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Taylorology Issue 92
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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 92 -- August 2000 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu *
* TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed *
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
Thomas Ince
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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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Thomas Ince
William Desmond Taylor's first job in the motion picture industry was for
producer Thomas Ince in December 1912. Taylor remained with Ince for over
six months, then went to Vitagraph. The following is an "autobiography" of
Ince, published in the LOS ANGELES RECORD on December 3-13, 1924.
Unfortunately it contains minimal anecdotal information about Ince's life and
career. Ince's death in 1924 was, like Taylor's death, the subject of
extensive Hollywood gossip and speculation, which is not mentioned here.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Thos. H. Ince's Own Life Story
Today, The Los Angeles Record is proud to present exclusively for its
readers, the thrilling, human autobiography of Thomas H. Ince, written by the
world-renowned picture producer shortly before death took him suddenly three
weeks ago, and obtained for the Record by Russell J. Birdwell, staff feature
writer.
Here is a story that is virtually a voice from the dead. And yet, we
should not say "dead," because Thomas H. Ince will live long in the dreams
and works of a race motivated by the spirit of ambition.
In this story of his life, the lone-fighter of filmdom who, with his
faithful wife, Nell, at his side, rose to heights never before attained in
the picture world, tells the whole tale from the beginning.
The poignant throbs of discouragement, the thrill of success--all are
chronicled in this story of his life.
Never again will you have the opportunity under like circumstances, of
following day by day such an inspiring document of a great man's life.
The story will appear in The Record every day and only in The Record.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In The "Movies"
Yesterday and Today
by Thomas H. Ince
Chapter I
Looking back over the past 14 years of my experience in motion pictures,
I am forced to one striking conclusion, that never in the history of the
world has any industry been marked by such a phenomenal growth and
development, in a short length of time, as the motion picture industry. Nor
is there an industry that holds the promise of a greater and more far-
reaching future than this newest of all the arts.
In 1910, when I entered the picture industry, it was a new and untried
field. There were no accepted standards, no patterns on which to build, no
organized business methods or efficiency--nothing which characterizes it
today as the fourth largest industry of the country and one of the most
important.
In all other arts and industries, development has been a matter of many
years, and in most cases generations, and even centuries. The motion picture
has been in existence little more than a decade.
Acting and dancing had their birth several centuries before the
Christian era, when they were introduced in the sacred temples to express
religious emotions and to teach certain lessons through symbolism.
Sculpture and painting date back even farther into the remote past when,
before the dawn of civilization, prehistoric tribes used this method to
perpetuate their history for future generations.
Literature, the art of story telling, covered thousands of years in its
development. Starting with mere narrative, before the day of the recorded
manuscript, deeds of valor and adventure were preserved by word of mouth and
handed down from father to son. Thus, the history of various peoples and
nations was preserved intact until the stage of development was reached when
these narratives were recorded on tablets of stone and later on parchment.
Gradually plot and form were introduced, and through the steady progress
of centuries, literature became one of the mightiest of the arts.
The history of music is analogous to, and is interwoven with the other
fine arts, requiring an equally great length of time to reach its present
state of perfection.
The art of photography and laboratory inventions, electricity and
chemistry are of much more recent times, but even their growth has been a
long and comparatively slow one.
The motion picture occupies a unique position, because it includes all
of the fine and mechanical arts, some in lesser and some in greater degree,
and in combining them it has carved for itself a niche in the history of the
world as distinctive as any separate art or industry.
It is to trace the rapid and sustained growth of the picture industry,
and the steady march to efficiency, that I review the extraordinary
developments of the past 14 years, and by basing my conclusions on what has
taken place in that short space of time, to give a forecast of what the
future holds for this industry which is gaining increasing momentum with
every year of its life.
Starting out as an actor at the age of 6, my whole life was concerned
with the spoken drama, in which I had achieved some success, and my critics
were kind enough to predict a future for me before the footlights. The
thought of any other career had never occurred to me, but fate stepped in and
by one of those surprise thrusts, forced me into a new line of endeavor.
I returned to New York in 1910 from an engagement in Cincinnati with the
Chester Park Opera company. As it sometimes happens with actors, and others,
I found myself out of a job. I did not enjoy the prospect of being "broke"
in New York, or anywhere else for that matter, and started out immediately to
look for work.
Completing the rounds of the booking offices on Broadway without
success, I was standing near Times Square, trying to decide what step to take
next, and wondering what means I would resort to to keep the ferocious wolf
of want from the door of my Harlem flat, when the incident occurred that was
destined to turn the whole course of my career.
A luxurious automobile drove up to the curb in front of me and from it
alighted a man whose whole bearing and appearance bespoke affluence and
position--something I had never known.
In those days only the rich could afford automobiles, and I was idly
wondering which bank president this man might be, when, to my amazement, he
came toward me with a warm smile of greeting on his face. It was then I
recognized Joseph Smiley, who subsequently became nationally known as a
photoplay director and actor.
After the usual greetings were over, he extended a cordial invitation to
lunch with him, which I accepted with a great deal of eagerness, because, if
I remember correctly, I had not intended to eat that day. At lunch we
reminisced of the days when Smiley was an actor in my vaudeville company; of
our engagement in Bermuda and the many amusing things that happened there.
When he paid the bill for lunch, I began to wonder how it happened that Joe
was flashing a roll of bills while I, his former employer, was hunting a job.
In answer to my query, Smiley explained, somewhat apologetically:
"Why--er--you see, I'm working in moving pictures. I'm an assistant
director at the Imp studio on 56th Street."
This came as somewhat of a shock, as I had, with most of the profession,
looked upon this innovation as a form of cheap amusement which was to be
scorned by real actors. I considered it undignified and not in harmony with
the best traditions of the stage. Only nickelodeons and beer gardens had
encouraged it. In fact, those who were so engaged were considered the
outcasts of the theatrical profession.
I knew that it was gaining a foothold, but it carried with it none of
the fine old ethics and romance of the stage. Then the spectre of the wolf
came into my mind, and I began to think more kindly toward the thing I had
considered beneath my notice. I began to wonder if it might not be at least
a temporary means of livelihood, better than tramping the streets, looking
for employment.
I turned suddenly to Smiley, "Any chance for me up there?"
"Why, certainly," he replied. "There should be. You're an actor,
aren't you? Come on up there with me now, there might be something doing
this afternoon."
Confronted thus suddenly with the possibility of being plunged into the
moving picture business, I began to weaken, then I seemed again to hear an
ominous growl from the wolf, and I held to my decision. A moment later I was
rolling luxuriously up to the Imp studio with Smiley.
Chapter II
Mentally frowning upon the idea of going into the moving picture
business along with the so-called "outcasts" of the theatrical profession,
and yet determined to investigate, because I was sorely in need of
employment, I allowed Joseph Smiley to conduct my first introduction to the
intricacies of the film industry.
The Imp studio was located, in 1910, on the top floor of a manufacturing
building in Fifty-Sixth Street, New York. Delivered at the door by a slow
and jerky elevator, I was ushered in for my first glimpse of a studio.
My worst fears were realized! It reminded me of some of my unpleasant one-
night stands, and yet there were Owen Moore, King Baggot, Florence Lawrence,
Bob Dailey and several others who are now well known stars, all of them
working in pictures and seeming to enjoy it.
A scene was being directed, and I looked on in awe. It was more
absorbing than I had believed, and the thought came to me that there might be
something to this thing, after all. A few minutes later, following a
whispered conversation between Smiley and Harry Salter, who was directing,
I was offered a job to play the part of "heavy," to the tune of $5 a day.
Without further ado, I took the job, which launched me on my career in the
motion picture industry.
Several months later one of the Imp directors resigned before his
picture was completed and I was given a directorship and went to work in
earnest to complete the unfinished production. The importance which I felt
at this first big step in my new career was not shared by my co-workers,
however.
Instead of welcoming me with congratulations, the players, camera men
and stage hands cast suspicious glances in my direction and made no effort to
conceal their disapproval. This, however, instead of discouraging me, urged
me on to greater determination to make a success of my first directorial
effort. I assembled my company and directed the remaining scenes.
My first real production with the Imp company was titled "Little Nell's
Tobacco." It was a story which I patched together from an old poem I had
learned as a boy, and, as I thought, was replete with the emotions of life.
Never will I forget the thrill of excitement that shot through me when I saw
it on the screen in a little theater on 14th Street, New York.
About this time the Imp pictures were becoming known and the officers of
the company were considering the advisability of establishing quarters in
California. They appointed Ben Turpin, the now famous comedian, as their
agent to investigate conditions on the Pacific coast.
Turpin reported that the General Film Company was endeavoring to prevent
all independent organizations from using the motion picture and was seriously
hampering their operations, so the plan was abandoned and Cuba decided upon
as a fruitful location.
A few days later two companies were on their way to the tropical island,
one headed by Joe Smiley, with King Baggot as leading player, and the other
under my direction, featuring Mary Pickford and Owen Moore.
Two years before this, Adam Kessel and Charles O. Baumann, founders of
the New York Motion Picture corporation, and later Kay-Bee, had sent a
company to California. Having made a success of this, they decided to expand
and dispatch a second company to make western pictures.
Entirely ignorant of the fact that Kessel and Baumann were considering
me for this post, I decided to apply for it after returning from Cuba,
feeling that I would have greater possibilities in this new field than in New
York.
A little strategy was necessary, I felt, to impress my prospective
employers with my importance, so I allowed a mustache to grow, and on the day
of my interview with Baumann I borrowed a large and sparkling diamond ring.
This, I figured, would give the impression that I was a man of means who did
not have to work for a paltry $60 a week, which was my munificent salary at
the Imp studio.
According to my calculations, the ruse worked, for Baumann offered me
$100 a week to go to California to make westerns. This offer came as a
distinct shock, but I kept cool and concealed my excitement. I tried to
convey the impression that he would have to raise the ante a trifle if he
wanted me.
That also worked, and I signed a contract for three months at $150 a
week. Very soon after that, with Mrs. Ince, my camera man, property man and
Ethel Grandin, my leading woman, I turned my face westward.
Five days later I was in California, hopeful and determined, and yet a
little apprehensive, for I knew that my future depended upon my success or
failure in this undertaking.
Nor did my future look particularly bright, as I was shown over the
small and inadequate plant at Edendale, just outside of Los Angeles, which
was to be the scene of my productions.
True, it was somewhat more pretentious and slightly better equipped than
those in which I had made my initial efforts, but it was far from being what
I wanted, for even then I had begun to see great possibilities in the future
of the screen.
The sets consisted of a few pieces of very bad furniture and one back
drop with a flock of birds supposedly in flight. The furniture was bad
enough, but when I thought of stationary birds poised in mid-air as a
background for moving pictures I gave way to a moment of discouragement.
At that time there were no enclosed stages. Both interiors and
exteriors were filmed out of doors. The set for an interior scene consisted
of two, and possibly three side walls and in many pictures only one. There
was no ceiling and no front, and the results were sometimes very amusing and
brought forth deserving ridicule from the audience.
In a room, supposedly well plastered, with windows closed, the window
hangings, table covers and the women's dresses would blow and flap violently
in the gusts of wind sweeping up from the sea across the plains, according to
the location of the studio.
Summer scenes often were filmed in winter, with the thermometer
uncomfortably low. Men dressed in while flannels and women in flimsy, thin
things would shiver through several hundred feet of film.
When it was cold enough for the actors' breath to the noticeable on the
air, the men were made to smoke throughout the scene and the women cautioned
not to open their mouths.
My equipment and organization was extremely limited, and altogether the
prospects did not look very hopeful. But I knew I must succeed. There was
no alternative.
Realizing that facilities had to be improved if the infant art was to
live, I cut loose and plunged in, spending money, as I thought then, with
reckless abandon.
As I look back on those days, I see that the improvements I put in on
the whole plant cost infinitely less than a single set in some of our modern
pictures.
Chapter III
Among the first pictures I produced under the Kessel and Baumann banner
at Edendale, my initial venture in California, was a comedy titled "The New
Cook." It ran about 62 scenes, less than a reel, as against four to seven
hundred scenes, or five to eight reels, which comprise the feature picture of
today.
This maiden effort was a big success, however, and with the impetus
given me by the praise it received, I became bolder and produced other
successes.
The problem of stories was a serious one, even in those days, because
there were no scenario departments and no market from which to purchase
scenarios. The only stories available, if I may be permitted to use that
term, were the attempts of school pupils who wanted to write for "the
movies," and they were useless. It therefore devolved upon the director to
manufacture his stories from his own brain.
But to trace the whole development of pictures, I must go back prior to
my advent into the industry, to the time when there was no plot at all.
Moving pictures then were merely a series of scenes depicting objects and
figures in motion, the pantomime alone sufficing.
Among these were the highly amusing and mystifying trick pictures in
which a man would be run over by a steam roller and spread out on the ground
as flat as the proverbial pancake. He would be reduced, by one operation of
the camera, from a three-dimensional man, having length, breadth and
thickness, to a two-dimensional being, having only length and breadth, his
thickness being that of a sheet of paper. Then, by reversing the film, he
would be restored to his normal cast and structure.
But the public soon became more sophisticated and demanded a plot.
Moving objects, with no particular reason for moving, no longer sufficed, and
a new type of "movie" was evolved--the one in which someone would
inadvertently upset a fruit vendor's cart or steal and apple, causing such
fierce indignation on the part of the peddler that a man-chase for the
culprit would ensue.
The chase would be taken up by others, and before they had gone a block
the whole community would be in pursuit, gathering momentum as it went,
dashing madly down steep hillsides, across brooks, over fences and through
wooded country until the culprit was apprehended and brought to justice.
These pictures carried a decided thrill, and I can remember distinctly
how an excited audience would cheer wildly at the antics of the actors, and
actually in their imaginations join in the chase. But even these pictures,
which were a distinct advancement over the trick films, carried no real plot.
Pictures had established no precedents and the public took them as they
were; but as the industry began to grow, the public became more demanding and
the story problem loomed large. It was just about that time that I became
actually engaged in picture making. Gradually we began to get stories that
had some semblance of a plot.
Even when stories were first adopted there was no such thing as a
continuity. A director would get the germ idea of a plot, assemble his cast,
go out on location and start to shoot, having only a hazy idea of what he was
going to do. His one idea was to get action and to keep things moving,
regardless of the sequence of scenes or the logic of his plot.
All would go well for a while, then the inevitable would happen and he
would have to hold up the picture and keep the cast standing around while he
racked his brain for an idea.
"Let's see," he would say, "what shall we do next? Well, we might as
well burn down the house or blow up the bridge. That would get a thrill."
And so it went, until necessity caused the development of the
continuity, which is a working script of the story, with each scene clearly
defined and the situations worked out in logical sequence.
This form of manuscript came through its own demand and practically
developed itself. For the sake of convenience, a director would classify the
scenes we were to take each day and jot down on a piece of paper, or maybe on
his cuff, and thus the more elaborate form of a detailed and finished
continuity came about and gradually established itself as the accepted form.
In the early days of filmdom, productions often were crude and filled
with many incongruities. In a picture where letters and telegrams were used
the handwriting on letters written by individuals in the story, and telegrams
coming from the telegraph office were all in the same handwriting. Words
were misspelled and grammatical errors were frequent.
One incident which illustrates this lack of consistency and faulty
production occurred in one of the early pictures, the story of which
concerned a young American who was visiting in Turkey. I think his name was
Jones. Being an enterprising youth, Jones decided to pay a clandestine visit
to the Sultan's harem. He was discovered by the irate Sultan and thrown into
prison.
Such an act being considered a sacrilege, Jones was condemned to die,
and to properly get this fact over to the audience a letter was delivered to
Jones from the Sultan, which read as follows:
"My dear Mr. Jones: I beg to inform you that tomorrow at sunrise you
will be executed for breaking into my harem. Yours very truly, The Sultan."
I have no doubt that the meaning was clear to the audience, and I have
no doubt that the audience accepted this inconsistency without resentment,
but what would an audience of today do to such an incongruous expression?
In the days of the double exposure development, a scene occurred in a
lion's cage which was supposed to depict several very fierce and angry lions.
The lions were old, contented and at peace with the world and were not
looking for trouble. To make the scene convincing it was necessary to arouse
their anger, so it was decided that the keeper should get behind them, and
prod them with a stick.
The first exposure was taken of the lions , who were only mildly
aroused. The second was to show the keeper prodding them.
The scene would have passed had not something gone wrong in the blending
of the two exposures.
When the double exposure was thrown on the scene the keeper was in front
of the lions poking the air frantically with the stick, while the lions
looked on in silent amusement.
When you stop to think that even ten years ago such things were the rule
rather than exception, it is easy to see the tremendous strides that have
been made toward establishing the motion picture industry as an art, instead
of a form of cheap amusement.
Chapter IV
In tracing the development of motion pictures, it is very easy,
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
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
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
Mrs. Ince's assistance I would cut and assemble the scenes taken the day
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.
Chapter VII
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 Americ
an 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)
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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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