Motion Picture Classic (Jan-Dec 1916)

MOTION PICTURE the doe eyes got her position, that was her opportunity, and when, two years later, the writer noticed in a trade journal that she had transferred to another company on a $25,000 per year contract, it was apparent that she had taken advantage of that opportunity. That is the only possible opening for a person who is without experience in dramatic work. The element of “pull" enters occasionally, but, strangely enough, it is so rarely that a person who benefits by it meets with any marked success, that it can be ignored as an unimportant factor. It is interesting to note that, save for a few exceptions, the film stars who are famous today were bred in those hard but efficient schools of dramatic learning known as stock companies. The devious ways in which these people later broke into the movies are interesting in themselves, but especially so when told by the players themselves. A number of famous screen artists have written for this article their story of how they “got in.” These letters form a series of human documents of interest, not only to the young man or woman eager to get into the photoplay world, but also to any one who has seen these well-known people play and has wondered if they, too, had their troubles like all other people. Mary Fuller, to begin with, is known in the profession and out of it, not only as a photoplayer of consummate skill, but also as a writer of no mean ability. Mary Fuller writes: “When the call of the theater is in one’s blood, dramatic self-expression is absolutely necessary. When it is patent that the work which is best suited to one is not only lucrative but a mental tonic and balance as well, time spent in idleness is regretted. And when one is thrifty and sees one’s small capital dwindling and ‘nothing coming in,’ action is imperative. For these three reasons I joined the movies. “In other words, it was a dull season, and, as my company had closed in December and I was waiting for the next engagement in New York to materialize, the suggestion of the movies seemed timely. I decided to apply for an engagement in the ‘silent drama,’ a somewhat mongrel profession at that time, and thus defray my expenses until the next real engagement. Thereupon I journeyed over to the outskirts of town and applied at a small studio — small at that time, but since grown into a little city — told them my dramatic qualifications, and was engaged for a trial. Returning home, I was torn between delight at my good fortune and nervousness for my first appearance. I dont remember the name of the picture, but my part was an Italian girl whose life was full of drama, love, elopement, poverty and death ! “I remember the rehearsals, oh, so well ! I was very nervous and the two men playing opposite me were very self-confident — they had had long picture experience. I recall how the directors helped me — how the other actors stood around and watched and whispered among themselves ; I remember the rose-hung garden in the first scene — the bare attic where I died in the last scene — the birds singing outside the studio windows — the terrible glare of the lights ; I remember my trepidation as I waited in the little underground projection room to see the film unrolled — the delight I felt when they said the film was a success — my subsequent promotions — and my awakening interest in this new art. Such was my start up the movie ladder of fame !” Ford Sterling is a handsome young man who might just as well have been a movie hero, but chose, rather, to be a low comedian. He has made his name famous by his clever slapstick comedy work for the screen. Mr. Sterling writes : “I’ve done a little bit of everything, I think. I started out, after a rough-and-tumble boyhood, in Notre Dame College, at South Bend, Ind., and it was there that I became adept at the athletics which have since enabled me to perform the crazy stunts I’ve had to do for pictures. When I left college I went almost directly on the stage, except for some cartoon work which I did for the Chicago American. I played in stock during the winters, and did trapeze work in county fairs during the summers. Some existence ! By the time I was thru playing with stock companies all over the country I think I’d played about a thousand different roles. It was wonderful training, and I dont see how any actor, who’s not a genius, can go without it. Then I went into vaudeville with Tom McEvoy, now with Biograph, and, while I was doing that, Mack Sennett, then of Biograph, saw me, and, needing a comedian, offered me a job. Well, I had made it a rule never to refuse a job, so I took this one, altho I didn’t have the least idea what was wanted of me. But I’m glad now that I did take it — picture work is great !” A name that has loomed large on the movie horizon for the last few years is that of Anita Stewart, who furnishes one of the few examples among film luminaries of those entering the picture field without previous dramatic training of any sort. Miss Stewart has just finished playing to the movie-loving public as the heroine of “The Goddess,” the successful \ itagraph serial, and, taking into consideration her extreme youth and her decidedly short experience, her performances were remarkable. Miss Stewart writes : “I was just a kid of fifteen when my brother-in-law, Ralph Ince, who was a director with the Vitagraph Company, told me to come down to the studio in the afternoons after school and fill in as a little girl ‘extra.’ I tried it once and liked it, and they must have liked me, too, because they offered me a position with the regular stock, and I took it. I left school and became a regular actress, and my first good part was in ‘The Wood Violet’ — after that I was a fixture with the Vitagraph, and I’ve been there ever since. I can say that, from the time I used to play maid parts for the older Vitagraph stars, to the present time, Motion Picture work has been an endless source of fascination to me. To those who are anxious to accomplish things in the movie world, I can send out just one message: ‘Be sure, first, that you’re equipped with a natural dramatic instinct, and then be willing, when your chance comes, to do any sort of picture work, no matter how humble. There’s just one way to get to the top of the ladder and feel safe there, and that’s by slowlv climbing all the lower rungs.’ ” There are but few heroines more beloved than the vivacious Mabel Trunnelle, of the Edison players. Miss Trunnelle’s entrance into the films might well form part of a story — here it is, just as she tells it: “I was on the road with a theatrical company, and suddenly became very tired of it all — you know the feeling, just played out. I wrote a blue letter to a friend of mine who was with the Edison Company, and told her how I wished the season would close. Just two nights later I received a telegram from her, saying ‘Hand in your notice at once and come to New York. Will tell all when you arrive.’ That dear old telegram ! I have framed it now. I followed her advice, and on reaching New York, was told to call at the Edison studio. I was at once engaged on my friend’s recommendation, and, without ever having seen myself on the screen, sailed for Cuba to take part in pictures. “On the boat going there I was dreadfully sick, and J. Searle Dawley, the director, called at my stateroom and told me that they were going to try me out in a little comedy scene up on deck, and asked me to get into (Twenty-four)