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* T A Y L O R O L O G Y *
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* A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor *
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* *
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* Issue 59 -- November 1997 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu *
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* TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed *
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
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Richard Willis:
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William Desmond Taylor's First Hollywood Interview
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Poetic Eulogy for Taylor
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More Interviews by Richard Willis:
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Carlyle Blackwell, Mona Darkfeather, Hobart Bosworth, Adele Lane,
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D. W. Griffith, Lillian and Dorothy Gish, Lois Weber and Phillips Smalley
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What is TAYLOROLOGY?
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TAYLOROLOGY is a newsletter focusing on the life and death of William Desmond
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Taylor, a top Paramount film director in early Hollywood who was shot to
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death on February 1, 1922. His unsolved murder was one of Hollywood's major
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scandals. This newsletter will deal with: (a) The facts of Taylor's life;
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(b) The facts and rumors of Taylor's murder; (c) The impact of the Taylor
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murder on Hollywood and the nation; (d) Taylor's associates and the Hollywood
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silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Primary emphasis will be given
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toward reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it
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for accuracy.
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Richard Willis
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In the early days of the silent film industry, Richard Willis was a scenario
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writer, scenario editor and actor. His first job was with Nestor, then
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Universal and later Favorite Players. But he soon concentrated his efforts
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on publicity and management, teaming with Gus Inglis to form the firm of
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Willis and Inglis. According to their own publicity, that firm was "the
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first to do 'personal publicity' for the photoplayers in the west" and "the
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first agency on the west coast to become established as an institution
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negotiating business between producers and artists." Actors who utilized
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their services included Lon Chaney, Norma Talmadge, Bessie Love, and Charles
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Ray. Richard Willis handled William Desmond Taylor's personal publicity
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between 1914 and c. 1917.
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Richard Willis also wrote a number of articles and interviews for the
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movie fan magazines. He usually wrote under his own name, but also used
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pseudonyms including William Richards, Dick Melbourne, and Wil. In addition,
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his column of news about people in the Southern California movie industry
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appeared under his byline, at various times, in PHOTOPLAY, MOVIE PICTORIAL,
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NEW YORK CLIPPER, MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC, and MOTOGRAPHY.
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Below is a brief contemporary item on Willis, followed by William
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Desmond Taylor's first Hollywood interview, Willis' poetic eulogy for Taylor,
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and some other interviews conducted by Willis in 1914-15.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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October 23, 1919
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DRAMATIC MIRROR
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That "Invader" Willis
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A British "invader" is in our Manhattan midst. This Dick Willis chap.
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Absolutely weighed down with Yankee gold. Manager, dash-itall, of a crowd of
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thousand per week Yankee stars, directors and writers out in "Los."
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Long before THE CINEMA began to publish and R. C. Buchanan started to
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spout, Richard Willis came to these shores as an actor.
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Dick also could (say it quietly) write plays.
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Being in a land where the liberty to write plays is guaranteed to every
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freeborn truck driver, Dick put his on paper.
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I do not think he "siced" them on a single theatrical producer.
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But he did try 'em on the dog--then the one-reel fillum producers in
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Hollywood.
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Dick got a staff job evolving plots for one-reelers. And the perfectly
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tremendous salary of fifty spondooliks a week.
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I believe that one day the boss got fresh, and Dick threw the big (for
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1914) job up.
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Besides, writing scenarios, or adapting them, was too much like work.
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Dick saw that one couldn't make money by more (plebian) hard work, so he
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became a manager of directors and sichlike. [sic]
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He used to think it a genuine triumph, there in the commencement days,
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to land a single single-reel director in a posish at a single hundred per
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week.
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Today it's a poor week that doesn't find Dickey landing one writer, two
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directors and three stars in jobs at anywhere from one to five thousand
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dollars per hold-up apiece!
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What does Willis do with all his money?
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I'll tell you.
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He has bought a palayshul home.
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Where he spends his off hours--
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Ye Gods! WRITING POETRY!!
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William Desmond Taylor's First Hollywood Interview
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The following is the earliest known published interview with William Desmond
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Taylor in Hollywood. It was written by Richard Willis, who was Taylor's
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publicity agent at that time. At the time it was published, Taylor had been
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acting in films for 18 months, but had not yet directed his first film. The
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incidents described in the interview are essentially accurate, but some
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events have been transposed, and of course no mention was made of his
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marriage, child or real name: William Cunningham Deane Tanner. Another
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article written by Willis about Taylor can be found in the book WILLIAM
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DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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June 6, 1914
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Richard Willis
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MOVIE PICTORIAL
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William D. Taylor: Actor, Athlete, and Irishman
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There was a sigh of relief in the studios of the Western Vitagraph at
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beautiful Santa Monica, Cal., when the five-reel picture "Captain Alvarez"
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was completed, for the managing director of Vitagraph's western branch was
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severing his connection with that company and his determination to make his
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last picture his masterpiece, one that he would be remembered by, had made
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the production a particularly arduous affair.
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He had succeeded; everyone was agreed about that. Edith Storey, who had
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made a special trip to the coast in order to play opposite William D.
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Taylor's lead, had packed her trunks and departed for the east. And on all
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hands one heard enthusiastic comments on Miss Storey's acting and on Mr.
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Taylor's presentation of the part of Captain Alvarez. In the studios and at
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the Photoplayer's Club it was the talk of the hour. Therefore, it seemed an
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especially fitting time to glean from William Taylor some details of his
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earlier history.
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I found him smartly and immaculately garbed as always, yet quite
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unconscious of his dress, for he suggested the sands for our chat, and the
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sands it was. We scooped out a comfortable hollow to rest in and, lighting
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our pipes, settled down to smoke and talk and, for a diversion, to toss
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pebbles into the restless ocean.
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"Well, 'Captain Alvarez,' the first question on my list is: Where were
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you born?"
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"Guess!"
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I hazarded England and Australia.
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"England isn't half-bad. I was born in Ireland. (Look at my upper lip
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and gray eyes, man). I had a jolly boyhood and went to Clifton College in
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England. We call it a public school over there, but here you would dub it a
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private one. Education aside, it is one of the most beautifully situated
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schools in England, and it supplies a goodly number of the best scholars and
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athletes that Oxford and Cambridge can boast, too."
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"Did you do anything notable there?"
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"I was a fair student and that is about all, except that I was a fine
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hurdler, made my mark at rowing, and went in for other sports. I shone more
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or less at elocution and was a leader in college theatricals and
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entertainments, too. But, although I had visions of the stage, my folks had
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visions of the army, so I duly 'went up' for the army. My own vision decided
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against it; in other words, I failed in the eye-sight test. So the army was
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'all my eye,' as we used to say over there."
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Billy Taylor is forever joking, and he does it without a smile. That's
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the Irish in him. But his twinkling eyes give him away.
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"Fire away," I said.
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"I still had the stage idea and was shipped first to France and then to
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Germany to study languages, which came rather naturally to me anyhow. The
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cigars in Germany, which were cheap and harmless, and the beer, which was
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frequent and harmless, became monotonous, so I sighed for a change--and I did
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what one or two Irishmen have done before me--I came to America."
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"Frock coat, silk hat, languages and all?" I queried.
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"No, sir; no frock coat or silk hat. But the languages came in very
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useful, for I went ranching for a year and a half, and I was able to say
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things voluble and strange to the horses and steers which scared them into
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obedience. I went first to an English colony, a big ranch at a place called
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Runnymede in southwestern Kansas. It was no silk hat job either, but a fine,
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healthy experience. I enjoyed it."
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"That's what you say about everything," I remarked.
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"And why not?" he replied. "Life is good and I don't worry--just do my
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best, treat everybody the same and things go along easily enough. Well, I've
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got to the stage when the footlights must come in (evidently a concealed pun
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here). I returned to the old country and, through a mutual friend, I met
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Charles Hawtrey, the famous comedian. When I told him of my desires, he told
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me I was an idiot, but that he would give me a chance, and thus the saddle
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lost a prominent rider and the stage received--well, an earnest worker, if no
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more. I was not quite nineteen at the time and I acted in Hawtrey's company
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in the provinces. He is a capital fellow and he gave me my innings all
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right. After that I played in a number of companies, and then crossed the
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pond once more, when I met Fanny Davenport and joined her company.
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I was with her for three years, and it was a wonderfully fine experience.
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I started playing juveniles, but later I transacted much of her business,
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besides acting some important parts and understudying all the leading roles.
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You know the class of plays, don't you? 'Fedora,' 'La Tosca,' 'Joan of Arc,'
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and so on, dramas and tragedies. She was a great actress, if a somewhat
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eccentric one, but her eccentricities were part of her genius. She was a
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very hard woman to act opposite to, for she played all over the stage and
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would accept no pre-arranged positions. It was quite disconcerting at times,
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as one would have to follow her closely to avoid addressing thin air. But
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she was a splendid friend to those she liked, and treated me--as a friend.
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I firmly believe I would have been with her yet had she lived.
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"I used to visit the old country once a year to see some of my people
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and to execute commissions for Miss Davenport. On one occasion I purchased
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the armor for Joan of Arc in Paris. When I first went to her she told me
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that if I suited her I should have a contract. This contract became a joke
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in time, and she would ask me if I was ready for it, and I would say, 'Oh,
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we'll see if I suit you first,' and so it went on for the three years and my
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salary went up steadily all the while. Fanny Davenport was a good sort,
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peace be to her ashes."
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"What did you do after her death?" I queried.
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"I went into the stock company at Castle Square, New York, and took Jack
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Gilmore's place at a moment's notice. Poor Jack broke his shoulder blade,
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and I got my part on a Saturday and played it at the Monday matinee. The
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piece was 'Men and Women,' I remember."
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"And then?"
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"I took the juvenile lead in 'Sans Gene' with Katherine Kidder, both in
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New York and on the road, and later put in some time with Sol Smith Russell
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on a tour, and then the mining fever got me and I hied me to Dawson with all
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my savings. I went there three times in all and made plenty of money and
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lost it all again. I enjoyed it, though! (This last came quite naturally).
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In between these delightful little financial see-saws, I acted with various
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stock companies in Seattle and some more or less nearby cities, taking lead,
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of course. The last time I went to Dawson was with the Guggenheim outfit,
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a steady position, all right, but not exciting enough for me. On another
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occasion I took an official position with the Smuggler mine at Telluride,
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Colorado, but--oh, you know what the stage bug is! I had it badly, and made
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up my mind it was mere waste of time trying to keep away from it, so I joined
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Harry Corson Clarke's company and put in a long season at Honolulu with him.
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I guess that is about all--let's go and bathe.
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I sternly stopped him. "No, sir; you have not once mentioned pictures."
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"Eh? No more I have. Well, I wanted a change, and came to Los Angeles
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and watched the motion picture companies at work, and it seemed more than
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interesting to me, so I determined to try it, and get a position with the Kay
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Bee at Santa Monica and acted a variety of parts and found I enjoyed it
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hugely. Then came the Vitagraph and you know all about what I have done with
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that company. My last part, that of Captain Alvarez, absolutely fascinated
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me and gave me the chance of a lifetime. I really believe it is the best
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thing I have done for the screen."
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Ask Rollin B. Sturgeon, Edith Storey, Anne Schaefer or George Holt, and
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they will, without doubt, say the same thing. It was a great performance.
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However, this capable actor will have many more equal to it, for he has
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forced his way to the front in a manner which is irresistible.
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William Taylor is tall and distinguished looking, with kindly gray eyes
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and sensitive nostrils and a mouth which bespeaks humor. He is a delightful
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companion and his great charm is that he is the same to everyone, king or
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beggar, company-owner or property man. He has always a friendly word on his
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lips and a twinkle in his eye.
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We had our bath and he swam rings round me--and I pride myself on my
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swimming! We had dinner at Nat Goodwin's cafe and he has an Irish appetite.
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In his own words, "but I enjoyed it!"
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*****************************************************************************
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Poetic Eulogy for Taylor
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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February 11, 1922
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CAMERA!
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William D. Taylor
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By Richard Willis
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When Kipling wrote his "If," the English master
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Addressed his words to those who play the game;
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"If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
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And treat those two imposters just the same--
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If you can make one heap of all your winnings
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And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
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And lose and start again at your beginnings
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And never breathe a word about your loss:"
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And then the later lines, "and keep your virtue,
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Or walk with Kings--nor lose the common touch,
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If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
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If all men count with you, but none too much:"
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Sure, Kipling must have visioned William Taylor
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And penned his poem having him in mind;
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A man who'd not admit that he could fail and
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To others' faults was more than little blind.
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So long, dear Billy Taylor, just so long and not good-bye,
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I'm smiling as you'd wish it though my heart has had its cry.
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Your friends were legion, Billy, though your intimates were few,
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But to those your memory's sacred and their thoughts are there with you.
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Young boys and girls will miss you, for your heart went out to youth,
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And you gave them good examples of courtesy and truth;
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When war came, Billy Taylor, you scouted thought of self,
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Position, money, prospects, you threw upon the shelf;
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You went a common private, a captain you returned.
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Though scarce a word of what you did your friends have ever learned;
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You kept your troubles to yourself, you made short shift of woe;
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So long, dear Billy Taylor--though we hate to see you go,
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We'll feel we're pretty close to you as life's short space we span,
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We're richer for your friendship, for dear God! you were a MAN!
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*****************************************************************************
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More Interviews Conducted by Richard Willis
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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June 1914
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Richard Willis
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PHOTOPLAY
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Magnetic Carlyle Blackwell
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It is his whole-souled enthusiasm for his work and his 100-volt personal
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magnetism which make Carlyle Blackwell the honest-to-goodness favorite he is,
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for not only is the mercurial Carlyle popular wherever motion pictures are
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shown, but he is tremendously liked by his fellow players and that large
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tribe--his friends. There is so much about him that is pleasing, he is so
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neat and well tailored, so pleasing, so polished in his manners, and with it
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all, so wonderfully unspoiled. He has the attractive, snappy, dark brown
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eyes, the black hair and the olive skin of an Italian. Carlyle might be a
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very-well-bred Italian count, but he is not, as the following conversation
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will testify.
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"Hello, Carlyle, I want a word or two with you. Where were you born?"
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"Hello yourself, Mr. Publicity Man," same the ready answer. "I was born
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in Syracuse."
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"Tell the readers of the Photoplay Magazine something about your
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dreadful past," I adjured him.
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Carlyle laughed and lit a cigarette and we sat on the pretty porch,
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which was fragrant with geraniums and roses.
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"I went to school and I grew until I was big enough for Cornell, at
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which seat of learning I played and longed for a stage career. During
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vacation I spent most of my time around the New York lakes and without much
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excitement I waxed strong and wiry and laid the best kind of foundation for
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my future--good health."
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"Are your talents inherited?"
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"Not at all. While in college and around the summer camps I went in for
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private theatricals and got the 'stage bug' badly, and when Father Time
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struck nineteen on my birthday, I went to Denver and entered one of the best
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schools for beginners this country can boast of--Elich's Stock Company, which
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is situated at the gardens of that name. Mrs. Elich is really a benefactress
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and a charitable, good woman to boot. I learned the rudiments of the drama
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there, and with youthful optimism went straight to New York and for fifty-two
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weeks played juveniles with the Keith & Proctor Stock Company, another fine
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experience."
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"You believe in stock as a preliminary training for the motion-picture
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platform?"
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"Yes, indeed; I think the majority of the directors and managers do.
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It gives them the technique and experience, the hard training and the
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indefinable something which marks the professional from the amateur. Look
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over the so-called stars in motion pictures and you will find they have all
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been members of stock companies at one time or another."
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"What have been your principal legitimate engagements?" I asked.
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"Well, I was with Bertha Kalich and I acted in 'Brown of Harvard' and
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with 'The Right of Way' for two seasons in New York, and I put in some time
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in musical comedy and was with the 'Gay White Way' company for a season.
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While in stock and repertory companies I acted about everything actable."
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"What else?"
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Carlyle settled back comfortably and became more interested.
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"Then came the only thing worth doing--to me, that is--the pictures.
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Of course, I wondered what people would say about it and was not over-anxious
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to admit I was going to pose for the pictures, but pose I did for the
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Vitagraph, and I soon forgot about everything else. Here is the game which
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is worth while, I told myself, and I tell myself the same thing now, and
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probably will always do so. After the first two or three pictures, I
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honestly promised myself that I was going to work and study and strive until
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I got to the top, and, although people may talk of luck and advertising and
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what not, I tell you, Mr. Publicity Man, that an actor or an actress has GOT
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to work hard and not shirk to attain a position in this game. He must keep
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his attention on his work, too. Once let him lose interest, and bing! he
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loses in favor, for audiences are discerning and critics are severe."
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"Yes, I know you take a great interest in your work," I said.
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Carlyle's eyes fairly danced as he leaned forward and emphasized his
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words with a long finger upon the tender part of my knee.
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"Interest, huh? Why, man alive, I live in it; I am never really free.
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I have studied it until I know every part of it, the acting, the writing, the
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stage setting, the camera, and the mechanical and laboratory end of it, and
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it helps, believe me. Yes, sir, one HAS to work, for the years go quickly
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and the screen tells the bitter truth. When the eyes commence to show little
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bags beneath them and the lines deepen, then a cold-blooded public says, 'Let
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us have someone younger,' and the hero of yesterday is the character man of
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today. But, if he has worked faithfully and well he is popular still, and
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his bank account should prevent him from worrying. But, mark you, a man has
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little time to grow self-satisfied or careless, otherwise the crow's-feet
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come too quickly and the carelessness shows in the acting. And once lose
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caste with the public or the directors and you are a has-been without a come-
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back."
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We talked of several men and women who served as examples and who were
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well known at one time and are forgotten today, two of them working as extras
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when they could get the work. Still, this is Carlyle's interview and not a
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"once-was" obituary--and he is far more interesting, anyway.
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"How long were you with the Vitagraph?"
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"About eight months, and then came the Kalem offer. I was with them for
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over three years, you know, during which time I played nothing but leads.
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During the last few months I directed and managed my own company as well, and
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superintended the props and scenery and overlooked the camera work."
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"Some busy man!" I interjected.
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"It was all good experience. I also designed and had built the Fleming
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street studios, with the big stage, comfortable dressing-rooms and some
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innovations which got for it the title of the 'Model Studio.'"
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"Which have been your favorite parts?" I asked.
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"It's awfully hard to say, but I would select at random those in 'The
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Redemption,' 'The Honor System,' 'The Invaders,' 'The Convict's Story,' 'Paid
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with Death,' 'The Award of Justice,' 'The Wayward Son,' 'Fate's Caprice' and
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'Intemperance.' I lean toward good drama and occasional light comedy,
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although I have played almost everything on the map, and at times, variety is
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charming, you know."
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"Now about this mail of yours, Mr. Blackwell: candidly, isn't a lot of
|
|
it presswork?"
|
|
Carlyle looked at me a moment and then rose with dignity. "Come and
|
|
see, oh, thou unbeliever," he said, and led me into the office, where a young
|
|
lady plied her Underwood.
|
|
"This Publicity person has thrown doubts upon my mail--tell him
|
|
something, show him something, and don't spare him," ordered Blackwell.
|
|
She did not spare me, and after I had been forced to wade through two
|
|
days' letters embracing requests for pictures, adoration, respect and what
|
|
not, and after seeing the files of answered letters, the lady indignantly
|
|
turned her back on me and went on with her work. I again joined Carlyle,
|
|
chastened and satisfied that this young man has his hands full and must
|
|
surely have a good credit at his photographer's.
|
|
I left Blackwell and carried away the impression that I was a welcome
|
|
visitor and could feel the warmth of the handshake and understood the
|
|
magnetism of the man. He goes about his work quietly and gives premeditated
|
|
thought to his movements and expression and a great part of its value comes
|
|
from the fact that he can instill his own earnestness into the actors and
|
|
actresses who play opposite and with him.
|
|
Carlyle Blackwell thoroughly believes in the future of the motion
|
|
picture and in realism on the screen. He believes that the locations and
|
|
sets should be well chosen, the scenery painted correctly and the properties
|
|
in keeping with the play presented, and that too great care cannot be taken
|
|
in matters of costume and make-up.
|
|
This young star's admirers will be glad to hear that he is very kind-
|
|
hearted and does a lot of good in an unostentatious way. His is always
|
|
approachable and invariably courteous, and, with all the adulation he
|
|
receives, he does not suffer from that painful affliction, self-conceit--nor
|
|
do I believe he ever will. He is of the opinion that a good and experienced
|
|
motion-picture actor can take the leading part in a legitimate play which has
|
|
been adapted for the screen, better than a star actor can who has not
|
|
previously had any screen experience, and his belief is shared by many
|
|
others. His ambition is to create in motion-picture form some of the
|
|
greatest characters of literature and the drama, and there is little doubt
|
|
but that his ambitions will be fulfilled, for he has genuine purpose behind
|
|
his ability and attractive personality.
|
|
"One of the elements of the great future of motion pictures," he said,
|
|
"is in character work. The drama is going through the same history now in
|
|
motion pictures that it went through upon the regular stage. The American
|
|
drama practically started with dramatizations of works of the style of
|
|
Fenimore Cooper, with the staging of acts of pioneer and border life, with
|
|
Indians, and backwoodsmen, and blazers of trails. The motion pictures began
|
|
their work with depictions of western life, for the most part, pictures of
|
|
cowboys, of round-ups, of frontier drams. The drama then went into depiction
|
|
of railroad scenes, as for instance, 'The Denver Express,' and that school.
|
|
The motion pictures, evolving more quickly than did the drama, took the same
|
|
line, but went through its possibilities more quickly. The drama took to
|
|
society. So have the motion pictures. The drama ran to problem plays. So
|
|
have the motion pictures. The drama is trying to come back to the romantic.
|
|
The motion picture is there ahead of its older sister.
|
|
"For you must remember," he insisted, "that the motion pictures have
|
|
gone in ten years through the cycle that it has taken the drama sixty years
|
|
to compass. The motion picture, beginning in the same way in which the drama
|
|
of the regular stage did, exhausted the limitations in each case much more
|
|
quickly than did its predecessor in the depiction of human life and activity.
|
|
That is why the demand for new ideas in motion pictures is much more
|
|
strenuous than the demand for new plays.
|
|
"This demand leads to the necessity of more character work. Plots are
|
|
not particularly diversified in life. There are about the same elements in
|
|
all plots. We run into the same situations in all lives. People are born,
|
|
fall in love, fall out of love, hate, desire, marry, grow rich, grow poor,
|
|
die. You can't ring in many changes on the fundamental emotions and
|
|
situations. But character is infinitely varied. There are as may phases of
|
|
character as there are people on earth. Character work is mirroring work, as
|
|
well as real artistry."
|
|
It is this belief that explains Carlyle Blackwell's success as an actor,
|
|
although it does not explain his magnetism as an individual. For magnetism
|
|
is a question of personal character, and that is a matter not of opinions but
|
|
of act, of manner, and of charm.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
June 13, 1914
|
|
Richard Willis
|
|
MOVIE PICTORIAL
|
|
Mona Darkfeather--A Daring Movie "Princess"
|
|
|
|
"Princess" Mona Darkfeather is an impossible person. She upsets all
|
|
traditions and is, so to speak, what she ain't! She is an Indian Princess
|
|
and she is not, she is an exceptionally fine actress and she is not, really a
|
|
most contradicting and interesting individual.
|
|
Her very entrance into this interview was dead wrong. She should, by
|
|
all Princess precedents, have been seated in state beside the big chief with
|
|
two yards of reserve all over her and fifty-dollars worth of disdain on her
|
|
haughty face. Was she thus? No sir, she sat on the hillside awaiting a
|
|
scene, clad in Indian garb, it is true, but she was joking with the chief and
|
|
other Indians, hobnobbing with the squaws, nursing a papoose and saying nice
|
|
things to a couple of bareheaded, barefooted little Mexican girls, all at
|
|
once. Neither did she hold aloof from the pale faces, for Charles Bartlett,
|
|
Jim Davis and Rex Downs all talked with her on familiar terms and when
|
|
Director Frank Montgomery gave his imperative command "come on Mona" she went
|
|
meekly to take a wild bareback ride on her famous pinto pony, Comanche, with
|
|
an Indian in hot pursuit. I determined that the cherished traditions of my
|
|
tender childhood should not be mangled in this manner without retaliation and
|
|
that I would interrogate this crusher of dreams and expose her without any
|
|
compassion.
|
|
So later we sat amidst some very beautiful scenery on a most
|
|
uncomfortable log and thus I expose her past.
|
|
"Tell me," I demanded, "who and what you really are?"
|
|
"My parents are descended from an aristocratic Spanish family who came
|
|
to this country many years back. I was born in Los Angeles and have lived
|
|
here nearly all my life. I was educated at a Catholic school in this city."
|
|
"Spanish and not Sioux," I sighed.
|
|
"Yes, too bad, isn't it?" Mona's tone was sympathetic but there was
|
|
sarcasm in those brilliant black eyes of hers, "however, I am an Indian
|
|
Princess, for I was made a blood member of the Blackfoot Indians and given
|
|
the title of 'Princess' by Chief Big Thunder. I feel half Indian anyway, for
|
|
I have lived among them so much and I speak several Indian languages and
|
|
understand poor Lo as few people do.[sic] They are wonderfully fine people
|
|
when you really understand and know them as I do and believe me they are
|
|
very, very easy to manage and Frank Montgomery, my director, knows their ways
|
|
and moods as much as I do and that is why he can get what he wants out of
|
|
them--they love him and they love me too, and I am glad of it. At times some
|
|
of them visit us at our home and even if we have an appointment we never
|
|
hurry them off. I always sit on the floor (I like sitting on the floor
|
|
anyhow!) and we have lemonade and cakes and laugh at pictures and costumes
|
|
but we do not talk much and in due time they take their leisurely departure,
|
|
always with great dignity. They are very happy when they are working and
|
|
raise never a murmur no matter what they are called upon to do. So you see I
|
|
don't at all mind being taken for an Indian--at times."
|
|
"Tell the readers of this magazine about your stage experience,"
|
|
I requested, with official directness.
|
|
"I am sorry, but I cannot tell them about that which does not exist,"
|
|
said Mona. "The fact is that I was never on the stage before I went into
|
|
motion pictures. It is a terrible thing to admit to isn't it? I have never
|
|
had time to manufacture a real, live stage career, but one of these days I
|
|
will get you to help me and we will make one to order that will sound quite
|
|
well. That is in your line isn't it?"
|
|
I refused absolutely to be ruffled by such taunts and sternly asked her
|
|
how she managed to get into the pictures.
|
|
"Here again," said Mona, "I went dead against proper traditions, for I
|
|
started right in playing leads at the outset and without any experience
|
|
either. It was--I am not going to tell you how long ago, I saw an
|
|
advertisement in the paper calling for a Spanish type who could make up as a
|
|
good Indian and as I had to work, and stenography and myself do not mix well,
|
|
and as I would certainly be fired in an hour if I ever attempted to pose as a
|
|
sales girl, I summoned all my courage and applied for the position. Not
|
|
knowing much about salaries, I asked for too much and got it and the
|
|
position. I found out afterwards that I received more than the leading lady
|
|
was getting and my career as a leading Indian actress started then and there
|
|
and has lasted ever since.
|
|
"No, I cannot acknowledge that I was very nervous but I was very
|
|
determined. My chief concern was not to appear like a novice so I watched
|
|
the others carefully and obeyed directions and my intimate knowledge of
|
|
Indians and their ways was my salvation. For one thing I knew they moved
|
|
slowly and turned their heads slowly and that is just what is necessary in
|
|
motion picture acting. My eyes? Yes, they were always expressive I believe
|
|
and they certainly help my Indian impersonations. This first engagement was
|
|
with the original Bison company at Santa Monica and I stayed with them for
|
|
one and a half years doing all sorts of characters but principally Indian
|
|
maidens and squaws with a sprinkling of Spanish parts."
|
|
"What did you do after that?"
|
|
"I worked with the Selig company for some months doing a variety of
|
|
characters and then joined George Melford at the Kalem company where my
|
|
salary was raised three times in six weeks. I hated to leave them, but
|
|
business is business so when the Universal made me a splendid offer I joined
|
|
Frank Montgomery. I was the first actress engaged by the then newly
|
|
organized Universal company. We were a long time doing Indian and other
|
|
western stories under the Bison brand and when we produced the "Arizona Land
|
|
Swindle," the publicity man wired us that the Bison sales had gone up 33%.
|
|
This was our first big two-reeler there. There was another reason for my
|
|
joining the Universal, that it was to be under the direction of Mr.
|
|
Montgomery." (In passing, it is wise to explain that this same Mona
|
|
Darkfeather is Mrs. Frank Montgomery.)
|
|
"After leaving the Universal you returned to play parts with the Kalem
|
|
Company?"
|
|
"Yes, and it seemed nice to get back too. They have always been so
|
|
appreciative of our efforts. They are starring me in a series of two-reel
|
|
Indian subjects now which go all over the world. I know, for I get many
|
|
letters from foreign parts, a large number of them from children. I am
|
|
always glad to get them, for I honestly love children."
|
|
Mona Darkfeather has been giving prizes to children who draw or paint a
|
|
reasonably good picture of her. Some of the drawings sent in are awfully
|
|
funny and she enjoys them hugely.
|
|
"Do you like the work?"
|
|
"I love it and wouldn't do anything else even if I could. About the
|
|
only other thing I could do would be to sing in musical comedy or cabarets
|
|
and might not make a success, of course, but I studied music for years, and
|
|
am told I have a good contralto voice. But I could never stand the indoor
|
|
life and the inactivity. Besides, what would Comanche say?"
|
|
Now Comanche is a very important item in the Montgomery menage. He is
|
|
only a Pinto pony but what a pony! Comanche is like a big spoiled dog and as
|
|
playful as any puppy. This pony is much attached to Mona and there is little
|
|
or nothing within the powers of an animal that she cannot get him to do and
|
|
here is a tip for Mona. If she ever wants to leave the pictures, she can go
|
|
around with Comanche and give exhibitions and show people just what a pinto
|
|
Pony can do.
|
|
She might, at the same time, show them how a real Indian aristocrat
|
|
should look and walk and talk, too. For, besides living among the Indians
|
|
for years, and learning to speak several of their languages, the Princess
|
|
Mona is the fortunate owner of a really magnificent collection of Indian
|
|
dresses, bead work, jewelry and all sorts of trophies, the gifts of the many
|
|
Indians who have been her friends. Her most valued trinket is a heavy hand-
|
|
wrought bracelet of silver, given to her by Chief Big Thunder, of the
|
|
Blackfoot Tribe. She says that when she has that on she really feels like
|
|
the Indian Princess he christened her.
|
|
Of course, no real Indian maiden ever had half so good a time being an
|
|
Indian as Mona Darkfeather. For one thing, an Indian girl doesn't have a
|
|
chance to learn to ride. Princess Mona, herself, didn't learn to ride until
|
|
she went into picture work. When she applied for her first position and they
|
|
asked her if she could ride, she said "Of course." She says that at the time
|
|
she was sure that she'd have time to "bone up" on riding before she was put
|
|
to a test but she didn't! On her second day in pictures, she had to ride
|
|
bareback, and not on a pony like her beloved Comanche, but on a mean little
|
|
Pinto that didn't like her in the least. But, although she says she had a
|
|
dreadful time sticking on, it is hard to believe it when you see her vault to
|
|
the bare back of her pony and disappear like a streak of lightning.
|
|
It is probably quite apparent that this interviewer, for one, has
|
|
nothing but admiration for the Kalem Princess. And why not? For she is good
|
|
to look at and good to talk with. Everyone who knows her loves her. And
|
|
everyone who knows her admires her, because she is so frank and genuine,
|
|
absolutely devoid of sham or pretense of any kind, and above all, so plucky.
|
|
You never hear a whimper from her no matter what happens in the taking of
|
|
those "wild west" pictures. For sheer pluck and endurance and perseverance
|
|
she has most of us beaten.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
July 4, 1914
|
|
Richard Willis
|
|
MOVIE PICTORIAL
|
|
|
|
A Jack London Hero--Hobart Bosworth and His Fighting Career
|
|
|
|
As nearly everyone is aware, Hobart Bosworth is the man who is producing
|
|
and playing the leads in the film versions of Jack London's stories with such
|
|
successful results. But, as nearly everyone is not aware, as in fact, few
|
|
people are aware, Hobart Bosworth's life reads like one of the stirring tales
|
|
he produces. And, if there ever was a fighter, Hobart Bosworth is one.
|
|
Besides adventures a plenty, and all the ups and downs in the career of
|
|
a man who went out into the world to earn his own living at the age of ten,
|
|
Mr. Bosworth has had to fight that most insidious of all enemies, disease.
|
|
Again and again, physicians, everyone who knew him, have given him up. But
|
|
he never gave himself up, and it may be that his passionate will to live has
|
|
been the biggest factor in saving him, just as his passionate will to succeed
|
|
has helped him more than anything else, in achieving success.
|
|
But, let's begin at the very beginning, and have this splendid fighter
|
|
tell us about himself!
|
|
"I was born at Marietta, Ohio, where I spent my early childhood.
|
|
My mother died and my father married again and I never took to my stepmother.
|
|
At the age of ten I ran away with the conviction that I was ill used and
|
|
cruelly treated. I know, now that I can look back dispassionately, that my
|
|
stepmother really treated me well, better than I deserved. Still the fact
|
|
remains that I ran away and persuaded an old sea captain to take me on as a
|
|
cabin boy. The ship was a clipper rig named the "Sovereign of the Seas" and
|
|
I boarded it at New York and we sailed immediately for San Francisco. Of my
|
|
experiences at sea there are several details which, oddly enough, linger in
|
|
my memory. One is the fact that on my twelfth birthday we were right off
|
|
Cape Horn, another is that on my first arrival at San Francisco I spent five
|
|
months wages on candy and slept on a bench in the park. It is a curious
|
|
coincidence that while I slept on that bench an uncle of mine was playing the
|
|
organ in Trinity church just back of me. I did not know this until some time
|
|
later although I remember lying there and listening to the music. I learned
|
|
of my uncle's presence from a Captain Roberts who found work for me, first on
|
|
the San Francisco docks and later slinging wheat sacks at Post Costa by
|
|
Venetia. This same Captain Roberts told me that my grandfather had built the
|
|
ship "Marietta" and had sailed her to San Francisco.
|
|
"All my people were of the sea and my father was a naval officer.
|
|
By the way I never saw my father again but once when I was twenty-one and he
|
|
looked at me and said 'Hum! I couldn't lick you now, Son.'
|
|
"I was at sea about three years in all and eleven months of this was
|
|
spent on an old fashioned whaler in the Arctic regions. I cannot own to
|
|
having any unusual hardships to endure on that voyage. There is danger or
|
|
discomfort only in very violent storms. After that I was a stevedore for a
|
|
time.
|
|
"Before I leave my early experiences I want to say that I am a true
|
|
American actor. I am a direct descendant of Miles Standish, of John Alden
|
|
and Priscilla on my father's side, and my mother was of the old Van Zandt
|
|
Dutch stock of New York who were the first of their race to land in America.
|
|
I am very proud of it.
|
|
"To go back to my adventures. After doing many odd jobs around San
|
|
Francisco which included semi-professional boxing and wrestling with an old
|
|
professor, Johnny Brown, who hailed from Birmingham, England, I went to
|
|
ranching in Southern California and in Mexico, where I learned to ride
|
|
anything and came to love the exercise above everything else. Then came the
|
|
stage.
|
|
"I was always interested in art, and felt I might make a success as a
|
|
landscape painter. I asked the advice of a friend and he said, "Why not supe
|
|
on the stage and get the money to study your painting?" The idea appealed to
|
|
me and I obtained the coveted job with McKee Rankin and suped and then
|
|
painted. This was at the California Theatre, San Francisco. Then came the
|
|
first small part of three lines which I promptly made a hash of. It was on
|
|
my eighteenth birthday, too, and I was Guard No. 1 in "The Coadjutor." The
|
|
followed other small parts and finally a road engagement with Louis Morrison
|
|
in 'Cymbeline' and 'Measure for Measure' for a season. During this time, in
|
|
collaboration with another man I wrote the version of 'Faust' for Morrison
|
|
which he used for twenty years. For this we never got either credit or
|
|
money. And I not only acted but helped Morrison dress as well. In '87 I
|
|
acted at the Alcazar Theatre in San Francisco and in '88 Mrs. D. P. Bowers
|
|
and myself gave Shakespearean readings in costume. Before I was twenty-one I
|
|
had acted nearly all of the famous characters of Shakespeare and I can say
|
|
with truth and sorrow that I was the worst exponent of Macbeth the stage has
|
|
ever known.
|
|
"Then I got stranded and boarded a Denver and Rio Grande train by the
|
|
underneath route and landed in Park City, Utah, where I worked in a mine.
|
|
I pushed an ore wagon and when I got enough together to get out, I got out.
|
|
Then I ran across Hermann the Great, the conjurer, and toured with him as his
|
|
assistant through Mexico. This brought me to December '88, when I finally
|
|
got to New York and felt that the world was mine at last. Then it was that I
|
|
blessed the days when I wrestled in San Francisco, for Augustin Daly gave me
|
|
my chance as Charles the Wrestler in 'As You Like It.' I made good and I
|
|
stayed with Daly for ten long years, during which time I played a number of
|
|
parts but never any very big ones.
|
|
"In those days I thought he was a slave driver, but here again I altered
|
|
my mind afterwards, just as I did regarding my stepmother and the Captain of
|
|
the boat on my first voyage, and I came to acknowledge that Daly was a
|
|
wonderfully fine man. In his determination to have an artistic and
|
|
appropriate ensemble, he did not study the desires of individuals at all; he
|
|
picked out people for certain parts which he knew would make up a perfect
|
|
whole. During my association with him we went abroad seven times and played
|
|
in London, Paris, Berlin, Hamburg, Cologne and other continental cities.
|
|
"Yes, he was a great man but he destroyed my self-confidence completely,
|
|
so when I applied to Julia Marlowe for a position, I applied for a very small
|
|
part. She looked me over and told me I was not good enough for small parts.
|
|
But--she put me in a big one. I hesitate to own how much I owe to this great
|
|
actress, if only for again giving me some self-assertiveness. I played leads
|
|
in a number of Shakespearean plays with Miss Marlowe and I am more than proud
|
|
of my association with her.
|
|
"It seemed to me that I had barely begun to succeed when the terrible
|
|
truth came home to me, that I had tuberculosis. It was, of course,
|
|
absolutely necessary for me to give up the life indoors, the life of the
|
|
theatre. At first despair seized me, and then came the sudden glorious
|
|
desire to live, to fight it out. I recovered rapidly, but I made the mistake
|
|
of going back to work just as soon as I was better. From that time on my
|
|
life was a pretty evenly balanced alternation of work and rest.
|
|
"When I could work, I did work harder than ever. I played engagements
|
|
with Henrietta Crosman, and with Mrs. Fiske. Finally Harrison Grey Fiske
|
|
featured me in 'Martha of the Lowlands' and I became a Broadway star. But
|
|
the beginning of the end was in sight. However, not until I lost 70 pounds
|
|
in as many days did I give up completely.
|
|
"It was in Tempe, Arizona, that I lived for years, fighting, fighting,
|
|
fighting. And I won out. But--though I am not an invalid now, and don't
|
|
look in the least like one, I am obliged to live like one. It is still my
|
|
only defense against my enemy.
|
|
"I believe, after all, that it is the motion pictures that have saved my
|
|
life. How could I have lived on and on, without being able to carry out any
|
|
of my cherished ambitions? What would my life have meant? Here, in
|
|
pictures, I am realizing my biggest hopes.
|
|
"Why, I went to San Diego for a rest and was asked to take an engagement
|
|
with the Selig Polyscope Company. And I discovered that I could carry on my
|
|
work out of doors and without using my voice, which was in a very bad
|
|
condition. I wrote the second picture I appeared in, and directed the third.
|
|
In all I wrote 112 scenarios for Selig's and produced 84 of them myself.
|
|
"Then I was convinced that the time was ripe for special productions and
|
|
feeling that my all round out-of-doors and stage experience had fitted me for
|
|
the Jack London stories I eventually arranged to produce them, as you know,
|
|
and I am doing the best work of my life and the most interesting. So far I
|
|
have put on 'The Sea Wolf,' 'John Barleycorn,' 'Valley of the Moon,' 'Martin
|
|
Eden,' 'Smoke Bellew' in a series of two, 'Burning Daylight' and 'Odyssey of
|
|
the North.' In all my reading I have never come across better material for
|
|
motion picture plays than Jack London's stories, and I hope to go right
|
|
through the whole lot."
|
|
And all those of us who have seen one of the Jack London plays,
|
|
emphatically hope so too!
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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August 1914
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Richard Willis
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PHOTOPLAY
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Adele Lane, Pretty and Proud and Petite
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She is one of the most "petite" emotional actresses on the motion
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picture stage, but in the language of the critics she "puts it over." She is
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full of nervous force, this clever and altogether delightful little actress,
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Adele Lane of the Selig Polyscope Company, that one wonders whence comes all
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her power.
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I was admitted to her apartments by Rosalie, a very dark damsel with
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very white teeth, who worships the ground "Miss Ah-delle" walks on. Rosalie
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is a character who believes imitation is the most sincere form of flattery.
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She takes full note of all that Miss Lane wears and in the course of time
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Rosalie is attired likewise. But as Adele Lane is very trim and Rosalie's
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waist line is somewhat uncertain, the flattery is not always a success. But
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Rosalie is faithful and a treasure, so God bless her!
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I experienced a severe shock when Miss Lane introduced me to Burton King
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as "my husband," for I did not even know she was married. I only knew Burton
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King as one of the most successful directors in motion pictures and a well
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known actor of the spoken drama. Besides it is unusual for a young screen
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star to want the public to know she is married that I asked Miss Lane the why
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and wherefore of this thing.
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"It is all nonsense," she said emphatically. "Why should I not admit I
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am married? What difference does it make? Oh yes, I know that many
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actresses think that it clouds romance and makes people lose interest in one,
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but I am convinced that is a mistaken idea. When the public is interested in
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a photoplay, it is interested in the characters portrayed and not the
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individual actors; it follows the joys and sorrows of the people presented
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and if the actress is able to hold their attention by her skill and power, it
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matters not a jot whether she be Mrs. Brown or Miss Minerva Majorbanks in
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private life."
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"But you do not work together," I said.
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"No, we do not believe it is advisable. For my part, I think that as a
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general rule it is a mistake for husbands and wives to act together. It does
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not matter how congenial they are or how much they may think of each other,
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married people are nearly always impatient at each other's criticism and
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either hesitate to give their opinions frankly for the fear of hurting
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feelings, or lack the necessary authority to enforce discipline."
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"H'm, that's quite a long speech for you," interrupted Burton King.
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Miss Lane laughed, but not as if she hadn't meant what she had said.
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"Tell me a little of your earlier days," I asked.
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"I am a New Yorker born and bred. I started my dramatic life as a
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little tot and gained much of my education in hotels, on boats and trains and
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in theatrical dressing rooms. At that, I was very thoroughly taught the
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things I needed to know. At the age of six I played Edith in 'Editha's
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Burglar.'"
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"But it only seems a very few years since 'Editha's Burglar' was
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produced," I interjected.
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"That is quite nice of you," Miss Lane answered. "I'm not a very aged
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person anyhow. Well, I played a number of child parts. Fauntleroy, of
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course; Fauntleroy is part of a stage child's training. I went along this
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way until I was fourteen."
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"And then as a child of fourteen?"
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"I was not a child. I was a woman at fourteen. In fact I never was
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much of a child, for work came early in life and I was delicate, reserved,
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precocious and old fashioned, I fear. So at fourteen my dresses came lower
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both neckwise and feet-wise and I was a full-fledged leading lady. For one
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thing, I had a very remarkable memory and could memorize almost anything.
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I still retain that faculty, by the way. At the outset, I memorized twenty-
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five parts, not one of them less than ten sides, and after a long tour I went
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to New York and on the road with the Sullivan, Harrison and Woods companies.
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Later I was featured as Hope Brower in Irving Bacheller's 'Eben Holden' after
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which I played Jonquil in 'Sky Farm' with the Brady forces and acted with Joe
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Welch in 'Cohan's Luck.' I was the first Countess Dagmar in 'Graustark' in
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the Western No. 1 Company and played the part for two seasons. Outside of
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considerable vaudeville experience, that about completes my legitimate stage
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career. Oh yes, I played the circuits with Minnie Seligman with Taylor
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Granville and company, Cecilia Loftus and Aubrey Boucicault."
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"Now tell me why you turned to motion pictures," I asked.
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"For the reason that has appealed to so many of us. After years of
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almost constant traveling and of one night stands--oh! those awful one night
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stands!" and Miss Lane's expressive eyes went upwards and her lips emitted a
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whistle. "Do you know the tragedy of one night stands? You do? The
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arrival, tired and listless, the poor rooms and doubtful food, often a
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matinee performance, eternal packing and unpacking, and the monotony of doing
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the same parts again and again. Well, sir, we were at Lansing, Michigan,
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facing ten solid weeks of one night stands to California, when a God-sent
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wire came from Mr. Lubin asking us to join his forces in Philadelphia.
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I should have told you that during an interval between plays both Burton and
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myself acted in a few pictures with the Solax and our work must have
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attracted some attention. We did not hesitate. We packed those trunks on a
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one night stand for the last time and did it with a laugh instead of a scowl.
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Then we gave a farewell supper and took train to Philadelphia."
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"You had no feelings of compunction or loss of dignity in posing for
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pictures?" I asked. An then, seeing my answer, I went on. "No, you didn't
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You two are most unusual persons."
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"No," Adele Lane agreed. "We didn't. I welcomed the variety of parts
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and was deeply interested at the very outset. I took leads right away. In
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fact, I have never played in any other position. I was with Lubins for about
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one and a half years in Philadelphia, Arizona and Texas. During this time I
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sacrificed every pleasure and just devoted myself to becoming a screen artist
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and I have never regretted it."
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"What came after Lubins?"
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"The desire for a change and a rest and the memory of the sunshine in
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California, so we came to Los Angeles and had a nice holiday, and then I
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joined Seligs, where I have been for over a year now."
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"What kind of parts do you most favor?" was my query.
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"I like emotional parts the best of all," said Miss Lane, "parts in
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which I have to let myself go. They take it out of me, I know, but there is
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such satisfaction in putting one's whole force and power into a part which
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admits of it and it is pleasing to be able to 'get over' complex feelings and
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emotions. Occasionally I like comedy as long as it is not of the knock-about
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variety and last week I had some fun acting the part of a twelve year old
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boy."
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"Do you ever feel a desire to return to the footlights?"
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"No, I think not. There are some things I miss at times, notably the
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music. I am a very firm believer in the influence of music upon the emotions
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and it would be a wonderful help to have the unconscious effect and
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stimulation of well played music upon one's emotions whilst acting an
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emotional or pathetic character. In other words, harmony creates atmosphere,
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which to my mind is all important. You know, I believe that every possible
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thing which can be done in reason to improve the photoplay should be done."
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"Have you any little fads or foibles?" I next asked.
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"I hardly think so. I am very fond of home and of reading. I like to
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see good pictures and I am very fond of beautiful clothes. I am not at all
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athletic and, Oh yes, I have one peculiarity: I have never written a
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scenario!"
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When I had fully recovered from the shock, I took my leave.
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Adele Lane is an ornament to her profession. She is reserved, ladylike
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and very, very sincere, a good actress and a good woman.
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We can do with more actresses like Adele Lane, who goes quietly about
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her work and lives an exemplary life. Everyone respects her and her ready
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smile and kindly word leave her companions smiling after her. In the words
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of an actor, who watched her leaving the studio one day: "She is a bully good
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little woman and it's a treat to have her around."
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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September 12, 1914
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Richard Willis
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MOVIE PICTORIAL
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David W. Griffith--Genius
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[It is interesting to note that this praise was written and published PRIOR
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to the release of "The Birth of a Nation.]
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Just a little while ago I saw the four-reel [sic] photoplay "The
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Massacre" exhibited in Los Angeles. I enjoyed every foot of it, and I could
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have sat through it again, a thing I can do with very few motion pictures.
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When I arrived home I thought over "The Massacre" and it was borne in upon me
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that I had seen that same story before, not once but several times. The
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"punch" was not new and the story was not original. An immigrant train is
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surrounded by Indians and dwindles rapidly and a man escapes and brings the
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cavalry. The little circle of defenders gradually fades, as one by one the
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men fall, and in the center of the circle a young woman with a baby is nearly
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buried by protecting bodies. The soldiers arrive and the Indians are killed
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or escape, leaving as the only survivors the woman and her baby. And the man
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who leads the would-be rescuers to the scene is the husband of the woman!
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That is the story, one which has been done before many times.
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What was it then that held and enthralled me, that made the audiences
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applaud? It was the genius of the man David Griffith, aided of course by
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superb acting and the marvelous photography of Billy Bitzer. Sifted down,
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the credit belongs to the man who produced the play, and produced it without
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a script in his hand or pocket, as is his way. In fact, it was the little
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"touches" of the subtlest sort which made this such a remarkable photoplay.
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During the attack we were taken back and forth between the grim
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defenders crouched in their death stand, and the circling Indians, with
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sudden occasional "cut backs" showing the husband with terror in his heart
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for his loved ones, imploring the troopers to better efforts to save the
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members of the immigrant train. It was the masterly way in which the agony
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of this man was exploited and the valiant fight in the circle that made "The
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Massacre" different. Earlier in the play we saw a burly gambler and a French
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gambler scoffing at the efforts of a timid little clergyman to bring them to
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a sense of better things; here in the circle of death the same big gambler
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interposes his own body to save the parson, the Frenchman darts from the
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closely packed ranks to pick up a battle-crazed boy and laughs and boasts as
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he picks off an Indian or two and then falls back with a smile--shot through
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the heart. It was these inspired touches which made "The Massacre" not an
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ordinary play but a veritable masterpiece, and it is these same strokes of
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genius--there is no other word for them--which make Griffith what he is--
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a director just a little better director than the best.
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There was a time, I frankly own it, when I considered Griffith
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overestimated, but that was before I had studied his plays closely or had met
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him and talked with the man himself. I used to say with others, "It is easy
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to make a great play with all the resources he has at his command." Is it?
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I think not. Give others the same facilities and they will not make use of
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them the same way that Griffith does.
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Because he knows human nature, his audiences and his art, he can
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introduce little incidents and touches of a like character which put vital
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interest and "grip" into the most ordinary happenings. That is why I put up
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"The Massacre" as an argument in defense of the genius of David Griffith.
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He is an interesting man in himself and an excellent talker when once he
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gets going--and if you do not interrupt. I tried to interview him and he is
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an impossible subject! Yes, he is. But you learn a lot and have something
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to think about when you leave him. He is very courteous, and contrary to the
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general impression, does not place himself on a pedestal. He has confidence
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in himself and is sure of his points as he makes them, but he never attempts
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to put on a picture until he is sure of what he intends to do. He is a
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voracious reader and studies all the necessary details regarding the period
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which he is about to portray and is a stickler for the correctness of these
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details.
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David Griffith is very human and "feels" things deeply. I had a touch
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of this as we talked on the evening of the day when Henry Walthall suddenly
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reeled and would have fallen had not Griffith caught him. On making
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inquiries he found his favorite actor had been ill and was fighting to hold
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out until "The Clansman" was completed, but his weakness overcame his will
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and "Wally" had to go to the hospital and be operated upon. Griffith showed
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genuine grief and was angry because he had not been told of the illness, and
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he spoke of Walthall with a burst of feeling which came from his heart, there
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was no doubt of that. He described Walthall as "an artist, an inborn
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gentleman and a man." There was real affection in his tones as he spoke of
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other members of his company, too, although it would not be politic to
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mention names.
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"When you first start to talk to David Griffith you get the impression
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that he is a cynic, but the impression soon passes and you find yourself
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listening more closely and interestedly.
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"I am fond of depicting the lives of young folks for one thing," he
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said, "and if you have parts for girls or young men, you must absolutely have
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young people to fill them--that is generally acknowledged now. Again I am
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careful in my selections, and, although I am apt to make a mistake now and
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again, as everyone is, I am seldom disappointed. Now supposing I had the
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part of a young woman to give out, one that wanted some excellent acting.
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If I were to go to the stage for my actress I would have to take a matured
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woman, one who would act splendidly, but who would look too old for the
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requirements. Why? Because it takes two years on the stage for an actor or
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an actress to learn how to speak correctly and to manage his voice properly,
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and it takes about ten years to master the subtle art of being able to hold
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one's audience. Too, when an actor or an actress starts in acting for the
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screen, he has to unlearn a whole lot he has acquired with such hard work and
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he is too old--that is, too old for a truth-telling camera--for many parts.
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I pick out young people and teach them in less time than it would take me to
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alter the methods of people from the boards, and I get actors who look the
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parts they have to fill."
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David Griffith told me that he entered the picture game because he was
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hard up and needed the money he obtained by suping at the Biograph.
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Candidly, he despised pictures, and to this day he is not at all fond of
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going to motion picture theatres, although he acknowledges that it is
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interesting to see his own efforts and to watch his own artists at work.
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He goes to see other photoplays, of course, but does not really enjoy it
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as a rule.
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Griffith is a native of the South and is Southern all through. He was
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born in Louisville, Ky., and never even saw a play until he was sixteen years
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of age, and even then he saw it in secret, for his people were bitterly
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opposed to the stage. His mother is Scotch, but her son says that she did
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not have the usual quota of Scotch humor, and he was strictly brought up.
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He says that Henry Irving was directly responsible for his going on the stage
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and for his writing plays, many of which were produced by various stock
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companies. It was in taking too much time to the writing of one of these
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plays that he got into that state of harduppishness that made him take daily
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pay at the Biograph studios. So here's to Henry Irving and to Griffith's
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being hard up at one time. Mr. Griffith thinks that Irving was a fine actor
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but far above that--he was a producer of originality, a man of rare artistic
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attainments and of big ideas, full of earnestness. He first saw Irving with
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Ellen Terry at Louisville, and knew at once that he could follow no other
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profession than that of the stage.
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David W. Griffith had considerable stage experience before he started to
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write plays and was associated with a number of stock companies, vaudeville
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circuits and plays, chiefly on the Pacific coast. He was also, for a season,
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leading man with Nance O'Neil.
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Mr. Griffith was made a motion picture director by the providential--as
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it proved--absence of his own director, once upon a time. Whereupon he took
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a chance and introduced some startling innovations, novelties which made the
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company gasp--and Griffith, the genius, had arrived!
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It is said of him that he has dismissed fewer actors and actresses than
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any other big director and he has given to the film world a number of its
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prominent stars, to mention just a few--ladies first--Mary Pickford, Florence
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Lawrence, Marion Leonard, Flora Finch, Blanche Sweet, Lillian and Dorothy
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Gish and May Marsh. Now the men: Arthur Johnson, Owen Moore, James
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Kirkwood, Henry Walthall, Donald Crisp, Fred Mace, Wilfred Lucas, Dell
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Henderson, Charles Murray and Lionel Barrymore. Of course, some of these
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artists acted in pictures and on the stage before they joined Biograph, but
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they have all become the screen artists they are today through Griffith, and
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I believe that every one of them cheerfully admits the fact.
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He has seldom been wrong in his first judgment regarding the
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possibilities of the artists he has engaged, and here again he stands out
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prominently. I asked him his ideas of the future of the legitimate drama,
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and he said that if the legitimate stage came to grief it would be its own
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doing, for he saw no reason why audiences should desert the stage entirely
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for pictures. He believes that it is the fault of theatrical producers that
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the drama has declined as much as it has; the managers follow each other too
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closely and often times do not show any desire for originality. One manager
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will produce a "Devil" play and several others will immediately follow suit;
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another will produce some success in the shape of a musical play and it is
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immediately copied as closely as possible.
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He believes in commercialism, but he insists that art with a big "A"
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must be mingled with the commercial end, otherwise motion pictures will
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suffer just as the stage has in the past. He objects strongly to the words
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"silent drama" as applied to screen dramas, for he claims that they speak
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louder than words, and that they will continue to shout their lessons from
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the housetops and impress those lessons upon the minds of the people who
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would forget them in no time if they read them in books.
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David Griffith made me smile with his answer to my question, "When you
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started producing, did you think you could do better--did you feel that you
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could improve on the pictures being made at that time?"
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"Well, I certainly did not think that I could do worse," was his reply.
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To another question as to whether he loved his work, he reminded me that
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every one who makes a success likes his work, otherwise he could not make a
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success of it. He also expatiated upon the enormous amount of labor
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attaching to the production of a big feature, labor that is unremitting until
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the film has been shipped to the various exchanges.
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Griffith is a scholar and a sportsman, too. He reads much and he's fond
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of foxing. He was at one time a fine runner, too, and he attributes his
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splendid health to the fact that he is constantly studying himself and
|
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keeping in good condition. He believes that this is necessary for every one,
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and he drums it into his artist--health means beauty, exercise is the key to
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health.
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|
When prominent or promising artists leave some of the managers they are
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|
virtually placed upon the company's black books, but not so with David
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Griffith. He is never angry with a man who tries to better himself, and this
|
|
is responsible for the large number of film friends he possesses, men and
|
|
women who hurry to see him when they know he is in town. This always
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delights him.
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|
I have said that David Griffith is a Southerner. He has strong ideas
|
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politically, but he does not often voice them. He believes that Los Angeles
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is the finest place in the world for the making of pictures, but he loves New
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York and says that it is a southern town and that it is run by business men
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of brains. He maintains that many other prominent cities are run by
|
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busybodies, by long-haired men and short-haired women with aspirations and
|
|
ideals but with but little business in their compositions.
|
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When Griffith directs out west he prefers shirtsleeves to coats and he
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wears a shocking bad Mexican hat to shade his eyes. What matter what kind of
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a hat? It is the keen brain within that makes him what he is, the keen eyes
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|
which see so much and the human heart which beats so warmly which count. And
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the millions of people all over the universe see the pictures, which are just
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a little bit better than most and sometimes a lot better.
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That is why I write him down a genius!
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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December 1914
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Richard Willis
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PHOTOPLAY
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I Go A-calling on the Gish Girls
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Most people don't like making calls, but I am one of those old fashioned
|
|
individuals who enjoy it. We had met before, these delightful Gish girls and
|
|
I, and there already existed between us the easy friendship of youth with
|
|
middle age, so it was with a light heart and a half smile of pleased
|
|
anticipation that I approached their house that sunny afternoon. Someone was
|
|
playing the piano--not regularly playing, just strumming idly as though to
|
|
fill a tedious interval when there was nothing to engage her attention.
|
|
I rang the bell and the strumming stopped abruptly, quick steps crossed
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the hall and the door was thrown hospitably open by the very tall, very fair
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girl, with her very blonde hair hanging down her back, who is Dorothy.
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|
"Why, Mr. Willis, how good of you to come to see us," she cried clasping
|
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my hand with the firm heartiness of a friendly boy. "Lillian, oh, Lillian,
|
|
here's Mr. Willis," she called raising her voice a little. In response to
|
|
her call there entered another very tall, very fair girl, with color in her
|
|
cheeks a little more vivid than her sister's and with her very blonde hair
|
|
piled high on her head."
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|
"How do you do, Mr. Willis," she cried gaily, sweeping me a little
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curtsy, and then sitting down beside her sister on the broad couch before the
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west window. As for me, I simply sat and beamed at them for the moment.
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|
Certainly two sisters never made a prettier picture than did Lillian and
|
|
Dorothy Gish, there in the west window on that quaint old brocaded couch,
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Lillian in a delicate pink frock with a turquoise brooch at her throat and
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Dorothy in a dress of filmy white, with the sunlight that streamed through
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the window turning their blonde hair to gold.
|
|
Except that Dorothy wore her hair down her back and Lillian's was done
|
|
high, they looked almost of an age. But, of course, Lillian is a little
|
|
older in years and a good deal the older in motion picture experience. But
|
|
when Dorothy once got started she advanced very rapidly and I never knew
|
|
anyone prouder of a sister's success than Lillian is. Where one might have
|
|
expected a little strain, a little jealousy, even, there is nothing but the
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|
most enthusiastic and genuine pride in each other.
|
|
"Whatever you do," said Dorothy impetuously--I had divulged the fact
|
|
that I had an "ax to grind" in making this call--and had been met with, "We
|
|
knew that you hadn't come all this way just to see two foolish girls,"--
|
|
"please don't refer to us as 'stars.' It is too silly, because we haven't
|
|
had time to be stars yet, have we, Lillian? But, oh, we do want to be some
|
|
time!"
|
|
"And please don't drag in that threadbare statement that I am the most
|
|
beautiful blonde in the world," Lillian pleaded. "That sounds so silly, too.
|
|
Really, you know, it is not particularly encouraging when you've been working
|
|
your head off on a part and think that you've done good work in it, to have
|
|
everyone say that 'she looked very beautiful.' Sometimes I wish I were
|
|
really homely just so that my acting would have to count instead of my hair
|
|
and eyes." [In the August 1914 issue of MOTION PICTURE, an article about
|
|
Lillian Gish was titled: "The Most Beautiful Blonde in the World".]
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|
"You see, Lillian's been on the stage since she was four," broke in
|
|
Dorothy, "so she ought to know something about acting. Of course, we had to
|
|
stop and go to school for a while in the Ursuline Convent at St. Louis to
|
|
sort of finish up, but most of the time we've had tutors and studied and
|
|
acted at the same time. Lillian was only six when she played in 'The Little
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|
Red Schoolhouse' and we were all so proud of her. Tell Mr. Willis about that
|
|
time, Lillian," she urged.
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|
"Well," Lillian said, "I remember that I wasn't a bit frightened and
|
|
that I certainly was pleased. It seemed just like a game to me. I remember
|
|
the lines I had to say, perfectly. A little boy came up to me and said, 'Do
|
|
you like chicken?' and I said, 'Yes,' and then he held out his arm and said,
|
|
'Then take a wing,' and I took it and we walked out together. Mary Pickford
|
|
played the same part afterwards. And Vivian Prescott was in the same company
|
|
and played the soubrette.
|
|
"Dorothy was only four when she started, too. Her first part was that
|
|
of little Willie in East Lynne--remember it? Do you remember how you always
|
|
insisted on opening your eyes in the wrong place, Dorothy?"
|
|
"Yes," Dorothy answered. "I did that because it was such fun to have
|
|
some one whisper, 'Shut your peepers, darling.' That always sounded so nice
|
|
and comforting and then I'd shut my eyes tight. Fancy acting as a little
|
|
boy, though!"
|
|
"Didn't you like acting boy parts?" I queried.
|
|
"Certainly not," said Miss Dorothy disdainfully. "I hated it so much
|
|
that sometimes they had to be quite severe with me. Mother had one perfectly
|
|
awful threat that she saved for my most rebellious moments and that was that
|
|
she'd make me walk home in my knickerbockers. It had its effect, too.
|
|
Lillian, played little Willie, too, didn't you Lillian?"
|
|
"Yes, but in another company," Lillian said. "I didn't mind being a boy
|
|
although I always preferred girl parts. One has to go through the little
|
|
Willie and the little Eva and all the other 'littles', you know, if one
|
|
travels with repertoire companies and is a child actress--don't you dare
|
|
write down prodigy, sir, and make it sound as though we were some strange
|
|
freaks."
|
|
I promised, while protesting that I had had no intention of using the
|
|
word--I don't like the sound of it myself, as it happens.
|
|
"This is the way we looked at that time," said Dorothy, bringing out a
|
|
great big scrapbook in which she has all her pictures and press notices since
|
|
her debut at four, and showing me a picture of two little tots, with round
|
|
little faces and very curly blonde hair. Even then, however, they didn't
|
|
look any more alike than they do now. And even then Lillian's mouth wasn't
|
|
any more of the rosebud order than it is now, and Dorothy's was almost as
|
|
straight and determined. I could see that her mother probably had need of
|
|
the dire threat that she had mentioned. The little heads were very close
|
|
together in the picture and I said, banteringly:
|
|
"You were really fond of each other, then, were you not?" Lillian
|
|
looked up reproachfully and Dorothy came back at me sarcastically with:
|
|
"Oh, no, of course not. We used to fight just like cats and dogs.
|
|
We were just as bitter enemies as we are now, weren't we sister? Why, when
|
|
Lillian was eight and I was six and we acted together in 'Her First False
|
|
Step' we just hated it, didn't we? We had to stand being together for three
|
|
whole seasons, and then, Lillian was taken on tour with Sarah Bernhardt as
|
|
one of her fairy dancers--and it nearly broke my heart."
|
|
Lillian smiled as she described her first meeting with the great French
|
|
actress. "She saw me standing in the wings all alone and came over to me and
|
|
putting her hand under my chin, turned by face up to hers and looked at me
|
|
intently and then began playing with my hair, all the time talking rapidly in
|
|
French. I couldn't understand a word she said, but I was certain that she
|
|
was telling me that she thought my hair was pretty and that comforted me a
|
|
lot."
|
|
While Lillian was playing in Sara Bernhardt's company, Dorothy was
|
|
engaged by Fiske O'Hara to play the part of a little Irish girl in "Dion
|
|
O'Dare," a part she loved, and later still she played a little East side girl
|
|
in "Blarney from Ireland." She was with O'Hara for four years and became a
|
|
great favorite wherever she appeared.
|
|
"I was ten years old then," she told me, "and I was sent to school for a
|
|
while first in Ohio and then in Virginia and then I became ill and Mother and
|
|
Lillian came for me."
|
|
"Yes," broke in her sister, "and I can see her now. She nearly broke
|
|
our hearts, she was so thin and so languid. And she had been such a chubby
|
|
little girl when she went away that I laid it all to her illness and felt
|
|
very bitter. Mother tried to make me see that it was perfectly natural for
|
|
her to lose her chubbiness between six and ten, but I was very sure that we
|
|
had neglected her. We took her away with us and we have never been apart
|
|
since except for one engagement that I had. I certainly was homesick that
|
|
time. It was the first time I had ever been away from mother."
|
|
This little account of their early experiences made me realize sharply
|
|
what motion picture acting means to the Gish sisters and their mother. If
|
|
they had stayed on the legitimate stage their lives would have been a
|
|
succession of leave takings. It would have been practically impossible for
|
|
the girls to get engagements in the same company and equally impossible for
|
|
their mother to have them both with her. But now they could even act in
|
|
different motion picture companies and still live together as they do and
|
|
have time for outdoor play and for all of the social intercourse that girls
|
|
need and enjoy.
|
|
Best of all, the girls say, they have time for study. Dorothy is
|
|
learning to play the piano and Lillian has outlined a course of reading for
|
|
herself. She showed me her books and I must say that it was rather a
|
|
remarkable collection for a girl of her age. There was a lot of good
|
|
classical poetry with a sprinkling of modern poets; there were plays and
|
|
plays and plays, there were books of dramatic criticism and dramatic
|
|
technique, and a very fair collection of the first rate modern novelists.
|
|
I tried to find out what her interests were outside her reading, but could
|
|
gather little. Certainly her work and her reading are her two great
|
|
enthusiasms. As for Dorothy, her enthusiasm for her work is so big a part of
|
|
her life that they tell me she is almost unbearable to live with if she has
|
|
to stay at home for more than a day.
|
|
"She gets the whole house into fidgets, so that we are all glad when she
|
|
has to go back to the studio again," said Lillian laughing. "The only thing
|
|
that really interests her, outside of the studio," she went on, "is--"
|
|
"Sleeping!" Dorothy interrupted. "I admit it. But I insist that I have
|
|
a perfect right to be interested in sleeping," she said with mock defiance.
|
|
"I'm a hard working woman and I need sleep. And if you dare to call me a
|
|
girl, why I'll call you an old man, so there."
|
|
"You would never be so unkind," I said with an affectation of
|
|
seriousness. "Considering my age, it would hurt my feelings terribly.
|
|
Indeed, rather than risk such a dire calamity I shall depart immediately and
|
|
not tell a thing about how you got into pictures through knowing Mary
|
|
Pickford, nor what David W. Griffith thinks of you, nor what are your
|
|
favorite parts."
|
|
"That doesn't hurt be in the least," Dorothy maintained, "for I haven't
|
|
any favorite parts. I don't care what I act in as long as I have a chance to
|
|
act and Lillian is almost as bad. However, I don't think it would be fair to
|
|
foist any more stuff about us on the poor readers of Photoplay. If they are
|
|
really interested in Lillian and little me, still there is a limit. If we
|
|
were clever, now--"
|
|
Whereupon I prepared for a hasty retreat after accusing her of fishing,
|
|
at which she protested vehemently, and after promising to "come again."
|
|
They came to the door to wave goodbye to me, with their arms around each
|
|
other, Lillian in her delicate pink frock, and Dorothy in white, and I repeat-
|
|
-they made an altogether charming picture.
|
|
I wish you could have seen them!
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
May 1915
|
|
Richard Willis
|
|
MOVIE PICTORIAL
|
|
|
|
Lois Weber and Phillips Smalley--A Practical and Gifted Pair with High Ideals
|
|
|
|
The artistic altruist is so really rare that a combination of such
|
|
personalities makes it peculiarly impressive and interesting. The double
|
|
dispensation of the genius to create character, and the gift to enact them is
|
|
the unusual equipment of the Smalleys.
|
|
As this is being written, the five-reel photoplay "Hypocrites" is being
|
|
presented at the Long Acre Theater in New York City and the Gotham critics
|
|
are unanimous in writing it up as one of the most profound and brilliant of
|
|
motion picture psychological dramas.
|
|
The author and producer of "Hypocrites" and numerous other photoplays
|
|
which are far above the average, is one of the most charming women I have
|
|
ever met. I have known her for some time and have always found her the same,
|
|
and feeling sure of a welcome from Lois Weber and her fine looking actor
|
|
husband, Phillips Smalley, I duly pressed the little button by the door of
|
|
the bungalow and was accorded the welcome.
|
|
It is a charming home, one that the lady designed and furnished. "She
|
|
did it all herself," Phillips Smalley said. "I just paid my little fifty per
|
|
cent and she did the rest." The furnishings and the color scheme are in
|
|
subdued tints and the delightful rooms furnish an excellent index to her
|
|
character. There is no jarring note, for comfort fits in with delicacy so
|
|
that even the flowers blend with the general atmosphere.
|
|
Lois Weber, graceful and gracious with a wealth of dark hair, her long
|
|
lashes giving her eyes a somewhat dreamy look, a lady whose carriage makes
|
|
her almost stately, was just a living part of the general soothing effect,
|
|
and her vivacious, youthful sister (an adoring young person) who sat at Miss
|
|
Weber's feet, proved an excellent foil with her brighter coloring.
|
|
Just as Lois Weber's domicile reflects her, so does the study of
|
|
Phillips Smalley indicate his vigorous personality. The walls of his room
|
|
are covered with pictures of his friends, professional photographs signed
|
|
with some inscription. Smalley is a well-set-up man, with an actor's face,
|
|
strong and ruddy tinted. His eyes sparkle with wit and good humor and he
|
|
forms a sharp contrast to his wife.
|
|
During the evening I discovered that Lois Weber is an accomplished
|
|
musician, and she admitted a penchant for the music of "Madame Butterfly,"
|
|
which she interprets delightfully.
|
|
"I used to play a great deal," said she, "especially when I was
|
|
interested in mission work which occupied much of my time. But I am out of
|
|
practice now, although I play a little every evening for relaxation."
|
|
"I know that you are honestly interested in the uplift of the motion
|
|
picture industry," I said. "I want to get your views on any phase of it that
|
|
you choose to discuss."
|
|
"Yes, we are both every sincerely interested," answered Miss Weber, "and
|
|
we believe that the future is very bright. There is much yet to be done
|
|
though. In the first place, I really believe that the day of the serial play
|
|
is nearly over and I am glad of it. The public will always want melodrama,
|
|
and good melodrama is wholesome as long as it is decently presented. But the
|
|
serial photoplays of today are for the most part merely a mixture of
|
|
sensational and entirely ridiculous or impossible incidents and are not by
|
|
any means an index of truth or possibility. I am often twitted with trying
|
|
to produce and write plays which are above the heads of the public, but I
|
|
resent this as an insult to the general public, who, I believe, are as well
|
|
able to interpret beautiful thoughts and to fully understand photoplays which
|
|
lead one's desires for better things."
|
|
"We have a motto, if you would call it that," interrupted Phillips
|
|
Smalley. "'Nothing is over the heads of the general public,' and I think it
|
|
is a true one, too. Besides, both my wife and myself have produced a large
|
|
number of what are termed 'uplift' photoplays and the box office receipts
|
|
have disproven the fact that they puzzle audiences. Do you think that a
|
|
commercial management would put up with motion pictures which did not appeal
|
|
to the public? Not a bit of it."
|
|
Mrs. Smalley smiled and nodded her approval and continued: "I am very
|
|
glad that the established actors and actresses from the legitimate stage were
|
|
called in by some of the leading manufacturers for the reason that they
|
|
attracted a class of people to the motion picture theaters who never thought
|
|
of attending before. At the same time I do not believe that the fad will
|
|
last long; indeed, the time is close at hand when the public will still call
|
|
for the adaptation of well known plays and novels, but will want them
|
|
interpreted by well known and accomplished photoplay artists who are better
|
|
fitted in every way to successfully portray the parts they are given, then
|
|
the stars from the legitimate stage. There are a few of the stage stars who
|
|
are fitted for this work, and I include Elsie Janis and the Farnums; but, as
|
|
a general rule the artists are either too old to defy the cruel camera or
|
|
else they do not understand the newer art, and the result is that they are
|
|
jerky and unnatural in their actions and cannot shake off their stage
|
|
mannerisms."
|
|
"Photoplay acting requires considerable experience," said Mr. Smalley;
|
|
"it takes time and hard work to get used to screen work. We have both had
|
|
considerable stage experience and know what we are talking about. I shudder
|
|
even now when I think of our first pictures. There is another thing, a man
|
|
may be a good actor on the legitimate stage and yet not have what is termed a
|
|
good screen appearance and many a good actor shows up badly when
|
|
photographed. One can never truly ascertain until he has seen himself on the
|
|
screen and that is why many a reasonably good actor or actress has been a
|
|
failure at this particular profession."
|
|
In answer to my query as to what length a photoplay should go, Miss
|
|
Weber said: "I think that four or five reels are enough. The brain will not
|
|
permit of viewing more than this number of reels, for I really believe the
|
|
watching of the film has an hypnotic effect. Really, I do not think that any
|
|
stated length should be given for a particular subject, it should go just the
|
|
length that the subject requires and I think that this improvement is coming,
|
|
too."
|
|
They are not pedantic, this gifted pair, and there is never a doubt that
|
|
they are intensely in earnest and intend to carry out their ideas and ideals.
|
|
They are entitled to express their opinions too, and these opinions are worth
|
|
due reflection, for they have arrived at conclusions after much study and
|
|
much work and varied experience. Miss Weber was well known on the boards and
|
|
on the concert platform. Mr. Smalley is a graduate of Oxford University and
|
|
was both an actor and manager and it was while he was managing the "Why Girls
|
|
Leave Home" company in which Miss Weber was playing, that they decided their
|
|
common interests would be materially cemented by matrimony. They have been
|
|
sympathetic co-workers and during the time they have been acting in and
|
|
making pictures, they have done much to help improve the art, and have ever
|
|
striven to give the public worthy photoplays with an uplift.
|
|
This talented couple have acted together in pictures ever since they
|
|
decided to "try out" the then new "fad." They first acted and directed with
|
|
the Gaumont company for two years and were with the Universal for many months
|
|
(to which company they have just returned) before joining the Bosworth
|
|
Incorporated company, and at both of the last concerns they have made and
|
|
acted in some very notable productions, most of which have been written by
|
|
Lois Weber.
|
|
As I left, Phillips Smalley called out after me: "You need not say I am
|
|
the handsomest actor in the world, and for goodness sake don't call Miss
|
|
Weber a striking brunette. Beyond that, do your worst and call again some
|
|
time."
|
|
As they stood in the doorway of their cheery home with the subdued
|
|
lights behind them, I could not but admire the handsome couple, they are such
|
|
mighty good pals and there are none too many such.
|
|
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
Back issues of Taylorology are available on the Web at any of the following:
|
|
http://www.angelfire.com/az/Taylorology/
|
|
http://www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/Taylorology/
|
|
http://www.uno.edu/~drif/arbuckle/Taylorology/
|
|
Full text searches of back issues can be done at http://www.etext.org/Zines/
|
|
For more information about Taylor, see
|
|
WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991)
|
|
*****************************************************************************
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