The true story behind the "Martingale"
The true story behind the "
Martingale" is a sad tale of secret love and denied passion between a brilliant and inventive (though geeky)
gaffer and the slightly embarrassed (though secretly swooned) subject of his undying passion.
Martin Le Few (last name changed to protect the innocent) was a young electrician in Chicago in the days of silent film. Working for Charlie Chaplain out of the freshly built studio at 3900 N. Claremont,
Martin was hired to help film one of the earliest "night scenes".
Now, at the time, film was extremely slow and could only be shot in
broad daylight, hence the new studio had the entire fourth floor made out of glass -- walls, roof, everything. That worked well for almost all situations, but Mr. Chaplain had a bold idea. He wanted to shoot a film set on New Year's Eve and to capture the fireworks in the background, or so the story goes.
The crew realized they would need to set up some sort of
electric lighting to illuminate the actors while having the night sky as the back
drop, but as none of them had ever handled electricity on the set (it just wasn't done!), Young Mister Le Few was dutifully summoned from the electrical shop just accross Western Avenue and asked to come up with some suggestions.
Now,
Martin had Ideas. He was not the type to say, "You
call THAT a budget? Can't be done." Instead,
Martin decided to carefully scope out the new studio for Inspiration. He was headed down the winding stair to the basement to check on the load center when, as fate would have it, he came suddenly
face to
face with the beautiful and seemingly talentless Miss (the proper term of
address for young unmarried ladies in those bygone days) Gale Whepinshtale (again, last names changed to protect the innocent), who had just escaped a seemingly endless costume
fitting in the stitch shop with her unfed stomach growling, having started the day (as many a young and aspiring actress of the time would) with only a meager and rushed cup of coffe and a gruel.
As Miss Whepenshtale stepped quickly onto the landing at the second floor, thinking only of a hot polish from the vendor who was tooling his jitney up Western Avenue, she ran headlong into young Le Few; the two colliding with such force as to make Gale's head swirl and, in her already weakend state, swoon limply into
Martin's waiting arms.
There she
lay, draped over
Martin's wiry (some even went so far as to say "skinny") but powerful (none the less) arm for the brief moment he required to replace his over-thick prescription eyeglasses in their upright and locked position. As his
vision cleared, time itself seemed to pause, turning to glance over its shoulder at the evocative
tableau revealed in that fleeting instant. For what can only be described as a breathless eternity,
Martin Le Few held in his arms the most lovely (and let's
face it -- totally HOT!) creature he had ever laid his eyes upon.
The eternity ended with the crash of a
grip somewhere in the studio above knocking over a carefully placed camera as he backed out of the carefully choreographed pull back shot. The screams from the upper floors seemed to stir Miss Whepenshtale from her feint, and she immediately attempted to collect herself in the
face of such an untoward situation. She stood up, took a step back and introduced herself, taking only the briefest gasp at returning to conscience to find herself in the arms of this thin, bespectacled (but not altogether unattractive, and obvously strong in a rawhide sort of way) stranger who was looking at her with such
intensity as to make her feel she were once again in front of the camera -- in the glow of the
bounce cards that she so passionately adored.
"Good afternoon." she said confidantly. "I'm Gale Whepenshtale, and you are...?" Poor
Martin. He was not so quick to regain his composure and could only mumble, "M-Martin..." before his courage trailed off into the storm of footsteps and bodies dragging comming from the top floor.
"Well, I'm very pleased to meet you,
Martin. Please excuse my haste, but I have a polish that I just must catch!" and with that, she was gone.
Martin remained, transfixed upon the spot of his epiphany. He knew, at that moment, that Gale Whepenshtale was the only woman he would ever love. It's funny how these moments sear themselves into our subconscience. After but a truly brief (though seemingly epoch) single breath,
Martin Le Few had comported himself and was back at the task at
hand.
Descending into the bowels of the studio,
Martin soon discovered the
power distribution
system lodged in a forgotten corner of the dank cavern. With only the single bare
bulb to illuminate the creeping gloom,
Martin edged close to the cold, steel cabinet. But even as he attempted to remove his ever present shadow from the surface of the panel, he could not fathom the markings etched upon the plate that was so resoulutely and permanently riveted to it's
face.
Now you must understand, dear reader, that this was indeed a simpler time. There really were no such things as affordable flashlights (or "torches" as those wacky Brits are want to term them) and even if the
electric shop where
Martin tirelessly toiled day in and day out carried them, he could not have been able to justify the expense, as his salary amounted to barely .86¢ a week, (a princely sum for the time, but hardly enough for luxuries) and the now ubiquitous Mini-Mag was not even a glimmer in it's famed inventor's eye (since he had yet to be conceived, though his father was definitely having serious thoughts along those lines. But, I digress.) and
LED was somthing that the
blind did for the
blind.
Martin's thoughts fell instead upon the box of wooden stick matches hidden softly in the front pocket of his everpresent black Dickies. Fishing a
hand deep into the ample and well proportioned confines, he withdrew the prize and carefully fumbled to withdraw but a single, solitary match. With growing confidence
Martin scrapped the head firmly against the side of the box, and in the flaring glow, cought first sight of the mystery revealed before him.
"Westinghouse" "15
Ampere - 120 Volts"
This would NEVER do!
Martin's mind raced at the unavoidable ramifications of his discovery. Quickly figuring in his head the required wattage necessary to successufully iluminate the scene to be played in total darkness against a sparkling sky, calculating the distance squre reduction in
luminance and the unavoidable but none the less ever present
line loss due to the remote setting of the single
outlet tucked over 100' away from the proposed shooting location (I said before htat he was clever, didn't I?), his original idea of a single, all-powerful Lamp ensconced firmly behind the camera (and slightly
stage left to
reveal more "Character") simply would not suffice.
There was far too much risk that some unnamed prop girl might decide that while everyone else was occupied with the ever stained financial situation of the company and the task at
hand of "getting the shot" that would put them on the lips of all the critics, that THIS would be the perfect time to step into one of the lavatories located on an adjacent floor of the completely dark (needing All the
power available for
Martin's Lamp) studio, flick on the light to fix her make-up, and plunge the whole kabodle into the abyss.
It was too much for poor
Martin to wrap his mind around. However, realizing that, in any event, he would still need one of those incredible devices he had just read about in "Electrician Today" (the august but alas, discontinued, publication that EVERY self-respecting electrical
wizard of the day subscribed to) called by it's inventor an "Electrical outlet-extension cable" to span the seemingly uncrossable distance between the source of the
power and the desired location, and that, as most geniuses grasp innately, working frees the mind to wander the byways of Inspiration,
Martin set about the task at
hand, hoping to possibly formulate a workable solution while remaining ahead of the looming (and unchangeable) deadline (New Year's Eve only happens once a year, and at the end of the year at that!) he faced.
Back at the shop,
Martin rummaged carefully and resolutely through the pile of items cast off to the side of the dock door, where all those things the owner of the company bought through the Western Auto Catalog sight unseen in the hopes that it may "be of use one day" became hopelessly discarded. He thought he had glimpsed just last week, the unfamiliar but reassuring arc of a black and red painted steel cable reel. Pushing aside this week's additions to the pile, there it was! Spanking new and still wrapped in it's gleaming transparent cellophane protection -- a 250'
roll of 14-3 SJ!
Suddenly,
Martin was a man possessed. He knew what to do! Carefully spooling out the supple black cable across the shop floor, he crossed the 50' distance to the service counter, looped the end around the gumball machine post in the corner and walked back to the spool. Removing his Klein HD213-9NETH linesman pliers from their home in his right rear pocket (which bore the unmistakable outline of the tool, worn well into the fabric of the fading denim) he streched out the gaping jaws toward the defensless belly of the fresh cable. Just as he was prepared to sever the supple but tough (and grease resistant) neoprene in two, he paused, rolled off an extra five feet "just in case" and firmly forced the sharp
edge of the cutter through. That he was rewarded with the familiar "snick" that acompanies this action is all to well known by many of a younger generation.
Deftly he set about his work. grabbing the two ends of the cable and crossing to the work bench set close by the glowing coal stove, he inserted a five pound soldering
iron deep into the raging coals of the beast. But as his eyes and
face were washed by the heat, he suddenly found himself transported to the spot on the landing, and the fluttering open of those luminescent pools of desire he had so easliy fallen into earlier in the day. He stood, just for the moment, transfixed and vacant, gazing at the embers, with a gentle smile tickling the edges of his lips. Then, just a suddenly, he was back on the job.
Seizing his
utility knife, he cut away (being careful not to knick the delicate inner
insulation) exactly two inches of the tough neoprene
sheath. He snipped the paper with his linesmans, and began to strip off the required 1/2" of protection on the inner wires (wondring to himself what on earth that strange "Green"
wire was for). As he worked, his mind kept drifting back... to the place on the stairs, the place he had first beheld such radiance. No longer restrained in the earth bound body he had received at birth,
Martin began the slow but steady ascent above the confines of the real world.
He watched in amazement as the body before him sitting at the bench meticuosly went about the task. Insert the cable through the casing FIRST, twist the ends, tin the
iron (50\50
rosin core only), apply the solder, remove the
iron, freeze! until cool, and repeat. But as he watched, his gaze became disinterested and once again he was back in the stairwell, watching Gale
bounce lightly down the stairs, his hands working as though with a mind of their own, the sudden sunlight on her golden hair as she threw open the door to the outside, the feverish pace with which the figure at the bench continued unabated, the cold rush of the December air rising in the stairwell snapping him back into place at the bench.
It was done. There before him
lay the product of his labor, cooly staring at him with those "
Edison" eyes. And as he continued to contemplate his work, a growing realization began to gnaw at him. There was something not exactly right about the device on his bench. Something odd. Then, with horror, he recognized the error... he had wired BOTH ends of the cable into the SAME
connector! How could he be so stupid? What had he been thinking? Not only had he WASTED those precious moments of which he had too few, now he would have to REDO what he had started.
He suddenly, desperately longed for a quick Southwest flight to the Bahamas, (murmuring to himself, "I want to get away") but the thought of those warm, sunny beaches, so remote from his workaday situation made him think of a dream vacation that included, not only his own worthless, wasteful self, but also the fountain of his essence: Gale Whepenshtale.
Together, they would roam the warm Carribean coastlines, splashing and laughing and searching for shells. Together, they could explore the dark reaches of some hidden cave, falling into each other's arms and to finally be as one.
"As one," he muttered, his mind's eyes staring into the setting, sub-tropical sun. And as the glare of the amber light grew brighter and brighter, searing his retinas, he found himself un able to look away. He saw Gale reaching out her
hand, streching to grasp his. As their searching fingers finally touched,
Martin shouted, "Eureka! Two as one!"
Well, gentle reader, I do not need to tell you (being the vigorous student of history that so many of today's youth are) how the story ends. Suffice it to say that
Martin realized he could indeed get the
luminance required by using TWO smaller wattge instruments on either side of the camera, placing them closer (to defeat that evil distance squared thing) and managed to pull off the feat well before deadline. As leaps of genius usually go, we take for granted the acheivements of the
Martin Le Fews and the Westinghouses of bygone days. We tread easily on the shoulders of pioneers who had the guts to blaze their own trails, to believe that there must be a "better" way , and to strive to discover it.
But the NAME you ask. What about the name? When Mr. Chaplain, dutifully impressed by the results of
Martin's efforts and the obvious success of the shot, asked him, "And, what do you
call this amazing device, Mr. Le Few?",
Martin sheepishly shot a sidelong glance at the ravashing Miss Whepenshtale, replete in evening gown (as she had been Mr. Chaplain's leading lady for the scene) recovering from her obvious efforts expended in the previous moments, and pronounced," I
call it a Martin-Gale."
So there you go, fine reader. Your inquiries have not landed fruitlessly upon the yawning maw of the Google search box. You have found the answer through (thanks to Herr Gutenberg) the greatest of forms, the written word. The fact that this historic shot landed, like so many of the greatest moments in entertainment history, on the cutting room floor when the entire scope of the production changed after Chaplain spent a night in a Rush Street tavern, does not change it's import, nor tarnish it's radiance.
Martin never did get the chance to consumate his desire for the young Miss Whepenshtale. She was canned, along with half the crew as the company was suddenly moved to California soon after. We really have no record of what she really looked like, other than the confused mutterings of Le Few on his deathbed. But we do know that his love for Gale never waned, for he carried the concept a step further in later years, actually stuffing THREE cables into a severely over-strained
connector. The inspiration for this invention came as he was ruminating the reverse side of his capable and lithe secretary at the time, but could not give up on his ever present obsession. Appropiately, he named the new device a "Martin-Gale-Sally," but the name, along with the device never really gained wide acceptance.
