TRICK STUFF
Motion pictures are not only important; they are fascinating. There’s
a glamor that surrounds the whole industry. Think of starting out at
daybreak—three big autos full of people, and a whole cavalcade on
horseback as well—to stage a “real sham battle” between cowboys and
Indians!—Think of all the interesting results that can be secured, with
the use of a little ingenuity and knowledge of the amazing things that
a camera will do!
Haven’t you ever wondered, when watching moving pictures, why this or
that was so, how that or this was done? Whether or not a real person
had to make that dive off the cliff—or perhaps why, in some color
pictures, there are sudden unaccountable blotches of color, yellow or
red, perhaps green?
For instance, you have noticed, probably, in news reels and so on,
how fast marching men always walk? A regiment comes past at the
quickstep—almost at a run. Yet obviously, when the picture was taken,
the men were marching along steadily enough, at a swinging stride that
would set your pulse throbbing.
There are two reasons for that: one is a fairly normal convention that
has become firmly established in motion-picture theaters, and that
has nothing whatever—or at least practically nothing—to do with the
taking of the picture. The other concerns the camera man or director in
charge, and is a plain matter of judgment, good or bad.
You have probably seen strips of the celluloid ribbon, with little
holes along the sides, that they call motion-picture “film.” It’s about
an inch wide, and the little pictures run crosswise, sixteen of them
to the foot of film. When the camera man turns the little crank of his
motion-picture camera twice around, it carries a foot of film past the
lens of the camera. Sixteen exposures. Ordinarily, the speed of this
cranking is one second for the two turns—one foot of film, or sixteen
exposures, per second; sixty feet a minute.
When the film is developed and a print made for exhibition, it is run
through the projecting machine of a theater: if it were run at the rate
of a foot a second, sixty feet a minute, the figures on the screen
would move just as fast as they did in real life when the picture was
taken—no faster and no slower.
But the custom has grown up of running film through the projecting
machines faster than the film was run through the camera. Instead of
being run sixty feet a minute, it is usually clicked along at the rate
of seventy feet or more a minute. Seventy-two feet or more a minute is
called “normal speed” for projection. So that on the screen everything
happens about one-fifth faster than it did in real life, and frequently
even faster than that—much faster, since more and more there is a
tendency to “speed up” still further, until the feet of marching men in
the news reels almost dance along the street, and their knees snap back
and forth like mad.
Of course, you see more in a minute, watching in a theater where film
is run through the projection machine so fast—but what you see is
distorted, instead of being quite so much of the real thing, as would
be the case if it were run more slowly. Probably on the whole it would
be better if the convention of “speeding up” the projection machines
were done away with, and all film ordinarily run at only the actual
speed of real life—except where there happened to be some special
reason for hurrying it along.
Then—the other way of making things happen on the screen faster than
they do in real life. For instance, when one automobile is chasing
another, and turns a corner so fast it almost makes you jump out of
your seat—the hind wheels slewing around so dizzily it seems as though
the whole thing would surely go in the ditch.
That’s done by what is called “Slow Cranking.” The director, we will
say, wants to show an automobile crossing in front of the Lightning
Express, with only half a second to spare. If he were really to send
the auto with its driver and passengers across the track just in time
to escape the flying cowcatcher, it would be too terrible a risk. So
they “slow down” the action. Instead of crashing along at sixty or
seventy miles an hour the train is held down to a mere crawl—say ten
miles an hour, so that it could be stopped short, if necessity arose,
in time to avoid an accident. The auto would cross the tracks at a
correspondingly slow gait. And the camera man, instead of cranking
his film at normal speed, two turns to a second, would slow down to a
single turn in three seconds, or thereabouts. That would mean it would
take six seconds for one foot of film to pass the lens of the camera,
instead of the usual second. So that when the picture appears on the
screen, projected at normal speed, we should see in one second what
actually occurred in six seconds; the train traveling at ten miles an
hour would hurry past, on the screen, at sixty; the automobile bumping
cautiously over the tracks in low speed or intermediate, at six or
seven miles an hour, would flash past the approaching cowcatcher at
somewhere around forty.
In comedies, this trick of “slow cranking” has been used until it
has grown rather tiresome, unless done with some new effect or with
real cleverness. Autos have zigzagged around corners, or skidded in
impossible circles, men have climbed like lightning to the tops of
telegraph poles, and nursemaids have run baby-carriages along sidewalks
at racetrack speed until we are a little inclined to yawn when we see
one of the old stunts coming off again.
But there are always legitimate uses of slow cranking—as in the case of
the train and the automobile.
At one time a company was filming an episode that occurs in the story
of a cross-country automobile tour. In the story, the girl, who is
driving to the Pacific Coast with her father, stops the machine and
gives a lift to a tramp. This tramp proves to be a bad man, and decides
to hold up the defenseless girl and her invalid father. He is standing
on the running-board, beside the wheel, and threatens to turn the car
over the steep embankment at the side of road if the girl doesn’t do
just as he says. This keeps her from slowing down, or giving any signal
for help to machines that pass in the opposite direction. The tramp
evidently means what he says, and would be able to jump safely off as
he sent the car smashing to destruction. It would look like a mere
accident, and with the girl and her father killed nothing could very
well be proved.
[Illustration: _Courtesy W. W. Hodkinson Corporation._
ROPING AN AUTO BANDIT.
According to moving-picture custom, this “action” was posed for the
“still,” or publicity photograph. The photoplay shows the scene
described on page 28.]
[Illustration: _Courtesy W. W. Hodkinson Corporation._
TAKING “CLOSE-UPS” ON A MOVING AUTO.
In order to have the background in motion, it is necessary to have
both actor and camera travelling forward at the same speed, as shown
above. Note the mountains in the background. The company travelled
more than two thousand miles to secure this “location.” (See page
29).]
But at the last moment, along comes The Boy, who is following the
girl in a smart little roadster, and sees what is happening. He takes
a chance and drives alongside the larger car, makes a lasso of his
tow-rope and yanks the bad man off the running-board, spilling him in
the road.
Fair enough. But how are you going to make a picture of that, with
close-ups and everything?
By slow cranking.
The camera is put on a platform projecting in front of a third
automobile. This car follows after the other two, “shooting” the action
from the rear, as the hero yanks the tramp from the running board of
the girl’s car. For close-up shots of the faces, to bring out the
emotions and drama of the action, the camera is put on one machine or
the other as needed, taking pictures that show only the tramp, or the
girl and her father, or all three—or, on the little roadster, the boy
hero.
You can see how important the slow cranking is, when you take the point
of view of the tramp—who of course is really no tramp at all, but a
very daring and probably well-paid actor. Imagine yourself acting the
part; standing on the running-board of a moving machine, you are yanked
backwards by some one on another machine traveling alongside. You have
to fall into the road between the two machines, using whatever strength
and resourcefulness you may possess to keep out from under the rear
wheels of either car. Then, to make things better still, along comes
the camera car immediately behind, so that you have to roll out of the
way to avoid being run over by that.
If the whole action were taken at the speed supposed in the story, with
both machines traveling at twenty or thirty miles an hour, it would
be too dangerous. Couldn’t be done, without the risk of death. But by
slowing the cars down, and having all the actors make every movement
as slowly as possible, and slow-cranking the camera, the incident
can be pictured with little danger of more than a scratched face or
wrenched shoulder, and will provide a great thrill for audiences who
see it on the screen.
Another bit of action in the same story, where a man who has stolen an
automobile is racing to escape his pursuers, and drives by accident
over the edge of a cliff, to die beneath the wreckage of the stolen car:
On turns, along the dangerous road, the stolen car is “shot” from
behind, as described above. These scenes are varied with “long shots,”
taken from the distance, that show the road along the precipice, with
both pursued and pursuers racing along. Then we have a fairly close
“shot” of the wheels of the stolen car, as they come close enough to
the edge of the cliff to make you shudder; this “close-up” is taken
from behind, with slow cranking. Then, perhaps, we have a view of the
road ahead, the camera being placed (supposedly) on the stolen car. We
see the road apparently running towards us, the edge of the cliff at
one side so close that it seems as though we’d surely go over.
Next, say, a close-up of the thief, showing his expression of terror
as he loses control of the car and realizes that it is about to plunge
over the cliff into space.
Then, the real “trick action” of the incident.
The car is rolled by hand to the very edge of the precipice, and
blocked there with little stones that do not show—the tires of the
front wheels actually projecting over the cliff. The actor taking the
part of the thief holds his hands above his head, looking as terrified
as he can, and brings them very slowly down in front of him, at the
same time releasing the clutch of the car, with the gears in reverse
and the motor running. The camera, placed quite close at one side,
is slow-cranked backward. So that when the print from the film is
projected at normal speed, we see the car dash to the very edge of the
cliff, while the thief lets go of the wheel and throws his hands above
his head just as the machine makes the plunge.
For the next shot, of course, we have a distant view of the scene, a
“long shot,” showing the car plunging down to destruction, with the
thief still behind the wheel. This is done with a dummy figure. But
on the screen, when the picture is completed, we jump from the close
scene of the thief throwing up his hands as the car reaches the edge of
the cliff to the long shot of the car falling with the dummy, and the
illusion is perfect.
Before the car is pushed over the edge for the real fall, the engine
is taken out, and everything else of value that can be salvaged is
detached. In the final scene of this tragic death these accessories
may be scattered around the wreck of the car, adding to the total
effect of utter destruction. The body of the thief, half covered
by one of the crumpled fenders—the real actor, of course, this
time, shamming unconsciousness or death, properly smeared with
tomato-catsup-and-glycerine blood, adds the finishing ghastly touch.
Do you believe that any one could see that picture,—well done, the
chase along the mountainside, the rush to the edge of the cliff, the
drop through space, and the wrecked car on the ground—without a
thrill? It would be quite convincing, and few indeed could tell which
scenes were actual “straight” photographs and which were “tricked.”
In fact, it is really that classification that makes the difference:
How well is the thing done? Does it give an impression that is true
to life? The fact that a trick is used is nothing against the film;
indeed, it may be decidedly in favor of it, providing a novel and
realistic effect is secured.
For example, when the scenes described above were first assembled in
the finished film, the effect was not as good as had been anticipated.
The camera man had not cranked quite slowly enough. Consequently, in
some of the scenes the automobiles did not move fast enough on the
screen; they rounded dangerous curves with such caution that when one
car finally went over the cliff, it looked like a fake. The illusion of
the story, that made it true to life, was destroyed, because of giving
first an impression of cautious driving, and then of an accident that
would only have occurred as a result of terror or recklessness.
So still another trick was resorted to: a purely mechanical one. Every
other “frame” or individual exposure in the slow scenes was cut out,
and the remaining frames of the film patched together again. Action
that had been filmed in one second, with sixteen exposures, was reduced
to eight frames, or half a second. It was a careful cutting and
“patching” as the re-cementing of the film is called—but the second
trick remedied the defects of the first.
By adding an additional “fake” to the first, the picture was made more
nearly true to life!
Then a final touch was added to the whole business.
Immediately after the car plunged over the cliff, in the finished film,
there comes a scene of the ground, far below, flying up at you. It is
as though you were sitting in the car with the doomed thief, and get
the effect of falling with him through the air.
To get the shot, it had been planned to lower a camera man over the
precipice with ropes, allowing him to crank very slowly as he was
lowered. But the natural difficulties were too great. The distance
that the camera man would have to be lowered, to secure the necessary
effect, proved to be enormous. There was too much danger. The director
was willing to go ahead, but the camera man balked. He said the
director could go over the cliff and crank the camera himself if he
wanted to—he’d be willing to risk his camera. But the director didn’t
want to. All he was willing to risk was his camera man.
Looking at the picture after it was nearly ready for release, the
producers decided that the thrill of the accident would be much greater
with that ground-jumping-up-at-you shot, that everybody had been afraid
to make, included. And the art director came to their assistance. He
said he’d make the scene for them in the studio without danger, for
fifteen dollars. They opened their mouths, in astonishment, and when
they could get their breath, told him to go ahead.
He took a piece of bristol-board and in a few minutes sketched on it a
rough, blurred view of open country, such as you might imagine you’d
see looking down from a high cliff. Then he photographed it at normal
speed, moving it rapidly toward the lens and turning it a little as
the camera was cranked. Result, secured in connection with the other
scenes already made: the thrill of falling in an automobile through the
air, and seeing the ground fly up at you.
[Illustration: _Courtesy Goldwyn Pictures Corporation._
A MOVIE “MINIATURE.”
Representing Alaska in Southern California, for the Rex Beach picture
“The Silver Horde.” A supposed “long shot” or distant view of such a
set as this appears full size upon the screen. In reality, the camera
is only a few feet away when the picture is taken.]
[Illustration: _Courtesy Goldwyn Pictures Corporation._
A SNOW SCENE MADE OF SALT.
In order to secure “close-ups” that fit in with the realistic
miniature snow scenes of the preceding illustration, real actors are
photographed in such scenes as this. Tons of salt were used to make a
few square rods of Alaska.]
In one of D. W. Griffith’s shorter photoplays a number of girls leave
a party with a fellow in a Ford; a storm is coming up. We see the car
leaving the lighted house and starting down the dark street, we see the
gathering storm, see the car jouncing along in the blinding rain as
the storm breaks, see it cross a little bridge, with lightning flashes
illuminating the scene, and finally we see it arrive safely at the home
of the heroine, who gets out and runs to the back door in the dark like
a half-drowned kitten.
The street scene was taken with lights illuminating the house windows,
and enough of the street to show dimly the outlines of trees and so on
in the supposed night. The short scene of the gathering storm (merely
a picture of masses of moving clouds, taken of course some bright day
when there happened to be a good cloud-effect) gives us the impression
of an impending deluge. The scene of the car in the driving rain was
taken in the studio, with a black curtain hung behind the car, a man
lying concealed on the farther running board jouncing up and down to
give the impression that the machine was bumping rapidly along over a
rough road, and a hose squirting rain upon the scene in front of the
car, being driven upon it and past it by the blast of air from a huge
aeroplane propeller whirling just out of the camera’s sight. The scene
of the auto crossing the little bridge was done in miniature; that
is, a toy auto, mechanically propelled, equipped with tiny electric
searchlights, was wound up and sent across a little eight-inch bridge,
over a road that wound between trees made of twigs ten or twelve inches
high, stuck in damp sand—with little fences, houses, everything,
perfect—and the lightning made by switching a big sputtering arc-light
behind the camera on and off. Then, the final scene, of the girl
leaving the auto, was taken in fading daylight, with a hose again
supplying the drenching “rain,” and the print tinted dark blue to
indicate night.
On the screen, the illusion of the whole was perfect. As I said, it
is not whether or not a trick is used that counts—but how perfectly
the thing is done, how complete the illusion that is carried, and how
faithfully and sincerely that illusion or impression conveys a really
worth-while idea, or a story that is convincingly true to life.
You mustn’t think, though, that all the big effects on the screen
are secured by tricks. For indeed they are not. Sets are constructed
that cost thousands and thousands of dollars, locomotives are run
head on into each other, whole companies travel into out-of-the-way
and dangerous places to film unusual scenes,—shipwreck, tropical
adventures, Arctic rescues. A camera man told me of how, in a shelter
on top of a rock above a water-hole in Central Africa, he watched for
days to photograph wild elephants, and saw a fight between an elephant
and a big bull rhinoceros, and in the end almost lost his life.
All over the world the moving-picture camera is now finding its way,
blazing new trails, bringing back information of how this gold field
really looks, or how in the next range logging is carried on at ten
thousand feet. Sooner or later you and I will see it on the screen,
and it is for us to know something about the business—for the film is
taking the place of many and many a printed page, and the picture, in
part at least, is the speech of to-morrow.
[Illustration: _Courtesy Goldwyn Pictures Corporation._
“SHOOTING” A TRAMP ON A MOVING TRAIN.
Imagine you are looking down at the tramp’s head from the point where
the camera is, with the train moving rapidly, and you can get an idea
of what is shown on the screen.]
[Illustration: _Courtesy Goldwyn Pictures Corporation._
A CLOSER VIEW OF THE PRECEDING “TAKE.”
Note the number board leaning against the leg of the camera
tripod. Before each scene is taken, this board is exposed in front
of the camera with the scenario-number of the scene on it for
identification.]