Exhibitors Herald (1927)

S1UDI0 SECTION OF November 5, 1927 ! Do They Cost Too Much? By Leo Meehan FOR more than six months past the press of the United States has carried columns of reports from Hollywood and New York about “the high cost of motion pictures, and what could — or would — be done about it.” It has been variously reported that the net profits of the industry last year were from 2 to 6 per cent. Considering the speculative character of the business, neither is an adequate return, of course. It is, or has been, an acknowledged fact that motion pictures, on the whole, cost too much. These production costs, necessarily, have to be passed along to the exhibitor, and by him to the public. Meanwhile, the exhibitor has built elaborate theatres, added expensive prologues or vaudeville programs to his exhibitions — and these things all have increased the cost of seats to the general public from the lowly nickelodeon days to prices ranging anywhere from 25 cents to $2. The wisdom of these policies is not a matter for me, as a motion picture producer and director, to pass upon. While I may have my own opinions, yet my personal, practical experience has been largely confined to the actual production and direction of pictures, in the studios of Hollywood. :jc :*c At the outset, I said that pictures cost too much. And by that I mean the majority of pictures. I don’t mean the great spectacles, only. These large productions, “epics,” as the press agents of the cinema proclaim them, do by their very nature in most cases, cost large sums. Huge sets, thousands of actors, months of time, lighting, location expense and hundreds of other items easily run the costs in hundreds of thousands of dollars — sometimes into millions. These films constitute tremendous risks, because many millions of dollars must be paid through the box offices of the world even to return the investments involved. If they do not meet with popular approval, and widespread popular approval, they inevitably lose money in a scale proportionate to the investment. Personally, I should dislike to make any motion picture — lavish or modest in its proportions and cost — which did not show a profit. I do not believe we are making pictures “for art’s sake.” I do not believe that a picture which meets with no measure of popular approval is any more of an artistic success than it is a financial success. In this viewpoint, perhaps, I differ with mady connected directly with the production of motion pictures. From their austere “heights” in the hills of Hollywood they are a bit inclined to look down upon the ordinary people — the very people who furnish them the money to maintain the spacious lawns that stretch before their castles. I believe most firmly in the good judgment of the plain people. I believe that I am a better artist and a better business man (and a director must be both) if the great mass of the American people, living between Broadway, New York, and Broadway, Los Angeles, like my pictures, than if they are not approved by these people but are praised by the self-appointed and self-anointed “highbrows” of Manhattan and Hollywood. And so long as I make motion pictures which satisfy the great mass of the American people. LEO MEEHAN F B O Director those whose money is invested in my pictures will realize a fair profit. Too many pictures bearing excessive costs are made, not with a thought of intriguing the interest of the masses. They are made in some instances, unfortunately, to pander to the baser instincts of people, whether they be of high or low station. More often, they are made for “show” — to attract the attention of those who believe they are blase, who think they are “hardboiled” in their judgments, who think they must see “clever touches” and “originality” rather than good straight story-telling and human characterization. In other words, in order to win the plaudits of Hollywood, which is interested mostly in technique, or New York, which is interested mostly in sophistication, they center their attention upon “French pastry” instead of bread and butter. The working man, the average fellow — and his wife and his children — consume vastly greater quantities of bread than they do French pastry — which is no reflection upon the qualities of either! % 5fc A good picture must have two things, body and soul. In that it is like a good piece of tapestry, a good painting, or a good musical composition. The creation of its body is a matter of technique. The creation of its soul is a matter of the ability of its creators, from the director and star down to the property man, to put into it a part of their own souls, their own humanness. If, in their eagerness to perfect technique, they forget to inject these human qualities, they fail. The spectator may leave the theatre saying calmly, “Beautifully done,” but he will not leave with eyes shining through a film of tears, or sides aching from deep-seated laughter. To illustrate my point: One of the ' finest pictures of the year is “The Way of All Flesh.” Technically, it is produced according to the best standards I of cinemaland. No expense was spared, and the best technical brains were em 1 ployed. But that is not wffiat made it a I great, outstanding picture. It was the human quality of the story, plus the | magnificent ability of Mr. Emil Tannings, the greatest of all living actors, to catch that elusive thing we call “soul” and fix j it with glorious genius into almost I every foot of its seven or eight thousand feet of celluloid. There were camera tricks in this picture, but the spectator ; is so enthralled by the performance of i Mr. Tannings that he doesn’t see them. That is art, and good business. And furthermore, it would still have been a great picture if the camera work and the technical mountings had been amateurish. For Jannings got to your heart, and the story got to your heart. The spectator laughs and weeps and loves and hates and pities. He comes out entertained and happy. He has not seen a picture; he has seen a bit of life. * * * LTntil pictures, generally, achieve this genuine human quality, whether or not they are as great or greater than the one I mention, they will only be pictures, and will bring forth little more response from audiences than looking at the family album, which is also filled with pictures. An Emil Jannings, in a good story, properly told by a skillful scenarist 1 and a competent director, can do as much before a piece of black velvet, by the light of two arc lamps, as he can in the middle of the largest and most lavish motion picture set ever built. When lavish settings, gorgeous photography, clever camera tricks — vast hordes of extra people, were more or less novel to the public, they were in ■ herently attractive. Tust like, on Christmas morning, a lot of shiny new toys are all attractive under the lights of a glittering Christmas tree, to my young ; son. But before the day is over, that same little boy of mine will probably be playing with some worn old toy into which he has poured the affectionate warmth of his own imaginative little soul. He loves that old toy because it is a part of his own being. The public, as a whole, responds psychologically in the same way. It likes the glitter, the novelty, the newness — but most of all it likes itself, humanity, whether it be before the family fireside, before the shaving mirror or on the silver screen. When movies have these qualities as a general rule, instead of exceptionally, then movies will make more profits because they will attract more people, oftener, into the cinema houses of the land, whether they be gilded and tapestried like the vast Paramount theatre in New York, or like the oldfashioned opera house in Kendallville, Ind. This, then, is my answer to the question of costs. Movies are essentially and by their very nature entertainment for the masses. The masses include the erudite and the day laborer, they include God’s children from 8 to 80. No one ( Continued on page 30)