Six
encounters with aviators: Early cinema, flight, danger and gender
Cinema
and aviation are quintessential enterprises of the modern era. Alison McMahon,
in her study of pioneering filmmaker Alice Guy Blaché,
refers to film and flying as “the industries of motion” and notes their closely
linked development, particularly in France: “In some cases the same inventors
worked on both . . . The combination of interest in spectatorship, projection
of images and flight characterized many men of science of the day” (McMahan,
pp. 1-2). Early twentieth-century mass media hailed both as triumphs of
technology, surrounding them with discourses of science, sensation, sexuality
and spectatorship that further intensified with aviation’s role in the First
World War.
Cinema
and aviation also both contributed to changes in how people perceived the
world, and their place in it, because both were part of ongoing rearrangements
in “the organisation of the look in the service of consumption, and the gradual
incorporation of the commodified experience into
everyday life. . . .” (Friedberg, p. 2). Anne
Friedberg lists nineteenth-century machines (including bicycles and steamships)
and architectural features (arcades, department stores) that helped mobilise
the gaze (pp. 2-3). She traces how the “mobilised gaze” becomes the “shopper’s
gaze,” bound up in consumerism through its interconnections with the “social
behaviours involved in the examination of goods on display (shopping) and the
experience of ‘foreign’ spaces (tourism).” “Commodified
visual mobility,” she writes, “became a global standard of modernity”
(Friedberg, p. 4).
The
intertwined nature of early aviation and cinema can be explored through a
series of encounters with aviators experienced by Australian silent movie
actress Louise Lovely. While both aviation and cinema can be understood in terms
of the much discussed visual nature of modern life, Lovely’s
experiences also demonstrate that visceral reactions to aspects of modernity can
impact on dimensions of identity.
For
the purposes of this paper, gender is the aspect of identity that is explored,
with Judith Butler’s concept of the performativity of
gender providing a theoretical base. If gender is made up of repeated “acts,
gestures, enactments” (Butler, p. 136), then, in a time of cultural change, the
bodily habits that constitute gender will also change. The transformations,
experienced somatically, form a kind of physical shock in themselves. Mass
entertainments repeat the new bodily habits, naturalising them both visually
and viscerally.
Cinema,
aviation, modernity and the thrill
The
visible signs of modernity were widespread by the beginning of the twentieth
century, and were immediately linked with bodily sensations. “A sense of
disorder and fragmentation” resulted from the visual chaos of crowded and
chaotic cities. As early as 1903, sociologist Georg Simmel saw connections between “the sensory foundations of
psychic life” and the “intensification of nervous stimulation” created by the
tempo and contrasts of urban life. Modern life was characterized by some
commentators as being full of “nervous stimulation, stress and bodily peril” (Simmel, in Singer, pp. 61-62).
Commercialized
mass entertainments associated with urban life and industrialisation
were of a type not previously known: “Modernity ushered in a commerce in
sensory shocks. The thrill emerged
as the keynote of modern diversion” (Singer, p. 91; emphasis in original).
Lyn Kirby notes: “Equating technological destruction with both
pleasure and terror, the ‘imagination of disaster’ says volumes about
the kinds of violent spectacle demanded by a modern public, and the
transformation of ‘shock’ into eagerly digestible spectacle”. In 1895, the Lumieres’ audiences are rumoured to have flung themselves
to the floor in fear of the oncoming rush of a filmed train coming into the
station; but so quickly was the “shock” commodified
and enjoyed that, by the following year, train collisions were deliberately
staged and filmed. Such was the fascination that thirty thousand spectators
attended the first such staged collision, and two people were killed by the
smash (Kirby, p. 60).
Not
long afterwards - in 1911 - the hunger for entertainments of “technological
destruction” had resulted in a genre of plane newsreels: “When a flying machine
plunged into a group of dignitaries assembled to watch the beginning of the
Paris-Madrid race in May 1911 and killed the French Minister of War, moving
picture shots of the accident were on view in Paris’s cinemas the same
afternoon . . .” (Wohl, p. 276). Airborne stunts were
filmed for spectacular movies in post-First World War Hollywood. Wharton Bros.,
for example, produced a feature, A
Romance of the Air (Franklin
B. Coates and Harry Revier; 1918), starring aviator
Lieutenant Bert Hall as himself.
The
interconnections between aviation and cinema spilled off-screen as well. By
late 1918, Cecil B. DeMille had opened two airfields,
and he started the “first scheduled commercial airline passenger service . . .
in the world” in May, 1919 (Ronnie, p. 105). Thomas Ince
was another filmmaker with aviation interests, establishing an “airdome” at Venice Beach, California. Stunt pilots there
entertained the beach crowds, and stunted for movies at Inceville.
Thus,
although both cinema and aviation were presented as spectacles for mass
audiences, their effects went beyond their public appeal to the eye. Because
both were commercially involved in “the imagination of disaster,” they shared
“the culture’s fixation on the sensory intensity of modernity” (Singer, p. 66).
First
encounter: Maurice Guillaux
“Lulu,
Lulu, Lulu,” Louise Lovely’s mother - Madame Carbasse-Alberti
- screamed. “That thing could have fallen!” (Lovely, p. 51).
Lovely was 19 years old the first time she flew, on 10 May 1914. Still known as
Louise Carbasse, she became one of the first
Australian women to fly in a sea plane. The Farman HydroAeroplane
belonged to Lebbeus Hordern, of the prominent Sydney department store family.
French aviator Maurice Guillaux, pilot for Carbasse’s
flight, had come to Australia along with the hydroplane, to assemble and test
it for Hordern (Hordern, pp. 321-322).
Guillaux
made a number of flights in Australia. In his own Bleriot - also imported - he
became the first in Australia to loop-the-loop the following month. The Sydney Morning Herald reported the reaction of the invited
audience:
Two
thousand feet in the air something streaked across the heavens like a huge
dragon fly. It swung round and round, poised for a minute, and then suddenly
dropped perpendicularly towards earth, like a meteor. But before reaching the
ground it resumed the horizontal, and skimmed over the heads of the crowd so
close that many screamed and others threw themselves to the ground. (“In the air.”)
The
newspaper characteristically combines the discourse of sensation with that of
science’s triumph over natural forces: “Guillaux defied the wind as he now
proceeded to defy the law of gravitation”. But approximately six weeks after
Louise Carbasse’s ride in the sea plane, a serious
accident smashed the Bleriot “to matchwood” and left the pilot with “clothes
torn to shreds . . . a deep gash across his right cheek, and blood . . . flowing freely from his nose and mouth”:
So
sudden was the accident that the crowd was dumbfounded, and it was not until
willing helpers had unstrapped M. Guillaux from the wreckage, and carried him
across the course, that it found its voice. M. Guillaux feebly waved his hand
in response. (“Guillaux injured”)
But
how was it that Carbasse was in the hydroplane,
anyway? She was, at the time, an actress and vaudeville performer who had been
appearing on stage since she was nine years old. Her French-Swiss mother,
Madame Carbasse-Alberti, ran boarding houses in
Sydney, and had raised the girl on her own. Madame appears to have been a
friend of the French Consul, M. Chayet. Indeed, the
consul was one of the first to fly in the sea plane: Guillaux tested it alone
first; then took its owner, Hordern; then the Consul (Parnell & Boughton, p. 22).
“I
need someone to go up in the plane with me to try it out,” Guillaux is reported
to have said to Madame Carbasse-Alberti. “How about Madame letting Louise come with me? She wants a
bit of publicity?” (Lovely, p. 51). Perhaps Guillaux
himself wanted publicity, for he was in the process of setting up a flying
school at Ham Common (Parnell & Boughton, 21).
“So my mother said, ‘alright,’ without thinking,” said Lovely:
and
then I flew all over Manly, I remember distinctly . . . the hydroplane landed
right at the side of the yacht and I got in there, but I was only a kiddie, you
see, and I mixed with all the older people and everything, and I thought, “Oh,
it’s like Christmas”. (Lovely, pp. 51-52)
The
potential dangers of this Gatsby-esque adventure did not
occur to Madame Carbasse-Alberti until the next day:
“Lulu, Lulu, Lulu . . .”
Although
flying was seen as a male domain, the tradition of pilots taking women aloft
began early, when flight pioneer Wilbur Wright spent four months at Auvours in France during 1907-8. In addition to prominent
male passengers, he also took “several carefully chosen women. His purpose was to demonstrate that flying machines could be safe
when handled by an expert operator” (Wohl, p. 35).
Aviation’s danger was held in tension with the commercial possibilities of the
plane. There was, therefore, a need to convince people of its safety, even for
- or especially for - women. Significantly, risk-taking took on a provocative
significance when females - the child-bearers - were exposed to the same kinds
of dangers as men. Women in the air - even as passengers,
swept off their feet by male pilots - re-emphasized the dangers of falling,
physically and morally. When Guillaux flew in Australia, he took at least one
other young woman besides Louise Carbasse in the
seaplane. As he circled Double Bay with Bessie Mulligan of Albury, Guillaux -
“ever alert for publicity,” as a much later newspaper story put it - suggested
she kiss him. “Hundreds of onlookers with binoculars broke into the 1914 version
of wolf whistles at the duration and the intensity of the kiss” (“French
‘aeronaut’”).
Guillaux
returned to his home country when war broke out. As a member of the French Air
Force, he was killed on May 21, 1917, in a crash while on a test-flight (Carroll,
p. 32).
Second
encounter: Aviatrix Louise Lovely
“Do
you know, someday I hope to be able to fly back to Australia,” Louise Lovely
announced five years later, in 1919. By then, the former Louise Carbasse was a Hollywood star at Fox. She had been in
Hollywood since 1915, had undergone a makeover that enhanced her resemblance to
Mary Pickford, and had been re-named “Lovely” by Universal Studios. Her
statement was made in an article in the Australian journal Picture Show:
All
along I’ve been dying to be an aviator, or I suppose I should say aviatrix, and
now my dream is coming true. I have just ordered a big biplane for my very own
use . . . I am taking instruction in aviation from the Los Angeles Flying
School, and guess I’ll be holding a pilot’s certificate by the time my own
’plane arrives . . . just you wait until I come sailing out to Aussie in my own
little ’plane, and capturing the prize of £10,000 which Tom Ince
is offering for the first aviator to make the flight. Wouldn’t I feel proud if
I could! (“Louise Lovely writes”)
The
prize that Lovely mentions was to be awarded for the first flight from the USA
to either Australia or Japan. However, the trans-Pacific crossing was “a
technically hopeless venture at that time, given the limitations of aircraft
development and the huge over-water distances”; eventually Ince’s
prize was withdrawn (Mackersey, p. 45).
But
even if the journey were possible, Lovely’s attempt would have run contrary to
the gender-specific conception of aviation. This view of flight is emphasised
in a 1923 interview with Mary Pickford. When her daredevil brother Jack, in his
plane, “just clear[s] the roof of a big glass stage,” her reaction shows the
emotional “work” expected of exemplary (that is, responsible, nurturing)
womenfolk:
I
looked at Miss Pickford as I heard a half-suppressed sob. Tears were streaming
down her face. Her body was shaken with a veritable paroxysm of agony. Suddenly
she clenched her hands and held her arms in the direction in which the ’plane
had disappeared.
“Oh
Jack, oh Jack,” she sobbed, “you promised you wouldn’t”.
Then
she turned and ran into the bungalow and threw herself on the couch in her
dressing room, crying her heart out. (Talbot, p. 13)
Women
who did go up in the air often transferred “feminine interests” to the new
environment. Francelia Billington,
who played opposite barnstormer Ormer Locklear in the film, The Great Air Robbery (Jacques Jaccard;
1919), advised that: “Silk hose are the most uncomfortable things a girl can
wear in a plane . . . Within a few months no woman will consider her wardrobe
complete without at least one flying costume (Ronnie, p. 137).
As
for female pilots, it was generally considered that women:
were temperamentally unfitted to fly because they were
prone to panic and lacked the physical strength to deal with emergencies.
Besides, flying was dangerous, and women had no right to risk their lives . . .
Consequently, many male aviators were reluctant to give women flight training
or to sell them airplanes.(Wohl, pp. 279-280).
There were female aviators, of course, for
example, screenwriter Jeannie McPherson (Cecil B. DeMille’s
longterm collaborator). As early as mid-1913, forty
qualified female pilots were flying in eight different countries (Wohl, 312). However, the female aviator was a contradictory
figure. Although “the high-flying female body in space” is “a thrilling and emancipatory icon, an instance of the gendered sublime, of
progress, of modernity, and freedom,” paradoxically the “active and dangerous”
nature of flying gave it a “symbolic virility” that made female aviators like
Amelia Earhart “transgressive” (Russo, pp. 24-25).
Louise
Lovely insisted at the end of her long life that she had been sincere about her
desire to fly - “I got the urge to do it but I never did” - but also admitted
that the story about buying her own plane had been, in part, just publicity
(Lovely, pp. 50-51). So why had Lovely made the announcement of her intention
to become an “aviatrix”? Possibly, it was a strategy to add the sheen of
modernity to her increasingly dated Pickford-esque
star persona. Lovely’s body, in contrast with Amelia Earhart’s streamlined, moderne and boyish physique, was repeatedly filmed as
girlish and in need of rescue. Thus Lovely’s claim to be studying for her
pilot’s license was a bold statement that contrasted with her established star
image by communicating messages about the desirability for a woman to master
technology, display fearlessness, be independent, and have a healthy bank
account - in short, to be in control. Yet the frilly, feminine aspects of her
star persona were illustrated by one of the photographs accompanying the
article: Lovely, with long ringlets, holds two cute baby goats. The contradictory
nature of text and images reveals Lovely’s paradoxical position, straddling two
competing definitions of womanhood as both helpless screen heroine and daring,
self-sufficient, modern working woman.
Third
encounter: Harry Hawker
The
week after Picture
Show reported
Lovely’s flying ambitions, another short item appeared: “Louise Lovely . . .
sent a cable to Harry Hawker congratulating him on his attempt to cross the
Atlantic, and his rescue” (“Twinkles”). Hawker, a record-holding Australian
aviator, along with his co-pilot McKenzie Grieve, were presumed lost when they
disappeared during a west-east flight in response to the Daily Mail’s £10,000 prize for the first
Atlantic crossing. They were rescued by a Danish ship with no wireless, so
their safety went unreported for a week (“Hawker and Grieve”). Hawker was
killed - an air accident, naturally - two years later.
Fourth
encounter: Ormer Locklear
Death,
flying and masculinity were closely connected from the beginning: the first
aviation fatality occurred in 1908, when Lieutenant Thomas Selfridge was killed
while a passenger with Orville Wright (Wohl, p. 23).
However, the deadly nature of flying added to, rather than detracted from, the
appeal of flight:
The
risk of death was the price that had to be paid for heightened emotions - what
one prewar French woman aviator called the
“intoxication of flight”. Indeed, some argued that the possibility of death was
ultimately what gave meaning to flight, which was nothing but a metaphor for
our longing for higher forms of being. (Wohl, p.
255).
By
1915, because of their association with wartime death and annihilation, the
figure of the pilot had transformed from “sportsman” into “flying ‘ace’, an
airborne knight armed with a machine-gun who jousted in the sky” (Wohl, p. 203). Reflecting the “Romantic agony” that
connected sex with death, the sexual aura surrounding aviators intensified
during the war, enhanced by photographs of youthful flying heroes that were
widely distributed (Huppauf, p. 109). “Women were
reported to be especially receptive to their charms”, writes Robert Wohl (p. 244).
Despite
the publicity of the pilot’s wartime role, when the US finally entered the war,
its pilot training proved inadequate for the kinds of flying that were
necessary in combat: “The belief that stunt flying was unnecessary - coupled
with a fear of unorthodox flying - produced fliers relatively worthless when
they reached the battleskies of France” (Ronnie, pp.
35-36). Veterans returning to the United States from European combat were
accused of “stunting” when they attempted to teach “the realities of combat
flying,” and instructors were warned they could be court-martialled (Ronnie, p.
36).
One
of the best known of the US flying instructors, Lieutenant Ormer Locklear, had
not seen combat but had gained a reputation for pushing the limits, becoming
for instance “the first aviator to attempt jumping from one ’plane to another
while in flight” (“Locklear”). His motivation, he claimed, was to demonstrate
that a plane with added weight on the wings - such as a machine gun - could
still be controlled and manoeuvred (Ronnie, p. 36).
When
the war ended, out-of-work fliers like Locklear survived by barnstorming the
USA. These air shows incorporated stunts like
wing-walking and plane-changing. So popular - and numerous - were these
entertainments that trade journal Billboard published a calendar of aviation
events (Ronnie, 53). Public interest was based on morbid curiosity: Locklear’s
stunts in Toledo were apparently so hair-raising that they “caused hundreds of
the spectators to turn away their heads, in fear of a fatal accident to the
flyer” (“Air leaper”).
In
early August 1920 - a year after Lovely declared she would soon be piloting her
own plane - she was making The Skywayman (James P. Hogan). Her co-star and love interest in
the film was barnstormer Locklear in his second film. Her appearance with the
well-known real-life daredevil can be seen as bestowing modernity on Lovely in
the same way as her claim of flying lessons. Even though her film role didn’t
require her to pilot the plane herself, there was nevertheless the updating,
hi-tech effect of footage of Lovely in a plane. There were also publicity
images that showed her in a long leather jacket, contrasting with the lace
frills in which she was usually shown.
The
Skywayman told a convoluted story about a flying ace (played
by Locklear) who had returned from the war with his memory lost. Stunts
included a plane wrecking the steeple of a school; the aerial pursuit of the
jewel thieves; and a plane-to-plane leap. During filming, Locklear appeared to
be under some stress, at one stage accusing Lovely of doubting his skills and
taking her on a frightening “joyride”. “I’ll show you I’m a damn good flier,”
he said, performing “a number of spins, loops, dives and near fatal collisions
with the earth”. Apparently, Lovely gave no hint of “feminine” panic:
She
had determined during the reckless flight not to give Lock the satisfaction of
knowing how frightened she really was. She even managed to walk firmly away
from the plane, after graciously thanking him for the “enjoyable excursion,”
without giving evidence of the terrific tattoo her knees were playing against
each other. (Ronnie, p. 251)
But
while shooting the final scene of the film - a dangerous night shoot that the
director would have preferred to shoot day-for-night, using the new
panchromatic film (Ronnie, p. 243) - Locklear and his co-pilot “Skeet” Elliott,
were killed. Louise Lovely was first on the scene: “Panting and out of breath,
she had outrun everyone” (Ronnie, p. 276). Before the fatal flight, Locklear
had been overheard saying to Elliott, “Somehow or other, I’ve a hunch I ought
not to fly tonight,” to which Elliot responded with a taunt encompassing age,
gender and sexuality: “Come on old-timer. It’s too late for
you to start getting old maid ideas” (Ronnie, p. 271).
Moralising
comment is frequently directed at those who risk the dangers of gravity (Soden, p. 15), but early critical reports of Locklear’s
death were quickly replaced by praise. A New York Times editorial on the accident was titled
“The risks were not recklessness”:
it
is only natural that the death of two particularly skilled and courageous
aviators, while performing “stunts” for the benefit and profit of a moving
picture company, causes a regret with which is mingled something of resentment
that lives so valuable should be lost in serving such an end . . . it would be
rash as well as unkind to say that they were madmen. That they certainly were
not, and it is exactly such men as they on whom
depends the improvement in the noble art of flight.
Publicity
for The Skywayman also glorifed the men. In Australia, for example, a review
of the film in The
Lone Hand called
Locklear a “scientist of the air,” and added that the film demonstrated “what
Locklear had always held, namely, that his daring exploits above the clouds,
were not performed in bravado, but for the good of mankind” (December 1 1920,
p. 46).
Fifth
encounter: Charles Kingsford-Smith
Also
watching as Locklear and Elliot crashed was not-yet-famous Australian war
pilot, Charles Kingsford-Smith, who had come to California in 1919, “so short
of money that he had to sell his only suit and travel in uniform” (Mackersey, p. 44). Ince’s prize
for the first Pacific crossing tempted him, but he couldn’t find the necessary
sponsors. He then took on:
a suicidal job . . . in the Sacramento Valley
driving wild ducks off the rice fields . . . Photographs of the aircraft after
these sorties show the wings, fuselage and pilot draped in startling fashion
with feathers, blood and viscera. (Mackersey, p. 46)
After
a stint in a “flying circus” - and a “bad crash” - he turned his hand to stunt
flying at Universal, but was almost killed performing his first (and last)
stunt (Mackersey, p. 46). In a posthumous
“autobiography” based on his diaries, Kingsford-Smith spoke of his time as a
“wing walker”:
The
people who attended those exhibitions were too bloodthirsty for my taste. They
wanted too much for their money . . . They wished to see a body or two carried
off the field, and I did not want to be the body.(Kingsford-Smith, pp. 19-20)
Sixth
encounter: “Skeet” Elliot
In
the literal act of falling, Freud saw an unconscious desire of giving up bodily
equilibrium, which was an expression of sexual fantasies. So, too, were dreams
of falling. “Their interpretation, when they occur in women, offers no
difficulty, because they nearly always accept the symbolic meaning of falling,
which is a circumlocution for giving way to an erotic temptation”. (Soden, p. 118)
Louise
Lovely is particularly critical of Locklear when she speaks about him in her
oral history. “Skeet was the man that took the brunt of everything,” she says:
He
did it all, really, but Ormer Locklear took the honour and glory of it . . .
you find that in every walk of life there’s always one that’s a little bit
ahead and takes all the brains of the other, . . . and the other one does all
the work. (Lovely, p. 49)
When
she describes how the accident happened during the shooting of The Skywayman, she blames Locklear’s amorous
adventures:
Locklear
was the kind of “lover boy” . . . the girls used to run after him and
everything, and Viola Dana, she was a Metro girl . . . Well, they were friendly
. . . he used to show off to her . . . this day they were to go up and, of
course, Ormer was late, as usual, because he was with her . . . a nice little
girl she was, though . . . So Skeet said, “Oh, I can’t wait for him. I’ll take
the plane up today” . . . And he took it up and it was a bad day, a nasty day,
one of those with the wind blowing and . . . And I saw this plane coming down
and all of a sudden it hit ground and I said, “Oh,” I said, “something’s
happened to Skeet”. Sure enough, Skeet was dead. (Lovely, pp. 49-50)
Lovely’s
harshness regarding Locklear is uncharacteristic. The prevailing tenor of her
oral history is “loveliness”; note how she carefully says that Viola Dana -
although publicly stepping out with the married Locklear - is “a nice little
girl”. And, although Lovely’s memory is customarily accurate, she gets several
important details wrong. Although Locklear was apparently late for the shoot
(Ronnie, p. 271), both Locklear and Elliott were killed in the accident.
Furthermore, the crash happened during night filming, not during the day.
The
warmth with which Lovely speaks of Elliott, combined with her criticism of
Locklear, suggests that she was close to him, even though there is no evidence
that they actually had an affair. She was married, for one thing, and
specifically denies the possibility. “Skeet was the most marvellous person,”
she says, mentioning his “Southern accent,” and swiftly adding that there was
“nothing between us but just friendship” (Lovely, p. 49). Nevertheless, their
relationship had a particular intensity that still existed nearly sixty years
later, when Lovely was interviewed.
Aviation,
commercialisation, spectacle and death
The
commercialisation of the thrill means that tragedy is easily exploitable, and
gives an extra frisson to entertainment:
Less
than a week after the [Locklear/Elliott] crash, Barr’s Illuminated Aerial
Circus debuted at the Pickering Pleasure Pier over Ocean Park in Santa Monica.
The promoter for the illuminated night-flying aerial circus advertised that the
pilots would do loop-the-loops, nose-dives, and tail spins, enthusiastically
assuring thrill-seekers that “the same stunt that caused Locklear and Elliott to
meet death is a nightly feature.” (Ronnie, p. 287; my emphasis)
The
Fox studio, too, capitalized by announcing that “10 percent of the profits of
this picture is to be given to the family of Locklear and his pilot”. Yet
almost twelve months later, Locklear’s widow found it necessary to mount a
court case before she received $4,900 from Fox.
Conclusion
Furthermore,
the process of change carries with it the potential of revealing the
constructed-ness of gender:
If
the inner truth of gender is a fabrication and if a true gender is a fantasy
instituted and inscribed on the surface of bodies, then it seems that genders
can be neither true nor false, but are only produced as the truth effects of a
discourse of primary and stable identity. (Butler, 137)
So
what happens when women perform masculinity, such as when they invade men’s
domains - the workplace, the electoral roll, public spaces or aviation - or cut
their hair short or wear “masculine” leather jackets? Does enacting masculine
performance make these women men? Or make men more womanly? Certainly,
anxieties around gender roles were deep-seated during the early twentieth
century. At the same time, it could be suggested that the possibility of
identity tumbling into free-fall formed an aspect of modernity’s dangers that
provided exhilarating thrills and shocks.
Works
Cited
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leaper in film,” Variety, July 11 1919, 66.
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Judith. Gender
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Brian. Australian
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Friedberg,
Anne. Window
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“French
‘aeronaut’ flew Australia’s pioneer air mails,” Daily mirror, March 29 1984, 34.
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injured,” Sydney
morning herald,
August 3 1914, 10.
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Leslie. Children
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the air,” Sydney
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Tuesday April 21 1914.
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Created on: Sunday, 9 December 2007 | Last Updated: 22-Dec-07