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