DIGGING IN
“Well, we’re in the movies--we’re working in the moving pictures.”
“Moving pictures? You’re working in moving pictures? What do you mean,
you’re working in moving pictures?”
“We’re working at a place--they call it a studio--acting in little
plays--dramas, and comedies--a camera takes pictures while we act, and
the pictures are shown in those five- and ten-cent theatres that are
all around the town, mostly on Third and Ninth Avenues and Fourteenth
Street--such high-class neighborhoods.”
“Those dreadful places? I wouldn’t be seen going into one of them.”
Yes, that was the attitude in those dark and dismal days when David
signed that contract with the Biograph Company. For one year now, those
movies so covered with slime and so degraded would have to come first
in his thoughts and affections. That was only fair to the job. But only
one who had loved the theatre as he had, and had dreamed as he had of
achieving success therein, could know what heartaches this strange new
affiliation was to bring to him. Times came, agonizing days, when he
would have given his life to be able to chuck the job. Mornings when on
arising he would gaze long, long moments out the window, apparently
seeing nothing--then the barely audible remark, “I think I’ll ’phone
and say I cannot come.” On such days he dragged heavy, leaden feet to
11 East Fourteenth Street.
And there was an evening when, returning home after a drab day at the
studio, and finding his modest ménage festive with ferns and wild
flowers, he became so annoyed that with one swoop he gathered up nature
and roughly jammed her into the waste paper basket. A visiting relative
who’d helped gather the flowers worried so over the strange procedure
that I had to explain--“It’s those pictures; you know they’re just the
fringe of acting.”
The emotions that would sweep over us at times! How our pride was
hurt! How lacking in delicacy people could be! With what a patronizing
air the successful and prosperous actor-friend would burst into the
studio! Mr. Griffith would say, “Well, how about it? If you’re hanging
around this summer, how would you like to work with me a bit?” Polite
and evasive the reply, “Well, you see, I’m awfully busy just now, have
several offers and--well--when I’m signed up I’ll drop around again.”
But we, in the know, understood that all the King’s horses and all
the King’s men could not induce such to join our little band of movie
actors. We were always conscious of the fact that we were in this messy
business because everything else had failed--because nobody had seemed
to want us, and we just hadn’t been able to hang on any longer.
[Illustration: Jeanie Macpherson, Marion Sunshine, Edwin August, Alfred
Paget, Blanche Sweet and Charles West in a scene from “From Out the
Shadow.” The brilliant social world of early movie days.
(_See p. 71_)
]
[Illustration: “Murphy’s,” where members of Biograph’s original stock
company consumed hearty breakfasts when Jersey bound.
(_See p. 83_)
]
But David buckled to the job like a true sport. It was _his job_ and he
would dignify it. The leaden mornings came to be quite the exception to
the rule. Many days were greeted with bright and merry song. And so,
firm and unshakeable in our determination to do the most with what
we had, we dismissed the silly sensitive business and set to work.
What we had to work with was this: a little studio where interior
scenes were taken, and exteriors also, for there was little money for
traveling expenses--Fort Lee, Greenwich, and the Atlantic Highlands
comprised our early geographical horizon. A few actors, a willing and
clever camera man, a stage carpenter, and a scenic artist, comprised
the working force. Funny studio! Interesting old workshop! “The Last
Leaf’s” ballroom!
The outer doors of the building opened into a broad hall from which on
the left as one entered, a door gave into Mr. Dougherty’s office; on
the right was another door--the entrance to the bookkeeping department.
An old colonial stairway on this same side led up to the projection
room and other offices. The spacious hall of the main floor ended with
double doors opening into the studio.
There, first to meet the eye--unless one stumbled on it before seeing
it--for it completely blocked the entrance--was a heavy rolling
platform on which the camera, poised atop of its tripod, was set.
So if the studio doors chanced to invite you during the taking of a
scene, you would have to remain put in the few feet of space between
the platform and the doors until the scene was finished. Usually there
would be some one to keep you company in your little niche.
It was an easy matter in those days to get into the studio. No cards of
announcement were needed--no office boy insulted you, no humiliation
of waiting, as to-day. A ring of the bell and in you’d go, and Bobbie
Harron would greet you if he chanced to be near by. Otherwise, any one
of the actors would pass you the glad word.
On an ordinary kitchen chair a bit to one side of the camera, Mr.
Griffith usually sat when directing. The actors when not working
lingered about, either standing or enjoying the few other kitchen
chairs. During rehearsals actors sat all over the camera stand--it was
at least six feet square--and as the actors were a rather chummy lot,
the close and informal intimacy disturbed them not the least.
A “scene” was set back center, just allowing passage room. What little
light came through the few windows was soon blocked by dusty old
scenery. On the side spaces of the room and on the small gallery above,
the carpenters made scenery and the scene painters painted it--scenery,
paint pots, and actors were all huddled together in one friendly chaos.
We always had to be mindful of our costumes. To the smell of fresh
paint and the noise of the carpenters’ hammers, we rehearsed our first
crude little movies and in due time many an old literary classic.
Rolls of old carpet and bundles of canvas had to be climbed over in
wending one’s way about. To the right of the camera a stairway led to
the basement where there were three small dressing-rooms; and no matter
how many actors were working in a picture those three dark little
closets had to take care of them all. The developing or “dark” room
adjoined the last dressing-room, and all opened into a cavernous cellar
where the stage properties were kept. Here at the foot of the stairs
and always in every one’s way, the large wardrobe baskets would be
deposited. And what a scramble for something that would half-way fit us
when the costumes arrived!
We ate our lunches in the dingy basement, usually seated on the
wardrobe baskets. Squatted there, tailor-fashion, on their strong
covers, we made out pretty well. On days when we had numbers of extra
people, our lunch boy, little Bobbie Harron, would arrange boards on
wooden horses, and spread a white cloth, banquet fashion. Especially
effective this, when doing society drama, and there would be grand
dames, financiers, and magnates, to grace the festive board.
In a back corner of the studio reposed a small, oak, roll-top desk,
which the new director graced in the early morning hours when getting
things in shape, and again in the evening when he made out the actors’
pay checks. When the welcome words came from the dark room, “All right,
everybody; strike!” the actors rushed to the roll-top, and clamored
for vouchers--we received our “pay” daily. Then the actor rushed his
“make-up” off, dressed, passed to the bookkeeper’s window in the outer
office, presented his voucher, and Herman Bruenner gave him his money.
And then to eat, and put away a dollar towards the week’s rent, and to
see a movie for ten cents!
A little group of serious actors soon began to report daily for work.
As yet no one had a regular salary except the director and camera man.
“Principal part” actors received five and “extras” three dollars.
In August this first year Mr. Griffith began turning out two releases
a week, usually one long picture, eight to eleven hundred feet, and
one short picture, four to five hundred feet. The actors who played
the principal parts in these pictures were Eddie Dillon, Harry Salter,
Charles Inslee, Frank Gebhardt, Arthur Johnson, Wilfred Lucas, George
Nichols, John Compson, Owen Moore, Mack Sennett, Herbert Pryor, David
Miles, Herbert Yost, Tony O’Sullivan, and Daddy Butler. Of the women
Marion Leonard, Florence Lawrence, and myself played most of the
leading parts, while Mabel Stoughton, Florence Auer, Ruth Hart, Jeanie
Macpherson, Flora Finch, Anita Hendry, Dorothy West, Eleanor Kershaw
(Mrs. Tom Ince), and Violet Mersereau helped out occasionally. Gladys
Egan, Adele DeGarde, and Johnny Tansy played the important child parts.
Though I speak of playing “principal parts,” no one had much chance to
get puffed up, for an actor having finished three days of importance
usually found himself on the fourth day playing “atmosphere,” the while
he decorated the back drop. But no one minded. They were a good-natured
lot of troupers and most of them were sincerely concerned in what they
were doing. David had a happy way of working. He invited confidence and
asked and took suggestions from any one sufficiently interested to make
them. His enthusiasm became quite infectious.
In the beginning Marion Leonard and I alternated playing “leads.” She
played the worldly woman, the adventuress, and the melodramatic parts,
while I did the sympathetic, the wronged wife, the too-trusting maid,
waiting, always waiting, for the lover who never came back. But mostly
I died.
Our director, already on the lookout for a new type, heard of a clever
girl out at the Vitagraph, who rode a horse like a western cowboy and
who had had good movie training under Mr. Rainous. He wanted to see
her on the screen before an audience. Set up in a store on Amsterdam
Avenue and 160th Street was a little motion picture place. It had a
rough wooden floor, common kitchen chairs, and the reels unwound to the
tin-panny shriek of a pianola. After some watchful waiting, the stand
outside the theatre--the sort of thing sandwich men carry--finally
announced “The Dispatch Bearer,” a Vitagraph with Florence Lawrence.
So, living near by, after dinner one night we rushed over to see it.
It was a good picture. Mr. Griffith concluded he would like to work
with Mr. Rainous for a while and learn about the movies. For one could
easily see that besides having ability Florence Lawrence had had
excellent direction.
Well, David stole little Florrie, he did. With Harry Salter as support
in his nefarious errand, he called on Miss Lawrence and her mother,
and offered the Vitagraph girl twenty-five dollars a week, regular.
She had been receiving fifteen at Vitagraph playing leading parts,
sewing costumes, and mending scenery canvas. She was quite overcome
with Mr. Griffith’s spectacular offer, readily accepted, and by way of
celebrating her new prosperity, she drew forth from under the bed in
the little boarding-house room, her trombone--or was it a violin?--and
played several selections. As a child, Miss Lawrence, managed by her
mother, and starred as “Baby Flo, the child wonder-whistler” had toured
the country, playing even the “tanks.”
Immediately she joined the Biograph, Florence Lawrence was given a
grand rush. But she never minded work. The movies were as the breath
of life to her. When she wasn’t working in a picture, she was in some
movie theatre seeing a picture. After the hardest day, she was never
too tired to see the new release and if work ran into the night hours,
between scenes she’d wipe off the make-up and slip out to a movie show.
Her pictures became tremendously popular, and soon all over the country
Miss Lawrence was known as “The Biograph Girl.” It was some years
before the company allowed the names of actors to be given out, hence
“Biograph Girl” was the only intelligent appellation. After Miss
Lawrence left Biograph, Mary Pickford fell heir to the title.
Miss Lawrence’s early releases show her versatility. Two every week for
a time: “Betrayed by a Handprint,” “The Girl and the Outlaw,” “Behind
the Scenes,” “The Heart of Oyama,” “Concealing a Burglar,” “Romance
of a Jewess,” “The Planter’s Wife,” “The Vaquero’s Vow,” “The Call of
the Wild,” “The Zulu’s Heart,” “The Song of the Shirt,” “Taming of the
Shrew,” “The Ingrate,” “A Woman’s Way.”
Like Mary Pickford, Miss Lawrence was an awfully good sport about doing
stunts. One day a scene was being filmed with Miss Lawrence thrown
tummy-wise across a horse’s saddled back. As the horse dashed down
the roadway he came so close to the camera that we who were watching
breathlessly, for one moment closed our eyes, for Miss Lawrence’s blond
head just missed the camera by a few inches.
Rainy August days forced us to work in the studio. Mr. Griffith had
read a story by Jack London called “Just Meat.” He changed the name to
“For Love of Gold” and let it go at that. We had no fear of lawsuits
from fractious authors those days.
The story was about two thieves, who returned home with the latest
spoils, get suspicious of each other and each, unknown to the other,
poisons the other’s coffee and both die. The big scenes which were at
the table when the men become distrustful of each other could be told
only through facial expression. “Ah,” puzzled Mr. Director, “how can I
show what these two men are thinking? I must have the camera closer to
the actors--that’s what I must do--and having only two actors in these
scenes, I can.”
Up to this time, every scene had been a long shot--that is, the
floor--the carpet--the greensward--showed yards in front of the actors’
feet. But Mr. Griffith knew he couldn’t show nine feet of floor and
at the same time register expression. So to his camera man he said:
“Now don’t get excited, but listen. I’m going to move the camera up,
I’m going to show very little floor, but I’m going to show a large,
full-length figure; just get in the actors’ feet--get the toes--one
foot of foreground will do.
“Well, we’ve never done anything like that--how do you think that’s
going to look?--a table with a man on each side filling up the whole
screen, nearly.”
“We’ll do it--we’ll never get anywhere if we don’t begin to try new
things.”
The burglars were screened so big that every wicked thought each
entertained was plainly revealed. Everybody came to like the idea
afterwards, especially the actors.
Along in November, Mr. Griffith began work on a series of domestic
comedies--the “Jones Pictures.” Florence Lawrence played Mrs. Jones,
and John Compson, Mr. Jones. Their movie marital début was in “A Smoked
Husband.” The Jones movies were probably the first to achieve success
as a series.