Motion Picture Magazine (Aug 1928-Jan 1929)

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I. 118 It looks dangerous, but it's not; for what difference would it make if Fay should be thrown from this cantankerous sea-horse. So long as she's Webb-footed? Van Dyke Beards the Lions {Continued from page 73) he returns. Through a country scarcely charted on the maps he has packed nine tons of trucks and generators, and nine tons more of lamps. He went to make a picture. And he took his equipment with him. Now and then a sequence may be interrupted by the charge of a maddened lion, or a crazily militant rhinoceros, by the attack of a savage tribe, or the ravages of jungle fever. But come hell or high water, Van Dyke will get his picture. Unless, of course, Africa gets him first. Like the old-time skippers of the ocean hell-ships, one prerequisite to leading a troupe into the nerve-wracking solitudes is the ability to whip the crew one after another or several at a time. And Woody possesses this asset. In Polynesia he broke up more than one battle between members of his company, rasped raw by long marooning from civilization, with the announcement that the privilege for any private fights rested upon the ability of the battlers to lick him first. And upon occasion he has stilled chattering dissenters with a mild remark that the next mouth to open would have his fist crammed into it. He's a tough egg. The kind who has his men ready to go to hell for him. The kind who'll go to hell for his men. On this "Trader Horn" trip to Africa, his chief concern is to bring them all back. He repeated it over and over. THE JARGON OF THE JUNGLE IN his picture he'll use natives to play parts. Tall, scowling savages, who know no more of movies than you do of the Mountains of the Moon. Even to convey any idea of what he requires, Van Dyke's words must be translated at least twice, sometimes more. For every tribe has its own patois. Each word is spoken first in the pidgin-English of Mombasa, turned into the Swahili tongue, and then re-translated into the talk of the tribe. Swahili is a sort of national language of Africa, as English is that of America. But English, translated into United-States, must be again refined to be understood in the various argots. Van Dyke is forty. He's been in pictures thirteen years. Perhaps an ominous number. When he was seven months old, he played a part in a stage production. His mother was Laura Winston, an actress who trouped through the sticks cradling her baby in a wardrobe trunk. His dad was a judge, and one of the Van Dykes. For Woody can claim close kinship to Henry Van Dyke, the philosopher and litterateur, to John G. Van Dyke, the art critic who is also professor of archeology at Rutledge College. From that first role he grew into kid parts, and leads, and heavies. From time to time he quit show business to dig and pan for gold. To trace newsprint from its sources in the nation's limitless timber land to metropolitan newspaper offices. He was a lumberjack and a reporter. His final adieu to the stage came when he joined D. W. Griffith as an assistant and worked with him on, and in, "Intolerance." He wrote and directed numerous pictures of "the great open spaces. " One of these was " Madonna of the North. " And it gave Gladys Brockwell her chance at stardom. He and Tim McCoy are fast friends. He has directed a number of Tim's pictures, and from him has learned much Indian lore and a useful smattering of the c-ign-language on which he insists McCoy is the world's authority. THE LEPER-SHIP HE'S been through a hard school. Things never came easy for him. He grunts and grumbles like an army-trooper about the assignments that carry him to the far corners. But somehow one feels that in his heart he's tickled to death to tackle the road again. Especially when that road leads to places that no six white men have seen and lived to tell about. He's a grim joker. Gets a laugh, for instance, over an episode that took place during the filming of "White Shadows." He and his gang, "the best blankety-blank gang in the picture racket," discovered a little boat riding at her anchor in the tranquil blue of a Polynesian harbor. On its decks they luxuriated