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

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38 Phoio-Pla}) Journal Directing as a Fine Art By REGINALD BARKER MOTION pictures and their making are so much a part of my life that I cannot set forth all the things that well within me in the short space of a magazine article, but I can touch the pinnacles as the}' appear to me, in my capacity as director. I want to proclaim, first of all, my sincere and abounding faith in the motion picture as an art, capable of portraying the vital and human emotions of life as vividly as they can be presented on the speaking stage. The first thing that confronts the director when he starts to work on a picture is the story which the author and continuity writer have provided. The questions that I always ask are these: Has the story a real theme? Has it a thought behind it that is of concern to the people who will see the completed picture? Will the plot and its character development help to interpret some phase of human life? Has the scenario a moral? This last question is likely to evoke discussion, and there will be those who will cry, "Let us have art for art's sake; keep your moral lessons for the nursery." But do not misunderstand me. I do not want to produce fables or nice little sugarcoated stories with stereotyped "morals" at the end, such as you will find in children's story books. Decidedly not! Motion picture patrons and people in general don't want to be preached at. They are wary of propaganda. Our first province is to entertain, but if you will examine the plots of great plays, great novels, great short stories, great motion pictures, you will find in them some fundamental truth of life, some abiding human thought. And so we must project on the screen something worth while, something that the spectator will carry away with him from the theatre — something beautiful or tragic, above all, something sincere. These things must be brought out, not by preachment or dogma, but by the onrush of the plot and the natural development of character. "Black Pawl," a tale of the sea, by Ben Ames Williams, which I have just completed at the Goldwyn studios, is a tensely dramatic story and illustrates the points which I have outlined. It tells the story of a man, who, in his younger life, had been simple and God-fearing, but who, because of the death of his wife, turned against his Maker and cried, "There is no God." The photoplay then shows, by simple and logical process, the regeneration of the man and his restored faith. In every man, in every tribe or race, there has always been the cognizance of a Supreme Being, although it takes varied forms. Man has struggled with doubt and disbelief since the time when he first began to think. So in "Black Pawl" we have a vital, virile, worth-while theme, and I hope I may be pardoned for saying, that we have also made an interesting and entertaining picture. The acting in a photoplay is, of course, all-important, and the director must strive to bring out the highest talents of his players. The highest compliment ever paid to me as a director was contained in a simple statement which a motion-picture critic made to me recently. "The people in your productions are real characters," said this critic, and I trust the reader will not consider me vain in repeating the statement. If I may lay claim to this honor, it is due to the fact that actors work with me, not for me. The first thing I do in starting a picture is to gather the company together and read the scenario to them, analyzing every character and situation. I don't want any actor to portray any part in a picture that he or she does not fully understand. They must know the reason for every move and they must be thinking all the time. There must be no "on the surface" acting. I never, except in the case of inexperienced actors, ask a player to watch me enact a scene. I explain to the actor the thought behind the scene and trust to his creative ability to illustrate it. If he, or she, is thinking, the physical action will take care of itself. When dealing with an artist I try to suggest — and a real artist will always contribute something worthy to the action and the play. If I acted out the parts and asked the company to imitate me, they would lose their individuality. If the actors are living their parts, if they have "got under the skin" of the characters which they are portraying their actions will be natural. During the filming I seldom direct my work by word of mouth, except in highly emotional scenes, and then I am careful to keep my voice and instructions in the same tempo as the action. I am a great believer in careful rehearsals, for nothing must be left to chance. The action which seems most spontaneous on the screen is that which has been most carefully rehearsed. Scenes which tax the strength and emotional power of the actor can be rehearsed quietly until every move has been determined. This is necessary in order not to tire the player. I am myself a hard worker and demand that the actors in my company be the same, but I never ask them to do anything which I would not willingly and gladly do myself. I have no patience with the man or woman who asks, "When can I go home?" Sometimes I forget to eat and stop work only when the cameraman tells me that he is about to faint and will not be able to hold out unless we eat. The acting profession is a hard task master, and there is no place in it for the man or woman who is not so wrapped up in it that he or she will not make any sacrifice for the art. One particularly heroic instance came to my attention in the filming of Mary Roberts Rinehart's "Dangerous Days" at the Goldwyn studios. Ann Forrest played the part of a girl who, in one scene, was beaten by her father. "Please have him hit me," Miss Forrest pleaded. Stanton Heck, who acted the father, was naturally averse to striking the girl, but Miss Forrest begged so sincerely that he finally struck her. Then we got something of agony in that girl's eyes no one could portray without suffering. That is the spirit which makes real artists. Miss Forrest had some highly emotional scenes to play. One after another had to be keyed to such high pitch that she got so frightfully hysterical that she couldn't stop crying. But she was glad of the opportunity, and we got what we wanted. Again, in "Black Pawl," Russell Simpson, in the title role of a rugged, bullying sea-captain, and James Mason, as Red Pawl, his son, had to stage a brutal fight which is an essential part of the story. We "shot" the action several times, but did not get the realism we wanted. Finally, one of the actors was induced to strike the other a smashing blow that brought pain and anger. Then followed an encounter filled with primitive passion and brute strength. I am a great believer in the power of music to help the director and actor to portray emotion. In the legitimate theater, the actor has the inspiration of the audience ; in motion pictures, he must act before an unfeeling camera. Music does a great deal to supply this lack of an audience and to make the actor lose himself and forget his surroundings. Take, for instance, a scene in which the player must cry. Now it is a very unusual person who can start "cold" and produce tears, yet with the aid of music one can do so. (Incidentally, I never use any glycerine tears.) I should like to give credit to Bert Crossland, my musical director, for the help which he gives me in direction. Before producing any part of a play I outline to Mr. Crossland the effect which I want to obtain, and I can always depend on him to provide suitable music. During the filming of "The Flame of the Desert," with Geraldine Farrar, Mr. Crossland composed several numbers which exactly fitted the theme of the story. Many of the scenes of "Black Pawl" were taken on board a schooner and it was naturally considerable trouble to have our (Continued on page 51)