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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 92 -- August 2000 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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Thomas Ince
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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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Thomas Ince
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William Desmond Taylor's first job in the motion picture industry was for
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producer Thomas Ince in December 1912. Taylor remained with Ince for over
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six months, then went to Vitagraph. The following is an "autobiography" of
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Ince, published in the LOS ANGELES RECORD on December 3-13, 1924.
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Unfortunately it contains minimal anecdotal information about Ince's life and
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career. Ince's death in 1924 was, like Taylor's death, the subject of
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extensive Hollywood gossip and speculation, which is not mentioned here.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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Thos. H. Ince's Own Life Story
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Today, The Los Angeles Record is proud to present exclusively for its
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readers, the thrilling, human autobiography of Thomas H. Ince, written by the
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world-renowned picture producer shortly before death took him suddenly three
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weeks ago, and obtained for the Record by Russell J. Birdwell, staff feature
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writer.
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Here is a story that is virtually a voice from the dead. And yet, we
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should not say "dead," because Thomas H. Ince will live long in the dreams
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and works of a race motivated by the spirit of ambition.
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In this story of his life, the lone-fighter of filmdom who, with his
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faithful wife, Nell, at his side, rose to heights never before attained in
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the picture world, tells the whole tale from the beginning.
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The poignant throbs of discouragement, the thrill of success--all are
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chronicled in this story of his life.
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Never again will you have the opportunity under like circumstances, of
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following day by day such an inspiring document of a great man's life.
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The story will appear in The Record every day and only in The Record.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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In The "Movies"
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Yesterday and Today
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by Thomas H. Ince
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Chapter I
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Looking back over the past 14 years of my experience in motion pictures,
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I am forced to one striking conclusion, that never in the history of the
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world has any industry been marked by such a phenomenal growth and
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development, in a short length of time, as the motion picture industry. Nor
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is there an industry that holds the promise of a greater and more far-
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reaching future than this newest of all the arts.
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In 1910, when I entered the picture industry, it was a new and untried
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field. There were no accepted standards, no patterns on which to build, no
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organized business methods or efficiency--nothing which characterizes it
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today as the fourth largest industry of the country and one of the most
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important.
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In all other arts and industries, development has been a matter of many
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years, and in most cases generations, and even centuries. The motion picture
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has been in existence little more than a decade.
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Acting and dancing had their birth several centuries before the
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Christian era, when they were introduced in the sacred temples to express
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religious emotions and to teach certain lessons through symbolism.
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Sculpture and painting date back even farther into the remote past when,
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before the dawn of civilization, prehistoric tribes used this method to
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perpetuate their history for future generations.
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Literature, the art of story telling, covered thousands of years in its
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development. Starting with mere narrative, before the day of the recorded
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manuscript, deeds of valor and adventure were preserved by word of mouth and
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handed down from father to son. Thus, the history of various peoples and
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nations was preserved intact until the stage of development was reached when
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these narratives were recorded on tablets of stone and later on parchment.
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Gradually plot and form were introduced, and through the steady progress
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of centuries, literature became one of the mightiest of the arts.
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The history of music is analogous to, and is interwoven with the other
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fine arts, requiring an equally great length of time to reach its present
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state of perfection.
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The art of photography and laboratory inventions, electricity and
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chemistry are of much more recent times, but even their growth has been a
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long and comparatively slow one.
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The motion picture occupies a unique position, because it includes all
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of the fine and mechanical arts, some in lesser and some in greater degree,
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and in combining them it has carved for itself a niche in the history of the
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world as distinctive as any separate art or industry.
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It is to trace the rapid and sustained growth of the picture industry,
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and the steady march to efficiency, that I review the extraordinary
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developments of the past 14 years, and by basing my conclusions on what has
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taken place in that short space of time, to give a forecast of what the
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future holds for this industry which is gaining increasing momentum with
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every year of its life.
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Starting out as an actor at the age of 6, my whole life was concerned
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with the spoken drama, in which I had achieved some success, and my critics
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were kind enough to predict a future for me before the footlights. The
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thought of any other career had never occurred to me, but fate stepped in and
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by one of those surprise thrusts, forced me into a new line of endeavor.
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I returned to New York in 1910 from an engagement in Cincinnati with the
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Chester Park Opera company. As it sometimes happens with actors, and others,
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I found myself out of a job. I did not enjoy the prospect of being "broke"
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in New York, or anywhere else for that matter, and started out immediately to
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look for work.
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Completing the rounds of the booking offices on Broadway without
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success, I was standing near Times Square, trying to decide what step to take
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next, and wondering what means I would resort to to keep the ferocious wolf
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of want from the door of my Harlem flat, when the incident occurred that was
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destined to turn the whole course of my career.
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A luxurious automobile drove up to the curb in front of me and from it
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alighted a man whose whole bearing and appearance bespoke affluence and
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position--something I had never known.
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In those days only the rich could afford automobiles, and I was idly
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wondering which bank president this man might be, when, to my amazement, he
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came toward me with a warm smile of greeting on his face. It was then I
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recognized Joseph Smiley, who subsequently became nationally known as a
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photoplay director and actor.
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After the usual greetings were over, he extended a cordial invitation to
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lunch with him, which I accepted with a great deal of eagerness, because, if
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I remember correctly, I had not intended to eat that day. At lunch we
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reminisced of the days when Smiley was an actor in my vaudeville company; of
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our engagement in Bermuda and the many amusing things that happened there.
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When he paid the bill for lunch, I began to wonder how it happened that Joe
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was flashing a roll of bills while I, his former employer, was hunting a job.
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In answer to my query, Smiley explained, somewhat apologetically:
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"Why--er--you see, I'm working in moving pictures. I'm an assistant
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director at the Imp studio on 56th Street."
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This came as somewhat of a shock, as I had, with most of the profession,
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looked upon this innovation as a form of cheap amusement which was to be
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scorned by real actors. I considered it undignified and not in harmony with
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the best traditions of the stage. Only nickelodeons and beer gardens had
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encouraged it. In fact, those who were so engaged were considered the
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outcasts of the theatrical profession.
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I knew that it was gaining a foothold, but it carried with it none of
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the fine old ethics and romance of the stage. Then the spectre of the wolf
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came into my mind, and I began to think more kindly toward the thing I had
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considered beneath my notice. I began to wonder if it might not be at least
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a temporary means of livelihood, better than tramping the streets, looking
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for employment.
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I turned suddenly to Smiley, "Any chance for me up there?"
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"Why, certainly," he replied. "There should be. You're an actor,
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aren't you? Come on up there with me now, there might be something doing
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this afternoon."
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Confronted thus suddenly with the possibility of being plunged into the
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moving picture business, I began to weaken, then I seemed again to hear an
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ominous growl from the wolf, and I held to my decision. A moment later I was
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rolling luxuriously up to the Imp studio with Smiley.
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Chapter II
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Mentally frowning upon the idea of going into the moving picture
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business along with the so-called "outcasts" of the theatrical profession,
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and yet determined to investigate, because I was sorely in need of
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employment, I allowed Joseph Smiley to conduct my first introduction to the
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intricacies of the film industry.
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The Imp studio was located, in 1910, on the top floor of a manufacturing
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building in Fifty-Sixth Street, New York. Delivered at the door by a slow
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and jerky elevator, I was ushered in for my first glimpse of a studio.
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My worst fears were realized! It reminded me of some of my unpleasant one-
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night stands, and yet there were Owen Moore, King Baggot, Florence Lawrence,
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Bob Dailey and several others who are now well known stars, all of them
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working in pictures and seeming to enjoy it.
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A scene was being directed, and I looked on in awe. It was more
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absorbing than I had believed, and the thought came to me that there might be
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something to this thing, after all. A few minutes later, following a
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whispered conversation between Smiley and Harry Salter, who was directing,
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I was offered a job to play the part of "heavy," to the tune of $5 a day.
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Without further ado, I took the job, which launched me on my career in the
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motion picture industry.
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Several months later one of the Imp directors resigned before his
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picture was completed and I was given a directorship and went to work in
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earnest to complete the unfinished production. The importance which I felt
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at this first big step in my new career was not shared by my co-workers,
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however.
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Instead of welcoming me with congratulations, the players, camera men
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and stage hands cast suspicious glances in my direction and made no effort to
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conceal their disapproval. This, however, instead of discouraging me, urged
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me on to greater determination to make a success of my first directorial
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effort. I assembled my company and directed the remaining scenes.
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My first real production with the Imp company was titled "Little Nell's
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Tobacco." It was a story which I patched together from an old poem I had
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learned as a boy, and, as I thought, was replete with the emotions of life.
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Never will I forget the thrill of excitement that shot through me when I saw
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it on the screen in a little theater on 14th Street, New York.
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About this time the Imp pictures were becoming known and the officers of
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the company were considering the advisability of establishing quarters in
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California. They appointed Ben Turpin, the now famous comedian, as their
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agent to investigate conditions on the Pacific coast.
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Turpin reported that the General Film Company was endeavoring to prevent
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all independent organizations from using the motion picture and was seriously
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hampering their operations, so the plan was abandoned and Cuba decided upon
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as a fruitful location.
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A few days later two companies were on their way to the tropical island,
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one headed by Joe Smiley, with King Baggot as leading player, and the other
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under my direction, featuring Mary Pickford and Owen Moore.
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Two years before this, Adam Kessel and Charles O. Baumann, founders of
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the New York Motion Picture corporation, and later Kay-Bee, had sent a
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company to California. Having made a success of this, they decided to expand
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and dispatch a second company to make western pictures.
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Entirely ignorant of the fact that Kessel and Baumann were considering
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me for this post, I decided to apply for it after returning from Cuba,
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feeling that I would have greater possibilities in this new field than in New
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York.
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A little strategy was necessary, I felt, to impress my prospective
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employers with my importance, so I allowed a mustache to grow, and on the day
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of my interview with Baumann I borrowed a large and sparkling diamond ring.
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This, I figured, would give the impression that I was a man of means who did
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not have to work for a paltry $60 a week, which was my munificent salary at
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the Imp studio.
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According to my calculations, the ruse worked, for Baumann offered me
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$100 a week to go to California to make westerns. This offer came as a
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distinct shock, but I kept cool and concealed my excitement. I tried to
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convey the impression that he would have to raise the ante a trifle if he
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wanted me.
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That also worked, and I signed a contract for three months at $150 a
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week. Very soon after that, with Mrs. Ince, my camera man, property man and
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Ethel Grandin, my leading woman, I turned my face westward.
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Five days later I was in California, hopeful and determined, and yet a
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little apprehensive, for I knew that my future depended upon my success or
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failure in this undertaking.
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Nor did my future look particularly bright, as I was shown over the
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small and inadequate plant at Edendale, just outside of Los Angeles, which
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was to be the scene of my productions.
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True, it was somewhat more pretentious and slightly better equipped than
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those in which I had made my initial efforts, but it was far from being what
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I wanted, for even then I had begun to see great possibilities in the future
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of the screen.
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The sets consisted of a few pieces of very bad furniture and one back
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drop with a flock of birds supposedly in flight. The furniture was bad
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enough, but when I thought of stationary birds poised in mid-air as a
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background for moving pictures I gave way to a moment of discouragement.
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At that time there were no enclosed stages. Both interiors and
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exteriors were filmed out of doors. The set for an interior scene consisted
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of two, and possibly three side walls and in many pictures only one. There
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was no ceiling and no front, and the results were sometimes very amusing and
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brought forth deserving ridicule from the audience.
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In a room, supposedly well plastered, with windows closed, the window
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hangings, table covers and the women's dresses would blow and flap violently
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in the gusts of wind sweeping up from the sea across the plains, according to
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the location of the studio.
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Summer scenes often were filmed in winter, with the thermometer
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uncomfortably low. Men dressed in while flannels and women in flimsy, thin
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things would shiver through several hundred feet of film.
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When it was cold enough for the actors' breath to the noticeable on the
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air, the men were made to smoke throughout the scene and the women cautioned
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not to open their mouths.
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My equipment and organization was extremely limited, and altogether the
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prospects did not look very hopeful. But I knew I must succeed. There was
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no alternative.
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Realizing that facilities had to be improved if the infant art was to
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live, I cut loose and plunged in, spending money, as I thought then, with
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reckless abandon.
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As I look back on those days, I see that the improvements I put in on
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the whole plant cost infinitely less than a single set in some of our modern
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pictures.
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Chapter III
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Among the first pictures I produced under the Kessel and Baumann banner
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at Edendale, my initial venture in California, was a comedy titled "The New
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Cook." It ran about 62 scenes, less than a reel, as against four to seven
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hundred scenes, or five to eight reels, which comprise the feature picture of
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today.
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This maiden effort was a big success, however, and with the impetus
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given me by the praise it received, I became bolder and produced other
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successes.
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The problem of stories was a serious one, even in those days, because
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there were no scenario departments and no market from which to purchase
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scenarios. The only stories available, if I may be permitted to use that
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term, were the attempts of school pupils who wanted to write for "the
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movies," and they were useless. It therefore devolved upon the director to
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manufacture his stories from his own brain.
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But to trace the whole development of pictures, I must go back prior to
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my advent into the industry, to the time when there was no plot at all.
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Moving pictures then were merely a series of scenes depicting objects and
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figures in motion, the pantomime alone sufficing.
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Among these were the highly amusing and mystifying trick pictures in
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which a man would be run over by a steam roller and spread out on the ground
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as flat as the proverbial pancake. He would be reduced, by one operation of
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the camera, from a three-dimensional man, having length, breadth and
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thickness, to a two-dimensional being, having only length and breadth, his
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thickness being that of a sheet of paper. Then, by reversing the film, he
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would be restored to his normal cast and structure.
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But the public soon became more sophisticated and demanded a plot.
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Moving objects, with no particular reason for moving, no longer sufficed, and
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a new type of "movie" was evolved--the one in which someone would
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inadvertently upset a fruit vendor's cart or steal and apple, causing such
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fierce indignation on the part of the peddler that a man-chase for the
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culprit would ensue.
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The chase would be taken up by others, and before they had gone a block
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the whole community would be in pursuit, gathering momentum as it went,
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dashing madly down steep hillsides, across brooks, over fences and through
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wooded country until the culprit was apprehended and brought to justice.
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These pictures carried a decided thrill, and I can remember distinctly
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how an excited audience would cheer wildly at the antics of the actors, and
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actually in their imaginations join in the chase. But even these pictures,
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which were a distinct advancement over the trick films, carried no real plot.
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Pictures had established no precedents and the public took them as they
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were; but as the industry began to grow, the public became more demanding and
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the story problem loomed large. It was just about that time that I became
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actually engaged in picture making. Gradually we began to get stories that
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had some semblance of a plot.
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Even when stories were first adopted there was no such thing as a
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continuity. A director would get the germ idea of a plot, assemble his cast,
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go out on location and start to shoot, having only a hazy idea of what he was
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going to do. His one idea was to get action and to keep things moving,
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regardless of the sequence of scenes or the logic of his plot.
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All would go well for a while, then the inevitable would happen and he
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would have to hold up the picture and keep the cast standing around while he
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racked his brain for an idea.
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"Let's see," he would say, "what shall we do next? Well, we might as
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well burn down the house or blow up the bridge. That would get a thrill."
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And so it went, until necessity caused the development of the
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continuity, which is a working script of the story, with each scene clearly
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defined and the situations worked out in logical sequence.
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This form of manuscript came through its own demand and practically
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developed itself. For the sake of convenience, a director would classify the
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scenes we were to take each day and jot down on a piece of paper, or maybe on
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his cuff, and thus the more elaborate form of a detailed and finished
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continuity came about and gradually established itself as the accepted form.
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In the early days of filmdom, productions often were crude and filled
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with many incongruities. In a picture where letters and telegrams were used
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the handwriting on letters written by individuals in the story, and telegrams
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coming from the telegraph office were all in the same handwriting. Words
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were misspelled and grammatical errors were frequent.
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One incident which illustrates this lack of consistency and faulty
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production occurred in one of the early pictures, the story of which
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concerned a young American who was visiting in Turkey. I think his name was
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Jones. Being an enterprising youth, Jones decided to pay a clandestine visit
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to the Sultan's harem. He was discovered by the irate Sultan and thrown into
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prison.
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Such an act being considered a sacrilege, Jones was condemned to die,
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and to properly get this fact over to the audience a letter was delivered to
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Jones from the Sultan, which read as follows:
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"My dear Mr. Jones: I beg to inform you that tomorrow at sunrise you
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will be executed for breaking into my harem. Yours very truly, The Sultan."
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I have no doubt that the meaning was clear to the audience, and I have
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no doubt that the audience accepted this inconsistency without resentment,
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but what would an audience of today do to such an incongruous expression?
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In the days of the double exposure development, a scene occurred in a
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lion's cage which was supposed to depict several very fierce and angry lions.
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The lions were old, contented and at peace with the world and were not
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looking for trouble. To make the scene convincing it was necessary to arouse
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their anger, so it was decided that the keeper should get behind them, and
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prod them with a stick.
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The first exposure was taken of the lions , who were only mildly
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aroused. The second was to show the keeper prodding them.
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The scene would have passed had not something gone wrong in the blending
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of the two exposures.
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When the double exposure was thrown on the scene the keeper was in front
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of the lions poking the air frantically with the stick, while the lions
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looked on in silent amusement.
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When you stop to think that even ten years ago such things were the rule
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rather than exception, it is easy to see the tremendous strides that have
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been made toward establishing the motion picture industry as an art, instead
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of a form of cheap amusement.
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Chapter IV
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In tracing the development of motion pictures, it is very easy,
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|
unintentionally, to give the impression that the path was easy in the early
|
|
days of the industry, before the mass of essential details entering into a
|
|
production grew to such an extent that they had to be systematized under
|
|
departments, as they are today.
|
|
On the contrary, to build constructively in the embryonic stages of this
|
|
art meant work, and hard work. In my own case, I had to be everything--
|
|
producer, director, scenario writer, cutter and general handy man. There
|
|
were no staffs in those days, no well-equipped laboratories, no projection
|
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rooms, no scenario departments.
|
|
I left the house every morning at 7:30 for my day's work. I would
|
|
direct and shoot all day, returning home at 7 in the evening, eat a hurried
|
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dinner and devote the entire evening to preparations for the next day's
|
|
activities.
|
|
The result of each day's work had to be carefully inspected.
|
|
My projection room was the kitchen of my small Hollywood bungalow, and with
|
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Mrs. Ince's assistance I would cut and assemble the scenes taken the day
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before.
|
|
She rigged up a clamp, similar to the ones used to fasten meat choppers
|
|
to a table, and with this we clamped the reel to the table or sink. She
|
|
unwound the reel while I examined each negative, and as it ran through my
|
|
fingers it was caught in the clothes basket on the floor.
|
|
When the film was cut and assembled I would turn my attention to
|
|
stories, and would work until midnight writing the scenario for the following
|
|
day. As I have said before there was no market from which to purchase
|
|
scenarios and to keep up the required production, which at that time was one
|
|
picture a week, it was necessary for me to be my own scenario writer. With
|
|
my wife's help I managed to keep my production up to par.
|
|
Some of those early pictures ran only 25 or 30 scenes, less than half a
|
|
reel. A one-reel picture then was a "feature" and considered the last word
|
|
in production.
|
|
My pen became so prolific, however, that I soon found it was impossible
|
|
to get a complete story in one reel, and the logical thing to me was to
|
|
expand to one and a half and possibly two reels.
|
|
This suggestion met with a storm of disapproval. I was told such a
|
|
thing was impossible, that an audience would not sit through two reels of
|
|
film.
|
|
I held to my point that two reels would give greater scope for stories,
|
|
and finally was allowed to try. The audience not only sat through the two-
|
|
reel pictures, but showed their approval in no uncertain terms.
|
|
At this stage of motion picture development every forward step that was
|
|
taken was a new departure. The point I wish to make clear is that there were
|
|
absolutely no precedents to follow. The development of the photoplay was a
|
|
matter of self-development. Each accomplishment that was made led to new
|
|
unfoldments and new problems, which, in turn, had to be solved only to lead
|
|
to further and greater developments.
|
|
Then came the day when my aspiration led me to take the company out of
|
|
the narrow confines of the little Edendale studio and seek a location which
|
|
would give greater scope and variety. After looking over the outlying
|
|
territory around Los Angeles, I decided upon a large tract of land located in
|
|
the Santa Monica hills, close to the sea, which afforded an ideal spot, and
|
|
which I rented by the day.
|
|
This site developed later into what was known as Inceville, the "movie
|
|
village," just north of Santa Monica, which was destroyed by fire only a few
|
|
months ago. Flames driven down from the brush-covered hills by a brisk wind
|
|
consumed all but a quaint little moss-covered church and a group of fisherman
|
|
dwellings used in Billie Burke's first picture, "Peggy."
|
|
Soon after taking possession of this new location I learned that the
|
|
Miller Brothers' 101 Ranch wild west show was quartered in Venice, a few
|
|
miles distant. This game me an idea, and I was at once seized with another
|
|
desire for expansion.
|
|
I suggested to Charles Baumann, who was at that time visiting in
|
|
California, that we hire a few cowboys, Indians and horses for our next
|
|
picture. The suggestion met with his approval and he negotiated for the
|
|
exclusive service of the whole outfit.
|
|
This was a long step toward the progress of which I dreamed, but far in
|
|
excess of anything I dared hope for. It opened up vistas of great activity
|
|
and presented me with possibilities which seemed to me unlimited.
|
|
The Indians were of the Sioux tribe, from one of the government
|
|
reservations, who had been loaned to the wild west show. When I took them
|
|
over, I had to sign an agreement with the Indian commissioner in Washington,
|
|
according to which the Indians were to have certain hours of schooling.
|
|
I furthermore had to assume full responsibility for their well-being and
|
|
care. I was soon to realize the importance of what I had voluntarily taken
|
|
upon my shoulders, for they were difficult to handle. They were stolid and
|
|
non-communicative and had a strong dislike for doing anything that did not
|
|
happen to appeal to them at the moment.
|
|
They were peaceable and preferred loafing to the type of action which
|
|
was necessary in the making of pictures. In fact, they were so peaceable
|
|
that we had to spend hours, not to mention ingenuity, in thinking up ways and
|
|
means of arousing their dormant passions and making them mad enough to go
|
|
through a scene which required the Indian fighting spirit.
|
|
Arousing their anger sufficiently to attack the enemy with any semblance
|
|
of reality was one of the hardest things I have ever had to tackle in my
|
|
whole career in motion pictures.
|
|
Another somewhat disconcerting trait which they possessed to a high
|
|
degree was not being able to resist bright-colored "props." A scene would be
|
|
completed after a great deal of time, thought and work.
|
|
In some cases, days would be devoted to the perfecting of a scene in
|
|
which brilliantly colored hangings and rugs were used. This scene would be,
|
|
perhaps, one that we intended to use consecutively for four or five days.
|
|
But after about the second day, right in the middle of the picture, we would
|
|
notice that a rug or a table cover was missing.
|
|
Then would follow a long search, while the company waited. Sometimes
|
|
the search would be successful, but more often it was not, and a whole new
|
|
set would have to be furnished and work started all over again.
|
|
It was not a question of honor with them. They did not intend to steal
|
|
but they could not resist anything that had bright colors in it.
|
|
These things were serious, but nothing in comparison with another
|
|
problem they presented me with. Many a night, in the wee small hours,
|
|
I would be called from a sound sleep to the telephone to be told that some of
|
|
my Indians were in a saloon in town, gloriously and riotously drunk.
|
|
Such violations meant cancellation of my contract with the government,
|
|
which was infinitely more serious than the delay caused by having to sober
|
|
them up, which was bad enough.
|
|
In those cases, the greatest strategy was necessary. I had to threaten
|
|
the saloon keepers with prosecution if they sold them another drink. But
|
|
handling the Indians was not so easy. Their natures are such that if you
|
|
antagonize them they will present a stolid front and will be adamant in their
|
|
refusal to do anything for you.
|
|
Realizing this, I resorted to tact and diplomacy and finally won their
|
|
confidence to such an extent that they elected me their honorary chief and,
|
|
because of the peculiar loyalty of their natures, the word of their chief is
|
|
law. From then on I was known as "The White Chief," and had no further
|
|
trouble with them.
|
|
|
|
Chapter V
|
|
|
|
With Indians, cow-punchers, cattle ponies and old prairie schooners
|
|
secured from Miller Brothers' 101 Ranch Wild West show, my first really
|
|
ambitious two-reel picture was produced at Inceville, "War on the Plains."
|
|
The Indians appeared in many two-reel pictures and later in more elaborate
|
|
productions, such as "Custer's Last Fight," and did some truly remarkable
|
|
work.
|
|
The success of this first two-reel picture, "War on the Plains" was so
|
|
gratifying to Kessel and Baumann that they authorized me to lease the entire
|
|
territory of 18,000 acres on which it had been filmed.
|
|
The Edendale studio then was practically abandoned and Inceville came
|
|
into being on an extensive scale, a plant which, at that time, seemed to me
|
|
the acme of perfection in picture making. Yet, that old settlement soon gave
|
|
way to the onrushing march of progress in the astonishing development of the
|
|
last few years.
|
|
From this time on production as well as expansions, went ahead in leaps
|
|
and bounds. New structures were built with extraordinary rapidity, better
|
|
sets were put up, and finer stories were obtained, for the moving picture
|
|
industry was beginning to be felt as a real power.
|
|
Our weekly output increased from one to two, and later three two-reel
|
|
pictures a week, released under the name of "Kay-Bee," "Domino" and "Broncho"
|
|
productions. These, mind you, had to be written, produced, cut and assembled
|
|
and the finished product delivered within the week.
|
|
As the industry, with all its ramifications moved steadily forward,
|
|
there came a demand and an opportunity for real actors. Pictures no longer
|
|
were scorned by the theatrical profession, and to Inceville came many who are
|
|
now world-famous stars.
|
|
Bill Hart, who had been a co-actor with me before the days of pictures,
|
|
made his first appearance on the screen at Inceville. From the parts he
|
|
played in the two-reel westerns he soon became known all over the world as
|
|
the "World's Best Bad Man," and leaped into the firmament of stardom. It was
|
|
at Inceville that he made some of his most famous pictures, "Hell's Hinges,"
|
|
"The Two-Gun Man" and "Between Men."
|
|
At that time Charles Ray was climbing into prominence. He and Frank
|
|
Keenan were doing their famous series of father-and-son features, when, as
|
|
the co-star in "The Coward," he gave a portrayal which carried him to the
|
|
heights of dramatic success.
|
|
Everyone worked seriously and put forth his and her best efforts, for in
|
|
the picture industry had come keen competition, and it was no longer looked
|
|
upon merely as a pot-boiler or an easy way to make money. It offered careers
|
|
worth striving for and was an art to be reckoned with.
|
|
After the last scene of "The Coward" was taken, I happened to see Ray
|
|
leaning against the side of a set, surrounded by several other actors and
|
|
actresses. A second glance showed me that there was something wrong. He was
|
|
crying like a child and the others were endeavoring to comfort him.
|
|
I found that the cause of his distress was the firm conviction that he
|
|
had failed in the part and that his career had come to a close. And yet, it
|
|
was that picture and his remarkable performance in it which hurled him to
|
|
stardom and won for him his lasting success. This is merely one instance to
|
|
show the sincerity of those who were contributing their talents to this new
|
|
art.
|
|
It was here, too, that Sessue Hayakawa started on his career, which has
|
|
led him to the foremost ranks of fame, when he played with Gladys Brockwell
|
|
in "The Typhoon."
|
|
The 18,000 acres of diversified country afforded locations for a great
|
|
variety of settings, and it was there that Dorothy Dalton braved the wilds of
|
|
Alaska in "The Flame of the Yukon," a picture that not only carried a thrill
|
|
of adventure to thousands, but struck a new note in production, for it was
|
|
more ambitious in its conception than the majority of former productions.
|
|
Others who came seeking opportunity and who climbed rapidly, but none
|
|
the less deservedly, to fame were Frank Keenan, Bill Desmond, Lew Stone,
|
|
George Fisher, Bessie Barriscale, Catherine Calvert, H. B. Warner, Louise
|
|
Glaum, Enid Markey, Bessie Love and Tsuru Aoki, who later became the wife of
|
|
Sessue Hayakawa.
|
|
To the new art came also recruits from the stage, actors already famous,
|
|
who sought new fields to conquer. There was Dustin Farnum, who gave that
|
|
dramatic and power portrayal in "The Iron Strain," one of the greatest pieces
|
|
of acting he ever did, either on stage or screen. Then there was Orrin
|
|
Johnson and George Beban, Billie Burke and Julie Dean.
|
|
Following the prolific run of two-reel subjects, the whole industry took
|
|
a long stride forward. It was then that I produced my more elaborate
|
|
pictures, such as "Custer's Last Fight," "The Wrath of the Gods," "The
|
|
Typhoon," "The Bargain" and "The Battle of Gettysburg," the latter being one
|
|
of the first five-reel pictures ever produced.
|
|
With the advent into pictures of stage stars and the making of screen
|
|
stars, the story developed rapidly. Writers began to turn their attention to
|
|
the screen. Segregation took place.
|
|
A director could no longer be the jack-of-all-trades, for the industry
|
|
was out of its swaddling clothes, and it behooved the director to concentrate
|
|
solely upon directing, and to employ men and women who were especially
|
|
qualified along certain lines to take charge of its various departments.
|
|
The increasing demand for production created a field for new stars.
|
|
Writers were employed to develop stories especially adapted to the screen and
|
|
art departments were installed to design sets for each individual picture.
|
|
The time had passed when the same scenes and the same furnishings could be
|
|
used over and over again, or even a second time, as had been the case in the
|
|
very early days.
|
|
Then came the necessity of training new directors. Production was being
|
|
pushed to the limit and many of the boys who "broke into the game" as
|
|
cameramen, cutters, property men and general utility men began to show signs
|
|
of initiative. They had studied the industry from all angles and qualified
|
|
for directorial positions. Many of those who started in this way are now
|
|
well known directors and some of them independent producers, contributing
|
|
their talents and new ideas to an industry which is constantly reaching out
|
|
for larger and greater achievements.
|
|
Among the men who started in this way are Fred Niblo, Reginald Barker,
|
|
Victor Schertzinger, Irving Willat, Lambert Hillyer, Del Andrews and John
|
|
Griffith Wray.
|
|
|
|
Chapter VI
|
|
|
|
Life was fraught with many discouragement and anxieties for those who
|
|
were engaged in the motion picture industry in the days when Inceville was in
|
|
use. There were many disheartening problems and setbacks. Each step of the
|
|
way had to be tried. Mistakes in judgment and execution, the results of
|
|
experimentation, had to be corrected and new ideas tried out.
|
|
As high a mark as Inceville set, in point of location and equipment, it
|
|
had countless disadvantages. There were days when no shooting could be done,
|
|
on account of the heavy fogs that rolled in from the sea.
|
|
The sandy soil, blown up by the wind, seriously interfered with
|
|
laboratory work. One tiny grain of sand on a section of film an inch square
|
|
would look like a huge blotch on the dress of an actress, when it was shown
|
|
on the screen, magnified hundreds of times.
|
|
With heavy increases to the staff, actors, employees and extra people,
|
|
transportation became another serious problem for Inceville was inaccessible.
|
|
These are only a few of the things that caused delays and, to use a street
|
|
expression, "threw a monkey-wrench into the machinery," which meant a
|
|
deplorable loss of time and money.
|
|
In the development of the various phases of picture making, there is one
|
|
that is apt to be overlooked by most people, but one which is equally
|
|
important as the rest--that of titles.
|
|
When pictures were in the "trick" or "stunt" stage, of which I have
|
|
spoken, no explanatory titles were necessary. The pantomime sufficed.
|
|
It was only when the screen plot developed sufficiently to carry a story of
|
|
emotions that the sub-title was introduced as an aid to scenes which
|
|
otherwise would not have been fully understood.
|
|
These first titles, crudely lettered and sprawling across the screen at
|
|
intervals, were decorated with grotesque markings which, instead of helping,
|
|
only confused the effect. In many cases the lettering was so poorly done
|
|
that it was impossible for those sitting in the back rows of the theater to
|
|
get the full meaning of the title.
|
|
This method soon gave way, however, to more clearly defined lettering.
|
|
Good printing was used and spaced in a well-balanced panel, which at least
|
|
gave a sense of solidity and pleasing form. But even this was not entirely
|
|
satisfying, as it served to break the sense of continuous action in the minds
|
|
of the audience.
|
|
Hence, the birth of the art title, which was adopted several years ago.
|
|
This form is a panel enclosing the wording of the title against a suggestion
|
|
of the picture, and serves to keep fresh in the minds of the audience the
|
|
spirit of the picture while they are reading the title. It eliminates the
|
|
awkward sense of a break in the middle of the story.
|
|
The drawings on these art panels are always subdued and are used merely
|
|
as a background upon which the title is shown. When wash drawings are used
|
|
the title appears to merge into the scene, giving a very pleasing effect
|
|
without destroying the clarity of the lettering. The drawings are always in
|
|
low key, thus leaving the eye free to read the subject matter.
|
|
This department has developed to a very important phase of the industry.
|
|
Every studio has a staff of highly paid artists to do this work and nothing
|
|
else. The art work on the panels is of a very high order and must be up to
|
|
the standard of the production as a whole.
|
|
A fine production, including excellent portrayal by the actors, the best
|
|
direction and the finest photography, would be ruined by badly executed art
|
|
titles and carelessly drawn figures.
|
|
Another very important phase of titled is the form of letters used.
|
|
After experimenting which many types of letters I decided upon a special
|
|
design of large, light, round and decorative letters for my own productions,
|
|
which are easily read and give an artistic effect at the same time.
|
|
Then there is the question of how long to run a title. In the early
|
|
days audiences were caused much annoyance by the titles being flashed off
|
|
before their contents were thoroughly noted, or, on the other hand the titles
|
|
were left on so long that after reading them several times the audience
|
|
became impatient for something else to happen.
|
|
This, too, has been worked out scientifically. Many tests have been
|
|
made to determine the length of time it takes an average person to read a
|
|
title. It is only in this way that we have been able to put a definite
|
|
schedule into practice.
|
|
Two feet of film is allowed for one word, three feet for two or three
|
|
words, four feet for four words, five feet for five or six words, six feet
|
|
for seven words and so on, in approximately this ratio.
|
|
There is a very important and little known phase of titling known as
|
|
word grouping. From the artistic standpoint it is a great temptation to
|
|
group the words in a sub-title to form a perfectly balanced panel, but while
|
|
this is important, the fact must not be overlooked that the effect caused by
|
|
the grouping together of certain words in thought is just as important.
|
|
For instance in the following title great care was taken to maintain the
|
|
proper separating of the words in order to accentuate the thought expressed
|
|
in the title, at the expense of the artistic balancing of the wording.
|
|
This is the way the title appears:
|
|
"I think I am going
|
|
to die."
|
|
Dying was the thought that should get over to the audience, with the
|
|
emphasis on the words "to die." Had the words been grouped artistically
|
|
rather than to convey the thought, the title would have read:
|
|
"I think I am
|
|
going to die."
|
|
Another example from the same picture is the following:
|
|
"I came to take you
|
|
to choir practice."
|
|
In this we have both the balance of design and the proper emphasis on the
|
|
thought expressed. To say:
|
|
"I came to take
|
|
you to choir practice"
|
|
would be entirely unsatisfying.
|
|
The use of art titles has become universal in the film industry and up
|
|
to this time has been considered the acme of perfection in titles, but if the
|
|
motion picture is to keep pace with the times and to continue its strides
|
|
toward bigger and greater achievements, it cannot remain stationary. The
|
|
old, accepted standards must give way to new ideas and the art panel even now
|
|
is in its renaissance.
|
|
Some producers are advocating and putting into use the method of
|
|
combining the title with the action of the picture. Instead of breaking the
|
|
sequence, they are making the action and the title simultaneous on the
|
|
screen, by throwing the title over the scene that is being enacted.
|
|
As I have said, the art of the motion picture is a combination of all
|
|
the arts. Literature has been called the life of a nation. If that is the
|
|
case, the motion picture presents an opportunity to create in concentrated
|
|
form titles and subtitles of rare literary merit.
|
|
Expressions of thought that will rank with the classics of all time and
|
|
which will be an inspiration to all who read them.
|
|
From the famous works of the literati of all ages and all countries we
|
|
have culled the gems of expression and thought. Such men as Shakespeare,
|
|
Homer, Emerson and other masters have expressed to us our own thoughts, in
|
|
language more beautiful than we ourselves are accustomed to use.
|
|
I think there is justification for the prediction that screen titles
|
|
will develop to such a point of perfection that they will rank with the
|
|
masterpieces of history.
|
|
|
|
Chapter VII
|
|
|
|
Rapid development of the motion picture industry at Inceville was
|
|
analogous to the growth of other producing units in Southern California.
|
|
Producers were making constant strides toward bigger and better pictures.
|
|
We were all giving the best that was in us and working to bring our ideals
|
|
into realization.
|
|
Looking back at the final days of our activities in the canyon near
|
|
Santa Monica, I think of the production of "Civilization" as the next step in
|
|
my own career toward the goal of achievement. This picture marked another
|
|
milestone. I say this because it was the first picture to show the methods
|
|
of modern warfare.
|
|
Up to this time the war pictures that had been filmed were mostly of the
|
|
civil war, but in "Civilization" submarines, airplanes and modern war
|
|
equipment were used. It was prophetic of the great World War. The
|
|
popularity of the picture has been justified by its recent re-issue and the
|
|
enthusiasm which was accorded it.
|
|
Soon after this David Wark Griffith, Mack Sennett and myself
|
|
consolidated our producing activities under one banner, which was known as
|
|
the Triangle. With this added impetus, the Inceville plant, with its outdoor
|
|
stages, its inadequate equipment and its limitations, no longer sufficed.
|
|
Something more complete was needed, a studio that would give us scope to fill
|
|
the demands of the public and also provide room for an increased number of
|
|
productions, allowing many companies to work at the same time.
|
|
This demand led up to the building of the half million dollar Triangle
|
|
studio at Culver City, which was completed and ready for occupancy on
|
|
January 1, 1916. It was the finest and most completely equipped studio known
|
|
at that time.
|
|
In 1917 I severed my connection with Triangle, and a year later the
|
|
organization was dissolved. The studio was then taken over by the Goldwyn
|
|
corporation, which occupies it today.
|
|
I leased the old Biograph studios and made pictures for Paramount,
|
|
following which I built my present studios at Culver City, a plant which,
|
|
I believe, adequately fulfills the requirements of the present-day
|
|
production, as well as presenting an atmosphere of artistic beauty and the
|
|
historical spirit of America which gave birth to this new and powerful art.
|
|
The administration building, which fronts on Washington Boulevard, the
|
|
main thoroughfare between Los Angeles and the famous beach resorts, is an
|
|
enlarged replica of Mount Vernon, the home of George Washington. The
|
|
spacious, close-cropped lawns, the box hedges, and the colonial mansion with
|
|
its massive white pillars, is pure American architecture and represents the
|
|
finest of American art and ideals, and stands for that pioneer spirit and
|
|
progress for which our first president was noted.
|
|
It therefore seemed fitting that the same spirit which characterized the
|
|
birth of our nation should be carried out in the outward harmonious
|
|
appearance, as well as the inner life of this twentieth century art.
|
|
The eighteen great buildings represent the last word in construction and
|
|
equipment. The glass-enclosed stages, which are capable of sheltering fifty
|
|
companies at a time, the laboratories, the project rooms, the power houses,
|
|
the property rooms, the art department and other structures are supplied with
|
|
a completeness of facilities that was undreamed of only a few years ago.
|
|
The studio is compact and yet large enough to house a working staff of
|
|
more than 1600 men and women. At night the entire front is brilliantly
|
|
illuminated by high power reflectors, standing out against the dark
|
|
background of hills and sky in all its dignity and artistic beauty.
|
|
About three years ago a group of independent producers, all of whom were
|
|
working steadily toward a higher ideal in pictures, banded together and
|
|
formed an affiliation known as "The Associated Producers."
|
|
At the time the group included J. Parker Read, Jr., King Vidor, Allan
|
|
Dwan, the late George Loane Tucker, Mack Sennett, Marshall Neilan, Maurice
|
|
Tourneur and myself. Later H. O. Davis, J. L. Frothingham and Hobart
|
|
Bosworth joined the ranks. The main object of this association was to form a
|
|
string of exchanges throughout the country, through which we could release
|
|
our pictures independently.
|
|
This was another advancement, and brings me to what I believe is one of
|
|
the greatest steps in the progress of the motion picture industry, the merger
|
|
between the Associated Producers and the Associated First National Pictures,
|
|
Inc., which took place in September, 1921. It brought together two powerful
|
|
organizations, one a distributing unit and the other a producing
|
|
organization.
|
|
As I review my experience in the industry I can truthfully say that I
|
|
consider this amalgamation of the makers and exhibitors of pictures one of
|
|
the greatest strides we have made toward establishing permanency and
|
|
realizing the full efficiency of the industry as an institution.
|
|
This amalgamation not only saves a vast amount of money by eliminating
|
|
the exchanges it was necessary for us to maintain in the different key
|
|
cities, but it leaves the independent producer free to devote his entire time
|
|
to production.
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|
|
|
Chapter VII
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|
|
|
In reviewing the motion picture industry I have dealt particularly with
|
|
production, but a resume would not be complete without a word about the
|
|
development of the theaters. Without the proper outlet for showing pictures
|
|
the industry never would have progressed with the rapidity that has
|
|
characterized it.
|
|
When the first motion picture was made there were, quite naturally, no
|
|
motion picture houses. The early films were shown in music halls, beer
|
|
gardens, tents and public halls--anywhere a screen and a projection machine
|
|
could be set up. Gradually the cheap variety houses gave them space.
|
|
In most of these places the seats were hard and uncomfortable, the lighting
|
|
was inadequate and the ventilation poor.
|
|
When the motion picture began to be recognized as an established medium
|
|
of entertainment and industry, theaters were remodeled and made into
|
|
permanent moving picture houses. In recent years nothing has been spared in
|
|
making these houses the finest products of the builder's art. A million-
|
|
dollar theater no longer is unusual. The architecture, decorations and
|
|
furnishings are the most luxuriant.
|
|
Every motion picture house that is built today is equipped with the most
|
|
perfect system of ventilation and the most exquisite plan of lighting.
|
|
The finest of orchestras are employed to render special musical programs.
|
|
Everything that lies within the power of man's inventive genius is done for
|
|
the comfort and pleasure of patrons.
|
|
From practically no motion picture houses 20 years ago, there are now
|
|
about 20,000 theaters in the United States alone, with a total seating
|
|
capacity of more than 5,400,000. Most of these theaters are filled several
|
|
times a day. It is estimated that the theater owners take in each week a
|
|
total of $14,500,000, or an average of more than $2,000,000 a day. And new
|
|
theaters are being constructed rapidly.
|
|
With the universal popularity of the motion picture, I believe the
|
|
public who see only the finished product and who are uninitiated into the
|
|
intricate processes which go to make up a finished production, are vitally
|
|
interested in each step of the building of a picture. Perhaps a complete
|
|
story of the building of a picture, from its inception to its final release,
|
|
will not go amiss here.
|
|
There are three ways of obtaining stories. I have developed a
|
|
questionnaire, which is sent to various theaters throughout the country and
|
|
which is, in turn, presented to the patrons of the theaters with the request
|
|
that they answer the questions so that I may actually feel the pulse of the
|
|
picture-going public as to their tastes and demands in pictures.
|
|
The answers to the questions are averaged, thereby giving me a key to
|
|
what the public wants in the way of stories--comedy dramas, tragedies,
|
|
dramas, romances, or educational pictures. That established, I set myself to
|
|
the task of obtaining the best of these themes.
|
|
I confer with my staff of writers as to what the public wants. These
|
|
stories are written, then follows another conference and discussion on each
|
|
point of the story. Suggestions are made which, in many cases, enhance its
|
|
value. When I am convinced that everything has been done to insure the
|
|
public of what it has asked, the story is accepted.
|
|
That is one way of obtaining story material. Another is the acceptance
|
|
of stories from writers who are not connected with the studio. The scenario
|
|
department consists of a scenario editor and a staff of readers, whose duty
|
|
it is to read and report upon manuscripts submitted. These scripts come from
|
|
all quarters of the globe and from persons in all walks of life. There are
|
|
stories from well-known writers, college professors, striving young authors,
|
|
shop girls, grocery clerks, and many others who believe that "the movies"
|
|
provide a sudden jump to fame and wealth, but who have had absolutely no
|
|
training or experience in writing. The products which are sent in from the
|
|
three last mentioned sources usually are the life stories of the writers, and
|
|
in some cases carry a good idea, but they are seldom written with any
|
|
knowledge of the requirements of the screen.
|
|
If the readers see no possibility of using a story it is returned to the
|
|
writer. If the story is at all available it is sent to the scenario editor,
|
|
and if, in his opinion, it has enough good points to recommend it, it is
|
|
taken up in conference, where it is either finally accepted or rejected.
|
|
The third method of procuring stories is from the literary or theatrical
|
|
market. Sometimes a play or published story carries real screen value. When
|
|
such a vehicle is decided upon the screen rights are bought.
|
|
When a story is accepted from any one of these sources the first step
|
|
has been taken. It is then put into continuity, which, as I have said
|
|
before, is a working script, carefully classified, the scenes described in
|
|
detail and logical sequence.
|
|
Copies of this continuity then go to the director, who prepares for the
|
|
working out of his scenes, and to the art department, where specifications
|
|
and drawings are made for the sets and furnishings. After the drawings have
|
|
been approved they are sent to the property room, where the sets and
|
|
furniture are made and put on the stages. A wardrobe list is made up and
|
|
sent to the wardrobe department with complete specifications for all costumes
|
|
needed.
|
|
Simultaneously with these developments a careful selection is made of
|
|
the cast, so that each character in the story may have a faithful portrayal.
|
|
Before a single turn of the camera, the cast is rehearsed many times
|
|
through each scene. When they are ready the actual photographing takes
|
|
place.
|
|
On the set there are the director, the assistant director, art director,
|
|
members of the cast, electricians, property men, camera men and the script
|
|
assistant. The latter is a very important factor in production. This
|
|
position usually is held by a woman and requires the most minute attention to
|
|
detail.
|
|
Her duty is to see that each scene is faithfully carried out in
|
|
accordance with the working script. In the production of every picture many
|
|
scenes are retaken. In scene 152, for instance, a man may walk through the
|
|
door into the next room. He may have on a plain necktie. Scene 153 would
|
|
show him entering the next room. In the sequence of scenes no time would
|
|
elapse, yet in the actual filming of those two scenes several weeks might
|
|
elapse and in all probability the actor would forget that he had worn a plain
|
|
tie and would appear in scene 153 in one with figures or polka dots.
|
|
In the sequence of the story he would have had no time or opportunity to
|
|
make the change, and the audience would be aware instantly of a glaring
|
|
inconsistency.
|
|
When production is nearing completion the titles are made in the art
|
|
department, to be inserted later in the finished film.
|
|
Each day the film that has been exposed goes to the laboratory for
|
|
immediate development. After the day's "shooting" is over these "rushes" are
|
|
run off in the projection room, for minute inspection.
|
|
The best shot of each scene is selected. If none of the "rushes" comes
|
|
up to standard I order a retake, which means re-filming the entire scene.
|
|
When the final "rushes" have been gone over and selected, the whole film is
|
|
assembled and is run off again for the final cutting and titling.
|
|
When the film is complete it is shipped to the distributing agents, who
|
|
have headquarters throughout the country and who, in turn, ship them to the
|
|
individual exhibitors, according to dates which have been prearranged, and
|
|
thus the finished product reaches the public.
|
|
|
|
Chapter IX
|
|
|
|
As an economic industry, the motion picture occupies a position in the
|
|
life of the nation which is, at once, distinctive and powerful. There is
|
|
scarcely a commercial pursuit that is not directly or indirectly affected by
|
|
it.
|
|
Almost every manufactured product, from hairpins and dressing table
|
|
accessories, to the most priceless of tapestries, is used in some phase of
|
|
picture making.
|
|
Many auxiliary industries have been established to fill the needs of the
|
|
studios. For instance, one plant manufactures crockery of a light, porous
|
|
nature that breaks easily on the head of the slapstick comedian without
|
|
causing serious results. Another designs and makes footwear of every period
|
|
and nationality. Others manufacture artificial food, and miniature cities
|
|
which are sometimes used in long shots.
|
|
In one studio the carpenters, paper hangers and electricians far
|
|
outnumber the men employed in these trades in the average small towns of
|
|
America.
|
|
Property rooms outrival the average department store in the large
|
|
cities, both from the standpoint of quantity and variety. There is nothing
|
|
that cannot be found in this department, from an oil lamp to the complete
|
|
drawing room furnishings of a millionaire.
|
|
The wardrobe departments vie with museums. In a properly appointed
|
|
wardrobe there are sets of costumes which represent all ages of civilization.
|
|
Gorgeous robes of the ancient Caesars and the jeweled magnificence of the
|
|
days of Cleopatra, royal ermine robes of the Louises of France, the sombre
|
|
garbs of the Crusaders and the Pilgrim fathers, authentic crinolines and
|
|
brocades of our colonial days, the winged helmets and costumes of the
|
|
Vikings, and complete sets of armor worn by knights in the days of chivalry
|
|
are among the requisites of the wardrobe.
|
|
All of these and more, are the property of the well equipped studio,
|
|
representing assets of hundreds of thousands of dollars.
|
|
A large staff of workers is maintained in the wardrobe, constantly
|
|
creating new gowns and remodeling old ones. They are always ready to fill a
|
|
rush order and constantly are called upon to use their inventive faculties to
|
|
produce some accessory that may not be in stock.
|
|
It is estimated, from carefully compiled statistics, that the motion
|
|
picture industry in Los Angeles alone, where 75 per cent of production is
|
|
located, gives steady employment to more than 20,000 persons.
|
|
The weekly payroll is considerably more than $500,000. There are
|
|
between 50 and 60 motion picture studios in Los Angeles and vicinity and more
|
|
than 200 separate producing units.
|
|
The annual production of motion pictures in Los Angeles is more than
|
|
$150,000,000. More than 300,000,000 feet of film are used in these studios
|
|
annually, about 50 per cent being positive and the other half negative.
|
|
The average five-reel picture costs from $35,000 to $500,000 to produce
|
|
and may have an earning capacity of from $75,000 to $20,000,000. One picture
|
|
produced recently which cost approximately $400,000 to turn out, has produced
|
|
already more than $20,000,000.
|
|
This, then, sketching it briefly, is the history of the development of
|
|
the motion picture as I have been intimately associated with it for the past
|
|
fourteen years. An industry that has carried with it all the romance and
|
|
glamour of the California gold rush but one that has gone even farther and
|
|
has taken its place among industries of the world. It has achieved for
|
|
itself a station of permanent, ever unfolding to greater and still greater
|
|
achievements, which brings us to the question--What of the future of the
|
|
motion picture industry? and what of its aim?
|
|
Starting out merely to amuse and entertain, the silent drama has evolved
|
|
to the point where it has a distinct mission to fulfill, as has painting,
|
|
sculpture, music, dancing, drama or literature.
|
|
We are living in an age when the white light of criticism is turned upon
|
|
accepted and established standards in all phases of life. The old order of
|
|
things has passed and all over the world worn out traditions and methods are
|
|
toppling. We are in the grip of another renaissance, a revolution of ideals.
|
|
Like the Phoenix of mythology, the new world order is rising out of the ashes
|
|
of the old.
|
|
The picture of yesterday fulfilled its mission, giving way to newer and
|
|
higher standards demanded of the picture of today. And because some of the
|
|
modern productions are now reaching such a high standard, the public has
|
|
learned to expect even greater triumphs. Picture goers have shown their
|
|
faith in us and by that very faith they have thrown us a challenge to produce
|
|
bigger and better photoplays.
|
|
Are we going to accept that challenge and make the picture of tomorrow
|
|
take its rightful place in the onward march of progress? I for one pledge
|
|
myself to this task.
|
|
The demand for better pictures is universal. On that point we all
|
|
agree. But the demand brings up the question--What constitutes better
|
|
pictures? This question must be answered first by the producer and finally
|
|
by the public itself, for in the final analysis the public is the court of
|
|
appeal on the merits of a picture. It is in their hands to make it or break
|
|
it.
|
|
But the producer with insight and a real desire to perfect his act can,
|
|
and must, feel the pulse of the vast American audience and anticipate its
|
|
desires and demands.
|
|
I hold it not only a duty, but a privilege to study carefully the
|
|
reactions of various types of pictures on the average audience, for only in
|
|
that way can I reach my conclusions and give my interpretation of what
|
|
constitutes better pictures.
|
|
The really successful photo-drama of today, and I believe tomorrow, is
|
|
one that catches the interest and holds the eager attention through sheer
|
|
force of humanness and fidelity to the detail of life. The day has long
|
|
since passed when our characters move like marionettes across the screen.
|
|
The public demands, and justly so, the faithful portrayal of life as it
|
|
is lived by real flesh and blood people in all its various walks. They
|
|
demand true characterizations, that they may see themselves reflected on the
|
|
screen.
|
|
The problems of human existence vary only in degree. Basically they are
|
|
identical and fundamental. Therefore, a picture with forced dramatic
|
|
situations and emotions does not ring true. It is based upon a false premise
|
|
and the audience leaves the theater dissatisfied and unconvinced.
|
|
|
|
Chapter X
|
|
|
|
To be truly successful, the motion picture of today must be written and
|
|
produced by students of human nature, who can portray faithfully the problems
|
|
and sires of the human family and hold up the mirror of life, so that we may
|
|
see ourselves in circumstances and surroundings that are familiar to us.
|
|
But that is not all. Seeing those every-day things of life worked out
|
|
on the screen to successful or unsuccessful issues, as case may be, we will
|
|
get a new angle, perhaps, on how to handle our particular problems.
|
|
Seeing real characters with real problems to solve, which parallel our
|
|
own, we will get reactions that, in many instances, will give us the courage
|
|
to meet our own issues and to handle them to our own satisfaction.
|
|
Nor do I mean by that that the screen must preach. That is not its
|
|
mission. It must entertain and give us the form of amusement that relaxes
|
|
and at the same time stimulates, but it must do this through the portrayal of
|
|
life as we know it. It must give us something to enhance the value of our
|
|
own lives, which are too often drab and depressing.
|
|
It makes no difference whether the story is a comedy, a tragedy or a
|
|
straight dramatic exposition of life, so long as it rings true and gives us
|
|
life as we know it, and something to take away with us that is finer and
|
|
bigger than we have ever known before.
|
|
A striking instance of this comes to mind which had just that result.
|
|
A play was put on the stage several years ago which was a brilliant comedy.
|
|
I use that term in its finest sense. It was not a frothy farce.
|
|
It was a story which dealt with one of the accepted tragedies of life,
|
|
and would have been treated as such by nine out of ten playwrights. But this
|
|
particular playwright chose to treat his theme as a comedy.
|
|
The principal character was played by a woman of perhaps forty, who had
|
|
been jilted by her lover on the eve of her wedding, twenty years before.
|
|
Instead of accepting this condition as a tragedy and allowing it to cloud her
|
|
life, she overcame it and developed into a woman of poise, charm and power,
|
|
handling her life with that light touch that laughs at grim tragedy, and
|
|
handling all she came in contact with as she would handle pawns on a
|
|
chessboard, bring them to her feet as willing victims of her charm and beauty
|
|
of nature.
|
|
It is not the story that I wish to dwell upon, but the effect it had
|
|
upon the audience. At the end of the first act the middle aged persons in
|
|
the audience were sitting up with a new sense of their own power and
|
|
importance. At the end of the second act there was a sparkle in the eyes of
|
|
those who had felt that life was slipping into the background.
|
|
When the curtain fell on the last act, which was the final triumph of
|
|
the jilted lady, there was a tumultuous applause and in the faces of the
|
|
audience there was a look that bespoke a new lease on life and a courage to
|
|
handle the problems that were uppermost in their own lives.
|
|
That play was a slice of life, faithfully portrayed. There was not one
|
|
action that did not ring true, not one characterization that was false, and
|
|
its effect crashed across the footlights and found a response in the hearts
|
|
of all who saw it.
|
|
When pictures were "in their infancy," but a few short years ago, the
|
|
one idea seemed to be to make something happen on the screen. Action, and
|
|
more action, with little thought of making that action portray emotions and
|
|
true experiences of life.
|
|
Action is absolutely essential to the successful photoplay. Without it
|
|
there would be no screen drama, but it must be action which conveys the
|
|
co-ordination of mind, heart and body, rather than meaningless action alone.
|
|
Because of this, a distinct technique of creating screen material has
|
|
developed and is in the process of larger and fuller development.
|
|
In the last few years there has been an enormous demand for rights to
|
|
the published story and the successful play, but the field for that type of
|
|
material is becoming exhausted. Furthermore the producers are realizing that
|
|
the published story and play are not always adapted to the screen, although
|
|
"double hits" are frequently achieved.
|
|
For a sustained and consistent source of photoplay material, however,
|
|
the screen must develop its own writers, men and women who possess insight
|
|
into the lives and emotions of their fellow human beings, and who are able to
|
|
depict the characterizations about them with sincerity and simplicity.
|
|
The theme or keynote of the story must be REAL. It must be based upon
|
|
the principle of life, something which every man and woman knows in common
|
|
with his neighbor; some underlying basis of human existence which touches the
|
|
lives of the laborer or the capitalist, the shop girl or the queen. The
|
|
theme must be a universal language--love, greed, sacrifice, fear or any
|
|
emotion which is generally known.
|
|
Building on the theme, the plot would be no less one of sincerity and
|
|
simplicity. It should have one clearly defined logical thread running
|
|
unbrokenly through the story, with the counter plots converging to the main
|
|
thread of the story and never distracting the attention from it.
|
|
Plots should be constructed UP, not DOWN. Situations and episodes
|
|
should be gauged to lead to a climax that will accentuate all preceding
|
|
scenes. The climax should be strong, virile, picturesque, colorful--redolent
|
|
of life's passions.
|
|
Many writers have fallen short of their mark because they opened their
|
|
plot with a "crash," so to speak, and depending on this intensity at the
|
|
start allowed interest to lag, through failure to provide subsequent
|
|
situations and climaxes of real dramatic merit. The successful photoplay is
|
|
one that is well balanced throughout, always leading on and on, stimulating
|
|
imagination and preparing for the ultimate finale, which appeases and
|
|
satisfies the expectant spectator.
|
|
It is a mistake to pile in many complications to force the action. This
|
|
distracts the mind of the audience from the main story plot and is confusing.
|
|
After such a picture has been viewed it is almost impossible for the average
|
|
person to relate the story in any logical sequence, and the result is that
|
|
their brains are muddled and the reactions they get are a hodge-podge of
|
|
complications and forced action.
|
|
The situations which carry the plot to its climax must be the every day
|
|
experiences that happen in the lives of average persons. Nor does that
|
|
destroy the dramatic values of the story. A dramatic scene portrayed on the
|
|
screen will thrill an audience with its intensity, but that same scene
|
|
enacted in a Harlem flat or on a Texas ranch would impress those who were
|
|
living the episode as commonplace, or at least pleasant or unpleasant as the
|
|
case might be.
|
|
They would fail to realize the dramatic value of their own lives.
|
|
This is the art of the screen, as I see it, and the secret of better
|
|
pictures is to hold up the mirror of life and show us to ourselves.
|
|
The stories that are going to lead to better pictures must be deeply
|
|
human, expressed in such a way that every ounce of pathos, humor,
|
|
characterization and dramatic quality is felt by the audience without forcing
|
|
these elements to an illogical point or permitting imagination to make
|
|
inroads upon the truth.
|
|
(The End)
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
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.silent-movies.com/Taylorology/
|
|
Full text searches of back issues can be done at http://www.etext.org/Zines/
|
|
or at http://www.silent-movies.com/search.html. For more information about
|
|
Taylor, see
|
|
WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991)
|
|
*****************************************************************************
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