The Photo-Play Journal (Jul 1919-Feb 1921)

October, 1920 49 Not For Yours Truly By HOWARD IRVING YOUNG Decorations by C. E. Millard THE other day Opportunity knocked at my door. The knocking was loud and insistent and disturbed me considerably. I knew very well who stood upon my threshold, and yet I was loath to leave my couch and tell the hussy to go about her business. She continued to beat a tattoo upon the panels until I arose, opened wide the window and threw a bucket of water upon her head. A most ungentlemanly trick, you say! Verily, but I'll wager she won't bother me again. Strange conduct for a young man, I pretend to hear you exclaim. If I didn't pretend to hear you say it, I couldn't go on with my story and there are those ("Hear, hear," says the editor) who believe that my tale is unique enough to interest the many devotees of the cinema this magazine numbers among its readers. I, a mere scenario writer, was afforded the opportunity to direct one of the greatest photoplay features the silver screen will ever reflect. And I declined. It happened in this wise, as the historians say. A great director was rehearsing a great dramatic scene in a great photoplay. The scenario itself was great — I thought. I had written it and stood close by, a humble spectator, as the director urged the puppets to an inspired interpretation. Many times had the scene been rehearsed. No one was satisfied. The hour was late. Nerves were strained. The milk of human kindness was skimmed. The arms of the leading man seemed made of wood as he clasped the leading lady to his manly bosom. I snorted once. None noticed. The rehearsal went on. I snorted twice and thrice and then laughed, what I fondly fancied was a satirical laugh. The director spun around on his heel and threw his megaphone at me. I failed to stop it as it passed. "Here, you !" he shouted. "If you think you can do any better, supposing you direct this picture. You wrote this blankety-blank script, so I suppose you think you know how it oughta be done. Go to it !" I declined the honor with cold thanks and, wrapping the shreds of my dignity about me, I stumbled over a coil of wire, ducked under a ladder, stepped on the ingenue's foot, and fell down a flight of steps as I hurried out into the night, so anxious was I to dodge the laurel wreath of directordom. And Opportunity will never knock again. And yet there are those among us who crave the honors. I cannot understand it. What is the urge ? Money, fame, power? Perhaps one, perhaps all three, for when bitten by the Bug of Ambition, men will do strange things. Of course, the director himself will tell you it's a dog's life, but, then, so will the lawyer, the doctor, the salesman, the plumber, or the second-story worker, if you ask them for advice and tell them you are thinking of entering their own chosen fields. But I have never been a director; I don't want to be one ; and, having a kind and gentle disposition that troubles me when some poor dumb animal is being tortured, I don't want anyone else to be one. Perhaps there are humans who work harder than motionpicture directors, but if so they suffer alone and in silence. Consider the man who is held responsible for the success of the photoplay. He arises even before the worm, that is scheduled on the menu of the early bird, has thought of Directors often hire c that ingenuity which ompanies of thugs to waylay you in some dark alley, but with characterizes your scenarios you always manage to escape turning over for a second nap. He goes to bed after the same early bird has thrown away his breakfast toothpick. In the interim he is surrounded by a shouting chorus of actors, property men, scene-shifters, carpenters, cameramen, efficiency experts, studio managers, big bosses, and scenario writers, each asking a thousand questions, each making a thousand suggestions, and each doing the very thing that the director thinks should never have been done. Of late the megaphone makers have been working nights to turn out enough megaphones to supply the already overcrowded insane asylums of this great land. Only the supermen among directors continue to turn out pictures for the general trade. The others, after three or four attempts, begin plucking the coverlets and are then carried quietly away to some secluded place where they sit in long rows on high stone walls and bay at the moon through megaphones. They think they are directing it in its nightly course across the heavens. That's what happens to motionpicture directors. Now, take the scenario writers. They say harsh things about you. Directors often hire companies of thugs to waylay you in some dark alley, but with that ingenuity which characterizes your scenarios (see Reel 2 of any serial) you always manage to escape. Oft-times you shout against your own particular game, but in secret you gloat. Where you labor all is quiet and serene. You blithely write your little stint. "Cuthbert crashes in through the door, beats up the gang gathered around the table, fires a revolver at lamp and