The films. A new experience. The humours of rehearsals. Chasing a hat.
An embarrassing encounter with bees. How “little Nell” was buried.
Blowing up “old Peggotty.” The “Starting Point.” A glance back at a
life’s work.
On my return from America in 1913 I had an opportunity of exploiting
myself on the “movies.” Nothing could have presented a greater
contrast to what I had been accustomed to than posing in front of the
cinematograph camera. It was as far as the poles are asunder from
circus and pantomime clowning. One had to get used to performing
without the stimulus of an audience. A rehearsal for a film picture
is totally different from a rehearsal on the stage. If anything is
imperfect, or goes wrong with the latter, it is of no very great
consequence. To go back and try once more is easy enough. But with the
camera--dear me, no. The repetition of a series of photographs involves
a good deal of trouble and stage direction.
But that which I found essentially unfamiliar was the necessity of
adapting oneself to the situation and surroundings and the calling
up of the suitable facial expression to the satisfaction of the
producer. In my harlequinade scenes, as I have already mentioned, I
was left entirely to myself, and I worked everything out on my own
responsibility, but for the cinematograph all had to be in accordance
with the ideas of the producer. But as my “business” was to be comic,
and as all my life I had been pantomiming in some shape or form, the
thing came to me easily enough, especially in humorous scenes.
I am bound to say, however, that occasionally incidents unexpectedly
happened during rehearsals which to me were funnier than those which
subsequently appeared on the screen. I remember during my engagement
with Hepworth’s an unrehearsed episode occurred, which caused no end
of amusement not only to me but to others, save the old gentleman
who was the cause of the laugh. The thing occurred at the studios at
Walton-on-Thames. My instructions were to walk down the main street
and at a given moment to permit my straw hat to be blown off by a
convenient wind, supplied by means of a carpet thread attached to the
brim and pulled by an unseen person.
I believe Sir Herbert Tree once set down a piece of advice, among
other gems of wisdom in his commonplace book, which ran: “If your hat
blows off don’t trouble to run after it; somebody is certain to do it
for you.” I found the last half of this “tip” to be perfectly true,
but unfortunately the “business” of the part I was playing made it
essential that _I_ should run and make a great pother over doing it.
The hat went off properly and skidded along the street with me in full
cry after it. My predicament and apparent distress at once excited the
pity of a gentleman who, out of the kindness of his heart, dropped the
portmanteau he was carrying and started to assist me, not seeing the
camera on the watch, and probably not understanding if he did see it.
Of course the scene was within an ace of being spoilt and I yelled
to him to get away. Thinking no doubt that I was a fool to reject
his help, he kept on running, though he must have wondered where the
miraculous wind came from, for there was not a breath of air stirring.
At last I overtook the kind gentleman and we had a few words, which
were not of the most kindly nature, and indeed we might have come to
blows had not the producer appeared on the scene and explained what was
being done. Then I shook hands with my would-be friend, he departed to
look after his portmanteau, and the photographs were taken over again.
This really was my first attempt for the “pictures” and the mishap
did not seem to me to be very encouraging. However, the film was a
big success and meant for me a six months’ engagement. During that
six months I played many varied parts, one of the oddest being the
impersonation of one of the “Tiller Girls.” There were three of us,
Alma Taylor, Chrissy White and myself. I was told that I made a lovely
girl. On this point I have no opinion, but I’m quite certain that we
had great fun.
Another droll rehearsal incident was that in which a hive full of
bees figured. This hive was necessary to the plot of a little play in
which I was supposed to be the uncle of a schoolboy who was spending
his holidays at my country house. In the course of his rambles the
boy strolls into a wood and chances to overhear a couple of fellows
concocting a plan to break into my house, kidnap my nephew the
schoolboy and keep him until he is ransomed. The boy, one of the
precocious, ingenious urchins only to be met with on films, is ready
with a counter plot. What could be simpler and more effective than to
place a beehive each side of the window which the kidnappers were sure
to select, and connect the hives with a rope which would not be seen.
The fellows had only to catch their feet in the rope, which of course
they would be obliging enough to do, the hives would be upset, and the
bees would attack the intruders and sting them to death or thereabouts.
The drawback to the preparation was that the film management had no
bees. However, a beekeeper was found in the neighbourhood, and he not
only agreed to let his hives but he would also instruct us how to
handle the bees, which after all was the main point. A river separated
the beekeeper’s place from the spot where we were rehearsing, and a
boat was hired to bring the hives across. Five of us were commissioned
for the job and we were conducted by the owner to where he kept his
bees. Noticing one or two of the party hanging back the beekeeper
remarked:
“There’s nothing to be frightened about. You’ve only got to be quiet
and not disturb them. They won’t hurt you.”
But somehow the man’s preparations did not reassure us. He had crape
over his face and long gloves which came a considerable distance up
his arms. He was proceeding with his instructions how to handle bees
when the walking stick on which one of the party was leaning slipped;
he overbalanced himself upon a hive and out came a swarm of infuriated
insects. We stood not upon the order of going, but took to our heels
helter skelter. I scooted across the fields, the bees after me, but
reached the boat in safety, jumped in and crossed the river without a
sting. The others were not so fortunate, and as among them were the two
rascally kidnappers, everybody said it served them right.
I think the funniest bit of unrehearsed comedy was that which came
about in the production of Dickens’ “Old Curiosity Shop,” in which I
played the part of the single gentleman who took apartments in Sampson
Brass’s house in Bevis Marks, and was the cause of so much solicitude
on the part of the rascally attorney and his masculine sister, Sally.
The funeral of little Nell was to be a scene of intense pathos and
realism. Four supers were engaged to carry the coffin to its burial
place in the woods, and a clump of high trees about fifty yards from
where the cortege was to start was selected as an ideal spot. The
procession started with due solemnity, the bearers’ heads and shoulders
being concealed beneath the pall in the orthodox fashion. It was
noticed that the coffin was not carried perfectly level, but had a
tendency to droop at one corner. However, no one troubled, and as the
funeral cortege proceeded along the road everything was done with such
decorum and realistic effect that the passersby doffed their hats, as
also did the drivers of various vehicles.
Suddenly came a horrifying catastrophe. The cause of the depression
of the coffin was due to one of the bearers being shorter than his
companions, and either in his efforts to keep the coffin level or that
the pall got in his way and prevented him seeing where he was going, he
caught his foot in the root of a tree, and down he went and the coffin
followed! Consternation and horror were written in the faces of the
bystanders and they rushed to the scene of the catastrophe, expecting
to see the coffin smashed and the corpse ejected. They certainly saw
the first, but not the second, for of course the body was bogus. So
what began in solemnity ended in merriment. For all that I’m quite sure
that those who had paid such respect to the supposed dead were a little
annoyed to think how they had been “spoofed.”
Another instance of what was intended to be serious working out in
the opposite direction occurred when I was playing old Peggotty in
“David Copperfield.” The boatman’s hut on the beach was, as readers of
the novel will remember, at Yarmouth, but the producers of the film
found it more convenient to transfer the scene to Whitstable, and to
Whitstable accordingly I went with the other actors in the adaptation.
Meanwhile the producer had made arrangements with some shipping agents
to provide him with the hull of a fishing smack which was turned upside
down on the beach to do duty for Peggotty’s dwelling place. A door and
a window were put in and the interior was furnished with an American
stove with a chimney pipe, from which it was intended a cloud of smoke
should issue to suggest the proper homely effect.
We artistes arrived on the spot and hundreds of people gathered round,
gaping with eagerness to see the show and wondering what it was all
about. As a matter of fact we hadn’t much to do, the chief actors
being an old sailor and a boy, who were to engineer the smoke with the
assistance of sawdust and wood and a bucket of petroleum. My part in
the scene was to drag some fishing nets from the back of the boat to
the door and enter the hut, where I was supposed to be awaiting the
arrival of my adopted son Ham. In the meantime the producer had given
instructions to the old sailor that directly he heard a whistle he was
to light the stove.
I entered the hut, closed the door, the whistle sounded and the old
chap started to light the fire. For some reason the fire refused to
burn in the way it was wanted and after the lapse of a few minutes
we heard the producer outside calling for more smoke--black smoke.
The blackness was very important for the camera to obtain the proper
effect. “All right, guv’nor,” grunted the sailorman, “leave it to me.”
The producer did leave it, went away and in due time blew his whistle.
I was sitting on a chair not far from the American stove, which was
nearly red-hot. “There goes the whistle, my lad,” said I, and the
next minute--well, the whistle was not the only thing that was blown.
Somebody as usual had blundered, and amid a loud explosion and clouds
of smoke black enough to satisfy the most exacting producer we were
scattered goodness knows where!
The fact was that fool of a man had poured the petroleum into the
red-hot stove and the result was chaos. I can’t say I remember exactly
what happened. I fancy I was too thankful I was still alive to think
of anything else. But there’s a funny side to everything and I shan’t
soon forget the picture of the scared sailorman fingering his hair
and beard, or rather what remained of them. Both were frizzled to a
frazzle. I should like to have heard the remarks of his wife when she
set eyes upon him. At the same time it was a mercy he got off with
nothing worse than the spoiling of his locks. The next day the thing
had to be gone over again, barring the explosion, and this time all
went well.
Another episode which happened in the filming of “David Copperfield”
was quite as unexpected and even more embarrassing. The producer wanted
a wreck for the final scene where Micawber, Peggotty and others leave
England for Australia. He negotiated with the harbour of a south coast
port to furnish him with a wreck, and accordingly in a few weeks’ time
the wreck in the shape of a schooner was forthcoming. She was lying
some two miles distant from the pier, and the producer bargained with
the captain of a tug to take us out. The skipper agreed to do so for
£5. We were taken to the wreck, which we boarded, and we were all so
engrossed in our work that we did not notice that the tug had sheered
off and left us to our fate.
The tide was coming in, the swell had its effect on the wreck and on
the ladies of the company. The situation began to be unpleasant. We
could see the tug in the distance and had we known how to send out a
S.O.S. most certainly the skipper of the tug would have had one. Just
when we were about to realise the shipwreck feeling in sober earnest,
the tug condescended to come alongside, and then we made the discovery
that her captain wanted another £5 to take us ashore. There was no
alternative to submitting to the extortion, and no doubt the producer
registered a vow that the next time he hired a tug he would make sure
that the money paid meant “there and back.”
A droll experience was that when I and several other film artistes were
engaged in a film production in which we had to appear as old time
mountebanks and barnstormers. A farmer was found who agreed to let us
have a cow shed which we proposed to turn into a mumming booth. He
shifted his cows and young bulls from their quarters in the shed and
our carpenter got to work and transformed the place to make it suit our
requirements. I had to play the part of a tragedian of the old school,
silk hat, fur collar and cuffs, and my duty was to perform on the drum
outside the supposed show. The moment came when all was in readiness
for the film to be taken. I started on the drum and had not banged
it as hard as I could half a dozen times when the cattle came on at a
run with the evident intention of going for us. The farmer’s son, who
was looking on at the show, yelled out that we’d better take cover,
and take cover we did by hopping over the hedge into the next field.
I rather fancy I headed the procession, but the drum was left behind.
It turned out that among the cattle was a young bull who was a most
aggressive beast where music (?) was concerned. Whether he recognised
in my performance on the drum the tune a certain cow in remote times
is said to have died of and wished to avenge his deceased ancestress I
can’t say, but it was a very narrow squeak.
The “Starting Point,” produced by the British Lion Co., had a breezy
nautical touch about it. The part assigned me was that of a retired
old sailor who invests his savings in the purchase of a fishing smack.
The smack goes down together with the old chap’s partner and life-long
friend. The old sailor is ruined and has to commence life again in
a very humble way. The story has a happy ending, but I need not go
into that. The drama was a very striking one and the film had a great
success. Films in which I have played have been, among others, those of
the Gaumont Co. (“The Fordington Twins”) and of the France Atlantic Co.
Altogether my film work was an interesting and novel experience.
I have now arrived at the end of my tale, in the telling of which I
have tried to “nothing extenuate nor set down aught in malice.” I
am conscious that my narrative in parts is somewhat fragmentary and
disjointed, but unfortunately this is unavoidable. As I have already
had occasion to point out, I have had to depend entirely on my memory.
Notes and memoranda, playbills, contracts, letters and many other
documents which would have been extremely helpful to me in compiling
these reminiscences were destroyed in the fire which took place in
Drury Lane Theatre some years ago.
All I can say is that while the task of digging into the past has been
somewhat toilsome and not without pain, reviving as it has memories
of so many dear friends associated with me professionally who have
passed away, it has had its compensations. I recall the many thousands
of happy faces, the merry laughter of tens of thousands of children,
which during a lengthy experience all over the world it has been my
good fortune to see and hear. I may perhaps be pardoned if I add that I
feel no small gratification in thinking that _I_ was the cause of the
happy faces, that it was _I_ at whom the boys and girls were laughing.
Maybe--and I certainly hope it has been so--I have for a few minutes,
time and again, brought brightness into the lives of others. I think
it is Thackeray who says somewhere, “A good laugh is sunshine in the
house.” It is so certainly in the theatre, not only to those in front
of the footlights but also to those behind.
The calling of the clown is to some superior people not very dignified.
Superior people need not bother. The clown is well able to take care of
himself. It is his mission to make people merry, and merriment, I take
it, is better than dullness, better than dignity--often another name
for bumptiousness. “Your merry heart goes all the day, your sad heart
tires ’a mile ’a.” Shakespeare is right!
THE END
Richmond Hill Printing Works, Limited, London and Bournemouth