The Photo-Play Journal (Jan-Jun 1919)

January, igiQ PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL 51 ^grfl©MSiiy~j% Dsnal By FRANK SMITH George B. Seitz, who collaborates on the Scenarios and Directs all of Pearl White's Serials, tells something of the growth of this form of screen entertainment from the mere "stunt" pictures of former days to the modern Fifteen Episode Serial of today. f M "HEY were going to make a typhoon. They had a good night for it. The temperature had gone down a little when the sun did and now it was not too hot for those who were 10 keep dry, nor too cold for those who were destined to be drenched. A complete full moon was rising steadily above the towers of lower New York, across the river. The fragrant smell of Java was in the air, and the sound of song. In the studio, surrounded by the wreckage of supper, the cast and the staff were having their coffee, and the Astra Gang of (screen) Gunmen, with their heads as near together as they could get them, were tearing off some close harmony that was especially close and sweet and sad — Someone cried, "Hold it !" — and they did, until the cheers of their audience announced that the American record had been broken and the Olympic record had been tied. I noticed that the song-leader, who had a gorgeous bass voice, was wearing a bathing suit and the crown of a derby hat. I found Mr. Seitz in his office. He was not alone. Five men were grouped about him. Two of them were supporting Egyptian mummy cases as tall as themselves ; another had both fists full of knives ; next to him was a chap with three beautiful Chinese robes that must have been cut for an ancient king; the fourth man was the Art Director, and he had a charming pencil drawing of a native village in the tropics. The fifth man was Mr. Warner Oland — dramatist, golfer and villain. Mr. Oland wore the simple sack, street, or business suit of a professional laundry man. He was very w-et — but not from the tubs. No. They had made a little typhoon for him just before they knocked off for supper. Now it was nearly time to go to work again, but during the lull, Mr. Seitz was deciding about some properties that would be needed the next day. It took him about ten seconds to indicate which mummy was to be used and which was to be thrown on the junk pile — and that same discarded mummv-case was a beauty — -"for them as like mummys." Then the man with the knives displayed his cutlery — five savage dirks with handles of horn. Mr. Seitz selected two of them and balanced them in his hands and cut designs in the air. One was particularly offensive and looked as though it had been Exhibit A in a thousand important murder trials. I could see that the young director liked that knife. He grinned at the chap who was waiting for his answer. "The other one is longer," he said, "but this one is authentic — and it has the right look, somehow. Save it out. It's the one we'll use." As the armorer went out, the costumer stepped up, and spread out the three robes. They were of heavy silk, embroidered with pounds of gold thread. To describe them must have taken whole columns in the morning papers after the opening of some ancient Chinese opera season. "Here are your evening clothes, Warner," Mr. Seitz said, as he gave one of the robes to Mr. Oland. The costumer favored one of the other robes — and so did I, but Air. Seitz said that they were Mongolian and the one he had picked out was a genuine, imperial Manchu coat, and not only that, but it would screen better. Mr. Oland was nodding approvingly over the one he was to wear — so the costumer and I compromised, and gave them their way. Then the Art Director presented his sketch. A boy came in with coffee and ice cream for me. Mr. Seitz turned to his coffee, which he had been neglecting, and while he sipped it he went over the drawing from which the scenic men were to create the tropical location -it depicted. It was a beautiful drawing, as I said before. It made one think of the stories of O. Henry and Richard Harding Davis and Jack London. It suggested beach-combers, and island romances, and pearl thieves and the Sole Survivors of the Ship Wreck. But it wasn't quite right. Mr. Seitz put down his coffee cup, and with a chunk of soft rubber, carefully took out all the native huts. Then with a pencil he put them neatly back again, changing their design and construction. I was surprised as I watched him work with deft, sure strokes. Only a trained artist could draw with such accuracy. As he was finishing there came a yell from a man who wished to announce that the lights were ready. Mr. Oland gave me a jolly Chinese grin and shot out of the room, leaving a trad of wet foot prints. Mr. Seitz drank the last of his coffee and we went out together. "Not much like the old days," I said, as he led me to the place where the typhoon was going to burst. "In the early beginnings of serials the rule seemed to be, 'anything will do.' " He agreed. "Styles have changed," he said. "Serials are improving. The public has been given some very fine feature pictures — and they want that feature quality along with the thrills in their serials.' We arrived at the location. The moon was now high up and sliding westward over the chocolate factory next door. No one had time to notice it. A number of studio men were putting the finishing touches on what appeared to be a big chunk of tropics, transplanted bodily to the Astra lot. Banks of powerful lamps on three sides flooded the scene with light. Workmen were moving about behind the palm trees. In the center stood a small hut, made of reeds and palm leaves. It was dripping from the small typhoon of the afternoon. The door opened and out came the low lyric bass who had lead the close-harmony performance. He still wore his bathing suit and derby crown. It was just as well. As he stepped out of the hut he was showered by an enthusiastic young typhoonist who was directing rain effects from a nearby roof. The husky basso never looked up. He was too busy at his job of putting more jung into that jungle. Presently the actors arrived. Someone was missing. I began to wonder. A Pearl White serial without Pearl White? It didn't seem right at all — until Mr. Seitz explained that the scenes he was about to take were supposed to happen twenty years before Miss White was born. Then the typhoon burst, and work began in earnest. It was the worst and the best storm that ever blew up in the calm moonlight of a beautiful summer night. It wouldn't be fair to Mr. Seitz if I should describe it, for most of the effects were of his own invention, but before it was over the hut was whirled into the air, three vicious natives were killed in a terrible fight, a fourth was struck by lightning, and the only white character in the cast was pinned down by two giant palm trees that were levelled by the terrific blasts of the tropical hurricane. The moon was miles away from the chocolate factory before they finished, for it takes time to do all the things mentioned above, even with the aid of a storm and twenty brisk typhoonists. Everybody was very busy, especially Mr. Seitz and the husky bass in the bathing suit. During the inevitable waits, Mr. Seitz told me more about serials, ancient and modern. I speak advisedly when I say 'ancient,' for that is the very word the young director used to characterize serials that were made less than ten years back. "Folks thought they were pretty good in those days," he said, "and I guess they must have been when you consider how popular they were. But you should look at one of them now! You wouldn't believe it. You'd say it ought to be in a museum, with armor, and bows and arrows, and stone knives and forks hanging around it. "In those days we picked out a thrill or a stunt for each episode, and worked up to it. The sensational note was the big thing and it didn't make much difference what else happened in each episode so long as that note was a hairraiser. "We didn't pay much attention to accuracy or any of the other verities, and the audiences didn't mind, for we tried to keep them at such a high pitch of excitement that they wouldn't notice whether it was day or night on the screen. "The whole tendency of pictures today is away from the story of incident and toward the story of character ; away from the incongruous sensation and toward the drama of situation. "Formerly, if our thrill was a pile driver falling on the head of our heroine, and at that moment our heroine and all the others in the picture were in a Fifth Avenue drawing room, we simply took the whole crowd to the pile driver without wasting a meter of film in explanation. The sudden and unwarranted change of scenes helped to keep the audience breathless and a foot from their chairs. Nowadays, if you should happen to see our heroine hanging around a pile driver you may be sure that she has a very good excuse for being there — indeed, for the time being there wouldn't be a reason in the world for her to appear anywhere else but in the immediate neighborhood of that machine. "Today we are not paying so much attention to the purely sensational sort of climax. To begin with, there isn't a thrill or a stunt in the civilized world that hasn't been done, and done more than once, in pictures. A new twist or aspect may be given to them, but the familiar old stunt is always lurking there, underneath. "Of course we introduce as many novelties of that kind as we can, but our way of avoiding monotony and repetition and triteness is to make the thrill of secondary importance. Primarily we center interest in the story and in the characters. We use stories that give our people something to do other than to get into danger and to get out of it again. We always pose a problem for our characters, and present it 'n such a way that the audience is interested in the solution. "Today we spend infinitely more money and energy on the production itself. We employ the same talent that is used in making feature pictures. But the main thing is that we take our work seriously. If a serial is worthy of being done at all it is worthy of the very best that the director and his staff and his cast can put into it. Some directors have the habit of referriag to this type of picture as, 'Oh, one of those rotten serials, eh?' If such a director were engaged to produce a serial he would go to his work with that point of view — and I will say that it would be a bad serial and his last one. The days of slap-dash production, inferior casts, sloppy settings, and 'Oh, let it go — it's good enough,' are over." I told him that I was surprised to see him show such care when he was selecting properties and costumes in his office before we came to the location. "It's got to be right, or we won't use it," he said. "Those mummy cases were both replicas of genuine ones in the Metropolitan Museum, but there was a place on one of them where the ornament was more Broadway than Sahara, so I rejected it. The other was a perfect copy, and no one can find fault with it when it is seen on the screen. "Those knives are to be used by a Peruvian Indian. Two of them came from Peru. Of those two, one had infinitely more character than the other. It looked the part. And besides, the handle on the other had been repaired in a machine shop in this country. "Each of the Chinese coats you saw were genuine, and many years old. But in this story, Mr. Oland is playing the part of a rich and powerful Manchu. The other coats were worn {Continued on page 53)