Motion Picture News (Oct 1913 - Jan 1914)

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THE MOTION PICTURE NEWS 15 HOW AN EXHIBITOR MADE GOOD The Dramatic Story of a Big Success from a Small Beginning A CONSIDERABLE imagination seems almost essential to place credence in the claim that the exhibitor with a theatre representing a $10,000 investment has the same opportunities for success, on a smaller basis, as the exhibitor operating a house which cost $1,500,000 to construct. Or is it imagination that is required? ' Those, who know, make the somewhat commonplace and time-worn remark that it is just plain common sense and hard work that are needed as the base work of the bridge that will span this gap. And to prove the absolute fidelity of their assertions an illustration has been cited. The illustration is Samuel R. Rothapfel. This is not to be an autobiography, nor a giltedged history of the man, but of his experiences. Mr. Rothapfel has been termed the "Belasco of the pictures," a forerunner of the exhibitors of the twenty-first century, and so many other things that he was incited to jot them down. And then, characteristic of his temperament, he threw the notes away. The one, great, big, glaring fact that is most prominent in his career is that Mr. Rothapfel spanned the gap between a theatre — his first — that had served, before its conversion to a place of amusement, as a store-room for the extra equipment of a barroom and dance hall, and a theatre which today is looked upon as the acme of perfection among the homes of pictures. And this is the story of how he did it. IT was an old, tumble-down and dirty looking dance hall, that presented itself as the only possible outlet for his desire to become an exhibitor. That was six years ago in a little city that nestles close under the shadows of the Ridge, a tall, gray-coated mountain, deep in the center of the Pennsylvania coal regions. "The dance hall," a title that remained as its .last claim to civilization, and conferred upon it by a few whose memory of earlier days had clung as a solace, had long been crammed with kegs, chairs minus legs and arms, glass smashed to bits through slipping from uncertain fingers in the adjoining room, musty carpets and matting, and an odor. This last was not exactly an odor. It was a plague, communicated to every board and remnant of shoddy furnishings housed in the room. It suggested a blended mixture of liquor-soaked carpets, moss, frowsy wallpaper and moisture-rotted wood. Into this uninviting place walked a resolute man who wanted to become an exhibitor. His entrance was not through the barroom, for he wanted to make the inspection unnoticed, but Jown a long, dark alley, its passage almost obstructed by kegs and refuse of many kinds. Later the alley became the only available lobby for the theatre. So it came about that two weeks later, two theatre owners in this same little mining city aroused a feeling of perfectly respectable sympathy within themselves for the fate of one, who was soon to become a competitor. Their houses were admirably located, right in the heart of the business district, with people compelled to pass and repass their doors. Surely, that little malodorous rear-room two blocks away, where all was dark, and where none but a few foreigners ever went, would make a sorry showing with motion pictures. * * * * BUT the rebuffs, the jeers, the friendly advice, so-called, to forget his aspirations, and constant discouragements from every side, all fell short of their purpose with this man, who wanted to become an exhibitor. It was the best he could get, and he took it without question, although not without thought. A week later the back room of the dance hall and saloon was formally opened as a bona fide motion picture theatre. The floors had been relaid, the walls covered with an inexpensive, but durable and attractive matting, comfortable sec ond-hand chairs had been installed, and a judicious arrangement of lights in the alley, supplemented by a board walk leading to the side door, that entered into the theatre, made it a fairly presentable lobby. Things didn't go with a whoop from the start. People were slow to place themselves open to conviction, and many chairs were vacant six nights a week. But Mr. Rothapfel had pried deep and unearthed a business possibility. Many of the miners were foreigners, and these silent, hard-handed men, understanding little of America and its ways and somewhat prone to suspicion of their neighbors' intent, were loath, to mingle with the strangers, who thronged the remaining two theatres. They did not mind the little alley leading to the side door of the former dance hall, nor did they care particularly about its former history. So they came, slowly at first, and then in increased numbers, when they found the theatre spotlessly clean, the air sweet and pure, the pictures of the kind that appealed most strongly to their pleasure-loving and highly impressionable natures, the manager courteous and always smiling. They understood that smile, whether or not they grasped the meaning of the kindly spoken "good evening," and the pleasant "good night." They felt that they were welcome, and that here was one who allowed no one to laugh and ridicule their quaint manner of dress and the odd little topknots of hair affected by their women. The patronage grew greater as weeks passed. The man who wanted to become an exhibitor had achieved the first little corner of his ambition. He had established a theatre that gave every indication of becoming a permanent institution in the community. But he didn't stop there, flushed with his first success, for the theatre already was yielding a nice profit weekly. ^ ♦ ♦ THIS, he explains, with the same smile that won for him the friendship and support of the foreign miners, and which has figured actively in his later success, is where the halt is called by numbers so great as to be almost appalling. Encouraged to the point of over-confidence and with the feeling that a final success has been achieved, there are many who cease the consistent effort and vigilance that has brought the first triumphs, and hence plunge into the downward path. No success is permanent in a business where competition is to be encountered. Always there must be a forging ahead, progress of a kind that commands attention, improvements, however small, that contribute to the aggregate items of genuine success. An exhibitor, once satisfied with his attainments as such, is no longer an exhibitor. He is a failure. Rothapfel passed this dangerous pitfall warily. He reserved six hours each day for rest, and the remaining eighteen were devoted religiously to the accomplishments of one purpose — extending the waiting line each night still farther down the block, perfecting his system of management, experimenting for better projection, a brighter, steadier and clearer light on the screen, and in other ways by which he could awaken a latent interest in his theatre among the patrons of his competitors. The foreigners noted, marvelled, and then came in increased numbers. Every exhibitor has virtually the same difficulties in managing his theatre, viewed from a general standpoint, but not all meet them in the same fashion. One night a commandment was broken in this theatre that had once served as a dance hall, and later as a store-room. That commandment was cleanliness. Two men, employed jointly as ushers and cleaners, fulfilled the former duty with the audience, but in a spirit of independence, failed in the latter. An angry but determined employer arrived early the next morning. There were the same muddy tracks on the floor, that had been left the previous night by rain-soaked shoes ;