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Dolores Costello gives her impression of Commodore J. Stuart Blackton.
I HAD always had the impression that a motion-picture director was a cross between a mule skinner and concentrated TNT. I believed he went about with a rapier in one hand and a yucca stick in the other, prepared to inflict punishment upon any one who neglected to rise and shout, "Behold the king!" I thought that when he came upon the set, the company was supposed to turn on the electric lights and have a Caruso sing.
That was before I was permitted to enter the studios without scaling a fence.
Please excuse me for having had such thoughts. Since I have seen them work, I wonder why it is that they aren't paid five thousand dollars a week and given
a license to murder. It's worth ten thousand a week to restrain the temper in some of the situations they have to face. Of all the nerve-racking tasks connected with the production of motion pictures, I believe there is nothing comparable with theirs. Carrying the full story in one's mind, trying to make players see themselves as others see them, working, worrying, driving till the last scene is finished, and being responsible for every foot of finished film — it's a soul-trying occupation.
Near the end of each of his pictures, Cecil De Mille hauls out a faded old overcoat bought in 1913, throws it as a cape over his shoulders, and begins getting nervous. The company knuckle down to business. Idle conversation is taboo. Carpenters' hammers are stilled. Unnecessary noise is avoided. In the producer-director's hands are five twenty-dollar gold pieces, which he slides top to bottom, top to bottom, top to bottom, unceasingly — like a poker player fingering his chips. He discards his chair and employs a stool, upon which he half stands, half sits. His keen eyes are focused directlv upon his players. His voice, usually
On the Set with
With some specially posed pictures players imitate the mannerisms of di
By A. L.
gentle, pleasant, is cold and hard, sometimes shooting with the ring of steel, sometimes acrimonious and burning with sarcasm. Occasionally, he bites the knuckle of his right thumb and his brow is wrinkled.
"Now, Miss Goudal," he says icily, "I'm not going to tell you how to go through with this scene. Just do it as you would under the circumstances. I want your best effort. Action!"
No pleading, no coaxing, no parleying. "Just be yourself and go ahead !" And wow ! What results he gets ! Ask Miss Goudal ! "It's wonderful!" she exclaims. "Mr. De Mille does all his talking before the camera starts. He explains the action, tells what it is about, and explains its relative importance in the play.
He seems just like a father talking to his child. He makes you 'feel' what you are to do. Then, he expects you to go in and do it!' The gold pieces come out of his purse. You see him throw one leg over his stool and turn his eyes upon you. You hear the call for action and you know that the time has arrived to give everything you have. And you know that if you don't give, you won't be signing any new contracts when your old one expires.
"If you go through the scene satisfactorily, he exclaims, 'All right, thank you !' That is the
A tense moment in a Lubitsch production, by Marie Prevost.
Kathleen Key shows hoiv Fred Niblo looked while directing " Ben-Hur."