MOVIE ACTING DAYS--AND AN “IF”
We called him “Old Man McCutcheon,” the genial, generous person
who at this time directed the movies at the American Mutoscope and
Biograph Company. Why “Old Man” I do not know, unless it was because
he was slightly portly and the father of about eight children, the
oldest being Wallace--“Wally” to his intimates. Wally was quite “some
pumpkins” around the studio--father’s right-hand-man--and then, too, he
was a Broadway actor.
It was then the general idea of movie directors to use their families
in the pictures. As money was the only thing to be had out of the
movies those days, why not get as much as possible while the getting
was good? The McCutcheon kids had just finished working in a Christmas
picture, receiving, besides pay checks, the tree and the toys when the
picture was finished. So the first bit of gossip wafted about was that
the McCutcheons had a pretty good thing of it altogether.
In February, 1908, Wallace McCutcheon was closing an engagement in
Augustus Thomas’s play, “The Ranger.” Appearing in “The Ranger” with
young Mr. McCutcheon, were Robert Vignola, John Adolfi, Eddie Dillon,
and Florence Auer.
A school picture called “The Snow-man” was to be made which called
for eight children--another job for the little McCutcheons. Grown-up
Wally, and mother, were to work too, mother to see that the youngsters
were properly dressed and made up.
A tall, slight young woman was needed for the schoolmistress and Eddie
Dillon, whom Wally had inveigled to the studio, suggested Florence Auer.
The story takes place outside the schoolhouse and a “furious blizzard”
is raging, although I would say there was nothing prophetic of the
blizzard that raged in D. W. Griffith’s famous movie “Way Down East,”
even though events were so shaping themselves that had Mr. McCutcheon
held off a few weeks with his snow story, Mr. Griffith would have
arrived in time to offer suggestions. And he would have had something
to say, had he been so privileged, for “The Snow-man’s” raging
“blizzard” was made up of generous quantities of _sawdust_!
The legs, arms, torso, and head of the _Snow-man_ were fashioned of
fluffy, white cotton, each a separate part, and were hidden under the
drifts of sawdust, to be found later by the children who came to romp
in the snow and make a snow-man. The places where the _Snow-man’s_
fragments were buried were marked so that the children could easily
find them. One youngster pretends to mold of sawdust an imaginary leg,
but in reality is hunting the buried finished one, on locating which,
she surreptitiously pulls it from beneath the sawdust. In this way,
finally, all the parts of the Snow-man are dug out of the sawdust snow,
and put together, revealing a beautiful Snow-man.
[Illustration: Biograph Mutoscope of the murder of Stanford White
by Harry Thaw on Madison Square Garden roof, made shortly after the
tragedy.
(_See p. 69_)
]
[Illustration: The first Biograph Girl, Florence Lawrence, in “The
Barbarian,” otherwise known as “Ingomar, the Barbarian.” Filmed at the
home of Ernest Thompson Seton at Cos Cob, Conn.
(_See p. 59_)
]
[Illustration: From “The Politician’s Love Story.” Left to right:
Linda A. Griffith, Arthur Johnson, Mack Sennett. A beautiful sleet had
covered the trees and foliage of Central Park and this scenario was
hurriedly gotten up so as to photograph a wonderful winter fairyland.
(_See p. 80_)
]
Then the Good Fairy of the Snows who all this time has been dreaming
in the silver crescent of the moon, looking for all the world like the
charming lady of the _Cascarets_ ads, is given a tip that the children
have finished their _Snow-man_. So it is time for her to wake up and
come out of the moon. From her stellar heights, by means of a clumsy
iron apparatus, she is lowered to earth. Sadly crude it all was, but
it thrilled the fans of the day, nevertheless. With her magic wand the
Good Fairy touches the _Snow-man_ and he comes to life. Predatory Pete
now comes along, sees Mr. _Snow-man_, and feeling rather jolly from
the consumption of bottled goods, he puts his pipe in the _Snow-man’s_
mouth, and when he sees the _Snow-man_ calmly puff it, in great fright
he rushes off the scene, dropping his bottle, the contents of which the
_Snow-man_ drains. In the resultant intoxication the _Snow-man_ finds
his way into the schoolhouse. Finding the schoolhouse too warm, he
throws the stove out of the window. Then he throws himself out of the
window and lies down in the snow to “sleep it off.”
When the children return the following morning, the _Snow-man_, who
is still sleeping, frightens them almost into convulsions. Then the
picture really got started--the “chase” began. Sufficiently primitive
it was, to have been the first “chase”; but it wasn’t--for almost at
the movie’s inception the chase was a part of them. This _Snow-man_
chase takes place in front of a stationary back-drop, that pictures
a snowdrift. The actors standing off-stage ready for the excitement,
come on through the sawdust snow, kicking it up in clouds, eating it,
choking on it, hair, eyes, and throat getting full of it. Back and
forth against this one “drop,” the actors chase. On one run across, a
prop tree would be set up. Then as the actors were supposed to have run
some hundred yards at least, on the next time across, the prop tree
would be taken away and a big _papier maché_ rock put in its place.
That scene being photographed, the rock would give way to a telegraph
pole, and so on until half a dozen chases had been staged before the
one “drop.”
* * * * *
Thus far advanced, artistically and otherwise, was the motion picture
this spring of 1908 when “Lawrence” Griffith found himself astride a
horse, taking the air in the wide stretches of Coytesville, New Jersey,
and getting five dollars to boot. Also found himself so exhilarated,
mentally and otherwise, that in the evening he turned author, not of
poorly paid poems, but of the more profitable movies. Wrote a number
which he sold for fifteen dollars each, a very decent price considering
that this sort of authorship meant a spot-cash transaction.
The first little cinema drama of which he was the author and which was
immediately put into the works was “Old Isaacs, the Pawnbroker.” Very
bitter in feeling against the Amalgamated Association of Charities was
this story of a kind-hearted Hebraic money-lender.
On May 6th, with “Lawrence” Griffith the star, was released “The Music
Master,” but not David Belasco’s. Then came “Ostler Joe” of Mrs. James
Brown Potter fame, scenario-ized by Mr. Griffith. He also played the
part of the priest in the scene where the child dies. In early July
came “At The Crossroads of Life” and “The Stage Rustler.”
Biograph’s sole advertising campaign at this time consisted of
illustrated bulletins--single sheets six to ten inches, carrying a two
by three inch “cut” from the film and descriptive matter averaging
about three hundred and fifty words. They were gotten up in florid
style by a doughty Irishman by the name of Lee Dougherty who was the
“man in the front office.” He was what is now known as “advertising
manager,” but the publicity part of his job not taking all his time, he
also gave scripts the “once over” and still had moments for a friendly
chat with the waiting actor.
Although every day was not a busy day at the Biograph for David
Griffith, he felt the best policy would be to keep in close touch with
whatever was going on there. So he did that, but he also looked in at
other studios during any lull in activities. Looked in up at Edison
and was engaged for a leading part in quite a thriller, “The Eagle’s
Nest.” Lovely studio, the Edison, but not so much chance to get in
right, David felt--it was too well organized. Looked in at Kalem too,
but Frank J. Marion, who was the presiding chief there, could not be
bothered. Entirely too many of these down-on-their-luck actors taking
up his time.
There were whispers about that Lubin in Philadelphia needed a director.
So David wrote them a letter telling of all his varied experiences,
which brought an answer with an offer of sixty dollars a week for
directing and a request that he run over to Philadelphia for an
interview.
Now one had to look like something when on that sort of errand bent. I
had to get our little man all dressed up. Could afford only a new shirt
and tie. This, with polished boots and suit freshly pressed, would have
to do. But, even so, he looked quite radiant as he set forth for the
Pennsylvania Station to catch his Every-hour-on-the-hour.
But nothing came of it. Lubin decided not to put on another director
or make a change--whichever it was. The husband of Mrs. Mary Carr,
the Mrs. Carr of William Fox’s “Over the Hill” fame, continued there,
directing the movies which he himself wrote. After dinner each night
he would roll back the table-cloth, reach for pad and pencil, and work
out a story for his next movie.
Back to the dingy “A. B.” for us. Strange, even from the beginning we
felt a sort of at-home feeling there. The casualness of the place made
a strong appeal. What would happen if some one really got on the job
down there some day?
And so it came about shortly after “The Snow-man” that the elder Mr.
McCutcheon fell ill, and his son Wallace took over his job. He directed
“When Knights Were Bold”; directed Mr. Griffith in several pictures.
But Wally was not ambitious to make the movies his life job. He soon
made a successful début in musical comedy. Some years later he married
Pearl White, the popular movie star.
It began to look as though there soon might be a new director about the
place. And there was. There were several.
No offer of theatrical jobs came to disrupt the even tenor of the first
two months at Biograph. It was too late for winter productions and too
early for summer stock, so there was nothing to worry about, until with
the first hint of summer in the air, my husband received an offer to go
to Peake’s Island, Maine, and play villains in a summer stock company
there.
Forty per, the salary would be, sometimes more and sometimes less than
our combined earnings at the studio. To go or not to go? Summer stock
might last the summer and might not. Three months was the most to
expect. The Biograph might do as much for us.
How trivial it all sounds now! Ah, but believe me, it was nothing to be
taken lightly then. For a decision that affects one’s very bread and
butter, when bread and butter has been so uncertain, one doesn’t make
without heart searchings and long councils of war.
So we argued, in a friendly way. Said he: “If I turn this job down, and
appear to be so busy, they soon won’t send for me at all. Of course, if
this movie thing is going to last and amount to anything, if anybody
could tell you anything about it, we could afford to take chances. In
one way it is very nice. You can stay in New York, and _if_ I can find
time to write too--fine! But you know you can’t go on forever and not
tell your friends and relatives how you are earning your living.”
Then said she: “How long is Peake’s Island going to last? What’s sure
about summer stock? What does Peake’s Island mean to David Belasco
or Charles Frohman? We’ve got this little flat here, with our very
own twenty dollars’ worth of second-hand furniture, and the rent’s
so low--twenty. You don’t know what’s going to happen down at the
Biograph, you might get to direct some day. Let’s stick the summer out
anyhow, and when fall comes and productions open up again, we’ll see,
huh?”
So we put Peake’s Island behind us.
Now it is as sure as shooting, _if_ “Lawrence” Griffith had accepted
the offer to play stock that summer he never would have become the
David W. Griffith of the movies. Had he stepped out then, some one
else surely would have stepped in and filled his little place; and the
chances are he would never have gone back to those queer movies.
Of course, now we know that even in so short a time this movie business
had gotten under his skin. David Griffith had tasted blood--cinema
blood. And the call to stay, that was heard and obeyed when Peake’s
Island threatened to disrupt the scheme of things, was the same sort
of call that made those other pioneers trek across the plains with
their prairie schooners in the days of forty-nine. With Peake’s Island
settled, we hoped there would be no more theatrical temptations, for we
wanted to take further chances with the movies.