A camera is strapped to the front of a cable car, and the cable car simply goes: down Market Street toward the Ferry Building, thirteen minutes, one take, no cuts. That is the entire film. The Miles brothers shot it in April 1906, and nothing in the frame knows what we know — that within days the earthquake and fire would take nearly everything the lens is looking at.
Watch it without that knowledge, if you can manage, and it is already remarkable: the most ordinary footage imaginable, which is precisely its value. Nobody is performing history. Boys chase the camera on bicycles, showing off for a machine they’ve never seen. Automobiles — brand new, still outnumbered — weave through horse carts with a recklessness no one has yet invented rules against. Pedestrians cross wherever they please, at whatever angle, because the street still belongs to everyone at once. It is thirteen minutes of people being unremarkably alive, preserved by accident of technology at the exact moment before their world ended.
Then watch it again with the knowledge restored, and the film becomes something else — maybe the purest demonstration on record of what a moving image is for. Every documentary is secretly about time; this one is openly about it. The camera glides forward at the pace of the cable, which is the pace of the era, and the viewer rides a machine built in the present into a noon hour that has been over for more than a century. The faces that turn toward the lens are looking, as it turns out, directly at us.
What the footage preserves is not an event — events got plenty of cameras, then and since. It preserves the ordinary, which almost never gets one: the texture of an unexceptional Tuesday, the thing every era loses first and most completely, because no one thinks to keep it. Cathedrals get painted; crossing the street does not. That a city’s most mundane quarter-hour became its most precious record is not an irony. It is the whole argument for paying attention to the unremarkable while it is still here to be seen.