Motion Picture Classic (Jan-Aug 1919)

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We fell to talking — at least I did— about the effect of peace upon the war books and war plays. “How long do you think the public will be interested in war stories after peace is declared?” “Ten,” said Hayakawa, with the quick decisiveness of a sea captain ordering the moorings cast off. “Ten what?” “Ten days.” “How do you know?” “We have had practical experience in Japan — twice,” said Hayakawa. “After the Chinese-Japanese and Russo-Japanese wars we saw our victorious soldiers come home. For ten days the public was wild over their stories. Then it was as tho some one had erased something from a blackboard.” , And I knew that was all I was likely to hear that evening. Another evening we fell to talking about motion picture acting. Somebody was raving on about the limitations of motion pictures. “You never can put over a subtle story as you can with words.” “You cant tell a subtle story with words,” retorted Hayakawa. “You cant tell anything with words.” “You cant tell it by screwing up your face and grimacing,” contended the other man, who somehow felt his case slipping. “That’s is true,” said Hayakawa. He was silent for a moment ; then he made the longest speech I ever heard from his lips. “In Japan we had a great actor; his name was Danjuro. I remember one time seeing him come into the middle of the stage and fix the audience with his gaze. He didn’t speak a word. His face was absolutely immovable. Every trace of expression was gone from it. It was set like stone. He just stood there and looked, and as he looked you could feel the audience catch its breath. He kept on looking. The audience became so tense that it seemed as tho you must scream if he did not move. I remember that I mysel f was almost hysterical when Danjuro finally relaxed and released his hold.” “Bunk !” said the skeptic. “How did he do it?” “I am afraid it would be too difficult to explain,” said Hayakawa. “Perhaps I may best illustrate it by saying this: I always try not to move my face in emotional scenes. I came from an old Samurai family in Japan. In that caste it is considered to be extremely disgraceful to show your feelings. “Under no circumstances must you lose your absolute self-control. For instance, suicide is very common in Japan. The rites of the hari-kari are very elaborate. The knife is thrust into the left side of the abdomen, drawn across the stomach for exactly six inches, then upward for one inch. It is considered shameful if the suicide, in his pain an , agony, shows that he was too agitate |j to make the cuts with exactitude. T1 1, dread of every Japanese boy is that, kil i ing him.self, his body may show that his death agony he has thrashed ar,^ kicked his legs around, thus bringir,^ lasting shame to his family. { “In these ideas I was raised. I Wi||j taught that death was a mere incider j that honor and poise were everything. |, “Therefore, when in motion pictur ^ I have to portray, let us say a scene i ^ hatred, I do not try to show it with n j, face. In fact, I try not to show it in n,] face. But I think in my heart how ij hate him.” ,il “But how do you get it over?” ask-.] one of the actors in the group. “It gets over in a way more subi,^ that I could say it in words,” said Hay^ kawa. |j “But how ?” persisted the actor. “I wish I could tell you,” said Ha}jj kawa, simply. “But unless you ha studied Eastern philosophy, it is hard make it clear. There are many 1: forces that the East knows that are r to be put into words. “For instance, let us speak of jiu-jit: I dont mean the kind of jiu-jitsu tb teach policemen ; that is baby stuff ; tl is only the rough preliminary trainh The real jiu-jitsu is of the mind, not 1 body. After you I'^ve studied for years, they tell you one secret, two ye; more and another secret, and so on.” “What’s that got to do with it?” asl the actor. “This to do with it,” answered Ha kawa. “If you should try to shoot old Japanese samurai, he would tell ] to put down the gun. You wouk know why, but you put it down, would know why. “By the same token, I cant tell ; why it gets over when I think hat that way, but I know why.” This is a little off the subject, but another time Hayakawa slipped us little secret out of the mysteries of jitsu. “The first time you go to your gai in the darkness and hear a noise suggests burglars and guns and thi: just do what I tell you. Draw in } stomach, right at the bottom of your domen. Draw in until those mus are as hard as rock — then see if you make yourself afraid of anything in world. When the old drill-sergean West Point tells the cadets to ‘sucl them stomachs,’ he thinks he is ' making soldierly figures. In realih is drawing upon a great psycholoj truth as old as the ages. He is insu them against fear.” The charming thing about Hayab; is that the next instant he steps back the twentieth century and is a golf fi a trout fisherman and a good all-an companion, ' In all his customs and manners,, {Continued on page 72) (Sixty-eight.