Film Fun (Jan - Dec 1916)

r2x "You are breaking away from the slapstick stuff," commented some one from the far gloom of the room. "How'll Mack Sennett like that, huh? Sennett's main idea of humor seems to be one grand slam of kaleidoscopic action that tires the eye and leaves no one strong point in the memory." Mr. Arbuckle continued to watch himself on the screen diving under the bed for a collar button. "Well," he said calmly, "Mr. Sennett trusted me to come to New York and put on these plays. He knows what my ideas are along the newer lines of screen comedy." It may be that Sennett has noted the trend and begun to moderate his inordinate frenzy of acrobatic falls and tumbles and violent and unnecessary smashes through breakfast rooms, with the unvarying accompaniment of broken china and ceilings. "What's the worst thing that can happen to an actor?" I asked, apropos of the remarkable [tumble down the stairs of the doctor in search of the burglar. Mr. Arbuckle handed ^^3^i=; . £*l me the answer slap off the shoulder. *==* "To arrive," he said promptly. "I thought that .was what they all desired more than anything else," I said, in surprise. "They do," he replied; "but the trouble is, once they arrive, there isn't much to do but to leave again. When they are climbing up, the public applauds and says, 'That chap is coming right along — doing better every day.' But once theactor is heralded as an absolute arrival, the public begins to criticise and pick flaws and expect him to better his own standard, and it is a tremendous strain. He simply is forced to keep ahead of the public's opinion and to spring something newer and better every season. The man or woman who can survive an ' arrival' is a star of the greatest magnitude." There's a bit of thought for you. We mulled it over and watched the picture silently, until Mr. Arbuckle began to chuckle over a scene. ' ' We had an awful scrap over that, ' ' he said. ' ' You see, sometimes some of us disagree on an essential point of the production, and we stop the picture and thrash it out right there. Miss Normand is a very charming little lady, but she] has a mind of her own, all the same, and we had some argument over that. My idea was to mystify the audience right there — not let 'em have an inkling of why Mabel gets her visitor into her room there, until they see the burglar hauled out from under the bed." I noticed [that it was his part of the idea that got over, though. "That's a good bit," commented some one in the group, when the screen flashed the picture of the armchair before the fireplace. Mr. Arbuckle smiled happily. "That's what I meant when I said that we need not rob the picture of scenic beauty to get humor into it. Clean comedy, with an artistic background, not merely hysterical laughter and situations." "Think the public wants that kind of comedy?" queried one of the visitors. "I don't believe the public wants to get its laughs mixed up with its thoughts, do you?" "I'm banking on it," said Arbuckle confidently, "although older and more experienced men than I am have failed to grasp the way of the public and what it will do at a given period. I believe in the comedy that makes you think, and I believe that the time has come to put it on — and that is what I am going to do. ' ' We stood a moment in the doorway, when the picture and the interview were over, and watched the little file of actors and actresss in the yard, who had been informed that there would be no use in waiting. "I'd like to go out to the car with you," said Mr. Arbuckle, nervously glancing out of the window at the group; "but if I go out there and they see me, they'll all ask me for a job — and I haven't a thing to offer them." His blue eyes looked concerned with a boyish sentiment as he bent them on us. "I — I sort of hate to turn them down," he said deprecatingly. You see, responsibility takes the laugh out of you sometimes. And although Roscoe Arbuckle loves to see his public laugh, it takes the smile off his own face when he must in any way distress even a small proportion of it. "Miss Normand has a longing to play drama on the stage," he said, as he bade us good-by; "but I don't believe there is any finer mission on earth than just to make people laugh, do you?" Two-minute Interviews With the Stars "There's one thing about the motion picture stuff," mused George Beban, when the Two-minute Interviewer arrived. "It's never dull. Only I don't care for the zoo parts. I didn't mind the old turkey gobbler in a farm scene, who took exceptions to a red handkerchief I waved and did the turkey trot after me in two-four time. If there's anything that looks as harmless and funny as a turkey gobbler and can do such good work in the ring, I haven't run across it. "Then there was the dog that played one scene with me. We played about 150 feet of thrilling film with this creature swinging from my left knee. The dog held on by his teeth. I held on by main strength. It made a good film, but a rotten knee. "And there was the lamb. Have you heard the story of the lamb? This was Georgie's lamb. It cuddled up in my arm and winked at papa lamb, who had remained quiescently in the offing until he caught the wink. Papa lamb's butting average broke the record during the next five minutes. He was a fond father and a persistent sheep; and I [gave him the game without the aid of the umpire. "Then there was the" "Time's up," announced the Two-minute Interviewer. ' ' Wait a minute, ' ' urged Beban. ' ' I want to tell you about the" "Next time," firmly remarked the Two-minute Interviewer. "Time's up." m m The English film fans have nicknamed Helen Gibson the "nervy flapper." Helen felt offended at the news, unti1 it was explained to her that "flapper" is English for the American "chicken," or, in plain, ordinary words, a more than likeable young woman.