Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1916)

108 Photoplay Magazine Stephen Holt's office. This was on the oiid floor of the administration building, which stood in one corner of the studio grounds, and the sanctum was defended by an anteroom. Being informed that Holt was alone — Stannard's recent departure for New York had resulted in Holt's more frequent presence at the office of late — the director went in. The room was square, and had windows on two sides, one of which overlooked the teeming, kaleidoscopic activities of the stages and "lot." The walls were tinted a soft fawn color, good rugs were on the floor, and the furniture consisted of a flat-topped desk covered with glass, numerous filing cabinets along the walls, and several uncushioned armchairs, all of sunny oak. Through a closed door at the left came the dry tapping of a typewriter. Holt was reading a legal-looking document. He laid it aside with a smile of greeting when he saw his visitor, and motioned him to a chair beside the desk. The two men had always got on eminently well in a business way, particularly since the clash with Marcia Trent. Holt's support at that time had never been mentioned between them, but Briscoe had a tacit understanding of -it and was correspondingly grateful. Now he entered at once upon what he had come to say. He described his work with June, reviewed her progress, and in conclusion stated his conviction that she had advanced to a point where she was capable of playing leading parts. "By that you mean you want to star Miss Magregor?" "Yes." "All right, go ahead. If the public is acquainted with her and she is getting good reviews, I can't see anv objections." "Thanks." Sitting erect on the edge of his chair, Briscoe stared out of the window a moment. Then he cleared his throat. "I want to star June in a different way," he said. "That's what I came to see you about." "Yes?" Holt seemed a little surprised. "How different?" Briscoe cleared his throat again and launched into his theme. "Well, I want to make a new kind of picture. I think we've gone about as far as we can along present lines. Everybody's doing about the same thing, and we can't improve the stuff much except in details. The serial's done for, and so is the stunt picture. Both are money-makers, perhaps, but rubbish ; no art ; no resemblance to life ; twaddle!" As Briscoe paused a moment, Holt smiled. "This is treason, my friend, but go on," he said. His blue eyes had narrowed thoughtfully, and he had slid down in his chair, regardless of the consequences to his new summer khaki suit. Briscoe went on with a little gesture of suppressed feeling; he was giving expression at last to all he had pondered so long and so deeply. "The pictures are an art," he said. "Kverybody admits it. The art will live, not the rubbish. I want to develop the art." "How?" "Something like this !" Briscoe leaned forward. "People talk about pictures forcthe drama. I don't believe it. in my opinion are literature, not They'll grow more like it all the Now the pictures we've all been ing out Pictures drama. time. making so far — what I call action pictures. and by that I mean anything you can go into a theater and see to-day — these seem to me about the type of the adventure storv or the detective story in literature. Mighty entertaining, but not the highest type of fiction." "But more people read that sort of story than any other, don't they J" "Day by day. perhaps, but not in the long run. Think of the books that live. Now here is my point : Moving pictures aren't any longer a show for the mob — " "Oh. aren't they?" interrupted Holt sardonically, and picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. "Do you know, Tom." — he consulted the paper — "that 64 per cent of the men who run movie theaters in America can neither read nor write the English language, and that 18 per cent can't read or write any language? Do you know that the plot these men prefer in a picture is" — ■ he consulted the paper again and quoted — " 'something with a couple of good fights, a criminal assault, and a murder in it?' Well, those things are true. They're not guesses, they're facts, and of course those men only voice the preferences of their patrons." The director sat silent a minute, overwhelmed bv this evidence. Then his jaw