Picture Play Magazine (Sep 1923 - Feb 1924)

50 THE finish of the comedv was on. Down a crowded thoroughfare, Harold Lloyd was to make a bold dash in and out among automobiles until he arrived breathless at the point where the traffic cop, impersonated by the giant, John Aasen, was stationed. Excitedly he was to yell — "It's a boy !" and then he and Aasen were to gallop away together, pushing a couple of machines out of the way as they went, and leaving the street corner traffic to take care of itself. Immediately afterward there was to be a grand rush of touring cars, limousines and flivvers into the center of the crowded intersection in Hollywood, and the final scene in "O My Heart" was to be shot. I had been advised that every detail had been planned in advance, and that consequently the entire proceeding would go without a hitch, and all be over in a few minutes. Regular traffic had been halted to make way for special groups of studio machines, which lined up on each of the four highways that ran into the crossing. At a given signal they were to slide in their clutches and speed madly into the intersection, piling up one nearly on top of the other, to create a realistic and profanityinducing jam. Standing near the corner, leaning on the edge of a truck, I watched the action where Lloyd dashed up to the giant, and the preparations for the final smash. Above my head on the truck was placed the camera, and as I looked at the uniformed policemen clearing the way for the rush, my ears were caught by a conversation going on between a second camera man and an assistant director, apparently, seated on the truck, which ran something like this : "They want to get a sizzling effect here — a regular traffic maul. Lloyd wants the picture to end with a laugh. Better slow down a little." "I'll shoot it at about twelve, I In this reproduction of a slip of film taken at normal speed you will notice how the position of the athlete's body has changed in five consecutive exposures. The Real How the camera magicians help to put By Edwin guess, maybe eight or ten. It depends on how fast they make it." "Anyway they want to get it over with a bang, so it won't hurt to underspeed." In a moment I had forgotten the rather cryptic conversation — for from the howling of sirens, and the chugging and humming of engines, I knew things were about to start. There was a grinding of gears, explosions of exhausts, shouts and cries. Two abreast and three abreast the machines came forward, about fifty of them in all, grumbling, growling and sputtering. A big touring car reached the center of the intersection first, apparently claiming the right of way, but immediately was opposed by a Ford. The two met and tangled, as their brakes were applied, and the respective drivers stood up and delivered panegyrics of hate at each other. By this time a dozen more cars had forged into the fray with a noise of scraping fenders and grinding gears, fighting and pushing, struggling and battling for room. It was a maelstrom of screeching steel, from which emerged a haze of gas vapor, the like of which is probably rarely seen. In real life such a situation would have made men fight and women scream and engendered antipathies that last for blocks past the point of argument and contention, as you very well know if you have ever been in a good, up-to-date, bigtime traffic jamThree times I watched the photographscene, and three times I heard the talk above Grad ing of th my head about slowing down and speeding up. uaily it began to excite my curiosity, particularly since, despite the rather dynamic results that I have described, I couldn't help but feel that the general movement of the vehicles was