if that
foundation gets buried underground where nobody
can see it. It's the invisible history. IKO is
the shoulders that the Giants eventually stood
on. Precisely. And they show us that film history
isn't just about analyzing the masterpieces.
It's about the daily sweaty grind of business.
It's about the weather, the shifting politics,
and the sheer dumb luck of being in exactly the
right place when the borders suddenly close.
You know, thinking about their filmography particularly,
that stark shift from Bismarck to his coquettish
wife, it actually leaves me with a question that
I can't quite shake. What's that? If we looked
at the movies released during a major crisis
today, like right now in our modern era, what
would they tell us? If a historian in a hundred
years looked at our collective filmography during
a global pandemic or a massive recession or a
modern conflict, would they see the story of
the crisis itself or would they just see the
story of our distraction from it? Wow, that is
a very uncomfortable question. Do we want a mirror
held up to us, or do we just want a window look
out of? Ico managed to give their audience both,
depending on the specific year. I really wonder
which one we are overwhelmingly choosing today.
It's definitely something for you to mull over
the next time you're endlessly scrolling through
a streaming menu, trying to decide between a
heavy documentary and a superhero movie. Thanks
for taking this deep dive into the flickering
black -and -white world of ICO film with us today
It was a real pleasure keep digging and we'll
see you on the next one